The Golden Spiders

by Rex Stout

  “Then,” Cramer retorted, “I’ll lead him some more. What’s Mr. Horan’s first name?”

  “Dennis.”

  “Where is his law office?”

  “One-twenty-one East Forty-first Street.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Three-fifteen Gramercy Park.”

  “What kind of a car does he drive?”

  “A fifty-one Chrysler sedan.”

  “What color?”

  “Black.”

  “What’s his office phone number?”

  “Ridgway three, four-one-four-one.”

  “What’s his home number?”

  “Palace eight, six-three-oh-seven.”

  Cramer came to me. “Has this man had any chance to acquire all that information during the night?”

  “He has not. No part of it.”

  “Then that will do for now. Mr. Horan, you are being detained as a material witness in a murder case. Purley, take him to the other room—who’s in there?”

  “Durkin and Panzer, with that Ervin.”

  “Tell them to hold Horan, and come back.”

  Horan stood up. He was calm and dignified. “I warn you, Inspector, this is a blunder you’ll regret.”

  “We’ll see, Mr. Horan. Take him, Purley.”

  The two left the room, Purley in the rear. Cramer got up and crossed to my wastebasket, dropped the remains of his cigar in it, and returned to the red leather chair. He started to say something to Wolfe, saw that he was leaning back with his eyes closed, and didn’t say it. Instead he asked me if he could be heard in the next room, and I told him no, it was soundproofed. Purley came back and went to his chair.

  Cramer addressed Egan. “Okay, let’s have it. Is Horan in that racket?”

  “I want a deal,” Egan said stubbornly.

  “For God’s sake.” Cramer was disgusted. “You’re absolutely sewed up. If I had a pocketful of deals I wouldn’t waste one on you. If you want a break, earn it, and earn it quick. Is Horan in the racket?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his tie-in?”

  “He tells me how to handle things, like people that are trying to get from under. Hell, he’s a lawyer. Sometimes he gives me leads. He gave me the lead on that Leopold Heim, goddam him.”

  “Do you deliver money to him?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “No, he gets his cut from Birch. He did.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Birch told me.”

  “How did you get in it?”

  “Birch. He propositioned me about two years ago, and I gave it a run. Three or four months later there was some trouble with a guy over in Brooklyn, and Birch fixed it for me to meet a lawyer at the garage to get a steer on it, and the lawyer was Horan. That was the first time I saw him. Since then I’ve seen him—I don’t know, maybe twenty times.”

  “Always at the garage?”

  “Yeah, always. I never met him anywhere but there, but I’ve talked with him on the phone.”

  “Have you got anything in Horan’s handwriting? Anything he ever sent you or gave you?”

  “No.”

  “Not a scrap? Nothing?”

  “I said no. That cagey bastard?”

  “Was anyone else present at any of your meetings with Horan?”

  “Sure, lots of times Birch was there.”

  “He’s dead. Anyone else?”

  Egan had to think. “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Not down in the basement with us, no. The night man at the garage, Bud Haskins, of course he saw him every time he came.” Egan’s eyes lit up. “Sure, Bud saw him!”

  “No doubt.” Cramer wasn’t stirred. “Horan’s ready for that, or thinks he is. He’ll meet it by putting the word of a reputable member of the bar against the word of a low criminal like you backed up by a pal that he’ll say you have primed. I’m not saying Haskins can’t help. We’ll get him, and we’ll—where you going?”

  Wolfe had pushed his chair back, got to his feet, and taken a step. He looked down at Cramer. “Upstairs. It’s nine o’clock.” He passed between his desk and Cramer and was on his way.

  Cramer protested. “You actually—you walk out just when—”

  “When what?” Wolfe demanded. Halfway to the door, he had turned. “You’ve got this wretch cornered, and you’re clawing away at him for something to implicate another wretch, that unspeakable Horan, in the most contemptible enterprise on record. I admit it’s necessary, indeed it is admirable, but I’ve contributed my share and you don’t need me; and I’m not after blackmailers, I’m after a murderer. You know my schedule; I’ll be available at eleven o’clock. I would appreciate it if you’ll remove these miserable creatures from my premises. You can deal with them just as effectively elsewhere.”

