A MAN CALLED SPADE

SAMUEL SPADE put his telephone aside and looked at his watch. It was not quite four o'clock. He called, “Yoo-hoo!”

Effie Perine came in from the outer office. She was eating a piece of chocolate cake.

“Tell Sid Wise I won't be able to keep that date this afternoon,” he said.

She put the last of the cake into her mouth and licked the tips of forefinger and thumb. “That's the third time this week.”

When he smiled, the v's of his chin, mouth, and brows grew longer. “I know, but I've got to go out and save a life.” He nodded at the telephone. “Somebody's scaring Max Bliss.”

She laughed. “Probably somebody named John D. Conscience.”

He looked up at her from the cigarette he had begun to make. “Know anything I ought to know about him?”

“Nothing you don't know. I was just thinking about the time he let his brother go to San Quentin.”

Spade shrugged. “That's not the worst thing he's done.” He lit his cigarette, stood up, and reached for his hat. “But he's all right now. All Samuel Spade clients are honest, God-fearing folk. If I'm not back at closing time just run along.”

He went to a tall apartment building on Nob Hill, pressed a button set in the frame of a door marked 10K. The door was opened immediately by a burly dark man in wrinkled dark clothes. He was nearly bald and carried a gray hat in one hand.

The burly man said, “Hello, Sam.” He smiled, but his small eyes lost none of their shrewdness. “What are you doing here?”

Spade said, “Hello, Torn.” His face was wooden, his voice expressionless. “Bliss in?”

“Is he!” Tom pulled down the corners of his thick-lipped mouth. “You don't have to worry about that.”

Spade's brows came together. “Well?”

A man appeared in the vestibule behind Tom. He was smaller than either Spade or Tom, but compactly built. He had a ruddy, square face and a close-trimmed, grizzled mustache. His clothes were neat. He wore a black bowler perched on the back of his head.

Spade addressed this man over Tom's shoulder: “Hello, Dundy.”

Dundy nodded briefly and came to the door. His blue eyes were hard and prying.

“What is it?” he asked Tom.

“B-1-i-s-s, M-a-x,” Spade spelled patiently. “I want to see him. He wants to see me. Catch on?”

Tom laughed. Dundy did not. Tom said, “Only one of you gets your wish.” Then he glanced sidewise at Dundy and abruptly stopped laughing. He seemed uncomfortable.

Spade scowled. “All right,” he demanded irritably; “is he dead or has he killed somebody?”

Dundy thrust his square face up at Spade and seemed to push his words out with his lower Up. “What makes you think either?”

Spade said, “Oh, sure! I come calling on Mr. Bliss and I'm stopped at the door by a couple of men from the police Homicide Detail, and I'm supposed to think I'm just interrupting a game of rummy.”

“Aw, stop it, Sam,” Tom grumbled, looking at neither Spade nor Dundy. “He's dead.”

“Killed?”

Tom wagged his head slowly up and down. He looked at Spade now. “What've you got on it?”

Spade replied in a deliberate monotone, “He called me up this afternoon—say at five minutes to four—I looked at my watch after he hung up and there was still a minute or so to go—and said somebody was after his scalp. He wanted me to come over. It seemed real enough to him—it was up in his neck all right.” He made a small gesture with one hand. “Well, here I am.”

“Didn't say who or how?” Dundy asked.

Spade shook his head. “No. Just somebody had offered to kill him and he believed them, and would I come over right away.”

“Didn't he—?” Dundy began quickly.

“He didn't say anything else,” Spade said. “Don't you people tell me anything?”

Dundy said curtly, “Come in and take a look at him.”

Tom said, “It's a sight.”

They went across the vestibule and through a door into a green and rose living-room.

A man near the door stopped sprinkling white powder on the end of a glass-covered small table to say, “Hello, Sam.”

Spade nodded, said, “How are you, Phels?” and then nodded at the two men who stood talking by a window.

The dead man lay with his mouth open. Some of his clothes had been taken off. His throat was puffy and dark. The end of his tongue showing in a corner of his mouth was bluish, swollen. On his bare chest, over the heart, a five-pointed star had been outlined in black ink and in the center of it a T.

Spade looked down at the dead man and stood for a moment silently studying him. Then he asked, “He was found like that?”

