"I don't say your client killed Thursby or had him killed, but I do say that, knowing who your client is, or was, I'll mighty soon know who killed Thursby."
Spade lighted his cigarette, removed it from his lips, emptied his lungs of smoke, and spoke as if puzzled:
"I don't exactly get that."
"You don't?
Then suppose I put it this way: where is Dixie Monahan?"
Spade's face retained its puzzled look.
"Putting it that way doesn't help much," he said.
"I still don't get it."
The District Attorney took his glasses off and shook them for emphasis.
He said: "We know Thursby was Monahan's bodyguard and went with him when Monahan found it wise to vanish from Chicago.
We know Monahan welshed on something like two-hundred-thousand-dollars' worth of bets when he vanished.
We don't know—not yet—who his creditors were."
He put the glasses on again and smiled grimly.
"But we all know what's likely to happen to a gambler who welshes, and to his bodyguard, when his creditors find him.
It's happened before."
Spade ran his tongue over his lips and pulled his lips back over his teeth in an ugly grin.
His eyes glittered under pulled-down brows. His reddening neck bulged over the rim of his collar.
His voice was low and hoarse and passionate.
"Well, what do you think? Did I kill him for his creditors? Or just find him and let them do their own killing?"
"No, no!" the District Attorney protested.
"You misunderstand me."
"I hope to Christ I do," Spade said.
"He didn't mean that," Thomas said.
"Then what did he mean?"
Bryan waved a hand.
"I only mean that you might have been involved in it without knowing what it was.
That could—"
"I see," Spade sneered.
"You don't think I'm naughty.
You just think I'm dumb."
"Nonsense," Bryan insisted:
"Suppose someone came to you and engaged you to find Monahan, telling you they had reasons for thinking he was in the city.
The someone might give you a completely false story— any one of a dozen or more would do—or might say he was a debtor who had run away, without giving you any of the details.
How could you tell what was behind it? How would you know it wasn't an ordinary piece of detective work? And under those circumstances you certainly couldn't be held responsible for your part in it unless"—his voice sank to a more impressive key and his words came out spaced and distinct—"you made yourself an accomplice by concealing your knowledge of the murderer's identity or information that would lead to his apprehension."
Anger was leaving Spade's face.
No anger remained in his voice when he asked:
"That's what you meant?"
"Precisely."
"All right.
Then there's no hard feelings.
But you're wrong."
"Prove it."
Spade shook his head.
"I can't prove it to you now.
I can tell you."
"Then tell me."
"Nobody ever hired me to do anything about Dixie Monahan."
Bryan and Thomas exchanged glances.
Bryan's eyes came back to Spade and he said:
"But, by your own admission, somebody did hire you to do something about his bodyguard Thursby."