The boy raised his eyes to Spade’s mouth and spoke in the strained voice of one in physical pain: “Keep on riding me and you’re going to be picking iron out of your navel.”
Spade chuckled. “The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter,” he said cheerfully. “Well, let’s go.”
They walked up Sutter Street side by side. The boy kept his hands in his overcoat-pockets. They walked a little more than a block in silence. Then Spade asked pleasantly: “How long have you been off the gooseberry lay, son?”
The boy did not show that he had heard the question.
“Did you ever—?” Spade began, and stopped. A soft light began to glow in his yellowish eyes. He did not address the boy again.
They went into the Alexandria, rode up to the twelfth floor, and walked down the corridor towards Gutman’s suite. Nobody else was in the corridor.
Spade lagged a little, so that, when they were within fifteen feet of Gutman’s door, he was perhaps a foot and a half behind the boy. He leaned sidewise suddenly and grasped the boy from behind by both arms, just beneath the boy’s elbows. He forced the boy’s arms forward so that the boy’s hands, in his overcoat-pockets, lifted the overcoat up before him. The boy struggled and squirmed, but he was impotent in the big man’s grip. The boy kicked back, but his feet went between Spade’s spread legs.
Spade lifted the boy straight up from the floor and brought him down hard on his feet again. The impact made little noise on the thick carpet. At the moment of impact Spade’s hands slid down and got a fresh grip on the boy’s wrists. The boy, teeth set hard together, did not stop straining against the man’s big hands, but he could not tear himself loose, could not keep the man’s hands from crawling down over his own hands. The boy’s teeth ground together audibly, making a noise that mingled with the noise of Spade’s breathing as Spade crushed the boy’s hands.
They were tense and motionless for a long moment. Then the boy’s arms became limp. Spade released the boy and stepped back. In each of Spade’s hands, when they came out of the boy’s overcoat-pockets, there was a heavy automatic pistol.
The boy turned and faced Spade. The boy’s face was a ghastly white blank. He kept his hands in his overcoat-pockets. He looked at Spade’s chest and did not say anything.
Spade put the pistols in his own pockets and grinned derisively. “Come on,” he said. “This will put you in solid with your boss.”
They went to Gutman’s door and Spade knocked.
XIII
The Emperor’s Gift
Gutman opened the door. A glad smile lighted his fat face. He held out a hand and said: “Ah, come in, sir! Thank you for coming. Come in.”
Spade shook the hand and entered. The boy went in behind him. The fat man shut the door. Spade took the boy’s pistols from his pockets and held them out to Gutman. “Here. You shouldn’t let him run around with these. He’ll get himself hurt.”
The fat man laughed merrily and took the pistols. “Well, well,” he said, “what’s this?” He looked from Spade to the boy.
Spade said: “A crippled newsie took them away from him, but I made him give them back.”
The white-faced boy took the pistols out of Gutman’s hands and pocketed them. The boy did not speak.
Gutman laughed again. “By Gad, sir,” he told Spade, “you’re a chap worth knowing, an amazing character. Come in. Sit down. Give me your hat.”
The boy left the room by the door to the right of the entrance.
The fat man installed Spade in a green plush chair by the table, pressed a cigar upon him, held a light to it, mixed whiskey and carbonated water, put one glass in Spade’s hand, and, holding the other, sat down facing Spade.
“Now, sir,” he said, “I hope you’ll let me apologize for—”
“Never mind that,” Spade said. “Let’s talk about the black bird.”
The fat man cocked his head to the left and regarded Spade with fond eyes. “All right, sir,” he agreed. “Let’s.” He took a sip from the glass in his hand. “This is going to be the most astounding thing you’ve ever heard of, sir, and I say that knowing that a man of your caliber in your profession must have known some astounding things in his time.”
Spade nodded politely.
The fat man screwed up his eyes and asked: “What do you know, sir, about the Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, later called the Knights of Rhodes and other things?”
Spade waved his cigar. “Not much—only what I remember from history in school—Crusaders or something.”
“Very good. Now you don’t remember that Suleiman the Magnificent chased them out of Rhodes in 1523?”
“No.”
“Well, sir, he did, and they settled in Crete. And they stayed there for seven years, until 1530 when they persuaded the Emperor Charles V to give them”—Gutman held up three puffy fingers and counted them—“Malta, Gozo, and Tripoli.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, sir, but with these conditions: they were to pay the Emperor each year the tribute of one”—he held up a finger—“falcon in acknowledgment that Malta was still under Spain, and if they ever left the island it was to revert to Spain. Understand? He was giving it to them, but not unless they used it, and they couldn’t give or sell it to anybody else.”
“Yes.”
The fat man looked over his shoulders at the three closed doors, hunched his chair a few inches nearer Spade’s, and reduced his voice to a husky whisper: “Have you any conception of the extreme, the immeasurable, wealth of the Order at that time?”
“If I remember,” Spade said, “they were pretty well fixed.”
Gutman smiled indulgently. “Pretty well, sir, is putting it mildly.” His whisper became lower and more purring. “They were rolling in wealth, sir. You’ve no idea. None of us has any idea. For years they had preyed on the Saracens, had taken