“About,” Tom said. “We moved him around a little.” He jerked a thumb at the shirt, undershirt, vest, and coat lying on a table. “They were spread over the floor.”

Spade rubbed his chin. His yellow-gray eyes were dreamy. “When?”

Tom said, “We got it at four-twenty. His daughter gave it to us.” He moved his head to indicate a closed door. “You'll see her.”

“Know anything?”

“Heaven knows,” Tom said wearily. “She's been kind of hard to get along with so far.” He turned to Dundy. “Want to try her again now?”

Dundy nodded, then spoke to one of the men at the window. “Start sifting his papers, Mack. He's supposed to've been threatened.”

Mack said, “Right.” He pulled his hat down over his eyes and walked towards a green secretaire in the far end of the room.

A man came in from the corridor, a heavy man of fifty with a deeply lined, grayish face under a broad-brimmed black hat. He said, “Hello, Sam,” and then told Dundy, “He had company around half past two, stayed just about an hour. A big blond man in brown, maybe forty or forty-five. Didn't send his name up. I got it from the Filipino in the elevator that rode him both ways.”

“Sure it was only an hour?” Dundy asked.

The gray-faced man shook his head. “But he's sure it wasn't more than half past three when he left. He says the afternoon papers came in then, and this man had ridden down with him before they came.” He pushed his hat back to scratch his head, then pointed a thick finger at the design inked on the dead man's breast and asked somewhat plaintively, “What the deuce do you suppose that thing is?”

Nobody replied. Dundy asked, “Can the elevator boy identify him?”

“He says he could, but that ain't always the same thing. Says he never saw him before.” He stopped looking at the dead man. “The girl's getting me a list of his phone calls. How you been, Sam?”

Spade said he had been all right. Then he said slowly, “His brother's big and blond and maybe forty or forty-five.”

Dundy's blue eyes were hard and bright. “So what?” he asked.

“You remember the Graystone Loan swindle. They were both in it, but Max eased the load over on Theodore and it turned out to be one to fourteen years in San Quentin.”

Dundy was slowly wagging his head up and down. “I remember now. Where is he?”

Spade shrugged and began to make a cigarette.

Dundy nudged Tom with an elbow. “Find out.”

Tom said, “Sure, but if he was out of here at half past three and this fellow was still alive at five to four—”

“And he broke his leg so he couldn't duck back in,” the gray-faced man said jovially.

“Find out,” Dundy repeated.

Tom said, “Sure, sure,” and went to the telephone.

Dundy addressed the gray-faced man: “Check up on the newspapers; see what time they were actually delivered this afternoon.”

The gray-faced man nodded and left the room.

The man who had been searching the secretaire said, “Uh-huh,” and turned around holding an envelope in one hand, a sheet of paper in the other.

Dundy held out his hand. “Something?”

The man said, “Uh-huh,” again and gave Dundy the sheet of paper.

Spade was looking over Dundy's shoulder.

It was a small sheet of common white paper bearing a penciled message in neat, undistinguished handwriting:

When this reaches you I will be too close for you to escape —this time. We will balance our accounts—for good.

The signature was a five-pointed star enclosing a T, the design on the dead man's left breast.

Dundy held out his hand again and was given the envelope. Its stamp was French. The address was typewritten:

MAX BLISS, ESQ.

AMSTERDAM APARTMENTS, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. U. S. A.

“Postmarked Paris,” he said, “the second of the month.” He counted swiftly on his fingers. “That would get it here today, all right.” He folded the message slowly, put it in the envelope, put the envelope in his coat pocket. “Keep digging,” he told the man who had found the message.

The man nodded and returned to the secretaire.

Dundy looked at Spade. “What do you think of it?”

Spade's brown cigarette wagged up and down with the words. “I don't like it. I don't like any of it.”

Tom put down the telephone. “He got out the fifteenth of last month,” he said. “I got them trying to locate him.”

Spade went to the telephone, called a number, and asked for Mr. Darrell. Then: “Hello, Harry, this is Sam Spade. . . . Fine. How's Lil? . .. Yes. … Listen, Harry, what does a five-pointed star with a capital T in the middle mean? . . . What? How do you spell it? … Yes, I see. . . . And if you found it on a body? . . . Neither do I. … Yes, and thanks. I'll tell you about it when I see you. . . .Yes, give me a ring. . . . Thanks. . . . 'By.”

