The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  “That daughter of yours has a nice belly,” he said, “too nice to be scratched up with pins.”

  Gutman’s smile was affable, if a bit oily.

  The boy in the doorway took a short step forward, raising his pistol as far as his hip.

  Everyone in the room looked at him. In the dissimilar eyes with which Brigid O’Shaughnessy and Joel Cairo looked at him there was, oddly, something identically reproving.

  The boy blushed, drew back his advanced foot, straightened his legs, lowered the pistol, and stood as he had stood before, looking under lashes that hid his eyes at Spade’s chest. The blush was pale enough, and lasted only an instant, but it was startling on his face that habitually was so cold and composed.

  Gutman turned his sleek-eyed fat smile on Spade again. His voice was a suave purring:

  “Yes, sir, that was a shame, but you must admit that it served its purpose pretty well.”

  Spade’s brows twitched together.

  “Anything would’ve,” he said impatiently. “Naturally I wanted to see you as soon as I had the falcon. Cash customers—why not? I went to Burlingame expecting to run into this sort of meeting. I didn’t know you were blundering around, half an hour late, trying to get me out the way so you could find Jacobi again before he found me.”

  Gutman chuckled. His chuckle seemed to hold nothing but satisfaction.

  “Well, sir,” he said, “in any case, here we are, having our little meeting, if that’s what you wanted.”

  “That’s what I wanted. How soon are you ready to make your first payment and take the bird off my hands?”

  Brigid O’Shaughnessy sat up straight and looked at Spade with surprised blue eyes. He patted her shoulder inattentively. His eyes were steady on Gutman’s. Gutman’s twinkled merrily between sheltering fat-puffs.

  He said, “Well, sir, as to that,” and put a hand inside the breast of his coat.

  Cairo, hands on thighs, leaned forward in his chair, breathing between parted soft lips. His dark eyes had the surface shine of lacquer. They shifted their focus warily from Spade’s face to Gutman’s, from Gutman’s to Spade’s.

  Gutman repeated, “Well, sir, as to that,” and took a white envelope from his pocket.

  Ten eyes—the boy’s now only half hidden by his lashes—looked at the envelope.

  Turning the envelope over in his swollen hands, Gutman studied for a thoughtful moment its blank white front and then its back, unsealed, with the flap tucked in. He raised his head, smiled amiably, and scaled the envelope at Spade’s lap.

  The envelope, though not bulky, had sufficient weight to fly true. It struck the lower part of Spade’s chest and dropped down on his thighs. He picked it up deliberately and opened it deliberately, using both hands, having taken his left arm from around the girl. The contents of the envelope were thousand-dollar bills, smooth and stiff and new. Spade took them out and counted them. There were ten of them. Spade looked up smiling. He said mildly:

  “We were talking about more money than this.”

  “Yes, sir, we were,” Gutman agreed, “but we were talking then. This is actual money, genuine coin of the realm, sir. With a dollar of this you can buy more than ten dollars’ worth of talk.” He shook his bulbs with silent laughter. Then the commotion stopped and he said, more seriously, yet not altogether seriously: “There are more of us to be taken care of now.” He moved his twinkling eyes and his fat head sidewise with a little jerk to indicate Cairo. “And—well, sir, in short—the situation has changed considerably.”

  While Gutman talked Spade had tapped the edges of the ten bills into alignment and had returned them to their envelope, tucking the flap in over them. Now, with forearms on knees, he sat hunched forward, dangling the envelope, from a corner held tightly by finger and thumb, down between his legs. His reply to the fat man’s words was careless:

  “Sure. You’re together now, but I’ve got the falcon.”

  Joel Cairo spoke. Ugly white hands grasping the arms of his chair, he leaned forward and said primly, in his high-pitched thin voice:

  “I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to remind you, Mr. Spade, that, though you may have the falcon, yet we certainly have you.”

  Spade grinned.

  “I’m trying to not let that worry me,” he said. He sat up straight, put the envelope aside—on the end of the sofa—and addressed Gutman: “We’ll come back to the money later. There’s another thing that’s got to be taken care of. We’ve got to have a fall-guy.”

