Sam Spade

I hated to do it, Johnny.

You were out of condition and you weren't expecting it.

But I wanted you to look like a hospital case.

After you went down and out, I transferred my fee from your wallet to mine, examined your wounds, and decided you were good for two hours at St.

Agnes Hospital, where I know the head nurse.

Incidentally, that reminds me.

So without further delay, I toted you downstairs, threw you into a taxi, and delivered you to the ambulance entrance.

That's when I remembered that I had forgotten one thing.

I hadn't given you a chance to call off your alleged undertaker friend.

I was sure that that part of your story was bluff, but just to make sure, I rushed back to your apartment in less time than it takes the average undertaker to back his hearse out of the garage, I thought.

When I got there, I wasn't so sure.

The apartment had been tidied up, ashtrays emptied, glasses put away, they'd even vacuumed the rug.

The blood-stained bedspread had been removed, and with it, the corpus delecti.

I found myself humming an old tune, I Ain't Got Nobody.

In most murder cases, there are too many suspects, too many motives, and too many clues from the very beginning.

I'd been on this one three hours, and I succeeded in turning up no suspects, no clues, and the most shameful thing of all, I had lost the body of the victims.

I consoled myself with the thought that he was in no condition to tell me anything anyway.

But then neither were you, Johnny.

You'd checked out of the hospital.

No forwarding address.