“The maximum?” Gutman held his empty hand out, palm up. “I refuse to guess. You’d think me crazy. I don’t know. There’s no telling how high it could go, sir, and that’s the one and only truth about it.”
Spade pulled his sagging lower lip tight against the upper. He shook his head impatiently. A sharp frightened gleam awoke in his eyes—and was smothered by the deepening muddiness. He stood up, helping himself up with his hands on the arms of his chair. He shook his head again and took an uncertain step forward. He laughed thickly and muttered: “God damn you.”
Gutman jumped up and pushed his chair back. His fat globes jiggled. His eyes were dark holes in an oily pink face.
Spade swung his head from side to side until his dull eyes were pointed at—if not focused on—the door. He took another uncertain step.
The fat man called sharply: “Wilmer!”
A door opened and the boy came in.
Spade took a third step. His face was grey now, with jaw-muscles standing out like tumors under his ears. His legs did not straighten again after his fourth step and his muddy eyes were almost covered by their lids. He took his fifth step.
The boy walked over and stood close to Spade, a little in front of him, but not directly between Spade and the door. The boy’s right hand was inside his coat over his heart. The corners of his mouth twitched.
Spade essayed his sixth step.