He took tobacco and cigarette papers from his vest-pockets, but did not roll a cigarette. He sat holding the papers in one hand, the tobacco in the other, and looked with brooding eyes at his dead partner’s desk.
Effie Perine opened the door and came in. Her brown eyes were uneasy. Her voice was careless. She asked: “Well?”
Spade said nothing. His brooding gaze did not move from his partner’s desk.
The girl frowned and came around to his side. “Well,” she asked in a louder voice, “how did you and the widow make out?”
“She thinks I shot Miles,” he said. Only his lips moved.
“So you could marry her?”
Spade made no reply to that.
The girl took his hat from his head and put it on the desk. Then she leaned over and took the tobacco-sack and the papers from his inert fingers.
“The police think I shot Thursby,” he said.
“Who is he?” she asked, separating a cigarette paper from the packet, sifting tobacco into it.
“Who do you think I shot?” he asked.
When she ignored that question he said: “Thursby’s the guy Miles was supposed to be tailing for the Wonderly girl.”
Her thin fingers finished shaping the cigarette. She licked it, smoothed it, twisted its ends, and placed it between Spade’s lips. He said, “Thanks, honey,” put an arm around her slim waist, and rested his cheek wearily against her hip, shutting his eyes.