“Oh, yes, but a police official.”
“It wasn’t that,” Spade explained. “It was that in losing his head and slugging me he overplayed his hand. If I’d mixed it with him then he couldn’t’ve backed down. He’d’ve had to go through with it, and we’d’ve had to tell that goofy story at headquarters.” He stared thoughtfully at the girl, and asked: “What did you do to Cairo?”
“Nothing.” Her face became flushed. “I tried to frighten him into keeping still until they had gone and he either got too frightened or stubborn and yelled.”
“And then you smacked him with the gun?”
“I had to. He attacked me.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.” Spade’s smile did not hide his annoyance. “It’s just what I told you: you’re fumbling along by guess and by God.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, face and voice soft with contrition, “Sam.”
“Sure you are.” He took tobacco and papers from his pockets and began to make a cigarette. “Now you’ve had your talk with Cairo. Now you can talk to me.”
She put a fingertip to her mouth, staring across the room at nothing with widened eyes, and then, with narrower eyes, glanced quickly at Spade. He was engrossed in the making of his cigarette. “Oh, yes,” she began, “of course—” She took the finger away from her mouth and smoothed her blue dress over her knees. She frowned at her knees.
Spade licked his cigarette, sealed it, and asked, “Well?” while he felt for his lighter.