Dundy and Tom were watching him closely when he turned from the telephone. He said, “That's a fellow who knows things sometimes. He says it's a pentagram with a Greek tau—t-a-u—in the middle; a sign magicians used to use. Maybe Rosicrucians still do.”

“What's a Rosicrucian?” Tom asked.

“It could be Theodore's first initial, too,” Dundy said.

Spade moved his shoulders, said carelessly, “Yes, but if he wanted to autograph the job it'd been just as easy for him to sign his name.”

He then went on more thoughtfully, “There are Rosicrucians at both San Jose and Point Loma. I don't go much for this, but maybe we ought to look them up.”

Dundy nodded.

Spade looked at the dead man's clothes o'n the table. “Anything in his pockets?”

“Only what you'd expect to find,” Dundy replied. “It's on the table there.”

Spade went to the table and looked down at the little pile of watch and chain, keys, wallet, address book, money, gold pencil, handkerchief, and spectacle case beside the clothing. He did not touch them, but slowly picked up, one at a time, the dead man's shirt, undershirt, vest, and coat. A blue necktie lay on the table beneath them. He scowled irritably at it. “It hasn't been worn,” he complained.

Dundy, Tom, and the coroner's deputy, who had stood silent all this while by the window—he was a small man with a slim, dark, intelligent face—came together to stare down at the unwrinkled blue silk.

Tom groaned miserably. Dundy cursed under his breath. Spade lifted the necktie to look at its back. The label was a London haberdasher's.

Spade said cheerfully, “Swell. San Francisco, Point Loma, San Jose, Paris, London.”

Dundy glowered at him.

The gray-faced man came in. “The papers got here at three-thirty, all right,” he said. His eyes widened a little. “What's up?” As he crossed the room towards them he said, “I can't find anybody that saw Blondy sneak back in here again.” He looked uncomprehendingly at the necktie until Tom growled, “It's brand-new”; then he whistled softly.

Dundy turned to Spade. “The deuce with all this,” he said bitterly. “He's got a brother with reasons for not liking him. The brother just got out of stir. Somebody who looks like his brother left here at half past three. Twenty-five minutes later he phoned you he'd been threatened. Less than half an hour after that his daughter came in and found him dead—strangled.” He poked a finger at the small, dark-faced man's chest. “Right?”

“Strangled,” the dark-faced man said precisely, “by a man. The hands were large.”

“O. K.” Dundy turned to Spade again. “We find a threatening letter. Maybe that's what he was telling you about, maybe it was something his brother said to him. Don't let's guess. Let's stick to what we know. We know he—”

The man at the secretaire turned around and said, “Got another one.” His mien was somewhat smug.

The eyes with which the five men at the table looked at him were identically cold, unsympathetic.

He, nowise disturbed by their hostility, read aloud:

Dear Bliss:

I am writing this to tell you for the last time that I want my money back, and I want it back by the first of the month, all of it. If I don't get it I am going to do something about it, and you ought to be able to guess what I mean. And don't think I am kidding. Yours truly,

Daniel Talbot.”

He grinned. “That's another T for you.” He picked up an envelope. “Postmarked San Diego, the twenty-fifth of last month.” He grinned again. “And that's another city for you.”

Spade shook his head. “Point Loma's down that way,” he said.

He went over with Dundy to look at the letter. It was written in blue ink on white stationery of good quality, as was the address on the envelope, in a cramped, angular handwriting that seemed to have nothing in common with that of the penciled letter.

Spade said ironically, “Now we're getting somewhere.”

Dundy made an impatient gesture. “Let's stick to what we know,” he growled.

“Sure,” Spade agreed. “What is it?”

There was no reply.

Spade took tobacco and cigarette papers from his pocket. “Didn't somebody say something about talking to a daughter?” he asked.

“We'll talk to her.” Dundy turned on his heel, then suddenly frowned at the dead man on the floor. He jerked a thumb at the small, dark-faced man. “Through with it?”

“I'm through.”

Dundy addressed Tom curtly: “Get rid of it.” He addressed the gray-faced man: “I want to see both elevator boys when I'm finished with the girl.”

He went to the closed door Tom had pointed out to Spade and knocked on it.

A slightly harsh female voice within asked, “What is it?”

“Lieutenant Dundy. I want to talk to Miss Bliss.”

