Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 Read Online Free

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 happenedon 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.
    I saw no one with whiskers.
    Also before sitting I picked up, from the chair, a pad of paper and a pencil. The pad consisted of sheets with DAUMERY AND NIEDER and the address neatly printed in an upper corner. I was supposed, as I soon learned from watching my neighbors, to use it for making notes about the numbers I wanted to buy. On my right was a plump gray-haired specimen withsweat below her ear, and on my left was a handsome woman with an extremely good mouth, fairly young but not quite young enough. Neither had given me more than an indifferent glance.
    The room was high-ceilinged, and the wood-paneled walls were pretty well covered with drawings and photographs. Aside from that, and us on our chairs, there was