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—”
Wolfe was nodding at her. “Excellent,” he declared.