“No, no!” the District Attorney protested. “You misunderstand me.”
“I hope to Christ I do,” Spade said.
“He didn’t mean that,” Thomas said.
“Then what did he mean?”
Bryan waved a hand. “I only mean that you might have been involved in it without knowing what it was. That could–”
“I see,” Spade sneered. “You don’t think I’m naughty. You just think I’m dumb.”
“Nonsense,” Bryan insisted: “Suppose someone came to you and engaged you to find Monahan, telling you they had reasons for thinking he was in the city. The someone might give you a completely false story– any one of a dozen or more would do–or might say he was a debtor who had run away, without giving you any of the details. How could you tell what was behind it? How would you know it wasn’t an ordinary piece of detective work? And under those circumstances you certainly couldn’t be held responsible for your part in it unless”–his voice sank to a more impressive key and his words came out spaced and distinct–“you made yourself an accomplice by concealing your knowledge of the murderer’s identity or information that would lead to his apprehension.”
Anger was leaving Spade’s face. No anger remained in his voice when he asked: “That’s what you meant?”
“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.”
“Nobody 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 associated 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 assistant 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 ditelung 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: Thurshy was killed by the gamblers Monahan had welshed on in Chicago. Nut knosving Thursby had sloughed Monahan–or not believing it–they killed him because he had been Monahan’s associate, 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 Ruthstein 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 categories 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 w’as 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 w’ith it. Little irritable lines had appeared in his forehead. He blew his breath out heavily through his nose and his voice was an illhumored growl. “You wouldn’t want the kind of information I could give you, Bryan. You couldn’t use it. It’d poop this gambler’s-revenge-scenario fur you.”