Episode(3)
SPADE sank into his swivel-chair, made a quarter -turn to face her, smiled politely. He smiled without separating his lips. All the v’ in his face grew longer. The tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whir of Effie Paerin’s typewriting came through the closed door. Some were in a neighboring office a power-driven machine vibrated dully. On Spade’s desk a limp cigarette smoldered in a brass tray filled with the remains of limp cigarettes. Ragged grey flakes of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the papers that were the there. A buff-curtained window, eight or ten inches open, let in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia. The ashes on the desk twitched and crawled in the current.
Miss
Wonderly watched the grey flakes twitch and crawl. Her eyes were uneasy. She
sat on the very edge of the chair. Her feet were flat on the floor, as if she
were about to rise, Her hands in dark gloves clasped a flat dark hand bag in
her lap. Spade rocked back in his chair and asked: “Now what can I do for you,
Miss Wonderly?”
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