SPADE, with his arms around Brigid O’Shaughnessy, smiled meagerly over
her head and said: “Sure, we’ll talk.”
Gutman’s bulbs jounced as he took three waddling backward steps away
from the door.
Spade and the girl went in together. The boy and Cairo followed them in.
Cairo stopped in the doorway. The boy put away one of his pistols and
came up close behind Spade.
Spade turned his head far around to look down over his shoulder at the
boy and said: “Get away. You’re not going to frisk me.”
The boy said: “Stand still. Shut up.”
Spade’s nostrils went in and out with his breathing. His voice was
level. “Get away. Put your paw on me and I’m going to make you use the
gun. Ask your boss if he wants me shot up before we talk.”
“Never mind, Wilmer,” the fat man said. He frowned indulgently at Spade.
“You are certainly a most headstrong individual. Well, let’s be seated.”
Spade said, “I told you I didn’t like that punk,” and took Brigid
O’Shaughnessy to the sofa by the windows. They sat close together, her
head against his left shoulder, his left arm around her shoulders. She
had stopped trembling, had stopped panting. The appearance of Gutman and
his companions seemed to have robbed her of that freedom of personal
movement and emotion that is animal, leaving her alive, conscious, but
quiescent as a plant.
Gutman lowered himself into the padded rocking chair. Cairo chose the
armchair by the table. The boy Wilmer did not sit down. He stood in the
doorway where Cairo had stood, letting his one visible pistol hang down
at his side, looking under curling lashes at Spade’s body. Cairo put his
pistol on the table beside him.
Spade took off his hat and tossed it to the other end of the sofa. He
grinned at Gutman. The looseness of his lower lip and the droop of his
upper eyelids combined with the v’s in his face to make his grin lewd as
a satyr’s. “That daughter of yours has a nice belly,” he said, “too nice
to be scratched up with pins.”
Gutman’s smile was affable if a bit oily.
The boy in the doorway took a short step forward, raising his pistol as
far as his hip. Everybody in the room looked at him. In the dissimilar
eyes with which Brigid O’Shaughnessy and Joel Cairo looked at him there
was, oddly, something identically reproving. The boy blushed, drew back
his advanced foot, straightened his legs, lowered the pistol and stood
as he had stood before, looking under lashes that hid his eyes at
Spade’s chest. The blush was pale enough and lasted for only an instant,
but it was startling on his face that habitually was so cold and
composed.
Gutman turned his sleek-eyed fat smile on Spade again. His voice was a
suave purring. “Yes, sir, that was a shame, but you must admit that it
served its purpose.”
Spade’s brows twitched together. “Anything would’ve,” he said.
“Naturally I wanted to see you as soon as I had the falcon. Cash
customers—why not? I went to Burlingame expecting to run into this sort
of a meeting. I didn’t know you were blundering around, half an hour
late, trying to get me out of the way so you could find Jacobi again
before he found me.”
Gutman chuckled. His chuckle seemed to hold nothing but satisfaction.
“Well, sir,” he said, “in any case, here we are having our little
meeting, if that’s what you wanted.”
“That’s what I wanted. How soon are you ready to make the first payment
and take the falcon off my hands?”
Brigid O’Shaughnessy sat up straight and looked at Spade with surprised
blue eyes. He patted her shoulder inattentively. His eyes were steady on
Gutman’s. Gutman’s twinkled merrily between sheltering fat-puffs. He
said: “Well, sir, as to that,” and put a hand inside the breast of his
coat.
Cairo, hands on thighs, leaned forward in his chair, breathing between
parted soft lips. His dark eyes had the surface-shine of lacquer. They
shifted their focus warily from Spade’s face to Gutman’s, from Gutman’s
to Spade’s.
Gutman repeated, “Well, sir, as to that,” and took a white envelope from
his pocket. Ten eyes—the boy’s now only half obscured by his
lashes—looked at the envelope. Turning the envelope over in his swollen
hands, Gutman studied for a moment its blank white front and then its
back, unsealed, with the flap tucked in. He raised his head, smiled
amiably, and scaled the envelope at Spade’s lap.
The envelope, though not bulky, was heavy enough to fly true. It struck
the lower part of Spade’s chest and dropped down on his thighs. He
picked it up deliberately and opened it deliberately, using both hands,
having taken his left arm from around the girl. The contents of the
envelope were thousand-dollar bills, smooth and stiff and new. Spade
took them out and counted them. There were ten of them. Spade looked up
smiling. He said mildly: “We were talking about more money than this.”
