Rex Stout: The Golden Spiders

“Like I said. He didn’t do any describing. He asked me to, and I did.”

“Go ahead.”

“Then he said he wanted to come and maybe exchange the hat and would I be there and I said yes. In about half an hour, maybe a little more, in he came. He showed me a New York detective license with his picture on it and his name, Orvald Cather, and he said it wasn’t his wife that bought the suit, he was investigating something. He said he was working for Nero Wolfe, the great detective, and something had come up about the suit and hat, and he wanted me to come to New York with him. Well, that was a problem. My brother and I don’t like any trouble. We’re no Brooks Brothers, but we try to run a nice honest little business—”

“Yes. But you decided to come?”

“My brother and I decided. We decide everything together.”

“Did Mr. Cather give you any inducement? Did he offer to pay you?”

“No, he just talked us into it. He’s a good talker, that man. He’d make a good salesman. So we came together on the tube, and he brought me here.”

“Do you know what for?”

“No, he didn’t say exactly. He just said it was something very important about the suit and hat.”

“He didn’t give you any hint that you were going to be asked to identify the woman who bought the suit and hat?”

“No, sir.”

“He hasn’t shown you any photographs, any kind of pictures, of anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“Or described anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you should have an open mind, Mr. Levine. I’m asking you about the woman who bought a brown suit and a felt hat at your store last Wednesday. Is there anyone in this room who resembles her?”

“Sure, I saw her as soon as I sat down. The woman there on the end.” He pointed at Jean Estey. “That’s her.”

“Are you positive?”

“One hundred percent.”

Wolfe’s head swiveled. “Will that do for a fact, Mr. Cramer?”

Of course Jean Estey, sitting there between the sergeant and the policewoman, had had four or five minutes to chew on it. The instant she saw Levine she knew she was cooked on buying the outfit, since S. Levine would certainly corroborate B. Levine. So she was ready, and she didn’t wait for Cramer to answer Wolfe’s question, but answered it herself.

“All right,” she said, “it’s a fact. I was an utter fool. I bought the suit and hat for Claire Horan. She asked me to, and I did it. I took the package—”

The seating arrangement worked out fine, with the policewomen sandwiched among the civilian females. When Mrs. Horan shot out of her chair to go for Jean Estey, she got stopped so promptly and rudely that she was tossed clear to the lap of the policewoman on the other side, who made an expert catch. In the row behind them some of the males were on their feet, and several voices were raised, among them Inspector Cramer’s. Purley Stebbins, now naturally a little confused, left Jean Estey to his female colleague and concentrated on Dennis Horan, who was out of his chair to rescue his wife from the clutches of the lady official who had caught her on the fly. Horan, feeling Purley’s heavy hand on his shoulder, jerked away, drew himself up, and spoke to whom it might concern.

“That’s a lie,” he squeaked. He pointed a shaking finger at Jean Estey. “She’s a liar and a murderer.” He turned to direct the finger at Lips Egan. “You know it, Egan. You know Birch found out she was hogging it, she was giving him the short end, and you know what Birch meant when he said he would handle her. He was a damn fool to think he could. Now she’s trying to hang a murder on me, and she’ll suck you in too. Are you going to take it?”

“I am not,” Egan croaked. “I’ve been sucked in enough. She can fry, the crazy bitch.”

Horan turned. “You’ve got me, Wolfe, damn you. I know when I’m through. My wife knew nothing about this, absolutely nothing, and I knew nothing about the murders. I may have suspected, but I didn’t know. Now you can have all I do know.”

“I don’t want it,” Wolfe said grimly. “I’m through too. Mr. Cramer? Will you get these vermin out of my house?” He turned to the assemblage and changed his tone. “That applies, ladies and gentlemen, only to those who have earned it.”

I was opening the bottom drawer of my desk to get out a camera; Lon Cohen of the Gazette had earned, I thought, a good shot of Bernard Levine sitting in Nero Wolfe’s office.

At eleven in the morning three days later, a Friday, I was at my desk typing a letter to an orchid collector when Wolfe came down from the plant rooms and entered. But instead of proceeding to his desk he went to the safe, opened it, and took something out. I swiveled to look because I don’t like to have him monkeying with things. What he took was Lips Egan’s notebook. He closed the safe door and started out.

I got up to follow, but he turned on me. “No, Archie. I don’t want to make you accessory to a felony — or is it a misdemeanor?”

“Nuts. I’d love to share a cell with you.”

He went to the kitchen, got the big roasting pan from the cupboard, put it on the table, and lined it neatly with aluminum foil. I sat on a stool and watched. He opened the looseleaf notebook, removed a sheet, crumpled it, and dropped it into the pan. When a dozen or more sheets were in the pile he applied a match, and then went on adding fuel to the flame, sheet after sheet, until the book was empty.

“There,” he said in a satisfied tone, and went to the sink to wash his hands. I tossed the book cover in the trash basket.

I thought at the time he was rushing things a little, since it was still possible they would need some extra evidence. But that was many weeks ago, and now that Horan and Egan had been duly tried, convicted, and sentenced, and it took a jury of seven men and five women only four hours to hang the big one on Jean Estey — what the hell.