Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 (9 page)

I was asking that question myself. Neither Wolfe nor Demarest was in sight. I had turned to ask Fritz where they were, but he had left the room as soon as I appeared. And not only were those two missing, but what was fully as surprising, there had been two additions to the party. Inspector Cramer and my favorite sergeant, Purley Stebbins, were seated side by side on the couch over in the far corner.

I dodged my way through the welcomers, some sitting and some standing, and asked Cramer respectfully, “Where’s Mr. Wolfe?”

“Somewhere with a lawyer,” Cramer growled, “making up charades. Who’s that you brought in?”

“George Dickson, so I’m told. I suppose Mr. Wolfe phoned you to come and get a murderer?”

“He did.”

“Your face is dirty, Purley.”

“Go to hell.”

“I was just starting. Excuse me.”

I began to dodge my way back to the hall door, thinking that I had better find my employer and inform him that I had delivered as usual, but I was only halfway there when he and Demarest appeared, coming in to us. After one swift glance at the assembly, the lawyer sidled off along the wall to a remote chair over by the bookshelves, evidently not being in a welcoming mood. Wolfe headed for his desk, but in the middle of the room found himself blocked. George Dickson was there, facing him.

“Nero Wolfe?” Dickson put out a hand. “I’m Jean Daumery. This is a real pleasure!”

Wolfe stood motionless. The room was suddenly quiet, painfully quiet, and all eyes were going in one direction, at the two men.

“How do you do, Mr. Daumery,” Wolfe said dryly, stepped around him, and walked to his chair. Except for the sound of that movement the quiet held. Jean Daumery let his hand fall, which is about all you can do with a rejected hand unless you want to double it into a fist and use it another way. After solving the hand problem, Jean turned a half-circle to face Wolfe’s desk and spoke in a different tone.

“I was told that my nephew sent for me. He didn’t. You got me here by a trick. What do you want?”

“Sit down, sir,” Wolfe said. “This may take all night.”

“Not all of my night. What do you want?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you. I want to present some facts, offer my explanation of them, and get your opinion. There’s a chair there beside your nephew.”

To a man trying to grab the offensive and hold it,
it’s a comedown to accept an invitation to be seated. But the alternative, to go on standing in a room full of sitters, is just as awkward, unless you intend to walk out soon, and Jean couldn’t know what he intended until he learned what he was up against. He took the chair next to Bernard.

“What facts?” he asked.

“I said,” Wolfe told him, “that this may take all night, but that doesn’t mean that I want it to. I’ll make it as short as possible.” He reached to his breast pocket and pulled out folded sheets of paper. “Instead of telling you what this says I’ll read it to you.” He glanced around. “I suppose you all know, or most of you, that tomorrow will be Miss Nieder’s twenty-first birthday.”

“Oh, yes!” Polly Zarella said emphatically.

Wolfe glared at her. He couldn’t stand emphatic women. “I persuaded Mr. Demarest,” he said, “to anticipate the delivery date of this paper by a few hours. It was intended, as you will see, only for Miss Nieder, but, as Mr. Cramer would tell you if you asked him, evidence in a case of murder has no respect for confidences.”

He unfolded the paper. “This,” he said, “is a holograph. It is written on two sheets of plain bond paper, and is dated at the top Yellowstone Park, May sixteenth, Nineteen forty-six. It starts, ‘My dearest Cynthia,’ and goes on:

Wolfe looked up. “This is not paragraphed. Evidently Mr. Nieder didn’t believe in paragraphs.” He returned to the paper:

Wolfe folded the sheets and returned them to his pocket, and looked up.

“It is a capital U in Uncle,” he announced.

Polly Zarella and Cynthia both had tears in their eyes.

Polly jumped to her feet, brushing the tears away without bothering about a handkerchief, and faced Jean Daumery with her eyes blazing. “I quit!” she shrieked. “I give you two weeks’ notice before people! You said I’ll have to put up with you but I won’t! There will be a new business, Zarella and Nieder, and Cynthia and I will show you! You and Ward Roper to compete with us? Phut!”

Her spitting at him seemed to be unintentional, merely coming out with the phut.

“Confound it, madam, sit down,” Wolfe grumbled.

Polly darted to Cynthia and was apparently going to begin arrangements for the new partnership then and there, but the sound of Jean Daumery’s voice sidetracked her.

“I see,” Jean said calmly. He had tightened up. “You got me down here to accuse me of murdering my wife, with that hysterical letter from Paul Nieder to back it up. This is absolutely fantastic!”

Wolfe nodded. “It would be,” he agreed, “so that’s not what I’m doing. I don’t waste time on fantasy. I read that letter only for background. To get down to our real business: when and where did you last see Mr. Nieder?”

Jean shook his head. “From fantasy to fact?
Our
business? When and where I did this or that is certainly my business, but not yours. You were going to tell
me
facts.”

“You won’t answer that?”

“Certainly not, why should I? I don’t owe you any answers to anything.”

