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Dundy waved a hand to indicate the room and its furnishings. “Pretty classy layout for a man that's busted.”
“His wife has some money,” Ira Bi
Dundy scowled at Bi
“I don't think it,” Bi
Dundy nodded. “And you know he's got a yen for the sister-in-law, this Court?”
“I don't know that. But I've heard plenty of gossip to the same effect.”
Dundy made a growling noise in his throat, then asked sharply: “How does the old man's will read?”
“I don't know. I don't know whether he's made one.” He addressed Spade, now earnestly: “I've told everything I know, every single thing.”
Dundy said, “It's not enough.” He jerked a thumb at the door. “Show him where to wait, Tom, and let's have the widower in again.”
Big Polhaus said, “Right,” went out with Ira Bi
Dundy asked: “Has your uncle made a will?”
“I don't know,” Bi
Spade put the next question, softly: “Did your wife?”
Bi
“You wanted a divorce?” Dundy asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It wasn't a happy marriage.”
“Joyce Court?”
Bi
Spade said: “And you're sure —still absolutely sure—you don't know anybody who fits your uncle's description of the man who choked him?”
“Absolutely sure.”
The sound of the doorbell ringing came faintly into the room.
Dundy said sourly, “That'll do.”
Bi
Polhaus said: “That guy's as wrong as they make them. And—”
From below came the heavy report of a pistol fired indoors.
The lights went out.
In darkness the three detectives collided with one another going through the doorway into the dark hall. Spade reached the stairs first. There was a clatter of footsteps below him, but nothing could be seen until he reached a bend in the stairs. Then enough light came from the street through the open front door to show the dark figure of a man standing with his back to the open door.
A flashlight clicked in Dundy's hand—he was at Spade's heels—and threw a glaring white beam of light on the man's face. He was Ira Bi
Dundy turned the beam of his light down on the floor. Jarboe lay there on his face, bleeding from a bullet hole in the back of his head.
Spade grunted softly.
Tom Polhaus came blundering down the stairs, Wallace Bi
“Where's the light switch?” Dundy barked.
“Inside the cellar door, under these stairs,” Wallace Bi
Polhaus pushed past Bi
Spade made an inarticulate sound in his throat and, pushing Wallace Bi
He ran to Timothy Bi
Something hard and angular struck him above his right ear, knocking him across the room, bringing him down on one knee. Something thumped and clattered on the floor just outside the door.
The lights came on.
On the floor, in the center of the room, Timothy Bi
Spade stood up and put a hand to his head. He scowled at the old man on the floor, at the room, at the black automatic pistol lying on the hallway floor. He said: “Come on, you old cutthroat. Get up and sit on a chair and I'll see if I can stop that bleeding till the doctor gets here.”
The man on the floor did not move.
There were footsteps in the hallway and Dundy came in, followed by the two younger Bi
“Forget it,” Spade said. “Uncle Tim is our meat.” He paid no attention to Wallace Bi
The old man did not stir.
“He killed the butler because I told him the butler had peeped,” Spade explained to Dundy. “I peeped, too, but didn't see anything except that chair and the window, though we'd made enough racket by then to scare him back to bed. Suppose you take the chair apart while I go over the window.” He went to the window and began to examine it carefully. He shook his head, put a hand out behind him, and said: “Give me the flashlight.”
Dundy put the flashlight in his hand.
Spade raised the window and leaned out, turning the light on the outside of the building. Presently he grunted and put his other hand out, tugging at a brick a little below the sill. Presently the brick came loose. He put it on the window sill and stuck his hand into the hole its removal had made. Out of the opening, one at a time, he brought an empty black pistol holster, a partially filled box of cartridges, and an unsealed manila envelope.
Holding these things in his hands, he turned to face the others. Joyce Court came in with a basin of water and a roll of gauze and knelt beside Timothy Bi
” 'I, Timothy Kieran Bi
” 'I bequeath them, furthermore, the expense of my funeral and these memories: First, the memory of their credulity in believing that the fifteen years I spent in Sing Sing were spent in Australia; second, the memory of their optimism in supposing that those fifteen years had brought me great wealth, and that if I lived on them, borrowed from them, and never spent any of my own money, it was because I was a miser whose hoard they would inherit; and not because I had no money except what I shook them down for; third, for their hopefulness in thinking that I would leave either of them anything if I had it; and, lastly because their painful lack of any decent sense of humor will keep them from ever seeing how fu
Spade looked up to say: “There is no date, but it's signed Timothy Kieran Bi
Ira Bi