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 ti-ian 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 yeBowish again. His black eyes darted their gaze from face to face. The opaqueness of his eyes made them seem flat, two-dimensional.