Rex Stout - Man Alive

“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.

At 2:55 that Monday afternoon in June I entered the building at 496 Seventh Avenue and took an elevator to the twelfth floor.

Since that was only a ten-minute walk from Wolfe’s place my choice would have been to hoof it, but Wolfe was proceeding to spend chunks of the two grand even before he got it. He had called in Saul Panzer, the best free-lance operative on earth, and Saul and I went together in a taxi driven by our old pal Herb Aronson, whom we often used. Saul and Herb stayed at the curb in the cab, with the flag down. It had developed that Cynthia didn’t want Uncle Paul’s whiskers yanked off in any public spot, and therefore he would have to be tailed. Tailing in New York, if you really mean it, being no one-man job, we were setting it up right, with me on foot and Saul on wheels.

Cynthia had filled in a few gaps before leaving our office. She had inherited her uncle’s half of the business under a will he had left, but was not yet in legal possession because of the law’s attitude about dead people who leave no remains. There had been no serious doubt of his being pressure-cooked in the geyser, though no one had actually seen him jump in, since his clothes had been found at the geyser’s rim, and the farewell letters in the pocket of the coat, one to his lawyer and one to his niece, had unquestionably been in his handwriting. But the law was chewing its cud. Apparently Jean Daumery, up to the moment he had fallen off the boat and got drowned, had done likewise, and, in the six weeks since his death, his nephew Bernard had carried on with the chewing. That was the impression I got from a couple of Cynthia’s remarks about her current status at Daumery and Nieder’s. She was stall modeling, and most of the designing was being done by a guy named Ward Roper, whose name she pronounced with a good imitation of the inflection Winston Churchill used in pronouncing Mussolini.

She had got in another dig or two at Helen Daumery, replying to Wolfe’s casual questions. It was possible, she said, that Jean Daumery had known what was going on between his wife and his business partner, but it was doubtful because Helen had been an extremely slick article. And when Wolfe inquired about Helen’s death and Cynthia told him that it happened on a country lane where Helen and her husband were out for a Sunday morning ride on their own horses, and the husband was the only eyewitness, she added that whoever or whatever was in charge of accidents might as well get the credit for that one, and that anyway Jean Daumery was dead too.

So it still looked as if we were fresh out of murders as far as Cynthia was concerned. To get any attention from Wolfe a murder must be attached to a client with money to spend and a reason for spending it. Cynthia didn’t fit. As for her uncle, he wasn’t dead. As for Helen Daumery, Cynthia wasn’t interested a nickel’s worth. As for Jean Daumery, Cynthia was stringing along with the Florida people who had decided there was nothing wrong.

Therefore there was no tingle in me as I got off the elevator at the twelfth floor.

Double doors were standing open, with a few human beings gathered there. As I approached, a bulky female who had been in my elevator swept past me and was going on through, but a man sidestepped to cut her off and asked politely, “What is your firm, please?”

The woman glared at him. “Coats and suits for Driscoll’s Emporium, Tulsa.”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, there’s no place for you.” His face suddenly lit up with a cordial smile, and I thought unexpected grace was about to drop on her until I saw that the smile was for another one from my elevator, a skinny dame with big ears.

“Good after noon , Miss Dixon,” the smiler said, serving it with sugar. “Mr. Roper was asking about you just a minute ago.”

Miss Dixon nodded indifferently and went on in. I maneuvered around Driscoll’s Emporium, who was looking enraged but impotent, and murmured at the man in a refined voice.

“My name is. Goodwin, British Fabrics Association. Miss Cynthia Nieder invited me. Shall I wait while you check with her?”

He looked me over and I took it without flinching, wearing, as I was, a tropical worsted tailored by Breslow and a shirt and tie that were fully worthy. “It isn’t necessary,” he finally conceded and motioned me through.

The room was so nearly packed that it took a couple of minutes to find an empty seat far enough front to be sure of catching Cynthia’s signal, which was to be brushing her hair back on the right side with her left hand. I saw no point in pretending I wasn’t there, and before sitting down I turned in a slow complete circle, giving the audience the eye as if I were looking for a friend. There were close to two hundred of them, and I was surprised to see that nearly a third of them were men, though Cynthia had explained that they would be not only buyers from all over the country, but also merchandise executives, department heads, presidents, vice-presidents, fashion writers, fabrics people, and miscellaneous.