“Yes, sir, we were,” Gutman agreed, “but we were talking then. This is
actual money, genuine coin of the realm, sir. With a dollar of this you
can buy more than with ten dollars of talk.” Silent laughter shook his
bulbs. When their commotion stopped he said more seriously, yet not
altogether seriously: “There are more of us to be taken care of now.” He
moved his twinkling eyes and his fat head to indicate Cairo. “And—well,
sir, in short—the situation has changed.”
While Gutman talked Spade had tapped the edges of the ten bills into
alignment and returned them to their envelope, tucking the flap in over
them. Now, with forearms on knees, he sat hunched forward, dangling the
envelope from a corner held lightly by finger and thumb down between his
legs. His reply to the fat man was careless: “Sure. You’re together now,
but I’ve got the falcon.”
Joel Cairo spoke. Ugly hands grasping the arms of his chair, he leaned
forward and said primly in his high-pitched thin voice: “I shouldn’t
think it would be necessary to remind you, Mr. Spade, that though you
may have the falcon yet we certainly have you.”
Spade grinned. “I’m trying to not let that worry me,” he said. He sat up
straight, put the envelope aside—on the sofa—and addressed Gutman:
“We’ll come back to the money later. There’s another thing that’s got to
be taken care of first. We’ve got to have a fall-guy.”
The fat man frowned without comprehension, but before he could speak
Spade was explaining: “The police have got to have a victim—somebody
they can stick for those three murders. We—”
Cairo, speaking in a brittle excited voice, interrupted Spade.
“Two—only two—murders, Mr. Spade. Thursby undoubtedly killed your
partner.”
“All right, two,” Spade growled. “What difference does that make? The
point is we’ve got to feed the police some—”
Now Gutman broke in, smiling confidently, talking with good-natured
assurance: “Well, sir, from what we’ve seen and heard of you I don’t
think we’ll have to bother ourselves about that. We can leave the
handling of the police to you, all right. You won’t need any of our
inexpert help.”
“If that’s what you think,” Spade said, “you haven’t seen or heard
enough.”
“Now come, Mr. Spade. You can’t expect us to believe at this late date
that you are the least bit afraid of the police, or that you are not
quite able to handle—”
Spade snorted with throat and nose. He bent forward, resting forearms on
knees again, and interrupted Gutman irritably: “I’m not a damned bit
afraid of them and I know how to handle them. That’s what I’m trying to
tell you. The way to handle them is to toss them a victim, somebody they
can hang the works on.”
“Well, sir, I grant you that’s one way of doing it, but—”
“‘But’ hell!” Spade said. “It’s the only way.” His eyes were hot and
earnest under a reddening forehead. The bruise on his temple was
liver-colored. “I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been through it all
before and expect to go through it again. At one time or another I’ve
had to tell everybody from the Supreme Court down to go to hell, and
I’ve got away with it. I got away with it because I never let myself
forget that a day of reckoning was coming. I never forget that when the
day of reckoning comes I want to be all set to march into headquarters
pushing a victim in front of me, saying: ‘Here, you chumps, is your
criminal.’ As long as I can do that I can put my thumb to my nose and
wriggle my fingers at all the laws in the book. The first time I can’t
do it my name’s Mud. There hasn’t been a first time yet. This isn’t
going to be it. That’s flat.”
Gutman’s eyes flickered and their sleekness became dubious, but he held
his other features in their bulbous pink smiling complacent cast and
there was nothing of uneasiness in his voice. He said: “That’s a system
that’s got a lot to recommend it, sir—by Gad, it has! And if it was
anyway practical this time I’d be the first to say: ‘Stick to it by all
means, sir.’ But this just happens to be a case where it’s not possible.
That’s the way it is with the best of systems. There comes a time when
you’ve got to make exceptions, and a wise man just goes ahead and makes
them. Well, sir, that’s just the way it is in this case and I don’t mind
telling you that I think you’re being very well paid for making an
exception. Now maybe it will be a little more trouble to you than if you
had your victim to hand over to the police, but”—he laughed and spread
his hands—“you’re not a man that’s afraid of a little bit of trouble.
You know how to do things and you know you’ll land on your feet in the
end, no matter what happens.” He pursed his lips and partly closed one
eye. “You’ll manage that, sir.”
Spade’s eyes had lost their warmth. His face was dull and lumpy. “I know
what I’m talking about,” he said in a low, consciously patient, tone.