There was a pause; then the voice said, “Come in.”

Dundy opened the door and Spade followed him into a black, gray, and silver room, where a big-boned and ugly middle-aged woman in black dress and white apron sat beside a bed on which a girl lay.

The girl lay, elbow on pillow, cheek on hand, facing the big-boned, ugly woman. She was apparently about eighteen years old. She wore a gray suit. Her hair was blonde and short, her face firm-featured and remarkably symmetrical. She did not look at the two men coming into the room.

Dundy spoke to the big-boned woman, while Spade was lighting his cigarette: “We want to ask you a couple of questions, too, Mrs. Hooper. You're Bliss's housekeeper, aren't you?”

The woman said, “I am.” Her slightly harsh voice, the level gaze of her deep-set gray eyes, the stillness and size of her hands lying in her lap, all contributed to the impression she gave of resting strength.

“What do you know about this?”

“I don't know anything about it. I was let off this morning to go over to Oakland to my nephew's funeral, and when I got back you and the other gentlemen were here and—and this had happened.”

Dundy nodded, asked, “What do you think about it?”

“I don't know what to think,” she replied simply.

“Didn't you know he expected it to happen?”

Now the girl suddenly stopped watching Mrs. Hooper. She sat up in bed, turning wide, excited eyes on Dundy, and asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said. He'd been threatened. He called up Mr. Spade”—he indicated Spade with a nod—“and told him so just a few minutes before he was killed.”

“But who—?” she began.

“That's what we're asking you,” Dundy said. “Who had that much against him?”

She stared at him in astonishment. “Nobody would—“

This time Spade interrupted her, speaking with a soft ness that made his words seem less brutal than they were.

“Somebody did.” When she turned her stare on him he asked, “You don't know of any threats?”

She shook her head from side to side with emphasis.

He looked at Mrs. Hooper. “You?”

“No, sir,” she said.

He returned his attention to the girl. “Do you know Daniel Talbot?”

“Why, yes,” she said. “He was here for dinner last night.”

“Who is he?” '

“I don't know, except that he lives in San Diego, and he and Father had some sort of business together. I'd never met him before.”

“What sort of terms were they on?” She frowned a little, said slowly, “Friendly.” Dundy spoke: “What business was your father in?”

“He was a financier.”

“You mean a promoter?”

“Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”

“Where is Talbot staying, or has he gone back to San Diego?”

“I don't know.”

“What does he look like?”

She frowned again, thoughtfully. “He's kind of large, with a red face and white hair and a white mustache.”

“Old?”

“I guess he must be sixty; fifty-five at least.”

Dundy looked at Spade, who put the stub of his cigarette in a tray on the dressing table and took up the questioning. “How long since you've seen your uncle?”

Her face flushed. “You mean Uncle Ted?”

He nodded.

“Not since,” she began, and bit her lip. Then she said, “Of course, you know. Not since he first got out of prison.”

“He came here?”

“Yes.”

“To see your father?”

“Of course.”

“What sort of terms were they on?”

She opened her eyes wide. “Neither of them is very demonstrative,” she said, “but they are brothers, and Father was giving him money to set him up in business again.”

“Then they were on good terms?”

“Yes,” she replied in the tone of one answering an unnecessary question.

“Where does he live?”

“On Post Street,” she said, and gave a number.

“And you haven't seen him since?”

“No. He was shy, you know, about having been in prison—” She finished the sentence with a gesture of one hand.

Spade addressed Mrs. Hooper: “You've seen him since?”

“No, sir.”

He pursed his lips, asked slowly, “Either of you know he was here this afternoon?”

They said, “No,” together.

“Where did-?”

Someone knocked on the door.

Dundy said, “Come in.”

Tom opened the door far enough to stick his head in. “His brother's here,” he said.

The girl leaning forward, called, “Oh, Uncle Ted!”

A big blond man in brown appeared behind Tom. He was sunburned to an extent that made his teeth seem whiter, his clear eyes bluer, than they were.

He asked, “What's the matter, Miriam?”

“Father's dead,” she said, and began to cry.

Dundy nodded at Tom, who stepped out of Theodore Bliss's way and let him come into the room.

A woman came in behind him, slowly, hesitantly. She was a tall woman in her late twenties, blonde, not quite plump. Her features were generous, her face pleasant and intelligent. She wore a 'small brown hat and a mink coat.

