The Golden Spiders by Rex Stout

until I mounted to the second floor and approached one at a desk with whom I was on speaking terms. I had been right; no Cramer and no Stebbins. Lieutenant Rowcliff was in charge, and the desk man phoned that I was there to see him.
    If there were twenty of us, including Rowcliff, starving on an island, and we were balloting to elect the one we would carve up for a barbecue, I wouldn’t vote for Rowcliff because I know I couldn’t keep him down; and compared to his opinion of me, mine of him is sympathetic. So I wasn’t surprised when, instead of having me conducted within, he came striding out and up to me, and rasped, “What do you want?”
    I took the envelope from my pocket. “This,” I said, “is not my application for a job on the force so I can serve under you.”
    “By God, if it were.” He talked like that.
    “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