He looked at his watch. “The day’s going and you’re giving me nothing to work with. Who killed Thursby?”
She put a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth and said, “I don’t know,” through it.
“Your enemies or his?”
“I don’t know. His, I hope, but I’m afraid—I don’t know.”
“How was he supposed to be helping you? Why did you bring him here from Hong Kong?”
She looked at him with frightened eyes and shook her head in silence. Her face was haggard and pitifully stubborn.
Spade stood up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and scowled down at her. “This is hopeless,” he said savagely. “I can’t do anything for you. I don’t know what you want done. I don’t even know if you know what you want.”
She hung her head and wept.
He made a growling animal noise in his throat and went to the table for his hat.
“You won’t,” she begged in a small choked voice, not looking up, “go to the police?”
“Go to them!” he exclaimed, his voice loud with rage. “They’ve been running me ragged since four o’clock this morning. I’ve made myself God knows how much trouble standing them off. For what? For some crazy notion that I could help you. I can’t. I won’t try.” He put his hat on his head and pulled it down tight. “Go to them? All I’ve got to do is stand still and they’ll be swarming all over me. Well, I’ll tell them what I know and you’ll have to take your chances.”