He took it saying: “Thanks a lot, lady. I’m sorry to spoil your day of rest, but this—”
“It’s not the first one you’ve spoiled,” she replied, laughing, and then, when it was apparent that he was not going to invite her in, asked: “Anything else?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
She said, “Bye-bye,” and went back to the elevator.
Spade shut the door and carried the parcel into the living-room. Gutman’s face was red and his cheeks quivered. Cairo and Brigid O’Shaughnessy came to the table as Spade put the parcel there. They were excited. The boy rose, pale and tense, but he remained by the sofa, staring under curling lashes at the others.
Spade stepped back from the table saying: “There you are.”
Gutman’s fat fingers made short work of cord and paper and excelsior, and he had the black bird in his hands. “Ah,” he said huskily, “now, after seventeen years!” His eyes were moist.
Cairo licked his red lips and worked his hands together. The girl’s lower lip was between her teeth. She and Cairo, like Gutman, and like Spade and the boy, were breathing heavily. The air in the room was chilly and stale, and thick with tobacco smoke.
Gutman set the bird down on the table again and fumbled at a pocket. “It’s it,” he said, “but we’ll make sure.” Sweat glistened on his round cheeks. His fingers twitched as he took out a gold pocketknife and opened it.
Cairo and the girl stood close to him, one on either side. Spade stood back a little where he could watch the boy as well as the group at the table.