“You’d better. Want me to kind of keep an eye on him?”
“Thanks, Luke. It wouldn’t hurt. You can’t know too much about the men you’re working for these days.”
It was twenty-one minutes past eleven by the clock over the elevator doors when Joel Cairo came in from the street. His forehead was bandaged. His clothes had the limp unfreshness of too many hours’ consecutive wear. His face was pasty, with sagging mouth and eyelids.
Spade met him in front of the desk. “Good morning,” Spade said easily.
Cairo drew his tired body up straight and the drooping lines of his face tightened. “Good morning,” he responded without enthusiasm.
There was a pause.
Spade said: “Let’s go some place where we can talk.”
Cairo raised his chin. “Please excuse me,” he said. “Our conversations in private have not been such that I am anxious to continue them. Pardon my speaking bluntly, but it is the truth.”
“You mean last night?” Spade made an impatient gesture with head and hands. “What in hell else could I do? I thought you’d see that. If you pick a fight with her, or let her pick one with you, I’ve got to throw in with her. I don’t know where that damned bird is. You don’t. She does. How in hell are we going to get it if I don’t play along with her?”
Cairo hesitated, said dubiously: “You have always, I must say, a smooth explanation ready.”
Spade scowled. “What do you want me to do? Learn to stutter? Well, we can talk over here.” He led the way to the divan. When they were seated he asked: “Dundy take you down to the Hall?”