by Rex Stout
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.
Chapter 12
I moved around the corner of the truck. “Where’s the floor man?” I whispered. “Orrie’s got him over back of the office, tied up. Orrie’s sticking near the entrance.”
I quit whispering. “Hooray. I’ll recommend you for a raise. You tailed Lips Egan here?”
“I don’t know his name, but we tailed him here. Then we thought we’d come in out of the rain, and the floor man spotted us, and we had to wrap him up. Then we heard two shots, and I started back to inquire, and I smelled you and stopped to think. You certainly are a noisy walker.”
“So are you. I never heard such a din. Talk as loud as you want to. Egan is down in the basement with a friend, and Fred’s there keeping them out of mischief.”
Saul is hard to surprise, but that did it. “You mean it?”
“Come and see.”
“How did you do it? Radar?”
“Oh, you’ll usually find me where I’m needed. Guts Goodwin. I’ll tell you later; we’ve got some work to do. Let’s have a word with Orrie.”
I led the way, and he followed. Orrie was standing not far in from the entrance. At sight of me his eyes popped. “What the hell! How come?”
“Later. Fred’s downstairs holding two guys. Saul and I are going down for a game of pinochle. Any kind of specimens are apt to turn up here, so watch it. Is the floor man okay?”
“Saul and I okayed him.”
“Right. Our lives are in your hands, so go to sleep. Come on, Saul.”
In the room in the basement Fred had the situation in hand. He was on the chair formerly occupied by Mort, facing the door. Mort was stretched out on his back over by the left wall, with his ankles tied, and Egan was nearby, sitting on the floor, propped against the wall, with his ankles likewise. Saul’s appearance with me caused a little stir.
“So that’s what kept you so long,” Fred commented, not pleased. “Do we need an army?”
Lips Egan muttered something.
“No,” I told Fred, “I didn’t send for him. He was upstairs, came on Egan’s tail. Orrie’s up there too, and we own the place.”
“I’ll be damned. Let me see Mort’s gun.”
I took it from my pocket and handed it to him, and he inspected it. “Yeah, I thought so, here on the cylinder. You didn’t touch Egan. Mort’s hand is a little messy, but I put a handkerchief around it, and it’ll keep a while. You kicked his stomach up to his throat, and I tell him he ought to sit up so it can slide down again, but he wants to rest.”
I crossed to Mort, squatted, and took a look. His color wasn’t very good, but his eyes were open and not glassy. I gave his abdomen a few gentle pokes and asked if it hurt. Without wincing, he told me to go do something vulgar, so I got erect, moved on to Egan, and stood looking down at him. Saul joined me.
“My name’s Archie Goodwin,” I told him. “I work for Nero Wolfe. So do my friends here. That’s what you wanted Fred Durkin to spill, so now that’s out of the way and it’s our turn. Who are you working for?”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look at me, but stared at his ankles. I said to Saul, “I’ll empty him, and you do the other one,” and we proceeded. I took my collection to the table, and Saul brought his. There was nothing worth framing in Mort’s contribution except a driver’s license in the name of Mortimer Ervin, but in Egan’s pile was an item that showed real promise-a thick looseleaf notebook about four by seven, with a hundred pages, and each page had a dozen or so names and addresses. I flipped through it. The names seemed to be all flavors, and the addresses all in the metropolitan area. I handed it to Saul, and while he was taking a look I crossed to the chest of drawers, the only piece of furniture in the room that could have held anything, and went through it. I found nothing of any interest.
Saul called to me, “The last entry here is Leopold Heim and the address.”
I went and glanced at it. “That’s interesting. I didn’t notice it.” I slipped the book in my side pocket, the one that didn’t have Mort’s gun in it, and walked over to Egan. He glanced up at me, a really mean glance, and then returned to his ankles.
I addressed him. “If there’s a thousand names in that book, and if each one donated ten grand, that would be ten million bucks. I suppose that’s exaggerated, but discount it ninety per cent and you’ve still got a nice little sum. Do you care to comment?”
