Sam Spade

Okay, Tom, Tom, it's a promise.

Send it to me.

Only one thing I don't understand.

You said it was a million-dollar caper.

I meant that.

She's worth a million bucks to me, Sam.

The girl, Tom, Tom?

Or the car?

Oh, I wish you hadn't asked that question, Sam.

I really do.

And now, back to the convertible caper.

Tonight's adventure with Sam Spade.

When Tom-Tom Carey said a million-dollar caper, he meant just that.

He never risked a rap for less than a hundred grand, and no dame that ever lived was worth more to him than a hot mink coat.

If Meecher wasn't the million-dollar package, the car was.

I didn't know what was in it, but Tom-Tom, it might be diamonds, dope, smuggled Chinese, or just plain money.

So I went back to the hotel garage.

I climbed the long, curving ramp to the second floor and found the canary yellow DeAnza convertible crowded in behind four ranks of cars at the rear of the building.

I started to work on it.

Nothing in the luggage trunk, nothing under the seats, under the upholstery, under the door panels, nothing anywhere.