The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Spade’s laugh was brief and scornful.

“You’re as wrong as Dundy,” he said.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Spade.” Bryan knocked on the desk with his knuckles. “I don’t say your client killed Thursby, or had him killed, but I do say that, knowing who your client is, or was, I’ll mighty soon know who killed Thursby.”

Spade lighted his cigarette, removed it from his lips, blew his lungs empty of smoke, and spoke as if puzzled: “I don’t exactly get that.”

“You don’t? Then suppose I put it this way: where is Dixie Monahan?”

Spade’s face retained its puzzled look.

“Putting it that way doesn’t help much,” he said. “I still don’t get it.”

The District Attorney took his glasses off and shook them a little for emphasis. He said: “We know Thursby was Monahan’s bodyguard, and went with him when Monahan found it wise to vanish from Chicago. We know Monahan welshed on something like two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bets when he vanished. We don’t know — not yet — who his creditors were.” He put his glasses on again and smiled grimly. “But we all know what’s likely to happen to a gambler who welshes, and to his bodyguard, when his creditors find him. It’s happened before.”

Spade ran his tongue over his lips and pulled his lips back over his teeth in an ugly grin. His eyes glittered under pulled-down brows. His reddening neck bulged over the rim of his collar. His voice was low and hoarse and passionate: “Well, what do you think? Did I kill him for his creditors? Or just find him and let them do their own killing?”

“No, no,” the District Attorney protested. “You misunderstand me.”

“I hope to — I do,” Spade said.

“He didn’t mean that,” Thomas said.

“Then what did he mean?” Spade asked.

Bryan waved a hand. “I only meant that you might have been involved in it without knowing what it was. That could—”

“I see.” Spade sneered. “You don’t think I’m naughty, you just think I’m dumb.”

“Nonsense,” Bryan insisted. “Suppose someone came to you and engaged you to find Monahan, telling you they had reason to think he was in the city. The someone might give you a completely false story — any one of a dozen or more would do — or might say he was a debtor who had run away, without giving you the details. How could you tell what was behind it? How would you know it wasn’t an ordinary piece of detective work? And under those circumstances you certainly couldn’t be held responsible for your part in it, unless” — his voice sank to a more impressive note, and his words came out spaced and distinct — “you made yourself an accomplice by concealing your knowledge of the murderer’s identity or any information that would lead to his capture.”

Anger was leaving Spade’s face. No anger remained in his voice when he asked: “That’s what you meant?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. Then there’s no hard feelings. But you’re wrong.”

“Show me.”

Spade shook his head. “I can’t show you, now. I can tell you.”

“Tell me.”

“Nobody ever hired me to do anything about Dixie Monahan.”

Bryan and Thomas exchanged glances. Bryan’s eyes came back to Spade, and he said: “But, by your own admission to the police, somebody did hire you to do something about Thursby, his bodyguard.”

“Yes, about Thursby, his ex-bodyguard.”

“Ex?”

“Yes, ex.”

“You know that Thursby was no longer associated with Monahan? You know that positively?”

Spade stretched out his hand and dropped the stub of his cigarette into a tray on the desk. He spoke carelessly: “I don’t know anything positively except that my client wasn’t interested in Monahan, had never been interested in Monahan. But I heard that Thursby took Monahan out to the Orient and lost him.”

Again the District Attorney and his assistant exchanged glances.

Thomas, in a tone whose striving for matter-of-factness did not quite hide excitement, said: “That opens another angle. Monahan’s friends could have knocked Thursby off for ditching Monahan.”

“Dead gamblers don’t have any friends,” Spade said.

“It opens up two new lines,” Bryan said. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling for several seconds, then sat upright quickly. His orator’s face was alight. “It narrows down to three things now. Number one: Thursby was killed by the gamblers Monahan had welshed on in Chicago. Not knowing Thursby had ditched Monahan — or not believing it — they killed him because he had been Monahan’s associate, or to get him out of the way so they could get at Monahan, or because he had refused to lead them to Monahan. Number two: he was killed by friends of Monahan. Or number three: he sold Monahan out to his enemies and then fell out with them and they killed him.”

“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 of them to the other, and shook his head in mock pity.