“Oh, no. You had said not to. So I didn’t pay any attention to him and the next time I looked he was gone.”
Spade grinned at her. “Damned lucky for you, sister, that the coppers got there first.”
“Why?”
“He’s a bad egg, that lad—poison. Was the dead man Jacobi?”
“Yes.”
He pressed her hands and stood up. “I’m going to run along. You’d better hit the hay. You’re all in.”
She rose. “Sam, what is—?”
He stopped her words with his hand on her mouth. “Save it till Monday,” he said. “I want to sneak out before your mother catches me and gives me hell for dragging her lamb through gutters.”
Midnight was a few minutes away when Spade reached his home. He put his key into the street door’s lock. Heels clicked rapidly on the sidewalk behind him. He let go the key and wheeled. Brigid O’Shaughnessy ran up the steps to him. She put her arms around him and hung on him, panting: “Oh, I thought you’d never come!” Her face was haggard, distraught, shaken by the tremors that shook her from head to foot.
With the hand not supporting her he felt for the key again, opened the door, and half lifted her inside. “You’ve been waiting?” he asked.
“Yes.” Panting spaced her words. “In a—doorway—up the—street.”
“Can you make it all right?” he asked. “Or shall I carry you?”
She shook her head against his shoulder. “I’ll be—all right—when I—get where—I can—sit down.”