The Maltese Falcon - (15)

The boy put one foot on the floor, raised himself on an elbow, opened his eyes wide, put the other foot down, sat up, and looked around. When his eyes focused on Spade bewilderment went out of them.
    Cairo left his armchair and went over to the boy. He put his arm on the boy’s shoulders and started to say something. The boy rose quickly to his feet, shaking Cairo’s arm off. He glanced around the room once and then fixed his eyes on Spade again. His face was set hard and he held his body so tense that it seemed drawn in and shrunken.
    Spade, sitting on the corner of the table, swinging his legs carelessly, said: “Now listen, kid. If you come over here and start cutting up I’m going to kick you in the face. Sit down and shut up and behave and you’ll last longer.”
    The boy looked at Gutman.
    Gutman smiled benignly at him and said: “Well, Wilmer, I’m sorry indeed to lose you, and I want you to know that I couldn’t be any fonder of you if you were my own son; but—well, by Gad!—if you lose a son it’s possible to get another—and there’s only one Maltese falcon.”
    Spade laughed.
    Cairo moved over and whispered in the boy’s ear. The boy, keeping his cold hazel eyes on Gutman’s face, sat down on the sofa again. The Levantine sat beside him.
    Gutman’s sigh did not affect the benignity of his smile. He said to Spade: “When you’re young you simply don’t understand things.”
    Cairo had an arm around the boy’s shoulders again and was whispering to him. Spade grinned at Gutman and addressed Brigid O’Shaughnessy: “I think it’d be swell if you’d see what you can find us to eat in the kitchen, with plenty of coffee. Will you? I don’t like to leave my guests.”
    “Surely,” she said and started towards the door.
    Gutman stopped rocking. “Just a moment, my dear.” He held up a thick hand. “Hadn’t you better leave the envelope in here? You don’t want to get grease-spots on it.”
    The girl’s eyes questioned Spade. He said in an indifferent tone: “It’s still his.”
    She put her hand inside her coat, took out the envelope, and gave it to Spade. Spade tossed it into Gutman’s lap, saying: “Sit on it if you’re afraid of losing it.”
    “You misunderstand me,” Gutman replied suavely. “It’s not that at all, but business should be transacted in a business-like manner.” He opened the flap of the envelope, took out the thousand-dollar bills, counted them, and chuckled so that his belly bounced. “For instance there are only nine bills here now.” He spread them out on his fat knees and thighs. “There were ten when I handed it to you, as you very well know.” His smile was broad and jovial and triumphant.
    Spade looked at Brigid O’Shaughnessy and asked: “Well?”
    She shook her head sidewise with emphasis. She did not say anything, though her lips moved slightly, as if she had tried to. Her face was frightened.
    Spade held his hand out to Gutman and the fat man put the money into it. Spade counted the money—nine thousand-dollar bills—and returned it to Gutman. Then Spade stood up and his face was dull and placid. He picked up the three pistols on the table. He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. “I want to know about this. We”—he nodded at the girl, but without looking at her—“are going in the bathroom. The door will be open and I’ll be facing it. Unless you want a three-story drop there’s no way out of here except past the bathroom door. Don’t try to make it.”
    “Really, sir,” Gutman protested, “it’s not necessary, and certainly not very courteous of you, to threaten us in this manner. You must know that we’ve not the least desire to leave.”
    “I’ll know a lot when I’m through.” Spade was patient but resolute. “This trick upsets things. I’ve got to find the answer. It won’t take long.” He touched the girl’s elbow. “Come on.”
    *        *        *        *        *
    In the bathroom Brigid O’Shaughnessy found words. She put her hands up flat on Spade’s chest and her face up close to his and whispered: “I did not take that bill, Sam.”
    “I don’t think you did,” he said, “but I’ve got to know. Take your clothes off.”
    “You won’t take my word for it?”
    “No. Take your clothes off.”
    “I won’t.”
    “All right. We’ll go back to the other room and I’ll have them taken off.”
    She stepped back with a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were round and horrified. “You would?” she asked through her fingers.
    “I will,” he said. “I’ve got to know what happened to that bill and I’m not going to be held up by anybody’s maidenly modesty.”
    “Oh, it isn’t that.” She came close to him and put her hands on his chest again. “I’m not ashamed to be naked before you, but—can’t you see?—not like this. Can’t you see that if you make me you’ll—you’ll be killing something?”
    He did not raise his voice. “I don’t know anything about that. I’ve got to know what happened to the bill. Take them off.”
    She looked at his unblinking yellow-grey eyes and her face became pink and then white again. She drew herself up tall and began to undress. He sat on the side of the bathtub watching her and the open door. No sound came from the living-room. She removed her clothes swiftly, without fumbling, letting them fall down on the floor around her feet. When she was naked she stepped back from her clothing and stood looking at him. In her mien was pride without defiance or embarrassment.