“This is my city and my game. I could manage to land on my
feet—sure—this time, but the next time I tried to put over a fast one
they’d stop me so fast I’d swallow my teeth. Hell with that. You
birds’ll be in New York or Constantinople or some place else. I’m in
business here.”
“But surely,” Gutman began, “you can—”
“I can’t,” Spade said earnestly. “I won’t. I mean it.” He sat up
straight. A pleasant smile illuminated his face, erasing its dull
lumpishness. He spoke rapidly in an agreeable, persuasive tone: “Listen
to me, Gutman. I’m telling you what’s best for all of us. If we don’t
give the police a fall-guy it’s ten to one they’ll sooner or later
stumble on information about the falcon. Then you’ll have to duck for
cover with it—no matter where you are—and that’s not going to help you
make a fortune off it. Give them a fall-guy and they’ll stop right
there.”
“Well, sir, that’s just the point,” Gutman replied, and still only in
his eyes was uneasiness faintly apparent. “Will they stop right there?
Or won’t the fall-guy be a fresh clue that as likely as not will lead
them to information about the falcon? And, on the other hand, wouldn’t
you say they were stopped right now, and that the best thing for us to
do is leave well enough alone?”
A forked vein began to swell in Spade’s forehead. “Jesus! you don’t know
what it’s all about either,” he said in a restrained tone. “They’re not
asleep, Gutman. They’re lying low, waiting. Try to get that. I’m in it
up to my neck and they know it. That’s all right as long as I do
something when the time comes. But it won’t be all right if I don’t.”
His voice became persuasive again. “Listen, Gutman, we’ve absolutely got
to give them a victim. There’s no way out of it. Let’s give them the
punk.” He nodded pleasantly at the boy in the doorway. “He actually did
shoot both of them—Thursby and Jacobi—didn’t he? Anyway, he’s made to
order for the part. Let’s pin the necessary evidence on him and turn him
over to them.”
The boy in the doorway tightened the corners of his mouth in what may
have been a minute smile. Spade’s proposal seemed to have no other
effect on him. Joel Cairo’s dark face was open-mouthed, open-eyed,
yellowish, and amazed. He breathed through his mouth, his round
effeminate chest rising and falling, while he gaped at Spade. Brigid
O’Shaughnessy had moved away from Spade and had twisted herself around
on the sofa to stare at him. There was a suggestion of hysterical
laughter behind the startled confusion in her face.
Gutman remained still and expressionless for a long moment. Then he
decided to laugh. He laughed heartily and lengthily, not stopping until
his sleek eyes had borrowed merriment from his laughter. When he stopped
laughing he said: “By Gad, sir, you’re a character, that you are!” He
took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Yes, sir,
there’s never any telling what you’ll do or say next, except that it’s
bound to be something astonishing.”
“There’s nothing funny about it.” Spade did not seem offended by the fat
man’s laughter, nor in any way impressed. He spoke in the manner of one
reasoning with a recalcitrant, but not altogether unreasonable, friend.
“It’s our best bet. With him in their hands, the police will—”
“But, my dear man,” Gutman objected, “can’t you see? If I even for a
moment thought of doing it—But that’s ridiculous too. I feel towards
Wilmer just exactly as if he were my own son. I really do. But if I even
for a moment thought of doing what you propose, what in the world do you
think would keep Wilmer from telling the police every last detail about
the falcon and all of us?”
Spade grinned with stiff lips. “If we had to,” he said softly, “we could
have him killed resisting arrest. But we won’t have to go that far. Let
him talk his head off. I promise you nobody’ll do anything about it.
That’s easy enough to fix.”
The pink flesh on Gutman’s forehead crawled in a frown. He lowered his
head, mashing his chins together over his collar, and asked: “How?”
Then, with an abruptness that set all his fat bulbs to quivering and
tumbling against one another, he raised his head, squirmed around to
look at the boy, and laughed uproariously. “What do you think of this,
Wilmer? It’s funny, eh?”
The boy’s eyes were cold hazel gleams under his lashes. He said in a low
distinct voice: “Yes, it’s funny—the son of a bitch.”
Spade was talking to Brigid O’Shaughnessy: “How do you feel now, angel?
Any better?”
“Yes, much better, only”—she reduced her voice until the last words
would have been unintelligible two feet away—“I’m frightened.”
“Don’t be,” he said carelessly and put a hand on her grey-stockinged
knee. “Nothing very bad’s going to happen. Want a drink?”
