Sam Spade

What is it?

I called out on a fire escape in time to see my buddy in the pinstripe suit hit the bottom.

The alley, praise be, was blind at one end, so Luke took off toward the street.

I caught him in one leg.

He stumbled, fell, smacked his head against the brick wall of the alley and took the count.

I was frisking him when a prowl cop who'd heard the shots moved up.

I convinced him I wasn't rolling a drunk and left him to run back upstairs.

Hmm.

I'd better get you to a hospital.

Who are you?

Sam Spade.

I don't work for Norguard.

Right now I'm trying to hang a murder rap on him.

Jimmy Biddle.

Tape.

Jimmy rented the machine from you and made the tape himself, right?

He tried to point to the desk as he passed out, and so to this already bubbling stew, we had a crucial typewriter.

While waiting for the ambulance, I cased it and found nothing, then stuck a piece of paper into it and began to type.

Four quick brown foxes had jumped over four lazy dogs when the sound changed.

I looked closer, then...