“If you don’t—I dare say you’ll give her some money in any event, but—if you don’t give her as much as she thinks she ought to have, my word of advice is—be careful.”
Spade’s eyes held a mocking light. He asked: “Bad?”
“Bad,” the fat man replied.
Spade grinned and began to roll a cigarette.
Cairo, still muttering in the boy’s ear, had put his arm around the boy’s shoulders again. Suddenly the boy pushed his arm away and turned on the sofa to face the Levantine. The boy’s face held disgust and anger. He made a fist of one small hand and struck Cairo’s mouth with it. Cairo cried out as a woman might have cried and drew back to the very end of the sofa. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and put it to his mouth. It came away daubed with blood. He put it to his mouth once more and looked reproachfully at the boy. The boy snarled, “Keep away from me,” and put his face between his hands again. Cairo’s handkerchief released the fragrance of chypre in the room.
Cairo’s cry had brought Brigid O’Shaughnessy to the door. Spade, grinning, jerked a thumb at the sofa and told her: “The course of true love. How’s the food coming along?”
“It’s coming,” she said and went back to the kitchen.
Spade lighted his cigarette and addressed Gutman: “Let’s talk about money.”
“Willingly, sir, with all my heart,” the fat man replied, “but I might as well tell you frankly right now that ten thousand is every cent I can raise.”
Spade exhaled smoke. “I ought to have twenty.”