At six-thirty that afternoon I sat on a hard wooden chair in the office of Assistant District Attorney Mandelbaum, a smallish room, making a speech.
The audience of three was big enough for the room. At his desk was Mandelbaum, middle-aged, plump, to be classified as bald in two years. At his elbow was a Homicide dick named Randall, tall and narrow, with nothing covering his bones but his skin at the high spots. Jean Estey, in a chair near the end of the desk, around the corner from me, was in a dark gray dress which didn’t go too well with her greenish-brown eyes, but presumably it was the best she had had in stock for the funeral.
The conference, consisting mostly of questions by Mandelbaum and answers by Miss Estey and me, had gone on for ten minutes or so when I felt that the background had been laid for my speech, and I proceeded to make it.
“I don’t blame you,” I told Mandelbaum, “for wasting your time, or even mine, because I know that nine-tenths of a murder investigation is barking up empty trees, but hasn’t this gone on long enough? Where are we? No matter what the facts are, I bow out. If Miss Estey made it all up, you don’t need me to help you try to find out why. If she’s telling the truth and I made her that offer on my own, you told Mr. Wolfe about it on the phone, and he’s the one to put me through the wringer, not you. If Wolfe sent me to make her the offer, as you prefer to believe, what’s all the racket about? He could put an ad in the paper offering to sell a transcript of his talk with Mrs. Fromm to anyone who would pay the price, which might not be very noble and you wouldn’t like it, but what would the charge read like? I came down here at your request, and now I’d like to go home and try to convince my employer that I’m not a viper in his bosom.”
It wasn’t quite that easy, but after another five minutes I was allowed to depart without shooting my way out. Jean Estey didn’t offer to kiss me goodbye.
I really did want to get home, because I would have to eat dinner early in order to keep a date with Orrie Cather. Around five o’clock he had showed up at the office with a report that seemed to justify annoying Wolfe in the plant rooms, and I had taken him up. Wolfe was grumpy but he listened. The salesman at Boudet’s had never seen spider earrings, gold or otherwise, but he had given Orrie a list of names of people connected with manufacturers, importers, wholesalers, and retailers, and Orrie had gone after them, mostly by phone. By four o’clock he had been about ready to report that there had never been a spider earring in New York, when a buyer for a wholesaler suggested that he speak to Miss Grummon, the firm’s shopper.
Miss Grummon said yes, she had seen one pair of spider earrings, and she didn’t care to see more. One day a few weeks ago — she couldn’t give the exact date — walking along Forty-sixth Street, she had stopped to inspect a window display and there they were, two big golden spiders in a green-lined case. She had thought them horrid, certainly not a design to suggest to her employers, and had been surprised to see them displayed by Julius Gerster, since most of the items offered in his small shop showed excellent taste.
So far fine. But Orrie had made straight for Gerster’s shop and had stubbed his toe. He claimed he had made a good approach, telling Gerster he had seen the earrings in the window and wanted to buy them, but Gerster had clammed up from the beginning. He didn’t deny that there had once been a pair of spider earrings in his shop, but neither did he admit it. His position, stated in the fewest possible words, was that he had no recollection of such an item, and if he had displayed it he didn’t remember how or to whom they had been disposed of. Orrie’s position, stated to Wolfe and me in enough words, was that Gerster was a goddam liar and that he wanted permission to pour gasoline on him and light him.
So Orrie and I were to call on Mr. Gerster at his home that evening, not by appointment.
During the day there had been various other occurrences not worth detailing — calls from Saul Panzer and Fred Durkin, who had found nothing to bring in, and nudges from Lon Cohen. One non-occurrence should be mentioned: there had been no word of a replevin by James Albert Maddox. Our lawyer, Parker, was feeling slighted.
I met Orrie at eight o’clock at the corner of Seventy-fourth and Columbus, and we walked east to the number, nearly to Central Park West, through a monotonous drizzle that had started in late afternoon. If New York apartment houses can be divided into two classes, those with canopies and those without, this one was in between. The stanchions were there, from the entrance to the curb, but there was no covering canvas. In the lobby we told the doorman “Gerster,” and kept going to the elevator. The elevator man said it was 11F.
