Gutman patted his fat hands together. His eyes twinkled. His voice was a complacent throaty purring: “For seventeen years I have wanted that little item and have been trying to get it. If I must spend another year on the quest—well, sir—that will be an additional expenditure in time of only”—his lips moved silently as he calculated—“five and fifteen-seventeenths percent.”
The Levantine giggled and cried: “I go with you!”
Spade suddenly released the girl’s wrist and looked around the room. The boy was not there. Spade went into the passageway. The corridor door stood open. Spade made a dissatisfied mouth, shut the door, and returned to the living-room. He leaned against the doorframe and looked at Gutman and Cairo. He looked at Gutman for a long time, sourly. Then he spoke, mimicking the fat man’s throaty purr: “Well, sir, I must say you’re a swell lot of thieves!”
Gutman chuckled. “We’ve little enough to boast about, and that’s a fact, sir,” he said. “But, well, we’re none of us dead yet and there’s not a bit of use thinking the world’s come to an end just because we’ve run into a little setback.” He brought his left hand from behind him and held it out towards Spade, pink smooth hilly palm up. “I’ll have to ask you for that envelope, sir.”
Spade did not move. His face was wooden. He said: “I held up my end. You got your dingus. It’s your hard luck, not mine, that it wasn’t what you wanted.”
“Now come, sir,” Gutman said persuasively, “we’ve all failed and there’s no reason for expecting any one of us to bear the brunt of it, and—” He brought his right hand from behind him. In the hand was a small pistol, an ornately engraved and inlaid affair of silver and gold and mother-of-pearl. “In short, sir, I must ask you to return my ten thousand dollars.”
Spade’s face did not change. He shrugged and took the envelope from his pocket. He started to hold it out to Gutman, hesitated, opened the envelope, and took out one thousand-dollar bill. He put that bill into his trousers-pocket. He tucked the envelope’s flap in over the other bills and held them out to Gutman. “That’ll take care of my time and expenses,” he said.
Gutman, after a little pause, imitated Spade’s shrug and accepted the envelope. He said: “Now, sir, we will say goodbye to you, unless”—the fat puffs around his eyes crinkled—“you care to undertake the Constantinople expedition with us. You don’t? Well, sir, frankly I’d like to have you along. You’re a man to my liking, a man of many resources and nice judgment. Because we know you’re a man of nice judgment we know we can say goodbye with every assurance that you’ll hold the details of our little enterprise in confidence. We know we can count on you to appreciate the fact that, as the situation now stands, any legal difficulties that come to us in connection with these last few days would likewise and equally come to you and the charming Miss O’Shaughnessy. You’re too shrewd not to recognize that, sir, I’m sure.”
“I understand that,” Spade replied.
“I was sure you would. I’m also sure that, now there’s no alternative, you’ll somehow manage the police without a fall-guy.”
“I’ll make out all right,” Spade replied.
“I was sure you would. Well, sir, the shortest farewells are the best. Adieu.” He made a portly bow. “And to you, Miss O’Shaughnessy, adieu. I leave you the rara avis on the table as a little memento.”
XX
If They Hang You
For all of five minutes after the outer door had closed behind Casper Gutman and Joel Cairo, Spade, motionless, stood staring at the knob of the open living-room door. His eyes were gloomy under a forehead drawn down. The clefts at the root of his nose were deep and red. His lips protruded loosely, pouting. He drew them in to make a hard v and went to the telephone. He had not looked at Brigid O’Shaughnessy, who stood by the table looking with uneasy eyes at him.
He picked up the telephone, set it on its shelf again, and bent to look into the telephone-directory hanging from a corner of the shelf. He turned the pages rapidly until he found the one he wanted, ran his finger down a column, straightened up, and lifted the telephone from the shelf again. He called a number and said:
“Hello, is Sergeant Polhaus there? … Will you call him, please? This is Samuel Spade. …” He stared into space, waiting. “Hello, Tom, I’ve got something for you. … Yes, plenty. Here it is: Thursby and Jacobi were shot by a kid named Wilmer Cook.” He described the boy minutely. “He’s working for a man named Casper Gutman.” He described Gutman. “That fellow Cairo you met here is in with them too. … Yes, that’s it. … Gutman’s staying at the Alexandria, suite 12-C, or was. They’ve just left here and they’re blowing town, so you’ll have to move fast, but I don’t think they’re expecting a pinch. … There’s a girl in it too—Gutman’s daughter.” He described Rhea Gutman. “Watch yourself when you go up against the kid. He’s supposed to be pretty good with the gun. … That’s right, Tom, and I’ve got some stuff here for you. I think I’ve got the guns he used. … That’s right. Step on it—and luck to you!”
Spade slowly replaced receiver on prong, telephone on shelf. He wet his lips and looked down at his hands. Their palms were wet. He filled his deep chest with air. His eyes were glittering between straightened lids. He turned and took three long swift steps into the living-room.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy, startled by the suddenness of his approach, let her breath out in a little laughing gasp.
Spade, face to face with her, very close to her, tall, big-boned and thick-muscled, coldly smiling, hard of
