“You sure of that?”
“Look around.” Spade smiled and waved his empty glass a little. “Turn the dump upside-down if you want. I won’t squawk—if you’ve got a search-warrant.”
Tom protested: “Oh, hell, Sam!”
Spade set his glass on the table and stood up facing the Lieutenant.
“What do you want, Dundy?” he asked in a voice hard and cold as his eyes.
Lieutenant Dundy’s eyes had moved to maintain their focus on Spade’s. Only his eyes had moved.
Tom shifted his weight on the sofa again, blew a deep breath out through his nose, and growled plaintively: “We’re not wanting to make any trouble, Sam.”
Spade, ignoring Tom, said to Dundy: “Well, what do you want? Talk turkey. Who in hell do you think you are, coming in here trying to rope me?”
“All right,” Dundy said in his chest, “sit down and listen.”
“I’ll sit or stand as I damned please,” said Spade, not moving.
“For Christ’s sake be reasonable,” Tom begged. “What’s the use of us having a row? If you want to know why we didn’t talk turkey it’s because when I asked you who this Thursby was you as good as told me it was none of my business. You can’t treat us that way, Sam. It ain’t right and it won’t get you anywheres. We got our work to do.”
Lieutenant Dundy jumped up, stood close to Spade, and thrust his square face up at the taller man’s.