“Not now, thanks.” Her voice sank again. “Be careful, Sam.”
Spade grinned and looked at Gutman, who was looking at him. The fat man
smiled genially, saying nothing for a moment, and then asked: “How?”
Spade was stupid. “How what?”
The fat man considered more laughter necessary then, and an explanation:
“Well, sir, if you’re really serious about this—this suggestion of
yours, the least we can do in common politeness is to hear you out. Now
how are you going about fixing it so that Wilmer”—he paused here to
laugh again—“won’t be able to do us any harm?”
Spade shook his head. “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage
of anybody’s politeness, no matter how common, like that. Forget it.”
The fat man puckered up his facial bulbs. “Now come, come,” he
protested, “you make me decidedly uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have
laughed, and I apologize most humbly and sincerely. I wouldn’t want to
seem to ridicule anything you’d suggest, Mr. Spade, regardless of how
much I disagreed with you, for you must know that I have the greatest
respect and admiration for your astuteness. Now mind you, I don’t see
how this suggestion of yours can be in any way practical—even leaving
out the fact that I couldn’t feel any different towards Wilmer if he was
my own flesh and blood—but I’ll consider it a personal favor as well as
a sign that you’ve accepted my apologies, sir, if you’ll go ahead and
outline the rest of it.”
“Fair enough,” Spade said. “Bryan is like most district attorneys. He’s
more interested in how his record will look on paper than in anything
else. He’d rather drop a doubtful case than try it and have it go
against him. I don’t know that he ever deliberately framed anybody he
believed innocent, but I can’t imagine him letting himself believe them
innocent if he could scrape up, or twist into shape, proof of their
guilt. To be sure of convicting one man he’ll let half a dozen equally
guilty accomplices go free—if trying to convict them all might confuse
his case.
“That’s the choice we’ll give him and he’ll gobble it up. He wouldn’t
want to know about the falcon. He’ll be tickled pink to persuade himself
that anything the punk tells him about it is a lot of chewing-gum, an
attempt to muddle things up. Leave that end to me. I can show him that
if he starts fooling around trying to gather up everybody he’s going to
have a tangled case that no jury will be able to make heads or tails of,
while if he sticks to the punk he can get a conviction standing on his
head.”
Gutman wagged his head sidewise in a slow smiling gesture of benign
disapproval. “No, sir,” he said, “I’m afraid that won’t do, won’t do at
all. I don’t see how even this District Attorney of yours can link
Thursby and Jacobi and Wilmer together without having to—”
“You don’t know district attorneys,” Spade told him. “The Thursby angle
is easy. He was a gunman and so’s your punk. Bryan’s already got a
theory about that. There’ll be no catch there. Well, Christ! they can
only hang the punk once. Why try him for Jacobi’s murder after he’s been
convicted of Thursby’s? They simply close the record by writing it up
against him and let it go at that. If, as is likely enough, he used the
same gun on both, the bullets will match up. Everybody will be
satisfied.”
“Yes, but—” Gutman began, and stopped to look at the boy.
The boy advanced from the doorway, walking stiff-legged, with his legs
apart, until he was between Gutman and Cairo, almost in the center of
the floor. He halted there, leaning forward slightly from the waist, his
shoulders raised towards the front. The pistol in his hand still hung at
his side, but his knuckles were white over its grip. His other hand was
a small hard fist down at his other side. The indelible youngness of his
face gave an indescribably vicious—and inhuman—turn to the white-hot
hatred and the cold white malevolence in his face. He said to Spade in a
voice cramped by passion: “You bastard, get up on your feet and go for
your heater!”
Spade smiled at the boy. His smile was not broad, but the amusement in
it seemed genuine and unalloyed.
The boy said: “You bastard, get up and shoot it out if you’ve got the
guts. I’ve taken all the riding from you I’m going to take.”
The amusement in Spade’s smile deepened. He looked at Gutman and said:
“Young Wild West.” His voice matched his smile. “Maybe you ought to tell
him that shooting me before you get your hands on the falcon would be
bad for business.”
Gutman’s attempt at a smile was not successful, but he kept the
resultant grimace on his mottled face. He licked dry lips with a dry
tongue. His voice was too hoarse and gritty for the paternally
admonishing tone it tried to achieve. “Now, now, Wilmer,” he said, “we
can’t have any of that. You shouldn’t let yourself attach so much
importance to these things. You—”
The boy, not taking his eyes from Spade, spoke in a choked voice out the
side of his mouth: “Make him lay off me then. I’m going to fog him if he
keeps it up and there won’t be anything that’ll stop me from doing it.”
