Sam Spade

So he recorded his statement, sent it to Norgard for a sample.

But there was something he didn't think of.

He should have studied up on his tape recorders, baby.

With a pair of scissors and a good technician, Jimmy's eyewitness account turned into a first-class confession.

The final phase of the Biddle Biddle was, as you will recall, Tracy, enacted on one of the sound stages of the nation's leading network, where, as you will also recall, you were busily transcribing the testimony of various witnesses on the Carol Stevens case.

How you got him there, I'll never know.

But there he was, as big and legal-looking as ever, perjuring himself once more into one of your microphones.

I walked out of the Twin Dragon on Grant Avenue.

As I remember it now, Biddle was across the street.

He apparently recognized me, though, and... Excuse me, will you, fellas?

What?

Spade, you idiot.

You ruined it.

I'm sorry, Tracy.

Oh, we'll have to start it over again, Mr. Norgard.

Would you mind if I record a few remarks?

Spade, please understand my position.

Biddle's confession has changed everything.

I know.

The killer is not at large.