THE boy lay on his back on the sofa, a small figure that was—except for
its breathing—altogether corpselike to the eye. Joel Cairo sat beside
the boy, bending over him, rubbing his cheeks and wrists, smoothing his
hair back from his forehead, whispering to him, and peering anxiously
down at his white still face.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy stood in an angle made by table and wall. One of
her hands was flat on the table, the other to her breast. She pinched
her lower lip between her teeth and glanced furtively at Spade whenever
he was not looking at her. When he looked at her she looked at Cairo and
the boy.
Gutman’s face had lost its troubled cast and was becoming rosy again. He
had put his hands in his trousers-pockets. He stood facing Spade,
watching him without curiosity.
Spade, idly jingling his handful of pistols, nodded at Cairo’s rounded
back and asked Gutman: “It’ll be all right with him?”
“I don’t know,” the fat man replied placidly. “That part will have to be
strictly up to you, sir.”
Spade’s smile made his v-shaped chin more salient. He said: “Cairo.”
The Levantine screwed his dark anxious face around over his shoulder.
Spade said: “Let him rest awhile. We’re going to give him to the police.
We ought to get the details fixed before he comes to.”
Cairo asked bitterly: “Don’t you think you’ve done enough to him without
that?”
Spade said: “No.”
Cairo left the sofa and went close to the fat man. “Please don’t do this
thing, Mr. Gutman,” he begged. “You must realize that—”
Spade interrupted him: “That’s settled. The question is, what are you
going to do about it? Coming in? Or getting out?”
Though Gutman’s smile was a bit sad, even wistful in its way, he nodded
his head. “I don’t like it either,” he told the Levantine, “but we can’t
help ourselves now. We really can’t.”
Spade asked: “What are you doing, Cairo? In or out?”
Cairo wet his lips and turned slowly to face Spade. “Suppose,” he said,
and swallowed. “Have I—? Can I choose?”
“You can,” Spade assured him seriously, “but you ought to know that if
the answer is _out_ we’ll give you to the police with your boy-friend.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Spade,” Gutman protested, “that is not—”
“Like hell we’ll let him walk out on us,” Spade said. “He’ll either come
in or he’ll go in. We can’t have a lot of loose ends hanging around.” He
scowled at Gutman and burst out irritably: “Jesus God! is this the first
thing you guys ever stole? You’re a fine lot of lollipops! What are you
going to do next—get down and pray?” He directed his scowl at Cairo.
“Well? Which?”
“You give me no choice.” Cairo’s narrow shoulders moved in a hopeless
shrug. “I come in.”
“Good,” Spade said and looked at Gutman and at Brigid O’Shaughnessy.
“Sit down.”
The girl sat down gingerly on the end of the sofa by the unconscious
boy’s feet. Gutman returned to the padded rocking chair, and Cairo to
the armchair. Spade put his handful of pistols on the table and sat on
the table-corner beside them. He looked at the watch on his wrist and
said: “Two o’clock. I can’t get the falcon till daylight, or maybe eight
o’clock. We’ve got plenty of time to arrange everything.”
Gutman cleared his throat. “Where is it?” he asked and then added in
haste: “I don’t really care, sir. What I had in mind was that it would
be best for all concerned if we did not get out of each other’s sight
until our business has been transacted.” He looked at the sofa and at
Spade again, sharply. “You have the envelope?”
Spade shook his head, looking at the sofa and then at the girl. He
smiled with his eyes and said: “Miss O’Shaughnessy has it.”
“Yes, I have it,” she murmured, putting a hand inside her coat. “I
picked it up. . . .”
“That’s all right,” Spade told her. “Hang on to it.” He addressed
Gutman: “We won’t have to lose sight of each other. I can have the
falcon brought here.”
“That will be excellent,” Gutman purred. “Then, sir, in exchange for the
ten thousand dollars and Wilmer you will give us the falcon and an hour
or two of grace—so we won’t be in the city when you surrender him to
the authorities.”
“You don’t have to duck,” Spade said. “It’ll be air-tight.”
“That may be, sir, but nevertheless we’ll feel safer well out of the
city when Wilmer is being questioned by your District Attorney.”
