“Pah. I can’t depend on you. I myself know of two you haven’t mentioned. Didn’t your uncle have one? He probably let himself in with it last night. And didn’t Jean Daumery have one?”
“I was telling about the ones that are there now,” Cynthia said with a touch of indignation. “I suppose Uncle Paul had one, of course. I don’t know about Jean Daumery’s, but if he had it in his clothes that day fishing it’s at the bottom of the ocean, and if he didn’t have it I suppose Bernard has it now.”
Wolfe nodded. “Then we know of four people with keys beside you. Miss Zarella, Mr. Daumery, Mr. Roper, Mr. Demarest. Can you have them here this evening at half-past eight?”
Cynthia gawked. “You mean — here?”
“At this office.”
“But good lord.” She was flabbergasted. “I can’t just order them around! What can I say? I can’t say I want them to help find out who killed my uncle because they don’t know it was my uncle! You must consider they’re much older than I am — all but Bernard — and they think I’m just a fresh kid. Even Bernard is seven years older. After all, I’m only twenty-one — that is, I will be — my God!”
She looked horror-struck, as if someone had poked a window pole at her.
“What now?” Wolfe demanded.
“Tomorrow’s my birthday! I’ll be twenty-one tomorrow!”
“Yes?” Wolfe said politely.