The Maltese Falcon

by Dashiell Hammett

“Have you any conception of the extreme, the immeasurable, wealth of the Order at that time?” “If I remember,” Spade said, “they were pretty well fixed.” Gutman smiled indulgently. “Pretty well, sir, is putting it mildly.”

For years they had preyed on the Saracens, had taken nobody knows what spoils of gems, precious metals, silks, ivories—the cream of the cream of the East. That is history, sir. We all know that the Holy Wars to them, as to the Templars, were largely a matter of loot.

“Well, now, the Emperor Charles has given them Malta, and all the rent he asks is one insignificant bird per annum, just as a matter of form. What could be more natural than for these immeasurably wealthy Knights to look around for some way of expressing their gratitude?

but a glorious golden falcon encrusted from head to foot with the finest jewels in their coffers. And—remember, sir—they had fine ones, the finest out of Asia.”

“The archives of the Order from the twelfth century on are still at Malta. They are not intact, but what is there holds no less than three”—he held up three fingers—“references that can’t be to anything else but this jeweled falcon.

“All right, sir. Grand Master Villiers de l’Isle d’Adam had this foot-high jeweled bird made by Turkish slaves in the castle of St. Angelo and sent it to Charles, who was in Spain. He sent it in a galley commanded by a French knight named Cormier or Corvere, a member of the Order.” His voice dropped to a whisper again. “It never reached Spain.”

“That was seventeen years ago. Well, sir, it took me seventeen years to locate that bird, but I did it. I wanted it, and I’m not a man that’s easily discouraged when he wants something.”

“Well, sir, you might say it belonged to the King of Spain, but I don’t see how you can honestly grant anybody else clear title to it—except by right of possession.” He clucked. “An article of that value that has passed from hand to hand by such means is clearly the property of whoever can get hold of it.” “Then it’s Miss O’Shaughnessy’s now?” “No, sir, except as my agent.” Spade said, “Oh,” ironically. Gutman, looking thoughtfully at the stopper of the whiskey-bottle in his hand, asked: “There’s no doubt that she’s got it now?” “Not much.” “Where?” “I don’t know exactly.” The fat man set the bottle on the table with a bang. “But you said you did,” he protested. Spade made a careless gesture with one hand. “I meant to say I know where to get it when the time comes.” The

“Mr. Spade, where is Miss O’Shaughnessy now?” “In my hands, safely tucked away.” Gutman smiled with approval. “Trust you for that, sir,” he said. “Well now, sir, before we sit down to talk prices, answer me this: how soon can you—or how soon are you willing to—produce the falcon?” “A couple of days.”

choice. I will give you twenty-five thousand dollars when you deliver the falcon to me, and another twenty-five thousand as soon as I get to New York; or I will give you one quarter—twenty-five per cent—of what I realize on the falcon. There you are, sir: an almost immediate fifty thousand dollars or a vastly greater sum within, say, a couple of months.”

against the upper. He shook his head impatiently. A sharp frightened gleam awoke in his eyes—and was smothered by the deepening muddiness. He stood up, helping himself up with his hands on the arms of his chair. He shook his head again and took an uncertain step forward. He laughed thickly and muttered: “God damn you.”

“He wants something he thinks I can get. I persuaded him I could keep him from getting it if he didn’t make the deal with me before five-thirty. Then—uh-huh—sure—it was after I’d told him he’d have to wait a couple of days that he fed me the junk. It’s not likely he thought I’d die. He’d know I’d be up and around in ten or twelve hours. So maybe the answer’s that he figured he could get it without my help in that time if I was fixed so I couldn’t butt in.”

Sweetheart, you’ve got an uncle who teaches history or something over at the University?” “A cousin. Why?” “If we brightened his life with an alleged historical secret four centuries old could we trust him to keep it dark awhile?” “Oh, yes, he’s good people.” “Fine. Get your pencil and book.”

“Ted says it could be,” she reported, “and he hopes it is. He says he’s not a specialist in that field, but the names and dates are all right, and at least none of your authorities or their works are out-and-out fakes. He’s all excited over it.”

“There was a boat on fire when I came back. They were towing it out from the pier and the smoke blew all over our ferryboat.” Spade put his hands on the arms of his chair. “Were you near enough to see the name of the boat?” he asked. “Yes. La Paloma. Why?” Spade smiled ruefully. “I’m damned if I know why, sister,” he said.