“Suit yourself,” Spade replied. “I can hold him here all day if you
want.” He began to roll a cigarette. “Let’s get the details fixed. Why
did he shoot Thursby? And why and where and how did he shoot Jacobi?”
Gutman smiled indulgently, shaking his head and purring: “Now come, sir,
you can’t expect that. We’ve given you the money and Wilmer. That is our
part of the agreement.”
“I do expect it,” Spade said. He held his lighter to his cigarette. “A
fall-guy is what I asked for, and he’s not a fall-guy unless he’s a
cinch to take the fall. Well, to cinch that I’ve got to know what’s
what.” He pulled his brows together. “What are you bellyaching about?
You’re not going to be sitting so damned pretty if you leave him with an
out.”
Gutman leaned forward and wagged a fat finger at the pistols on the
table beside Spade’s legs. “There’s ample evidence of his guilt, sir.
Both men were shot with those weapons. It’s a very simple matter for the
police-department-experts to determine that the bullets that killed the
men were fired from those weapons. You know that; you’ve mentioned it
yourself. And that, it seems to me, is ample proof of his guilt.”
“Maybe,” Spade agreed, “but the thing’s more complicated than that and
I’ve got to know what happened so I can be sure the parts that won’t fit
in are covered up.”
Cairo’s eyes were round and hot. “Apparently you’ve forgotten that you
assured us it would be a very simple affair,” Cairo said. He turned his
excited dark face to Gutman. “You see! I advised you not to do this. I
don’t think—”
“It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference what either of you think,”
Spade said bluntly. “It’s too late for that now and you’re in too deep.
Why did he kill Thursby?”
Gutman interlaced his fingers over his belly and rocked his chair. His
voice, like his smile, was frankly rueful. “You are an uncommonly
difficult person to get the best of,” he said. “I begin to think that we
made a mistake in not letting you alone from the very first. By Gad, I
do, sir!”
Spade moved his hand carelessly. “You haven’t done so bad. You’re
staying out of jail and you’re getting the falcon. What do you want?” He
put his cigarette in a corner of his mouth and said around it: “Anyhow
you know where you stand now. Why did he kill Thursby?”
Gutman stopped rocking. “Thursby was a notorious killer and Miss
O’Shaughnessy’s ally. We knew that removing him in just that manner
would make her stop and think that perhaps it would be best to patch up
her differences with us after all, besides leaving her without so
violent a protector. You see, sir, I am being candid with you?”
“Yes. Keep it up. You didn’t think he might have the falcon?”
Gutman shook his head so that his round cheeks wobbled. “We didn’t think
that for a minute,” he replied. He smiled benevolently. “We had the
advantage of knowing Miss O’Shaughnessy far too well for that and, while
we didn’t know then that she had given the falcon to Captain Jacobi in
Hongkong to be brought over on the _Paloma_ while they took a faster
boat, still we didn’t for a minute think that, if only one of them knew
where it was, Thursby was the one.”
Spade nodded thoughtfully and asked: “You didn’t try to make a deal with
him before you gave him the works?”
“Yes, sir, we certainly did. I talked to him myself that night. Wilmer
had located him two days before and had been trying to follow him to
wherever he was meeting Miss O’Shaughnessy, but Thursby was too crafty
for that even if he didn’t know he was being watched. So that night
Wilmer went to his hotel, learned he wasn’t in, and waited outside for
him. I suppose Thursby returned immediately after killing your partner.
Be that as it may, Wilmer brought him to see me. We could do nothing
with him. He was quite determinedly loyal to Miss O’Shaughnessy. Well,
sir, Wilmer followed him back to his hotel and did what he did.”
Spade thought for a moment. “That sounds all right. Now Jacobi.”
Gutman looked at Spade with grave eyes and said: “Captain Jacobi’s death
was entirely Miss O’Shaughnessy’s fault.”
The girl gasped, “Oh!” and put a hand to her mouth.
Spade’s voice was heavy and even. “Never mind that now. Tell me what
happened.”
