The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

So as I stepped into the office I was biting a nail. It is not often that Purley Stebbins can string me, but that day he had caught me off balance because my sentiments had been involved. Naturally I reacted by trying to take it out on Wolfe. I went to his desk for the little packet, unfolded the paper, and arranged the contents neatly in front of him: two dollar bills, four quarters, nine dimes, and eight nickels.

“Right,” I announced. “Four dollars and thirty cents. Hearty congratulations. After income tax and deducting ten cents for expenses-the phone call to Stebbins yesterday-there will be enough left to-”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Will you return it to her tomorrow?”

“I will not. Nor any other day. You know damn well that’s impossible.”

“Give it to the Red Cross.”

“You give it.” I was firm. “She may never come again, but if she does and asks me what we did with Pete’s money I won’t feel like saying Red Cross and I won’t feel like lying.”

He pushed the dough away from him, to the other edge of the desk, toward me. “You brought him into this house.”

“It’s your house, and you fed him cookies.”

That left it hanging. Wolfe picked up his current book from the other end of his desk, opened to his place, swiveled and maneuvered his seventh of a ton to a comfortable position, and started reading. I went to my desk and sat, and pretended to go over yesterday’s reports from Saul and Fred and Orrie while I considered the situation. Somewhat later I pulled the typewriter around, put in paper, and hit the keys. The first draft had some flaws, which I corrected, and then typed it again on a fresh sheet. That time I thought it would do. I turned to face Wolfe and announced, “I have a suggestion.”

He finished his paragraph, which must have been a long one, before glancing at me. “Well?”

“We’re stuck with this dough and have to do something with it. You may remember that you told Pete that the point is not so much to earn a fee as it is to feel that you earned it. I should think you would feel you earned this one if you blow it all on an ad in the paper reading something like this:

“Woman with spider earrings and scratch on cheek who on Tuesday, driving a car, told boy at Thirty-fifth Street and Ninth Avenue to get a cop, please communicate with Nero Wolfe at address in phone book.”