“But look at the time,” she protested, “and it would take hours to tell you.”
“It’ll have to take them then.”
“Am I a prisoner?” she asked gaily.
“Besides, there’s the kid outside. Maybe he hasn’t gone home to sleep yet.”
Her gaiety vanished. “Do you think he’s still there?”
“It’s likely.”
She shivered. “Could you find out?”
“I could go down and see.”
“Oh, that’s—will you?”
Spade studied her anxious face for a moment and then got up from the sofa saying: “Sure.” He got a hat and overcoat from the closet. “I’ll be gone about ten minutes.”
“Do be careful,” she begged as she followed him to the corridor door.
He said, “I will,” and went out.
Post Street was empty when Spade issued into it. He walked east a block, crossed the street, walked west two blocks on the other side, recrossed it, and returned to his building without having seen anyone except two mechanics working on a car in a garage.
When he opened his apartment door Brigid O’Shaughnessy was standing at the bend in the passageway, holding Cairo’s pistol straight down at her side.