Three Doors to Death (The Rex Stout Library)

She was talking, telling about the man alive.

'It was last Tuesday,' she said, 'a week ago tomorrow, June third. We were showing our fall line to the press. We don't show in hotels because we don't have to, since our showroom seats over two hundred comfortably. For a press showing we don't let anyone in without a ticket because if we did the place would be mobbed. I was modeling a blue and black ensemble of lightweight Bishop twill when I saw him. He was in the fifth row, between Agnes Pemberton of Vogue and Mrs. Gumpert of the Herald Tribune. If you asked me how I recognized him I couldn't tell you, but I simply knew it was him, there wasn't the slightest doubt -'

'Why shouldn't you recognize him?' Wolfe demanded.

'Because he had a beard, and he wore glasses, and his hair was slick and parted on the left side. That sounds like a freak, but Uncle Paul would know better than to look freaky. The beard was trimmed, and somehow it didn't make him conspicuous. It was lucky I didn't completely recognize him when I first saw him, or I would probably have stood and gawked at him. Later in the dressing room Polly Zarella asked Bernard – that's Bernard Daumery, Jean's nephew – who was the man that was growing his own wool, and Bernard said he didn't know, probably from the Daily Worker. Of course we know most of the guests at a press showing, but not all of them. When I modeled another number – a full-back calf-covering coat in tapestry tones of Kleinsell ratine – I took him in without being obvious about it, and all of a sudden I knew who it was – I didn't guess, I knew. It staggered me so that I had to get off quick, quicker than I should have, and in the dressing room it was all I could do to keep them from seeing me tremble. I wanted to run out and speak to him, but I couldn't because it would have ruined the show. I had four more numbers to model – one of them was our headliner, a tailored dress and jacket in black with white stripes, with slightly bouffant sleeves and a double hemline – and I had to go on to the end. When it was over I hurried out front and he was gone.'

'Indeed,' Wolfe muttered.

'Yes. I went outside, to the elevators, but he was gone.'

'You haven't seen him since?'

'No. Just that one time.'

'Did anyone else recognize him?'

'I don't think so. I'm sure they didn't, or there would have been a noise. A dead man come back to life?'

Wolfe nodded. 'Many of those present had known him?'

'Certainly, nearly all of them. He was famous, as famous as you are.'

Wolfe skipped that one. 'How sure are you it was he?'

'I'm absolutely positive. There simply isn't any argument about it.'

'Did you find out who he was supposed to be?'

She shook her head. 'I couldn't find out a thing about him. I didn't want to ask questions of too many people, but no one could tell me anything.' She hesitated. 'I must admit the ticket thing is handled pretty loosely. The tickets aren't just scattered around, but anyone who knows the ropes wouldn't have much trouble getting one, and my uncle certainly knows the ropes.'

'Whom have you told about this?'

'No one. Not a soul. I've been trying to decide what to do.'

'You might,' Wolfe suggested, 'just erase it. You say you inherited a half-interest in that' – he grimaced – 'that business from your uncle?'

'Yes.'

'Anything else? Property, securities, money in the bank?'

'No. He had no property, except the furniture in his apartment, and the lawyer said there were no securities or bank accounts.'

'Hunh,' Wolfe said. 'Those are portable. But you have half of that business. Is it solvent?'

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.'