XV

knowing Thursby had sloughed Monahan⁠—or not believing it⁠—they killed him because he had been Monahan’s associate, or to get him out of the way so they could get to Monahan, or because he had refused to lead them to Monahan. Number two: he was killed by friends of Monahan. Or number three: he sold Monahan out to his enemies and then fell out with them and they killed him.”

“Or number four,” Spade suggested with a cheerful smile: “he died of old age. You folks aren’t serious, are you?”

The two men stared at Spade, but neither of them spoke. Spade turned his smile from one to the other of them and shook his head in mock pity. “You’ve got Arnold Rothstein on the brain,” he said.

Bryan smacked the back of his left hand down into the palm of his right. “In one of those three categories lies the solution.” The power in his voice was no longer latent. His right hand, a fist except for protruding forefinger, went up and then down to stop with a jerk when the finger was leveled at Spade’s chest. “And you can give us the information that will enable us to determine the category.”

Spade said, “Yes?” very lazily. His face was somber. He touched his lower lip with a finger, looked at the finger, and then scratched the back of his neck with it. Little irritable lines had appeared in his forehead. He blew his breath out heavily through his nose and his voice was an ill-humored growl. “You wouldn’t want the kind of information I could give you, Bryan. You couldn’t use it. It’d poop this gambler’s-revenge-scenario for you.”

Bryan sat up straight and squared his shoulders. His voice was stern without blustering. “You are not the judge of that. Right or wrong, I am nonetheless the District Attorney.”

Spade’s lifted lip showed his eyetooth. “I thought this was an informal talk.”