No reply.
“We haven’t got all night,” I said, “but I ought to explain that while we disapprove of blackmail rackets, especially this kind, that’s not what we’re working on. We’re on a murder, or maybe I should say three murders. If I ask about your racket it’s only to get at a murder. For instance, was Matthew Birch in with you?”
His chin jerked up, and he blurted at Saul, “You dirty little squirt!”
I nodded. “Now that’s out, and you’ll feel better. Was Birch in with you?”
“No.”
“Who gave you the tip on Leopold Heim?”
“Nobody.”
“How much is your cut of the dough, and who gets the rest?”
“What dough?”
I shrugged. “So you ask for it, huh? Take his arms, Saul.”
I got his ankles, and we lugged him across to the opposite wall and put him down alongside a little stand that held a telephone. He started to wriggle around to prop himself against the wall, but I told Saul, “Keep him flat while I see if this phone’s connected,” and lifted the receiver and dialed a number. After only two whirrs a voice said, “Nero Wolfe speaking.”
“Archie. I’m just testing a phone.”
“It’s midnight. Where the devil are you?”
“We’re here together, all four of us, operating a garage on Tenth Avenue. We have customers waiting, and I’m too busy to talk. You’ll hear from us later.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Sure. Sleep tight.”
I cradled the receiver, lifted the instrument, slid the stand along the wall out of the way, put the instrument on the floor a foot from Egan’s shoulder as he lay, and called to Fred, “Bring that ball of cord.”
He came with it, asking, “The crisscross?”
“Right. A piece about eight feet long.”
While he was cutting it off I explained to Egan. “I don’t know whether you’ve been introduced to this or not. It’s a scientific method of stimulating the vocal cords. If and when you find you don’t like it, the phone’s right there by you. You can dial either police headquarters, Canal six-two-thousand, or the Sixteenth Precinct, Circle six-oh-four-one-six, which is right near here, but don’t try dialing any other number. If you ring the cops we’ll turn off the science and you can tell them anything you want to without interference. That’s guaranteed. All right, Saul, pin his shoulders. Here, Fred.”
We squatted by Egan’s ankles, one on each side. It isn’t complicated, but it’s a little delicate if the patient has brittle bones. First you double the cord and noose it around the left ankle. Then you cross the legs, the right one over the left one, and work the toe of the right shoe under the left heel and around to the right side of it. For that the knees have to be bent. Pull the right ankle down as nearly even with the left ankle as possible, wind the doubled cord around them both, three tight turns, take a half-hitch and you’ve got it. If you grab the free ends of the cord and give a healthy yank straight down, away from the feet, the patient will probably pass out, so you don’t do
that. Even a gentle yank is not good technique. You merely hold the cord taut to maintain the tension. Meanwhile your colleague keeps the patient’s shoulders in place, though even without him you have complete control. If you doubt it, try it.
With Saul at the shoulders and Fred at the end of the cord, I brought a chair over, sat, and watched Egan’s face. He was trying to keep it from registering. “This hurts you more than it does me,” I told him, “so any time you want to call the cops say so. If your legs are too uncomfortable to turn over to dial I’ll cut the cord. A little tighter, Fred, just a little. Was Birch in on your racket?”
I waited ten seconds. His face was twisting, and he was breathing fast. “Did you see Birch in that car Tuesday afternoon?”
His eyes were shut, and he was trying to move his shoulders. Another ten seconds. “Who gave you the tip on Leopold Heim?”
“I want the cops,” he said hoarsely.
“Right. Cut it, Fred.”
Instead of cutting it, he undid the half-hitch, unwrapped the wind, and eased the left toe back under the heel. Egan started to pump his knees, slowly and carefully.
“No calisthenics,” I told him. “Dial.”