Bliss put an arm around his niece, kissed her forehead, sat on the bed beside her. “There, there,” he said awkwardly.

She saw the blonde woman, stared through her tears at her for a moment, then said, “Oh, how do you do, Miss

Barrow.”

The blonde woman said, “I'm awfully sorry to —” Bliss cleared his throat, and said, “She's Mrs. Bliss now.

We were married this afternoon.”

Dundy looked angrily at Spade. Spade, making a cigarette, seemed about to laugh.

Miriam Bliss, after a moment's surprised silence, said, “Oh, I do wish you all the happiness in the world.” She turned to her uncle while his wife was murmuring “Thank you” and said, “And you too, Uncle Ted.”

He patted her shoulder and squeezed her to him. He was looking questioningly at Spade and Dundy.

“Your brother died this afternoon,” Dundy said. “He was murdered.”

Mrs. Bliss caught her breath. Bliss's arm tightened around his niece with a little jerk, but there was not yet any change in his face. “Murdered?” he repeated uncompre-hendingly.

“Yes.” Dundy put his hands in his coat pockets. “You were here this afternoon.”

Theodore Bliss paled a little under his sunburn, but said, “I was,” steadily enough.

“How long?”

“About an hour. I got here about half past two and—“ He turned to his wife. “It was almost half past three when I phoned you, wasn't it?”

She said, “Yes.”

“Well, I left right after that.”

“Did you have a date with him?” Dundy asked.

“No. I phoned his office”—he nodded at his wife—“and was told he'd left for home, so I came on up. I wanted to see him before Elise and I left, of course, and I wanted him to come to the wedding, but he couldn't. He said he was expecting somebody. We sat here and talked longer than I had intended, so I had to phone Elise to meet me at the Municipal Building.”

After a thoughtful pause, Dundy asked, “What time?”

“That we met there?” Bliss looked inquiringly at his wife, who said, “It was just quarter to four.” She laughed a little. “I got there first and I kept looking at my watch.”

Bliss said very deliberately, “It was a few minutes after four that we were married. We had to wait for Judge Whitefield—about ten minutes, and it was a few more before we got started—to get through with the case he was hearing. You can check it up—Superior Court, Part Two, I think.”

Spade whirled around and pointed at Tom. “Maybe you'd better check it up.”

Tom said, “Oke,” and went away from the door.

“If that's so, you're all right, Mr. Bliss,” Dundy said, “but I have to ask you these things. Now, did your brother say who he was expecting?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything about having been threatened?”

“No. He never talked much about his affairs to anybody, not even to me. Had he been threatened?”

Dundy's lips tightened a little. “Were you and he on intimate terms?”

“Friendly, if that's what you mean.”

“Are you sure?” Dundy asked. “Are you sure neither of you held any grudge against the other?”

Theodore Bliss took his arm free from around his niece. Increasing pallor made his sunburned face yellowish. He said, “Everybody here knows about my having been in

San Quentin. You can speak out, if that's what you're getting at.”

“It is,” Dundy said, and then, after a pause, “Well?”

Bliss stood up. “Well, what?” he asked impatiently. “Did I hold a grudge against him for that? No. Why should I? We were both in it. He could get out; I couldn't. I was sure of being convicted whether he was or not. Having him sent over with me wasn't going to make it any better for me. We talked it over and decided I'd go it alone, leaving him outside to pull things together. And he did. If you look up his bank account you'll see he gave me a check for twenty-five thousand dollars two days after I was discharged from San Quentin, and the registrar of the National Steel Corporation can tell you a thousand shares of stock have been transferred from his name to mine since then.”

He smiled apologetically and sat down on the bed again. “I'm sorry. I know you have to ask things.”

Dundy ignored the apology. “Do you know Daniel Tal-bot?” he asked.

Bliss said, “No.”

His wife said, “I do; that is, I've seen him. He was in the office yesterday.”

Dundy looked her up and down carefully before asking, “What office?”

“I am—I was Mr. Bliss's secretary, and—”

“Max Bliss's?”

“Yes, and a Daniel Talbot came in to see him yesterday afternoon, if it's the same one.”

“What happened?”

She looked at her husband, who said, “If you know anything, for heaven's sake tell them.”

