Every Crackpot
Spade and Detective-sergeant Polhaus ate pickled pigs’ feet at one of big John’s tables at the States Hof Brau.
Polhaus, balancing pale bright jelly on a fork halfway between plate and mouth, said: “Hey, listen, Sam! Forget about the other night. He was dead wrong, but you know anybody’s liable to lose their head if you ride them thataway.”
Spade looked thoughtfully at the police-detective. “Was that what you wanted to see me about?” he asked.
Polhaus nodded, put the forkful of jelly into his mouth, swallowed it, and qualified his nod: “Mostly.”
“Dundy send you?”
Polhaus made a disgusted mouth. “You know he didn’t. He’s as bullheaded as you are.”
Spade smiled and shook his head. “No, he’s not, Tom,” he said. “He just thinks he is.”
Tom scowled and chopped at his pig’s foot with a knife. “Ain’t you ever going to grow up?” he grumbled. “What’ve you got to beef about? He didn’t hurt you. You came out on top. What’s the sense of making a grudge of it? You’re just making a lot of grief for yourself.”
Spade placed his knife and fork carefully together on his plate, and put his hands on the table beside his plate. His smile was faint and devoid of