    He put his pistols on the toilet-seat and, facing the door, went down on one knee in front of her garments. He picked up each piece and examined it with fingers as well as eyes. He did not find the thousand-dollar bill. When he had finished he stood up holding her clothes out in his hands to her. “Thanks,” he said. “Now I know.”
    She took the clothing from him. She did not say anything. He picked up his pistols. He shut the bathroom door behind him and went into the living-room.
    Gutman smiled amiably at him from the rocking chair. “Find it?” he asked.
    Cairo, sitting beside the boy on the sofa, looked at Spade with questioning opaque eyes. The boy did not look up. He was leaning forward, head between hands, elbows on knees, staring at the floor between his feet.
    Spade told Gutman: “No, I didn’t find it. You palmed it.”
    The fat man chuckled. “I palmed it?”
    “Yes,” Spade said, jingling the pistols in his hand. “Do you want to say so or do you want to stand for a frisk?”
    “Stand for—?”
    “You’re going to admit it,” Spade said, “or I’m going to search you. There’s no third way.”
    Gutman looked up at Spade’s hard face and laughed outright. “By Gad, sir, I believe you would. I really do. You’re a character, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
    “You palmed it,” Spade said.
    “Yes, sir, that I did.” The fat man took a crumpled bill from his vest-pocket, smoothed it on a wide thigh, took the envelope holding the nine bills from his coat-pocket, and put the smoothed bill in with the others. “I must have my little joke every now and then and I was curious to know what you’d do in a situation of that sort. I must say that you passed the test with flying colors, sir. It never occurred to me that you’d hit on such a simple and direct way of getting at the truth.”
    Spade sneered at him without bitterness. “That’s the kind of thing I’d expect from somebody the punk’s age.”
    Gutman chuckled.
    Brigid O’Shaughnessy, dressed again except for coat and hat, came out of the bathroom, took a step towards the living-room, turned around, went to the kitchen, and turned on the light.
    Cairo edged closer to the boy on the sofa and began whispering in his ear again. The boy shrugged irritably.
    Spade, looking at the pistols in his hand and then at Gutman, went out into the passageway, to the closet there. He opened the door, put the pistols inside on the top of a trunk, shut the door, locked it, put the key in his trousers-pocket, and went to the kitchen door.
    Brigid O’Shaughnessy was filling an aluminum percolator.
    “Find everything?” Spade asked.
    “Yes,” she replied in a cool voice, not raising her head. Then she set the percolator aside and came to the door. She blushed and her eyes were large and moist and chiding. “You shouldn’t have done that to me, Sam,” she said softly.
    “I had to find out, angel.” He bent down, kissed her mouth lightly, and returned to the living-room.
    *        *        *        *        *
    Gutman smiled at Spade and offered him the white envelope, saying: “This will soon be yours; you might as well take it now.”
    Spade did not take it. He sat in the armchair and said: “There’s plenty of time for that. We haven’t done enough talking about the money-end. I ought to have more than ten thousand.”
    Gutman said: “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
    Spade said: “You’re quoting me, but it’s not all the money in the world.”
    “No, sir, it’s not. I grant you that. But it’s a lot of money to be picked up in as few days and as easily as you’re getting it.”
    “You think it’s been so damned easy?” Spade asked, and shrugged. “Well, maybe, but that’s my business.”
    “It certainly is,” the fat man agreed. He screwed up his eyes, moved his head to indicate the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “Are you sharing with her?”
    Spade said: “That’s my business too.”
    “It certainly is,” the fat man agreed once more, “but”—he hesitated—“I’d like to give you a word of advice.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “If you don’t—I dare say you’ll give her some money in any event, but—if you don’t give her as much as she thinks she ought to have, my word of advice is—be careful.”
    Spade’s eyes held a mocking light. He asked: “Bad?”
    “Bad,” the fat man replied.
    Spade grinned and began to roll a cigarette.
    Cairo, still muttering in the boy’s ear, had put his arm around the boy’s shoulders again. Suddenly the boy pushed his arm away and turned on the sofa to face the Levantine. The boy’s face held disgust and anger. He made a fist of one small hand and struck Cairo’s mouth with it. Cairo cried out as a woman might have cried and drew back to the very end of the sofa. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and put it to his mouth. It came away daubed with blood. He put it to his mouth once more and looked reproachfully at the boy. The boy snarled, “Keep away from me,” and put his face between his hands again. Cairo’s handkerchief released the fragrance of chypre in the room.
    Cairo’s cry had brought Brigid O’Shaughnessy to the door. Spade, grinning, jerked a thumb at the sofa and told her: “The course of true love. How’s the food coming along?”
    “It’s coming,” she said and went back to the kitchen.
    Spade lighted his cigarette and addressed Gutman: “Let’s talk about money.”
    “Willingly, sir, with all my heart,” the fat man replied, “but I might as well tell you frankly right now that ten thousand is every cent I can raise.”