The door was opened by an eighth-grader about the age and build of Pete Drossos, but very neat and clean. The instant I saw him I ditched the strategy we had decided on and elected another. I said to Orrie, “Thanks for bringing me up. See you later.” It took him about a second to get it, which wasn’t bad. He said, “Don’t mention it,” and headed for the elevator. The boy had told me good evening, and I returned it, gave him my name, and said I wanted to see Mr. Julius Gerster. He said, “I’ll tell him, sir. Please wait,” and disappeared. I didn’t cross the sill. Soon a man came, clear up to me before speaking. He was some shorter than me, and older, with a small tidy face and black hair brushed back smooth, fully as neat and clean as his son — at least I hoped it was his son.
He asked politely but coolly, “You wanted to see me?”
“I would like to if it’s convenient. My name’s Goodwin, and I work for Nero Wolfe, the detective. I want to ask you something about the murder of a boy — a twelve-year-old boy named Peter Drossos.”
His expression didn’t change. As I was to see, it never changed. “I know nothing about the murder of any boy,” he declared.
I contradicted him. “Yes, you do, but you don’t know you do. What you know may be essential to the discovery of the boy’s murderer. Mr. Wolfe thinks it is. May I come in for five minutes and explain?”
“Are you a policeman?”
“No, sir. Private detective. The boy was willfully run over by a car. It was a brutal murder.”
He stepped aside. “Come in.”
He took me not to the front, from where he had come, but along the hall in the other direction, into a small room with all its walls covered with books and pictures. There were a little desk in a corner, a chess table by a window, and two upholstered chairs. He motioned me to one, and, when I was seated, took the other.
I told him about Pete, not at great length, but enough for him to get the picture complete — his session with Wolfe and me, his second visit the next day only a few hours before Stebbins came with the news of his death, and Mrs. Drossos’s call to bring the message and the four dollars and thirty cents. I didn’t ham it, I just told it. Then I went after him.
“There are complications,” I said, “that I won’t go into unless you want them. For instance, Mrs. Damon Fromm was wearing gold spiders for earrings when she was killed Friday night. But what I’m asking your help on is who killed the boy. The police have got nowhere. Neither has Mr. Wolfe. In his opinion the best chance to start a trail is the earrings that Pete said the woman in the car was wearing. We can’t find anyone who has ever seen any woman with such earrings — except Mrs. Fromm, of course — and Mr. Wolfe decided to try starting at the other end. He put a man on it, a man named Cather, to dig up someone who had ever sold spider earrings. By this afternoon Cather was about ready to decide there was no such person or firm in New York, and then he hit it. A reliable person, who can be produced if necessary, told him that she saw a pair in the window of your shop a few weeks ago. He went to see you, and you said you had no memory of it.”
I paused to give him a chance to comment, but he offered none. His small tidy face displayed no reaction whatever.
I went on. “Of course I could raise my voice and get tough. I could say that it’s unbelievable that you recently had an item as unusual as that in your shop but don’t remember anything about it. You could say it may be unbelievable but it’s true. Then I could say that your memory will have to be warmed up, and since I have no way of applying heat I’ll have to turn it over to someone who has, Inspector Cramer of the Homicide Squad, though I would hate to do that.”
I leaned back, at ease. “So I don’t say it. I would rather put it to you on the merits. That boy was deliberately murdered by someone he had done no harm to. That was five days ago, and no trail has been found. Possibly one never will be found unless we can find the woman who was driving that car. She was wearing spider earrings, and apparently only one pair like that has ever been seen in New York, and it was seen in your window less than a month ago. I ask you, Mr. Gerster, does that have no effect on your memory?”
He passed the tip of his tongue over his lips. “You make it very difficult, Mr. Goodwin.”
“Not me. The man who killed Pete made it difficult.”
“Yes, of course. I knew nothing about that. I don’t usually read about murders in newspapers. I did read a little about the death of Mrs. Fromm, including the detail that she was wearing spider earrings. You’re quite right; they were unique. A man in Paris who picks up oddities for me included that one pair in a shipment which I received late in April. They were made by Lercari.”