After a shrewd look at Spade, Gutman smiled. “Just as you say, sir,” he
said. “Well, Cairo, as you know, got in touch with me—I sent for
him—after he left police headquarters the night—or morning—he was up
here. We recognized the mutual advantage of pooling forces.” He directed
his smile at the Levantine. “Mr. Cairo is a man of nice judgment. The
_Paloma_ was his thought. He saw the notice of its arrival in the papers
that morning and remembered that he had heard in Hongkong that Jacobi
and Miss O’Shaughnessy had been seen together. That was when he had been
trying to find her there, and he thought at first that she had left on
the _Paloma_, though later he learned that she hadn’t. Well, sir, when
he saw the notice of arrival in the paper he guessed just what had
happened: she had given the bird to Jacobi to bring here for her. Jacobi
did not know what it was, of course. Miss O’Shaughnessy is too discreet
for that.”
He beamed at the girl, rocked his chair twice, and went on: “Mr. Cairo
and Wilmer and I went to call on Captain Jacobi and were fortunate
enough to arrive while Miss O’Shaughnessy was there. In many ways it was
a difficult conference, but finally, by midnight we had persuaded Miss
O’Shaughnessy to come to terms, or so we thought. We then left the boat
and set out for my hotel, where I was to pay Miss O’Shaughnessy and
receive the bird. Well, sir, we mere men should have known better than
to suppose ourselves capable of coping with her. _En route_, she and
Captain Jacobi and the falcon slipped completely through our fingers.”
He laughed merrily. “By Gad, sir, it was neatly done.”
Spade looked at the girl. Her eyes, large and dark with pleading, met
his. He asked Gutman: “You touched off the boat before you left?”
“Not intentionally, no, sir,” the fat man replied, “though I dare say
we—or Wilmer at least—were responsible for the fire. He had been out
trying to find the falcon while the rest of us were talking in the cabin
and no doubt was careless with matches.”
“That’s fine,” Spade said. “If any slip-up makes it necessary for us to
try him for Jacobi’s murder we can also hang an arson-rap on him. All
right. Now about the shooting.”
“Well, sir, we dashed around town all day trying to find them and we
found them late this afternoon. We weren’t sure at first that we’d found
them. All we were sure of was that we’d found Miss O’Shaughnessy’s
apartment. But when we listened at the door we heard them moving around
inside, so we were pretty confident we had them and rang the bell. When
she asked us who we were and we told her—through the door—we heard a
window going up.
“We knew what that meant, of course; so Wilmer hurried downstairs as
fast as he could and around to the rear of the building to cover the
fire-escape. And when he turned into the alley he ran right plumb smack
into Captain Jacobi running away with the falcon under his arm. That was
a difficult situation to handle, but Wilmer did every bit as well as he
could. He shot Jacobi—more than once—but Jacobi was too tough to
either fall or drop the falcon, and he was too close for Wilmer to keep
out of his way. He knocked Wilmer down and ran on. And this was in broad
daylight, you understand, in the afternoon. When Wilmer got up he could
see a policeman coming up from the block below. So he had to give it up.
He dodged into the open back door of the building next the Coronet,
through into the street, and then up to join us—and very fortunate he
was, sir, to make it without being seen.
“Well, sir, there we were—stumped again. Miss O’Shaughnessy had opened
the door for Mr. Cairo and me after she had shut the window behind
Jacobi, and she—” He broke off to smile at a memory. “We
persuaded—that is the word, sir—her to tell us that she had told
Jacobi to take the falcon to you. It seemed very unlikely that he’d live
to go that far, even if the police didn’t pick him up, but that was the
only chance we had, sir. And so, once more, we persuaded Miss
O’Shaughnessy to give us a little assistance. We—well—persuaded her to
phone your office in an attempt to draw you away before Jacobi got
there, and we sent Wilmer after him. Unfortunately it had taken us too
long to decide and to persuade Miss O’Shaughnessy to—”
The boy on the sofa groaned and rolled over on his side. His eyes opened
and closed several times. The girl stood up and moved into the angle of
table and wall again.
“—coöperate with us,” Gutman concluded hurriedly, “and so you had the
falcon before we could reach you.”
The boy put one foot on the floor, raised himself on an elbow, opened
his eyes wide, put the other foot down, sat up, and looked around. When
his eyes focused on Spade bewilderment went out of them.