  The fat man frowned without comprehension, but before he could speak Spade was explaining:

  “The police have got to have a victim, somebody they can stick for those three murders. We—”

  Cairo, speaking in a brittle, excited voice, interrupted him:

  “Two—only two—murders, Mr. Spade. Thursby undoubtedly killed your partner.”

  “All right, two,” Spade growled. “What difference does that make? The point is, we’ve got to feed the police some—”

  Now Gutman broke in, smiling complacently, talking with good-humored assurance:

  “Well, sir, from what I’ve seen and heard of you, I don’t think we’ll have to bother ourselves about that. We can leave the handling of the police to you, all right. You won’t need any of our help.”

  “If that’s what you think,” Spade said, “you haven’t seen or heard enough.”

  Gutman’s good humor was undisturbed. He remonstrated:

  “Now, come, Mr. Spade, you can’t expect us to believe at this late date that you are the least bit afraid of the police, or that you are not quite able to handle—”

  Spade snorted with his throat and nose. He bent forward, resting forearms on knees again, and interrupted Gutman irritably:

  “I’m not a damned bit afraid of them, and I know how to handle them. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The way to handle them is to toss them a victim, somebody they can hang the works on.”

  “Well, sir, I grant you that that’s one way of doing it, but—”

  “ ‘But’ hell!” Spade said. “It’s the only way.” His eyes were hot and earnest under a reddening forehead. The bruise on his temple was liver-colored. “I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been through it all before, and I expect to go through it again. At one time or another I’ve had to tell everybody from the Supreme Court down to go to hell, and I’ve got away with it. I got away with it because I never let myself forget that a day of reckoning was coming. I never forget that when the day of reckoning comes I want to be all set to march into headquarters, pushing a victim in front of me, saying: ‘Here, you chumps, here’s your criminal.’ As long as I can do that I can put my thumb to my nose and wiggle my fingers at all the laws in the book. The first time I can’t do it my name’s Mud. There hasn’t been a first time yet. This isn’t going to be it. That’s flat.”

  Gutman’s eyes flickered, and their sleekness became dubious, but he held his other features in their bulbous pink smiling complacent cast, and there was nothing of uneasiness in his voice. He said:

  “That’s a system that’s got a lot to recommend it, sir, by Gad it has. And if it was anyway at all possible this time I’d be the first to say: ‘Stick to it by all means, sir.’ But this just happens to be a case where it’s not practical. That’s the way it is with the best of systems. There comes a time when you’ve got to make exceptions, and a wise man just goes ahead and makes them. Well, sir, that’s just the way it is in this case, and I don’t mind telling you that I think you’re being very well paid for making an exception. Now maybe it will be a little more trouble to you than if you had your victim to hand over to the police, but”—he laughed and spread his hands—“you’re not a man that’s afraid of a little bit of trouble. You know how to manage things, and you know you’ll manage to land on your feet in the end, no matter what happens.” He pursed his lips, partly closing one eye. “And maybe it might be that we could add a little something more to what’s in that envelope.”

&nbs
p; Spade’s eyes had lost their warmth. His face was dull and lumpy.

  “We’ll talk about the money later,” he said in a low consciously patient tone. “We’re talking about the police now, or I am, and I know what I’m talking about. This is my city and my game. I could manage to land on my feet—sure, this time, but the next time I tried to put over a fast one they’d stop me so quick I’d swallow my teeth. Hell with that. You birds’ll be in New York, or Constantinople, or someplace else. I’m in business here.”

  “But surely,” Gutman began, “you can—”

  “I can’t,” Spade said earnestly. “I won’t. I mean it.” He sat up straight. A pleasant smile illuminated his face, erasing its dull lumpishness. He spoke rapidly, in an agreeable, persuasive tone: “Listen to me, Gutman. I’m telling you what’s best for both of us. If we don’t give the police a fall-guy it’s ten to one they’ll get news of the falcon sooner or later. Then you’ll have to duck for cover with it, no matter where you are, and that’s not going to help you make your fortune off it. Give them a fall-guy, and they’ll stop right there.”

