“Now come, sir,” Gutman said persuasively, “we’ve all failed and there’s no reason for expecting any one of us to bear the brunt of it, and—” He brought his right hand from behind him. In the hand was a small pistol, an ornately engraved and inlaid affair of silver and gold and mother-of-pearl. “In short, sir, I must ask you to return my ten thousand dollars.”
Spade’s face did not change. He shrugged and took the envelope from his pocket. He started to hold it out to Gutman, hesitated, opened the envelope, and took out one thousand-dollar bill. He put that bill into his trousers-pocket. He tucked the envelope’s flap in over the other bills and held them out to Gutman. “That’ll take care of my time and expenses,” he said.
Gutman, after a little pause, imitated Spade’s shrug and accepted the envelope. He said: “Now, sir, we will say goodbye to you, unless”—the fat puffs around his eyes crinkled—“you care to undertake the Constantinople expedition with us. You don’t? Well, sir, frankly I’d like to have you along. You’re a man to my liking, a man of many resources and nice judgment. Because we know you’re a man of nice judgment we know we can say goodbye with every assurance that you’ll hold the details of our little enterprise in confidence. We know we can count on you to appreciate the fact that, as the situation now stands, any legal difficulties that come to us in connection with these last few days would likewise and equally come to you and the charming Miss O’Shaughnessy. You’re too shrewd not to recognize that, sir, I’m sure.”
“I understand that,” Spade replied.
“I was sure you would. I’m also sure that, now there’s no alternative, you’ll somehow manage the police without a fall-guy.”