Spade brought two wine-glasses in from the kitchen, filled them and his own with

Bacardi, gave one to each of his visitors, and sat down with his on the side of

the bed. His face was placid and uncurious. He raised his glass, and said,

“Success to crime,” and drank it down.

 

Tom emptied his glass, set it on the floor beside his feet, and wiped his mouth

with a muddy forefinger. He stared at the foot of the bed as if trying to

remember something of which it vaguely reminded him.

 

The Lieutenant looked at his glass for a dozen seconds, took a very small sip of

its contents, and put the glass on the table at his elbow.

 

He examined the room with hard deliberate eyes, and then looked at Tom.

 

Tom moved uncomfortably on the sofa and, not looking up, asked: “Did you break

the news to Miles’s wife, Sam?”

 

Spade said: “Uh-huh.”

 

“How’d she take it?”

 

Spade shook his head. “I don’t know anything about women.”

 

Tom said softly: “The hell you don’t.”