  “Well, sir, that’s just the point,” Gutman replied, and still only in his eyes was uneasiness faintly apparent. “Will they stop right there? Or won’t your fall-guy be a fresh clue that as likely as not will lead them straight to the falcon? And, on the other hand, wouldn’t you say that they were stopped right now, and that the best thing for us to do is to leave well enough alone?”

  A forked vein began to swell in Spade’s forehead.

  “——! You don’t know what it’s all about either,” he said in a restrained tone. “They’re not asleep, Gutman. They’re lying low, waiting. Try to get that. I’m in it up to my neck, and they know it. That’s all right as long as I do something when the time comes. But it won’t be all right if I don’t.” His voice became persuasive again. “Listen, Gutman, we’ve absolutely got to give them a victim. There’s no way out of it. Let’s give them the punk.” He nodded pleasantly at the boy in the doorway. “He actually did shoot both of them—Thursby and Jacobi—didn’t he? Anyway, he’s made to order for the part. Let’s pin the necessary evidence on him and turn him over to them.”

  The boy in the doorway tightened the corners of his mouth in what may have been a minute smile. Spade’s proposal seemed to have no other effect on him.

  Joel Cairo’s dark face was openmouthed, open-eyed, yellowish, and amazed. He breathed through his mouth, his round effeminate chest rising and falling, while he gaped at Spade.

  Brigid O’Shaughnessy had moved away from Spade a little and had twisted herself around on the sofa to stare at him. There was a suggestion of hysterical laughter behind the startled confusion in her face.

  Gutman remained still and expressionless for a long moment. Then he decided to laugh. He laughed heartily and lengthily, not stopping until his sleek eyes had borrowed merriment from his laughter. When he stopped laughing he said:

  “By Gad, sir, you’re a character, that you are.” He took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Yes, sir, there’s never any telling what you’ll do or say next, except that it’s bound to be something astonishing.”

  “There’s nothing funny about it.” Spade did not seem offended by the fat man’s laughter, nor in any way impressed. He spoke in the manner of one reasoning with a recalcitrant, but not altogether unreasonable, friend. “It’s our best bet. With him in their hands, the police will—”

  “But, my dear man,” Gutman objected, “can’t you see? If I even for a moment thought of doing it— But that’s ridiculous too. I feel toward Wilmer just exactly as if he were my own son. I really do. But if I even for a moment thought of doing what you propose, what in the world do you think would keep Wilmer from telling the police every last detail about the falcon and about you and me and all of us?”

  Spade grinned with stiff lips.

  “If we had to,” he said softly, “we could have him killed resisting arrest. But we wouldn’t have to go that far. Let him talk his head off. I promise you nobody’ll do anything about it. That’s easy enough to fix.”

  The pink flesh on Gutman’s forehead crawled in a frown. He lowered his head, mashing his chins together over his collar, and asked: “How?” Then, with an abruptness that set all his fat bulbs to quivering and tumbling against one another, he raised his head, squirmed around to look at the boy, and laughed merrily. “What do you think of all this, Wilmer? It’s funny, eh?”

  The boy’s eyes were cold hazel gleams under his lashes. He said in a low distinct voice:

  “Yes, it’s funny, the —— —— —— ——.”

  Spade was talking to Brigid O’Shaughnessy: “How do you feel now, angel? Any better?”

  “Yes, much better, only”—she reduced her voice until the last words were inaudible two feet away—“I’m frightened.”

  “Don’t be,” he said carelessly and put a hand on her round gray-stockinged knee. “Nothing very bad’s going to happen. Want a drink?”

  “Not now, thanks.” Her voice became barely audible again. “Be careful, Sam.”

  Spade grinned and looked at Gutman, who was looking at him. The fat man smiled genially, saying nothing for a moment, and then asked:

  “How?”

  Spade was stupid. “How what?”

  The fat man considered more laughter necessary then, and an explanation:

  “Well, sir, if you’re really serious about this—this—suggestion of yours, the least we can do, in common politeness, is to hear you out. Now how are you going about fixing it so that Wilmer”—he paused here to laugh again—“won’t be able to do us any harm?”