“You put them in your window?”
“That’s right. This afternoon, when that man asked — what did you say his name is?”
“Cather.”
“Yes. When he asked about them I preferred not to remember. I suspected that he was a policeman engaged in the investigation of Mrs. Fromm’s death, though I didn’t know why the earrings were important, and I have a deep aversion to any kind of notoriety. It would be very unpleasant to see my name in a headline. I shall be most grateful if you can keep it from appearing, but I ask for no promise. If any public testimony is required it will have to be given. I sold the earrings in the afternoon of Monday, May eleventh. A woman passing by saw them in the window and came in and bought them. She paid one hundred and forty dollars, with a check. It was Mrs. Damon Fromm.”
It would have been an experience to play poker with that bird. I asked, “No doubt about it?”
“None. The check was signed ‘Laura Fromm,’ and I recognized her from pictures I had seen. I felt compelled to tell you this, Mr. Goodwin, after what you told me about the murder of that boy, though I realize that it won’t help any, since Mrs. Fromm was the woman in the car and she is dead.”
I could have told him that Mrs. Fromm was not the woman in the car, but I had promised my grandmother that I would never spout just to show people how much I knew, so I skipped it. I thanked him and told him I didn’t think it would be necessary for his name to appear in headlines, and got up to go. When, at the door, I extended a hand and he took it courteously, his face had precisely the same expression as when he had first confronted me.
Orrie rejoined me down in the lobby. He waited till we were out on the sidewalk, in the drizzle again, to ask, “Did you crack him?”
“Sure, nothing to it. He said he would have been glad to tell you this afternoon but he caught you stashing a bracelet in your pocket. Mrs. Fromm bought them May eleventh.”
“I’ll be damned. Where does that leave us?”
“Not my department. Wolfe does the thinking. I just run errands that you have flubbed.”
We flagged a taxi on Central Park West, and he went downtown with me.
Wolfe was in the office looking at television, which gives him a lot of pleasure. I have seen him turn it on as many as eight times in one evening, glare at it from one to three minutes, turn it off, and go back to his book. Once he made me a long speech about it which I may record some day. As Orrie and I entered he flipped the switch.
I told him. At the end I added, “I admit I took a risk. If the boy had been not his son but a nephew he would like to choke, I would have been sunk. I wish to recommend that if we peddle this to the cops we leave his name out. And Orrie wants to know where this leaves us.”
He grunted. “So do I. Saul phoned. He has started something, but he doesn’t know what.”
“I told you I saw him at the Assadip office.”
“Yes. His name is Leopold Heim and he is living at a cheap hotel on First Avenue — it’s here on my pad. He had a brief talk with Miss Wright, and one with her assistant, a Mr. Chaney. He appealed to them for help. He entered the country illegally and is in terror of being caught and deported. They told him that they cannot be accessory to a violation of law and advised him to consult a lawyer. When he said he knew no lawyer they gave him the name of Dennis Horan. That finnan haddie was too salty, and I’m thirsty. Will you have some beer, Orrie?”
“Yes, thanks, I will.”
“Archie?”
“No, thank you. Beer likes me, but I don’t like it.”
He pressed a button on the rim of his desk and resumed. “Saul went to Mr. Horan’s office and told him of his plight. Horan questioned him at length, taking many notes, and said that he would look into it as soon as possible and that Saul would hear from him. Saul went to his hotel room and stayed all afternoon. At six o’clock he went out for something to eat, and returned. Shortly before eight he had a caller, a man. The man gave no name. He said he had been aware for some time of Saul’s predicament, and he sympathized with him and wanted to help. Since both the police and the FBI had to be dealt with, it would be costly. He estimated that the total amount required to prevent either exposure or harassment might go as high as ten thousand dollars.”
He opened a drawer to get the gold opener, which bore an inscription from an ex-client, opened one of the bottles Fritz had brought, and poured.