“Ain’t you ever going to grow up?” he grumbled. “What’ve you got to beef about? He didn’t hurt you. You came out on top. What’s the sense of making a grudge of it? You’re just making a lot of grief for yourself.”

“With every bull in town working overtime trying to pile up grief for me a little more won’t hurt. I won’t even know it’s there.”

“Phil Archer been in with any more hot tips?” “Aw, hell! Dundy didn’t think you shot Miles, but what else could he do except run the lead down? You’d’vd done the same thing in his place, and you know it.” “Yes?” Malice glittered in Spade’s eyes. “What made him think I didn’t do it? What makes you think I didn’t? Or don’t you?” Polhaus’s ruddy face flushed again. He said: “Thursby shot Miles.” “You think he did.” “He did. That Webley was his, and the slug in Miles came out of it.” “Sure?” Spade demanded. “Dead sure,”

“Well, he was a St. Louis gunman the first we hear of him. He was picked up a lot of times back there for this and that, but he belonged to the Egan mob, so nothing much was ever done about any of it. I don’t know howcome he left that shelter, but they got him once in New York for knocking over a row of stuss-games—his twist turned him up—and he was in a year before Fallon got him sprung. A couple of years later he did a short hitch in Joliet for pistol-whipping another twist that had given him the needle, but after that he took up with Dixie Monahan and didn’t have any trouble getting out whenever he happened to get in. That was when Dixie was almost as big a shot as Nick the Greek in Chicago gambling. This Thursby was Dixie’s bodyguard and he took the run-out with him when Dixie got in wrong with the rest of the boys over some debts he couldn’t or wouldn’t pay off. That

“From Cairo, for instance?” Now Spade’s eyes held the prying gleam. Polhaus put down his coffee-cup and shook his head. “Not a word of it. You poisoned that guy for us.”

“Who killed Thursby?” Spade said: “I don’t know.” Bryan rubbed his black eyeglass-ribbon between thumb and fingers and said knowingly: “Perhaps you don’t, but you certainly could make an excellent guess.” “Maybe, but I wouldn’t.” The District Attorney raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t,” Spade repeated. He was serene. “My guess might be excellent, or it might be crummy, but Mrs. Spade didn’t raise any children dippy enough to make guesses in front of a district attorney, an assistant district attorney, and a stenographer.” “Why shouldn’t you, if you’ve nothing to conceal?” “Everybody,” Spade responded mildly, “has something to conceal.” “And you have—?” “My guesses, for one thing.”

“Tell me who Archer was shadowing Thursby for and I’ll tell you who killed Thursby.” Spade’s laugh was brief and scornful. “You’re as wrong as Dundy,” he said. “Don’t misunderstand me, Spade,” Bryan said, knocking on the desk with his knuckles. “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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“But, by your own admission, somebody did hire you to do something about his bodyguard Thursby.” “Yes, about his ex-bodyguard Thursby.” “Ex?” “Yes, ex.” “You know that Thursby was no longer associated with Monahan? You know that positively?”

“That opens another angle. Monahan’s friends could have knocked Thursby off for ditching Monahan.” “Dead gamblers don’t have any friends,” Spade said. “It opens up two new lines,” Bryan

“It narrows down to three things. Number one: Thursby was killed by the gamblers Monahan had welshed on in Chicago. Not knowing Thursby had sloughed Monahan—or not believing it—they killed him because he had been Monahan’s associate, or to get him out of the way so they could get to Monahan, or because he had refused to lead them to Monahan. Number two: he was killed by friends of Monahan. Or number three: he sold Monahan out to his enemies and then fell out with them and they killed him.”

“In one of those three catagories lies the solution.”

“And you can give us the information that will enable us to determine the category.”

“You mean if it might incriminate me?” Spade asked. His voice was placid, almost amused, but his face was not. “Well, I’ve got better grounds than that, or grounds that suit me better. My clients are entitled to a decent amount of secrecy. Maybe I can be made to talk to a Grand Jury or even a Coroner’s Jury, but I haven’t been called before either yet, and it’s a cinch I’m not going to advertise my clients’ business until I have to. Then again, you and the police have both accused me of being mixed up in the other night’s murders. I’ve had trouble with both of you before. As far as I can see, my best chance of clearing myself of the trouble you’re trying to make for me is by bringing in the murderers—all tied up. And my only chance of ever catching them and tying them up and bringing them in is by keeping away from you and the police, because neither of you show any signs of knowing what in hell it’s all about.”

