The Maltese Falcon - Dashiell Hammett [59]
“Or number four,” Spade suggested with a cheerful smile: “he died of old age. You folks aren’t serious, are you?”
The two men stared at Spade, but neither of them spoke. Spade turned his smile from one to the other of them and shook his head in mock pity. “You’ve got Arnold Rothstein on the brain,” he said.
Bryan smacked the back of his left hand down into the palm of his right. “In one of those three catagories lies the solution.” The power in his voice was no longer latent. His right hand, a fist except for protruding forefinger, went up and then down to stop with a jerk when the finger was leveled at Spade’s chest. “And you can give us the information that will enable us to determine the category.”
Spade said, “Yes?” very lazily. His face was somber. He touched his lower lip with a finger, looked at the finger, and then scratched the back of his neck with it. Little irritable lines had appeared in his forehead. He blew his breath out heavily through his nose and his voice was an ill-humored growl. “You wouldn’t want the kind of information I could give you, Bryan. You couldn’t use it. It’d poop this gambler’s-revenge-scenario for you.”
Bryan sat up straight and squared his shoulders. His voice was stern without blustering. “You are not the judge of that. Right or wrong, I am nonetheless the District Attorney.”
Spade’s lifted lip showed his eyetooth. “I thought this was an informal talk.”
“I am a sworn officer of the law twenty-four hours a day,” Bryan said, “and neither formality nor informality justifies your withholding from me evidence of crime, except of course”—he nodded meaningly—“on certain constitutional grounds.”
“You mean if it might incriminate me?” Spade asked. His voice was placid, almost amused, but his face was not. “Well, I’ve got better grounds than that, or grounds that suit me better. My clients are entitled to a decent amount of secrecy. Maybe I can be made to talk to a Grand Jury or even a Coroner’s Jury, but I haven’t been called before either yet, and it’s a cinch I’m not going to advertise my clients’ business until I have to. Then again, you and the police have both accused me of being mixed up in the other night’s murders. I’ve had trouble with both of you before. As far as I can see, my best chance of clearing myself of the trouble you’re trying to make for me is by bringing in the murderers—all tied up. And my only chance of ever catching them and tying them up and bringing them in is by keeping away from you and the police, because neither of you show any signs of knowing what in hell it’s all about.” He rose and turned his head over his shoulder to address the stenographer: “Getting this all right, son? Or am I going too fast for you?”
The stenographer looked at him with startled eyes and replied: “No, sir, I’m getting it all right.”
“Good work,” Spade said and turned to Bryan again. “Now if you want to go to the Board and tell them I’m obstructing justice and ask them to revoke my license, hop to it. You’ve tried it before and it didn’t get you anything but a good laugh all around.” He picked up his hat.
Bryan began: “But look here—”
Spade said: “And I don’t want any more of these informal talks. I’ve got nothing to tell you or the police and I’m God-damned tired of being called things by every crackpot on the city payroll. If you want to see me, pinch me or subpoena me or something and I’ll come down with my lawyer.” He put his hat on his head, said, “See you at the inquest, maybe,” and stalked out.
16
THE THIRD MURDER
Spade went into the Hotel Sutter and telephoned