The Golden Spiders (Crime Line)

“You may. You will proceed from there. You will probably be out all day. Tell Fritz to answer the phone and take the usual precautions with visitors. Report by phone at intervals.”

“The funeral is at two o’clock.”

“I know, and therefore you may come home for lunch. We’ll see. Now the instructions.”

He gave them to me. Four minutes did it. At the end he asked if I had any questions.

I was frowning. “One,” I said. “It’s clear enough as far as it goes, but what am I after?”

“Nothing.”

“Then that’s probably what I’ll get.”

He sipped coffee. “It’s what I’ll expect. You’re stirring them up, that’s all. You’re turning a tiger loose in a crowd-or, if that’s too bombastic, a mouse. How will they take it? Will any of them tell the police, and if so, which one or ones?”

I nodded. “Sure, I see the possibilities, but I wanted to know if there is any specific item I’m supposed to get.”

“No. None.” He reached for the coffee pot.

I went down to the office. In a drawer of my desk there is an assortment of calling cards, nine or ten different kinds, worded differently for different needs and occasions. I took some engraved ones with my name in the center and “Representing Nero Wolfe” in the corner, and on six of them I wrote in ink beneath my name, “To discuss what Mrs. Fromm told Mr. Wolfe on Friday.” With them in my wallet, and the check and bankbook in my pocket, and a gun under my armpit, I was fully loaded, and I got my hat and beat it.

I walked to the bank, a pleasant fifteen-minute stretch on a fine May morning, and from there took a taxi to Sixty-eighth Street. I didn’t know what the home of a deceased millionairess would be like on the day of her funeral, which was to be held in a chapel on Madison Avenue, but outside it was quieter than it had been Saturday. The only evidences of anything uncommon were a cop in uniform on the sidewalk, with nothing to do, and black crepe hanging on the door. It wasn’t the same cop as on Saturday, and this one recognized me. As I made for the door he stopped me.

“You want something?”

“Yes, officer, I do.”

“You’re Archie Goodwin. What do you want?”

“I want to ring that bell, and hand Peckham my card to take to Miss Estey, and enter, and be conducted within, and engage in conversation-”

“Yeah, you’re Goodwin all right.”