She had stopped trembling, had stopped panting. The appearance of Gutman and his companions seemed to have robbed her of that freedom of personal movement and emotion that is animal, leaving her alive, conscious, but quiescent as a plant.

“Naturally I wanted to see you as soon as I had the falcon. Cash customers—why not? I went to Burlingame expecting to run into this sort of a meeting. I didn’t know you were blundering around, half an hour late, trying to get me out of the way so you could find Jacobi again before he found me.” Gutman chuckled. His chuckle

“Sure. You’re together now, but I’ve got the falcon.”

“I shouldn’t think it would be necessary to remind you, Mr. Spade, that though you may have the falcon yet we certainly have you.”

Thursby undoubtedly killed your partner.”

know what I’m talking about. I’ve been through it all before and expect to go through it again. At one time or another I’ve had to tell everybody from the Supreme Court down to go to hell, and I’ve got away with it. I got away with it because I never let myself forget that a day of reckoning was coming. I never forget that when the day of reckoning comes I want to be all set to march into headquarters pushing a victim in front of me, saying: ‘Here, you chumps, is your criminal!’ As long as I can do that I can put my thumb to my nose and wriggle my fingers at all the laws in the book. The first time I can’t do it my name’s Mud. There hasn’t been a first time yet. This isn’t going to be it. That’s flat.”

And if it was anyway practical this time I’d be the first to say: ‘Stick to it by all means, sir.’ But this just happens to be a case where it’s not possible. That’s the way it is with the best of systems. There comes a time when you’ve got to make exceptions, and a wise man just goes ahead and makes them. Well, sir, that’s just the way it is in this case and I don’t mind telling you that I think you’re being very well paid for making an exception. Now maybe it will be a little more trouble to you than if you had your victim to hand over to the police, but”—he laughed and spread his hands—“you’re not the man that’s afraid of a little bit of trouble. You know how to do things and you know you’ll land on your feet in the end, no matter what happens.”

“If you kill me, how are you going to get the bird? If I know you can’t afford to kill me till you have it, how are you going to scare me into giving it to you?”

men are likely to forget in the heat of action where their best interest lies and let their emotions carry them away.”

“You told him he was being shadowed,” Spade said confidently. “Miles hadn’t many brains, but he wasn’t clumsy enough to be spotted the first night.” “I told him, yes. When we went out for a walk that night I pretended to discover Mr. Archer following us and pointed him out to Floyd.” She sobbed. “But please believe, Sam, that I wouldn’t have done it if I had thought Floyd would kill him. I thought he’d be frightened into leaving the city. I didn’t for a minute think he’d shoot him like that.” Spade smiled wolfishly with his lips, but not at all with his eyes. He said: “If you thought he wouldn’t you were right, angel.” The girl’s upraised face held utter astonishment. Spade said: “Thursby didn’t shoot him.” Incredulity joined astonishment in the girl’s face.

“Miles hadn’t many brains, but, Christ! he had too many years’ experience as a detective to be caught like that by the man he was shadowing. Up a blind alley with his gun tucked away on his hip and his overcoat buttoned? Not a chance. He was as dumb as any man ought to be, but he wasn’t quite that dumb. The only two ways out of the alley could be watched from the edge of Bush Street over the tunnel. You’d told us Thursby was a bad actor. He couldn’t have tricked Miles into the alley like that, and he couldn’t have driven him in. He was dumb, but not dumb enough for that.”