“Now, Wilmer,” Gutman said and turned to Spade. His face and voice were
under control now. “Your plan is, sir, as I said in the first place, not
at all practical. Let’s not say anything more about it.”
Spade looked from one of them to the other. He had stopped smiling. His
face held no expression at all. “I say what I please,” he told them.
“You certainly do,” Gutman said quickly, “and that’s one of the things
I’ve always admired in you. But this matter is, as I say, not at all
practical, so there’s not the least bit of use of discussing it any
further, as you can see for yourself.”
“I can’t see it for myself,” Spade said, “and you haven’t made me see
it, and I don’t think you can.” He frowned at Gutman. “Let’s get this
straight. Am I wasting time talking to you? I thought this was your
show. Should I do my talking to the punk? I know how to do that.”
“No, sir,” Gutman replied, “you’re quite right in dealing with me.”
Spade said: “All right. Now I’ve got another suggestion. It’s not as
good as the first, but it’s better than nothing. Want to hear it?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Give them Cairo.”
Cairo hastily picked up his pistol from the table beside him. He held it
tight in his lap with both hands. Its muzzle pointed at the floor a
little to one side of the sofa. His face had become yellowish again. His
black eyes darted their gaze from face to face. The opaqueness of his
eyes made them seem flat, two-dimensional.
Gutman, looking as if he could not believe he had heard what he had
heard, asked: “Do what?”
“Give the police Cairo.”
Gutman seemed about to laugh, but he did not laugh. Finally he
exclaimed: “Well, by Gad, sir!” in an uncertain tone.
“It’s not as good as giving them the punk,” Spade said. “Cairo’s not a
gunman and he carries a smaller gun than Thursby and Jacobi were shot
with. We’ll have to go to more trouble framing him, but that’s better
than not giving the police anybody.”
Cairo cried in a voice shrill with indignation: “Suppose we give them
you, Mr. Spade, or Miss O’Shaughnessy? How about that if you’re so set
on giving them somebody?”
Spade smiled at the Levantine and answered him evenly: “You people want
the falcon. I’ve got it. A fall-guy is part of the price I’m asking. As
for Miss O’Shaughnessy”—his dispassionate glance moved to her white
perplexed face and then back to Cairo and his shoulders rose and fell a
fraction of an inch—“if you think she can be rigged for the part I’m
perfectly willing to discuss it with you.”
The girl put her hands to her throat, uttered a short strangled cry, and
moved farther away from him.
Cairo, his face and body twitching with excitement, exclaimed: “You seem
to forget that you are not in a position to insist on anything.”
Spade laughed, a harsh derisive snort.
Gutman said, in a voice that tried to make firmness ingratiating: “Come
now, gentlemen, let’s keep our discussion on a friendly basis; but there
certainly is”—he was addressing Spade—“something in what Mr. Cairo
says. You must take into consideration the—”
“Like hell I must.” Spade flung his words out with a brutal sort of
carelessness that gave them more weight than they could have got from
dramatic emphasis or from loudness. “If you kill me, how are you going
to get the bird? If I know you can’t afford to kill me till you have it,
how are you going to scare me into giving it to you?”
Gutman cocked his head to the left and considered these questions. His
eyes twinkled between puckered lids. Presently he gave his genial
answer: “Well, sir, there are other means of persuasion besides killing
and threatening to kill.”
“Sure,” Spade agreed, “but they’re not much good unless the threat of
death is behind them to hold the victim down. See what I mean? If you
try anything I don’t like I won’t stand for it. I’ll make it a matter of
your having to call it off or kill me, knowing you can’t afford to kill
me.”
“I see what you mean.” Gutman chuckled. “That is an attitude, sir, that
calls for the most delicate judgment on both sides, because, as you
know, sir, men are likely to forget in the heat of action where their
best interest lies and let their emotions carry them away.”
Spade too was all smiling blandness. “That’s the trick, from my side,”
he said, “to make my play strong enough that it ties you up, but yet not
make you mad enough to bump me off against your better judgment.”
Gutman said fondly: “By Gad, sir, you are a character!”
Joel Cairo jumped up from his chair and went around behind the boy and
behind Gutman’s chair. He bent over the back of Gutman’s chair and,
screening his mouth and the fat man’s ear with his empty hand,
whispered. Gutman listened attentively, shutting his eyes.
