THE MALTESE FALCON by Dashiell Hammett

“S-something like that.”

“And when you found that Thursby didn’t mean to tackle him you borrowed the gun and did it yourself. Right?”

“Yes—though not exactly.”

“But exact enough. And you had that plan up your sleeve from the first. You thought Floyd would he nailed for the killing.”

“I–I thought they’d hold him at least until after Captain Jacobi had arrived with the falcon and–”

“And you didn’t know then that Gutman was here hunting for you. You didn’t suspect that or you wouldn’t have shaken your gunman. You knew Gutman was here as soon as you heard Thursby had been shot. Then you knew you needed another protector, so you can-ic back to me. Right?”

“Yes, but–oh, sweethcart!–it wasn’t only that. I would have come back to you sooner or later. From the first instant I saw you I knew–”

Spade said tenderly: “You angel! Well, if you get a good break you’ll be out of San Quentin in twenty years and you can come back to me then.”

She took her cheek away from his, drawing her head far back to stare up without comprehension at him.

He was pale. He said tenderly: “I hope to Christ they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.” He slid his hands up to caress her throat.

In an instant she was out of his arms, back against the table, crouching, both hands spread over her throat. Her face was wild-eyed, haggard. Her dry mouth opened and closed. She said in a small parched voice: “You’re not–” She could get no other words out.

Spade’s face was yellow-white now. His mouth smiled and there were smile-wrinkles around his glittering eyes. His voice was soft, gentle. He said: “I’m going to send you over. The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means you’ll be out again in twenty years. You’re an angel. I’ll wait for you.” He cleared his throat. “If they hang you I’ll always remember you.”

She dropped her hands and stood erect. Her face became smooth and untroubled except for the faintest of dubious glints in her eyes. She smiled back at him, gently. “Don’t, Sam, don’t say that even in fun. Oh, you frightened n-ic for a moment! I really thought you– You know you do such wild and unpredictable things that–” She broke off. She thrust her face forward and stared deep into his eyes. Her cheeks and the flesh around her mouth shivered and fear came back into her eyes. “What–? Sam!” She put her hands to her throat again and lost her erectness.

Spade laughed. His yellow-white face was damp with sweat and though he held his smile he could not hold softness in his voice. He croaked: “Don’t be silly. You’re taking the fail. One of us has got to take it, after the talking those birds will do. They’d hang me sure. You’re likely to get a better break. Well?”

“But–but, Sam, you can’t! Not after what we’ve been to each other. You can’t–”

“Like hell I can’t.”

She took a long trembling breath. “You’ve been playing with me? Only pretending you cared–to trap me like this? You didn’t–care at all? You didn’t–don’t–I-love me?”

“I think I do,” Spade said. “What of it?” The muscles holding his smile in place stood out like wales. “I’m not Thursby. I’m not Jacobi. I won’t play the sap for you.”

“That is not just,” she cried. Tears came to her eyes. “It’s unfair. It’s contemptible of you. You know it was not that. You can’t say that.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Spade said. “You came into my bed to stop me asking questions. You led me out yesterday for Gutman with that phoney call for help. Last night you came here with them and waited outside for me and came in with me. You were in my arms when the trap was sprung–I couldn’t have gone for a gun if I’d had one on me and couldn’t have made a fight of it if I had wanted to. And if they didn’t take you away with them it was only because Gutman’s got too much sense to trust you except for short stretches when he has to and because he thought I’d play the sap for you and–not wanting to hurt you–wouldn’t be able to hurt him.”

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