Dundy put his back to Spade and gripped Cairo by the shoulders. “You can’t get away with that,” he snarled, shaking the Levantine. “You belched for help and you’ve got to take it.”
“No, sir,” Cairo sputtered. “It was a joke. He said you were friends of his and would understand.”
Spade laughed.
Dundy pulled Cairo roughly around, holding him now by one wrist and the nape of his neck. “I’ll take you along for packing the gun, anyway,” he said. “And I’ll take the rest of you along to see who laughs at the joke.”
Cairo’s alarmed eyes jerked sidewise to focus on Spade’s face.
Spade said: “Don’t be a sap, Dundy. The gun was part of the plant. It’s one of mine.” He laughed. “Too bad it’s only a thirty-two, or maybe you could find it was the one Thursby and Miles were shot with.”
Dundy released Cairo, spun on his heel, and his right fist clicked on Spade’s chin.
Brigid O’Shaughnessy uttered a short cry.
Spade’s smile flickered out at the instant of the impact, but returned immediately with a dreamy quality added. He steadied himself with a short backward step and his thick sloping shoulders writhed under his coat. Before his fist could come up Tom Polhaus had pushed himself between the two men, facing Spade, encumbering Spade’s arms with the closeness of his barrel-like belly and his own arms.
“No, no, for Christ’s sake!” Tom begged.