"No."

"Then don't. Now." Wolfe glanced at the clock. "Do you think you know who killed your uncle?"

Cynthia looked startled. "Why no, of course not!"

"You have no idea at all?"

"No!"

"How many people work there?"

"Right now, about two hundred."

"Pfui." Wolfe scowled. "Can any of them get in after hours?"

"No, not unless they have a key – or are let in by someone who has a key. Up to the time of the press showing, even up to yesterday, the first buyers' show there were people there every evening in the rush of getting the line ready, but most times there's no one there after hours. That's why I picked last night to go to look for that file."

"There was no one working there last night?"

"No, not a soul."

"Who has keys?"

"Let's see." She concentrated. "I have one. Bernard Daumery… Polly Zarella… Ward Roper. That's – oh no, Mr. Demarest has one. As my uncle's executor he is in legal control of the half-interest."

"Who opens up in the morning and locks up at night?"

"Polly Zarella. She has been doing that for years, since before I came there."

"So there are just five keys?"

"Yes, that's all."

"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."