handkerchief to his pocket. “I traced it to the home of a Russian general—one Kemidov—in a Constantinople suburb. He didn’t know a thing about it. It was nothing but a black enameled figure to him, but his natural contrariness—the natural contrariness of a Russian general—kept him from selling it to me when I made him an offer. Perhaps in my eagerness I was a little unskillful, though not very. I don’t know about that. But I did know I wanted it and I was afraid this stupid soldier might begin to investigate his property, might chip off some of the enamel. So I sent some—ah—agents to get it. Well, sir, they got it and I haven’t got it.” He stood up and carried his empty glass to the table. “But I’m going to get it. Your glass, sir.”
“Then the bird doesn’t belong to any of you?” Spade asked, “but to a General Kemidov?”
“Belong?” the fat man said jovially. “Well, sir, you might say it belonged to the King of Spain, but I don’t see how you can honestly grant anybody else clear title to it—except by right of possession.” He clucked. “An article of that value that has passed from hand to hand by such means is clearly the property of whoever can get hold of it.”
“Then it’s Miss O’Shaughnessy’s now?”
“No, sir, except as my agent.”
Spade said, “Oh,” ironically.
Gutman, looking thoughtfully at the stopper of the whiskey-bottle in his hand, asked: “There’s no doubt that she’s got it now?”
“Not much.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know exactly.”