Cynthia smiled. “As Polly Zarella puts it, we grossed over two million last year with a swelled-up profit.”
“Then why not erase it, if your uncle likes his beard and his hair slicked? If you corner him and make him shave and wash his hair, and make him take his old label, you’ll have no share of the swelled-up profits. He will. I would charge moderately for this interview.”
“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “I have to know what’s going on, and I have to know where I stand. I—” She stopped and bit her lip. Apparently she had been keeping emotions, whatever they might be, under control, and they were trying to break loose. When she was ready for speech again all she said was, “I’m upset.”
“Then you should reserve decision.” Wolfe was being very patient with her. “Never decide anything while you’re upset.” He wiggled a finger. “And in spite of your dogmatism you may be wrong. True, you might have recognized him when others didn’t, since you lived with him and knew him intimately, but others knew him intimately too. One especially — his business partner, Mr. Daumery — for twenty years, you say. Was he there that day and did he see the man with the beard?”
Cynthia’s eyes had widened. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “didn’t I–I thought I had mentioned that! Of course Bernard Daumery, the nephew, was there — I know I mentioned him — but Jean Daumery, my uncle’s partner, he’s dead!”
Wolfe’s eyes opened to more than a slit for the first time. “The devil he is. Jumped in a geyser?”
“No, in an accident. He was drowned. He was fishing and fell from the boat.”
“Where was this?”
“In Florida. Off the west coast.”
“When?”