XX

If They Hang You

For all of five minutes after the outer door had closed behind Casper Gutman and Joel Cairo, Spade, motionless, stood staring at the knob of the open living-room door. His eyes were gloomy under a forehead drawn down. The clefts at the root of his nose were deep and red. His lips protruded loosely, pouting. He drew them in to make a hard v and went to the telephone. He had not looked at Brigid O’Shaughnessy, who stood by the table looking with uneasy eyes at him.

He picked up the telephone, set it on its shelf again, and bent to look into the telephone-directory hanging from a corner of the shelf. He turned the pages rapidly until he found the one he wanted, ran his finger down a column, straightened up, and lifted the telephone from the shelf again. He called a number and said:

“Hello, is Sergeant Polhaus there?⁠ ⁠… Will you call him, please? This is Samuel Spade.⁠ ⁠…” He stared into space, waiting. “Hello, Tom, I’ve got something for you.⁠ ⁠… Yes, plenty. Here it is: Thursby and Jacobi were shot by a kid named Wilmer Cook.” He described the boy minutely. “He’s working for a man named Casper Gutman.” He described Gutman. “That fellow Cairo you met here is in with them too.⁠ ⁠… Yes, that’s it.⁠ ⁠… Gutman’s staying at the Alexandria, suite 12-C, or was. They’ve just left here and they’re blowing town, so you’ll have to move fast, but I don’t think they’re expecting a pinch.⁠ ⁠… There’s a girl in it too⁠—Gutman’s daughter.” He described Rhea Gutman. “Watch yourself when you go up against the kid. He’s supposed to be pretty good with the gun.⁠ ⁠… That’s right, Tom, and I’ve got some stuff here for you. I think I’ve got the guns he used.⁠ ⁠… That’s right. Step on it⁠—and luck to you!”