Rex Stout - The Golden Spiders

“Nor is it a citation—”

He jerked the envelope from my hand, removed the contents, darted a glance at the heading, turned to the third page, and darted another at the signatures.

“A statement by you and Wolfe. A masterpiece, no doubt. Do you want a receipt?”

“Not necessarily. I’ll read it to you if you want me to.”

“All I want of you is the sight of your back on the way out.”

But without waiting for what he wanted, he wheeled and strode off. I told the one at the desk, “Kindly note that I delivered that envelope to that baboon at one-six Daylight Saving,” and departed.

Back at the house, Wolfe had just started lunch, and I joined him in the operation on an anchovy omelet. He permits no talk of business at meals, and interruptions are out of the question, so it was further evidence of his state of mind when, as he was working on a fig and cherry tart, the phone ringing took me to the office, and I returned and told him, “A man named Dennis Horan on the line. You may remem—”

“Yes. What does he want?”

“You.”

“We’ll call him back in ten minutes.”

“He’s going places and won’t be available.”

He didn’t even confound it. He didn’t hustle any, but he went. I did too, and was at the phone at my desk before he reached his. He sat and got it to his ear.

“Nero Wolfe speaking.”

“I’m Dennis Horan, Mr. Wolfe, counselor-at-law. There has been a terrible tragedy. Mrs. Damon Fromm is dead. Run over by a car.”

“Indeed. When?”

“The body was found at five o’clock this morning.” His voice was a thin tenor that seemed to want to squeak, but that could have been from the shock of the tragedy. “I was a friend of hers and handled some matters for her, and I’m calling about the check she gave you yesterday for ten thousand dollars. Has it been deposited?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Since she is dead of course it won’t go through. Do you wish to mail it to her home address, or would you prefer to send it to me?”

“Neither. I’ll deposit it.”

“But it won’t go through! Outstanding checks signed by a deceased person are not—”

“I know. It is certified. It was certified at her bank yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh.” A fairly long pause. “But since she is dead and can’t use your services, since you can do nothing for her, I don’t see how you can claim — I mean, wouldn’t it be proper and ethical for you to return the check?”

“You are not my mentor in propriety and ethics, Mr. Horan.”

“I don’t say I am. But without any animus or prejudice, I put it to you, under the circumstances how can you justify keeping that money?”

“By earning it.”

“You intend to earn it?”

“I do.”

“How?”

“That’s my affair. If you are an accredited representative of Mrs. Fromm’s estate I am willing to discuss it with you, but not now on the telephone. I’ll be available here at my office from now until four o’clock, or from six to seven, or from nine in the evening until midnight.”

“I don’t know — I don’t believe — I’ll see.”

He hung up. So did we. Back in the dining room Wolfe finished his tart and his coffee in silence. I waited until we had returned to the office and he was adjusted in his chair to remark, “Earning it would be fine, but the main thing is to feel you’ve earned it. No animus, but I doubt if delivering that statement to Rowcliff is quite enough. My ego is itching.”

“Deposit the check,” he muttered.

“Yes, sir.”

“We need information.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See Mr. Cohen and get it.”

“About what?”

“Everything. Include Matthew Birch, with the understanding that his knowledge of that connection is not to be disclosed unless the police release it or he gets it from some other source. Tell him nothing. It may be published that I am engaged on the case, but not the source of my interest.”

“Do I tell him that Pete came to see you?”

“No.”

“He would appreciate it. It would be an exclusive human interest story for him. Also it would show that your reputation—”

His fist hit the desk, which for him was a convulsion. “No!” he roared. “Reputation? Am I to invite the comment that it is a mortal hazard to solicit my help? On Tuesday, that boy. On Friday, that woman. They are both dead. I will not have my office converted into an anteroom for the morgue!”

“Yeah. Something of the sort had occurred to me.”

“You were well advised not to voice it. The person responsible would have been well advised not to induce it. We will need Saul and Fred and Orrie, but I’ll attend to that. Go.”

I did so. I took a taxi to the Gazette office. The receptionist on the third floor, who had not only received me before but also had been, for three or four years, on the list of those who receive a box of orchids from Wolfe’s plant rooms twice a year, spoke to Lon on the intercom and waved me in.

I don’t know what Lon Cohen is on the Gazette and I doubt if he does. City or wire, daily or Sunday, foreign or national or local, he seems to know his way in and around without ever having to work at it. His is the only desk in a room about nine by twelve, and that’s just as well because otherwise there would be no place for his feet, which are also about nine by twelve. From the ankles up he is fairly regular.

There were two colleagues in with him when I entered, but they soon finished and went. As we shook he said, “Stay on your feet. You can have two minutes.”

“Nuts. An hour may do it.”

“Not today. We’re spinning on the Fromm murder. The only reason you got in at all, I want your release on the item that Nero Wolfe was making inquiries yesterday about Mrs. Fromm.”

“I don’t think—” I let it hang while I moved a chair and sat. “No, better not. But okay on an item that he is working on the murder.”

“He is?”

“Yep.”

“Who hired him?”

I shook my head. “It came by carrier pigeon, and he won’t tell me.”

“Take off your shoes and socks while I light a cigarette. A few applications to your tender flesh should do it. I want the name of the client.”

“J. Edgar Hoover.”

He made an unseemly noise. “Just a whisper, to me?”

“No.”

“But it’s open that Wolfe is working on the Fromm murder?”

“Yes. Just that.”

“And the boy, Peter Drossos? And Matthew Birch? Them too?”

I gave him a look. “How come?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Wolfe’s ad in the Times wanting to date a woman wearing spider earrings who had asked a boy at Ninth Avenue and Thirty-fifth Street to get a cop. Mrs. Fromm was wearing spider earrings, and you were here yesterday asking about her. As for Birch, the pattern. His body was found in a secluded spot, flattened by a car, and so was Mrs. Fromm’s. I repeat the question.”

“I answer it. Nero Wolfe is investigating the murder of Mrs. Fromm with his accustomed vigor, skill, and laziness. He will not rest until he gets the bastard or until bedtime, whichever comes first. Any mention you make of other murders should come on another page.”

“No connection implied?”

“Not by him or me. If I should ask for information on Birch, it will be because you dragged him in yourself.”

“Okay, hold everything. I want to catch the early.”

He left the room. I sat and tried to argue Wolfe into letting Lon have the juicy item about the flap from Matthew Birch’s pocket being found on the car that had killed Pete, but since Wolfe wasn’t there I made no progress. Before long Lon came back, and after he had crossed to his desk and got his big feet under it I told him, “I still need an hour.”