“About you?”
“About anything I ought to know.”
Wise ran fingers through his hair, sprinkling dandruff down on his shoulders. “She told me she had tried to get a divorce from Miles so she could—”
“I know all that,” Spade interrupted him. “You can skip it. Get to the part I don’t know.”
“How do I know how much she—?”
“Quit stalling, Sid.” Spade held the flame of his lighter to the end of his cigarette. “What did she tell you that she wanted kept from me?”
Wise looked reprovingly at Spade. “Now, Sammy,” he began, “that’s not—”
Spade looked heavenward at the ceiling and groaned: “Dear God, he’s my own lawyer that’s got rich off me and I have to get down on my knees and beg him to tell me things!” He lowered at Wise. “What in hell do you think I sent her to you for?”
Wise made a weary grimace. “Just one more client like you,” he complained, “and I’d be in a sanitarium—or San Quentin.”
“You’d be with most of your clients. Did she tell you where she was the night he was killed?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Following him.”