Part 17 (1/2)

”Precisely.”

”All right. Then there's no hard feelings. But you're wrong.”

”Prove it.”

Spade shook his head. ”I can't prove it to you now. I can tell you.”

”Then tell me.”

”n.o.body ever hired me to do anything about Dixie Monahan.”

Bryan and Thomas exchanged glances. Bryan's eyes came back to Spade and he said: ”But, by your own admission, somebody did hire you to do something about his bodyguard Thursby.”

”Yes, about his ex-bodyguard Thursby.”

”Ex?”

”Yes, ex.”

”You know that Thursby was no longer a.s.sociated with Monahan? You know that positively?”

Spade stretched out his hand and dropped the stub of his cigarette into an ashtray on the desk. He spoke carelessly: ”I don't know anything positively except that my client wasn't interested in Monahan, had never been interested in Monahan. I heard that Thursby took Monahan out to the Orient and lost him.”

Again the District Attorney and his a.s.sistant exchanged glances.

Thomas, in a tone whose matter-of-factness did not quite hide excitement, said: ”That opens another angle. Monahan's friends could have knocked Thursby off for ditching Monahan.”

”Dead gamblers don't have any friends,” Spade said.

”It opens up two new lines,” Bryan said. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling for several seconds, then sat upright quickly. His orator's face was alight. ”It narrows down to three things. Number one: Thursby was killed by the gamblers Monahan had welshed on in Chicago. Not knowing Thursby had sloughed Monahan-or not believing it-they killed him because he had been Monahan's a.s.sociate, or to get him out of the way so they could get to Monahan, or because he had refused to lead them to Monahan. Number two: he was killed by friends of Monahan. Or number three: he sold Monahan out to his enemies and then fell out with them and they killed him.”

”Or number four,” Spade suggested with a cheerful smile: ”he died of old age. You folks aren't serious, are you?”

The two men stared at Spade, but neither of them spoke. Spade turned his smile from one to the other of them and shook his head in mock pity. ”You've got Arnold Rothstein on the brain,” he said.

Bryan smacked the back of his left hand down into the palm of his right. ”In one of those three catagories lies the solution.” The power in his voice was no longer latent. His right hand, a fist except for protruding forefinger, went up and then down to stop with a jerk when the finger was leveled at Spade's chest. ”And you can give us the information that will enable us to determine the category.”

Spade said, ”Yes?” very lazily. His face was somber. He touched his lower lip with a finger, looked at the finger, and then scratched the back of his neck with it. Little irritable lines had appeared in his forehead. He blew his breath out heavily through his nose and his voice was an ill-humored growl. ”You wouldn't want the kind of information I could give you, Bryan. You couldn't use it. It'd p.o.o.p this gambler's-revenge-scenario for you.”

Bryan sat up straight and squared his shoulders. His voice was stern without bl.u.s.tering. ”You are not the judge of that. Right or wrong, I am nonetheless the District Attorney.”

Spade's lifted lip showed his eyetooth. ”I thought this was an informal talk.”

”I am a sworn officer of the law twenty-four hours a day,” Bryan said, ”and neither formality nor informality justifies your withholding from me evidence of crime, except of course”-he nodded meaningly-”on certain const.i.tutional grounds.”

”You mean if it might incriminate me?” Spade asked. His voice was placid, almost amused, but his face was not. ”Well, I've got better grounds than that, or grounds that suit me better. My clients are ent.i.tled to a decent amount of secrecy. Maybe I can be made to talk to a Grand Jury or even a Coroner's Jury, but I haven't been called before either yet, and it's a cinch I'm not going to advertise my clients' business until I have to. Then again, you and the police have both accused me of being mixed up in the other night's murders. I've had trouble with both of you before. As far as I can see, my best chance of clearing myself of the trouble you're trying to make for me is by bringing in the murderers-all tied up. And my only chance of ever catching them and tying them up and bringing them in is by keeping away from you and the police, because neither of you show any signs of knowing what in h.e.l.l it's all about.” He rose and turned his head over his shoulder to address the stenographer: ”Getting this all right, son? Or am I going too fast for you?”

The stenographer looked at him with startled eyes and replied: ”No, sir, I'm getting it all right.”

”Good work,” Spade said and turned to Bryan again. ”Now if you want to go to the Board and tell them I'm obstructing justice and ask them to revoke my license, hop to it. You've tried it before and it didn't get you anything but a good laugh all around.” He picked up his hat.

Bryan began: ”But look here-”

Spade said: ”And I don't want any more of these informal talks. I've got nothing to tell you or the police and I'm G.o.d-d.a.m.ned tired of being called things by every crackpot on the city payroll. If you want to see me, pinch me or subpoena me or something and I'll come down with my lawyer.” He put his hat on his head, said, ”See you at the inquest, maybe,” and stalked out.

16.

THE THIRD MURDER.

Spade went into the Hotel Sutter and telephoned the Alexandria. Gutman was not in. No member of Gutman's party was in. Spade telephoned the Belvedere. Cairo was not in, had not been in that day.

Spade went to his office.

A swart greasy man in notable clothes was waiting in the outer room. Effie Perine, indicating the swart man, said: ”This gentleman wishes to see you, Mr. Spade.”

Spade smiled and bowed and opened the inner door. ”Come in.” Before following the man in Spade asked Effie Perine: ”Any news on that other matter?”

”No, sir.”

The swart man was the proprietor of a moving-picture-theater in Market Street. He suspected one of his cas.h.i.+ers and a doorman of colluding to defraud him. Spade hurried him through the story, promised to ”take care of it,” asked for and received fifty dollars, and got rid of him in less than half an hour.

When the corridor-door had closed behind the showman Effie Perine came into the inner office. Her sunburned face was worried and questioning. ”You haven't found her yet?” she asked.

He shook his head and went on stroking his bruised temple lightly in circles with his fingertips.

”How is it?” she asked.

”All right, but I've got plenty of headache.”

She went around behind him, put his hand down, and stroked his temple with her slender fingers. He leaned back until the back of his head over the chair-top rested against her breast. He said: ”You're an angel.”

She bent her head forward over his and looked down into his face. ”You've got to find her, Sam. It's more than a day and she-”

He stirred and impatiently interrupted her: ”I haven't got to do anything, but if you'll let me rest this d.a.m.ned head a minute or two I'll go out and find her.”

She murmured, ”Poor head,” and stroked it in silence awhile. Then she asked: ”You know where she is? Have you any idea?”

The telephone-bell rang. Spade picked up the telephone and said: ”h.e.l.lo.... Yes, Sid, it came out all right, thanks.... No.... Sure. He got snotty, but so did I.... He's nursing a gambler's-war pipe-dream.... Well, we didn't kiss when we parted. I declared my weight and walked out on him.... That's something for you to worry about.... Right. 'Bye.” He put the telephone down and leaned back in his chair again.

Effie Perine came from behind him and stood at his side. She demanded: ”Do you think you know where she is, Sam?”

”I know where she went,” he replied in a grudging tone.

”Where?” She was excited.