The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

“Twenty-nine minutes after eleven-thirty,” I remarked. “Shall I phone her?”

He muttered no, and I went to the safe for the checkbook, to take care of some household bills, while Wolfe flipped the radio switch at his desk for the twelve-o’clock news. As I sat filling in the stubs my ears heard and I half listened:

“The coming Bermuda conference of the leaders of the United States, Great Britain, and France, which has been rendered somewhat doubtful by the fall of Premier Mayer, will probably be proceeded with as arranged. It is thought that Mayer’s successor will be established in office in time to take the third place at the table.

“There is speculation in Tokyo that the three-day interval in the Korean truce negotiations granted at the request of the United Nations Command was intended to permit further consultation among representatives of the United Nations powers in the United States and at the Tokyo headquarters of General Mark W. Clark, the United Nations commander.

“The body of Mrs. Damon Fromm, wealthy New York socialite and philanthropist, was found early today lying in a passage between pillars of the East Side elevated highway now under construction. According to the police, she had been run over by a car, and it is not believed to have been an accident.

“An estimated million and a quarter New Yorkers got an impressive capsule demonstration of the might of American armed forces…”

Wolfe didn’t turn it off. As far as I could tell from his expression, he was actually listening. But by the time the five minutes were up he was developing a scowl, and after flipping the switch he let it have his face without restraint.

“So,” I said.

There were a dozen comments that could have been made, but none would have helped any. Wolfe certainly didn’t need to be reminded that he had warned her not to be foolhardy or even imprudent. Also his scowl did not encourage comment. After a little he placed his palms on the arms of his chair and slowly moved them back and forth, rubbing the rough tapestry with a swishing sound. That went on for a while, then he folded his arms and sat straight.

“Archie.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long will it take you to type an account of our conversation with Mrs. Fromm? Not verbatim. With your superlative memory you could come close to it, but that isn’t necessary. Just the substance, adequately, as you would report to me.”

“You could dictate it.”

“I’m in no humor for dictation.”

“Leave out anything?”