Cairo left his armchair and went over to the boy. He put his arm on the
boy’s shoulders and started to say something. The boy rose quickly to
his feet, shaking Cairo’s arm off. He glanced around the room once and
then fixed his eyes on Spade again. His face was set hard and he held
his body so tense that it seemed drawn in and shrunken.
Spade, sitting on the corner of the table, swinging his legs carelessly,
said: “Now listen, kid. If you come over here and start cutting up I’m
going to kick you in the face. Sit down and shut up and behave and
you’ll last longer.”
The boy looked at Gutman.
Gutman smiled benignly at him and said: “Well, Wilmer, I’m sorry indeed
to lose you, and I want you to know that I couldn’t be any fonder of you
if you were my own son; but—well, by Gad!—if you lose a son it’s
possible to get another—and there’s only one Maltese falcon.”
Spade laughed.
Cairo moved over and whispered in the boy’s ear. The boy, keeping his
cold hazel eyes on Gutman’s face, sat down on the sofa again. The
Levantine sat beside him.
Gutman’s sigh did not affect the benignity of his smile. He said to
Spade: “When you’re young you simply don’t understand things.”
Cairo had an arm around the boy’s shoulders again and was whispering to
him. Spade grinned at Gutman and addressed Brigid O’Shaughnessy: “I
think it’d be swell if you’d see what you can find us to eat in the
kitchen, with plenty of coffee. Will you? I don’t like to leave my
guests.”
“Surely,” she said and started towards the door.
Gutman stopped rocking. “Just a moment, my dear.” He held up a thick
hand. “Hadn’t you better leave the envelope in here? You don’t want to
get grease-spots on it.”
The girl’s eyes questioned Spade. He said in an indifferent tone: “It’s
still his.”
She put her hand inside her coat, took out the envelope, and gave it to
Spade. Spade tossed it into Gutman’s lap, saying: “Sit on it if you’re
afraid of losing it.”
“You misunderstand me,” Gutman replied suavely. “It’s not that at all,
but business should be transacted in a business-like manner.” He opened
the flap of the envelope, took out the thousand-dollar bills, counted
them, and chuckled so that his belly bounced. “For instance there are
only nine bills here now.” He spread them out on his fat knees and
thighs. “There were ten when I handed it to you, as you very well know.”
His smile was broad and jovial and triumphant.
Spade looked at Brigid O’Shaughnessy and asked: “Well?”
She shook her head sidewise with emphasis. She did not say anything,
though her lips moved slightly, as if she had tried to. Her face was
frightened.
Spade held his hand out to Gutman and the fat man put the money into it.
Spade counted the money—nine thousand-dollar bills—and returned it to
Gutman. Then Spade stood up and his face was dull and placid. He picked
up the three pistols on the table. He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.
“I want to know about this. We”—he nodded at the girl, but without
looking at her—“are going in the bathroom. The door will be open and
I’ll be facing it. Unless you want a three-story drop there’s no way out
of here except past the bathroom door. Don’t try to make it.”
“Really, sir,” Gutman protested, “it’s not necessary, and certainly not
very courteous of you, to threaten us in this manner. You must know that
we’ve not the least desire to leave.”
“I’ll know a lot when I’m through.” Spade was patient but resolute.
“This trick upsets things. I’ve got to find the answer. It won’t take
long.” He touched the girl’s elbow. “Come on.”
* * * * *
In the bathroom Brigid O’Shaughnessy found words. She put her hands up
flat on Spade’s chest and her face up close to his and whispered: “I did
not take that bill, Sam.”
“I don’t think you did,” he said, “but I’ve got to know. Take your
clothes off.”
“You won’t take my word for it?”
“No. Take your clothes off.”
“I won’t.”
“All right. We’ll go back to the other room and I’ll have them taken
off.”
She stepped back with a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were round and
horrified. “You would?” she asked through her fingers.
“I will,” he said. “I’ve got to know what happened to that bill and I’m
not going to be held up by anybody’s maidenly modesty.”
“Oh, it isn’t that.” She came close to him and put her hands on his
chest again. “I’m not ashamed to be naked before you, but—can’t you
see?—not like this. Can’t you see that if you make me you’ll—you’ll be
killing something?”
