“Are you telling me?” he asked. His eyes had become alert though his mouth continued to smile.
“She kept me waiting at the door while she undressed or finished undressing. I saw her clothes where she had dumped them on a chair. Her hat and coat were underneath. Her singlet, on top, was still warm. She said she had been asleep, but she hadn’t. She had wrinkled up the bed, but the wrinkles weren’t mashed down.”
Spade took the girl’s hand and patted it. “You’re a detective, darling, but”—he shook his head—“she didn’t kill him.”
Effie Perine snatched her hand away. “That louse wants to marry you, Sam,” she said bitterly.
He made an impatient gesture with his head and one hand.
She frowned at him and demanded: “Did you see her last night?”
“No.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. Don’t act like Dundy, sweetheart. It ill becomes you.”
“Has Dundy been after you?”
“Uh-huh. He and Tom Polhaus dropped in for a drink at four o’clock.”
“Do they really think you shot this what’s-his-name?”
“Thursby.” He dropped what was left of his cigarette into the brass tray and began to roll another.
“Do they?” she insisted.