“Convicted?” Cynthia goggled at him. “Of murdering my uncle?” Her chin hinges began to give. “I wouldn’t—”
“Lay off,” I growled at Wolfe, “unless you want to make me kiss her again. She’s not a crybaby, but your direct approach is really something. Use synonyms.”
“She’s not hungry again, is she?” he demanded peevishly. But he eased it. “Miss Nieder. If you’re on the defense and intend to stay there, get a lawyer. I’m no good for that. If you want your uncle’s murderer caught, whoever it is, and doubt whether the police are up to it, get me. Which do you want, a lawyer or me?”
“I want you,” she said, her chin okay.
Wolfe nodded in approval of her sound judgment. “Then we know what we’re doing.” He glanced at the wall clock. “In twenty minutes I must go up to my orchids. I spend two hours with them every afternoon, from four to six. The most urgent question is this: Who knows that the murdered man was Paul Nieder? Who besides you?”
“Nobody,” she declared.
“As far as you know, no one has said or done anything to indicate knowledge or suspicion of his identity?”
“No. They all say they never saw him before, and they have no idea how he got there or who he is. Of course — the way his face was — you wouldn’t expect—”
“I suppose not. But we’ll assume that whoever killed him knew who he was killing; we’d be donkeys if we didn’t. Also we’ll assume that he thinks no one else knows. That gives us an advantage. Are you sure you have given no one a hint of your recognition of your uncle last week?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”