The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

“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.”