The fat man set the bottle on the table with a bang. “But you said you did,” he protested.
Spade made a careless gesture with one hand. “I meant to say I know where to get it when the time comes.”
The pink bulbs of Gutman’s face arranged themselves more happily. “And you do?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Spade grinned and said: “Leave that to me. That’s my end.”
“When?”
“When I’m ready.”
The fat man pursed his lips and, smiling with only slight uneasiness, asked: “ Mr. Spade, where is Miss O’Shaughnessy now?”
“In my hands, safely tucked away.”
Gutman smiled with approval. “Trust you for that, sir,” he said. “Well now, sir, before we sit down to talk prices, answer me this: how soon can you—or how soon are you willing to—produce the falcon?”
“A couple of days.”
The fat man nodded. “That is satisfactory. We—But I forgot our nourishment.” He turned to the table, poured whiskey, squirted charged water into it, set a glass at Spade’s elbow and held his own aloft. “Well, sir, here’s to a fair bargain and profits large enough for both of us.”
They drank. The fat man sat down. Spade asked: “What’s your idea of a fair bargain?”