The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

by Rex Stout

  I nodded. “So Fritz said. He also said it was noisy.”

  “Yes. He was uncommonly offensive. Of course he is under harassment, but so am I. He intimated that if I had told him yesterday of Mrs. Fromm’s visit she would not have been killed, which is poppycock. Also he threatened me. If I obstruct the police investigation in any way I will be summoned. Pfui! Is he still downstairs?”

  “Not unless he’s hiding in the bathroom. Fritz said he left.”

  “I left him and came up here. I have phoned Saul and Fred and Orrie. What time is it?”

  He would have had to turn his head to see the clock, so I told him. “Ten to five.”

  “They will be here at six or soon after. There has been no word from Mr. Horan. How old is Jean Estey?”

  “Lon didn’t specify, but he said young, so I suppose not over thirty. Why?”

  “Is she comely?”

  “No data.”

  “You have a right to know. At any rate, she is young. Saul or Fred or Orrie may find a crack for us, but I don’t want to prowl around this cage while they try. I want to know what Mrs. Fromm did from three-fifteen to five o’clock yesterday afternoon, and what and whom her mind was on during the hour she spent with Miss Estey. Miss Estey can tell me-certainly the second, and probably the first. Get her and bring her here.”

  Don’t misunderstand him. He knew it was fantastic. He hadn’t the slightest expectation that under the circumstances I could get to Mrs. Fromm’s personal secretary for a private chat, let alone convoy her to his office so he could pump her. But it would only cost him some taxi fare, so what the hell, why not let me stub my toe on the slim chance that I might raise some dust?

  So I merely remarked that I would tell Fritz to set an extra place for dinner in case she was hungry, left him, went down one flight to my bedroom, stood by the window, and surveyed the problem. In ten minutes I concocted, and rejected, four different plans. The fifth one seemed more likely, at least with a faint chance of working, and I voted for it. For dressing the part nothing in my personal wardrobe would do, so I went to the closet where I kept an assortment of items for professional emergencies such as the present and got out a black cutaway and vest, striped trousers, a white shirt with starched collar, a black Homburg, and a black four-in-hand. Suitable shoes and socks were in my personal stock. When I had shaved and got into the costume I took a look in the full-length mirror and was impressed. All I needed was either a bride or a hearse.

  Downstairs in the office I got a little Marley.22 from the collection in a drawer of my desk, loaded it, and stuck it in my hip pocket. That was a compromise. A shoulder holster with a.32 would have spoiled my contours in that getup, but long ago, after a couple of unpleasant experiences, one of which had made it necessary to have a bullet dug out of my chest, I had promised both Wolfe and myself that I would never go forth unarmed to deal with anyone involved in a murder, however remotely. That attended to, I went to the kitchen to give Fritz a treat.

  “I’ve been appointed,” I told him, “ambassador to Texas. Adieu.”

  He asked me to unbutton the shirt to show him my girdle.

  It was 5:38 when I paid the taxi driver in front of the address on East Sixty-eighth Street. Across the street there was a little assembly of gawkers, but on this side a uniformed cop was keeping the citizens moving. The house was granite, set back a couple of yards, with iron railings higher than my head protecting the areaway on both sides of the entrance. As I headed for it the cop moved to meet me, but not actually to block me. Cops prefer not to block personages dressed as I was.

  I stopped, looked at him mournfully, and said, “Arrangements.”

  He might have made it more difficult by accompanying me to the door, but three female sightseers gave me an assist just then by converging on the iron railing, and by the time he had persuaded them on their way I had entered the vestibule, pushed the button, and was speaking to a specimen with an aristocratic nose who had opened the door. His color scheme was the same as mine, but I had it on him in style.

  “There has developed,” I said sadly but firmly, “some confusion in the directions about the flowers, and it must be settled. I will have to see Miss Estey.”

  Since it would have been out of character to slide a foot across the sill against the open door I had to keep that impulse down, but when he opened it enough to give me room I lost no time in slipping past him. As he closed the door I remarked, “The morbid curiosity of the public at such a time is distressing. Will you please tell Miss Estey that Mr. Goodwin would like to consult her about the flowers?”

  “This way, please.”

  He led me five paces along the hall to a door that was standing open, motioned me in, and told me to wait. The room was nothing like what I would have expected in the town residence of Mrs. Damon Fromm. It was smaller than my bedroom, and, in addition to two desks, two typewriter stands, and an assortment of chairs, it was crammed with filing cabinets and miscellaneous objects. The walls were covered with posters and photographs, some framed and some not. There were scores of them. After a general survey I focused on one item and then another, and was inspecting one inscribed, American Health Council, 1947, when I heard footsteps and straightened and turned.

  She came in, stopped, and leveled greenish-brown eyes at me. “What’s this about flowers?” she demanded.

