Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 (2 page)

So all I did was grin understandingly at Cynthia Nieder, brandish my pen over my notebook, and clear my throat.

“Daumery and Nieder,” Cynthia said, “is as good a name as there is on Seventh Avenue, including Fifty-seventh Street, but of course if you’re not in the garment trade and know nothing about it—I imagine your wives would know the name all right.”

Wolfe shuddered.

“No wife,” I stated. “Neither of us. That’s why we caterwaul.”

“Well, if you had one she would know about Daumery and Nieder. We make top-quality coats, suits, and dresses, and we confine our line, even here in New York. The business was started twenty years ago by two men, Jean Daumery and Paul Nieder—my Uncle Paul—my father’s brother. It’s—”

“Excuse me,” Wolfe put in. “Will it save time to tell you that I don’t do industrial surveillance?”

“No, that’s not it,” she said, waving it away. “I know you don’t. It’s about him, my uncle. Uncle Paul.”

She frowned, and was looking at the window beyond Wolfe’s desk as if she were seeing something. Then her shoulders lifted and dropped again, and she went back to Wolfe.

“You need some background,” she told him. “At least I think it would be better. Daumery was the business head of the firm, the organizer and manager and salesman, and Uncle Paul was the designer, the
creator. If it hadn’t been for him Daumery wouldn’t have had anything to manage and sell. They owned it together—a fifty-fifty partnership. It was my uncle’s half that I inherited when my uncle killed himself—anyway, that’s how it was announced, that he committed suicide—a little over a year ago.”

That gave me two thoughts: one, that I had been right about her having the price of a fee; and two, that we were probably in for another job of translating a suicide into a murder.

“I suppose I should tell about me,” Cynthia was saying. “I was born and brought up out West, in Oregon. My father and mother died when I was fourteen, and Uncle Paul sent for me, and I came to New York and lived with him. He wasn’t married. We didn’t get along very well together, I guess because we were so much alike, because I’m creative too; but it wasn’t really so bad, we just fought all the time. And when it came down to it he let me have my way. He was determined about my going to college, but I knew I was creative and it would be a waste of time. We fought about it every day, and finally he said if I didn’t go to college I would have to earn my living, and then what do you think he did? He gave me a job modeling for Daumery and Nieder at top salary! That’s what he was like! Actually he was wonderful. He gave me the run of the place too, to catch on about designing, but of course he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t known I had unusual talent.”

“What kind of talent?” Wolfe asked skeptically.

“As a clothes designer, of course,” she said, as if that were the only talent worth mentioning. “I was only eighteen—that was three years ago—and completely without training, and for two years I only modeled and caught onto things, but I had a few little
chances to show what I could do. I was surprised that my uncle was willing to help me along, because most established designers are so jealous; but he did. Then he went West on a vacation, and then the word came that he had killed himself. Maybe I ought to tell you why I wasn’t surprised that he had killed himself.”

“Maybe,” Wolfe conceded.

“Because I knew how unhappy he was. Helen Daumery had died. A horse she was riding had gone crazy and thrown her off on some stones and killed her. She was Daumery’s wife—the wife of my uncle’s partner—and my uncle was in love with her. She had been one of their models—she was much younger than Daumery—and I think she was the only woman Uncle Paul ever loved—anyhow he certainly loved her. She didn’t love him because she didn’t love anybody but herself, but I think she probably gave him the cherry out of her cocktail just because she enjoyed having him like that when no other woman could get him. She would.”

I didn’t put it in my notes that Miss Nieder had disapproved of Mrs. Daumery, but I could have, and signed it.

“Helen’s death broke my uncle up completely,” Cynthia went on. “I never saw anything like it. I was still living in his apartment. He didn’t say a word to me for three days—not a single word—nor to anyone else, and he didn’t leave the apartment day or night—right in the middle of getting ready for the showings of the fall line—and then he said he was going away for a rest, and he went. Four days later the news came that he had committed suicide, and under the circumstances it didn’t occur to me to question it.”

When she paused Wolfe inquired, “Do you question it now?”

“I certainly do,” she said emphatically. “I wasn’t surprised, either, at the way he did it. He was always keyed up and dramatic, about everything. He was by far the best designer in New York, and he was the best showman, too. So you would expect him to do something startling about killing himself, no matter how unhappy he was. He took all his clothes off and jumped into a geyser in Yellowstone Park.”

