Bryan sat up straight and squared his shoulders. His voice was stern without blustering. “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 constitutional 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 entitled 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 hell 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 God-damned 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.
XVI.
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 cashiers 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-dour 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–“