Well, sir, they got it and I haven't got it.' He stood up and carried his empty glass to the table. 'But I'm going to get it. Your glass, sir.'
'Then the bird doesn't belong to any of you?' Spade asked, 'but to a General Kemidov?'
'Belong?' the fat man said jovially. 'Well, sir, you might say it belonged to the King of Spain, but I don't see how you can honestly grant anybody else clear title to it—except by right of possession.' He clucked. 'An article of that value that has passed from hand to hand by such means is clearly the property of whoever can get hold of it.'
'Then it's Miss O'Shaughnessy's now?'
'No, sir, except as my agent.'
Spade said, 'Oh,' ironically.
Gutman, looking thoughtfully at the stopper of the whiskey-bottle in his hand, asked: 'There's no doubt that she's got it now?'
'Not much.'
'Where?'
'I don't know exactly.'
The fat man set the bottle on the table with a bang. 'But you said you did,' he protested.
Spade made a careless gesture with one hand. 'I meant to say I know where to get it when the time comes.'
The pink bulbs of Gutman's face arranged themselves more happily. 'And you do?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Where?'
Spade grinned and said: 'Leave that to me. That's my end.'
'When?'
'When I'm ready.'
The fat man pursed his lips and, smiling with only slight uneasiness, asked: 'Mr. Spade, where is Miss O'Shaughnessy now?'
'In my hands, safely tucked away.'
Gutman smiled with approval. 'Trust you for that, sir,' he said. 'Well now, sir, before we sit down to talk prices, answer me this: how soon can you—or how soon are you willing to—produce the falcon?'
'A couple of days.'
The fat man nodded. 'That is satisfactory. We— But I forgot our nourishment.' He turned to the table, poured whiskey, squirted charged water into it, set a glass at Spade's elbow and held his own aloft. 'Well, sir, here's to a fair bargain and profits large enough for both of us.'
They drank. The fat man sat down. Spade asked: 'What's your idea of a fair bargain?'
Gutman held his glass up to the light, looked affectionately at it, took another long drink, and said: 'I have two proposals to make, sir, and either is fair. Take your choice. I will give you twenty-five thousand dollars when you deliver the falcon to me, and another twenty-five thousand as soon as I get to New York; or I will give you one quarter—twenty-five per cent—of what I realize on the falcon. There you are, sir: an almost immediate fifty thousand dollars or a vastly greater sum within, say, a couple of months.'
Spade drank and asked: 'How much greater?'
'Vastly,' the fat man repeated. 'Who knows how much greater? Shall I say a hundred thousand, or a quarter of a million? Will you believe me if I name the sum that seems the probable minimum?'
'Why not?'
The fat man smacked his lips and lowered his voice to a purring murmur. 'What would you say, sir, to half a million?'
Spade narrowed his eyes. 'Then you think the dinguS is worth two million?'
Gutman smiled serenely. 'In your own words, why not?' he asked.
Spade emptied his glass and set it on the table. He put his cigar in his mouth, took it out, looked at it, and put it back in. His yellow-grey eyes were faintly muddy. He said: 'That's a hell of a lot of dough.'
The fat man agreed: 'That's a hell of a lot of dough.' He leaned forward and patted Spade's knee. 'That is the absolute rock-bottom minimum—or Charilaos Konstantinides was a blithering idiot—and he wasn't.'
Spade removed the cigar from his mouth again, frowned at it with distaste, and put it on the smoking- stand. He shut his eyes hard, opened them again. Their muddiness had thickened. He said: 'The—the minimum, huh? And the maximum?' An unmistakable sh followed the x in maximum as he said it.
'The maximum?' Gutman held his empty hand out, palm up. 'I refuse to guess. You'd think me crazy. I don't know. There's no telling how high it could go, sir, and that's the one and only truth about it.'
Spade pulled his sagging lower lip tight against the upper. He shook his head impatiently. A sharp frightened gleam awoke in his eyes—and was smothered by the deepening muddiness. He stood up, helping himself up with his hands on the arms of his chair. He shook his head again and took an uncertain step forward. He laughed thickly and muttered: 'God damn you.'
Gutman jumped up and pushed his chair back. His fat globes jiggled. His eves w-ere dark holes in an oily pink face.
Spade swung his head from side to side until his dull eyes were pointed at—if not focused un—the door. He took another uncertain step.
The fat man called sharply: 'Wilmer!'
A door opened and the boy came in.
Spade took a third step. His face was grey now, with jaw-muscles standing out like tumors under his ears. His legs did not straighten again after his fourth step and his muddy eyes were almost covered by their lids. He took his fifth step.
The boy walked over and stood close to Spade, a little in front of him, but not directly between Spade and the door. The boy's right hand was inside his coat over his heart. The corners of his mouth twitched.
Spade essayed his sixth step.
The boy's leg darted out across Spade's leg, in front. Spade tripped over the interfering leg and crashed face-down on the floor. The boy, keeping his right hand under his coat, looked down at Spade. Spade tried to get up. The boy drew his right foot far back and kicked Spade's temple. The kick rolled Spade over on his side. Once more he tried to get up, could not, and went to sleep.
XIV.La Paloma
Spade, coming around the corner from the elevator at a few minutes past six in the morning, saw yellow light glowing through the frosted glass of his office-door. He halted abruptly, set his lips together, looked up and down the corridor, and advanced to the door with swift quiet strides.
He put his hand on the knob and turned it with care that permitted neither rattle nor click. He turned the knob until it would turn no farther: the door was locked. Holding the knob still, he changed hands, taking it now in his left hand. With his right hand he brought his keys out of his pocket, carefully, so they could not jingle against one another. He separated the office-key from the others and, smothering the others together in his palm, inserted the office-key in the lock. The insertion was soundless. He balanced himself on the balls of his feet, filled his lungs, clicked the door open, and went in.
Effie Perine sat slceping with her head on her forearms, her forearms on her desk. She wore her coat and had one of Spade's overcoats wrapped cape-fashion around her.
Spade blew his breath out in a muffled laugh, shut the door behind him, and crossed to the inner door. The inner office was empty. He went over to the girl and put a hand on her shoulder.
She stirred, raised her head drowsily, and her eyelids fluttered. Suddenly she sat up straight, opening her eyes wide. She saw Spade, smiled, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. 'So you finally got back?' she said. 'What time is it?'
'Six o'clock. What are you doing here?'
She shivered, drew Spade's overcoat closer around her, and yawned. 'You told me to stay till you got back
