“What kind of a car?”
“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.”