When Fritz had opened Orrie’s bottle, Wolfe continued, “Of course Saul protested in despair that it was impossible for him to procure such a sum. The man was prepared to make concessions. He said that it need not be paid in a lump; that weekly or monthly installments would be acceptable; that Saul could have twenty-four hours to explore expedients; and that an attempt to clear out would be disastrous. He said he would return at the same hour tomorrow, and left. Saul followed him. To attempt such a feat, following such a man in those circumstances, would of course be foolhardy for the most highly skilled operative, and even for Saul I would think it hazardous, but he managed it. He followed him to a restaurant on Third Avenue near Fourteenth Street. The man is now in the restaurant, eating. Saul phoned from across the street twenty minutes ago.”
Wolfe drank beer. I had intended, when he was finished, to mix myself a healthy tall one to counteract the memory of the cold drizzle, but now I vetoed it. I could see Saul, and feel with him, in some little hole out of the drizzle, on Third Avenue, keeping his eyes peeled across the street past the El pillars, hoping to God his man wasn’t phoning some pal to come for him in a car. Since it was Saul, the chances were that he already had a taxi parked down the block, but even so...
“I can take the sedan,” I suggested, “and run Orrie over to Saul, and I’ll lay back with the car. We three could hang onto Houdini.”
Orrie gulped his beer down, stood up, and rumbled, “Let’s go.”
“I suppose so.” Wolfe was frowning. Men willing, even eager, to go outdoors and brave the hubbub of the streets always discomposed him. At night, so much the worse; and at night in the rain it was outlandish. He sighed. “Go ahead.”
The phone rang. He didn’t reach for it, so I took it at my desk. “Nero Wolfe’s residence, Archie Goodwin speak—”
“This is Fred, Archie. The boss ought to hear it too.”
“Can you make it snappy?”
“No, it’ll take a while, and I’m going to need you. I’m up—”
“Hold it a second.” I turned. “It’s Fred, and he sounds hot. You go on. The best bet on a taxi is Tenth Avenue. If Fred doesn’t need me worse than Saul I’ll join you soon. If he does I won’t.”
Wolfe gave Orrie the address, and he beat it, and Wolfe picked up his phone.
I told the receiver, “Okay, Fred, Mr. Wolfe is on.”
Wolfe demanded, “Where are you?”
“In a booth in a drugstore on Ninth Avenue. Fifty-fifth Street. I think I’m onto something. This morning I saw that guy at the Gazette that Archie sent me to, and he gave me a lot of stuff on Matthew Birch. Birch had several personal habits to choose from, but his main hangout was a dump on Ninth Avenue, Danny’s Bar and Grill, between Fifty-fourth and Fifty-fifth. Danny’s name is Pincus, and he runs a book. The place didn’t open until eleven, and it was dead the first hour, and Danny didn’t show until after one. I didn’t camp, but I was in and out, asking everybody I saw about Birch. Of course the cops have been there often the past few days, and they probably thought I was just one more, until finally I decided what the hell. I told a little group that my name was O’Connor, and what was eating me about Birch was that I had been told that my wife had been seen in a car with him last Tuesday afternoon, not many hours before he was killed. A dark gray Cadillac with a Connecticut plate. I said the car had been parked in front of Danny’s Bar and Grill.”
Wolfe grunted. “That was too specific.”
“I guess it was, but I was playing for a rise, and you said I was to go on your assumption. And I got the rise. Most of them wasn’t interested, except to tell me to forget it and get a new wife, but afterward one of them took me to a corner and wanted to know things. He was sharp, and I did the best I could. Finally he said it looked like I had a bum steer, but there was a guy that could give me the lowdown on Birch if anybody could, and if I wanted to see this guy a good time would be between nine-thirty and ten tonight, there at Danny’s. A guy named Lips Egan.”
“It is now nine-twenty-eight.”
“I know it is. I was going to blow in right after nine-thirty, but I got to thinking. You ever hear of Lips Egan, Archie?”
“Not that I remember.”