  “You bet I can.” Cramer was out of his chair. “I’m taking your men along, all four of them—Goodwin, Panzer, Durkin, and Cather—and I don’t know when we’ll be through with them.”

  “You may take the first three, but not Mr. Cather. He isn’t here.”

  “I want him. Where is he?”

  “You can’t have him. He’s on an errand. Haven’t I given you enough for one morning? Archie, do you remember where Orrie has gone?”

  “No, sir. Couldn’t remember to save me.”

  “Good. Don’t try.” He turned and marched out.

  Chapter 15

  I have never seen as much top brass in one day as I did during the next eight hours, from nine in the morning to five in the afternoon that Tuesday, one week from the day Pete Drossos had called to consult Wolfe about his case. At the Tenth Precinct station house it was Deputy Police Commissioner Neary. At 240 Centre Street it was the Commissioner himself, Skinner. At 155 Leonard Street it was District Attorney Bowen in person, flanked by three assistants, including Mandelbaum.

  It didn’t go to my head because I knew it wasn’t just my fascinating personality. In the first place, the murder of Mrs. Damon Fromm, linked as it was with two other murders, was still, after four days, good for a thousand barrels of ink per day, not to mention the air waves. In the second place, the preliminary jockeying for a mayoralty election had started, and Bowen and Skinner and Neary were all cleaning fish ready for the fry. A really tiptop murder offers some fine possibilities to a guy who is so devoted to public service that he is willing to take on additional burdens in a wider field.

  At Manhattan Homicide West, at the Tenth Precinct, we were separated, but that was okay. The only items we were saving were the crisscross we had used on Egan and his notebook, and Saul and Fred knew all about that. I spent an hour in a little room with a stenographer, getting my statement typed and read and signed, and then was taken to Cramer’s office for a session with Deputy Commissioner Neary. Neither Cramer nor Stebbins was there. Neary was gruff but chummy. His attitude implied that if they would just leave him and me alone for forty minutes we’d have it all wrapped up, but the trouble was that in less than half that time he got a phone call and had to let me go. As I was escorted along the corridor and downstairs and out to where a car was waiting, city employees I barely knew by sight, and others I didn’t know from Adam, made a point of greeting me. Apparently the impression was around that I was going to get my picture in the paper, and who could tell, I might get drafted to run for mayor. I acknowledged the greetings as one who appreciated the spirit in which they were offered but was awful busy.

  At Leonard Street, Bowen himself, the District Attorney, had a copy of my statement on his desk, and during our talk he kept stopping me, referring to the statement, finding the place he wanted and frowning at it, and then nodding at me as if to say, “Yep, maybe you’re not lying after all.” He didn’t congratulate me on collaring Ervin and Egan and tricking Horan in. On the contrary, he hinted that my taking them to Wolfe’s house instead of inviting cops to the garage was probably good for five years in the coop if only he had time to read up on it. Knowing him as I did,
I overlooked it and tried not to upset him. The poor guy had enough to contend with that day without me. His weekend had certainly been bollixed up, his eyes were red from lack of sleep, his phone kept ringing, his assistants kept coming and going, and a morning paper had put him fourth on the list of favored candidates for mayor. Added to all that, the FBI would now be horning in on the Fromm-Birch-Drossos case, on account of the racket Saul and Fred and I had removed the lid from, with the painful possibility that the FBI might crack the murders. So it was no wonder the DA didn’t ask me out to lunch.

  In fact nobody did. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that I ever ate. I had had an early breakfast. By the time the session in Bowen’s room broke up, a little after twelve, I had in mind a place around the corner I knew of that specialized in pigs’ knuckles and sauerkraut, but Mandelbaum said he wanted to ask me something and took me down the hall to his room. He got behind his desk and invited me to sit, and started in.

  “About that offer you made yesterday to Miss Estey.”

  “My God. Again?”

  “It looks different now. My colleague Roy Bonino is up at Wolfe’s place now, inquiring about it. Let’s cut the comedy and go on the basis that Wolfe sent you to make her that offer. You say yourself that there was nothing improper about it, so why not?”

  I was hungry. “Okay, if that’s the basis, then what?”

