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Title: The French powder mystery
A problem in deduction
Author: Ellery Queen
Release date: June 7, 2026 [eBook #78823]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Frederick A. Stokes Company, 1930
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78823
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FRENCH POWDER MYSTERY ***
THE FRENCH POWDER MYSTERY
_A Problem in Deduction_
By ELLERY QUEEN
_Author of "The Roman Hat Mystery"_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
NEW YORK
MCMXXX
COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced
without the written permission of the publishers._
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
THE FIRST EPISODE
1. "THE QUEENS WERE IN THE PARLOR"
2. "THE KINGS WERE IN THE COUNTING-HOUSE"
3. "HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL"
4. "ALL THE KING'S HORSES"
5. "AND ALL THE KING'S MEN"
6. TESTIMONY
7. THE CORPSE
8. THE WATCHER
9. THE WATCHERS
10. MARION
11. LOOSE ENDS
12. OUT THE WINDOW
THE SECOND EPISODE
13. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Bedroom_
14. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Lavatory_
15. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Cardroom_
16. AT THE APARTMENT: _Again the Bedroom_
17. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Library_
18. SCRAMBLED SIGNS
19. OPINIONS AND REPORTS
THE THIRD EPISODE
20. TOBACCO
21. KEYS AGAIN
22. BOOKS AGAIN
23. CONFIRMATION
24. THE QUEENS TAKE STOCK
THE FOURTH EPISODE
25. ELLERIUS BIBLIOPHILUS
26. THE TRAIL TO BERNICE
27. THE SIXTH BOOK
28. UNRAVELING THREADS
29. RAID!
30. REQUIEM
31. ALIBIS: MARION-ZORN
32. ALIBIS: MARCHBANKS
33. ALIBIS: CARMODY
34. ALIBIS: TRASK
35. ALIBIS: GRAY
36. "THE TIME HAS COME...."
THE LAST EPISODE
37. MAKE READY!
38. THE END OF ALL THINGS
SOME PERSONS OF IMPORTANCE ENCOUNTERED IN
THE COURSE OF THE FRENCH INVESTIGATION[1]
[Footnote 1: The success of this device in his recent novel (_The Roman
Hat Mystery_) has encouraged Mr. Queen to repeat it here. It was found
useful by many of Mr. Queen's readers in keeping the _dramatis personæ_
compactly before them.--THE EDITOR.]
NOTE: A list of the personalities involved in _The French
Powder Mystery_ is here set at the disposition of the reader. He
is urged indeed to con the list painstakingly before attacking the
story proper, so that each name will be vigorously impressed upon
his consciousness; moreover, to refer often to this page during his
perusal of the story.... Bear in mind that the most piercing enjoyment
deriving from indulgence in detectival fiction arises from the battle
of wits between author and reader. Scrupulous attention to the cast of
characters is frequently a means to this eminently desirable end.
ELLERY QUEEN.
WINIFRED MARCHBANKS FRENCH, _Requiescat in pace_. What cesspool of
evil lies beneath her murder?
BERNICE CARMODY, a child of ill-fortune.
CYRUS FRENCH, a common American avatar--merchant prince and Puritan.
MARION FRENCH, a silken Cinderella?
WESTLEY WEAVER, amanuensis and lover--and friend to the author.
VINCENT CARMODY, _l'homme sombre et malheureux_. A dealer in
antiquities.
JOHN GRAY, director. A donor of book-ends.
HUBERT MARCHBANKS, director. Ursine brother to the late Mrs. French.
A. MELVILLE TRASK, director. Sycophantic blot on a fair 'scutcheon.
CORNELIUS ZORN, director. An Antwerpian nabob, potbelly,
inhibitions and all.
MRS. CORNELIUS ZORN, Zorn's Medusa-wife.
PAUL LAVERY, the impeccable _français_. Pioneer in modern
art-decoration. Author of technical studies in the field of fine
arts, notably _L'Art de Faïence, publi par Monserat, Paris, 1913_.
ARNOLD MACKENZIE, General Manager of French's, a Scot.
WILLIAM CROUTHER, chief guardian of the law employed by French's.
DIANA JOHNSON, a study in normal ebon.
JAMES SPRINGER, Manager of the Book Department; a mysterioso.
PETER O'FLAHERTY, lead head night-watchman of the French
establishment.
HERMANN RALSKA, GEORGE POWERS, BERT BLOOM, nightwatchmen.
HORTENSE UNDERHILL, genus _housekeeper tyranna_.
DORIS KEATON, a maidenly minion.
THE HON. SCOTT WELLES, just a Commissioner of Police.
DR. SAMUEL PROUTY, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County.
HENRY SAMPSON, District Attorney of New York County.
TIMOTHY CRONIN, Assistant District Attorney of New York County.
THOMAS VELIE, Detective-Sergeant under the wing of Inspector Queen.
HAGSTROM, HESSE, FLINT, RITTER, JOHNSON, PIGGOTT, sleuths attached
to the command of Inspector Queen.
SALVATORE FIORELLI, Head of the Narcotic Squad.
"JIMMY," Headquarters fingerprint expert who has ever remained
last-nameless.
DJUNA, The Queens' beloved scull, who appears far too little.
Detectives, policemen, clerks, a physician, a nurse, a Negro
caretaker, a freight watchman, etc., etc., etc., etc.
and
INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN
who, being not himself, is sorely beset in this adventure
_and_
ELLERY QUEEN
who is so fortunate as to resolve it.
[ Illustration:
A--Elevator shaft
B--Stairway shaft
C, D, E, F, G--French apartment
C--Lavatory F--Anteroom D--Bedroom G--Cardroom E--Library
H--Ground floor door to elevator, facing 39th Street corridor
I--Ground floor door to stairway, facing Fifth Avenue corridor
J--Window containing Lavery Exhibition
K--Door to murder-window
L--O'Flaherty's office, with view of 39th Street entrance
M--Door from freight room
]
FOREWORD
EDITOR'S NOTE: It will be recalled by the readers of Mr. Queen's
last detective novel[2] that a foreword appeared therein written
by a gentleman designating himself as _J. J. McC._ The publishers
did not then, nor do they now, know the identity of this friend of
the two Queens. In deference to the author's wish, however, Mr.
McC. has been kind enough to pen once more a prefatory note to his
friend's new novel, and this note appears below.
[Footnote 2: _The Roman Hat Mystery_, by Ellery Queen; published by
Frederick A. Stokes Company, 1929.]
I have followed the fortunes of the Queens, father and son, with more
than casual interest for many years. Longer perhaps than any other
of their legion friends. Which places me, or so Ellery avers, in the
unfortunate position of Chorus, that quaint herald of the olden drama
who craves the auditor's sympathetic ear and receives at best his
willful impatience.
It is with pleasure nevertheless that I once more enact my rôle of
prologue-master in a modern tale of murder and detection. This pleasure
derives from two causes: the warm reception accorded Mr. Queen's first
novel, for the publication of which I was more or less responsible,
under his _nom de plume_; and the long and sometimes arduous friendship
I have enjoyed with the Queens.
I say "arduous" because the task of a mere mortal in attempting to
keep step with the busy life of a New York detective Inspector and
the intellectual activity of a book-worm and logician can adequately
be described only by that word. Richard Queen, whom I knew intimately
long before he retired, a veteran of thirty-two years' service in the
New York police department, was a dynamic little gray man, a bundle of
energy and industry. He knew his crime, he knew his criminals, and he
knew his law. He brought to these not uncommon attributes, however,
a daring of method that put him far above the average Detective
Inspector. A firm advocate of the more inspirational methods of his
son, he nevertheless was the practical policeman to his fingertips.
Under his long régime the Detective Bureau, except for those stormy
times when his official superiors took it upon themselves by
overhauling the department to satisfy a theory or a press opinion,
garnered a record of solved capital crimes which to this day is unique
in the police history of New York City.
Ellery Queen, as may be imagined, deplored the more unimaginative
aspects of his father's profession. He was the pure logician, with a
generous dash of dreamer and artist thrown in--a lethal combination
to those felons who were so unfortunate as to be dissected by the
keen instruments of his mind, always under those questing pince-nez
eyeglasses. His "life work" before his father's retirement was hardly
visible to the eye, unless his casual custom of writing a detective
story when the spirit moved him may be termed a life work.[3] He
occupied himself chiefly in a student's pursuit of culture and
knowledge, and since he had an independent income from a maternal uncle
which removed him from the class of social parasite, he lived what he
characteristically termed the "ideal intellectual life." It was natural
for him to evince intense interest in crime, due to his environment,
which from childhood had been saturated with tales of murder and
law-breaking; but the artistic element in his nature made him useless
for routine police investigation.
[Footnote 3: It is interesting to note that "Ellery Queen" published
many detective novels during his father's Inspectorship, but under his
real name, which is of course not Queen. These unrevealed stories,
however, should not be confused with the stories published under the
name of Ellery Queen, of which _The French Powder Mystery_ is the
second. These latter are taken practically untouched from actual
investigations undertaken by the author and his father; which accounts
both for the _nom de plume_ and the secrecy shrouding the identity of
the Queens.]
I recall vividly a conversation between father and son one day many
years ago which brought out their wholly opposed viewpoints on the
subject of crime-detection. I relate the conversation here because it
will crystallize the difference between the two men so clearly--a point
quite essential to complete understanding of the Queens.
The Inspector was expounding on his profession for my benefit, while
Ellery lounged in his chair between us.
"Ordinary crime-detection," said the old man, "is almost wholly a
mechanical matter. Most crimes are committed by 'criminals'--that is to
say, by individuals habituated by environment and repetitious conduct
to the pursuit of law-breaking. Such persons in ninety-nine out of a
hundred cases have police records.
"The detective in these ninety-nine hypothetical cases has much to go
on. Bertillon measurements--fingerprint records, intimate photographs,
a complete dossier. Moreover, he has a little file of the criminal's
idiosyncrasies. We have not developed this phase of detective science
so well as the London, Vienna and Berlin police, but we have at least
laid a foundation....
"A burglar who habitually makes use of a certain method of prying
open doors and windows, or blowing safes, for example; a hold-up
man who always wears a crude, home-made mask; a gunman who smokes
and drops a certain brand of cigaret, purely from habit; a gangster
with an inordinate fondness for women; a second-story man who always
works alone, or one who invariably employs a 'look-out'.... These
idiosyncrasies of method are sometimes as definite clues to the
identity of a criminal as his fingerprints.
"It seems peculiar to the layman," went on Inspector Queen, when
he had inhaled deeply from his old snuff-box--a habit inseparable
from the man--"that a criminal should constantly use the same _modus
operandi_--always drop the same cigaret smoked the same way; always
wear the same kind of mask; always indulge in a wild orgy with women
after a 'job.' But they forget that crime is the criminal's business,
and that every business leaves its indelible mark of habit on the
business man."
"Your psychological policeman, by the way," grinned Ellery, "doesn't
scorn the aid of informers, either, McC. Something like the little
tick-bird that sits on the rhino's back and warns of approaching
danger...."
"I was coming to that," retorted his father equably. "As I said
in the beginning, we have plenty to go on in the case of the
hardened criminal. But most of all, despite my son's jeering
attitude, we have come to depend upon the underworld's 'squealers,'
'stool-pigeons'--they're called less polite names, too--for the
solution of routine crimes. It is an open secret that without the
stool-pigeon a huge percentage of felonies would remain unsolved. They
are as essential to the big city's police as a knowledge of the proper
source-book is to the lawyer. It stands to reason--the underworld by
its amazing grapevine inevitably knows who has pulled a big 'job.' Our
problem is to find a 'stoolie' who will part with the tip for a fair
consideration. It isn't always easy even then, by the way...."
"Child's play," said Ellery in a provocative tone. And he grinned.
"I firmly believe," went on the old Inspector imperturbably, "that
every police department in the world would collapse in six months if
the institution of underworld informing were to come to an end."
Ellery lazily took up the cudgels. "Most of what you say, Sire, is
only too true. Which is why ninety per cent of your investigations hold
not a vestige of glamour for me. But the last ten per cent!
"Where the police detective woefully falls down, J.J.," he said
smiling, turning to me, "is in the case of the crime whose perpetrator
is _not_ a habitual criminal, who has therefore left _no_ handy
fingerprints which will correspond with another set in your files,
about whose idiosyncrasies _nothing_ is known for the ludicrously
simple reason that he has never been a criminal before. Such a person,
generally speaking, is not of the underworld, and you can therefore
pump your stool-pigeon to your heart's delight without eliciting the
slightest morsel of useful information.
"You have nothing to go on, I am happy to say," he continued,
twirling his pince-nez, "except the crime itself, and such clues and
pertinences as that crime reveals upon observation and investigation.
Obviously--and I say this with proper respect for my father's ancient
profession--obviously to nab the criminal in such a case is the more
difficult job by many headaches. Which explains two things--the
hideously high percentage of unsolved crimes in this country, and my
own absorbing avocation."
* * * * *
_The French Powder Mystery_ is one of the older cases from the Queens'
files--an actual case, as I have said, and one in which Ellery
exhibited scintillating proofs of his unique talents. He kept notes of
this case during the French investigation--one of his few practical
habits. Subsequently, with the unmasking of the murderer, he wrote a
book around the real-life plot, developing and embroidering the facts
to fit a literary pattern.
I induced him to polish up the manuscript and have it published as
the second novel under his pen-name--and this at a time when I was
under his sacred roof in the Queens' Italian villa. For it will be
recalled that Ellery, having renounced his old profession utterly, now
that he is married and domesticated, has hidden his old cases in the
depths of a filing-cabinet and nothing less than the detonation of a
presumptuous friend's exhortations has been able to make him consent to
a revivication of the mellowed manuscripts.
It should be borne in mind, in all fairness to Inspector Queen, that
the old sleuth's comparatively small rôle in the French case was due
to the enormous press of official business during that hectic season,
and in no small degree to the heckling he was subjected to by the newly
appointed civilian, Scott Welles, to the post of Commissioner of Police.
In closing, it might be pleasant to point out that the Queens are at
this writing still in their tiny mountain-home in Italy; that Ellery's
son has learned to toddle and say with innocent gravity, "gramps";
that Djuna is in perfect health and has recently undergone the stress
of a cosmic love-affair with a little witch of a country girl; that
the Inspector is still writing monographs for German magazines and
making occasional tours of inspection through the Continental police
departments; that Mrs. Ellery Queen has happily recovered from her
recent illness; and finally that Ellery himself, after his visit last
fall to New York, has returned to that "gem-encrusted" Roman scenery
with gratitude in his heart and, he says, (but I doubt it), no regrets
for the distractions of the West Side.
Which leaves me little else to write but a most sincere hope that you
will enjoy the reading of _The French Powder Mystery_ fully as much as
I did.
J. J. MCC.
NEW YORK
_June, 1930_
THE FIRST EPISODE
"_Parenthetically speaking ... in numerous cases the sole
difference between success and failure in the detection of crime is
a sort of ... osmotic reluctance (on the part of the detective's
mental perceptions) to seep through the cilia of_ WHAT SEEMS TO BE
_and reach the vital stream of_ WHAT ACTUALLY IS."
--From A PRESCRIPTION FOR CRIME,
_By_ Dr. Luigi Pinna
1
"THE QUEENS WERE IN THE PARLOR"
They sat about the old walnut table in the Queen apartment--five oddly
assorted individuals. There was District Attorney Henry Sampson,
a slender man with bright eyes. Beside Sampson glowered Salvatore
Fiorelli, head of the Narcotic Squad, a burly Italian with a long
black scar on his right cheek. Red-haired Timothy Cronin, Sampson's
assistant, was there. And Inspector Richard Queen and Ellery Queen sat
shoulder to shoulder with vastly differing facial expressions. The old
man sulked, bit the end of his mustache. Ellery stared vacantly at
Fiorelli's cicatrix.
The calendar on the desk nearby read Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth,
19--. A mild spring breeze fluttered the window draperies.
The Inspector glared about the board. "What did Welles ever do? I'd
like to know, Henry!"
"Come now, Q, Scott Welles isn't a bad scout."
"Rides to hounds, shoots a 91 on the course, and that makes him
eligible for the police commissionership, doesn't it? Of course, of
course! And the unnecessary work he piles on us...."
"It isn't so bad as that," said Sampson. "He's done some useful things,
in all fairness. Flood Relief Committee, social work.... A man who has
been so active in non-political fields can't be a total loss, Q."
The Inspector snorted. "How long has he been in office? No, don't tell
me--let me guess. Two days.... Well, here's what he's done to us in two
days. Get your teeth into this.
"Number one--reorganized the Missing Persons Bureau. And why poor
Parsons got the gate _I_ don't know.... Number two--scrambled seven
precinct captains so thoroughly that they need road maps to get back
to familiar territory. Why? You tell me.... Number three--shifted the
make-up of Traffic B, C, and D. Number four--reduced a square two dozen
second-grade detectives to pounding beats. Any reason? Certainly!
Somebody whose grand-uncle's niece knows the Governor's fourth
secretary is out for blood.... Number five--raked over the Police
School and changed the rules. And I know he has his eagle eye on my pet
Homicide Squad...."
"You'll burst a blood-vessel," said Cronin.
"You haven't heard anything yet," said the Inspector grimly. "Every
first-grade detective must now make out a daily report--in line of
duty, mind you--a daily personal report direct to the Commissioner's
office!"
"Well," grinned Cronin, "he's welcome to read 'em all. Half those
babies can't _spell_ homicide."
"Read them nothing, Tim. Do you think he'd waste _his_ time? Not by
your Aunt Martha. No, sir! He sends them into _my_ office by his shiny
little secretary, Theodore B. B. St. Johns, with a polite message:
'The Commissioner's respects to Inspector Richard Queen, and the
Commissioner would be obliged for an opinion within the hour on the
veracity of the attached reports.' And there I am, sweating marbles to
keep my head clear for this narcotic investigation--there I am putting
my mark on a flock of flatfoot reports." The Inspector dug viciously
into his snuff-box.
"You ain't spilled half of it, Queen," growled Fiorelli. "What's
this wall-eyed walrus, this pussy-footing specimen of a 'civvie' do
but sneak in on my department, sniff around among the boys, hook
a can of opium on the sly, and send it down to Jimmy for--guess
what--fingerprints! Fingerprints, by God! As if Jimmy could find the
print of a dope-peddler after a dozen of the gang had had their paws on
the can. Besides, we had the prints already! But no, he didn't stop for
explanations. And then Stern searched high and low for the can and came
runnin' to me with some crazy story that the guy we're lookin' for'd
walked himself straight into Headquarters and snitched a pot of opium!"
Fiorelli spread his huge hands mutely, stuck a stunted black cheroot
into his mouth.
It was at this moment that Ellery picked up a little volume with torn
covers from the table and began to read.
Sampson's grin faded. "All joking aside, though, if we don't gain
ground soon on the drug ring we'll all be in a mess. Welles shouldn't
have forced our hand and stirred up the White test case now. Looks as
if this gang--" He shook his head dubiously.
"That's what riles me," complained the Inspector. "Here I am, just
getting the feel of Pete Slavin's mob, and I have to spend a whole day
down in Court testifying."
There was silence, broken after a moment by Cronin. "How did you come
out on O'Shaughnessy in the Kingsley Arms murder?" he asked curiously.
"Has he come clean?"