“I think I have. I think he used to beat carpets for Joe Slocum on the waterfront. If this is him maybe I showed too many cards and I’m going to be called, and I thought you might want to be around, but if you don’t I can go ahead and play it.”
“Go ahead and play it.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
“But wait till I get there. Which side of the avenue is Danny’s on?”
“West.”
“Okay. I’m leaving now. I’ll take the sedan. When you see me park across the street, go on into Danny’s and keep your date. I’ll stay in the car until I hear you scream or they roll your corpse out. If you leave with company I’ll tail. If you leave alone head downtown and keep going, and as soon as I make sure you’re loose I’ll pick you up. Got it?”
“Yeah. How do I play him?”
“As Mr. Wolfe says, you got specific. You’ve bought it, Mr. O’Connor, so hang onto it. I’ll find you a new wife.”
“Any new instructions, Mr. Wolfe?”
“No. Proceed.”
We hung up. From the drawer where I had put them on returning, I got a gun and holster and put them on. Wolfe sat scowling at me. Physical commotion and preparations for it irritate him, but as a practicing detective he defers to the necessity of putting people — me, for instance — in situations where they may get plugged or knifed or shoved off a cliff. In view of his distaste for such doings it’s damn generous of him. I got an old hat and raincoat from the hall closet and left.
After getting the sedan from the garage around the corner, I crossed to Tenth Avenue and headed uptown. The drizzle was worse, if anything, and the mist thicker, but the staggered lights on Tenth Avenue keep you crawling anyhow. Turning right on Fifty-sixth, and again on Ninth Avenue, I made for the left side and slowed. There was a drugstore at the corner of Fifty-fifth. Ahead, across the street, a neon in a window said: Danny’s Bar & Grill. I rolled to the curb and stopped before I was even with Danny’s, killed the engine, and cranked the right window down so I could see through the weather. In half a minute Fred appeared on the opposite side, proceeded to Danny’s, and entered. It was 9:49.
Leaning back comfortably, through the open window I had a good view of Danny’s except when passing cars intervened, and there weren’t many. I decided to wait half an hour, until 10:19, before crossing the street and entering to see if Fred was still intact, but I didn’t have to sweat it out that long. The dash clock said only two minutes past ten when Fred emerged with a man about half his size. The man had his right hand in his pocket and was at Fred’s left elbow, so for a second I thought it was the old convoy game, but then Fred moseyed across the sidewalk, and the man headed uptown.
Fred stood at the curb, giving no sign, and I sat tight. The man turned left on Fifty-fifth. Three minutes passed, Fred standing and me sitting, and then a car came out of Fifty-fifth, turned into the avenue, and stopped where Fred was. The driver was Fred’s companion, and he was alone. Fred got in beside him, and the car rolled.
With my engine still warm, there was nothing to it. I have good night eyes, and even in the drizzle I could give him a full block, and with Ninth Avenue wide and one-way I could keep over to my side, out of the range of his mirror. But I had barely catalogued those points in my favor when he left the avenue, swinging right into Forty-seventh Street. I made a diagonal across the bow of a thousand-ton truck, and the turn. He was on ahead. At Tenth Avenue a red light stopped him, and I braked to a crawl. When the light changed he turned uptown on Tenth, and I just did make the corner in time to see him swing, in the middle of the block, into the entrance of a garage. By the time I floated past he had disappeared inside. I went on by, turned into Forty-eighth, parked a foot beyond the building line, got out, and walked across the avenue to the west side.
The sign said NUNN’S GARAGE. It was an old brick building of three stories — nothing remarkable one way or another. I moved along to an entranceway across from it, stepped in out of the rain, and took a survey. The light inside was dim, and I couldn’t see far into the entrance. On the two upper floors there was no light at all. The only adequate light was in a small room to the right of the entrance with two windows. In it were two desks and some chairs, but no people. When I had stood there ten minutes and still no sign of anyone, I decided that I didn’t like it and it would be a good idea to try to find out why.