He did not raise his voice. “I don’t know anything about that. I’ve got
to know what happened to the bill. Take them off.”
She looked at his unblinking yellow-grey eyes and her face became pink
and then white again. She drew herself up tall and began to undress. He
sat on the side of the bathtub watching her and the open door. No sound
came from the living-room. She removed her clothes swiftly, without
fumbling, letting them fall down on the floor around her feet. When she
was naked she stepped back from her clothing and stood looking at him.
In her mien was pride without defiance or embarrassment.
He put his pistols on the toilet-seat and, facing the door, went down on
one knee in front of her garments. He picked up each piece and examined
it with fingers as well as eyes. He did not find the thousand-dollar
bill. When he had finished he stood up holding her clothes out in his
hands to her. “Thanks,” he said. “Now I know.”
She took the clothing from him. She did not say anything. He picked up
his pistols. He shut the bathroom door behind him and went into the
living-room.
Gutman smiled amiably at him from the rocking chair. “Find it?” he
asked.
Cairo, sitting beside the boy on the sofa, looked at Spade with
questioning opaque eyes. The boy did not look up. He was leaning
forward, head between hands, elbows on knees, staring at the floor
between his feet.
Spade told Gutman: “No, I didn’t find it. You palmed it.”
The fat man chuckled. “I palmed it?”
“Yes,” Spade said, jingling the pistols in his hand. “Do you want to say
so or do you want to stand for a frisk?”
“Stand for—?”
“You’re going to admit it,” Spade said, “or I’m going to search you.
There’s no third way.”
Gutman looked up at Spade’s hard face and laughed outright. “By Gad,
sir, I believe you would. I really do. You’re a character, sir, if you
don’t mind my saying so.”
“You palmed it,” Spade said.
“Yes, sir, that I did.” The fat man took a crumpled bill from his
vest-pocket, smoothed it on a wide thigh, took the envelope holding the
nine bills from his coat-pocket, and put the smoothed bill in with the
others. “I must have my little joke every now and then and I was curious
to know what you’d do in a situation of that sort. I must say that you
passed the test with flying colors, sir. It never occurred to me that
you’d hit on such a simple and direct way of getting at the truth.”
Spade sneered at him without bitterness. “That’s the kind of thing I’d
expect from somebody the punk’s age.”
Gutman chuckled.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy, dressed again except for coat and hat, came out of
the bathroom, took a step towards the living-room, turned around, went
to the kitchen, and turned on the light.
Cairo edged closer to the boy on the sofa and began whispering in his
ear again. The boy shrugged irritably.
Spade, looking at the pistols in his hand and then at Gutman, went out
into the passageway, to the closet there. He opened the door, put the
pistols inside on the top of a trunk, shut the door, locked it, put the
key in his trousers-pocket, and went to the kitchen door.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy was filling an aluminum percolator.
“Find everything?” Spade asked.
“Yes,” she replied in a cool voice, not raising her head. Then she set
the percolator aside and came to the door. She blushed and her eyes were
large and moist and chiding. “You shouldn’t have done that to me, Sam,”
she said softly.
“I had to find out, angel.” He bent down, kissed her mouth lightly, and
returned to the living-room.
* * * * *
Gutman smiled at Spade and offered him the white envelope, saying: “This
will soon be yours; you might as well take it now.”
Spade did not take it. He sat in the armchair and said: “There’s plenty
of time for that. We haven’t done enough talking about the money-end. I
ought to have more than ten thousand.”
Gutman said: “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
Spade said: “You’re quoting me, but it’s not all the money in the
world.”
“No, sir, it’s not. I grant you that. But it’s a lot of money to be
picked up in as few days and as easily as you’re getting it.”
“You think it’s been so damned easy?” Spade asked, and shrugged. “Well,
maybe, but that’s my business.”
“It certainly is,” the fat man agreed. He screwed up his eyes, moved his
head to indicate the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “Are you sharing
with her?”
Spade said: “That’s my business too.”
“It certainly is,” the fat man agreed once more, “but”—he
hesitated—“I’d like to give you a word of advice.”
“Go ahead.”
“If you don’t—I dare say you’ll give her some money in any event,
but—if you don’t give her as much as she thinks she ought to have, my
word of advice is—be careful.”