"Last night," said the Inspector. "We had to sweat him a little, but he
saw we had the goods on him and came through." The harsh lines around
his mouth softened. "Nice piece of work Ellery did there. When you stop
to think that we were on the case a whole day without a glimmer of
proof that O'Shaughnessy killed Herrin, although we were sure he'd done
it--along comes my son, spends ten minutes on the scene, and comes out
with enough proof to burn the murderer."
"Another miracle, eh?" chuckled Sampson. "What's the inside story,
Q?" They glanced toward Ellery, but he was hunched in his chair,
assiduously reading.
"As simple as rolling off a log," said Queen proudly. "It generally is
when he explains it.--Djuna, more coffee, will you, son?"
An agile little figure popped out of the kitchenette, grinned, bobbed
his dark head, and disappeared. Djuna was Inspector Queen's valet,
man-of-all-work, cook, chambermaid, and unofficially the mascot of the
Detective Bureau.[4] He emerged with a percolator and refilled the cups
on the table. Ellery grasped his with a questioning hand and began to
sip, his eyes riveted on the book.
[Footnote 4: See "_The Roman Hat Mystery_."]
"Simple's hardly the word," resumed the Inspector. "Jimmy had sprinkled
that whole room with fingerprint powder and found nothing but Herrin's
own prints--and Herrin was deader than a mackerel. The boys all took
a whack at suggesting different places to sprinkle--it was quite a
game while it lasted...." He slapped the table. "Then Ellery marched
in. I reviewed the case for him and showed him what we'd found. You
remember we spotted Herrin's footprints in the crumbled plaster on the
dining-room floor. We were mighty puzzled about that, because from the
circumstances of the crime it was impossible for Herrin to have been
in that dining-room. And that's where superior mentality, I suppose
you'd call it, turned the trick. Ellery said: 'Are you certain those
are Herrin's footprints?' I told him they were, beyond a doubt. When I
told him why, he agreed--yet it was impossible for Herrin to have been
in that room. And there lay the prints, giving us the lie. 'Very well,'
says this precious son o' mine, 'maybe he wasn't in the room, after
all.' 'But Ellery--the prints!' I objected. 'I have a notion,' he says,
and goes into the bedroom.
"Well," sighed the Inspector, "he certainly did have a notion. In
the bedroom he looked over the shoes on Herrin's dead feet, took them
off, got some of the print powder from Jimmy, called for the copy of
O'Shaughnessy's fingerprints, sprinkled the shoes--and sure enough,
there was a beautiful thumb impression! He matched it with the file
print, and it proved to be O'Shaughnessy's.... You see, we'd looked in
every place in that apartment for fingerprints except the one place
where they were--on the dead body itself. Who'd ever think of looking
for the murderer's sign on his victim's shoes?"
"Unlikely place," grunted the Italian. "How'd it figure?"
"Ellery reasoned that if Herrin wasn't in that room and his shoes were,
it simply meant that somebody else wore or planted Herrin's shoes
there. Infantile, isn't it? But it had to be thought of." The old
man bore down on Ellery's bowed head with unconvincing irritability.
"Ellery, what on earth are you reading? You're hardly an attentive
host, son."
"That's one time a layman's familiarity with fingerprints came in
handy," grinned Sampson.
"Ellery!"
Ellery looked up excitedly. He waved his book in triumph, and began to
recite to the amazed group at the table: "'If they went to sleep with
the sandals on, the thong worked into the feet and the sandals were
frozen fast to them. This was partly due to the fact that, since their
old sandals had failed, they wore untanned brogans made of newly flayed
ox-hides.'[5] Do you know, dad, that gives me a splendid idea?" His
face beamed as he reached for a pencil.
[Footnote 5: I had been brushing up on my Xenophon, and when I ran
across the passage relating to the Retreat of the Ten Thousand through
ancient Armenia, the shoe reference gave me an idea for a short story.
The incident is ridiculous in retrospect, although at the time I was
quite oblivious to its humor.--E. Q.]
Inspector Queen swung to his feet, grumbling. "You can't get anything
out of him when he's in that mood.... Come along, Henry--you going,
Fiorelli?--let's get down to City Hall."
2
"THE KINGS WERE IN THE COUNTING-HOUSE"
It was eleven o'clock when Inspector Queen left his apartment on West
87th Street in the company of Sampson, Cronin and Fiorelli, bound for
the Criminal Courts Building.
At precisely the same moment, some miles to the south, a man stood
quietly at the library dormer-window of a private apartment. The
apartment was situated on the sixth floor of French's, the Fifth
Avenue department store. The man at the window was Cyrus French, chief
stockholder of French's and president of its Board of Directors.
French was watching the swirling traffic at the intersection of Fifth
Avenue and 39th Street with unseeing eyes. He was a dour-visaged man
of sixty-five, stocky, corpulent, iron-grey. He was dressed in a dark
business suit. A white flower gleamed on his lapel.
He said: "I hope you made it clear that the meeting was for this
morning at eleven, Westley," and turned sharply to eye a man seated
beside a glass-topped desk before the window.
Westley Weaver nodded. He was a fresh-faced young man, clean-shaven and
alert, in the early thirties.
"Quite clear," he replied pleasantly. He looked up from a stenographic
notebook in which he had been writing. "As a matter of fact, here is a
carbon copy of the memorandum I typed yesterday afternoon. I left one
copy for each director, besides this one which you found on the desk
this morning." He indicated a slip of blue-tinted paper lying beside
the desk telephone. Except for five books standing between cylindrical
onyx book-ends at the extreme right of the desk, a telephone, and the
memorandum, the glass top was bare. "I followed up the memos to the
directors with telephone calls about a half-hour ago. They all promised
to be here on time."
French grunted and turned again to look down upon the maze of morning
traffic. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to dictate store
business in his slightly grating voice.
They were interrupted five minutes later by a knock on the outer door,
beyond an anteroom. French irritably called, "Come!" and there was the
sound of a hand fumbling with the invisible knob. French said, "Oh,
yes, the door's shut, of course; open it, Westley."
Weaver went quickly through the anteroom and flung open the heavy door.
He admitted a weazened little old man who showed pale gums in a grin,
and with an amazing celerity for a man of his years tripped into the
room.
"Never seem to remember that locked door of yours, Cyrus," he piped,
shaking hands with Westley and French. "Am I the first?"
"That you are, John," said French with a vague smile. "The others
should be here any moment now."
Weaver offered the old man a chair. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Gray?"
Gray's seventy years sat lightly on his thin shoulders. He had
a bird-like head covered with thin white hair. His face was the
indeterminate color of parchment; it was constantly wreathed in smiles
which lifted his white mustache above thin red lips. He wore a wing
collar and an ascot tie.
He accepted the chair and sat down with a preposterously lithe movement.
"How was your trip, Cyrus?" he asked. "Did you find Whitney amenable?"
"Quite, quite!" returned French, resuming his pacing. "In fact, I
should say that if we officially come to a complete agreement this
morning, we can consummate the merger in less than a month."
"Fine! Good stroke of business!" John Gray rubbed his hands in a
curious gesture; they rasped together.
There was a second knock at the door. Weaver again went into the
anteroom.
"Mr. Trask and Mr. Marchbanks," he announced. "And if I'm not mistaken,
there comes Mr. Zorn from the elevator." Two men passed into the room,
and a moment later a third; whereupon Weaver hurried back to his chair
by the desk. The door swung shut with a click.
The newcomers shook hands all around and dropped into chairs at a
long conference table in the middle of the room. They made a peculiar
group. Trask--A. Melville Trask in the Social Register--fell into a
habitually drooping attitude, sprawling in his chair and playing idly
with a pencil on the table before him. His associates paid little
attention to him. Hubert Marchbanks sat down heavily. He was a fleshy
man of forty-five, florid and clumsy-handed. At regular intervals his
loud voice broke in an asthmatic wheeze. Cornelius Zorn regarded his
fellow directors from behind old-fashioned gold-rimmed eyeglasses. His
head was bald and square, his fingers were thick, and he wore a reddish
mustache. His short figure completely filled the chair. He looked
startlingly like a prosperous butcher.
French took a seat at the head of the table and regarded the others
solemnly.
"Gentlemen--this is a meeting which will go down in the history of
department store merchandising." He paused, cleared his throat.
"Westley, will you see that a man is posted at the door so that we may
continue absolutely undisturbed?"
"Yes, sir." Weaver picked up the telephone on the desk and said,
"Mr. Crouther's office, please." A moment later he said, "Crouther?
Who? Oh, yes.... Never mind looking for him; you can take care of
it. Send one of the store detectives up to the door of Mr. French's
private apartment. He is to see that no one disturbs Mr. French while
the Board meeting is going on.... He is not to interrupt us--merely
station himself at the door.... Whom will you send?... Oh! Jones? Good
enough. Tell Crouther about it when he comes in.... Oh, he's been in
since nine? Well, tell him for me when you see him; I'm very busy just
now." He hung up and returned quickly to a chair at French's right. He
snatched his pencil and poised it over his notebook.
The five directors were poring over a sheaf of papers. French sat
staring at the blue May sky outside while they familiarized themselves
with the details of the documents, his heavy hands restless on the
table top.
Suddenly he turned to Weaver and said in an undertone, "I'd almost
forgotten, Westley. Get the house on the wire. Let's see--it's
eleven-fifteen. They should be up by this time. Mrs. French may be
anxious about me--I haven't communicated with her since I left for
Great Neck yesterday."
Weaver gave the number of the French house to the operator, and a
moment later spoke incisively into the mouthpiece.
"Hortense? Is Mrs. French up yet?... Well, is Marion there, then? Or
Bernice?... Very well, let me speak with Marion...."
He shifted his body away from French, who was talking in a low tone to
old John Gray. Weaver's eyes were bright and his face suddenly flushed.
"Hello, hello! Marion?" he breathed into the telephone. "This is Wes.
I'm sorry--you know--I'm calling from the apartment--your father would
like to speak to you...."
A woman's low voice answered. "Westley dear! I understand.... Oh, I'm
so sorry, darling, but if father's there we can't talk very long. You
love me? Say it!"
"Oh, but I _can't_," whispered Weaver fiercely, his back rigid and
formal. But his face, turned away from French, was eloquent.
"I know you can't, silly boy." The girl laughed. "I just said it to
make you wriggle. But you do, don't you?" She laughed again.
"Yes. Yes. Oh, YES!"
"Then let me talk to father, darling."
Weaver cleared his throat hastily and turned to French.
"Here's Marion at last, sir," he said, handing the instrument to the
old man. "Hortense Underhill says that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice
has come down yet."
French hurriedly took the telephone from Weaver's hands. "Marion, this
is father. I've just arrived from Great Neck and I'm feeling fine.
Everything all right?... What's the matter? You seem a little tired....
All right, dear. I merely wanted to let you know that I'm back safely.
You might tell Mother for me--I'll be too busy to call again this
morning. Good-by, dear."
He returned to his chair, looked gravely around at the Board, and said,
"Now gentlemen, since you've had a few moments to become familiar
with the figures I thrashed out with Whitney, let's get to work." He
brandished a forefinger.
* * * * *
At eleven forty-five the telephone bell jangled, interrupting a heated
discussion between French and Zorn. Weaver's hand leaped to the
instrument.
"Hello, hello! Mr. French is very busy just now.... Is that you,
Hortense? What is it?... Just a moment." He turned to French. "Pardon
me, sir--Hortense Underhill is on the wire and she seems disturbed
about something. Will you talk to her or call back?"
French glared at Zorn, who was fiercely dabbing away the perspiration
on his thick neck, and snatched the telephone from Weaver.
"Well, what is it?"
A quavering feminine voice answered. "Mr. French, something dreadful's
happened. I can't find Mrs. French or Miss Bernice!"
"Eh? What's that you say? What's the matter? Where are they?"
"I don't know, sir. They hadn't rung for the maids all morning, and I
went up to see if anything was wrong a few minutes ago. You'll--you'll
never believe it, sir--I can't understand--"
"Well!"
"Their beds aren't touched. I don't think they slept home last night."
French's voice rose in anger. "You silly woman--is that why you're
interrupting my Board meeting? It was raining last night and they
probably stayed overnight somewhere with friends."
"But Mr. French--they would have called, or--"
"Please, Hortense! Go back to your housework. I'll look into this
later." He slammed the receiver on the hook.
"Foolishness ..." he muttered. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He
turned to Zorn again, palms on the table. "Now what's that? Do you mean
to tell me that you'd stand in the way of this merger just because of a
paltry few thousands? Let me tell you something, Zorn...."
3
"HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL"
French's occupied a square block in the heart of the mid-town section
of New York, on Fifth Avenue. On the borderline between the more
fashionable upper avenue and the office-building district farther
downtown, it catered to a mixed patronage of wealth and penury. At the
noon hour its broad aisles and six floors were crowded with shop girls
and stenographers; in mid-afternoon the tone of its clientele improved
perceptibly. It boasted at once therefore the lowest prices, the most
modern models, the widest assortment of saleable articles, in New York.
As a result of this compromise between attractive prices and exclusive
merchandise it was the most popular department store in the city. From
nine o'clock in the morning until five-thirty in the evening French's
was thronged with shoppers, the sidewalks surrounding the marble
structure and its many wings almost impassable.
Cyrus French, pioneer department store owner, assisted by his associate
Board, exerted the full financial strength of his powerful organization
to make French's--an institution of two generations of French
ownership--the show place of the city. In those days, long before the
artistic movement had been communicated in the United States to the
more practical articles of use and wear, French's had already made
contact with its European representatives and held public exhibitions
of art objects, art furniture, and kindred modernistic ware. These
exhibits attracted huge crowds to the store. One of its main windows
fronting Fifth Avenue was devoted to exhibits of periodically imported
articles. This window became the focal point for the eyes of all New
York. Curious throngs constantly besieged its sheathing of plate glass.
On the morning of Tuesday the twenty-fourth of May, at three minutes
of the noon hour, the heavy unpaneled door to this window opened and
a Negress in black dress, white apron and white cap entered. She
sauntered about the window, seemed to appraise its contents, and then
stood stiffly at attention, as if awaiting a predetermined moment to
begin her mysterious work.
The contents of the window were arranged to illustrate a combination
living-room and bedroom, of an ultra-modern design created by Paul
Lavery, of Paris, according to a placard in a corner. This card
acknowledged Lavery's authorship of the articles on exhibition, and
called attention to "lectures on the fifth floor by M. Lavery." The
rear wall, into which the one door opened by which the Negress had
entered, was unrelieved by ornament and tinted a pastelle green. On
this wall hung a huge Venetian mirror, unframed, its edges cut in
an irregular design. Against the wall stood a long narrow table,
exhibiting an unpainted grain highly waxed. On the table stood a
squat prismatic lamp, made of a clouded glass procurable at that
period only from a unique modern art-objects factory in Austria. Odd
pieces--chairs, end-tables, bookcases, a divan, all of unorthodox
construction, peculiar and daring in conception--stood about the
gleaming floor of the window-room. The side walls served as background
for several pieces of miscellaneous utility.
The lighting fixtures in the ceiling and on the side walls were all of
the "concealed" variety rapidly gaining vogue on the Continent.
At the stroke of noon the Negress, who had remained motionless since
her entrance into the room, stirred into activity. By this time a
viscid mass of people had gathered outside the window on the sidewalk,
awaiting the Negress's demonstration with hungry eyes and restless
shoulders.
Setting down a metal rack on which were hung a number of simply
lettered placards, the Negress picked up a long ivory wand and,
pointing to the legend on the first placard, proceeded solemnly to one
of the pieces on the east wall and began a pantomimic demonstration of
its construction and properties.
The fifth placard--by this time the crowd had doubled in size and
overflowed from the sidewalk--bore the words:
WALL-BED
This Article of Furniture
Is Concealed in the West
Wall and Is Operated Electrically
by a Push-Button.
It is of Special Design,
Created by M. Paul Lavery,
and Is the Only One of Its
Kind in This Country.
Pointing to the words once more, for emphasis, the Negress sedately
walked to the west wall, indicated with a flourish a small ivory button
set in a nacreous panel, and touched the button with one long black
finger.
Before pressing it, she looked out once more on the jostling, expectant
crowd before the window. Necks craned eagerly to see the marvel about
to be revealed.
What they saw was a marvel indeed--so unexpected, so horrible, so
grotesque that at the instant of its occurrence faces froze into
masks of stunned incredulity. It was like a moment snatched out of an
unbelievable nightmare.... For, as the Negress pushed the ivory button,
a section of the wall slid outward and downward with a swift noiseless
movement, two small wooden legs unfolded and shot out of the forepart
of the bedstead, the bed settled to a horizontal position--and the body
of a woman, pale-faced, crumpled, distorted, her clothes bloody in two
places, fell from the silken sheet to the floor at the Negress's feet.
It was twelve-fifteen exactly.
4
"ALL THE KING'S HORSES"
The Negress uttered one horrified shriek, so piercing that it was
distinctly audible through the heavy glass window, rolled her eyes
wildly, and fell fainting at the side of the body.
The spectators outside still presented a tableau--they were stricken
into silence, petrified with fright. Then a woman on the sidewalk,
her face pressed immovably to the glass, screamed. Immobility became
frenzy, silence a dull unpunctuated roar. The crowd surged away from
the window, pushing madly backward, stampeding in terror. A child fell
and was trampled in the crush. A police whistle blew, and a bluecoat
ran shouting through the crowd, using his club freely. He seemed
bewildered by the uproar--he had not yet seen the two still figures in
the exhibition-window.
Suddenly the door in the window burst open and a lean man wearing a
short pointed beard and a monocle ran into the room. His staring eyes
took in the two motionless figures on the shining floor, traveled
jerkily to the milling crowd outside and the policeman swinging his
club, and returned with dazed disbelief to the floor. With a soundless
oath he sprang forward, grasped a heavy silk cord in a corner near the
plate-glass window, and pulled. A translucent curtain fell immediately,
shutting off the view of the frantic people in the street.
The bearded man knelt at the side of the Negress, felt her pulse,
hesitantly touched the skin of the other woman, rose and ran back to
the door. A growing crowd of sales-girls and shoppers was collecting on
the main floor of the department store, just outside the window. Three
men--floorwalkers--rushed through as if to enter.
The man in the window spoke sharply: "You--get the head store detective
at once--no, never mind--here he comes--Mr. Crouther! _Mr. Crouther!_
This way! Here!"
A heavy-set, broad-shouldered man with a mottled complexion shoved
his way, cursing, through the crowd. He had just reached the entrance
of the window when the policeman who had dispersed the crowd on the
sidewalk ran up and dashed after him into the window. The three men
disappeared, the bluecoat slamming the door shut behind them.
The bearded man stood aside. "There's been a terrible accident,
Crouther.... Glad you're here, officer.... My God, what an affair!"
The head store detective pounded across the room and glared down at the
two women. "What happened to the coon, Mr. Lav-ery?" he bellowed at the
bearded man.
"Fainted, I suppose!"
"Here, Crouther, let me take a look," said the policeman,
unceremoniously pushing Lavery aside. He bent over the body of the
woman who had tumbled from the bed.
Crouther cleared his throat importantly. "Listen here, Bush. This is
no time to make an examination. We oughtn't to touch a thing until
Headquarters is notified. Mr. Lav-ery and me--we'll stand guard here
while you use the 'phone. Go ahead now, Bush, don't be an egg!"
The policeman stood undecidedly for a moment, scratched his head, and
finally left the room with hurried steps.