After going to the corner and crossing the avenue and coming back on the other side, I stopped smack in the middle of the entrance for a look. No one was in sight, but of course there could have been several platoons deployed among the congregation of cars and buses. I slipped in and to the left, behind a delivery truck, and stood and listened. There were faint sounds of movements, and then somewhere in the rear someone started to whistle “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.” As the whistler came nearer, off to the right, I edged around to the end of the truck. He finished his tune, but his footsteps were just as good on the concrete floor. He kept to the right — his left — almost to the entrance, and then a door opened and closed. He had gone into the office.
I moved fast but quietly, over nearly to the wall and then toward the rear through the maze of vehicles. When bumpers touched I detoured rather than risk a loose bolt under my weight. Halfway back I saw an objective, wooden stairs going up near the corner, and I made for it, but as I approached I became aware of a better objective. There were also steps going down, and up through the opening came the sound of voices. One of them was Fred’s. I went and stood at the top of the steps but couldn’t catch any words.
There’s only one way to reconnoiter in such a situation without exposing your feet and legs before your eyes have a chance. I lay down on my left side with my shoulder above the first step, gripped the upright with my right hand, and gently inched down until my eye was level with the basement ceiling. At first I saw nothing but another maze of cars and parts of cars, fading into darkness, but as I twisted my head around, nearly breaking my neck, I saw and heard that the voices were coming through a doorway in a partition that was apparently one wall of a built-in room. The door was open, but people in the room couldn’t see the stairs unless they came to the door for a look.
I got to my feet and went downstairs, though not that fast. All you can do on a wooden stair is keep to the side, put your weight on each step a little at a time, and hope to God it was a good carpenter. I made it. The basement floor was concrete. I navigated it, now as silently as silence, across to the first car at the right, and behind it, and then slipped along to the next car, and the next. There, crouched in shadow, I could look straight into the room and hear their words. They were seated at a bare wooden table in the middle of the room, the little guy on the far side, facing me, and Fred at the left, in profile. Fred’s hands were on the table. So were the little guy’s, but he had a gun in one of his. I wondered how he got it staged that way, since Fred was not paralyzed, but that could wait. I got my gun from the holster, and it felt good in my hand. With the car to rest on, I could have picked any square inch on him.
He was talking. “Naw, I’m not like that. A guy that plugs a man just because he likes to feel the trigger work, he’s goin’ to get into trouble someday. Hell, I’d just as soon not shoot anybody. But, like I told you, Lips Egan don’t like to talk to a man with a gun on him, and that’s his privilege. He ought to be here any minute. Why I’m makin’ all this speech — keep your hands still — I’m goin’ to lift yours now, and you’re big enough to break me up, so don’t get any idea that I never would pull a trigger. Here in this basement we could have a shooting gallery. Maybe we will.”
From the way he held the gun, firm and steady but not tight, he was a damn liar. He did like to feel the trigger work. He kept it firm and steady while he pushed his chair back, got erect, and stepped around back of Fred. From behind a man it’s a little awkward to take a gun from under his left armpit with your left hand, but he did it very neatly and quickly. I saw Fred’s jaw clamp, but except for that he took it like a gentleman. The man backed up a step, took a look at Fred’s gun, nodded approvingly, dropped it into his side pocket, went back to his chair, and sat.
“Was you ever in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania?” he asked.
“No,” Fred said.
“I met a guy there once that made his own cartridges. I’ve never saw nothin’ like it. He claimed his own powder mixture had more zip, but that was all hooey; he was a goddam maniac, that’s all it was. If I ever found myself falling for a nutty idea like that I’d quit and hoe beans. Sure enough, a coupla years later I heard that this guy got it out in St. Louis, Missouri. I guess he musta forgot to put in the zip.”
He laughed. Until then I had had no special personal feeling toward him, but that laugh was objectionable.
“Was you ever in St. Louis, Missouri?” he asked.
“No,” Fred said.