Wolfe let out a mild grunt. I gave her an admiring eye for her calm voice and manner in dishing out a fact like that, but of course it was a year old for her.

“Under the surface of that geyser,” she said, “down below, the pressure in the pipe from above keeps the temperature far above the boiling point, according to an article about it I read in a newspaper.”

“That seems conclusive,” Wolfe murmured. “Why do you now question it?”

“Because he didn’t die. Because he’s not dead. I saw him last week, here in New York, alive.”

I felt myself relaxing. It had seemed that we were about to be tagged for the chore of ripping the false face off of a murder disguised as a suicide, and at the smell of murder I always go tight all over. In the detective business that’s the center ring in the big tent. The headline
MAN DEAD
gets the eye good, but Cynthia Nieder had scrapped that and changed it to
MAN ALIVE
, which was quite a comedown. Another thought had struck me: that if Uncle Paul was alive her inheriting half the business was out the window and her ability to pay a good exorbitant fee was open to question. My attitude toward her personally remained
intact; she rated high priority on looks, voice, and other observable factors. But professionally I was compelled to grade her way down in the little routine items.

So I relaxed and tossed my notebook on my desk, which is so placed that a half-turn of my swivel chair puts me facing Wolfe, and with another half-turn I am confronting the red leather chair beyond the end of his desk where a lone visitor is usually seated. Some visitors clash with it, but Cynthia, in a deep-toned yellow dress, maybe silk, a jacket in brown and yellow checks, flaring open, and a little brown affair slanting on her head, looked fine. Having learned one or two little things about women’s clothes from Lily Rowan and other reliable sources, I decided that if Cynthia had designed that outfit Wolfe should eat his skepticism about her talent.

She was talking, telling about the man alive.

“It was last Tuesday,” she said, “a week ago tomorrow, June third. We were showing our fall line to the press. We don’t show in hotels because we don’t have to, since our showroom seats over two hundred comfortably. For a press showing we don’t let anyone in without a ticket because if we did the place would be mobbed. I was modeling a blue and black ensemble of lightweight Bishop twill when I saw him. He was in the fifth row, between Agnes Pemberton of
Vogue
and Mrs. Gumpert of the
Herald Tribune.
If you asked me how I recognized him I couldn’t tell you, but I simply knew it was him, there wasn’t the slightest doubt—”

“Why shouldn’t you recognize him?” Wolfe demanded.

“Because he had a beard, and he wore glasses, and his hair was slick and parted on the left side. That sounds like a freak, but Uncle Paul would know better
than to look freaky. The beard was trimmed, and somehow it didn’t make him conspicuous. It was lucky I didn’t completely recognize him when I first saw him, or I would probably have stood and gawked at him. Later in the dressing room Polly Zarella asked Bernard—that’s Bernard Daumery, Jean’s nephew—who was the man that was growing his own wool, and Bernard said he didn’t know, probably from the
Daily Worker.
Of course we know most of the guests at a press showing, but not all of them. When I modeled another number—a full-back calf-covering coat in tapestry tones of Kleinsell ratiné—I took him in without being obvious about it, and all of a sudden I knew who it was—I didn’t guess, I
knew.
It staggered me so that I had to get off quick, quicker than I should have, and in the dressing room it was all I could do to keep them from seeing me tremble. I wanted to run out and speak to him, but I couldn’t because it would have ruined the show. I had four more numbers to model—one of them was our headliner, a tailored dress and jacket in black with white stripes, with slightly bouffant sleeves and a double hemline—and I had to go on to the end. When it was over I hurried out front and he was gone.”

“Indeed,” Wolfe muttered.

“Yes. I went outside, to the elevators, but he was gone.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“No. Just that one time.”

“Did anyone else recognize him?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure they didn’t, or there would have been a noise. A dead man come back to life?”

Wolfe nodded. “Many of those present had known him?”

“Certainly, nearly all of them. He was famous, as famous as you are.”

Wolfe skipped that one. “How sure are you it was he?”

“I’m absolutely positive. There simply isn’t any argument about it.”