"This is one sweet mess," growled Crouther. "What happened here, Mr.
Lav-ery? Who in hell is _this_ woman?"
Lavery started nervously and plucked at his beard with long thin
fingers. "Why, don't you know? But of course not.... Good Heavens,
Crouther, what are we to do?"
Crouther frowned. "Now don't go getting yourself all excited, Mr.
Lav-ery. This is a police job, pure and simple. Lucky I was on the
scene so quick. We gotta wait for the detail from Headquarters. Just
take it easy now--"
Lavery regarded the store detective coldly. "I'm perfectly all right,
Mr. Crouther," he said. "I suggest--" he weighted the word with
authority--"that you immediately marshal your store forces to keep
order on the main floor. Make it appear as if nothing out of the way
has happened. Call Mr. MacKenzie. Send somebody to notify Mr. French
and the Board of Directors. I understand they're having a meeting
upstairs. This is--an affair of a grave nature--graver than you know.
Go now!"
Crouther looked at Lavery rebelliously, shook his head, and made for
the door. As he opened it a small dark man with a physician's bag
stepped into the room. He glanced quickly around and without a word
crossed to the side of the two bodies.
He favored the Negress with a scant glance and a feeling of the pulse.
He spoke without looking up.
"Here--Mr. Lavery, is it?--you'll have to help--get one of the men
outside to give you a hand--the Negress has merely fainted--get her a
glass of water and put her on that divan there--send somebody for one
of the nurses from the infirmary...."
Lavery nodded. He went to the door and looked out over the whispering
crowd on the floor.
"Mr. MacKenzie! Here, please!"
A middle-aged man with a pleasant Scotch face hurried up and into the
room. "Help me, please," said Lavery.
The doctor busied himself over the body of the other woman. His
movements concealed her face. Lavery and MacKenzie picked up the
reviving form of the Negress and carried her to the divan. A
floorwalker outside was dispatched for a glass of water and reappeared
in a twinkling. The Negress gulped, groaned.
The doctor looked up gravely. "This woman is dead," he announced. "Has
been for quite a while. What's more, she's been shot. Got it in the
heart. Looks like murder, Mr. Lavery!"
"_Nom du chien!_" muttered Lavery. His face was sickly white.
MacKenzie scurried across the room to look down at the huddled corpse.
He fell back with a cry.
"Good God! _It's Mrs. French!_"
5
"AND ALL THE KING'S MEN"
The window-door opened quickly and two men stepped in. One, a tall
lank individual smoking a blackish cigar, stopped short, peered about
him, and then, catching sight of the body, immediately advanced to the
farther side of the wall-bed, on the floor by which lay the dead woman.
He favored the little physician with a keen glance, nodded and without
further ado dropped to his knees. After a moment he looked up.
"The store doctor, are you?"
The physician nodded nervously. "Yes. I've made a superficial
examination. She's dead. I--"
"I can see that," said the newcomer. "I'm Prouty, Assistant Medical
Examiner. Stand by, doctor." Again he bent over the body, opening his
bag with one hand.
The second of the two men who had arrived was an iron-jawed giant. He
had stopped at the door, softly prodding it shut behind him. Now his
eyes flickered over the frozen faces of Lavery, MacKenzie and the store
doctor. His own face was cold and harsh and expressionless.
It was not until Dr. Prouty began his examination that this man
vitalized into action. He took a purposeful step forward toward
MacKenzie, but stopped suddenly as the door shivered under a violent
pounding.
"Come in!" he said sharply, standing between the door and the bed, so
that the body was hidden from the newcomers.
The door was flung aside. A small army of men surged forward. The tall
man blocked their path.
"Just a moment," he said lowly. "We can't have so many people in here.
Who are you?"
Cyrus French, flushed and choleric, snapped: "I am the owner of this
establishment, and these gentlemen all have a right to be here. They
are the Board of Directors--this is Mr. Crouther, our head store
detective--stand aside, please."
The tall man did not move. "Mr. French, eh? Board of Directors?...
Hello, Crouther.... Who is this?" He pointed to Westley Weaver, who
hovered about the edge of the group, a trifle pale.
"Mr. Weaver, my secretary," said French impatiently. "Who are you, sir?
What's happened here? Let me pass."
"I see." The tall man reflected a moment, hesitated, then said firmly,
"I'm Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad. Sorry, Mr. French, but
you'll have to abide by my orders here. Come in, but don't touch
anything and let me give the orders." He stepped aside. He seemed to be
waiting for something with unwearying patience.
Lavery ran forward, his eyes distended as he saw Cyrus French stride
toward the bed. He intercepted the old man, grasped his lapel.
"Mr. French--please do not look--just now...."
French petulantly brushed him aside. "Let me be, Lavery! What is
this--a conspiracy? Ordered about in my own store!" He proceeded to
the bed, and Lavery fell back, a resigned look on his mobile face.
Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he took John Gray aside, speaking
in the director's ear. Gray paled, stood transfixed to the spot, then
with an indistinct cry he leaped to French's side.
He was just in time. The store owner had bent curiously over Dr.
Prouty's shoulder, taken one look at the woman on the floor, and
collapsed without a sound. Gray caught him as he sank. Lavery sprang
forward and assisted in carrying the old man's limp body to a chair on
the other side of the room.
A nurse in white cap and gown had slipped into the room and was
ministering to the hysterical Negress on the divan. She went quickly
over to French, slipped a vial under his nose, and instructed Lavery
to chafe his hands. Gray paced nervously up and down, muttering to
himself. The store doctor hurried over to help the nurse.
The directors and the secretary, huddled together in a horror-struck
group, moved hesitantly toward the body. Weaver and Marchbanks cried
out together at seeing the woman's face. Zorn bit his lip and turned
away. Trask averted his face in horror. Then, in the same mechanical
motion, they moved slowly backward to a corner, glancing helplessly at
each other.
Velie crooked a huge finger at Crouther. "What have you done?"
The store detective grinned. "Taken care of all the details, don't you
worry. I've got all my men scrambled on the main floor and they've
scattered the mob. Got everything well in hand. Trust Bill Crouther for
that, Sergeant! Won't be much for you guys to do, that's a fact."
Velie grunted. "Well, here's something for you to do while we're
waiting. Get a big stretch of the main floor roped off right around
this section, and keep everybody away. It's a little late now, I
suppose, to close the doors. Wouldn't do much good. Whoever did this
job is miles away from here by now. Get going, Crouther!"
The store detective nodded, turned away, turned back. "Say,
Sergeant--know just who the woman on the floor is? Might help us right
now."
"Yes?" Velie smiled frostily. "Can't see how. But it doesn't take much
to figure it out. It's French's wife. Blast it, this is a great place
for a murder!"
"No!" Crouther's jaw dropped. "French's wife, hey? The big cheese
himself.... Well, well!" He stole a glance at the slack figure of
French and a moment later his voice resounded through the window as he
roared instructions outside.
Silence in the window-room. The group in the corner had not moved.
The Negress and French had both been revived--the black woman's eyes
rolling wildly as she clung to the starched skirt of the nurse,
French's face a pasty white as he half-lay in the chair listening to
Gray's low-voiced words of sympathy. Gray himself seemed drained of his
queer vitality.
Velie beckoned to MacKenzie, who hovered nervously at Prouty's shoulder.
"You're MacKenzie, the store manager?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"It's time to get a move on, Mr. MacKenzie." Velie eyed him coldly.
"Get a hold on yourself. Somebody's got to keep his wits about him.
This is part of your job." The store manager squared his shoulders.
"Now listen. This is important and it's got to be done thoroughly." He
lowered his voice. "No employees to leave the building--item number
one, and I'm holding you responsible for its execution. Number two,
check up on all employees who are not at their posts. Number three,
make out a list of all employees absent from the store to-day, with the
reasons for their absence. Hop to it!"
MacKenzie mumbled submissively, shuffled away.
Velie took Lavery, who stood talking to Weaver, to one side.
"You seem to have some authority here. May I ask who you are?"
"My name is Paul Lavery, and I am exhibiting the modern furniture
on display upstairs on the fifth floor. This room is a sample of my
exhibition."
"I see. Well, you've kept your head, Mr. Lavery. The dead woman is Mrs.
French?"
Lavery averted his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant. It was quite a shock to all
of us, no doubt. How in God's name did she ever get--" He stopped
abruptly, worried his lip.
"Did she ever get here, you meant to say?" finished Velie grimly. "Well
now, that's a question, isn't it? I--Just a moment, Mr. Lavery!"
He turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the door to greet a group
of new arrivals.
"Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Queen! Glad you've come, sir. You'll
find things in a rotten mess." He stepped aside and waved a large hand
at the room and its assorted occupants. "Pretty, eh, sir? More like a
wake than the scene of a crime!" It was a long speech for Velie.
Inspector Richard Queen--small, pert, like a white-thatched
bird--followed the circuit of Velie's hand with his eyes.
"My goodness!" he exclaimed in annoyance. "How did so many people get
into this room? I'm surprised at you, Thomas."
"Inspector." Queen paused at Velie's deep voice. "I thought it
might--" his voice became inaudible as he murmured a few words in the
Inspector's ear.
"Yes, yes, I see, Thomas." The Inspector patted his arm. "Tell me soon.
Let's have a peep at the body."
He trotted across the room and slipped to the far side of the wall-bed.
Prouty, his hands busy on the corpse, nodded in greeting.
"Murder," he said. "No sign of the revolver."
The Inspector peered intently into the ghastly face of the dead woman,
ran his eye over the disarranged clothing.
"Well, we'll have the boys look a little later. Keep going, Doc." He
sighed and returned to Velie at the other side of the room.
"Now let's have it, Thomas. From the beginning." His little eyes roved
judiciously about the men in the room as Velie rapidly outlined in
an undertone the events of the past half-hour.... Outside a body of
plainclothes men and a scattering of uniformed policemen could be seen.
The patrolman, Bush, was among them.
Ellery Queen shut the door and leaned against it. He was tall and
sparely built, with athletic hands, taper-fingered. He wore immaculate
grey tweeds and carried a stick and a light coat. On his thin nose
perched a pince-nez. Above it rose a forehead of wide proportions,
white and untroubled. His hair was smoothly black. From the pocket of
the coat protruded a small volume in faded covers.
He looked curiously at each person in the room--curiously and slowly,
as if he enjoyed his scrutiny. The characteristics of each individual
as his eyes passed from one to another he seemed to store away in a
corner of his brain. His examination was almost visibly digestive. Yet
it was not entirely concentrated, for he listened intently to each
word of Velie's recital to the Inspector. Suddenly his eyes, in their
panoramic course, met those of Westley Weaver, who stood miserably in a
corner leaning against the wall.
Into the eyes of each leaped instant recognition. They started forward
simultaneously, hands outstretched.
"Ellery Queen. Thank God!"
"By the Seven Virgins of Theophilus--Westley Weaver!" They wrung each
other's hands with undisguised pleasure. Inspector Queen glanced their
way, quizzically; then he turned back to hear the last of Velie's
rumbled comments.
"It's awfully good seeing your classic features again, Ellery,"
murmured Weaver. His face dropped back into strained lines. "Are
you--is that the Inspector?"
"In the indefatigable flesh, Westley," said Ellery. "The pater
himself, with his nose to the scent.--But tell me things, boy. It's--O
Tempes!--isn't it five or six years since we last met?"
"All of that, Ellery. I'm glad you're here, for more than one reason,
El. It's a little comforting," said Weaver in a low voice. "This--this
thing...."
Ellery's smile faded. "The tragedy, eh, Westley? Tell me--how do you
figure in it? You didn't kill the lady, by any chance?" His tone was
jocular, but behind it was a certain anxiety which his father, ears
cocked, found a little strange.
"Ellery!" Weaver's eyes met his straightforwardly. "That isn't even
funny." Then the look of misery crept in again. "It's awful, El. Just
awful. You haven't any idea how awful it is...."
Ellery patted Weaver's arm lightly, removed his pince-nez with an
absent motion. "I'll get it all in a moment, Westley. I'll hold
_tête-à-tête_ conversation with you later. Hang on, won't you? I see
my father signaling me frantically. Chin up, Wes!" He moved away,
again smiling. Weaver's eyes held a glimmer of hope as he dropped back
against the wall.
The Inspector murmured to his son for a moment. Ellery made a
low-voiced reply. Then Ellery strode over to the farther side of the
bed and stood over Prouty, watching the medical examiner as he worked
swiftly over the body.
The Inspector turned to the assembled crowd in the room. "A little
quiet now, please," he said.
A thick curtain of silence dropped over the room.
6
TESTIMONY
The Inspector stepped forward.
"It will be necessary for every one to wait here," he began
sententiously, "while we make some elementary but essential
investigations. Let me say at once, to forestall any claims of special
privilege that may be made, that this is undoubtedly a case of murder.
In cases of murder, the most serious charge that can be brought
against an individual, the law is no respecter either of persons or
institutions. A woman is dead of violence. Somebody killed her. That
somebody may be miles away at this moment, or in this room now. You
can understand, gentlemen"--and his tired eyes considered the five
directors especially--"that the sooner we get down to business, the
better. Too much time has been lost already."
He went abruptly to the door, opened it, and called in a penetrating
voice: "Piggott! Hesse! Hagstrom! Flint! Johnson! Ritter!"
Six detectives strolled into the room. Ritter, a burly man, closed the
door behind him.
"Hagstrom, your book." The detective whipped out a small notebook and a
pencil.
"Piggott, Hesse, Flint--the room!" He added something in a low tone.
The three detectives grinned and dispersed to different portions of the
room. They began a slow, methodical search of furniture, floors, walls.
"Johnson--the bed!" One of the two remaining men went directly to the
wall-bed and began to examine its contents.
"Ritter--stand by." The Inspector slipped his hands into a coat pocket
and withdrew his brown old snuff-box. He filled his nostrils with
aromatic snuff, inhaled deeply and restored the box to his pocket.
"Now!" he said, and glared about the room at his thoroughly cowed
audience. Ellery met his eye for an instant and smiled slightly. "Now!
You, there!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Negress, who was
staring at him with wide eyes, her skin greyish-violet with fright.
"Yassuh," she quavered, tottering to her feet.
"Your name?" snapped Queen.
"Di--Diana Johnson, suh," she whispered, gazing at him in scared
fascination.
"Diana Johnson, eh?" The Inspector took a step forward, leveled his
finger at her. "Why did you open this bed at twelve-fifteen to-day?"
"Ah--Ah had to, suh," she faltered. "Dat was--"
Lavery waved his arm hesitantly at the Inspector. "I can explain that--"
"Sir!" Lavery colored, then smiled cynically. "Go on, Johnson."
"Yassuh, yassuh! Dat was de reg'lar time fo' de exhibition, suh. Ah
always comes out into dis room at a couple o' minutes befo' twelve an'
gets ready fo' de exhibition, suh." The words tumbled out. "An' den,
when Ah'd just got through showin' dis contraption hyah"--she indicated
the divan, which seemed a combination of sofa, bed and bookcase--"Ah
goes to de wall, pushes de button, and den dat--dat dead 'ooman falls
out right at mah feet...." She shuddered and drew a deep breath,
glancing at the detective Hagstrom, who was busily taking down her
words in shorthand.
"You had no idea the body was inside when you pressed the button, Miss
Johnson?" demanded the Inspector.
The Negress's eyes flew wide open. "Nosuh! Ah wouldn't 'a' teched dat
bed fo' a thousan' dolluhs ef Ah'd know dat!" The uniformed nurse
giggled nervously. She sobered instantly as the Inspector stared in her
direction.
"Very well. That's all." He turned to Hagstrom. "Got every word?" The
detective nodded, maintaining a severe silence as the old man winked
fleetingly at him. Inspector Queen turned back to the group. "Nurse,
take Diana Johnson to your hospital upstairs and keep her there until I
give the word!"
The Negress stumbled in her eagerness to leave the window-room. The
nurse followed somewhat sulkily behind.
The Inspector had Patrolman Bush summoned. The policeman saluted,
answered a few questions about what had occurred on the sidewalk at the
moment the body fell, and subsequently inside the window-room, and was
commissioned to go back to his post on Fifth Avenue.
"Crouther!" The store detective was standing by the side of Ellery and
Dr. Prouty. He now slouched forward and stared boldly at Queen. "You're
the head store detective?"
"Yes, Inspector." He shuffled his feet and grinned, displaying
tobacco-stained teeth.
"Sergeant Velie tells me that he instructed you to scatter your men
through the main floor soon after the body was discovered. Have you
attended to that?"
"Yes, sir. Got a squad of a half-dozen store detectives workin'
outside, and put every available 'spotter' on the job, too," replied
Crouther promptly. "But they haven't turned up anybody suspicious yet."
"Could hardly expect it." The Inspector took another pinch of snuff.
"Tell me just what you found when you came in here."
"Well, Inspector, the first I knew about the murder was when one of my
detectives 'phoned me upstairs in my office that something had happened
outside on the sidewalk--riot or something. I came down right away and
as I passed this window I heard Mr. Lavery yell for me. I ran in, saw
the body layin' here, and the darky fainting on the floor. Bush, the
officer on the beat, came in right after me. I told 'em nothing ought
to be touched until the Headquarters men got here, and then got right
after the mobs outside, and generally kept an eye on everything until
Sergeant Velie got here. I followed his orders after that, that's a
fact. I--"
"Here, here, Crouther, that's plenty," said the Inspector. "Don't
leave, I may be able to use you later. Short-handed enough as it is,
the Lord knows. A department store!" He muttered under his breath and
turned to Dr. Prouty.
"Doc! Ready for me yet?"
The kneeling police doctor nodded. "Just about, Inspector. Want me to
shoot the works right here?" He seemed tacitly to question the wisdom
of imparting his information before a group of laymen.
"Might as well," grunted Queen. "It can't be very enlightening."
"Don't know about that." Prouty stood up with a groan, took a firmer
grip on the black cigar between his teeth.
"Woman was killed by two bullets," he said deliberately, "both from a
Colt .38 revolver. Probably from the same gun--hard to tell exactly
without putting them under the microscope." He held up two encarmined
blobs of metal, blunted completely out of shape. The Inspector took
them, turned them over in his fingers, and in silence handed them to
Ellery, who immediately bent over them with a curious eagerness.
Prouty stared dreamily down at the body, plunging his hands into his
pockets. "One bullet," he continued, "entered the body directly in
the center of the cardiac region. Nice jagged _pericardial_ wound,
Inspector. Smashed the _sternum_ bone, pierced the _pericardial
septum_, which is the membrane separating the _pericardium_ from the
main body cavity, then took the logical course through--first the
fibrous layer of the _pericardium_, then the serous inner layer, and
finally the anterior tip of the heart, where the great vessels are.
Spilled quite a bit of the yellow _pericardial_ fluid, too. Bullet
entered the body at an angle and it's left a fearful wound...."
"Then death was instantaneous?" asked Ellery. "The second bullet was
unnecessary?"
"Quite," said Prouty dryly. "Death would be instantaneous from either
wound. As a matter of fact, the second bullet--maybe it's not the
second, though, I can't tell of course which hit her first--bullet
number two made a better job of it than even bullet number one. Because
it penetrated the _precordia_, which is the region a little below the
heart and above the abdomen. This is also a ragged wound, and since
the _precordial_ sector takes in muscles and blood-vessels of major
importance, it's as vital a spot as the heart itself...." Prouty
stopped suddenly. His eyes strayed almost with irritation to the dead
woman on the floor.
