Sam Spade

“Give me the phone Effie. I have to make a call.” She handed it over to me and walked into the hall. The inspector had no clues. He asked for my two cents, asked me to give him my views. I didn’t; the call was intense. The dame had come in asking for my advice two days ago and then was arrested by Vice. I had seen the smallish puncture, blood pooling, and I wanted to abolish the coroner’s ruling. The wound was there, but he missed the needle lying next to the chair. He tried to wheedle. If I couldn’t get the cops to do their job, I’d need to pull out all stops to find a hard lead. For Gershon...with smiles Inspired by, but not entered in, Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest