Rex Stout - The Golden Spiders

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.

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.”