"Was the revolver fired close to the body?" put in the Inspector.
"No powder stains, Inspector," said Prouty, still regarding the corpse
with a frown.
"Were both bullets fired from the same spot?" asked Ellery.
"Hard to say. The lateral angles are similar, indicating that whoever
fired both bullets stood to the right of the woman. But the downward
course of the bullets disturbs me. They're too much alike."
"What do you mean?" demanded Ellery, leaning forward.
"Well," growled Prouty, biting on his cigar, "if the woman were in
exactly the same position when both shots were fired--assuming that
both shots were fired almost simultaneously, of course--there should
be a greater _downward_ angle to the _precordial_ wound than to the
_pericardial_. Because the _precordia_ is located below the heart, and
the gun would have to be aimed lower.... Well, perhaps I shouldn't say
these things at all. There are any number of explanations, I suppose,
for that difference in angle. Ought to have Ken Knowles look over the
bullets and the wounds, though."
"He'll get his chance," said the Inspector with a sigh. "Is that all,
Doc?"
Ellery looked up from another scrutiny of the two bullets. "How long
has she been dead?"
Prouty replied promptly: "About twelve hours, I should say. I'll be
able to fix the time of death more accurately after the autopsy. But
she certainly died no earlier than midnight and probably no later than
two in the morning."
"Through now?" asked Inspector Queen patiently.
"Yes. But there's one thing that has me a little...." Prouty set his
jaw. "There's something queer here, Inspector. From what I know of
_precordial_ wounds I can't believe that this one should have bled so
little. You've noticed, I suppose, that the clothing above both wounds
is stiff with coagulated blood, but not so much of it as you might
expect. At least as a medical man might expect."
"Why?"
"I've seen plenty of _precordial_ wounds," said Prouty calmly, "and
they're messy, Inspector. Bleed like hell. In fact, especially in this
case, where the hole is blasted pretty large, due to the angle, there
should be pools and pools of it. The _pericardial_ would bleed freely,
but not profusely. But the other--I say, there's something queer here,
and I thought I'd call it to your attention."
Ellery shot his father a warning glance as the old man opened his
mouth to reply. The Inspector clamped his lips together and dismissed
Prouty with a nod. Ellery returned the two bullets to Prouty, who put
them carefully into his bag.
The police doctor unhurriedly covered the body with a sheet from the
hanging bed and departed, his last words a promise to hurry the morgue
wagon.
"Is the store physician here?" Queen asked.
The small dark doctor stepped uncertainly forward from a corner. His
teeth gleamed as he said, "Yes, sir?"
"Have you anything to add to Dr. Prouty's analysis, doctor?" questioned
Queen, with disarming gentleness.
"Not a thing, not a thing, sir," said the store physician, looking
uneasily at Prouty's retreating figure. "A precise if somewhat sketchy
diagnosis. The bullets entered--"
"Thank you, doctor." Inspector Queen turned his back on the little
physician and beckoned imperiously to the store detective.
"Crouther," he asked in a low tone, "who's your head night-watchman?"
"O'Flaherty--Pete O'Flaherty, Inspector."
"How many watchmen are on duty here at night?"
"Four. O'Flaherty tends the night-door on the 39th Street side, Ralska
and Powers do the rounds, and Bloom is on duty at the 39th Street night
freight-entrance."
"Thanks." The Inspector turned to Detective Ritter. "Get hold of
this man MacKenzie, the store manager, find the home addresses of
O'Flaherty, Ralska, Powers and Bloom, and get 'em down here as fast as
a cab will carry them. Scoot!" Ritter lumbered away.
Ellery suddenly straightened, adjusted his pince-nez more firmly on his
nose, and strode over to his father. They held a whispered colloquy for
a moment, whereupon Ellery quietly retreated to his vantage-point near
the bed and the Inspector crooked his finger at Westley Weaver.
"Mr. Weaver," he asked, "I take it that you are Mr. French's
confidential secretary?"
"Yes, sir," responded Weaver warily.
The Inspector glanced sidewise at Cyrus French, huddled exhausted
in the chair. John Gray's small white hand was solicitously patting
French's arm. "I'd rather not bother Mr. French at this time with
questions.--You were with him all morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. French was not aware of Mrs. French's presence in the store?"
"No, sir!" The response was immediate and sharp. Weaver regarded Queen
with suspicious eyes.
"Were you?"
"I? No, sir!"
"Hmmm!" The Inspector's chin sank on his chest, and he communed with
himself for an instant. Suddenly his finger shot toward the group of
directors on the other side of the room. "How about you gentlemen? Any
of you know that Mrs. French was here--this morning or last night?"
There was a chorus of horrified noes. Cornelius Zorn's face grew red.
He began to protest angrily.
"Please!" The Inspector's tone flung them back in silence. "Mr. Weaver.
How is it that all these gentlemen are present in the store this
morning? They're not here every day, are they?"
Weaver's frank face lightened, as if from relief. "All of our directors
are active in the management of the store, Inspector. They're here
every day, if only for an hour or so. As for this morning, there was a
directors' meeting in Mr. French's private apartment upstairs."
"Eh?" Queen seemed pleased as well as startled. "A private apartment
upstairs, you say? On what floor?"
"The sixth--that's the top floor of the store."
Ellery stirred into life. Again he crossed the floor, again he
whispered to his father, and again the old man nodded.
"Mr. Weaver," continued the Inspector, a note of eagerness in his
voice, "how long were you and the Board in Mr. French's private
apartment this morning?"
Weaver seemed surprised at the question. "Why, all morning, Inspector.
I arrived at about eight-thirty, Mr. French at about nine, and the
other directors at a little past eleven."
"I see." The Inspector mused. "Did you leave the apartment at any time
during the morning?"
"No, sir." The reply was snapped back at him.
"And the others--Mr. French, the directors?" pressed the Inspector
patiently.
"No, sir! We were all there until one of the store detectives notified
us that an accident had occurred here. And I must say, sir--"
"Westley, Westley ..." murmured Ellery chidingly, and Weaver turned to
him with startled eyes. They fell before the meaning glance of Ellery,
and Weaver bit his lip nervously. He did not finish what he had begun
to say.
"Now, sir." The Inspector seemed to be enjoying himself in a tired
way--utterly disregarding the bewildered eyes of the many people in the
room. "Now, sir! Be very careful. At what time did this notification
come?"
"At twelve-twenty-five," replied Weaver in a calmer tone.
"Very well.--Every one then left the apartment?" Weaver nodded. "Did
you lock the door?"
"The door closed after us, Inspector."
"And the apartment remained that way, unguarded?"
"Not at all," said Weaver promptly. "At the beginning of the
conference this morning, at Mr. French's suggestion, I got one of the
store detectives to stand guard outside the apartment door. He is
probably still there, because his orders were specific. In fact, I
remember seeing him lounging about outside when we all rushed out to
see what was the matter down here."
"_Very_ good!" beamed the old man. "A store detective, you say?
Reliable?"
"Absolutely, Inspector," said Crouther, from his corner. "Sergeant
Velie knows him, too. Jones is his name--an ex-policeman--used to be on
a beat with Velie." The Inspector looked at the Sergeant inquiringly;
he nodded in confirmation.
"Thomas," said Queen with one hand digging into his side-pocket for a
pinch of snuff, "see to it, will you? See if this Jones fellow is still
there, if he's been there all the time, if he's seen anything, if any
one tried to get into the apartment since Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and
the other gentlemen left. And take one of the boys along to relieve
him--to relieve him, you understand?"
Velie grunted stonily and tramped out of the window-room. As he left,
a policeman entered, saluted Inspector Queen and reported, "There's a
'phone call out there in the leather-goods department for a Mr. Westley
Weaver, Inspector."
"What's that? Call?" The Inspector turned on Weaver, who stood
miserably in a corner.
Weaver straightened. "Probably from Krafft of the Comptroller's
office," he said. "I was to give him a report this morning, and the
meeting and everything that happened afterward drove it out of my
mind.... May I leave?"
Queen hesitated, his glance flickering toward Ellery, who was absently
fingering his pince-nez. Ellery gave a slight nod.
"Go ahead," the Inspector growled to Weaver. "But come right back."
Weaver followed the policeman to the leather-goods counter directly
facing the door of the window-room. A clerk eagerly handed the
telephone to him.
"Hello--Krafft? This is Weaver speaking. I'm sorry about that
report--Who? Oh."
A curious change came over his face as he heard Marion French's
voice over the wire. He lowered his voice immediately and bent over
the instrument. The policeman, lounging behind him, surreptitiously
shuffled closer, trying to catch the conversation.
"Why, what's the matter, dear?" asked Marion, a note of anxiety in her
voice. "Is anything wrong? I tried to get you at the apartment, but
there was no answer. The operator had to search for you.... I thought
father had a directors' meeting this morning."
"Marion!" Weaver's voice was insistent. "I really can't stop to explain
now. Something's happened, dearest--something so ..." He stopped,
seemed to be wrestling mentally with some problem. His lips tightened.
"Sweetheart, will you do something for me?"
"But, Wes dear," came the girl's anxious voice, "whatever is the
matter? Has anything happened to father?"
"No--no." Weaver hunched desperately over the telephone. "Be my own
honey and don't ask questions now.... Where are you now?"
"Why, at home, dear. But, Wes, what _is_ the trouble?" There was a
frightened catch in her voice. "Has it anything to do with Winifred or
Bernice? They're not at home, Wes--haven't been all night...." Then she
laughed a little. "But there! I shan't worry you, dearest. I'll take a
cab and be down in fifteen minutes."
"I knew you would." Weaver almost sobbed in a tense relief. "Whatever
happens, sweet, I love you, I love you, do you understand?"
"Westley! You silly boy--you've frightened me out of my wits. Good-by
now--I'll be downtown in a jiffy." There was a tender little sound
through the receiver--it might have been a kiss--and Weaver hung up
with a sigh.
The policeman jumped back as Weaver turned--jumped back with a broad
grin. Weaver flushed furiously, started to speak, then shook his head.
"There's a young lady coming down here, officer," he said swiftly.
"She'll be here in about a quarter of an hour. Won't you please let me
know the moment she gets here? She's Miss Marion French. I'll be in the
window."
The bluecoat lost his grin. "Well now," he said slowly, scraping his
jaw, "I just don't know about that. Guess you'll have to tell the
Inspector about it. _I_ haven't the authority."
He marched Weaver back into the window-room against the young man's
protests at the heavy hand on his arm.
"Inspector," he said respectfully, still grasping Weaver's arm, "this
feller wants me to let him know when a certain young lady by the name
of Miss Marion French gets here."
Queen looked up in surprise, a surprise that deepened rapidly into
brusqueness. "Was that telephone call from your Mr. Krafft?" he asked
Weaver.
Before Weaver could speak, the policeman interposed: "Not by a long
sight, sir. 'Twas a lady, and I think he called her 'Marion.'"
"Look here, Inspector!" said Weaver hotly, shaking off the bluecoat's
hand. "This is asinine. I thought the call was from Mr. Krafft, but
it was Miss French--Mr. French's daughter. A--a semi-business call.
And I took the liberty of asking her to come down here immediately.
That's all. Is that a crime? As for letting me know when she arrives--I
naturally want to spare her the shock of walking into this place and
seeing her stepmother's dead body on the floor."
The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, glancing mildly from Weaver to
Ellery. "I see. I see. I'm sorry, Mr. Weaver.... That's right, isn't
it, officer?" he snapped, whirling on the bluecoat.
"Yes, sir! Heard it all plain as day. He's telling the truth."
"And mighty fortunate for him he is," grumbled the Inspector. "Stand
back, Mr. Weaver. We'll attend to the young lady when she arrives....
Now then!" he cried, rubbing his hands, "Mr. French!"
The old man looked up in bleary bewilderment, his eyes blank and
staring.
"Mr. French, is there anything you would like to say that might clear
up some of this mystery?"
"I--I--I--beg--your--pardon?" stammered French, raising his head with
an effort from the back-cushion of the chair. He seemed stricken by his
wife's death to the point of imbecility.
Queen regarded him with pity, looked into the eyes of John Gray,
whose face was threatening, muttered, "Never mind," and squared his
shoulders. "Ellery, my son, how about a careful look-see at the body?"
He peered at Ellery from beneath overhung brows.
Ellery stirred. "Lookers-on," he said clearly, "see more than players.
And if you think that quotation is inept, dad, you don't know your
son's favorite author, Anonymous. Play on!"
7
THE CORPSE
Inspector Queen moved over to the other side of the room, where
the body lay between the bed and the window. Waving aside the
detective Johnson, who was rummaging among the bedclothes, the old
man knelt on the floor beside the dead woman. He removed the white
sheet. Ellery bent over his father's shoulder, his gaze detached but
characteristically panoramic.
The body lay in an oddly crumpled position, the left arm outstretched,
the right slightly crooked beneath the back. The head was in profile,
a brown toque-style hat pushed pathetically over one eye. Mrs. French
had been a small slender woman, with delicate hands and feet. The eyes
were fixed in a sort of bewildered glare, wide open. The mouth drooled;
a thin trickle of blood, now dark and dry, streaked the chin.
The clothes were simple and severe, but rich in quality, as might be
expected from a woman of Mrs. French's age and position. There was a
light brown cloth coat, trimmed at the collar and cuffs with brown fox;
a dark tan dress of a jersey material, with a breast and waist design
of orange and brown; brown silk stockings and a pair of uncompromising
brown walking-shoes.
The Inspector looked up.
"Notice the mud on her shoes, El?" he asked _sotto voce_.
Ellery nodded. "Doesn't take a heap of perspicacity," he remarked. "It
rained all day yesterday; remember the downpour last night? No wonder
the poor lady wet her patrician feet. As a matter of fact, you can see
traces of the wet even on the trimming of the toque.--Yes, dad, Mrs.
French was out in the rain yesterday. Not very important."
"Why not?" the old man asked, his hands softly moving aside the collar
of the coat.
"Because she probably wet her shoes and hat in crossing the sidewalk to
the store," retorted Ellery. "What of it?"
The Inspector did not reply. His seeking hand plunged suddenly beneath
the coat-collar and reappeared with a filmy, color-clouded scarf.
"Here's something," he said, turning the gauze-like material over in
his hands. "Must have slipped down inside the coat when she tumbled out
of the bed." An exclamation escaped him. On one corner of the scarf was
a silk-embroidered monogram. Ellery leaned farther forward over his
father's shoulder.
"_M.F._," he said. He straightened up, frowning, saying nothing.
The Inspector turned his head toward the group of directors at the
other side of the room. They were huddled together, watching his every
gesture. At his movement they started guiltily and averted their heads.
"What was Mrs. French's first name?" Queen questioned the group; and
as if each one had been addressed individually, there was an instant
chorus of "Winifred!"
"Winifred, eh?" muttered the old man, letting his eyes return
fleetingly to the body. Then he fixed Weaver with his grey eyes.
"Winifred, eh?" he repeated. Weaver bobbed his head mechanically. He
seemed horrified at the wisp of silk in the Inspector's hand. "Winifred
what? Any middle name or initials?"
"Winifred--Winifred Marchbanks French," stammered the secretary.
The Inspector nodded curtly. Rising, he strode over to Cyrus French,
who was watching him with dull, uncomprehending eyes.
"Mr. French--" Queen shook the millionaire's shoulder gently--"Mr.
French, is this your wife's scarf?" He held the scarf up before
French's eyes. "Do you understand me, sir? Is this scarf Mrs. French's?"
"Eh? I--Let me see it!" The old man snatched it in a sort of frenzy
from the Inspector's hand. He bent over it avidly, pulled it smooth,
examined the monogram with feverish fingers--and slumped back in his
chair.
"Is it, Mr. French?" pursued the Inspector, taking the scarf from him.
"No." It was a flat, colorless, indifferent negative.
The Inspector turned toward the silent group. "Can any one here
identify this scarf?" He held it high. There was no answer. The
Inspector repeated his question, glaring at each one individually. Of
them all, only Westley Weaver averted his glance.
"So! Weaver, eh? No nonsense, now, young man!" snapped Queen, grasping
the secretary by the arm. "What do the letters _M.F._ stand for--Marion
French?"
The young man gulped, sent an agonized glance toward Ellery, who
returned the glance commiseratingly, looked at old Cyrus French, who
was mumbling to himself....
"You can't believe she had anything to do--to do with it!" cried
Weaver, shaking his arm free. "It's absurd--crazy!... You _can't_
believe she had anything to do with this, Inspector. She's too fine,
too young, too--"
"Marion French." The Inspector turned toward John Gray. "Mr. French's
daughter, I believe Mr. Weaver said before?"
Gray nodded sullenly. Cyrus French suddenly attempted to leap from his
chair. He uttered a hoarse cry. "My God, no! Not Marion! Not Marion!"
His eyes blazed as Gray and Marchbanks, the directors nearest the old
man, jumped to support his quivering body. The spasm lasted for a brief
moment; he collapsed into his chair.
Inspector Queen returned without a word to his examination of the dead
woman. Ellery had been a silent witness of the little drama, his sharp
eyes flitting from face to face as it unfolded. Now he sent a glance
of reassurance at Weaver, who was leaning abjectly against a table,
and then stooped to pick up an object from the floor which was almost
hidden by the dead woman's tumbled skirt.
It was a small handbag of dark brown suède, monogrammed with the
initials _W.M.F._ Ellery sat down on the edge of the bed and turned
the bag over in his hands. Curiously he lifted the flap and began
to spread the contents of the bag on the mattress. He removed a
small change-purse, a gold vanity-case, a lace handkerchief, a gold
card-case, all monogrammed _W.M.F._, and finally a silver-chased
lipstick.
The Inspector looked up. "What's that you have there?" he asked sharply.
"Bag of the deceased," murmured Ellery. "Would you care to examine it?"
"Would I--" The Inspector glared at his son in mock heat. "Ellery,
sometimes you try me beyond patience!"
Ellery handed it over with a smile. The old man examined the bag
minutely. He pawed over the articles on the bed and gave up in disgust.
"Nothing there that I can see," he snorted. "And I'm--"
"No?" Ellery's tone was provocative.
"What do you mean?" asked his father with a change of tone, looking
back at the contents of the bag. "Purse, vanity, hanky, card-case,
lipstick--what's interesting there?"
Ellery faced about squarely so that his back hid the articles on the
bed from the observation of the others. He picked up the lipstick with
care and offered it to his father. The old man took it cautiously,
suspiciously. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him.
"Exactly--_C_," murmured Ellery. "What do you make of it?"
The lipstick was large and deep. On the cap was a chastely engraved
initial, _C_. The Inspector peered at it in some astonishment and made
as if to question the men in the room. But Ellery halted him with a
warning gesture and took the lipstick from his father's fingers. He
unscrewed the initialed cap and twisted the body of the stick until a
half-inch of red paste was visible above the orifice. His eyes shifted
toward the dead woman's face. They brightened at what they saw.
He knelt quickly by his father's side, their bodies still shielding
their movements from the eyes of the onlookers.
"Have a peep at this, dad," he said in an undertone, offering the
lipstick. The old man looked at it in a puzzled way.
"Poisoned?" he asked. "But that's impossible--how could you tell
without an analysis?"
"No, no!" exclaimed Ellery in the same low tone. "The color, dad--the
color!"
The Inspector's face lightened. He looked from the stick in Ellery's
hand to the dead woman's lips. The fact was self-evident--the coloring
on the lips had not come from the stick in Ellery's possession. The
lips were painted a light shade of red, almost pink, whereas the stick
itself was a dark carmine in shade.
"Here, El--let me have that!" said the Inspector. He took the open
stick and swiftly made a red mark on the dead woman's face.
"Different, all right," he muttered. He wiped off the smudge with a
corner of the sheet. "But I don't see--"
"There really should be another lipstick, eh?" remarked Ellery lightly,
standing up.
The old man snatched at the woman's handbag and went through it once
more, hurriedly. No, there was no sign of another lipstick. He motioned
to the detective Johnson.
"Find anything in the bed or the closet here, Johnson?"
"Not a thing, Chief."
"Sure? No sign of a lipstick?"
"Nope."
"Piggott! Hesse! Flint!" The three detectives stopped short in their
search of the room and crossed to the Inspector's side. The old man
repeated his questions.... Nothing. The detectives had found no alien
articles in the room.
"Is Crouther here? Crouther!" The store detective hurried over.
"Been out seeing that things were moving in the store," he announced
unasked. "Everything's shipshape--boys've been hustling, that's a
fact.--What can I do for you, Inspector?"
"Did you see a lipstick around here when you found the body?"
"Lipstick? No, sir! Wouldn't have touched it if I'd seen it anyway.
Told everybody to leave things alone. I know that much, Inspector!"
"Mr. Lavery!" The Frenchman sauntered up. No, he had seen no sign of a
lipstick. Perhaps the Negress--?
"Hardly! Piggott, send some one up to the infirmary and find out if
this Johnson girl saw it."
The Inspector turned back to Ellery with a frowning brow. "Now, that's
funny, isn't it, Ellery? Could some one here have appropriated the
darned thing?"
Ellery smiled. "'Honest labor,' as old Tom Dekker had it, 'bears a
lovely face,' but I'm very much afraid, dad.... No, your efforts in the
direction of finding a lipstick thief are wasted. I could almost make a
nice conjecture...."
"What _do_ you mean, Ellery?" groaned the Inspector. "Where is it,
then, if no one took it?"
"We'll come to that in the course of inexorable time," said Ellery
imperturbably. "But examine the face of our poor clay again,
dad--particularly the labial portion. See anything interesting aside
from the color of the lipstick?"
"Eh?" The Inspector turned startled eyes to the corpse. He felt
for his snuff-box and nervously took a generous pinch. "No, I
can't say that I--By jiminy!" He muttered beneath his breath. "The
lips--unfinished...."
"Precisely." Ellery twirled his pince-nez about his finger. "Observed
the phenomenon the moment I looked at the body. What amazing
juxtaposition of circumstances could have caused a handsome woman still
in her prime to leave her lips only half painted?" He pursed his mouth,
fell into deep thought. His eyes did not leave the dead woman's lips,
which showed the pinkish color of the lipstick on both the upper and
lower lip, on the upper two dabs of unsmeared color and on the lower
one a dab exactly in the center. Where the lipstick had not yet been
smeared, the lips were a sickly purple--the color of unadorned death.
The Inspector passed his hand wearily across his brow just as Piggott
returned.
"Well?"
"The colored girl fainted," reported the detective, "just as the body
fell out of the wall-bed. Never saw anything, much less a lipstick."
Inspector Queen draped the sheet over the body in baffled silence.
8
THE WATCHER
The door opened and Sergeant Velie entered, accompanied by a
steady-eyed man dressed in black. This newcomer saluted the Inspector
respectfully and stood waiting.
"This is Robert Jones, Inspector," said Velie in his deep clipped
tones. "Attached to the store force, and I'll vouch for him personally.
Jones was the man called by Mr. Weaver this morning to stand outside
the apartment door during the directors' meeting."
"How about it, Jones?" asked Inspector Queen.
"I was ordered to Mr. French's apartment this morning at eleven,"
replied the store detective. "I was told to stand guard outside and see
that no one disturbed the meeting. According to my instructions...."
"And where did your instructions come from?"
"I understood that Mr. Weaver had 'phoned, sir," replied Jones. The
Inspector looked at Weaver, who nodded, and then motioned the man to
continue.
"According to my instructions," said Jones, "I strolled about outside
the apartment without interrupting the meeting. I was in the sixth
floor corridor near the apartment until about twelve-fifteen. At that
time the door opened and Mr. French, the other directors and Mr. Weaver
ran out and took the elevator, going downstairs. They all seemed
excited...."
"Did you know why Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and the others ran out of the
apartment that way?"
"No, sir. As I said, they seemed excited and paid no attention to me. I
didn't hear about Mrs. French being dead until one of the boys dropped
by about a half-hour later with the news."
"Did the directors close the door when they left the apartment?"
"The door closed by itself--swung shut."
"So you didn't enter the apartment?"
"No, sir!"
"Did any one come up to the apartment while you stood guard this
morning?"
"Not a soul, Inspector. And after the directors left, there was no one
except the chap I told you about, who merely spilled his story and
went right down again. I've been on duty until five minutes ago, when
Sergeant Velie had two of his own men relieve me."
The Inspector mused. "And you're certain no one went into the
apartment, Jones? It may be quite important."
"Dead certain, Inspector," replied Jones clearly. "The reason I stayed
on after the directors left was because I didn't know exactly what to
do under the circumstances, and I've always found it a safe bet to
stand pat when something unusual happens."
"Good enough, Jones!" said the Inspector. "That's all."
Jones saluted, went up to Crouther and asked what he was to do. The
head store detective, his chest held high, detailed him to help handle
the crowds in the store. And Jones departed.
9
THE WATCHERS
The Inspector went quickly to the door and peered over the heads of the
seething crowds on the main floor.
"MacKenzie! Is MacKenzie there?" he shouted.
"Right here!" came the faint bellow of the store manager's voice.
"Coming!"
Queen trotted back into the room, fumbling for his snuff-box. He eyed
the directors almost roguishly; his good humor seemed for the moment
to have returned. The occupants of the room, with the exception of
Cyrus French, who was still plunged in a deep lethargy of grief and
indifference to what was going on, had by this time shaken off some
of their horror and were growing restless. Zorn stole surreptitious
glances at his heavy gold watch; Marchbanks was pacing belligerently
up and down the room; Trask at regular intervals averted his head and
gulped down some whisky from a flask in his pocket; Gray, his face
as ashen as his hair, stood in silence behind old French's chair.
Lavery was very quiet, watching with bright inquisitive eyes the least
movement of the Inspector and his men. Weaver, his boyish face strained
and lined, seemed to be enduring agonies. He frequently sought Ellery
with pleading eyes, as if asking for help which he knew, instinctively,
could not be forthcoming.
"I must ask you to have patience for a short time longer, gentlemen,"
said the Inspector, smoothing his mustache with the back of his small
hand. "We have a few things more to do here--and then we'll see.... Ah!
You're MacKenzie, I take it? Are those the watchmen? Bring 'em in, man!"
The middle-aged Scotchman had entered the window-room, herding before
him four oldish men with frightened faces and fidgety hands. Ritter
made up the rear.
"Yes, Inspector. By the way, I'm having the employees checked up, as
Sergeant Velie instructed me to." MacKenzie waved the four men forward.
They shuffled a step farther into the room, reluctantly.
"Who's the head night-watchman among you?" demanded the Inspector.
A corpulent old man with fleshy features and placid eyes stepped
forward, touching his forehead.
"I am, sor--Peter O'Flaherty's me name."
"Were you on duty last night, O'Flaherty?"
"Yes, sor. That I was."
"What time did you go on?"
"Me reg'lar hour, sor," said the watchman. "Ha'past five. It's O'Shane
I relieve at th' desk in the night-office on th' 39th Street side.
These boys here"--he indicated the three men behind him with a fat and
calloused forefinger--"they come on with me. They was with me last
night, reg'lar."
"I see." The Inspector paused. "O'Flaherty, do you know what has
happened?"
"Yes, sor. I've been told. And a shame it is, sor," responded
O'Flaherty soberly. He stole a glance at the limp figure of Cyrus
French, then jerked his head back toward the Inspector as if he had
committed an indiscretion. His cronies followed his gaze, and looked
forward again in exactly the same manner.
"Did you know Mrs. French by sight?" asked the Inspector, his keen
little eyes studying the old man.
"I did, sor," replied O'Flaherty. "She used to come to th' store
sometimes after closing when Mr. French was still here."
"Often?"
"No, sor. Not so very. But I knowed her right enough, sor."
"Hmmm." Inspector Queen relaxed. "Now, O'Flaherty, answer
carefully--and truthfully. As truthfully as if you were on the
witness-stand.--Did you see Mrs. French last night?"
Silence had fallen in the room--a silence pregnant with beating hearts
and racing pulses. All eyes were on the broad mottled face of the old
watchman. He licked his lips, seemed to reflect, squared his shoulders.
"Yes, sor," he said, with a little hiss.
"At what time?"
"'Twas just eleven forty-five, sor," replied O'Flaherty. "Y'see, there
ain't but one night-entrance to th' store after hours. All th' other
doors and exits are ironed up. That one door is on 39th Street, th'
Employees' Entrance. There ain't no way but that t'get in or out o' the
buildin'. I--"
Ellery moved suddenly, and everybody turned toward him. He smiled
deprecatingly at O'Flaherty. "Sorry, dad, but I've just thought of
something.... O'Flaherty, do I understand you to say that there is only
one way into the store after hours--the Employees' Entrance?"
O'Flaherty champed his blue old jaws reflectively. "Why, yes, sor," he
said. "And what's wrong about that?"
"Very little," smiled Ellery, "except that I believe there is a night
freight-entrance on the 39th Street side as well...."
"Oh, that!" snorted the old watchman. "'Tain't hardly an entrance, sor.
Mostly always shut. So, as I was sayin'--"
Ellery lifted a slender hand. "One moment, O'Flaherty. You say, 'Mostly
always shut.' Just what do you mean by that?"
"Well," replied O'Flaherty, scratching his poll, "it's shut down
tighter'n a drum all night exceptin' between eleven o'clock and
eleven-thirty. So it don't hardly count."
"That's _your_ point of view," said Ellery argumentatively. "I thought
there must be a good reason for having a special night-watchman at the
spot all night. Who is he?"
"That's Bloom over here," said O'Flaherty. "Bloom, step out, man, and
let the gentlemen look ye over."
Bloom, a sturdy middle-aged man with reddish, graying hair, stepped
uncertainly forward. "That's me," he said. "Nothin' wrong in my freight
department last night, if that's what you wanna know...."
"No?" Ellery eyed him keenly. "Exactly why is the freight-entrance
opened between eleven and eleven-thirty?"
"Fer the delivery of groceries an' meats an' such," answered Bloom.
"Big turn-over every day in the store restaurant, and then there's the
Employees' Restaurant too. Get supplies fresh every night."
"Who is the trucker?" interrupted the Inspector.
"Buckley & Green. Same driver an' unloader every night, sir."
"I see," said the Inspector. "Get it down, Hagstrom, and make a note to
question the men on the truck.... Anything else, Ellery?"
"Yes." Ellery turned once more to the red-haired night-watchman.
"Tell us just what happens every night when the Buckley & Green truck
arrives."
"Well, I go on duty at ten," said Bloom. "At eleven every night the
truck rolls up and Johnny Salvatore, the driver, rings the night bell
outside the freight-door...."
"Is the freight-door kept locked after five-thirty?"
MacKenzie, the store manager, interrupted. "Yes, sir. It's
automatically locked at closing-time. Never opened till the truck comes
up at eleven."
"Go on, Bloom."
"When Johnny rings, I unlock the door--it's sheet iron--and roll 'er
up. Then the truck drives inside, an' Marino, the unloader, unpacks the
stuff and stores it, while Johnny and myself check it over in my booth
near the door. That's all. When they're through, they take the truck
out, I unroll the door, and lock it, and just stay there all night."
Ellery pondered. "Does the door remain open while the truck is being
unloaded?"
"Sure," said Bloom. "It's only for a half an hour, and besides, nobody
could hardly get in without one of us seeing 'em."
"You're sure of that?" asked Ellery sharply. "Positive? Swear to it,
man?"
Bloom hesitated. "Well, I don't hardly see how anybody _could_," he
said lamely. "Marino's out there unloading, and Johnny and me in the
booth right by the door...."
"How many electric lights are there in this freight room?" demanded
Ellery.
Bloom looked bewildered. "Why, there's one big light right over where
the truck is, and then there's a small one in my booth. Johnny keeps
his headlights on, too."
"How big is this freight room?"
"Oh, about seventy-five foot deep by fifty wide. Store emergency trucks
are parked there for the night, too."
"How far from your booth does the truck unload?"
"Oh, 'way in, near the back, where there's a chute from the kitchen."
"And one light in all that black expanse," murmured Ellery. "The booth
is enclosed, I suppose?"
"Just a glass window facing the inside of the room."
Ellery played with his pince-nez. "Bloom, if I told you to swear that
nobody could get into that freight room, past the entrance, without
your seeing him, would you do it?"
Bloom smiled in a sickly fashion. "Well, sir," he said, "I don't know
as I would."
"Did you see anybody get in last night while the door was open and you
and Salvatore were in the booth checking over the goods?"
"No, sir!"
"But somebody might have got in?"
"I--I guess so...."
"One question more," said Ellery genially. "These deliveries are made
_every night_, without fail, and at exactly the same hour?"
"Yes, sir. Been that way as long as I can remember."
"Another, if you'll pardon me. Did you lock that freight-door last
night promptly at eleven-thirty?"
"To the dot."
"Were you at that door all night?"
"Yes, sir. On my chair, right by the door."
"No disturbance? Didn't hear or see anything suspicious?"
"No, sir."
"If--any one--tried--to--get--out--of--the--building--by--that--door,"
said Ellery with startling emphasis, "you would have heard and seen
him?"
"Sure thing, sir," said Bloom weakly, glancing with despair at
MacKenzie.
"Very well, then," drawled Ellery, waving his arm negligently toward
Bloom, "the inquisition may proceed, Inspector." And he stepped back,
making furious notes in his book.
The Inspector, who had been listening with a gradually clarifying
expression on his face, sighed and said to O'Flaherty, "You were
saying that Mrs. French came into the building at eleven-forty-five,
O'Flaherty. Let's have the rest of it."
The head night-watchman wiped his brow with a slightly shaking hand and
a dubious glance in Ellery's direction. Then he took up the thread of
his story. "Well, I sits at th' night-desk all night--never gets up,
while Ralska and Powers here does the rounds every hour. That's me job,
sor--an' besides I check out all those who put in overtime, like th'
executive people, and such. Yes, sor. I--"
"Easy, O'Flaherty," said the Inspector, with interest. "Tell us just
exactly what happened when Mrs. French arrived. You're sure it was
eleven-forty-five?"
"Yes, sor. I looked at th' time-clock next th' desk, 'cause I gotta put
down all arrivals on me time-sheet...."
"Oh, the time-sheet?" muttered Queen. "Mr. MacKenzie, will you please
see that I get last night's time-sheet at once? Even before the report
on the employees." MacKenzie nodded and left. "All right, O'Flaherty.
Go on."
"Well, sor, through the night-door acrost th' hall I sees a taxi roll
up and Mrs. French she steps out. She pays th' driver and knocks. I
sees who 'tis and opens quick. She gives me a cheery good-evenin',
and asks if Mr. Cyrus French was still in th' buildin', I says no,
ma'am, Mr. Cyrus French'd left early in th' afternoon, as he had, sor,
carryin' a brief-case. She thanks me, stops to think a bit, then she
says she'll go up to Mr. French's private apartment anyway, and starts
to walk out o' th' office toward the private elevator that's only used
to go up to th' apartment. I says to her, I says, Kin I get one o'
the boys to run th' elevator up for her an' open th' apartment door?
She says no thanks, right polite, sor, and rummages in her bag for a
minute, as if to see she's got her key. Yes, she had it--she fishes it
out o' her bag and shows it to me. Then she--"
"Just a moment, O'Flaherty." The Inspector seemed perturbed. "You say
she had a key to the apartment? How is that, do you know?"
"Well, sor, there're only a certain number o' keys to Mr. French's
apartment, sor," answered O'Flaherty, more comfortably. "S'far as
I know, Mr. Cyrus French has one, Mrs. French had one, Miss Marion
has one, Miss Bernice has one--me workin' here for seventeen years,
I knows th' fam'ly right well, sor--Mr. Weaver has one, and there's
one master-key in th' desk in my office all th' time. That's half a
dozen altogether, sor. Th' master-key is in case a key is needed in an
emergency."
"You say Mrs. French showed you her key before she left your office,
O'Flaherty? How do you know it was the key to the apartment?" asked the
Inspector.
"Easy enough, sor. Y'see, each key--they're special Yales, sor--each
key has a little gold dingus on it with th' initials o' the person it
belongs to. Th' key Mrs. French showed me had that on. Besides, I know
th' looks o' that key; it was the right one, all right."
"One second, O'Flaherty." The Inspector turned to Weaver. "Have you
your apartment key on you, Weaver? Let me have it, please?"
Weaver extracted a leather key-case from his vest-pocket and handed it
to Queen. Among a number of different keys was one with a small gold
disc fused into the tiny hole at the top. On this disc were engraved
the initials, _W.W._ The Inspector looked up at O'Flaherty.
"A key like this?"
"Just th' same, sor," said O'Flaherty, "exceptin' th' initials."
"Very well." Queen returned the key-case to Weaver. "Now, O'Flaherty,
before you continue, tell me this--where do you keep your master-key to
the apartment?"
"Right in a special drawer in th' desk, sor. It's there all the time,
day and night."
"Was it in its place last night?"
"Yes, sor. I always looks for it special. It was there--the right key,
no mistake, sor. It's got a tab on it too, with th' word 'Master' on
it."
"O'Flaherty," asked the Inspector quietly, "were you at your desk all
night? Did you leave your office at all?"
"No, sor!" answered the old watchman emphatically. "From th' minute
I got there, at five-thirty, I didn't leave th' office until I was
relieved this mornin' by O'Shane at eight-thirty. I got longer hours
than him 'cause he's got more to do on his shift, with checkin' in
employees and all. And as for leavin' the desk, I brings me own feed
from home, even hot coffee in a thermos bottle. No, sor, I was on th'
watch all night."
"I see." Queen shook his head as if to clear the mists of weariness and
motioned the watchman to continue with his story.
"Well, sor," said O'Flaherty, "when Mrs. French left me office, I got
up out o' me chair, went into the hall, and watched her. She went to
th' elevator, opened th' door, an' went in. That's the last I saw
o' her, sor. When I saw she didn't come down I thought nothin' of
it, 'cause a number o' times Mrs. French has stayed overnight in Mr.
French's apartment upstairs. I thought she'd done th' same this night.
So that's all I know, sor."
Ellery stirred. He lifted the dead woman's handbag from the bed and
dangled it before the watchman's eyes.
"O'Flaherty," he asked in a drawling voice, "have you ever seen this
before?"
The watchman replied, "Yes, sor! That's th' bag Mrs. French was
carryin' last night."
"The bag, then," pursued Ellery softly, "from which she took her
gold-topped key?"
The watchman seemed puzzled. "Why, yes, sor." Ellery seemed satisfied
and dropped back to whisper in his father's ear. The Inspector frowned,
then nodded. He turned to Crouther.
"Crouther, will you please get the master-key in the office on the 39th
Street side." Crouther grunted cheerfully and departed. "Now then." The
Inspector picked up the gauzy scarf initialed _M.F._ which he had found
on the dead body. "O'Flaherty, do you recall Mrs. French's having worn
this last night? Think carefully."
O'Flaherty took the wisp of silk in his horny fat fingers and turned it
over and over, his forehead wrinkled. "Well, sor," he said finally, in
a hesitant tone. "I can't rightly say. Seemed to me for a minute as if
I'd seen Mrs. French wear it, and then again seemed as if I hadn't. No,
I couldn't rightly say. No, sor," and he returned it to the Inspector
with a gesture of helplessness.
"You're not sure?" The Inspector dropped the scarf back on the bed.
"Everything seem all right last night? No alarms?"
"No, sor. O' course you know th' store's wired against burglars. Quiet
as a church last night. S'far as I know, nothin' happened out o' th'
way."
Queen said to Sergeant Velie: "Thomas, call up the alarm central office
and find out if they've a report on last night. Probably not, or we'd
have heard from them by this time." Velie left, silently as usual.
"O'Flaherty, did you see any one else enter the building last night
except Mrs. French? At any time during the night?" continued the
Inspector.
"No, sor, absolutely not. Not a soul." O'Flaherty seemed anxious to
make this point clear, after his defection concerning the scarf.
"Ah there, MacKenzie! Let me have the time-sheet, please." Queen took
from the store manager, who had just returned, a long scroll of ruled
paper. He looked it over hurriedly. Something seemed to catch his eye.
"I see by your sheet, O'Flaherty," he said, "that Mr. Weaver and a Mr.
Springer were the last to leave the store yesterday evening? Did you
make these notations?"
"Yes, sor, Mr. Springer went out about a quarter to seven, and Mr.
Weaver a few minutes after."
"Is that right, Weaver?" demanded the Inspector, turning to the
secretary.
"Yes," replied Weaver in a colorless tone. "I stayed a little later
last night to prepare some papers for Mr. French to-day; I believe I
shaved.... I left a little before seven."
"Who is this Springer?"
"Oh, James Springer is the head of our Book Department, Inspector," put
in mild-mannered MacKenzie. "Often stays late. A very conscientious
man, sir."
"Yes, yes. Now--you men!" The Inspector pointed to the two watchmen who
had not yet spoken. "Anything to say? Anything to add to O'Flaherty's
story? One at a time.... Your name?"
One of the watchmen cleared his throat nervously. "George Powers,
Inspector. No, sir, I got nothin' to say."
"Everything all right when you went your rounds? Do you cover this part
of the store?"
"Yes, sir, everythin' was okay on my rounds. No, sir, I don't cover the
main floor. That's Ralska's job, here."
"Ralska, eh? What's your first name, Ralska?" demanded the Inspector.
The third watchman expelled his breath noisily. "Hermann, sir. Hermann
Ralska. I think--"
"You think, eh?" Queen turned. "Hagstrom, you're taking this down, of
course?"
"Yep, Chief," grinned the detective, his pencil busy in his notebook.
"Now, Ralska, you were about to think something, no doubt very
important," snarled the Inspector. His temper seemed frayed and raw
once more. "What was it?"
Ralska held himself stiffly. "I thought I heard somethin' funny last
night on the main floor."
"Oh, you did! Where, exactly?"
"Right about here--outside this window-room."
"No!" Inspector Queen grew very quiet. "Outside this window-room. Very
good, Ralska. What was it?"
The watchman seemed to take heart at Queen's calmer tone. "It was
just about one o'clock in the morning. Maybe a few minutes earlier.
I was in the part of the store near the Fift' Avenue and 39t' Street
side. This here window faces Fift' Avenue, past the night-office, so
it's a good distance away. I heard a queer kind o' noise. Can't make
up my mind what it was. Might 'a' been some one movin' around, might
'a' been a footstep, might 'a' been a door closin'--just don't know.
Anyway, I wasn't suspicious or anything--you get so you hear noises
that never happened on a night job like this.... But I went over in
that direction and couldn't see anything wrong, so I thought it must be
my imagination. Even tried a couple of the window doors. But they were
all locked. Tried this one, too. So I stopped in to have a word with
O'Flaherty here, and went on ahead, with my rounds. That's all."
"Oh!" Inspector Queen seemed disappointed. "So you're not certain of
where the noise came from--if there was a noise?"
"Well," responded Ralska carefully, "if it was anythin' at all it came
from this section o' the floor near these big street-window displays."
"Nothing else all night?"
"No, sir."
"All right, that's all for you four men. You may go back home and catch
up on your sleep. Be back here to-night for work as usual."
"Yes, sir; yes, sir." The watchmen backed out of the window-room and
disappeared.
The Inspector, brandishing the time-sheet in his hand, addressed the
store manager. "MacKenzie, have you given this sheet any study?"
The Scotchman replied, "Yes, Inspector--thought you might be interested
and looked it over on the way."
"Fine! MacKenzie, what's the verdict? Was every employee of the
store checked out regularly yesterday?" Queen's face was composed,
indifferent.
MacKenzie did not hesitate. "As you can see, we have a simple check-out
system--by departments.... I can certainly assert that every _employee_
who was _in the store_ yesterday checked out."
"Does that include executives and gentlemen like the Board of
Directors?"
"Yes, sir--there are their names in the proper places."
"Very well--thank you," said the Inspector thoughtfully. "Please don't
forget that list of absentees, MacKenzie."
Velie and Crouther at this point reëntered the room together. Crouther
handed the Inspector a key, an exact replica of the one in Weaver's
possession, marked "Master" on its gold disk as O'Flaherty had averred.
The detective-sergeant relayed a negative report from the burglar-alarm
company. Nothing unusual had occurred during the night.
The Inspector turned again to MacKenzie. "How reliable is this
O'Flaherty?"
"True-blue. Would give his life for Mr. French, Inspector," returned
MacKenzie warmly. "He's the oldest employee of the store--knew Mr.
French in the old days."
"That's a fact," echoed Crouther, as if anxious to have his opinion
considered as well.
"It has just occurred to me ..." Inspector Queen faced MacKenzie
inquiringly. "Just how private is Mr. French's apartment? Who has
access to it besides the French family and Mr. Weaver?"
MacKenzie scraped his jaw slowly. "Hardly any one else, Inspector,"
he replied. "Of course, the Board of Directors meet in Mr. French's
apartment periodically for conferences and other business matters; but
the only keys to it are in the possession of the people O'Flaherty has
mentioned. As a matter of fact, it's almost peculiar how little we
people know about Mr. French's apartment. In all my association with
the store, and it's a matter of ten years or so, I can't recall having
been in the apartment more than half a dozen times. I was thinking that
only last week, when Mr. French summoned me there for some special
instructions regarding the store. As for other employees--well, Mr.
French has always been adamant in the matter of his privacy. Aside
from O'Flaherty opening the door for the cleaning-woman three times
a week, and letting her out just before he goes off duty, there's
not an employee of the store who has access or occasion to visit the
apartment."
"I see, I see. The apartment--we seem to be going back to that
apartment," muttered the Inspector. "Well! There seems to be very
little left here.... Ellery, what do you think?"
Ellery swung his pince-nez with unaccustomed vigor as he regarded his
father. There was a troubled glint in the depths of his eyes.
"Think? Think?" He smiled fretfully. "My ratiocinative machinery has
been chiefly occupied in the last half-hour or so with a stubborn
little problem." He bit his lip.
"Problem? What problem?" growled his father affectionately. "I haven't
had a moment to think clearly, and you talk of problems!"
"The problem," enunciated Ellery distinctly but not loudly enough to
be heard by the others, "of why Mrs. French's key to her husband's
apartment is missing."
10
MARION
"Not much of a problem," said Inspector Queen. "There is no particular
reason for expecting to find the key--here. Besides, I can't see that
it's of much importance."
"_Alors_--we'll let it go at that," said Ellery, smiling. "I am always
worried by omissions." He dropped back, searching his vest-pocket for a
cigaret-case. His father eyed him sharply. Ellery rarely smoked.
A policeman pushed open the window-door at this moment and lumbered
over to the Inspector. "Young lady outside giving the name of Marion
French. Says she wants Mr. Weaver," he whispered hoarsely. "Scared to
death at the mobs and the cops. One o' the floorwalkers is with her.
What'll I do, Inspector?"
The Inspector's eyes narrowed. He shot a glance at Weaver. The
secretary seemed to sense the import of the message, although he had
not heard the whispered words; for he stepped forward at once.
"I beg your pardon, Inspector," he said eagerly, "but if that's Miss
French I'd like your permission to go to her at once and--"
"Amazing intuition!" cried the Inspector suddenly, his white face
creasing into smiles. "Yes, I think I--Come along, Mr. Weaver. You
shall introduce me to Mr. French's daughter." He turned sharply to
Velie. "Carry on for a moment, Thomas. No one is to leave. I'll be back
in a jiffy."
Preceded by a revitalized Weaver, he trotted out of the window-room.
Weaver broke into a run as they stepped out onto the main floor. The
center of a little crowd of detectives and policemen, a young girl
stood stiffly, her face drained of color, eyes wild with a nameless
fear. As she caught sight of Weaver, a tremulous cry escaped her and
she swayed forward weakly.
"Westley! What is the matter? These policemen--detectives--" Her arms
stretched out. In full sight of the grinning police and the Inspector,
Weaver and the girl embraced.
"Sweetheart! You must get hold of yourself ..." Weaver whispered
desperately into the girl's ear as she clung to him.
"Wes--tell me. Who is it? Not--" She drew away from him with horror in
her eyes. "Not--Winifred?"
She read the answer in his eyes even before he nodded.
The Inspector obtruded his elastic little figure between them. "Mr.
Weaver," he smiled, "may I have the pleasure...?"
"Oh, yes--yes!" Weaver stepped quickly backward, releasing the girl.
He seemed astonished at the interruption, as if he had forgotten
momentarily the place, the circumstances, the time.... "Marion dear,
may I present Inspector Richard Queen. Inspector--Miss French."
Queen took the proffered little hand and bowed. Marion murmured a
perfunctory pleasance, while her large grey eyes widened in stricken
interest at this tiny middle-aged gentleman with the clean white
mustache who bent over her hand.
"You're investigating--a crime, Inspector Queen?" she faltered,
shrinking from him, clutching at Weaver's hand.
"Unfortunately, Miss French," said the Inspector. "I'm genuinely
grieved that you've had such an unpleasant reception--more than I can
say...." Weaver glared at him in bewildered wrath. The old Machiavelli!
He had known all along what would happen!... The Inspector proceeded
in a gentle tone. "It's your stepmother, my dear--shockingly murdered.
Terrible! Terrible!" He clucked his tongue like a solicitous old hen.
"Murdered!" The girl grew very still. The hand in Weaver's twitched
once, and was limp. For the instant both Weaver and the Inspector
thought she would faint, and involuntarily moved forward to her aid.
She staggered back. "No--thank you," she whispered. "My God--Winifred!
And she and Bernice were away--all night...."
The Inspector stiffened. Then his hand fumbled for his snuff-box.
"Bernice, I believe you said, Miss French?" he said. "The watchman
mentioned that name before, too.... A sister, perhaps, my dear?" he
asked ingratiatingly.
"Oh--what have I--Oh, Wes dear, take me away, take me away!" She buried
her face in the folds of Weaver's coat.
Weaver said, above her head, "A perfectly natural remark, Inspector.
The housekeeper, Hortense Underhill, called Mr. French this morning
during the conference to report that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice,
her daughter, had slept at home.... You see, of course, that
Marion--Miss French...."
"Yes, yes, naturally." Queen smiled, touched the girl's arm. She
started convulsively. "If you'll come this way, Miss French--? Please
be brave. There is something I want you--to see."
He waited. Weaver gave him an outraged glance, but pressed the girl's
arm encouragingly and led her, stumbling, toward the window. The
Inspector followed, beckoning to one of the detectives nearby, who
immediately took his place outside the window-door after the trio
entered the room.
There was a little rustle of excitement as Weaver helped the girl into
the room. Even old French, shaking as if with ague, showed a light of
reason in his eyes as he spied her.
"Marion my dear!" he cried in a terrible voice.
She broke away from Weaver and fell on her knees before her father's
chair. No one spoke. The men looked uneasily away. Father and daughter
clung to each other....
For the first time since he had come into the chamber of death,
Marchbanks, brother of the dead woman, spoke.
"This--is--hellish," he said, savagely and slowly, glaring
out of bloodshot eyes at the trim figure of the Inspector.
Ellery, in his corner, crooked his body slightly forward.
"I'm--getting--out--of--this."
The Inspector signaled to Velie. The burly Sergeant stumped across the
floor and towered above Marchbanks, saying nothing, his arms hanging
loosely by his sides. Marchbanks, large and corpulent, shrank before
the huge detective. He flushed, muttered beneath his breath, stepped
back.
"Now," said the Inspector equably, "Miss French, may I trouble you to
answer a few questions?"
"Oh, I say, Inspector," protested Weaver, despite Ellery's warning
flick of the finger, "do you think it absolutely necessary to--"
"I'm quite ready, sir," came the quiet voice of the girl, and she rose
to her feet, her eyes a trifle red, but clearly composed. Her father
had slumped back in his chair. He had forgotten her already. She smiled
wanly at Weaver, who sent her an ardent glance across the room. But she
kept her head averted from the sheeted corpse in the corner by the bed.
"Miss French," snapped the Inspector, flicking the gauzy scarf from the
dead woman's clothes before her eyes, "is this your scarf?"
She whitened. "Yes. How does it come here?"
"That," said the Inspector dispassionately, "is what _I_ should like to
know. Can you explain its presence?"
The girl's eyes flashed, but she spoke calmly enough. "No, sir, I
cannot."
"Miss French," went on the Inspector after a stifling pause, "your
scarf was found around Mrs. French's neck under her coat-collar. Does
that convey anything to you--perhaps suggest an explanation?"
"She was wearing it?" Marion gasped. "I--I can't understand it.
She--she never did that before." She glanced helplessly at Weaver,
shifted her gaze and met Ellery's eyes.
They looked at each other for a startled moment. Ellery saw a
slender girl with smoky hair and deep grey eyes. There was an
unaccented cleanliness about the lines of her young body that made
him feel pleased for Weaver's sake. She gave the impression of
straightforwardness and strength of will--honest eyes, firm lips, small
strong hands, a pleasingly cleft chin and a good straight nose. Ellery
smiled.
Marion saw a tall athletic man with a suggestion of nascent vigor,
startlingly intellectual about the forehead and lips, cool and quiet
and composed. He looked thirty, but was younger. There was a hint of
Bond Street about his clothes. His long thin fingers clasped a little
book and he regarded her out of pince-nez eyeglasses.... Then she
blushed slightly and her eyes wavered away toward the Inspector.
"When did you last see this scarf, Miss French?" went on the old man.
"Oh, I--" Her tone changed; she took command of herself. "I seem to
remember wearing it yesterday," she said slowly.
"Yesterday? Very interesting, Miss French. Do you recall just where--?"
"I left the house directly after luncheon," she said, "wearing the
scarf under this coat. I met a friend at Carnegie Hall and we spent
the afternoon at a recital--Pasternak the pianist. We parted after the
recital and I took a 'bus down to the store. I do seem to remember
wearing the scarf all day...." Her brow wrinkled prettily. "I don't
remember having it, however, when I returned home."
"You say you came to the store, Miss French?" interrupted the Inspector
politely. "For any special reason?"
"Why--not particularly. I did think I might still catch father. I knew
he was leaving for Great Neck, but I didn't know exactly when, and--"
The Inspector held up a ridiculously tiny white hand. "Just a moment,
Miss French. You say your father went to Great Neck yesterday?"
"Why, yes. I understood he was to go out there for business.
There's--there's nothing wrong--about that, is there, sir?" She bit her
lip.
"No, no--positively no!" said the Inspector, smiling. He turned to
Weaver. "Why didn't you tell me that Mr. French took a little trip
yesterday, Mr. Weaver?"
"You didn't ask me," retorted Weaver.
The Inspector started, then chuckled. "One on me," he said. "It's true
enough. When did he return and why did he go?"
Weaver looked compassionately at the limp, oblivious figure of his
employer. "He went early yesterday afternoon to confer with Farnham
Whitney on Whitney's estate. A matter of merger, Inspector--the meeting
this morning discussed just that. Mr. French told me that he was driven
into the city early this morning by Whitney's chauffeur--arrived at the
store at nine o'clock. Anything else?"
"Not just now." Queen turned to Marion. "Your pardon, my dear, for the
interruption.... Now where specifically did you go when you came to the
store?"
"To my father's apartment on the sixth floor."
"Indeed?" muttered the Inspector. "And why, may I ask, did you go to
your father's apartment?"
"I usually go there when I'm at the store, which isn't often,"
explained Marion. "Besides, I was told that Mr. Weaver was there,
working, and I thought--it might be nice to pay him a little visit...."
She eyed her father apprehensively, but he was insensible to words.
"You went there directly on entering the store? And left immediately
from the apartment?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible," insinuated the Inspector very gently, "that you may
have dropped your scarf in the apartment, Miss French?"
She did not reply immediately. Weaver tried frantically to catch her
eye, moving his lips, framing the word "No!" She shook her head.
"Quite possible, Inspector," she said quietly.
"I see." The Inspector beamed. "Now, when did you see Mrs. French last?"
"At dinner last night. I had an appointment for the evening and left
almost immediately."
"Did Mrs. French seem herself? Notice anything unusual, abnormal in her
speech or actions?"
"Well.... She did seem worried about Bernice," Marion said slowly.
"Ah!" Queen rubbed his hands together. "Then I infer that
your--stepsister, is it?--was not at home for dinner?"
"No," replied Marion after a hesitating silence. "Winifred--my
stepmother told me that Bernice had gone out and would not be home for
dinner. But she seemed worried nevertheless."
"She gave no indication of a reason for this worry?"
"None whatever."
"What is your step-sister's name? Is it French?"
"No, Inspector. She retains her father's name of Carmody," murmured
Marion.
"I see. I see." The Inspector stood plunged in thought. John Gray
shifted impatiently, whispered a word to Cornelius Zorn, who shook his
head sadly and leaned resignedly against the back of French's chair.
Queen paid no attention to them. He looked up at Marion. Her passive,
tired little figure drooped.
"One question more for the moment, Miss French," he said, "and you may
rest.... Can you suggest, from anything that you know of Mrs. French's
background or affairs, or from anything that transpired recently--last
night, yesterday, perhaps--can you suggest," he repeated, "a possible
explanation for this crime? It's murder, of course," he continued
hastily, before she could reply, "and I know you are naturally chary
of answering. Take your time--think carefully over everything that has
occurred lately...." He stopped. "Now, Miss French, can you tell me
anything I might wish to hear?"
There was naked silence in the room--a raw pulsing quiet that beat
invisibly against the atmosphere. Ellery heard quick breaths
drawn, saw bodies tense, eyes sharpen, hands twitch as, to a man,
the occupants of the room with the exception of Cyrus French leaned
forward, watching Marion French as she stood there, facing them.
But she said, "No," very matter-of-factly, and the Inspector's eyes
flickered. Everybody relaxed. Some one sighed. Ellery noted that it was
Zorn. Trask lit a cigaret nervously and let the fire die. Marchbanks
sat frozen to his chair. Weaver made a little movement of despair....
