“Good for you.” I turned. “You’ll be there, Miss Zarella?”
Polly was staring at me with what seemed to be wide-eyed admiration, but I could be wrong. “But certainly,” she said, fully as emphatically as she had previously said no. “If it is so exciting as you make it I will be there with bells on.”
“Fine. You, Mr. Roper?”
Roper was chewing his lip. No doubt it was hard for a man of his eminence to swallow a threat of being fired.
“The way you put it,” he told me, with a strong suggestion of a tremble in his greasy voice, “I hardly know what to say. It is true, of course, that at some future time Miss Nieder will probably own a half-interest in this business, in the success of which I have had some part for the past fourteen years. That is, she will if she is — available.”
“What do you mean, available?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He spread out his hands. “Of course your job is to get her out of it, so you can’t be expected to take an objective attitude. But the police are usually right about these things, and you know what they think.” The grease suddenly got acutely bitter. “So I merely ask, what if she’s not available? As for your—”
What stopped him was movement by Bernard. Cynthia’s partner had left his chair and taken four healthy strides to the one occupied by Roper. Roper, startled, got erect in a hurry, nearly knocking his chair over.
“I warned you last night, Ward,” Bernard said as if he meant it. “I told you to watch your nasty tongue.” His hands were fists. “Apologize to Cynthia, and do it quick.”
“Apologize? But what did I—”
Bernard slapped him hard. I couldn’t help approving of my rival’s good taste in making it a slap, certainly better than my strangling idea, and to spend a solid punch on him would have been flattering him. The first slap teetered Roper’s head to the left, and a second one, harder if anything, sent it the other way.
A thought struck me. “Don’t fire him!” I called. “Miss Nieder doesn’t want him fired! She wants him there tonight!”
“He’ll be there,” Bernard said grimly, without turning. He had backed up a step to glare at Roper. “You’ll be there, Ward, understand?”
That sounded swell, so I crowded my luck. “You will too, Mr. Daumery, won’t you?”
What the hell, it was a cinch, with him ordering Roper to come. But he turned around to tell me, “I’ll decide later. I’ll let you know. I’ll phone you. Your number’s in the book?”
Demarest chuckled.
X
I like to keep my word, and having on the spur of the moment promised refreshments, they were there. On the table near the big globe were tree-ripened olives, mahallebi, three bowls of nuts, and a comprehensive array of liquids ranging from Wolfe’s best brandy down to beer. Each of the guests had a little table at his elbow. At a quarter to nine, when the last arrival had been ushered in, Bernard Daumery and Ward Roper had nothing on their tables but their napkins, Cynthia had Scotch and water, Demarest a Tom Collins, and Polly Zarella a glass and a bottle of Tokaji Essencia. Bernard had phoned around seven o’clock that we could expect him.
If the cops were tailing all of them, as they almost certainly were, I thought there must be quite a convention outside on 35th Street.
I had completed, before dinner, an extra fancy job of reporting. Wolfe had wanted all the details of my party-arranging mission at Daumery and Nieder’s, both the libretto and the full score, and I had to get it all in and still leave time for questions before Fritz announced dinner, knowing as I did that if we were late to the table and had to hurry Wolfe would be in a bad humor all evening. In my opinion there would be plenty of bad humor to go around without Wolfe contributing a share, which was another reason for keeping my promise on the refreshments.
Since the staging had been left to me I had placed Cynthia in the red leather chair because I liked her there. Polly Zarella had insisted on having the chair nearest to mine, which might have been just her maternal instinct. On her right was Demarest, and then Roper and Bernard. That seemed a good arrangement, since if Bernard took it into his head to do some more slapping he wouldn’t have far to go.
“Thank you for coming,” Wolfe said formally.
“We had to,” Demarest stated. “Your man Goodwin dragooned us.”
“Not you, I understand, Mr. Demarest.”
“Oh yes, me too. Only I saw the compulsion a little ahead of the others.”
Wolfe shrugged. “Anyway, you’re here.” His eyes swept the arc. “I believe that Mr. Goodwin has explained to you that, guided by inclination and temperament and compelled by circumstances, my field of investigation in a case like this is severely limited. Fingerprints, documentation, minute and exhaustive inquiry, having people followed around — those are not for me. If this murderer can be identified and exposed by such activities as a thorough examination of all entrances and exits of people at that building last evening, which is possible but by no means assured, the police will do the job. They’re fairly good at it. I haven’t the patience. But I think we might start by clearing up one point: how you spent your time last evening from eight o’clock to midnight. I take it you have told the police, so I hope you will have no objection to telling me in my capacity as Miss Nieder’s servant.”
Wolfe’s eyes fastened on Demarest. “Will you begin, sir?”
The lawyer was smiling. “If your man had asked that question this afternoon it might have simplified matters. I didn’t mention it because I saw Miss Nieder wanted us here.”
“It’s been mentioned now.”
“And now I’ll simplify it. You want it all, of course. Yesterday afternoon there was a showing of the Daumery and Nieder fall line to buyers. You know about that, since your man was there. It brought a situation to a climax. For two years now — it began even before Paul Nieder’s death — Mr. Roper here has been getting increasingly jealous of Miss Nieder’s talent as a creative designer. The reactions to this new line have made it evident that she is vastly superior to him — entirely out of his class. What happened at the buyers’ show yesterday enraged him. He wanted to quit. Daumery and Nieder still need him and can use him; his services are valuable within the limits of his abilities. It was desirable to calm him down. Mr. Daumery thought it proper to inform me of the matter and ask my help, since I legally represent a half-share in the firm. Last evening, Tuesday, Mr. Daumery, Miss Zarella, and Mr. Roper dined with me in a restaurant and then we all went to Mr. Daumery’s apartment to continue our discussion. Mr. Roper wanted a new contract. My wife was with us. We were together continuously, all five of us, from half-past seven to well after midnight.”
Demarest smiled. “It does simplify things, doesn’t it?”
It simplified me all right. The best my head could do was let in a wild idea about the four of them taking turns with the window pole, presumably with Mrs. Demarest along to keep count of the jabs. That little speech by that lawyer was one of the few things that made me let my mouth hang open in public.
“It does indeed,” Wolfe agreed without a quiver. His eyes moved. “You verify that, Mr. Daumery? All of it as told?”
“I do,” Bernard said.
“Do you, Miss Zarella?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Do you, Mr. Roper?”
“I do not,” Roper declared, his grease oozing bitterness. “To say that Miss Nieder is vastly my superior is absolutely absurd. I have in my possession three books of clippings from Women’s Wear Daily, Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Glamor—”
“No doubt,” Wolfe conceded. “We’ll allow your exception to that part. Do you verify Mr. Demarest’s account of what happened last evening?”