“Neither was I. I understand it’s on the Mississippi River. I’d like to see that goddam river. A guy told me once there’s alligators in it, but I’d have to see ‘em to believe ‘em. About eight years ago I—”
A buzzer sounded — inside the room, I thought. A long buzz, then two short, close together, then another long. The man sidled to the wall, keeping his eyes and the gun on Fred, got his thumb on a button, and pressed it. It looked like one short, two long, and one short. Then he circled to the door and stood straddling the sill, facing the stairs, but with Fred well in range. In a moment there were footsteps overhead, and then the feet appeared on the stairs, descending. I ducked low, behind the car. It would be natural for a new arrival to glance around, and I wasn’t ready to join the party.
“Hello, Mort.”
“Hello, Lips. We been waiting.”
“Is he clean?”
“Yeah, he had a S and W under his arm takin’ his tempachure.”
I stayed down until the newcomer’s steps had crossed to the door and entered, then slowly came up until one eye reached the glass of the car’s door. Mort had circled back to his former position and was standing beside the chair. Lips Egan stood across the table from Fred. He was fairly husky, with saggy shoulders, and was gray all over except for his blue shirt — gray suit, gray tie, gray face, and some gray in his dark hair. The tip of his nose tilted up a little.
“Your name’s O’Connor?” he asked.
“Yes,” Fred said.
“What’s this about Matt Birch and your wife?”
“Someone told me they saw her in a car with him last Tuesday afternoon. I think maybe she was cheating on me. Then he got killed that night.”
“Did you kill him?”
Fred shook his head. “I never heard about her being with him until yesterday.”
“Where were they seen?”
“The car was parked in front of Danny’s. That’s why I went there.”
“What kind of a car?”
“Dark gray Caddy sedan, Connecticut plate. Look, all I want is about my wife. I just want to check her. This man, Mort, whoever he is, he told me you might be able to help me.”
“Yeah, I might be. Where’s his stuff, Mort?”
“I didn’t go through him, Lips. I was waitin’ for you. I just took his gun.”
“Let’s see his stuff.”
Mort told Fred, “Go hug the wall.”
Fred sat. “First,” he said, “about that name O’Connor. I told you that because I didn’t want to use mine, my wife being in it. My name’s Durkin, Fred Durkin.”
“I said go hug the wall. There back of you.”
Fred moved. After he had gone three paces I would have had to edge to the right to keep him in view, and look over the hood, and there was no point in risking it. Mort disappeared too. Faint sounds came, and after a little Mort’s voice, “Stay where you are,” and then he backed into view and took an assortment of objects from his pockets, putting them on the table. They were the usual items of a man’s cargo, but among them I recognized the yellow envelope which held the photos I had delivered to Fred the day before.
Lips Egan, going through the pile, concentrated on that and the wallet and notebook. He took his time with the photos. When he spoke his voice was quite different. Not that it had been sociable, but now it was nasty. “His name’s Fred Durkin, and he’s a private dick.”
“He is? The dirty bastard.”
You might have thought Egan had said he was a dope peddler. He did say, “Get him back in the chair.”
Mort issued a command, and Fred returned into view. He lowered himself into the chair and spoke. “Look, Egan, a private dick has his private life. I heard that my wife—”
“Can it. Who you working for?”
“I’m telling you. I wanted to check—”
“I said can it. Where did you get these pictures?”
“That’s another matter. That’s just business.”
“There’s one of Birch. Where’d you get ‘em?”
“I thought I might get a line on the murder of that Mrs. Fromm and pull something.”
“Who you working for?”
“No one. I’m telling you. For myself.”
“Nuts. Give me the gun, Mort, and get some cord and the pliers.”
Mort handed the gun over, went to a chest of drawers in the rear and opened one, and returned with a brown ball of heavy cord and a pair of pliers. The pliers were medium-sized and had something wrapped around the jaws, but I couldn’t tell what. He came up behind Fred. “Put your hands back here.”
Fred didn’t move.
“Do you want to get slammed with your own gun? Put your paws back.”
Fred obeyed. Mort unrolled a length of cord, cut it off with a knife, went down on his knees, did a thorough job of tying Fred’s wrists, and wrapped the ends of the cord around the rung of the chair and tied them. Then he picked up the pliers. I couldn’t see what he did with them, but I didn’t need to.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Fred said.
