“No. I want to-”
“Just the no will do it 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 pate—” 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 well 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 1 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 anide, 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 be 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 thought 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.”
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 dock. “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.”