He turned on his side, lifted the receiver, and started to dial. Saul and I both watched. He hit the right holes, CA 6-2000. I heard him get an answer, and he said, “Police headquarters?” Then he dropped the receiver back in place and said to me, “You sonofabitch, you would?”
“Certainly,” I told him, “I guaranteed it. Before we stimulate you again, a couple of points. You get one more chance to call the cops, that’s all. You could keep this up all night. Second, it might be slick to come across now. If you’re taking it for granted that your address book will get to the cops anyway, you’re wrong. I’ll give it to Mr. Wolfe, and he’s working on a murder, and I don’t think he’ll feel like turning all those people over to the law. That’s not his lookout. I make no promise, but I’m telling you. All right, Fred. Pin him, Saul.”
That time we reversed it, crossing his left leg over his right, and we made the turns slightly tighter. Fred took the cord ends, and I returned to the chair. The reaction came quicker and stronger. In ten seconds his face began to twist. In ten more his forehead and neck went wet with sweat. His gray face got grayer, and his eyes opened and started to bulge. I was about to tell Fred to ease it a little when he gasped, “Let up!”
“Off a little, Fred. Just hold it. Was Birch in on the racket?”
“Yes!”
“Who’s the boss?”
“Birch was. Take that cord off!”
“In a minute. It’s better than pliers. Who’s the boss now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nuts. The cord had better stay a while. Did you see Birch in a car with a woman last Tuesday afternoon?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t parked in front of Danny’s.”
“Slightly tighter, Fred. Where was it?”
“Going down Eleventh Avenue in the Fifties.”
“A dark gray Caddy sedan with a Connecticut plate?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Birch’s car?”
“I never saw it before. But Birch worked with a hot-car gang too, and of course that Caddy was hot. Everything Birch had a hand in was hot.”
“Yeah, he’s dead now, so why not? Who was the woman with him?”
“I don’t know. I was across the street and didn’t see. Take the cord off! No more until it’s off!”
He was breathing fast again, and his face was grayer, so I told Fred to give him a recess. When his legs had been unwound Egan thought he would bend them, then thought he would straighten them, then decided to postpone trying to move them.
I continued. “Didn’t you recognize the woman?”
“No.”
“Could you identify her?”
“I don’t think so. They just went by.”
“What time Tuesday afternoon?”
“Around half-past six, maybe a little later.”
I would take that, anyhow on consignment. Pete Drossos had said it was a quarter to seven when the woman in the car had told him to get a cop. I almost hated to ask the next question for fear of Egan disqualifying himself by answering it wrong.
“Who was driving, Birch?”
“No, the woman. That surprised me. Birch wasn’t a guy to have a woman driving him.”
I could have kissed the louse. He had made it twenty to one on Wolfe’s hit-or-miss assumption. I had a notion to get the photos of Jean Estey, Angela Wright, and Claire Horan from Fred’s envelope and ask Egan if the woman in the car had resembled one of them, but skipped it. He had said he couldn’t identify her, and he certainly wasn’t going to take on more load than he already had.
I asked him, “Who do you deliver the dough to?”
“Birch.”
“He’s dead. Who to now?”
“I don’t know.”
“I guess we took the cord off too soon. If Leopold Heim had paid you the ten grand or any part of it, what would you have done with it?”
“Held onto it until I got word.”
“Word from whom?”
“I don’t know.”
I got up. “The cord, Fred.”
“Wait a minute,” Egan pleaded. “You asked me where I got the tip on Leopold Heim. I got leads two ways, straight from Birch, and on the phone. A woman would call and give it to me.”
“What woman?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”
“How would you know it wasn’t a trap? Just by her voice?”
“I knew her voice, but there’s a password.”
“What is it?”
Egan tightened his lips.
“You won’t be using it anymore,” I assured him, “so let’s have it.”
“‘Said a spider to a fly.’”
“What?”
“That’s the password. That’s how I got the lead on Leopold Heim. You asked who I would deliver dough to with Birch dead. I thought she would phone and tell me.”
