“Yes, that’s the way I understood it. And a boy came in with a message—that Mr. Gutman would be delighted to talk to you before five-thirty.”
Spade turned off the water, squeezed the handkerchief, and came away from the cabinet holding the handkerchief to his temple. “I got that,” he said. “I met the boy downstairs, and talking to Mr. Gutman got me this.”
“Is that the G. who phoned, Sam?”
“Yes.”
“And what—?”
Spade stared through the girl and spoke as if using speech to arrange his thoughts: “He wants something he thinks I can get. I persuaded him I could keep him from getting it if he didn’t make the deal with me before five-thirty. Then—uh-huh—sure—it was after I’d told him he’d have to wait a couple of days that he fed me the junk. It’s not likely he thought I’d die. He’d know I’d be up and around in ten or twelve hours. So maybe the answer’s that he figured he could get it without my help in that time if I was fixed so I couldn’t butt in.” He scowled. “I hope to Christ he was wrong.” His stare became less distant. “You didn’t get any word from the O’Shaughnessy?”
The girl shook her head no and asked: “Has this got anything to do with her?”
“Something.”
“This thing he wants belongs to her?”
“Or to the King of Spain. Sweetheart, you’ve got an uncle who teaches history or something over at the University?”
“A cousin. Why?”