Sam Spade

I sauntered over to the soft drink fountain and mulled the problem over a Coke for a minute or two.

There are ways of dealing with dames like Rosalie.

Some of them are a little cruel, as this one was going to have to be, but time was of the essence.

I kept out of sight for 20 minutes or so, watching her dancing in the arms of a moonstruck plumber and sidled into a phone booth.

The Pacific Ballroom does not permit telephone conversations while the girls are working.

When I said it was the police, the plumber was turned over to a new candidate, and Rosalie came to the phone.

This is Sam Spade, Rosalie.

I was dancing with you a little while ago.

I, uh, I found Jimmy Biddle's apartment.

That's right.

I'm afraid so.

He wants to see you.

She didn't stop for a rap, just thought a zigzag quarrel through the mob at the main door and climbed into a cab at the curb.

The driver must have been an old fan of hers because they were almost out of sight by the time my cab got rolling, and that's the way it was across Market Street and all the way out Van Ness to the marina.

Her cab was pulled up in front of an apartment on Jefferson Street, and she'd just gotten out when we slid in behind her.

Hiya, you want to go up together?

But you said you... I'm sorry, honey.

I know it was a dirty trick, but now that's no way to behave.

The gold card holder by the doorbell listed the tenant as W.R.

Smith.