The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

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.