Rex Stout - The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

“That’s interesting. Did you agree to cooperate?”

“No. I didn’t commit myself.” She got up, went to a desk, got a pack of cigarettes from a drawer, lit one, and took two healthy drags. She stood looking down at me. “The reason I told you that is purely selfish. I happen to think that Nero Wolfe is smarter than any policeman, but whether he is or not, Mrs. Fromm went to consult him yesterday and gave him that check, and I don’t know what for. Since I’m her secretary of course I’m involved in this, I can’t help that, but I’m not going to do anything to get more involved, and I certainly would be if I went to see Nero Wolfe. If I didn’t tell the police what Wolfe said they would never let up on me, and if I did tell them-what if he asked me about something that Mrs. Fromm had told him confidentially and wouldn’t want the police to know?”

She took another drag at the cigarette, went to a desk and mashed it in a tray, and came back. “So I told you. I’m just a sweet innocent small-town girl from Nebraska, I don’t think. If ten years on your own in New York don’t teach you how to avoid collisions in heavy traffic, nothing will. Here I am in this mess, but I’m not going to say or do anything to make it worse than it is-for me. I’m going to have to get a job. I don’t owe Mrs. Damon Fromm anything-I worked for her, and she paid me, and nothing extravagant, either.”

My head was tilted back to look up at her, with my face, if it was obeying orders, earnest and sympathetic. The starched collar was engraving the back of my neck. “You won’t get an argument from me, Miss Estey,” I assured her. “I’ve been in New York ten years too, and then some. You say the police wanted you to tell them what Nero Wolfe said, but how about Archie Goodwin? Did they ask you to tell them what I say?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Good. Not that I have anything special to say, but I would like to ask a few questions if you’ll sit down.”

“I’ve been sitting answering questions all afternoon.”

“I’ll bet you have. Such as, where were you last night from ten o’clock to two o’clock?”

She stared. “You’re asking me that?”

“No, just giving a sample of the kind of questions you’ve been answering all afternoon.”

“Well, here’s a sample of the kind of answers I gave. Yesterday between five and six Mrs. Fromm dictated about a dozen letters. A little after six she went up to dress, and I started on some phone calls she had told me to make. A little after seven, after she had gone out, I had dinner alone, and after dinner I typed the letters she had dictated and went out to mail them at the box at the corner. That was around ten o’clock. I came right back and told Peckham, the butler, I was tired and was going to bed, and went up to my room and turned on WQXR for the music, and went to bed.”

“Fine. Then you live here?”

“Yes.”

“Another example. Where were you Tuesday afternoon from six o’clock to seven?”

She went and sat down and cocked her head at me. “You’re right, they asked me that too. Why?”

I shrugged. “I’m just showing you that I know the kind of questions cops ask.”

“You are not. What is it about Tuesday afternoon?”

“First how did you answer it?”

“I couldn’t until I thought back. That was the day Mrs. Fromm went to a meeting of the Executive Committee of Assadip-the Association for the Aid of Displaced Persons. She let me take a car-the convertible-and I spent the afternoon and evening chasing all over town trying to find a couple of refugees that Assadip wanted to help. I never found them, and I got home after midnight. I’d have a hard time accounting for every minute of that afternoon and evening, and I don’t intend to try. Why should I? What happened Tuesday between six and seven?”

I regarded her. “How about a trade? Tell me where Mrs. Fromm was yesterday afternoon from three-fifteen to five o’clock, and what letters she dictated from five to six, and what phone calls she made, and I’ll tell you what happened Tuesday.”

“Those are more samples of what the police asked.”

“Naturally. But these I like.”

“She made no phone calls at all, but told me to make some later, to ask people to buy tickets for a theater benefit for the Milestone School. There were twenty-three names on the list, and the police have it. The letters she dictated were miscellaneous, just routine matters. Mr. Kuffner and Mr. Horan both said to let the police take the copies, so I did. If you want me to try to remember, I think-”

“Never mind. What did she do between the time she left the Assadip office and the time she got home?”

“I know two things she did. She went to a shop on Madison Avenue and bought some gloves-she brought them home with her-and she called at the office of Paul Kuffner. I don’t know whether she did anything else. What happened Tuesday?”

“A car stopped for a light at the corner of Ninth Avenue and Thirty-fifth Street, and the woman driving it told a boy to get a cop.”

Her brow wrinkled. “What?”

“I told you.”

“But what has that to do with it?”

I shook my head. “Not in the bargain. I said I’d tell you what happened. This is a very complicated business, Miss Estey, and you may decide to tell the police what Archie Goodwin said, and they wouldn’t like it if I went around telling the suspects exactly how all the-”

“I’m not a suspect!”

“I beg your pardon. I thought you were. Anyhow, I’m not-”

“Why should I be?”

“If for no other reason, because you were close to Mrs. Fromm and knew where she was last evening and that her car would be parked nearby. But even if you weren’t I wouldn’t spread it out for you. Mr. Wolfe might feel different. If you change your mind and come down to see him this evening after dinner, or tomorrow morning-say, eleven o’clock, when he’ll be free-he might take a notion to empty the bag for you. He’s a genius, so you never know. If you-”

The door swinging open stopped me. It swung wide, and a man trotted in. As he appeared he started to say something to Miss Estey, but, becoming aware that she had company, cut it off, stopped short, and proceeded to take me in.

When it seemed that neither was she performing introductions nor was he asking strangers’ names, I broke the ice. “My name’s Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe.” Seeing how he was taking me in, I added, “I’m in disguise.”

He approached with a hand out, and I arose and took it. “I’m Paul Kuffner.”

In size he had been shortchanged, the top of his head being about level with the tip of my nose. With his thin brown mustache trimmed so it wasn’t quite parallel with the thick lips of his wide mouth, I wouldn’t have called him well designed to make the sort of impression desirable for a handler of public relations, but I admit I’m prejudiced about a mustache trying to pass as a plucked eyebrow.

He smiled at me to show that he liked me, that he approved of everything I had ever said or done, and that he understood all my problems perfectly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that I have to break in like this and take Miss Estey away, but there are some urgent matters. Come upstairs, Miss Estey?”