"Then that will be all, Miss French," returned Inspector Queen, in a
tone as casual as the girl's had been. He seemed pleasantly absorbed in
a contemplation of Lavery's formal cravat. "Please," he added, just as
pleasantly, "do not leave the room.... Mr. Lavery, may I have your ear
for the moment?"
Marion dropped back and Weaver sprang to her side, dragging a chair
with him. She sank into it with a little smile, shading her eyes with
a nerveless hand. The other snuggled secretly into Weaver's eager
grasp.... Ellery watched them for a moment, then turned his sharp eyes
on Lavery.
The Frenchman bowed, waited, fingers riffling his short beard.
11
LOOSE ENDS
"As I understand it, Mr. Lavery, you are responsible for this
exhibition of modernistic house-furnishings?" Inspector Queen's voice
took a fresh note.
"That is correct."
"How long has this exhibition been going on?"
"About a month, I should say."
"Your main exhibition rooms are where?"
"On the fifth floor." Lavery spread his fingers. "You see, this is more
or less of a pioneer project in New York, Inspector. I was invited to
exhibit some of my creations to the American public by Mr. French and
his Board, who are very much in sympathy with the movement. Most of the
purely enterprising details of the present exhibition emanate from Mr.
French, allow me to add."
"Just what do you mean?"
Lavery showed his teeth in a smile. "The matter of these
window-exhibits, for example. That was wholly Mr. French's idea, and I
do suppose it has resulted in much advertising for the establishment.
Certainly the crowds have flocked from the sidewalk outside to the
fifth floor exhibition rooms in such numbers that we have had to call
in special ushers to handle them."
"I see." The Inspector nodded politely. "So these window-exhibits were
Mr. French's idea? Yes, yes--you have just told me that.... How long
has this particular window been dressed so, Mr. Lavery?"
"This is the--let me see--the end of the second week of the
living-room-bedroom exhibit," answered Lavery, stroking his short
modish beard again. "The fourteenth day, to be exact. To-morrow we were
to have changed the room's contents, removed them to make way for a
model dining-room."
"Oh, the windows are changed bi-weekly? Then this is the second room
you have exhibited?"
"Quite so. The first was a full bedroom."
Queen mused openly. His eyes drooped with weariness; blackish pouches
stood out beneath. He took a short turn up and down the room, halting
once more before Lavery.
"It seems to me," he said, more to himself than to Lavery, "that this
unfortunate accident and its attendant circumstances dovetail too
fortuitously.... However! Mr. Lavery, is this window-exhibit held at
the same time each day?"
Lavery stared. "Yes--yes, certainly."
"At _exactly_ the same time each day, Mr. Lavery?" pursued the
Inspector.
"Oh, yes!" said Lavery. "The Negress has entered this window at noon of
each day ever since the institution of the exhibit."
"Very good!" The Inspector seemed pleased again. "Now, Mr. Lavery--in
the month that these demonstrations have taken place, has there ever to
your knowledge been one day on which the time-schedule was not adhered
to?"
"No," said Lavery with positiveness. "And I am in a position to know,
sir. It has been my habit to stand on the main floor behind the
window-room during the Negress's demonstration every day. My lecture
upstairs is not scheduled until three-thirty of the afternoon, you see."
The Inspector raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you lecture, too, Mr. Lavery?"
"But of course!" cried Lavery. "I have been told," he added gravely,
"that my description of the work of the Viennese Hoffman has created
something of a stir among the _monde artistique_."
"Indeed!" smiled the Inspector. "One question more, Mr. Lavery, and
then I think we will have finished with you for the present.--This
exhibition as a whole is not entirely a spontaneous thing? I mean," he
added, "steps have been taken to make the public aware both of your
window-demonstrations and of your lectures upstairs?"
"Assuredly. The publicity and advertising have been planned most
carefully," rejoined Lavery. "We have circularized all the art-schools
and allied organizations. The charge-accounts, I understand, have
likewise been covered by personal letters from the management. The
bulk of the public attention, however, has been secured by means of
newspaper advertisements. Of course you have seen those?"
"Well, I rarely read department store ads," the Inspector replied
hastily. "And I suppose you have received all sorts of publicity?"
"Yes--yes, indeed," and Lavery again flashed his white teeth. "If you
would condescend to examine my scrap-books--"
"Hardly necessary, Mr. Lavery, and thank you for your patience. That's
all."
"A moment, please.--May I?" Ellery had stepped forward, smiling. The
Inspector glanced at him, waved his hand briefly, as if to say, "Your
witness!" and retreated to the bed, where he sat down with a sigh.
Lavery had turned in his tracks and now stood stroking his beard, his
eyes politely questioning.
Ellery did not speak for a moment. He twirled his pince-nez, looked up
suddenly. "I am quite interested in your work, Mr. Lavery," he said
with a disarming grimace. "Although I fear my esthetic studies have not
exhausted the field of modern interior decoration. As a matter of fact,
I was much interested the other day in your lecture on Bruno Paul...."
"So you attended my impromptu classes upstairs, sir?" exclaimed Lavery,
flushing with pleasure. "Perhaps I was a trifle enthusiastic about
Paul--I know him quite well, you see...."
"Indeed!" Ellery looked at the floor. "I take it that you have been
in America before, Mr. Lavery--your English is quite untouched by
Gallicism."
"Well, I have traveled more or less extensively," admitted Lavery.
"This is my fifth visit to the States--Mr. Queen, is it?"
"I'm sorry!" said Ellery. "I am Inspector Queen's unruly scion.... Mr.
Lavery, how many demonstrations a day are given in this window?"
"Just one." Lavery raised his black brows.
"How long does each demonstration take?"
"Thirty-two minutes exactly."
"Interesting," murmured Ellery. "By the way, is this room kept open at
all times?"
"Not at all. There are some very valuable pieces in this room. It is
kept locked except when it is being used for demonstration purposes."
"Of course! That was stupid of me," smiled Ellery. "You have a key,
naturally?"
"A number of keys exist, Mr. Queen," answered Lavery. "The idea of the
lock is more to prevent transient trespassing during the day than to
keep out possible night-prowlers. It is presumed that after hours, in
an establishment as well guarded as this--provided with modern burglar
alarms, guards, and so on--the room would be safe enough against
burglary."
"If you will pardon me for interrupting," came the mild voice of
MacKenzie, the store manager, "I am in a better position to clear up
the question of the keys than Mr. Lavery."
"Delighted to have you," said Ellery quickly, but he began once more
to twirl his pince-nez. The Inspector, seated on the bed, preserved a
watchful silence.
"We have a number of duplicate keys," explained MacKenzie, "to each
of the windows. In this particular instance Mr. Lavery has one, Diana
Johnson the demonstrator has one (which she leaves at the Employees'
Office desk when she leaves for the day), the floorwalker on this
section of the main floor and the store detectives each have one, and
there is a complete set of duplicates kept in the general offices on
the mezzanine floor. I am afraid very many people could have secured a
key."
Ellery did not seem perturbed. He walked suddenly to the door, opened
it, peered out over the main floor for a moment, and returned.
"Mr. MacKenzie, will you please summon that clerk at the leather-goods
counter opposite this window?"
MacKenzie departed, returning shortly with a short, stout, middle-aged
man. He was white-faced and nervous.
"Were you on duty all this morning?" inquired Ellery kindly. The man
jerked his head in the affirmative. "And yesterday afternoon?" Another
jerk. "Did you leave your post at any time this morning or yesterday
afternoon?"
The clerk found his voice. "Oh, no, sir!"
"Very well!" Ellery spoke softly. "Did you at any time during yesterday
afternoon or this morning notice any one entering or leaving this
window-room?"
"No, sir." The man's tone was assured. "I've been on duty all the
time; I couldn't help but notice if any one had used this room, sir. I
haven't been very busy," he added, with an apologetic side-glance at
MacKenzie.
"Thank you." The clerk left with eager steps.
"Well!" Ellery sighed. "We seem to be progressing, and yet nothing
takes definite shape...." Shrugging his shoulders, he turned once more
to Lavery.
"Mr. Lavery, are these windows illuminated after dark?"
"No, Mr. Queen. The shades are drawn after every demonstration, and
they are kept drawn until the following day."
"Then," and Ellery emphasized the word, "then I take it that these
lighting fixtures are dummies?"
Eyes long since dulled by waiting and wretchedness expectantly followed
the direction of Ellery's arm. He was pointing toward the oddly cut,
clouded-glass wall lights. The eyes all turned, too, to observe the
numerous queerly shaped lamps about the room.
For answer Lavery strode to the rear wall and, after a moment's
manipulation, removed one of the modernistic fixtures. The socket
which should have held an electric bulb was empty.
"We have no use for lights here," he said, "so we have not installed
them." With a swift movement he restored the fixture to its place on
the wall.
Ellery took a decisive step forward. But then he shook his head,
retreated, turned to the Inspector.
"Henceforward, or at least for the present, I shall be silent," he
said, smiling, "and latinically pass for a philosopher."
12
OUT THE WINDOW....
A policeman pushed his way into the room, looked about as if to catch
the eye of authority, was summoned peremptorily by old Queen, mumbled a
few words, and departed almost as quickly as he had come.
The Inspector immediately took John Gray aside and whispered in the
little director's ear. Gray nodded and went to the side of Cyrus
French, who was staring blankly into space, muttering to himself. With
the aid of Weaver and Zorn, Gray managed to twist French's chair around
so that the old man's back was to the body. French noticed nothing.
The store physician took his pulse professionally. Marion's hand was
at her throat; she stood up quickly and leaned against the back of her
father's chair.
Then the door opened and two white-garbed men with visored caps
entered, bearing a stretcher between them. They saluted the Inspector,
who jerked his thumb toward the sheeted corpse.
Ellery had withdrawn into the far corner of the room beyond the bed to
hold communion with his pince-nez. He frowned at it, tapped it on the
back of his hand, threw his lightcoat on the bed and sat down, taking
his head between his hands. Finally, as if he had come to either an
impasse or a conclusion, he produced from the pocket of his coat the
volume it contained, and began to scribble hurriedly on the fly-leaf.
He paid not the slightest attention to the two police doctors stooped
over the dead woman.
Nor did he protest when he was unceremoniously moved by a silent,
nervous man who had entered immediately behind the stretcher bearers,
and who was now engaged with the help of an assistant in photographing
the dead woman, her position on the floor, the bed, the handbag and
other articles connected with the victim. Ellery's eyes followed the
police photographer, but abstractedly.
Suddenly he snapped his little book back into his pocket and waited
thoughtfully until he caught his father's eye.
"Lord, son," said the Inspector, coming over, "I'm tired. And worried.
_And_ apprehensive."
"Apprehensive? Come, now--don't fall into that silly frame of mind,
dad. Why should you be apprehensive? This case is coming along, coming
along...."
"Oh, you've probably caught the murderer and hidden him in your
vest-pocket," growled the old man. "I'm not worried about the murderer,
I'm worried about Welles."
"Sorry!" Ellery moved closer. "Don't let Welles rile you, dad; I don't
think he's as bad as you've painted him. And while he's merely heckling
you, I'll be working under-cover--grasp the idea?"
"It's not half bad at that," said the Inspector. "My gosh! He's liable
to walk in here any minute now, El! I never thought of that! By this
time he has a telephoned report and--Yes! What is it?"
A bluecoat tramped in with a message and left.
The Inspector groaned. "Word's just come that Welles is on his way
here--now we'll have arrests, interviews, grillings, reporters running
over the place, and merry--"
Ellery's air of raillery vanished. He grasped his father's arm and
guided him swiftly to an angle in the wall.
"If that's the case, dad, let me tell you what is in my mind--quickly."
He looked around; they were fairly unobserved. He lowered his voice.
"Have you reached any definite conclusions yet? I'd like to have your
reactions before I tell you mine."
"Well--" the old man peered about him cautiously, then cupped his
mouth in his small hands--"between you and me, son, there's something
queer about the whole business. As far as details are concerned, I'm
a little hazy--if you're clearer than I, it's probably because you
have had something of the advantage of an observer. But as to the
crime itself--the possible motive--the story behind it--I have the
inescapable feeling that the murder of Mrs. French is not half so
important to us as what may have necessitated the murder...." Ellery
nodded thoughtfully. "I have no doubt that this is a carefully planned
murder. Despite the weirdness of the place, the apparent sloppiness of
the crime, there is amazingly little to go on."
"What about Marion French's scarf?" asked Ellery.
"Fiddlesticks!" said the Inspector contemptuously. "Can't see that it
means anything intelligible. In all probability she left it somewhere
about and Mrs. French picked it up.... But I'll bet a cookie that the
Commissioner grabs it."
"I think you're wrong there," commented Ellery. "He'll be afraid to
tackle French. Don't lose sight of French's power as head of the
Anti-Vice Society.... No, dad, for the present Welles will keep his
hands off Marion French."
"Well, what have you concluded, Ellery?"
Ellery produced his small volume and turned to the fly-leaf on which
he had scribbled a few moments before. He looked up. "I hadn't thought
about the remote nuances of the crime, dad," he said. "Although,
now that you've brought it up, it seems to me that you are probably
correct about the far-reaching significance of the motive as opposed
to the crime itself.... No, I've been chiefly occupied until now
with more direct affairs. I have four interesting little puzzlers to
elucidate. Listen carefully.
"First, and probably most important," he began, referring to his notes,
"there is the puzzle of Mrs. French's key. We have a fair sequence of
incident. The night-watchman, O'Flaherty, observes the victim at about
eleven-fifty last night with the gold-disked apartment key in her
possession. She is lost sight of until twelve-fifteen to-day, when she
is found dead--still in the store, but with the key missing from the
scene of the crime. The question arises, then: Why is the key missing?
It seems on the face of it a pure matter of discovery, doesn't it?
Yet--regard the possibilities. It is plausible enough at this time to
suspect that the key's disappearance is connected with the crime, more
directly with the murderer. A murderer disappears, a key disappears.
It is not difficult to imagine that they disappeared together. Now,
if this is so--and for the present let us assume that it _is_ so--why
did the murderer take the key? Obviously, we can't answer that
question--yet. But--we now know that the murderer has in his possession
a key to a certain apartment--French's private apartment on the sixth
floor."
"That's so," muttered the Inspector. "I'm glad you suggested sending
one of the boys to watch that apartment this morning."
"I had that thought," said Ellery. "But something else disturbs me.
I can't help asking myself: Doesn't the absence of the key perhaps
indicate that the body was brought to this window from some other
place?"
"I can't see that at all," objected the Inspector. "Can't see that it
has anything to do with it."
"Let's not quarrel about it," murmured Ellery. "I can see one very,
very interesting possibility that makes my question logical and the
item of Marion French's scarf seems to point the same way. I think that
I'll be able to check up soon on the facts--which will put me in a
position to prove more definitely what I've just postulated.... Let me
get on to point number two.
"The natural thought one has on finding the body in this window is that
the crime was committed here. Of course! Usually, one would not even
stop to question it."
"It seemed funny to me, though," said the Inspector, frowning.
"Ah! It did, eh? Perhaps I can crystallize your suspicion a bit later,"
said Ellery brightly. "We enter, we see a body, we say: Crime was
committed here. But then we stop to observe. We are told by Prouty
that the woman has been dead some twelve hours. The body is found a
bit after noon. That would make it a short time after midnight when
Mrs. French died. In other words, when the crime was committed. Observe
that in any case the crime was committed in dead of night. What is the
appearance of this window at such a time--of this whole section of the
building? Total darkness!"
"And--?" put in the Inspector dryly.
"You don't seem to take my dramatics very seriously," laughed Ellery.
"Total darkness, I repeat. Yet we are supposing that this window is
the scene of the crime. We prowl about the window, ask ourselves: Are
there lights in here? If there are, that's the end of it. With the
door closed, and these heavy drapes on the street side, light would be
unobserved outside the window-room. We investigate and find--no, no
lights. Plenty of lamps, plenty of sockets--no bulbs. I doubt, indeed,
if the lamps are even wired. So--we suddenly visualize a crime in total
darkness. What--you don't like that idea? Neither do I!"
"There are such things as flashlights, you know," objected Queen.
"So there are. That occurred to me. Then I asked myself: If there was
a crime here, there was some logically necessary antecedent action. A
crime presupposes a meeting, a probable quarrel, a murder, and in this
case, disposal of the body in a _very_ queer and inconvenient place--a
wall-bed.... And all in the rays of a flashlight! As redoubtable Cyrano
would remark: No, I thank you!"
"Might have carried bulbs with him, of course," muttered the Inspector,
then their eyes met and they both laughed at once.
Ellery grew serious. "Well, let's leave the little matter of
illumination for the present. You'll admit it reeks slightly of
improbability?
"And now to that exceedingly fascinating little thingamajig," he
continued, "the lipstick engraved with the letter _C_. That's my point
number three. In many ways, it's of extreme significance. The immediate
conclusion is that Lipstick marked _C_ does not belong to Mrs. French,
whose initials, engraved on three other articles in her bag, are
_W.M.F._ Now, Lipstick marked _C_ is of a noticeably darker shade
than the paint on the dead woman's lips. Which not only corroborates
the premise that Lipstick marked _C_ is not Mrs. French's, but also
that there is _another_ lipstick extant somewhere which _did_ belong
to Mrs. French. Follow?... Now where is that lipstick? It is not in
this window anywhere. Therefore it is somewhere else. Did the murderer
take it, along with the key? That seems silly. Ah--but haven't we a
clue? Of course! For observe ..." he paused, "the dead woman's lips.
Half-finished! And of a lighter shade. What does this mean? Undoubtedly
that Mrs. French was interrupted while she was dabbing at her lips with
her own lipstick now missing."
"Why interrupted?" demanded the Inspector.
"Have you ever seen a woman who began to paint her lips leave them
half-painted? It just isn't done. It _must_ have been an interruption
which prevented those lips from being entirely daubed. And a violent
interruption, I'll wager; nothing short of an unprecedentedly odd
occurrence would stop a woman from smearing that last red blob on the
right place."
"The murder!" exclaimed the Inspector with a queer light in his eye.
Ellery smiled. "Perhaps.--But do you grasp the implication, dad? If she
was interrupted by the murder or the incidents immediately preceding
the murder, and the lipstick is not in this window--"
"Of course, of course!" exclaimed the old man. He sobered. "It's true,
though, that the lipstick might have been taken by the murderer for
purposes of his own."
"On the other hand," returned Ellery, "if it was not taken by the
murderer, then it is still somewhere in or about the building. You
might institute a search through six floors of this drygoods mortuary."
"Oh, impossible! But I suppose we'll have to have a try at it later."
"Perhaps it won't be necessary in about fifteen minutes," said Ellery.
"At any rate, a genuinely interesting question comes up: To whom does
the _C_ lipstick belong, if it is not Mrs. French's? You might look
into that, dad. I have an idea that the answer to that question will
bring complications--_à la_ Scott Welles...."
At mention of the Police Commissioner's name the Inspector's features
lengthened. "You'd better finish what you began, Ellery; he'll be here
any minute now."
"And so I shall." Ellery removed his pince-nez and twirled it
recklessly in the air. "Before we proceed to point number four, bear in
mind that you're _cherchez_-ing two feminine accessories--_la lipstick
de Madame, et sa clef_....
