Spade, sitting on the corner of the table, swinging his legs carelessly, said: “Now listen, kid. If you come over here and start cutting up I’m going to kick you in the face. Sit down and shut up and behave and you’ll last longer.”
The boy looked at Gutman.
Gutman smiled benignly at him and said: “Well, Wilmer, I’m sorry indeed to lose you, and I want you to know that I couldn’t be any fonder of you if you were my own son; but—well, by Gad!—if you lose a son it’s possible to get another—and there’s only one Maltese falcon.”
Spade laughed.
Cairo moved over and whispered in the boy’s ear. The boy, keeping his cold hazel eyes on Gutman’s face, sat down on the sofa again. The Levantine sat beside him.
Gutman’s sigh did not affect the benignity of his smile. He said to Spade: “When you’re young you simply don’t understand things.”
Cairo had an arm around the boy’s shoulders again and was whispering to him. Spade grinned at Gutman and addressed Brigid O’Shaughnessy: “I think it’d be swell if you’d see what you can find us to eat in the kitchen, with plenty of coffee. Will you? I don’t like to leave my guests.”
“Surely,” she said and started towards the door.
Gutman stopped rocking. “Just a moment, my dear.” He held up a thick hand. “Hadn’t you better leave the envelope in here? You don’t want to get grease-spots on it.”