Spade’s eyes held a mocking light. He asked: “Bad?”
“Bad,” the fat man replied.
Spade grinned and began to roll a cigarette.
Cairo, still muttering in the boy’s ear, had put his arm around the
boy’s shoulders again. Suddenly the boy pushed his arm away and turned
on the sofa to face the Levantine. The boy’s face held disgust and
anger. He made a fist of one small hand and struck Cairo’s mouth with
it. Cairo cried out as a woman might have cried and drew back to the
very end of the sofa. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and
put it to his mouth. It came away daubed with blood. He put it to his
mouth once more and looked reproachfully at the boy. The boy snarled,
“Keep away from me,” and put his face between his hands again. Cairo’s
handkerchief released the fragrance of _chypre_ in the room.
Cairo’s cry had brought Brigid O’Shaughnessy to the door. Spade,
grinning, jerked a thumb at the sofa and told her: “The course of true
love. How’s the food coming along?”
“It’s coming,” she said and went back to the kitchen.
Spade lighted his cigarette and addressed Gutman: “Let’s talk about
money.”
“Willingly, sir, with all my heart,” the fat man replied, “but I might
as well tell you frankly right now that ten thousand is every cent I can
raise.”
Spade exhaled smoke. “I ought to have twenty.”
“I wish you could. I’d give it to you gladly if I had it, but ten
thousand dollars is every cent I can manage, on my word of honor. Of
course, sir, you understand that is simply the first payment. Later—”
Spade laughed. “I know you’ll give me millions later,” he said, “but
let’s stick to this first payment now. Fifteen thousand?”
Gutman smiled and frowned and shook his head. “Mr. Spade, I’ve told you
frankly and candidly and on my word of honor as a gentleman that ten
thousand dollars is all the money I’ve got—every penny—and all I can
raise.”
“But you didn’t say positively.”
Gutman laughed and said: “Positively.”
Spade said gloomily: “That’s not any too good, but if it’s the best you
can do—give it to me.”
Gutman handed him the envelope. Spade counted the bills and was putting
them in his pocket when Brigid O’Shaughnessy came in carrying a tray.
* * * * *
The boy would not eat. Cairo took a cup of coffee. The girl, Gutman, and
Spade ate the scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and marmalade she had
prepared, and drank two cups of coffee apiece. Then they settled down to
wait the rest of the night through.
Gutman smoked a cigar and read _Celebrated Criminal Cases of America_,
now and then chuckling over or commenting on the parts of its contents
that amused him. Cairo nursed his mouth and sulked on his end of the
sofa. The boy sat with his head in his hands until a little after four
o’clock. Then he lay down with his feet towards Cairo, turned his face
to the window, and went to sleep. Brigid O’Shaughnessy, in the armchair,
dozed, listened to the fat man’s comments, and carried on wide-spaced
desultory conversations with Spade.
Spade rolled and smoked cigarettes and moved, without fidgeting or
nervousness, around the room. He sat sometimes on an arm of the girl’s
chair, on the table-corner, on the floor at her feet, on a
straight-backed chair. He was wide-awake, cheerful, and full of vigor.
At half-past five he went into the kitchen and made more coffee. Half an
hour later the boy stirred, awakened, and sat up yawning. Gutman looked
at his watch and questioned Spade: “Can you get it now?”
“Give me another hour.”
Gutman nodded and went back to his book.
At seven o’clock Spade went to the telephone and called Effie Perine’s
number. “Hello, Mrs. Perine? . . . This is Mr. Spade. Will you let me
talk to Effie, please? . . . Yes, it is. . . . Thanks.” He whistled two
lines of _En Cuba_, softly. “Hello, angel. Sorry to get you up. . . .
Yes, very. Here’s the plot: in our Holland box at the Post Office you’ll
find an envelope addressed in my scribble. There’s a Pickwick Stage
parcel-room-check in it—for the bundle we got yesterday. Will you get
the bundle and bring it to me—p. d. q.? . . . Yes, I’m home. . . .
That’s the girl—hustle. . . . ’Bye.”
The street-door-bell rang at ten minutes of eight. Spade went to the
telephone-box and pressed the button that released the lock. Gutman put
down his book and rose smiling. “You don’t mind if I go to the door with
you?” he asked.
