“There’s nothing funny about it.” Spade did not seem offended by the fat man’s laughter, nor in any way impressed. He spoke in the manner of one reasoning with a recalcitrant, but not altogether unreasonable, friend. “It’s our best bet. With him in their hands, the police will—”
“But, my dear man,” Gutman objected, “can’t you see? If I even for a moment thought of doing it—But that’s ridiculous too. I feel towards Wilmer just exactly as if he were my own son. I really do. But if I even for a moment thought of doing what you propose, what in the world do you think would keep Wilmer from telling the police every last detail about the falcon and all of us?”
Spade grinned with stiff lips. “If we had to,” he said softly, “we could have him killed resisting arrest. But we won’t have to go that far. Let him talk his head off. I promise you nobody’ll do anything about it. That’s easy enough to fix.”
The pink flesh on Gutman’s forehead crawled in a frown. He lowered his head, mashing his chins together over his collar, and asked: “How?” Then, with an abruptness that set all his fat bulbs to quivering and tumbling against one another, he raised his head, squirmed around to look at the boy, and laughed uproariously. “What do you think of this, Wilmer? It’s funny, eh?”
The boy’s eyes were cold hazel gleams under his lashes. He said in a low distinct voice: “Yes, it’s funny—the son of a bitch.”
Spade was talking to Brigid O’Shaughnessy: “How do you feel now, angel? Any better?”
“Yes, much better, only”—she reduced her voice until the last words would have been unintelligible two feet away—“I’m frightened.”