“Why didn’t she tell you when she phoned you the lead on Heim?”
“I asked her, and she said she’d tell me later.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What number do you call her at?”
“I never call her. Birch was my contact. Now I wouldn’t know how to get her.”
“Phooey. We’ll come back to that if we have to stimulate you. Why did you kill Birch?”
“I didn’t kill him. I’m not a killer.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
I sat down. “As I told you, what I’m interested in is murder. With that cord we could squeeze your guts out, but that wouldn’t help us any; we just want facts, and facts we can check. If you didn’t kill Birch and don’t know who did, now tell me exactly how you’ve got it doped, and don’t-”
A buzzer sounded. I left the chair. It went two short, one long, and one short. I said sharply, “Muzzle ‘em.” Saul pressed a palm over Egan’s mouth, and Fred went to Mort. I stepped to the wall, to the button I had seen Mort use, and pushed it. Probably the one short, two long, and one short, wasn’t the right answer this time, but it was as good as any ad lib. Then I left the room and, with my gun ready, stood three paces off from the foot of the stairs. I heard a voice up above, faintly, then silence, then footsteps, at first barely audible but getting louder. Then Orrie’s voice came down. “Archie?”
“Yeah. Present.”
“I’m bringing company.”
“Fine. The more the merrier.”
The steps reached the head of the stairs and started down. I saw well-shined black shoes, then well-pressed dark blue trouser legs, then a jacket to match, and to top it all the face of Dennis Horan. The face was very expensive. Behind him was Orrie with his gun visible.
“Hello there,” I said.
He wasn’t speaking, so I switched to Orrie. “How did he come?”
; “In a car alone. He drove in, and I took it easy, not interested. He glanced at me but didn’t say anything and went to a button on a pillar and pushed it. When a buzzer sounded I thought it was time to take a hand, so I showed my gun and told him to walk. Whoever pushed that buzzer may be-”
“That’s all right, I did. Have you felt him?”
“No.”
I went to Horan and patted him in the likely spots and some unlikely ones. “Okay. Go back up and tend to customers.” Orrie went, and I sang out, “Saul! Take the muzzle off and tie his ankles and come here.”
Horan started for the door of the room. I grabbed his arm and whirled him. He tried to pull away, and I gave him a good twist. “Don’t think I’m not serious,” I told him. “I know what number to call for an ambulance.”
“Yes, it is serious,” he agreed. His thin tenor needed oil. “Serious enough to finish you, Goodwin.”
“Maybe, but right now I’m it, and it has gone to my head, so watch out.” Saul came out. “This is Mr. Saul Panzer. Saul, this is Dennis Horan. We’ll invite him to the conference later, but first I want to make a phone call. Take him over by the far wall. Don’t disfigure him unless he insists on it. He’s not armed.”
I crossed to the room, entered, and shut the door. Fred was seated at the table massaging a finger, and the other two were as before. I pulled the little stand back to its place, picked up the phone and put it on the stand, seated myself, and dialed. This time it took more whirrs to get results, and then only a peevish mutter.
“Archie. I need advice.”
“I’m asleep.”
“Go splash your face with cold water.”
“Good heavens. What is it?”
“As I told you, all four of us are here in a garage. We have two subjects in a room in the basement. One of them is a biped named Mortimer Ervin, who has probably got nothing for us. The other one is called Lips Egan. On his driver’s license his first name is Lawrence. He’s the article that called on Saul at his hotel, and Saul and Orrie tailed him here. He’s a jewel. He had on him a notebook, now in my pocket, with about a thousand names and addresses of customers, and the last entry in it is Leopold Heim, so draw your own conclusions. We stimulated him some, and he claims that Matthew Birch was bossing the racket, but I haven’t bought that. I have bought that he saw Birch in that Cadillac, Tuesday afternoon, with a woman driving. I have not bought that he didn’t recognize her and couldn’t identify her. Nor that-”