The Golden Spiders by Rex Stout Page A

his coffee in silence. I waited until we had returned to the office and he was adjusted in his chair to remark, “Earning it would be fine, but the main thing is to feel you’ve earned it. No animus, but I doubt if delivering that statement to Rowcliff is quite enough. My ego is itching.”
    “Deposit the check,” he muttered.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “We need information.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “See Mr. Cohen and get it.”
    “About what?”
    “Everything. Include Matthew Birch, with the understanding that his knowledge of that connection is not to be disclosed unless the police release it or he gets it from some other source. Tell him nothing. It may be published that I am engaged on the case, but not the source of my interest.”
    “Do I tell him that Pete came to see you?”
    “No.”
    “He would appreciate it. It would be an exclusive human interest story for him. Also it would show that your reputation-”
    His fist hit the desk, which for him was a convulsion. “No!” he roared. “Reputation? Am I to invite the comment that it is a mortal hazard to solicit my help? On Tuesday, that boy. On Friday, that woman. They are both dead. I will not have my office converted into an anteroom for the morgue!”
    “Yeah. Something of the sort had occurred to me.”
    “You were well advised not to voice it. The person responsible would have been well advised not to induce it. We will need Saul and Fred and Orrie, but I’ll attend to that. Go.”
    I did so. I took a taxi to the Gazette office. The receptionist on the third floor, who had not only received me before but also had been, for three or four years, on the list of those who receive a box of orchids from Wolfe’s plant rooms twice a year, spoke to Lon on the intercom and waved me in.
    I don’t know what Lon Cohen is on the Gazette and I doubt if he does. City or wire, daily or Sunday, foreign or national or local, he seems to know his way in and around without ever having to work at it. His is the only desk in a room about nine by twelve, and that’s just as well because otherwise there would be no place for his feet, which are also about nine by twelve. From the ankles up he is fairly regular.
    There were two colleagues in with him when I entered, but they soon finished and went. As we shook he said, “Stay on your feet. You can have two minutes.”
    “Nuts. An hour may do it.”
    “Not today. We’re spinning on the Fromm murder. The only reason you got in at all, I want your release on the item that Nero Wolfe was making inquiries yesterday about Mrs. Fromm.”
    “I don’t think-” I let it hang while I moved a chair and sat. “No, better not. But okay on an item that he is working on the murder.”
    “He is?”
    “Yep.”
    “Who hired him?”
    I shook my head. “It came by carrier pigeon, and he won’t tell me.”
    “Take off your shoes and socks while I light a cigarette. A few applications to your tender flesh should do it. I want the name of the client.”
    “J. Edgar Hoover.”
    He made an unseemly noise. “Just a whisper, to me?”
    “No.”
    “But it’s open that Wolfe is working on the Fromm murder?”
    “Yes. Just that.”
    “And the boy, Peter Drossos? And Matthew Birch? Them too?”
    I gave him a look. “How come?”
    “Oh, for God’s sake. Wolfe’s ad in the Times wanting to date a woman wearing spider earrings who had asked a boy at Ninth Avenue and Thirty-fifth Street to get a cop. Mrs. Fromm was wearing spider earrings, and you were here yesterday asking about her. As for Birch, the pattern. His body was found in a secluded spot, flattened by a car, and so was Mrs. Fromm’s. I repeat the question.”
    “I answer it. Nero Wolfe is investigating the murder of Mrs. Fromm with his accustomed vigor, skill, and laziness. He will not rest until he gets the bastard or until bedtime, whichever comes first. Any mention you make of other murders should come on another page.”
    “No connection implied?”
    “Not by him or me. If