  Spade shook his head.

  “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of anybody’s politeness, no matter how common, like that. Forget it.”

  The fat man puckered up his facial bulbs.

  “Now, come, come,” he protested, “you make me feel decidedly uncomfortable, sir. I shouldn’t have laughed, and I apologize most humbly and sincerely. I wouldn’t want to seem to ridicule anything you’d suggest, Mr. Spade, regardless of how much I disagreed with you, for you must know that I have the greatest amount of respect and admiration for your astuteness. Now, mind you, I don’t see how this suggestion of yours can be in any way practical—even leaving out the fact that I couldn’t feel any different toward Wilmer if he was my own flesh and blood—but I’ll consider it a personal favor, sir, as well as a sign that you’ve accepted my apology, if you’ll go ahead and tell me the rest of it.”

  “Fair enough,” Spade said. “Bryan is like most district attorneys. He’s more interested in how his record will look on paper than in anything else. He’d rather drop a doubtful case than try it and have it go against him. I don’t know that he ever deliberately framed anyone he believed innocent, but I can’t imagine his letting himself believe them innocent if he could scrape up, or twist into shape, proof of their guilt. To be sure of convicting one man he’ll let half a dozen equally guilty accomplices go free, if trying to nail them all might confuse his case.

  “That’s the choice we’ll give him, and he’ll gobble it up. He wouldn’t want to know about the falcon. He’ll be tickled to death to persuade himself that anything the punk tells him about it is a lot of hooey, an attempt to muddle things up. Leave that end to me. I can show him that if he starts fooling around trying to gather up everybody, he’s going to have a tangled case that no jury will be able to make heads or tails of; while if he sticks to the punk he can get a conviction standing on his head.”

  Gutman wagged his head sidewise in a slow smiling gesture of benign disapproval.

  “No, sir,” he said, “I’m afraid that won’t do, won’t do at all. I don’t see how even this district attorney of yours could link Thursby and Jacobi and Wilmer together without having to—”

  “You don’t know district attorneys,” Spade told him. “The Thursby angle is easy. He was a gunman and so’s your punk. Bryan’s already got a theory abou
t that. There’ll be no catch there. Well, ——! They can only hang the punk once. Why try him for Jacobi’s murder after he’s been convicted of Thursby’s? They just close the record by writing it up against him, and let it go at that. If, as is likely enough, he used the same gun on both of them, the bullets will match up. Everybody will be satisfied.”

  “Yes, but,” Gutman began, and stopped to look at the boy.

  The boy advanced from the doorway, walking stiff-legged, with his legs apart, until he was between Gutman and Cairo, almost in the center of the floor. He halted there, leaning forward slightly from the waist, his shoulders raised toward the front. The pistol in his hand still hung at his side, but his knuckles were white over its grip. His other hand was a small, hard fist down at his other side. The indelible youngness of his face gave an indescribably vicious, an inhuman, turn to the white-hot hatred and the cold white malevolence in his face. He said to Spade in a voice cramped by passion:

  “You ——, get up on your feet and go for your heater.”

  Spade smiled at the boy. His smile was not broad, but the amusement in it seemed genuine and unalloyed.

  The boy said: “You ——, get up and shoot it out if you’ve got the guts. I’ve taken all the riding from you I’m going to take.”

  The amusement in Spade’s smile deepened. He looked at Gutman.

  “Young Wild West,” he said in a voice that matched his smile. “Maybe you’d better remind him that shooting me before you get your hands on the falcon would be bad for business.”

  Gutman’s attempt to smile was not successful, but he kept the resultant grimace on his mottled face. He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue. His voice was too hoarse and gritty for the paternally admonishing tone it tried to achieve.

  “Now, come, Wilmer,” he said, “we can’t have any of that. You shouldn’t let yourself attach so much importance to these things. You—”

  The boy, not taking his eyes from Spade, spoke in a choked voice out the side of his mouth: “Make him lay off me, then. I’m going to plug him if he keeps it up, and there won’t be anything that will stop me from doing it.”