“You’re entirely correct,” Wolfe conceded, “but not very intelligent. I suppose you know that those two gentlemen on the couch are Police Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Stebbins. Their presence does not mean that I asked that question with the voice of authority, but surely it makes it obvious that if you don’t answer me you will be given an opportunity to answer them. Suit yourself. I’ll try again. When and where did you last see Mr. Paul Nieder?”

Once more Jean proved himself capable of a swift and sensible decision. “I don’t know the exact date,”
he said, “but it was early in May last year, at our place of business, just before he left for a vacation.”

“Aha,” Wolfe murmured in a pleased tone, “that’s more like it. Now, Mr. Daumery, here are a few of the facts I promised. Mr. Nieder did not kill himself a year ago May; you heard that letter I read. He was seen, alive, here in New York, last week, by his niece, disguised with a beard, slick hair parted on the left side, and glasses. He was seen again this morning, by many people, only this time he was dead. The manner of his death—”

“So that’s what you had!” Inspector Cramer was no longer on the couch but right among us—or at least among Wolfe, at his desk, barking at him. “By God, this time you’ve asked for it!”

“Pfui,” Wolfe said peevishly. “I’ve got Mr. Daumery here for you, haven’t I? Do you want to take it over now? Are you ready to? Or shall I give him some more facts?”

Cramer’s eyes left Wolfe for a look around. When they hit Cynthia they must have had a message for her, for she left her seat and walked to one over near Demarest. Cramer went and sat in the red leather chair, which put him in the center of things with a full-face view of Jean Daumery. Purley Stebbins had moved too, quietly pulling up a chair to Jean’s rear about arm’s length off.

“Let’s hear your facts,” Cramer growled.

Wolfe’s gaze was back at Jean. “I was about to say,” he resumed, “that the manner of that man’s death—no one but his niece knew it was Mr. Nieder—made it necessary to call in the police. They did what they were supposed to do, and naturally they concentrated on the most important point: who was he? As you see, Mr. Daumery, Mr. Cramer resents not being
told by the only people who knew—Miss Nieder, Mr. Goodwin, and me—but that’s really foolish of him. For if he had known who the dead man was he would probably, and reasonably, have focused on the most likely culprit, Miss Nieder, who was known to have been on the spot and who had the excellent motive of wanting to keep her inheritance of a half-share in the business. As it stood, it was vital for the police to identify the corpse. I don’t know, Mr. Daumery, whether you are aware of the stupendous resources of the New York police in attacking a problem like that. You may be sure that they employed all of them in trying to trace that man with a beard and slick hair parted on the left side and glasses. That’s one of the facts I ask you to consider. Is it likely that they failed entirely? Is it likely that they found no one, anywhere, who had seen such a man? I am anxious to be quite fair with you. Is it not likely, for instance, that if the bearded man had been seen recently, on the street or in some other public place, talking with another man—say a man whose description tallies well with yours—that the police have learned of it and can produce a witness or witnesses to identify the second man?”

Wolfe raised a finger, and suddenly bent in to aim straight at Jean. “I am fairly warning you. It is nothing against you that you told me you last saw Paul Nieder over a year ago. Nobody likes to be involved in disagreeable matters. But now be careful. If, after what I have just said, you persist in lying, you can’t blame us if we surmise—look at his face, Mr. Cramer! Do you see his face?”

Wolfe let the silence work, and the pairs of eyes all fixed on Jean’s face, with his finger still nailing the
target, for a full five seconds, and then suddenly snapped, like the snap of a whip.

“When and where did you last see Paul Nieder, Mr. Daumery?”

It was devilish. No man could have stood up under it completely whole. What was Jean going to do about his face? What was he going to say?

He said nothing.

Wolfe leaned back and let his eyes open to more than slits. “It offers,” he said like a lecturer, “a remarkable field for speculation. What, for instance, made you suspect that his suicide was a fake? Possibly you were as well acquainted with his character as he was with yours, and you knew it was extremely improbable that he could jump into a geyser with no clothes on. Indeed, there are few men who could. In any case, he was right about you; you did not forget or abandon your intention. It would have been dangerous to hire someone to find him, and if you undertook it yourself it might have taken years. You decided to coax him out. You went to Florida on a fishing trip with your nephew, and you arranged with him to stage a drowning for you. Another speculation: how much did you tell him? Did you have to let him in—”

“No!”

It was Bernard. He was out of his chair, but not to confront his uncle or to bear down on Wolfe. He had turned to where Cynthia’s new position had put her in his rear, and his explosion was for her.

“Get this straight, Cynthia!” he told her. “I’m not trying any scuttle or any sneak, and whatever he has done that’s up to him with no pushes from me, but this is my part and you’ve got to have it straight!” He wheeled to his uncle. “You told me that someone had it in for you and your life was in danger. You said
nothing about Paul Nieder, and of course I thought he was dead. You said that your supposed death would force this person to take certain steps and that the situation would soon be changed so that you could reappear. For all I know, that’s who it really was. I don’t know.” He turned back to Cynthia. “I don’t know anything, except that I’m damned if I’m going to have you listen to insinuations that I’m mixed up in this.”