Sam Spade

Ten minutes later, I was fighting my way through the mob at Pier 42.

Not just a mob, mind you, but an assortment of bands, a Hindu delegation.

The full membership of the Sanskrit Society at the University of California with a huge banner reading, Jawara Howe, We're With You.

And an overripe soprano on a pedestal singing, Hail Hands I Love.

I struggled through this to the curb just in time to see you pull away in your special limousine, then climbed over some more backs to a phone book.

Look, this is Sam Spade, Mr. Singh.

Oh, oh, yes.

Has the prime minister arrived there yet?

He is due any minute.

Why?

Well, you better call out the guard.

They're going to try to assassinate him tonight.

My good man, do you realize what you... My good man, I know whereof I speak.

The cook at the restaurant.

Yes, you're getting the idea, all right.

It's the old circle of 12 with a brand new paint job.

Now, get on it.

My next move may sound to you like a combination of negligence, indolence, and ennui, but I must remind you that I was not employed on this caper.

It was receiving no stipend for risking my ever-loving neck, and it added up the figures in the problem of primary interest to me, namely the lady who tried to kill me on page two.

I therefore entrusted responsibility for your health and that of the Middle East to the proconsul, made my way home, put on my slippers, and set the lazy Susan on the floor this time for Freddy to play with.