“O K,” Spade told him.
Gutman followed him to the corridor-door. Spade opened it. Presently
Effie Perine, carrying the brown-wrapped parcel, came from the elevator.
Her boyish face was gay and bright and she came forward quickly, almost
trotting. After one glance she did not look at Gutman. She smiled at
Spade and gave him the parcel.
He took it saying: “Thanks a lot, lady. I’m sorry to spoil your day of
rest, but this—”
“It’s not the first one you’ve spoiled,” she replied, laughing, and
then, when it was apparent that he was not going to invite her in,
asked: “Anything else?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
She said, “Bye-bye,” and went back to the elevator.
Spade shut the door and carried the parcel into the living-room.
Gutman’s face was red and his cheeks quivered. Cairo and Brigid
O’Shaughnessy came to the table as Spade put the parcel there. They were
excited. The boy rose, pale and tense, but he remained by the sofa,
staring under curling lashes at the others.
Spade stepped back from the table saying: “There you are.”
Gutman’s fat fingers made short work of cord and paper and excelsior,
and he had the black bird in his hands. “Ah,” he said huskily, “now,
after seventeen years!” His eyes were moist.
Cairo licked his red lips and worked his hands together. The girl’s
lower lip was between her teeth. She and Cairo, like Gutman, and like
Spade and the boy, were breathing heavily. The air in the room was
chilly and stale, and thick with tobacco smoke.
Gutman set the bird down on the table again and fumbled at a pocket.
“It’s it,” he said, “but we’ll make sure.” Sweat glistened on his round
cheeks. His fingers twitched as he took out a gold pocket-knife and
opened it.
Cairo and the girl stood close to him, one on either side. Spade stood
back a little where he could watch the boy as well as the group at the
table.
Gutman turned the bird upside-down and scraped an edge of its base with
his knife. Black enamel came off in tiny curls, exposing blackened metal
beneath. Gutman’s knife-blade bit into the metal, turning back a thin
curved shaving. The inside of the shaving, and the narrow plane its
removal had left, had the soft grey sheen of lead.
Gutman’s breath hissed between his teeth. His face became turgid with
hot blood. He twisted the bird around and hacked at its head. There too
the edge of his knife bared lead. He let knife and bird bang down on the
table where he wheeled to confront Spade. “It’s a fake,” he said
hoarsely.
Spade’s face had become somber. His nod was slow, but there was no
slowness in his hand’s going out to catch Brigid O’Shaughnessy’s wrist.
He pulled her to him and grasped her chin with his other hand, raising
her face roughly. “All right,” he growled into her face. “You’ve had
_your_ little joke. Now tell us about it.”
She cried: “No, Sam, no! That is the one I got from Kemidov. I swear—”
Joel Cairo thrust himself between Spade and Gutman and began to emit
words in a shrill spluttering stream: “That’s it! That’s it! It was the
Russian! I should have known! What a fool we thought him, and what fools
he made of us!” Tears ran down the Levantine’s cheeks and he danced up
and down. “You bungled it!” he screamed at Gutman. “You and your stupid
attempt to buy it from him! You fat fool! You let him know it was
valuable and he found out how valuable and made a duplicate for us! No
wonder we had so little trouble stealing it! No wonder he was so willing
to send me off around the world looking for it! You imbecile! You
bloated idiot!” He put his hands to his face and blubbered.
Gutman’s jaw sagged. He blinked vacant eyes. Then he shook himself and
was—by the time his bulbs had stopped jouncing—again a jovial fat man.
“Come, sir,” he said good-naturedly, “there’s no need of going on like
that. Everybody errs at times and you may be sure this is every bit as
severe a blow to me as to anyone else. Yes, that is the Russian’s hand,
there’s no doubt of it. Well, sir, what do you suggest? Shall we stand
here and shed tears and call each other names? Or shall we”—he paused
and his smile was a cherub’s—“go to Constantinople?”
Cairo took his hands from his face and his eyes bulged. He stammered:
“You are—?” Amazement coming with full comprehension made him
speechless.
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 per cent.”
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 door-frame 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 good-bye 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 good-bye 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.”
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