* * * * *

 

In an all-night drug-store on the corner of Bush and Taylor Streets, Spade used

a telephone.

 

“Precious,” he said into it a little while after he had given a number, “Miles

has been shot. . . . Yes, he’s dead. . . . Now don’t get excited. . . . Yes. . .

. You’ll have to break it to Iva. . . . No, I’m damned if I will. You’ve got to

do it. . . . That’s a good girl. . . .

 

And keep her away from the office. . . . Tell her I’ll see her—uh—some time. . .

. Yes, but don’t tie me up to anything. . . . That’s the stuff. You’re an angel.

’Bye.”

 

* * * * *

 

Spade’s tinny alarm-clock said three-forty when he turned on the light in the

suspended bowl again. He dropped his hat and overcoat on the bed and went into

his kitchen, returning to the bedroom with a wine-glass and a tall bottle of

Bacardi. He poured a drink and drank it standing.

 

He put bottle and glass on the table, sat on the side of the bed facing them,

and rolled a cigarette. He had drunk his third glass of Bacardi and was lighting

his fifth cigarette when the street-door-bell rang. The hands of the alarm-clock

registered four-thirty.