Sam Spade

He wasn't hard to find.

There was a big place on the outskirts, and the sign on the gate said, Mary F. Hotchkiss Hospital for the Mentally Deranged.

Dr. Birdwell's cottage was one of five without bars on the windows.

He was spraying his roses.

I can't complain.

Well, why don't you hire a gardener to do those checks to Grierson and use up all your ready cash?

Let go of me.

I'm not a patient here.

I'm a detective.

Yeah, and I'm Sherlock Holmes.

Come on, now, back to the violent war.

Come on, lay off.

I got an office in San Francisco.

I can prove it.

One, three, seven, five, nine seconds.

Okay, Dr. Watson, but come on, come on.

And in more time than it takes to tell, due to the guard's jujitsu, I was disrobed, straight-jacketed, and rolled into a wet sheet.

A full-fledged inmate of the Mary F. Hotchkiss Hospital for the mentally deranged, which is exactly where I belong for having taken Mr. Fox's 25 bucks.

I have been shot, stabbed, slashed, pistol whipped, and sapped into unconsciousness.

But until you have spent a night rolled up in a wet sheet, Dundee, you don't know what punishment is.