Spade grinned at Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Her lips smiled feebly in
response, but there was no change in her eyes; they did not lose their
numb stare. Spade turned to the boy: “Two to one they’re selling you
out, son.”
The boy did not say anything. A trembling in his knees began to shake
the knees of his trousers.
Spade addressed Gutman: “I hope you’re not letting yourself be
influenced by the guns these pocket-edition desperadoes are waving.”
Gutman opened his eyes. Cairo stopped whispering and stood erect behind
the fat man’s chair.
Spade said: “I’ve practiced taking them away from both of them, so
there’ll be no trouble there. The punk is—”
In a voice choked horribly by emotion the boy cried, “All right!” and
jerked his pistol up in front of his chest.
Gutman flung a fat hand out at the boy’s wrist, caught the wrist, and
bore it and the gun down while Gutman’s fat body was rising in haste
from the rocking chair. Joel Cairo scurried around to the boy’s other
side and grasped his other arm. They wrestled with the boy, forcing his
arms down, holding them down, while he struggled futilely against them.
Words came out of the struggling group: fragments of the boy’s
incoherent speech—“right . . . go . . . bastard . . . smoke”—Gutman’s
“Now, now, Wilmer!” repeated many times; Cairo’s “No, please, don’t” and
“Don’t do that, Wilmer.”
Wooden-faced, dreamy-eyed, Spade got up from the sofa and went over to
the group. The boy, unable to cope with the weight against him, had
stopped struggling. Cairo, still holding the boy’s arm, stood partly in
front of him, talking to him soothingly. Spade pushed Cairo aside gently
and drove his left fist against the boy’s chin. The boy’s head snapped
back as far as it could while his arms were held, and then came forward.
Gutman began a desperate “Here, what—?” Spade drove his right fist
against the boy’s chin.
Cairo dropped the boy’s arm, letting him collapse against Gutman’s great
round belly. Cairo sprang at Spade, clawing at his face with the curved
stiff fingers of both hands. Spade blew his breath out and pushed the
Levantine away. Cairo sprang at him again. Tears were in Cairo’s eyes
and his red lips worked angrily, forming words, but no sound came from
between them.
Spade laughed, grunted, “Jesus, you’re a pip!” and cuffed the side of
Cairo’s face with an open hand, knocking him over against the table.
Cairo regained his balance and sprang at Spade the third time. Spade
stopped him with both palms held out on long rigid arms against his
face. Cairo, failing to reach Spade’s face with his shorter arms,
thumped Spade’s arms.
“Stop it,” Spade growled. “I’ll hurt you.”
Cairo cried, “Oh, you big coward!” and backed away from him.
Spade stooped to pick up Cairo’s pistol from the floor, and then the
boy’s. He straightened up holding them in his left hand, dangling them
upside-down by their trigger-guards from his forefinger.
Gutman had put the boy in the rocking chair and stood looking at him
with troubled eyes in an uncertainly puckered face. Cairo went down on
his knees beside the chair and began to chafe one of the boy’s limp
hands.
Spade felt the boy’s chin with his fingers. “Nothing cracked,” he said.
“We’ll spread him on the sofa.” He put his right arm under the boy’s arm
and around his back, put his left forearm under the boy’s knees, lifted
him without apparent effort, and carried him to the sofa.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy got up quickly and Spade laid the boy there. With
his right hand Spade patted the boy’s clothes, found his second pistol,
added it to the others in his left hand, and turned his back on the
sofa. Cairo was already sitting beside the boy’s head.
Spade clinked the pistols together in his hand and smiled cheerfully at
Gutman. “Well,” he said, “there’s our fall-guy.”
Gutman’s face was grey and his eyes were clouded. He did not look at
Spade. He looked at the floor and did not say anything.
Spade said: “Don’t be a damned fool again. You let Cairo whisper to you
and you held the kid while I pasted him. You can’t laugh that off and
you’re likely to get yourself shot trying to.”
Gutman moved his feet on the rug and said nothing.
Spade said: “And the other side of it is that you’ll either say yes
right now or I’ll turn the falcon and the whole God-damned lot of you
in.”
Gutman raised his head and muttered through his teeth: “I don’t like
that, sir.”
“You won’t like it,” Spade said. “Well?”
The fat man sighed and made a wry face and replied sadly: “You can have
him.”
Spade said: “That’s swell.”
19