“Happy birthday!” she cried.
“Not this one,” Wolfe stated.
“Look out,” I warned him. “That’s one of a girl’s biggest dates.”
He pushed his chair back hastily, arose, and looked at me.
“Archie. I would like to see those people this evening. Six o’clock would do, but I prefer eight-thirty, after dinner. Go up there with Miss Nieder. She is under suspicion of murder, and has engaged me, and can reasonably expect their co-operation. She is in fact half-owner of that business, and one of them is her partner, one is her lawyer, and the other two are her employees. What better do you want?”
He made for the door, on his way to the elevator.
VIII
One of my little notions — that I had already exchanged words with Bernard Daumery — turned out to be wrong. Evidently it is not a Seventh Avenue custom for half-owners to act as doortenders at buyers’ shows. At least, contrary to my surmise, it had not been Bernard Daumery who on Monday afternoon had barred Driscoll’s Emporium and had given me a head-to-foot survey before letting me in. I never saw that number again.
Business as usual is one of the few things that the Police Department makes allowances for in handling a homicide. The wheels of commerce must not be stalled unless it is unavoidable. So at the Daumery and Nieder premises eight hours after the discovery of the body, a pug-nosed dick hovering inside near the entrance was the only visible hint that this was the scene of the crime. The city scientists had done all they could and got all that was gettable and had departed. As Cynthia and I entered, the dick recognized me and wanted to know how come, and I told him amiably that I was working for Nero Wolfe and Mr. Wolfe was working for Miss Nieder, pausing just long enough not to seem boorish. I wasn’t worried about Cramer. He knew damn well that if he took drastic steps Wolfe would perform exactly as outlined, and that he had been a plain jackass not to wait until Wolfe had downed the other two rice cakes and had some coffee. If the case got really messy and made him desperate he might explode something, but not today or tomorrow.
Cynthia and I were sitting in Bernard Daumery’s office, waiting for him to finish with some customers in the showroom. It had been his uncle Jean’s room, and was large, light, and airy, with good rugs and furniture, and the walls even more covered with drawings and photographs than in the showroom. We had decided to start with Bernard.