Rex Stout - Nero Wolfe 17 by Three Doors to Death Page A

suggested. “Until I finish arranging this? How about it, Mr. Daumery? You’ll be with us?”
    Bernard was sunk in gloom or something—anyhow, he was sunk. He was hunched in his chair, his eyes going from Cynthia to Demarest to me to Cynthia.
    “Okay?” I prodded him.
    “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I’ll think it over.”
    Cynthia emitted a little snort.
    Demarest regarded Bernard with exasperation. “As usual. You’ll think it over. What is there to think about?”
    “There’s this business to think about,” Bernard declared. “It’s bad enough already, with a murdered man found here in the office. We would practically be admitting our connection with it, wouldn’t we, the five of us going to discuss it with a detective?”
    “I’ve hired the detective personally,” Cynthia snapped.
    “I know you have, Cynthia.” His tone implied that he was imploring her to make allowances for the air spaces in his skull. “But damn it, we have to consider the business, don’t we? It may be inadvisable. I don’t know.”
    “How long would you need to think?” I asked pleasantly. “It’s five o’clock now, so there isn’t a lot of time. Say an hour and a half? By six-thirty?”
    “I suppose so.” He sounded uncertain. He looked around at us as if he were a woodchuck in a hole and we were terriers digging to get him. “I’ll let you know. Where’ll you be?”
    “That depends,” I replied for us. “There are two more to invite—Miss Zarella and Mr. Roper. It mighthelp if you would get them in here. Would that require thinking over too?”
    Demarest chuckled. Cynthia sent me a warning glance, to caution me against aggravating him.
    Bernard retorted with spirit. “You do your thinking and I’ll do mine.” He got up and went to his desk. “Would you mind using another chair, Mr. Demarest?”
    Demarest moved out. Bernard sat down and picked up the phone transmitter, and told it, “Please ask Mr. Roper and Miss Zarella to come in here.”
IX
    They entered together.
    I had seen Polly Zarella before. It was she who, the preceding afternoon, had emerged from the door on the left and given the signal that started the show. She still resembled my mother only in point of age. Her lipstick supply was holding out, and so was her shoulder padding, though she had on a different dress. Seeing her on the street, I would have tagged her for a totally different role from the one she filled—Cynthia having informed me that she was a scissors-and-needle wizard, in charge of all Daumery and Nieder production, and a highly important person.
    After I had been introduced Bernard invited them to sit. Then he said, “I’m sorry to take your time, but this day is all shot to hell anyhow. Mr. Goodwin wants to ask you something.”
    They aimed their eyes at me. I grinned at them engagingly.
    “You’re busy and I’ll cut it short. More trouble and fuss, all on account of a dead man. The cops are makingit hot for Miss Nieder because she was here last night and said she wasn’t when they first brought it up. Now she’s in a fix, and she has hired my boss, Nero Wolfe, to get her out. Mr. Wolfe would like to have a talk with five people, the five who carry keys to this place—the five who are here now. He sent me to ask if you will come to his office this evening at half-past eight. Miss Nieder will of course be there. Mr. Demarest is coming. Mr. Daumery is thinking it over and will let us know later. It will be in the interest of justice, it will help to clear up this muddle and let you get back to work, and it will be a favor to Miss Nieder. Will you come?”
    “No,” Polly Zarella said emphatically.
    “No?” I inquired courteously.
    “No,” she repeated. “I losed much time today. I will be here all evening with cutters cutting.”
    “This is pretty important, Miss Zarella.”
    “I do not think so.” She said “zink.” “He was here, he is gone, and we forget it. I told that to the policemen and I tell it