  The eyes didn’t look as if they had been irritated by any great flood of tears, but they certainly were not merry. I might possibly have classed her under thirty in happier circumstances, but not as she was then. Comely, yes. She was not wearing earrings. There was no sign of a scratch on her cheek, but four days had passed since Pete had seen it, and he had given no specifications as to depth or outline. So there wasn’t much hope of spotting any vestige of that scratch on Jean Estey or anyone else.

  “Are you Miss Jean Estey?” I asked.

  “Yes. What about flowers?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you. You may have heard the name Nero Wolfe.”

  “The detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good. He sent me. My name is Archie Goodwin, and I work for him. He wants to send flowers to Mrs. Fromm’s funeral, and would like to know if there would be any objection to orchids, provided they are sprays of Miltonia roezli alba, which are pure white and are very beautiful.”

  She stared at me a second and then suddenly burst out laughing. It wasn’t musical. Her shoulders were shaking with it, and she half walked and half stumbled to a chair, sat, lowered her head, and pressed her palms against her temples. The butler came to the threshold of the open door for a look, and I went to him and told him sympathetically that I had had experience with such crises, which was no lie, and that it might be well to shut the door. He agreed and pulled it shut himself. Then for a little I thought I might have to shock her out of it, but before long she started to calm down, and I went to a chair and sat. Soon she came erect and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “What started me,” she said, “was the way you’re dressed. It’s grotesque-dressed like that to come and ask if there’s any objection to orchids!” She had to stop a moment to get her breathing in order. “There are to be no flowers. Now you may go.”

  “The costume was merely to get me in.”

  “I understand. Under false pretenses. What for?”

  “To see you. Look, Miss Estey. I’m sorry my disguise brought on that little attack, but now you should sit quietly for a few minutes while your nerves catch up, and meanwhile why not let me explain? I suppose you know that Mrs. Fromm came to see Mr. Wolfe yesterday and gave him a check for ten thousand dollars.”

  “Yes. I handle her personal checking account.”

  “Did she tell you what it was for?”

  “No. All she put on the stub was the word ‘retainer.’”

  “Well, I can’t tell you what it was for, but she was to see Mr. Wolfe again today. The check was certified yesterday and will be deposited
Monday. Mr. Wolfe feels a responsibility to Mrs. Fromm and considers that he is obliged to investigate her death.”

  She was breathing better. “The police are investigating it. Two of them left here just half an hour ago.”

  “Sure. If they solve it, fine. But if they don’t, Mr. Wolfe will. Don’t you want him to?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want, does it?”

  “It matters to Mr. Wolfe. The police can say to anybody involved, ‘Answer this one, or else,’ but he can’t. He wants to talk with you and sent me to bring you to his office, and I can persuade you to come only by one of three methods. I could threaten you if I had a good menace handy, but I haven’t. I could bribe you if I knew what to use for bait, but I don’t. All that’s left is to say that Mrs. Fromm came to see him and gave him that check, and he has reason to think that her death was connected with the matter she hired him to work on and therefore he feels obliged to investigate it, and he wants to start by talking with you. The question is whether you want to help. Naturally I should think you would, without any threats or bribes, even if I had some in stock. Our office is on Thirty-fifth Street. The cop out front will flag a taxi for us, and we can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “You mean go now?”

  “Sure.”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I have to-I couldn’t.” She was back in control, with all signs of the attack gone. “You say the question is whether I want to help, but that’s not it, it’s how I can help.” She hesitated, studying me. “I think I’ll tell you something.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I told you two policemen, detectives, left here half an hour ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, while they were here, not long before they left, there was a phone call for one of them, and after he hung up he said I might be contacted by Nero Wolfe, probably through his assistant, Archie Goodwin, and I might be asked to go to see Nero Wolfe, and if so he hoped I would cooperate by going and then tell the police exactly what Wolfe said.”

  “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 swing
ing 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?”

  It was a fine job. Instead of that he could have said, “Get out of this house and give me a chance to ask Miss Estey what the hell you’re trying to put over,” which was what he meant. But no, sir, he liked me too much to say anything that could possibly hurt my feelings.

  When Miss Estey had got up and crossed to the door and passed through, and he had followed her to the sill, he turned to tell me, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goodwin. I’ve heard a great deal about you, and Mr. Wolfe, of course. Sorry our meeting had to be at so difficult a moment.” He stepped out of sight, but his voice carried in to me. “Oh, Peckham! Mr. Goodwin’s going. See if he wants you to stop a cab for him.”

  A nice clean fast job. Apparently with that mustache he was in disguise too.

  Chapter 7

  I got back to the house in time to hear the briefing. Saul and Orrie were already there, sitting waiting, but Fred hadn’t arrived. After greeting them, I reported to Wolfe, who was at his desk.