Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17

by Three Doors to Death

  He headed for the door to the hall, detouring around the red leather chair, and I followed him, gathering Cynthia by the elbow as I went by. I presumed we were bound for the plant rooms, which were three flights up, and as we entered the hall I was wondering whether all three of us could crowd into Wolfe’s personal elevator without losing dignity. But that problem didn’t have to be solved. I was opening my mouth to tell Wolfe that Cynthia and I would use the stairs when here came Cramer striding by. Without a glance at us or a word he went to the front door, opened it, crossed the sill to the stoop, and banged the door shut.

  I stepped to the door and put the chain bolt in its slot. Any city employee arriving with papers would have only a two-inch crack to hand the papers through.

  Wolfe led us back to the office, motioned us to our chairs, sat at his desk, and demanded of Cynthia, “Did you kill that man?”

  She met his eyes and gulped. Then her head went down, her hands went up, her shoulders started to shake, and sounds began to come.

  VI

  That was terrible. The only thing that shakes Wolfe as profoundly as having a meal rudely interrupted is a bawling woman. His reaction to the first is rage, to the second panic.

  I tried to reassure him. “She’ll be all right. She just has to—”

  “Stop her,” he muttered desperately.

  I crossed to her, yanked her hands away, using muscle, pulled her face up, and kissed her hard and good on the lips. She jerked her face aside, shoved at me, and protested, “What the hell!”

  That sounded better, and I turned to Wolfe and told him reproachfully, “You can’t blame her. I doubt if it’s fear or despair or anything normal like that. It’s probably hunger. I’ll bet she hasn’t had a bite since breakfast.”

  “Good heavens.” His eyes popped wide open. “Is that true, Miss Nieder? Haven’t you had lunch?”

  She shook her head. “They kept me there—and then I had to see you—”

  Wolfe was pushing the button. Since it was only five steps from the office to the kitchen door, in seconds Fritz was there.

  “Sandwiches and beer at once,” Wolfe told him. “Beer, Miss Nieder?”

  “I don’t have to eat.”

  “Nonsense. Beer? Claret? Milk? Brandy?”

  “Scotch and water. I could use that.”

  Which of course halted progress for a good twenty minutes. It wasn’t only his own meals that Wolfe insisted on safeguarding from extraneous matters. When Fritz brought the tray Cynthia wasn’t reluctant about the Scotch, but she needed urging on the sandwiches and got it from both of us. After a taste of the homemade pâté no further urging was required. To make her feel that she could take her time Wolfe conversed with me about the plant germination records. Not about Cramer. His feelings about Cramer were much too warm and too recent. When she was through I put the tray on the table by the big globe, leaving her a glass full of her mixture, and then resumed my seat at my desk.

  Wolfe was regarding her warily. “Do you feel better?”

  “Much better, yes. I guess I was pretty empty.”

  “Good.” Wolfe leaned back and sighed. “Now. You came to me as soon as the police let you go. Does that mean that you want my help in this new circumstance?”

  “It certainly does. I want—”

  “Excuse me. We’ll go faster if I lead, and Mr. Cramer is quite capable of sending men here with warrants. Let’s compress it. There are two points on which I must be satisfied before we can proceed. First, whether you killed that man. An attorney may properly work for a murderer, but I’m not an attorney, and anyway I don’t like money from murderers. Did you kill him?”

  “No. I want to—”

  “Just the no will do if it’s the truth. Is it?”

  “Yes. It’s no.”

  “I’m inclined to accept it, for reasons mostly not communicable. Some are. For instance, if you had been unable to eat that pâté—” Wolfe cut himself off and sent his eyes at me. “Archie. Did Miss Nieder kill that man?”

  I looked at her, my lips puckered, and her gaze met mine. I must admit that she looked pretty ragged, not at all the same person as the one who had modeled, just twenty-four hours before, a dancing dress of Swiss eyelet organdy with ruffled shoulders. She had sure been through something, but not necessarily a murder.

  I shook my head and told Wolfe, “No, sir. No guarantee with sanctions, but I vote no. My reasons are like yours, but I might mention that I strongly doubt if I would have had the impulse to make her stop crying by kissing her thoroughly if she had jabbed a window pole into a man’s face more than a dozen times. No.”

  Wolfe nodded. “Then that’s settled. She didn’t, unless we get cornered by facts, and in that case we’ll deserve it. The other point, Miss Nieder, is this: Was the man you saw up there a week ago today your uncle, and was it he who was killed last night?”

  A “yes” popped out of her. She added, “It was Uncle Paul. I saw him. I went—”

  “Don’t dash ahead. We’ll get to that. Since I’m assuming your good faith, tentatively at least, I am not suggesting that what you told me yesterday was flummery. I grant that you thought it was your uncle you saw a week ago today, and I accepted it then, but now it’s too flimsy for me. You’ll have to give me something better if you’ve got it. What was it that convinced you it was your uncle?”