  “Then the presumption is that Wolfe knew about this blackmail racket before he sent you to make that offer. He was assuming that Miss Estey would be vitally interested in knowing whether Mrs. Fromm had told Wolfe about it. I don’t expect you to admit that; we’ll see what Wolfe tells Bonino. But I want to know what Miss Estey’s reaction was—exactly what she said.”

  I shook my head. “It would give you a wrong impression if I discussed it on that basis. Let me suggest a basis.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Let’s say that Mr. Wolfe knew nothing about any racket but merely wanted to stir them up. Say he didn’t single out Miss Estey, she was just first on the list. Say I made the offer not only to her, but also to Mrs. Horan, Angela Wright, and Vincent Lipscomb, and would have gone on if Mr. Wolfe hadn’t called me in because Paul Kuffner was at the office accusing me of putting the bee on Miss Wright. Wouldn’t that be a more interesting basis?”

  “It certainly would. Uh-huh. I see. In that case I want to know what they all said. Start with Miss Estey.”

  “I’d have to invent it.”

  “Sure, you’re good at that. Go ahead.”

  So there went the best part of another hour. When I was all through inventing, including answers to a lot of bright questions, Mandelbaum got up to leave and asked me to wait there. I said I would go get something to eat, but he said no, he wanted me on hand. I agreed to wait, and there went another twenty minutes. When he finally returned he said Bowen wanted to see me again, and would I kindly go to his room. He, Mandelbaum, had something else on.

  When I got to Bowen’s room there was no one there. More waiting. I had been sitting awhile, thinking of pigs’ knuckles, when the door opened to admit a young man with a tray, and I thought hooray, someone in this joint is human after all; but without even glancing at me he went to Bowen’s desk, put the tray down on the desk blotter, and departed. When the door had closed behind him I stepped to the desk and lifted the napkin, and saw and smelled an attractive hot corned-beef sandwich and a slab of cherry pie. There was also a pint bottle of milk. The situation required presence of mind, and I had it. It took me maybe eighteen seconds to get back to my chair, settle the tray in my lap, and bite off a healthy segment from the sandwich. It was barely ready for swallowing when the door opened and the District Attorney entered.

  To save him any embarrassment, I spoke up immediately. “It was darned thoughtful of you to have this sent in, Mr. Bowen. Not that I was hungry, but you know the old saying, we must keep the body up with the boy. Bowen for mayor!”

  He showed the stuff he was made of. A lesser man would either have grabbed the tray from me or gone to his desk and phoned that a punk had swiped his lunch and he wanted another one, but he merely gave me a dirty look and turned and went. In three minutes he was back with another tray, which he took to his desk. I don’t know whose he confiscated.

  What he wanted was to clear up eighty-five or ninety points about the report Mandelbaum had just given him.

  So it was nearly three o’clock when I arrived, escorted, at 240 Centre Street, and going on four when I was ushered into the private office of Police Commissioner Skinner. The next hour was a little choppy. You might have thought that, with a citizen as important as me to talk with, Skinner would have passed the order that he wasn’t to be disturbed for anything less than a riot, but no. Between interruptions he did manage to ask me a few vital questions, such as was it raining when I got to the garage, and had any glances of recognition been exchanged by Horan and Egan, but mostly, when he wasn’t answering one of the four phones on his desk, or making a call himself, or speaking with some intruder, or taking a look at papers just brought in, he was pacing up and down the room, which is spacious, high-ceilinged, and handsomely furnished.

  Around five, District Attorney Bowen walked in, accompanied by two underlings with bulging briefcases. Apparently there was to be a high-level conference. That might be educational, if I didn’t get bounced, so I unobtrusively left my chair near Skinner’s desk and went to a modest one over by the wall. Skinner was too occupied to notice me, and the others evidently thought he was saving me for dessert. They gathered chairs around the big desk and went to it. I have a good natural memory, and it has been well trained in the years I have been with Nero Wolfe, so I could give a full and accurate report of what I heard in the next half-hour, but I’m not going to. If I did I would go sailing out the next time I tried being a wallflower at a meeting of the big brains, and anyway who am I to destroy the confidence of the people in their highly placed public servants?

