“All right, but I’ve got plenty of headache.”
She went around behind him, put his hand down, and stroked his temple with her slender fingers. He leaned back until the back of his head over the chair top rested against her breast. He said: “You’re an angel.”
She bent her head forward over his and looked down into his face. “You’ve got to find her, Sam. It’s more than a day and she—”
He stirred and impatiently interrupted her: “I haven’t got to do anything, but if you’ll let me rest this damned head a minute or two I’ll go out and find her.”
She murmured, “Poor head,” and stroked it in silence awhile. Then she asked: “You know where she is? Have you any idea?”
The telephone bell rang. Spade picked up the telephone and said: “Hello. … Yes, Sid, it came out all right, thanks. … No. … Sure. He got snotty, but so did I. … He’s nursing a gambler’s-war pipe-dream. … Well, we didn’t kiss when we parted. I declared my weight and walked out on him. … That’s something for you to worry about. … Right. Bye.” He put the telephone down and leaned back in his chair again.
Effie Perine came from behind him and stood at his side. She demanded: “Do you think you know where she is, Sam?”
“I know where she went,” he replied in a grudging tone.
“Where?” She was excited.
“Down to the boat you saw burning.”
Her eyes opened until their brown was surrounded by white. “You went down there.” It was not a question.
“I did not,” Spade said.