Some Buried Caesar (44 page)

“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 where 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.”

“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?”