XIX

“Suit yourself,” Spade replied. “I can hold him here all day if you want.” He began to roll a cigarette. “Let’s get the details fixed. Why did he shoot Thursby? And why and where and how did he shoot Jacobi?”

Gutman smiled indulgently, shaking his head and purring: “Now come, sir, you can’t expect that. We’ve given you the money and Wilmer. That is our part of the agreement.”

“I do expect it,” Spade said. He held his lighter to his cigarette. “A fall-guy is what I asked for, and he’s not a fall-guy unless he’s a cinch to take the fall. Well, to cinch that I’ve got to know what’s what.” He pulled his brows together. “What are you bellyaching about? You’re not going to be sitting so damned pretty if you leave him with an out.”

Gutman leaned forward and wagged a fat finger at the pistols on the table beside Spade’s legs. “There’s ample evidence of his guilt, sir. Both men were shot with those weapons. It’s a very simple matter for the police-department-experts to determine that the bullets that killed the men were fired from those weapons. You know that; you’ve mentioned it yourself. And that, it seems to me, is ample proof of his guilt.”

“Maybe,” Spade agreed, “but the thing’s more complicated than that and I’ve got to know what happened so I can be sure the parts that won’t fit in are covered up.”

Cairo’s eyes were round and hot. “Apparently you’ve forgotten that you assured us it would be a very simple affair,” Cairo said. He turned his excited dark face to Gutman. “You see! I advised you not to do this. I don’t think⁠—”

“It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference what either of you think,” Spade said bluntly. “It’s too late for that now and you’re in too deep. Why did he kill Thursby?”