“Don’t be,” he said carelessly and put a hand on her grey-stockinged knee. “Nothing very bad’s going to happen. Want a drink?”
“Not now, thanks.” Her voice sank again. “Be careful, Sam.”
Spade grinned and looked at Gutman, who was looking at him. The fat man smiled genially, saying nothing for a moment, and then asked: “How?”
Spade was stupid. “How what?”
The fat man considered more laughter necessary then, and an explanation: “Well, sir, if you’re really serious about this—this suggestion of yours, the least we can do in common politeness is to hear you out. Now how are you going about fixing it so that Wilmer”—he paused here to laugh again—“won’t be able to do us any harm?”
Spade shook his head. “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to take advantage of anybody’s politeness, no matter how common, like that. Forget it.”
The fat man puckered up his facial bulbs. “Now come, come,” he protested, “you make me decidedly uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have laughed, and I apologize most humbly and sincerely. I wouldn’t want to seem to ridicule anything you’d suggest, Mr. Spade, regardless of how much I disagreed with you, for you must know that I have the greatest respect and admiration for your astuteness. Now mind you, I don’t see how this suggestion of yours can be in any way practical—even leaving out the fact that I couldn’t feel any different towards Wilmer if he was my own flesh and blood—but I’ll consider it a personal favor as well as a sign that you’ve accepted my apologies, sir, if you’ll go ahead and outline the rest of it.”
“Fair enough,” Spade said. “Bryan is like most district attorneys. He’s more interested in how his record will look on paper than in anything