  “I knew it was,” Cynthia declared. “Maybe if I tried I could tell you how I knew, but I don’t have to because now I do know so I could prove it. I’ve been trying to tell you. You remember what I said about my uncle’s private file—that I thought Jean Daumery had taken it and that Bernard has it now. I went there last night to look for it, and saw that—that dead man there on the floor. You can imagine—”

  She stopped and made a gesture.

  “Yes, I can imagine,” Wolfe agreed. “Go ahead.”

  “I made myself go close to look at him—his face was dreadful but he had the beard and the slick hair. I wanted to do something but I didn’t have nerve enough, and I had to sit down to pull myself together. Now they say I was in there fifteen minutes, but I wouldn’t think it took me that long to get up my nerve, but maybe it did, and then I went and pulled up the right leg of his trousers and pulled his sock down. He had two little scars about four inches above the ankle, and I knew those scars—that’s where my uncle got bit by a dog once. I looked at them close. I had to sit down again—” She stopped, with her mouth open. “Oh! That’s why it was fifteen minutes! I had forgotten all about that, sitting down again—”

  “Then you left? What did you do?”

  “I went home to my apartment and phoned Mr. Demarest. I hadn’t—”

  “Who’s Mr. Demarest?”

  “He’s a lawyer. He was a friend of Uncle Paul’s, and he’s the executor. I hadn’t told him about seeing my uncle last week because after all I had no proof, and I wanted to find my uncle and talk with him first, so I decided to get you to find him for me. But when I got home I thought the only thing to do was to phone Mr. Demarest, so I did, but he had gone out—”

  “Confound it,” Wolfe grumbled, “why didn’t you phone me?”

  “Well—” Cynthia looked harassed. “I didn’t know you, did I? Well enough for that? How could I tell what you would believe and what you wouldn’t?”

  “Indeed,” Wolfe said sarcastically. “So you decided to keep it from me, running the risk that I might glance at a newspaper. What is the lawyer doing? Reading up?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t get him. I phoned again at eleven-thirty, thinking he would be home by then, but he wasn’t, and the state I was in it didn’t even occur to me to leave word for him to call. Intending to phone again at midnight, I lay down on the couch to wait, and then—it may be hard to believe but I went to sleep and didn’t wake up until nearly seven o’clock. I thought it over and decided not to tell Mr. Demarest or anybody else. During a show season there are lots of people going up and down in those elevators in that building after hours, and I t
hought they wouldn’t remember about me, and my name wasn’t in the book because they know me so well and they’re not strict about it. That was dumb, wasn’t it?”

  Wolfe acquiesced with a restrained groan.

  She finished the story. “Of course I had to go to work as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t easy, but I did, and the place was full of people, police and detectives, when I got there. I had only been there a few minutes when they took me to a fitting room to ask questions, and like a fool I told them I hadn’t been there last night when they already knew about it.”

  Cynthia fluttered a hand. “When they were through with me I phoned Mr. Demarest’s office and he was out at lunch. So I came here.”

  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.

  “The trouble with him,” Cynthia was telling me with a frown, “is that he can’t bear to decide anything. Especially if it’s important, you might think he had to wait to see what the stars say or maybe a crystal ball. Then when he does make up his mind he’s as stubborn as a mule. The way I do when I want him to agree about something, I act as if it wasn’t very important—”

  The door came open and a man was there. He shut the door and approached her.

  “I’m sorry, Cynthia, it was Miss Dougherty of Bullock’s-Wilshire, and Brackett was with her. She thinks you’re better than ever, and she’s lost her head completely over those three—Oh! Who—?”

  “Mr. Goodwin of Nero Wolfe’s office,” Cynthia told him. “Mr. Daumery, Mr. Goodwin.”

  I got up to offer a hand and he took it.

  “Nero Wolfe the detective?” he asked.

  I told him yes. His exuberance about Miss Dougherty of Bullock’s-Wilshire evaporated without a trace. He sent Cynthia a look, shook his head, though not apparently at her, went to a chair, not the one at his desk, and sat. Cynthia’s statistics had informed me that he was four years younger than me, and I might as well concede them to him. On account of the intimate way he had beamed at Cynthia on entering, naturally I looked upon him as a rival, but to be perfectly fair to him he was built like a man, he knew where to get clothes and how to wear them, and he was not actually ugly.

  Now the exuberance was gone. “This godawful mess,” he glummed. “Where does Nero Wolfe come in?”

  “I went to see him,” Cynthia said. “I’ve hired him.”