Mort laughed. “You be careful. You’re goin’ to answer some questions. If you get excited and start jerkin’ you’re apt to lose a finger, so watch it. All set, Lips.”
Egan was seated across from Fred, with the hand that held the gun resting on the tabletop. “Who you working for, Durkin?”
“I told you, Egan, myself. If you’ll just tell me if you saw my wife with Birch, yes or no, that’s all there is to it.”
Fred finished his sentence, but he gave a little gasp and went stiff in the middle of it. I suppose I could have stood it a little while, maybe up to two minutes, and it would have been educational to see how much Fred could take; but if he got a finger broken, Wolfe would have to pay the doctor bill, and I like to protect the interests of my employer. So I slipped to the right, rested the gun on the hood, drew a bead on Egan’s hand holding the gun, and fired. Then I was around the front of the car on the jump, with all the muscle I had, and springing for the door.
I had seen Mort drop Fred’s gun into his left pocket, and unless he was a switch-hitter I figured that should give me about three seconds, especially since he was down on his knees. But he didn’t wait to get up. By the time I made the door he had flung himself around behind Fred. I dropped flat and from there, looking underneath the seat of Fred’s chair I saw his left hand leaving his pocket with the gun in it. I had dropped with my gun hand extended in front of me along the floor, and I pulled the trigger. Then I was on my feet again, or rather in the air, coming down behind Fred’s chair. Mort, still on his knees, was reaching for the gun on the floor two feet away, with his right hand. I kicked him in the belly, saw him start to crumple, and jerked around for Egan. He was ten feet toward the rear, stooping over to pick up his gun. If I had known what his condition was I would have stood and watched. As I learned later, the bullet hadn’t touched him. It had hit the cylinder of the gun, tearing it from his grip, and he had been holding it so tight that his hand had been numbed, and now he was trying to pick up the gun and couldn’t. Not knowing that, I went for him, slammed him against the wall, picked up the gun, heard commotion behind me, and wheeled.
Fred had somehow got himself, chair and all, across to where his gun was, and was sitting there with both his feet on it. Mort was on the floor, writhing.
I stood and panted, shaking all over.
“Jesus H. Moses,” Fred said.
I couldn’t speak. Egan was standing against the wall, rubbing his right hand with his left one. Mort’s left hand was bleeding. I stood and panted some more. When the shaking had about stopped I put Mort’s gun in my pocket, got out my knife, and went to Fred and cut the cord.
He took his feet off of his gun, picked it up, stood, and tried to grin at me. “You go lie down and take a nap.”
“Yeah.” I had about caught up on breathing. “That bird upstairs must be curious, and I’ll go up and see. Keep these two quiet.”
“Let me go. You’ve done your share.”
“No, I’ll take a look. Watch these babies.”
“Don’t worry.”
I left the room, went to the foot of the stairs, and stood and listened. Nothing. With the gun in my hand and my head tilted back, I started up, slow and easy. I doubted if the garage man was much of a menace, but he could have phoned for help, and also Lips Egan might not have come alone. Having just proved I was a double-breasted hero before a witness, I intended to stay alive to enjoy the acclaim. So when my eyes were up to the level of the floor above I stopped again to look and listen. Still nothing. I went on up and was on the concrete. The route I had come by was as good as any, and I moved into the throng of cars and trucks. Halting every few feet to cock my ears, I was about halfway to the entrance when I became aware that someone was there, not far off to the right. That often happens. It’s barely possible it comes by smell sometimes, but I think you get it either through your ears or your eyes, keyed up as they are, so faint you only feel it. Anyhow someone was there. I stopped and crouched.
I stuck there, huddled against a truck, straining my eyes and ears, for ten hours. Okay, make it ten minutes. It was enough. I began moving, one foot per minute, toward the rear of the truck. I wanted to see around the back end. It took forever, but I finally made it. I stood and listened and then stretched my neck and got my eye just beyond the edge of the truck’s corner. A man was standing there an arm’s length away, looking straight at me. Before he could move I stuck my head clear out.
“Hello, Saul,” I whispered.
“Hello, Archie,” he whispered back.