The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

I turned to Egan. “We want to be absolutely fair, Egan, and it just occurred to me that you might want a lawyer around while you’re down at Mr. Wolfe’s, and by coincidence this man is a lawyer. His name’s Dennis Horan. I don’t know whether he’d care to represent you, but you can ask him if you want to.”

I thought and still think, that that was one of Wolfe’s neatest little notions, and I wouldn’t have missed the look on their faces for a week’s pay. Egan twisted his head around to see Horan, obviously to get a steer. But Horan himself needed a steer. The suggestion had caught him by surprise, and it had too many aspects. To say yes would be risky, since it would tie him to Egan, and he didn’t know how much Egan had spilled. To say no would be just as risky, doubly risky, because Egan might think he was being ditched, and also because Egan was being taken for a session with Nero Wolfe and there was no telling how he would stand up. It was too damned complicated and important to answer right off the bat, and it was a treat to watch Horan blinking his long eyelashes and trying to preserve his deadpan while he worked on it.

Egan broke the silence. “I’ve got some cash on me for a retainer, Mr. Horan. I understand it’s kind of a lawyer’s duty to defend people in trouble.”

“So it is, Mr. Egan.” The tenor was squeezing through. “I’m very busy right now.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty busy too.”

“No doubt. Yes. Of course.” Horan straightened his shoulders. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do for you. We’ll have to have a talk.”

I grinned at him. “Any talking you do,” I stated, “will have listeners. Let’s go, boys. Untie ‘em. Fred, bring the pliers along for a souvenir.”

Chapter 13

I need eight and a half hours’ sleep and I prefer nine. Every morning when my bedside clock turns on the radio at seven-thirty I roll over to have it at the back of my ears. In a minute I roll over again, reach to turn it off, get comfortable, and try to figure that it’s Sunday. But I know damn well Fritz will have my breakfast ready at 8:10. For two or three minutes I wrestle with the idea of getting him on the house phone to say I’ll be a little late, then give up, kick the cover back, swing my legs around, get upright, and start to face realities.