Free Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 by Three Doors to Death

that someone is sneaking up behind him but for reasons of his own doesn’t want to turn and see. “I probably will,” he said. “What are the questions?”
    “Thank you,” Wolfe said graciously. “Are your parents alive?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where are they?”
    “In Los Angeles. My father is a professor in the university there.”
    “Is either of them conversant with your business affairs?”
    “Not especially. In a vague general way.”
    “Have you brothers or sisters?”
    “Two younger sisters. In college.”
    “Have you any other relatives that you see or correspond with frequently?”
    Bernard looked at Cynthia. “Do you want me to go on with this autobiography?”
    “She has no opinion in the matter,” Wolfe said curtly, “because she doesn’t know what I’m after. You may or may not have guessed. But can you object that my questions are offensive?”
    “No, they’re only silly.”
    “Then humor me—or humor Miss Nieder through me. Any other relatives that you see or correspond with frequently?”
    “None whatever.”
    “I’m about through. I won’t name any names, because the only ones I know are already eliminated. For help in making important decisions, manifestly it is not Mr. Demarest you turn to, since he has had to rationalize the change he has noticed in you. Nor Miss Zarella nor Mr. Roper, since their attitude toward Mr. Groodwin’s invitation to come here this evening had no effect on yours. I’ll have to put it in general terms: is there a banker, or lawyer, or friend, or any other person or persons, on whose judgment you frequently rely for guidance in your business? Anyone at all?”
    “No special person. I discuss things with people, naturally—including Mr. Demarest—”
    “Ha! Not Mr. Demarest. He has noticed a change in you. This is your last chance, Mr. Daumery, to drag somebody in.”
    “I don’t have to drag anybody in. I’m of sound mind and body and over twenty-one.”
    “I know you are, and of a decisive and aggressive temperament, and that’s why I’m making progress.” Wolfe wiggled a finger at him. “One last question. Yesterday Miss Nieder suggested, frivolously Ithought, that you might find counsel in the stars or a crystal ball. Do you?”
    Bernard croaked at Cynthia, “Where the hell did you get that idea?”
    “I said she was being frivolous,” Wolfe told him. “Do you? Or tea leaves or a fortune-teller?”
    “No!”
    Wolfe nodded. “That’s all, Mr. Daumery. Thank you again. That satisfies me.”
    He took them all in, “You have a right to know, I think, who it was that was killed in the Daumery and Nieder office last evening. It was Mr. Paul Nieder, the former partner in the business.”
XI
    Everybody stared at him. If I had had a pin handy I would have tried dropping it.
    “What did you say?” Demarest demanded.
    “By my mother’s milk,” Polly Zarella cried, springing to her feet, “it was! It was Paul! When they made me look at him I saw he had Paul’s hands, Paul’s wonderful artist hands, only I knew it couldn’t be!” At Wolfe’s desk, glaring at him ferociously, she drummed on the desk with her fists. “How?” she demanded. “Tell me how!”
    I had to get up and help out or she might have climbed over the desk and drummed on Wolfe’s belly, which would have stopped the party. The others were reacting too, but not as spectacularly as Polly. My firmness in getting her back in her chair had a quieting effect on them too, and Wolfe’s words could come through.
    “You’ll want to know all about it, of course, andeventually you will, but right now I have a job to do. Since, as I say, Mr. Nieder was killed last night, it follows that he didn’t kill himself over a year ago. He only pretended to. A week ago today Miss Nieder saw him in your showroom, disguised with a beard and glasses and slick parted hair. She recognized him, but he departed before she could speak to him. When she entered that office last evening the body