THE MALTESE FALCON by Dashiell Hammett

Spade did not move. His face was wooden. He said: “I held up my end. You got your dingus. It’s your hard luck, not mine, that it wasn’t what you wanted.”

“Now come, sir,” Gutman said persuasively, “we’ve all failed and there’s no reason for expecting any one of us to bear the brunt of it, and–” He brought his right hand from behind him. In the hand was a small pistol, an ornately engraved and inlaid affair of silver and gold and mothier-of-pearl. “In short, sir, I must ask you to return my ten thousand dollars.”

Spade’s face did not change. He shrugged and took the envelope from his pocket. He started to hold it out to Gutman, hesitated, opened the envelope, and took out one thousand-dollar bill. He put that bill into his trousers-pocket. He tucked the envelope’s flap in over the other bills and held them out to Gutman. “That’ll take care of my time and expenses,” he said.

Gutman, after a little pause, imitated Spade’s shrug and accepted the envelope. He said: “Now, sir, we will say good-bye to you, unless”– the fat puffs around his eyes crinkhed–“vou care to undertake the Constantinople expedition with us. You don’t? Well, sir, frankly I’d like to have you along. You’re a man to niy liking, a man of many resources and nice judgment. Because we know you’re a man of nice judgment we know we can say good-bye with every assurance that you’ll hold the details of our little enterprise in confidence. We know we can count on you to appreciate time fact that, as the situation now stands, any legal difficulties that come to us in connection with these last few days would likewise and equally come to you and the charming Miss O’Shaughnessy. You’re too shrewd not to recognize that, sir, I’m sure.”

“I understand that,” Spade replied.

“I was sure you would. I’m also sure that, now there’s no alternative, you’ll somehow manage the police without a fail-guy.”

“I’ll make out all right,” Spade replied.

“I was sure you would. Well, sir, the shortest farewells are the best. Adieu.” He made a portly bow. “And to you, Miss O’Shaughnessy, adieu. I heave you the rara avis on the table as a little memento.”

XX.

If They Hang You

For all of five minutes after the outer door had closed behind Casper Gutman and Joel Cairo, Spade, motionless, stood staring at the knob of the open living-room-door. His eyes were gloomy under a forehead drawn down. The clefts at the root of his nose were deep and red. His hips protruded loosely, pouting. He drew them in to make a hard v and went to the telephone. He had not looked at Brigid O’Shaughnessy, who stood by the table hooking with uneasy eyes at him.

He picked up the telephone, set it on its shelf again, and bent to look into the telephone-directory hanging from a corner of the shelf. He turned the pages rapidiy until he found the one he wanted, ran his finger down a column, straightened up, and lifted the telephone from the shelf again. He called a number and said:

“Hello, is Sergeant Polhaus there? . . . Will you call him, please? This is Samuel Spade He stared into space, waiting. “Hello, Tom, I’ve got something for you. . . . Yes, plenty. Here it is: Thursby and Jacobi were shot by a kid named Wilmer Cook.” He described the boy minutely. “He’s working for a man named Casper Gutman.” He described Gutman. “That fellow Cairo you met here is in with-i them too. . . . Yes, that’s it. . . . Gutman’s staving at the Alexandria, suite twelve C, or was. They’ve just left here and they’re blowing town, so you’ll have to move fast, but I don’t think they’re expecting a pinch. . . . There’s a girl in it too–Gutman’s daughter.” He described Rhea Gutman. “WTatch yourself when you go up against the kid. He’s supposed to be pretty good with the gun. . . . That’s right, Tom, and I’ve got some stuff here for you. I think I’ve got the guns he used. . . . That’s right. Step on it–and luck to you!”

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