The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

She may have been over-optimistic to think she could breeze into Nero Wolfe’s office and fool him, but she wasn’t a fool. She stood surveying the situation, all signs of nervousness gone, came to a conclusion, opened her bag, and got out an object which she displayed to Wolfe. “My driving license.”

He took it and gave it a look and handed it back to her, and she seated herself. “I’m Laura Fromm,” she said, “Mrs. Damon Fromm. I am a widow. My New York residence is at Seven-forty-three East Sixty-eighth Street. Tuesday, driving a car on Thirty-fifth Street, I told a boy to get a cop. I gathered from your advertisement that you can direct me to the boy, and I will pay you for it.”

“So you don’t admit this is an imposture.”

“Certainly not.”

“What time of day was it?”

“That’s not important.”

“What was the boy doing when you spoke to him?”

“Neither is that.”

“How far away was the boy when you spoke to him, and how loudly did you shout?”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to answer any questions about it. Why should I?”

“But you maintain that you were driving the car and told the boy to get a cop?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re in a pickle. The police want to question you about a murder. On Wednesday a car ran over the boy and killed him. Intentionally.”

She gawked. “What?”

“It was the same car. The one you were driving Tuesday when the boy spoke to you.”

She opened her mouth and closed it. Then she got words out. “I don’t believe it.”

“You will. The police will explain to you how they know it was the same car. There’s no question about it, Mrs. Fromm.”

“I mean the whole thing-you’re making it up. This is-worse than contemptible.”

Wolfe’s head moved. “Archie, get yesterday’s Times.”

I went for it to the shelf where the papers are kept until they’re a week old. Opening it to page eight and folding it, I crossed and handed it to Laura Fromm. Her hand was shaking a little as she took it, and to steady it while she read she called on the other hand to help hold it.

She took plenty of time for the reading. When her eyes lifted, Wolfe said, “There is nothing there to indicate that Peter Drossos was the boy you had accosted on Tuesday, but you don’t need to take my word for that. The police will tell you about it.”

Her eyes darted back and forth, from Wolfe to me and back again, and then settled on me. “I want-could I have some gin?”

She had let the newspaper drop to the floor. I picked it up and asked, “Straight?”

“That will do. Or a Gibson?”

“Onion?”

“No. No, thank you. But double?”