  But something did happen that must be reported. They were in the middle of a hot discussion of what should and what should not be told to the FBI when an interruption came. First a phone rang and Skinner spoke into it briefly, and then a door opened to admit a visitor. It was Inspector Cramer. As he strode across to the desk he darted a glance at me, but his mind was on higher things. He confronted them and blurted, “That man Witmer that thought he could identify the driver of the car that killed the Drossos boy. He just picked Horan out of a line. He thinks he’d swear to it.”

  They stared at him. Bowen muttered, “I’ll be damned.”

  “Well?” Skinner demanded crossly.

  Cramer frowned down at him. “I don’t know, I just this minute got it. If we take it, it twists us around again. It couldn’t have been Horan in the car with the woman Tuesday. We couldn’t budge his Tuesday alibi with a bulldozer, and anyway we’re assuming it was Birch. Then why did Horan kill the boy? Now that we’ve got that racket glued to him, of course we can work on him, but if he’s got murder on his mind we’ll never crack him. We’ve got to take this and dig at it, but it balls it up worse than ever. I tell you, Commissioner, there ought to be a law against eyewitnesses.”

  Skinner stayed cross. “I think that’s overstating it, Inspector. Eyewitnesses are often extremely helpful. This may prove to be the break we’ve all been hoping for. Sit down and we’ll discuss it.”

  As Cramer was pulling up a chair a phone rang. Skinner got it—the red one, first on the left—talked to it a little, and then looked up at Cramer.

  “Nero Wolfe for you. He says it’s important.”

  “I’ll take it outside.”

  “No, take it here. He sounds smug.”

  Cramer circled around the desk to Skinner’s elbow and got it, “Wolfe? Cramer speaking. What do you want?”

  From there on it was mostly listening at his end. The others sat and watched his face, and so did I. When I saw its red slowly deepening, and his eyes getting narrower and narrower, I wanted to bounce out of my chair and beat it
straight for Thirty-fifth Street, but thought it unwise to call attention to myself. I sat it out. When he finally hung up he stood with his jaw clamped and his nose twitching.

  “That fat sonofabitch,” he said. He backed off a step. “He’s smug all right. He says he’s ready to earn the money Mrs. Fromm paid him. He wants Sergeant Stebbins and me. He wants the six people chiefly involved. He wants Goodwin and Panzer and Durkin. He wants three or four policewomen, not in uniform, between thirty-five and forty years old. He wants Goodwin immediately. He wants Egan. That’s all he wants.”

  Cramer glared around at them. “He says we’ll be bringing the murderer away with us. The murderer, he says.”

  “He’s a maniac,” Bowen said bitterly.

  “How in the name of God?” Skinner demanded.

  “It’s insufferable,” Bowen said. “Get him down here.”

  “He won’t come.”

  “Bring him!”

  “Not without a warrant.”

  “I’ll get one!”

  “He wouldn’t open his mouth. He’d get bail. Then he’d go home and do his own inviting, not including us.”

  They looked at one another, and each saw on the others’ faces what I was seeing. There was no alternative.

  I left my chair, called to them cheerily, “See you later, gentlemen!” and walked out.

  Chapter 16

  I have never been on intimate terms with a policewoman but have seen a few here and there, and I must say that whoever picked the three to attend Wolfe’s party that afternoon had a good eye. Not that they were knockouts, but I would have been perfectly willing to take any one of the trio to the corner drugstore and buy her a Coke. The only thing was their professional eyes, but you couldn’t hold that against them, because they were on duty in the presence of an inspector and so naturally had to look alert, competent, and tough. They were all dressed like people, and one of them wore a blue number with fine white stripes that was quite neat.

  I had got there enough in advance of the mob to give Wolfe a brief report of my day, which didn’t seem to interest him much, and to help Fritz and Orrie collect chairs and arrange them. When the first arrivals rang the bell Orrie disappeared into the front room and shut the door. Having been in there for chairs, I had seen what he was safeguarding—a middle-aged round-shouldered guy wearing glasses, with his belt buckled too tight. Orrie had introduced us, so I knew his name was Bernard Levine, but that was all.