“Did you find out who he was supposed to be?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t find out a thing about him. I didn’t want to ask questions of too many people, but no one could tell me anything.” She hesitated. “I must admit the ticket thing is handled pretty loosely. The tickets aren’t just scattered around, but anyone who knows the ropes wouldn’t have much trouble getting one, and my uncle certainly knows the ropes.”

“Whom have you told about this?”

“No one. Not a soul. I’ve been trying to decide what to do.”

“You might,” Wolfe suggested, “just erase it. You say you inherited a half-interest in that”—he grimaced—“that business from your uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else? Property, securities, money in the bank?”

“No. He had no property, except the furniture in his apartment, and the lawyer said there were no securities or bank accounts.”

“Hunh,” Wolfe said. “Those are portable. But you have half of that business. Is it solvent?”

Cynthia smiled. “As Polly Zarella puts it, we grossed over two million last year with a swelled-up profit.”

“Then why not erase it, if your uncle likes his beard and his hair slicked? If you corner him and make him shave and wash his hair, and make him take
his old label, you’ll have no share of the swelled-up profits. He will. I would charge moderately for this interview.”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “I have to know what’s going on, and I have to know where I stand. I—” She stopped and bit her lip. Apparently she had been keeping emotions, whatever they might be, under control, and they were trying to break loose. When she was ready for speech again all she said was, “I’m upset.”

“Then you should reserve decision.” Wolfe was being very patient with her. “Never decide anything while you’re upset.” He wiggled a finger. “And in spite of your dogmatism you may be wrong. True, you might have recognized him when others didn’t, since you lived with him and knew him intimately, but others knew him intimately too. One especially—his business partner, Mr. Daumery—for twenty years, you say. Was he there that day and did he see the man with the beard?”

Cynthia’s eyes had widened. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “didn’t I—I thought I had mentioned that! Of course Bernard Daumery, the nephew, was there—I know I mentioned him—but Jean Daumery, my uncle’s partner, he’s dead!”

Wolfe’s eyes opened to more than a slit for the first time. “The devil he is. Jumped in a geyser?”

“No, in an accident. He was drowned. He was fishing and fell from the boat.”

“Where was this?”

“In Florida. Off the west coast.”

“When?”

“It was—let’s see, today is June ninth—a little over six weeks ago.”

“Who was on the boat with him?”

“Bernard, his nephew.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“And the nephew inherited that half?”

“Yes, but—” She frowned. Her hand fluttered. She had a habit of making gestures which were graceful and a pleasure to look at. “But that’s all right.”

“Why is it all right?”

“That’s a silly question,” she said with spirit. “I merely mean that if there had been any question of anything wrong the Florida people would have attended to it.”

“Perhaps,” Wolfe conceded grumpily. “Only it’s quite a list. Mrs. Daumery thrown from a horse onto stones and killed. Mr. Nieder propelled into a geyser and boiled. Mr. Daumery hurtled into an ocean and drowned. It’s not my affair, thank heaven, but if it were I should want better testimony than that of what you call the Florida people.” He got brusque. “About your uncle, what do you want me for?”

She knew the answer to that one. “I want you to find him, and I want to see him.”

“Very well. It may take time and it will be expensive. A retainer of two thousand dollars?”

She didn’t blink. “Of course,” she agreed, speaking as a millionaire. “I’ll mail you a check today. I suppose it’s understood that this is extremely confidential, as I said at the beginning, and no reports are to be phoned to me, and written reports are not to be mailed but handed to me personally. One thing I was going to suggest.”

She directed her clear blue eyes at me, and back at Wolfe.

“I’ll be glad,” she said, “to tell you all I know about his former associates, but I doubt if that will help. He
had no relatives but me, and no really close friends that I know of. The only person he ever loved was Helen Daumery—unless he had some affection for me; I guess maybe he did. But he loved designing, his work, and he loved that business. I think he came there last Tuesday because he simply couldn’t stay away. I don’t believe he knew I recognized him, so why wouldn’t he come back? If he does, it will probably be today, because this afternoon we have our big show of the fall line for buyers. That’s why I came to see you this morning. He wouldn’t even need a ticket, and I have a feeling he’ll be there. I know you do everything in your office and practically never go out, but couldn’t Mr. Goodwin come? He could sit near the front, and I could arrange to give him a signal if I see my uncle—only he would have to be extremely careful not to spoil the show in any way—”