“I hope to Christ I do,” Spade said.
“He didn’t mean that,” Thomas said.
“Then what did he mean?”
Bryan waved a hand. “I only mean that you might have been involved in it without knowing what it was. That could—”
“I see,” Spade sneered. “You don’t think I’m naughty. You just think I’m dumb.”
“Nonsense,” Bryan insisted: “Suppose someone came to you and engaged you to find Monahan, telling you they had reasons for thinking he was in the city. The someone might give you a completely false story—any one of a dozen or more would do—or might say he was a debtor who had run away, without giving you any of the details. How could you tell what was behind it? How would you know it wasn’t an ordinary piece of detective work? And under those circumstances you certainly couldn’t be held responsible for your part in it unless”—his voice sank to a more impressive key and his words came out spaced and distinct—“you made yourself an accomplice by concealing your knowledge of the murderer’s identity or information that would lead to his apprehension.”
Anger was leaving Spade’s face. No anger remained in his voice when he asked: “That’s what you meant?”
“Precisely.”
“All right. Then there’s no hard feelings. But you’re wrong.”
“Prove it.”
Spade shook his head. “I can’t prove it to you now. I can tell you.”