“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 wouid 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-i Spade.
Spade roiled 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-roomcheck 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 hot, 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.