    Spade exhaled smoke. “I ought to have twenty.”
    “I wish you could. I’d give it to you gladly if I had it, but ten thousand dollars is every cent I can manage, on my word of honor. Of course, sir, you understand that is simply the first payment. Later—”
    Spade laughed. “I know you’ll give me millions later,” he said, “but let’s stick to this first payment now. Fifteen thousand?”
    Gutman smiled and frowned and shook his head. “Mr. Spade, I’ve told you frankly and candidly and on my word of honor as a gentleman that ten thousand dollars is all the money I’ve got—every penny—and all I can raise.”
    “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 would 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 Spade.
    Spade rolled 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-room-check 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 lot, 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.
    Gutman set the bird down on the table again and fumbled at a pocket. “It’s it,” he said, “but we’ll make sure.” Sweat glistened on his round cheeks. His fingers twitched as he took out a gold pocket-knife and opened it.
    Cairo and the girl stood close to him, one on either side. Spade stood back a little where he could watch the boy as well as the group at the table.
    Gutman turned the bird upside-down and scraped an edge of its base with his knife. Black enamel came off in tiny curls, exposing blackened metal beneath. Gutman’s knife-blade bit into the metal, turning back a thin curved shaving. The inside of the shaving, and the narrow plane its removal had left, had the soft grey sheen of lead.
    Gutman’s breath hissed between his teeth. His face became turgid with hot blood. He twisted the bird around and hacked at its head. There too the edge of his knife bared lead. He let knife and bird bang down on the table where he wheeled to confront Spade. “It’s a fake,” he said hoarsely.
    Spade’s face had become somber. His nod was slow, but there was no slowness in his hand’s going out to catch Brigid O’Shaughnessy’s wrist. He pulled her to him and grasped her chin with his other hand, raising her face roughly. “All right,” he growled into her face. “You’ve had your little joke. Now tell us about it.”
    She cried: “No, Sam, no! That is the one I got from Kemidov. I swear—”
    Joel Cairo thrust himself between Spade and Gutman and began to emit words in a shrill spluttering stream: “That’s it! That’s it! It was the Russian! I should have known! What a fool we thought him, and what fools he made of us!” Tears ran down the Levantine’s cheeks and he danced up and down. “You bungled it!” he screamed at Gutman. “You and your stupid attempt to buy it from him! You fat fool! You let him know it was valuable and he found out how valuable and made a duplicate for us! No wonder we had so little trouble stealing it! No wonder he was so willing to send me off around the world looking for it! You imbecile! You bloated idiot!” He put his hands to his face and blubbered.
    Gutman’s jaw sagged. He blinked vacant eyes. Then he shook himself and was—by the time his bulbs had stopped jouncing—again a jovial fat man. “Come, sir,” he said good-naturedly, “there’s no need of going on like that. Everybody errs at times and you may be sure this is every bit as severe a blow to me as to anyone else. Yes, that is the Russian’s hand, there’s no doubt of it. Well, sir, what do you suggest? Shall we stand here and shed tears and call each other names? Or shall we”—he paused and his smile was a cherub’s—“go to Constantinople?”
    Cairo took his hands from his face and his eyes bulged. He stammered: “You are—?” Amazement coming with full comprehension made him speechless.
    Gutman patted his fat hands together. His eyes twinkled. His voice was a complacent throaty purring: “For seventeen years I have wanted that little item and have been trying to get it. If I must spend another year on the quest—well, sir—that will be an additional expenditure in time of only”—his lips moved silently as he calculated—“five and fifteen-seventeenths per cent.”
    The Levantine giggled and cried: “I go with you!”
    Spade suddenly released the girl’s wrist and looked around the room. The boy was not there. Spade went into the passageway. The corridor-door stood open. Spade made a dissatisfied mouth, shut the door, and returned to the living-room. He leaned against the door-frame and looked at Gutman and Cairo. He looked at Gutman for a long time, sourly. Then he spoke, mimicking the fat man’s throaty purr: “Well, sir, I must say you’re a swell lot of thieves!”
    Gutman chuckled. “We’ve little enough to boast about, and that’s a fact, sir,” he said. “But, well, we’re none of us dead yet and there’s not a bit of use thinking the world’s come to an end just because we’ve run into a little setback.” He brought his left hand from behind him and held it out towards Spade, pink smooth hilly palm up. “I’ll have to ask you for that envelope, sir.”
    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 mother-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 crinkled—“you 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 my 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 the 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 fall-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 leave you the rara avis on the table as a little memento.”
    20
    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 lips 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 looking 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 rapidly 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 them too. . . . Yes, that’s it. . . . Gutman’s staying 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. “Watch 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!”
    Spade slowly replaced receiver on prong, telephone on shelf. He wet his lips and looked down at his hands. Their palms were wet. He filled his deep chest with air. His eyes were glittering between straightened lids. He turned and took three long swift steps into the living-room.