He went out, walked half the distance to the elevators, and retraced his steps. Effie Perine was sitting at her desk when he opened the door. He said: “You ought to know better than to pay any attention to me when I talk like that.”
“If you think I pay any attention to you you’re crazy,” she replied, “only”—she crossed her arms and felt her shoulders, and her mouth twitched uncertainly—“I won’t be able to wear an evening gown for two weeks, you big brute.”
He grinned humbly, said, “I’m no damned good, darling,” made an exaggerated bow, and went out again.
Two yellow taxicabs were at the corner-stand to which Spade went. Their chauffeurs were standing together talking. Spade asked: “Where’s the red-faced blond driver that was here at noon?”
“Got a load,” one of the chauffeurs said.
“Will he be back here?”
“I guess so.”
The other chauffeur ducked his head to the east. “Here he comes now.”
Spade walked down to the corner and stood by the curb until the red-faced blond chauffeur had parked his cab and got out. Then Spade went up to him and said: “I got into your cab with a lady at noontime. We went out Stockton Street and up Sacramento to Jones, where I got out.”
“Sure,” the red-faced man said, “I remember that.”
“I told you to take her to a Ninth-Avenue-number. You didn’t take her there. Where did you take her?”