Insomnia Caper Afrs

The adventures of Sam Spade Detective. Mmm. Mmm. You worked in the sleep shop, you know, next to the knobby-knit. Yeah. And she says they advise their nightmare customers to put a heating pad under the kidneys.

Uh-uh. And a pit of milk toast, just a little bean to broth and some warm wine. And pine oil. And the wine? No, in the broth. Honey in the brass. A bath. Aah! Aah! Black eyes and scratches.

Your lips cost. You didn't go home at all. I did so. When you promised me you were going straight home to that muttony good year, and all the time you knew you were going straight to some sort of barn.

Get into a brawl. Not even bought these things from the sleep shop. Next door to the knobby net. Two detective Lieutenant Tandy, homicide detail, Santa Francisco police. Medical authorities agree that lost sleep can never be made up for them.

From Samuel Spade, licensed number... We've done financing. The pig is cumulating. Subject, the insomnia caper. I'm the acaper. Dear Dundee. Honest, Lieutenant, this is how I got into that mess last night, huh? I've been feeling a little rocky for two or three days.

There was nothing much wrong with me, but as my secretary, the ineffable Miss Corrine said, Sam, what you need is a good night, please. Which, Lieutenant, is how I happen to be at home in bed at 10.30 in the PM wearing a sleep shade earplugs and quiet pajamas. At 1045 my right arm went to sleep. I turned over.

That's when one of the earplugs fell out. I tore off the sleep shade, dug the plug out of my other ear, stuck my head under the pillow. It was just beginning to drowse off, but I sat up and lit a cigarette. The city plunged again into the silences of the night. The fog was creeping in on little cat feet.