Spade sighed, rose from the bed, and went to the telephone-box beside his

bathroom-door. He pressed the button that released the street-door-lock. He

muttered, “Damn her,” and stood scowling at the black telephone-box, breathing

irregularly while a dull flush grew in his cheeks.

 

The grating and rattling of the elevator-door opening and closing came from the

corridor. Spade sighed again and moved towards the corridor-door. Soft heavy

footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor outside, the footsteps of two men.

Spade’s face brightened. His eyes were no longer harassed. He opened the door

quickly.

 

“Hello, Tom,” he said to the barrel-bellied tall detective with whom he had

talked in Burritt Street, and, “Hello, Lieutenant,” to the man beside Tom. “Come

in.”

 

They nodded together, neither saying anything, and came in. Spade shut the door

and ushered them into his bedroom. Tom sat on an end of the sofa by the windows.

The Lieutenant sat on a chair beside the table.

 

The Lieutenant was a compactly built man with a round head under short-cut

grizzled hair and a square face behind a short-cut grizzled mustache. A

five-dollar gold-piece was pinned to his necktie and there was a small elaborate

diamond-set secret-society-emblem on his lapel.