She said, “But nothing really happened. I thought they were angry with each other at first, but when they left together they were laughing and talking, and before they went Mr. Bliss rang for me and told me to have Trapper—he's the bookkeeper—make out a check to Mr. Tal-bot's order.”

“Did he?”

“Oh, yes. I took it in to him. It was for seventy-five hundred and some dollars.”

“What was it for?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

“If you were Bliss's secretary,” Dundy insisted, “you must have some idea of what his business with Talbot was.”

“But I haven't,” she said. “I'd never even heard of him before.”

Dundy looked at Spade. Spade's face was wooden. Dundy glowered at him, then put a question to the man on the bed: “What kind of necktie was your brother wearing when you saw him last?”

Bliss blinked, then stared distantly past Dundy, and finally shut his eyes. When he opened them he said, “It was green with—I'd know it if I saw it. Why?”

Mrs. Bliss said, “Narrow diagonal stripes of different shades of green. That's the one he had on at the office this morning.”

“Where does he keep his neckties?” Dundy asked the housekeeper.

She rose, saying, “In a closet in his bedroom. I'll show you.”

Dundy and the newly married Blisses followed her out.

Spade put his hat on the dressing table and asked Miriam Bliss, “What time did you go out?” He sat on the foot of her bed.

“Today? About one o'clock. I had a luncheon engagement for one and I was a little late, and then I went shopping, and then —” She broke off with a shudder.

“And then you came home at what time?” His voice was friendly, matter-of-fact.

“Some time after four, I guess.”

“And what happened?”

“I f-found Father lying there and I phoned—I don't know whether I phoned downstairs or the police, and then I don't know what I did. I fainted or had hysterics or something, and the first thing I remember is coming to and finding those men here and Mrs. Hooper.” She looked him full in the face now.

“You didn't phone a doctor?”

She lowered her eyes again. “No, I don't think so.”

“Of course you wouldn't, if you knew he was dead,” he said casually.

She was silent.

“You knew he was dead?” he asked.

She raised her eyes and looked blankly at him. “But he was dead,” she said.

He smiled. “Of course; but what I'm getting at is, did you make sure before you phoned?”

She put a hand to her throat. “I don't remember what I did,” she said earnestly. “I think I just knew he was dead.”

He nodded understandingly. “And if you phoned the police it was because you knew he had been murdered.”

She worked her hands together and looked at them and said, “I suppose so. It was awful. I don't know what I thought or did.”

Spade leaned forward and made his voice low and persuasive. “I'm not a police detective, Miss Bliss. I was engaged by your father—a few minutes too late to save him. I am, in a way, working for you now, so if there is anything I can do—maybe something the police wouldn't—“ He broke off as Dundy, followed by the Blisses and the housekeeper, returned to the room. “What luck?”

Dundy said, “The green tie's not there.” His suspicious gaze darted from Spade to the girl. “Mrs. Hooper says the blue tie we found is one of half a dozen he just got from England.”

Bliss asked, “What's the importance of the tie?”

Dundy scowled at him. “He was partly undressed when we found him. The tie with his clothes had never been worn.”

“Couldn't he have been changing clothes when whoever killed him came, and was killed before he had finished dressing?”

Dundy's scowl deepened. “Yes, but what did he do with the green tie? Eat it?”

Spade said, “He wasn't changing clothes. If you'll look at the shirt collar you'll see he must've had it on when he was choked.”

Tom came to the door. “Checks all right,” he told Dundy. “The judge and a bailiff named Kittredge say they were there from about a quarter to four till five or ten minutes after. I told Kittredge to come over and take a look at them to make sure they're the same ones.”

Dundy said, “Right,” without turning his head and took the penciled threat signed with the T in a star from his pocket. He folded it so only the signature was visible. Then he asked, “Anybody know what this is?”

Miriam Bliss left the bed to join the others in looking at it. From it they looked at one another blankly.

“Anybody know anything about it?” Dundy asked. Mrs. Hooper said, “It's like what was on poor Mr. Bliss's chest, but—“ The others said, “No.”

“Anybody ever seen anything like it before?” They said they had not.

Dundy said, “All right. Wait here. Maybe I'll have something else to ask you after a while.”

Spade said, “Just a minute. Mr. Bliss, how long have you known Mrs. Bliss?”

Bliss looked curiously at Spade. “Since I got out of prison,” he replied somewhat cautiously. “Why?”