“But he’d’ve gone up there with you, angel, if he was sure nobody else was up there. You were his client, so he would have had no reason for not dropping the shadow on your say-so, and if you caught up with him and asked him to go up there he’d’ve gone. He was just dumb enough for that. He’d’ve looked you up and down and licked his lips and gone grinning from ear to ear—and then you could’ve stood as close to him as you liked in the dark and put a hole through him with the gun you had got from Thursby that evening.”

meant what I told you, but when I saw Floyd couldn’t be frightened I—” Spade slapped her shoulder. He said: “That’s a lie. You asked Miles and me to handle it ourselves. You wanted to be sure the shadower was somebody you knew and who knew you, so they’d go with you. You got the gun from Thursby that day—that night. You had already rented the apartment at the Coronet. You had trunks there and none at the hotel and when I looked the apartment over I found a rent-receipt dated five or six days before the time you told me you rented it.”

knew Floyd wouldn’t be easily frightened, but I thought that if he knew somebody was shadowing him either he’d— Oh, I can’t say it, Sam!” She clung to him, sobbing. Spade said: “You thought Floyd would tackle him and one or the other of them would go down. If Thursby was the one then you were rid of him. If Miles was, then you could see that Floyd was caught and you’d be rid of him. That it?” “S-something like that.” “And when you found that Thursby didn’t mean to tackle him you borrowed the gun and did it yourself. Right?” “Yes—though not exactly.” “But exact enough. And you had that plan up your sleeve from the first. You thought Floyd would be nailed for the killing.” “I—I thought they’d hold him at least until after Captain Jacobi had arrived with the falcon and—” “And you didn’t know then that Gutman was here hunting for you. You didn’t suspect that or you wouldn’t have shaken your gunman. You knew Gutman was here as soon as you heard Thursby had been shot. Then you knew you needed another protector, so you came back to me. Right?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re taking the fall. One of us has got to take it, after the talking those birds will do. They’d hang me sure. You’re likely to get a better break. Well?” “But—but, Sam, you can’t! Not after what we’ve been to each other. You can’t—” “Like hell I can’t.” She took a long trembling breath. “You’ve been playing with me? Only pretending you cared—to trap me like this? You didn’t—care at all? You didn’t—don’t—l-love me?” “I think I do,” Spade said. “What of it?” The muscles holding his smile in place stood out like wales. “I’m not Thursby. I’m not Jacobi. I won’t play the sap for you.”

“What of it? I should trust you? You who arranged that nice little trick for—for my predecessor, Thursby? You who knocked off Miles, a man you had nothing against, in cold blood, just like swatting a fly, for the sake of double-crossing Thursby? You who double-crossed Gutman, Cairo, Thursby—one, two, three? You who’ve never played square with me for half an hour at a stretch since I’ve know you? I should trust you? No, no, darling. I wouldn’t do it even if I could. Why should I?”

“I don’t care who loves who I’m not going to play the sap for you. I won’t walk in Thursby’s and Christ knows who else’s footsteps. You killed Miles and you’re going over for it.

It’s too late for that now. I can’t help you now. And I wouldn’t if I could.” She put a hand on his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t help me then,” she whispered, “but don’t hurt me. Let me go away now.” “No,” he said. “I’m sunk if I haven’t got you to hand over to the police when they come. That’s the only thing that can keep me from going down with the others.” “You won’t do that for me?” “I won’t play the sap for you.” “Don’t say that, please.” She took his hand from her shoulder and held it to her face. “Why must you do this to me, Sam? Surely Mr. Archer wasn’t as much to you as—” “Miles,” Spade said hoarsely, “was a son of a bitch. I found that out the first week we were in business together and I meant to kick him out as soon as the year was up. You didn’t do me a damned bit of harm by killing him.”

When a man’s partner is killed he’s supposed to do something about it. It doesn’t make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you’re supposed to do something about it. Then it happens we were in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed it’s bad business to let the killer get away with it. It’s bad all around—bad for that one organization, bad for every detective everywhere. Third, I’m a detective and expecting me to run criminals down and then let them go free is like asking a dog to catch a rabbit and let it go. It can be done, all right, and sometimes it is done, but it’s not the natural thing. The only way I could have let you go was by letting Gutman and Cairo and the kid go. That’s—” “You’re not serious,” she said. “You don’t expect me to think that these things you’re saying are sufficient reason for sending me to the—” “Wait till I’m through and then you can talk. Fourth, no matter what I wanted to do now it would be absolutely impossible for me to let you go without having myself dragged to the gallows with the others. Next, I’ve no reason in God’s world to think I can trust you and if I did this and got away with it you’d have something on me that you could use whenever you happened to want to. That’s five of them. The sixth would be that, since I’ve also got something on you, I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t decide to shoot a hole in me some day. Seventh, I don’t even like the idea of thinking that there migh...