VII
Wolfe heaved a sigh that filled his whole interior. “Well.” He opened his eyes and half closed them again. “You said you want my help in this new circumstance. What do you want me to do? Keep you from being convicted of murder?”
“Convicted?” Cynthia goggled at him. “Of murdering my uncle?” Her chin hinges began to give. “I wouldn’t—”
“Lay off,” I growled at Wolfe, “unless you want to make me kiss her again. She’s not a crybaby, but your direct approach is really something. Use synonyms.”
“She’s not hungry again, is she?” he demanded peevishly. But he eased it. “Miss Nieder. If you’re on the defense and intend to stay there, get a lawyer. I’m no good for that. If you want your uncle’s murderer caught, whoever it is, and doubt whether the police are up to it, get me. Which do you want, a lawyer or me?”
“I want you,” she said, her chin okay.
Wolfe nodded in approval of her sound judgment. “Then we know what we’re doing.” He glanced at the wall clock. “In twenty minutes I must go up to my orchids. I spend two hours with them every afternoon, from four to six. The most urgent question is this: Who knows that the murdered man was Paul Nieder? Who besides you?”
“Nobody,” she declared.
“As far as you know, no one has said or done anything to indicate knowledge or suspicion of his identity?”
“No. They all say they never saw him before, and they have no idea how he got there or who he is. Of course — the way his face was — you wouldn’t expect—”
“I suppose not. But we’ll assume that whoever killed him knew who he was killing; we’d be donkeys if we didn’t. Also we’ll assume that he thinks no one else knows. That gives us an advantage. Are you sure you have given no one a hint of your recognition of your uncle last week?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
“Then we have that advantage too. But consider this: if that body is buried without official identification as your uncle, your possession of your inheritance may be further delayed. Also this: you cannot claim the body and give it appropriate burial. Also this: if the police are told who the murdered man was they may be able to do a better job.”
“Would they believe — would they keep it secret until they caught him?”
“They might, but I doubt it. Possibly they would fancy the theory that you had killed him in order to hold onto half of that business, and if so your associates up there would be asked to confirm the identification. Certainly Mr. Demarest would be. That’s one reason why I shall not tell the police. Another one is that I wouldn’t tell Mr. Cramer anything whatever, after his behavior today. But you can do as you please. Do you want to tell them?”
“No.”
“Then don’t. Now.” Wolfe glanced at the clock. “Do you think you know who killed your uncle?”
Cynthia looked startled. “Why no, of course not!”
“You have no idea at all?”
“No!”
“How many people work there?”
“Right now, about two hundred.”
“Pfui.” Wolfe scowled. “Can any of them get in after hours?”
“No, not unless they have a key — or are let in by someone who has a key. Up to the time of the press showing, even up to yesterday, the first buyers’ show, there were people there every evening in the rush of getting the line ready, but most times there’s no one there after hours. That’s why I picked last night to go to look for that file.”
“There was no one working there last night?”
“No, not a soul.”
“Who has keys?”
“Let’s see.” She concentrated. “I have one. Bernard Daumery.... Polly Zarella.... Ward Roper. That’s — oh no, Mr. Demarest has one. As my uncle’s executor he is in legal control of the half-interest.”
“Who opens up in the morning and locks up at night?”
“Polly Zarella. She has been doing that for years, since before I came there.”
“So there are just five keys?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Pah. I can’t depend on you. I myself know of two you haven’t mentioned. Didn’t your uncle have one? He probably let himself in with it last night. And didn’t Jean Daumery have one?”
“I was telling about the ones that are there now,” Cynthia said with a touch of indignation. “I suppose Uncle Paul had one, of course. I don’t know about Jean Daumery’s, but if he had it in his clothes that day fishing it’s at the bottom of the ocean, and if he didn’t have it I suppose Bernard has it now.”
Wolfe nodded. “Then we know of four people with keys beside you. Miss Zarella, Mr. Daumery, Mr. Roper, Mr. Demarest. Can you have them here this evening at half-past eight?”
Cynthia gawked. “You mean — here?”
“At this office.”
“But good lord.” She was flabbergasted. “I can’t just order them around! What can I say? I can’t say I want them to help find out who killed my uncle because they don’t know it was my uncle! You must consider they’re much older than I am — all but Bernard — and they think I’m just a fresh kid. Even Bernard is seven years older. After all, I’m only twenty-one — that is, I will be — my God!”
She looked horror-struck, as if someone had poked a window pole at her.
“What now?” Wolfe demanded.
“Tomorrow’s my birthday! I’ll be twenty-one tomorrow!”
“Yes?” Wolfe said politely.
“Happy birthday!” she cried.
“Not this one,” Wolfe stated.
“Look out,” I warned him. “That’s one of a girl’s biggest dates.”
He pushed his chair back hastily, arose, and looked at me.
“Archie. I would like to see those people this evening. Six o’clock would do, but I prefer eight-thirty, after dinner. Go up there with Miss Nieder. She is under suspicion of murder, and has engaged me, and can reasonably expect their co-operation. She is in fact half-owner of that business, and one of them is her partner, one is her lawyer, and the other two are her employees. What better do you want?”
He made for the door, on his way to the elevator.
VIII
One of my little notions — that I had already exchanged words with Bernard Daumery — turned out to be wrong. Evidently it is not a Seventh Avenue custom for half-owners to act as doortenders at buyers’ shows. At least, contrary to my surmise, it had not been Bernard Daumery who on Monday afternoon had barred Driscoll’s Emporium and had given me a head-to-foot survey before letting me in. I never saw that number again.
Business as usual is one of the few things that the Police Department makes allowances for in handling a homicide. The wheels of commerce must not be stalled unless it is unavoidable. So at the Daumery and Nieder premises eight hours after the discovery of the body, a pug-nosed dick hovering inside near the entrance was the only visible hint that this was the scene of the crime. The city scientists had done all they could and got all that was gettable and had departed. As Cynthia and I entered, the dick recognized me and wanted to know how come, and I told him amiably that I was working for Nero Wolfe and Mr. Wolfe was working for Miss Nieder, pausing just long enough not to seem boorish. I wasn’t worried about Cramer. He knew damn well that if he took drastic steps Wolfe would perform exactly as outlined, and that he had been a plain jackass not to wait until Wolfe had downed the other two rice cakes and had some coffee. If the case got really messy and made him desperate he might explode something, but not today or tomorrow.
Cynthia and I were sitting in Bernard Daumery’s office, waiting for him to finish with some customers in the showroom. It had been his uncle Jean’s room, and was large, light, and airy, with good rugs and furniture, and the walls even more covered with drawings and photographs than in the showroom. We had decided to start with Bernard.