shrewd small eyes, a thick mouth, and carelessly shaven dark jowls. His shoes,

knees, hands, and chin were daubed with brown loam.

 

“I figured you’d want to see it before we took him away,” he said as he stepped

over the broken fence.

 

“Thanks, Tom,” Spade said. “What happened?” He put an elbow on a fence-post and

looked down at the men below, nodding to those who nodded to him.

 

Tom Polhaus poked his own left breast with a dirty finger. “Got him right

through the pump—with this.” He took a fat revolver from his coat-pocket and

held it out to Spade. Mud inlaid the depressions in the revolver’s surface. “A

Webley. English, ain’t it?”

 

Spade took his elbow from the fence-post and leaned down to look at the weapon,

but he did not touch it.

 

“Yes,” he said, “Webley-Fosbery automatic revolver. That’s it.

 

Thirty-eight, eight shot. They don’t make them any more. How many gone out of

it?”

 

“One pill.” Tom poked his breast again. “He must’ve been dead when he cracked

the fence.” He raised the muddy revolver. “Ever seen this before?”