"To point number four, then," continued Ellery with a faraway gleam in
his eye. "For point number four we must credit the habitually sharpened
perceptions of our grossly underpaid and revered medico, Sam Prouty. He
thought it strange that wounds of the nature of Mrs. French's should
have bled so little. At least, there was little trace of blood on her
body and clothes.... By the way, there was also a smear of dried blood
on the palm of her left hand--you noticed it, of course?"
"Saw it, all right," muttered the Inspector. "Probably clapped her hand
to one of the wounds at the moment she was shot, and then--"
"And then," finished Ellery, "her hand dropped in death and the
divine ichor, which by all the laws of physics, according to friend
Sam, should have gushed forth, did--what? I should say," he remarked
seriously after a pause, "that it obeyed the immutable laws of that
exact science and did gush forth freely...."
"I see what you mean ..." murmured the old man.
"It gushed forth freely--but not in this window. In other words,
we must look for an interesting combination of elements to explain
away the phenomenon of two bloody revolver-wounds being practically
bloodless on the discovery of the body...."
"Let me sum up the indications to this point," Ellery continued
swiftly. "To my mind the absence of Mrs. French's apartment key; the
absence of normal illuminating-facilities in this window; the absence
of Mrs. French's rightful lipstick, which she must have had almost
directly before her death, since her lips are only half-painted; the
absence of blood from two logically bloody wounds; the presence of
Marion French's scarf; and another item of a more general but none the
less convincing nature--all converge into one conclusion."
"And that is that the murder was not committed in this window," said
the Inspector, taking snuff with a steady hand.
"Exactly."
"Just what do you mean by still another item which points toward that
conclusion, Ellery?"
"Has it struck you at all," answered Ellery slowly, "what an utterly
preposterous setting this window-room is for the crime of murder?"
"I did think of it, as I mentioned before, but--"
"You've been too plunged into detail to get a psychological slant on
this affair. Think of the privacy, the secrecy, the conveniences,
that a fully planned murder requires. Here--what did the murderer
have? An unlit, periodically patrolled window. Dangerous from start
to finish. In the heart of the main floor, where the nucleus of the
night-watchman's staff is located. Not fifty feet from the constantly
present head night-watchman's office. Why? No, dad, it's perfectly
silly! It was the first thought I had when I came in here."
"True enough," muttered the Inspector. "Yet--if it didn't take place
here, why transport the body here at all _after_ the murder, if that is
what was done? It seems to me that almost as much danger, if not more,
existed in that event as in the first...."
Ellery frowned. "That had occurred to me, of course.... There is an
explanation; there must be. I begin to see the manipulation of a fine
Italian hand...."
"At any rate," broke in the Inspector with a slight impatience, "so
much is clear to me after your analysis: this window is certainly not
the scene of the crime. I think I see--yes, of course--it's as plain as
day--the apartment upstairs!"
"Oh, that!" Ellery said absently. "Naturally. Wouldn't make sense
otherwise. The key, a logical place for the lipstick, privacy,
illumination ... yes, yes, the sixth floor apartment by all means. It's
my next stop...."
"And it's positively depressing, El!" exclaimed the Inspector, as
if struck by a thought. "Imagine! That apartment has been used by
five people incessantly since eight-thirty this morning, when Weaver
arrived. Nobody noticed anything up there, so evidently traces of the
crime were removed from the apartment before that time. Goodness--if
only...."
"Now don't be bothering your poor grey head with fancy!" laughed
Ellery, suddenly restored to good humor. "Of course the traces of the
crime have been removed. The top layer, so to speak. Perhaps even the
middle layer. But away down deep, underneath, we may find--who knows?
Yes, that's my next stop."
"I can't help worrying about the reason this window was used at all,"
frowned the Inspector. "Unless it's that time element...."
"Heavens! You're becoming positively a genius, dad!" chuckled Ellery
affectionately. "I've just got over solving that little problem for
myself. Why was the body placed in the window? Let's apply unfailing
_logos_....
"There are two possibilities, either or both of which may be correct.
First: to keep attention away from the _real_ scene of the crime, which
is undoubtedly the apartment. Second, and more logically, _to prevent
the body from being discovered before noon_. The dead certainty of the
daily demonstration time--which, you have reasoned, of course, was
common knowledge to all New York--tenons much too snugly."
"But why, Ellery?" objected Inspector Queen. "Why delay the body's
discovery until noon?"
"If only we knew that!" murmured Ellery, with a shrug. "But in a
general way it seems reasonable that, if the murderer left the body to
be discovered--and he knew it with certainty--at twelve-fifteen, then
he had something to do _before noon_ which the discovery of the body
prematurely would have made dangerous or impossible. Do you follow me?"
"But what on earth--"
"Yes, what on earth," replied Ellery sadly. "What did the murderer have
to do on the morning of the crime? _I_ don't know."
"We're just stumbling in the dark, Ellery," said the Inspector with a
faint groan. "Just staggering from premise to conclusion without a ray
of light anywhere.... For example, why couldn't the murderer have done
what he had to do last night, _in the building_? There are telephones,
you know, if he had to communicate with some one...."
"Are there? But--we'll have to check up on that later."
"I'll do that right away--"
"Just a second, dad," interrupted Ellery. "Why not send Velie out to
that private elevator to look for traces of blood?"
The Inspector stared at him, made a fist. "Goodness! How stupidly I've
managed things!" he cried. "Of course! Thomas!"
Velie stalked across the room, received an inaudible instruction, and
immediately left.
"I should have thought of that before," growled the Inspector, turning
back to Ellery. "Naturally, if the murder was committed in the
apartment, the body had to be brought down here from the sixth floor."
"Probably find nothing," commented Ellery. "I'd pick the staircase,
myself.... But look here, dad. I want you to do something for
me.--Welles will be here any moment now. To all intents and purposes
this window is the scene of the crime. He'll want to hear all the
testimony all over again, anyway. Keep him down here--give me an hour
upstairs alone with Wes Weaver, won't you? I must see that apartment
at once. Nobody has been in it since the meeting broke up--it's been
watched all the time--there _must_ be something there.... Will you?"
The Inspector wrung his hands helplessly. "Of course, son--anything you
say. You can certainly tackle it with a fresher mind than I can. I'll
keep Welles down here. Want to examine that Employees' Entrance office,
the freight room, and that whole section of the main floor, anyway....
But why are you taking Weaver?" His voice sank lower. "Ellery--aren't
you playing a dangerous game?"
"Why, dad!" Ellery's eyes opened wide in honest astonishment. "What do
you mean? If you've any suspicion of poor Wes, disabuse your mind of
it right now. Wes and I were bunkies at school; remember that summer
during which I stayed with a chum in Maine? That was Westley's father's
place. I know the poor boy as well as I know you. Father's a clergyman,
mother's a saint. Background clean, life's always been an open book. No
secrets, no past...."
"But you don't know what he's bumped into in the city here, Ellery,"
objected the Inspector. "You haven't seen him for years."
"Look here, dad," said Ellery gravely. "You've never made a mistake
following my judgment, have you? Follow it now. Weaver's as innocent of
this crime as a lamb. His nervousness is plainly connected with Marion
French.... There! The photographer wants to talk to you."
They turned back to the group. Inspector Queen spoke to the police
photographer for a few moments. Then, dismissing the man, he resolutely
beckoned the Scotch store manager.
"Mr. MacKenzie, tell me--" he asked abruptly, "what is the condition of
your telephone service after shopping hours?"
MacKenzie said: "All 'phones except on one trunk line are cut off at
six o'clock. That line is connected with O'Flaherty's desk at the night
exit. If there are any incoming calls, he takes them. Otherwise, there
is no telephone service at night."
"I see by O'Flaherty's time-sheet and report-sheet that there were
no incoming or outgoing calls last night," remarked the Inspector,
consulting the chart.
"You can rely on O'Flaherty, Inspector."
"Well," pursued Queen, "suppose some department is working overtime?
'Phone service kept open?"
"Yes," replied MacKenzie. "But only on written request of the head of
the department.--I should add that we have very little of that sort of
thing here, sir. Mr. French has always insisted that the closing hour
be kept more or less strictly. Of course, there are exceptions every
once in a while.--If there is no record on O'Flaherty's chart of such a
request, you may be sure no lines were open last night."
"Not even in Mr. French's private apartment?"
"Not even in Mr. French's apartment," returned the store manager.
"Unless Mr. French or Mr. Weaver instructs the head operator to the
contrary."
The Inspector turned questioningly to Weaver, and Weaver shook his head
in an emphatic negative.
"One thing more, Mr. MacKenzie. Are you aware of the last time before
yesterday that Mrs. French visited the store?"
"I believe it was a week ago Monday, Inspector," replied MacKenzie
after some hesitation. "Yes, I'm fairly certain. She came in to speak
to me about some imported dress material."
"And she did not appear at the store after that?" Inspector Queen
looked around at the other occupants of the room. There was no answer.
At this moment Velie reëntered. He whispered to his superior and
stepped back. The Inspector turned to Ellery. "Nothing in the
elevator--not a sign of blood."
A policeman stepped into the window-room and made for the Inspector.
"The Commissioner's here, Inspector."
"I'll be right out," said the Inspector wearily. As he left the room,
Ellery gave him a meaning glance. He nodded slightly.
When he returned a few moments later, escorting the portly, pompous
figure of Commissioner Scott Welles and a small army of detectives and
deputies, Ellery and Westley Weaver had vanished. And Marion French sat
in her chair, clutching her father's hand, watching the window-door as
if with Weaver had gone some of her heart and courage.
THE SECOND EPISODE
_"As for the word CLUE, we are indebted for its genesis to
mythology.... Clue has descended etymologically from_ CLEW _(in
common with many other words of similar endings; i.e._, TREW, BLEW,
_etc.) ... being a literal Old English translation of the Greek
word for thread, directly traceable to the legend of Theseus and
Ariadne and the ball of cord she gave him with which to grope his
way out of the Labyrinth after killing the Minotaur.... A clue in
the detectival sense may be of an intangible as well as a tangible
nature; it may be a state of mind as well as a state of fact; or it
may derive from the absence of a relevant object as well as from
the presence of an irrelevant one.... But always, whatever its
nature, a clue is the thread which guides the crime investigator
through the labyrinth of nonessential data into the light of
complete comprehension...."_
--From WILLIAM O. GREEN'S
Introduction to ARS CRIMINALIS
_By_ John Strang
[Illustration:
A--Cardroom
B--Card table with banque cards
C--Ash tray with stubs
D--Servant's bedroom
E--Anteroom
F--Library
G--Conference table and chairs
H--Library desk
I--Bedroom
J--Lavatory
K--Spring door to private apartment
L--Elevator shaft
M--Stairway
N--Dressing table
]
13
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Bedroom_
Ellery and Westley Weaver picked their way unnoticed through the
throngs on the main floor. At the rear of the store, Weaver indicated
around the bend of the wall a small grilled door. A policeman stood
guard with his back to the ironwork.
"That's the private elevator, Ellery."
Ellery exhibited a special police pass signed in Inspector Queen's
punctilious hand. The policeman touched his cap and opened the grilled
door.
Ellery noted the staircase door around the corner, then entered the
elevator. He closed the door carefully, touched the button marked 6,
and the elevator began to ascend. They stood in silence, Weaver's lip
creased under his teeth.
The elevator was finished in bronze and ebony, with an inlaid
composition-rubber floor. It was spotlessly clean. On the further wall
was a low divan-like seat covered with black velvet. Ellery adjusted
his pince-nez and looked about him with interest. He bent over to
examine more closely the velvet seat, craned his neck at a suspicious
darkening in an angle of the wall.
"Might have known Velie would overlook nothing," he thought.
The elevator clicked to a stop. The door opened automatically and they
stepped out into a wide, deserted corridor. At one end of the corridor
was a high window. Almost directly opposite the elevator exit was an
unpaneled door of heavy mahogany. A neat small tablet, with the words:
PRIVATE
CYRUS FRENCH
was affixed to this door.
A detective in plain clothes indolently leaned against the frame. He
seemed to recognize Ellery at once, for he greeted him and stepped
aside.
"Going in, Mr. Queen?" he asked.
"Righto!" said Ellery, cheerfully. "Be a good man and stick it outside
here while we're sniffing around the apartment. If you see any
one--with authority--coming, rap on the door. If it's just anybody,
shoo 'im away. Understand?"
The detective nodded.
Ellery turned to Weaver. "Let's have your key, Wes," he said in a
natural tone. Without a word Weaver handed him the key-case which
Inspector Queen had examined in the window not long before.
Ellery selected the gold-disked key and inserted it in the keyhole. He
turned and the tumbler slipped back noiselessly. He pushed open the
bulky door.
He seemed surprised at its rigid weight, for he stepped back, taking
his hand from the door, and it immediately swung shut. He tried the
knob. The door was again locked.
"Stupid of me," he muttered, as he again unlocked the door with the
key. He waved Weaver inside the apartment before him, and then allowed
the door to swing shut once more.
"Special spring lock," commented Weaver. "Why are you surprised,
Ellery? It's to insure absolute privacy. The Old Man's rather a bug on
that."
"The door can't be opened from the outside without a key, then?"
asked Ellery. "There's no way of fixing the bolt so that the door is
temporarily unlocked?"
"The door is always as stubborn as that," said Weaver, with a fleeting
grin. "Although I can't see what difference it makes."
"Perhaps all the difference in the universe," said Ellery, knitting his
brows. Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked about him.
They stood in a small, almost bare anteroom with a cunningly
converted skylight roof.... A Persian rug on the floor, a long
leather-upholstered bench flanked with standing ashtrays against the
wall opposite the door.... To the left was a single chair and a little
magazine rack. And that was all.
The fourth wall was cut through for another door, smaller and not so
formidable-looking.
"Not especially prepossessing," remarked Ellery. "Is this the usual
taste of our multimillionaires?"
Weaver seemed to have recovered something of his natural buoyancy, now
that he and Ellery were alone. "Don't misjudge the Old Man," he said
hastily. "He's really a regular old duck, and knows a plain room from
a fancy one. But he keeps this anteroom for the purpose of herding
together the people who come to see him on business of the Anti-Vice
League. This is a sort of waiting-room. Although, to tell the truth,
it hasn't been used much. You know, French has an enormous suite of
offices further uptown for Anti-Vice League affairs; most of that
business is transacted there. I suppose, though, he couldn't resist the
thought of entertaining some of his cronies here when he had the place
designed."
"Any visitors of that sort lately?" inquired Ellery, his hand on the
knob of the inner door.
"Oh, no! Not for several months, I think. The Old Man's been too
wrapped up in the approaching merger with Whitney. Anti-Vice League has
suffered, I guess."
"Well, then," said Ellery judiciously, "since there's nothing here of
interest, let's proceed."
They walked into the next room, and the door swung shut behind them.
This door, however, had no lock.
"This," said Weaver, "is the library."
"So I see." Ellery slouched against the door, surveying the room with
open eagerness.
Weaver seemed afraid of silences. He wet his lips and said, "This
is also the conference room for directors' meetings, the Old Man's
hideaway, et cetera. Rather neat layout, don't you think?"
The room was at least twenty feet square, Ellery estimated, and
presented a businesslike, if informal, appearance. In the center
of the room stood a long mahogany table, surrounded by heavy
red-leather-covered chairs. The chairs presented a ragged appearance,
distributed unevenly around the table, showing signs of the haste with
which the morning's meeting had been adjourned. Papers in disorderly
piles were scattered over the table.
"Not usually that way," commented Weaver, noticing Ellery's grimace
of distaste. "But the conference was an important one, everybody was
excited, and then the news of the accident downstairs.... It's a wonder
everything isn't in more of a mess than it is."
"Naturally!"
On the wall opposite Ellery was a severely framed portrait in oils
of a ruddy-faced, masterful-jawed man, dressed in the fashion of the
'Eighties. Ellery lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.
"Mr. French's father--the Founder," said Weaver.
Under the portrait were built-in bookcases, a large comfortable-looking
chair, and an end-table of modern design. An etching hung over the
chair.
The wall on the corridor side and the wall near which they stood were
tastefully furniture-covered. On both walls, left and right, were
identically decorated doors of the swinging, rotary-hinged type. The
doors were finished in a fine-grained reddish leather, studded with
brass bolts.
The Fifth Avenue side of the room held a large flat-topped desk,
at about five feet from the rear wall. Its shining surface held a
French-style telephone, a slip of blue memorandum paper, and at the
edge of the desk facing the rest of the room a half-dozen books between
handsome onyx book-ends. Behind the desk the wall was pierced by a
large dormer-window, draped in heavy red velvet. This window overlooked
Fifth Avenue.
Ellery completed his stationary examination with a frown. He looked
down at Weaver's key-case, which he still held in his hand.
"By the way, Wes," he said suddenly, "is this your own key? Ever lend
it to anybody?"
"That's my own, all right, Ellery," replied Weaver indifferently. "Why?"
"I merely thought that it might be interesting to discover whether the
key has ever been out of your possession."
"Nothing there, I'm afraid," said Weaver. "It's never been off my
person. As a matter of fact, as far as I know, all five keys have been
exclusively in their owner's possession since the apartment was built."
"Hardly," said Ellery in a dry tone. "You forget Mrs. French's."
He eyed the key contemplatively. "Greatly bother you, Westley, if
I appropriate yours for the time? I do believe I shall go into the
business of collecting this particular type of key."
"Help yourself," replied Weaver in a small voice. Ellery detached the
key from the case, which he forthwith returned to Weaver. The key he
put into his vest-pocket.
"By the way," said Ellery, "is this your office too?"
"Oh, no!" replied Weaver. "I have my own office on the fifth floor. I
report there in the mornings before coming up here."
"_Enfin!_" Ellery moved suddenly. "_Aux armes!_ Westley, it is my
earnest desire to peep into the privacy of Mr. French's bedroom. Will
you oblige by leading the way?"
Weaver indicated the brass-studded door on the opposite wall. They
traversed the thick-carpeted distance silently and Weaver swung the
door inward. They emerged into a large squarish bedroom, with windows
overlooking both Fifth Avenue and 39th Street.
The bedroom was, to Ellery's unaccustomed eyes, astonishingly
modernistic in tone and decoration. Twin beds sunk almost to the
floor level, both based on concentric ovals of a highly polished
wood, caught the eye at once. A queerly shaped man's wardrobe and a
daringly designed woman's dressing-table indicated that the room had
been laid out for the use of Mrs. French as well as of her husband.
Two diversions in the quietly toned but cubistic design of the walls
pointed to closets within. Two chairs of unorthodox shape, a small
night-table, a telephone table between the twin beds, a few bright
scatter-rugs--Ellery, unacquainted with the Continental vogue at first
hand, found the French bedroom a most engaging study.
On the wall toward the corridor was a door. It was partly open. Through
it Ellery saw a lavatory in colored tiles as strikingly modern as the
bedroom itself.
"Just what are you looking for, if you're looking for anything specific
at all?" inquired Weaver.
"Lipstick. Should be here.... _And_ key. Let's hope it _isn't_ here."
Ellery smiled and stepped into the center of the room.
He observed that the beds were made up. Everything seemed in perfect
order. He strode over to the wardrobe, looked at its bare top. The
dressing-table caught his eye. He walked toward it as if half afraid of
what he might find. Weaver followed him curiously.
The top surface of the dressing-table held few articles. A small tray
of mother-of-pearl; a powder-jar; a hand-mirror. On the tray were some
feminine accoutrements--tiny scissors, a file, a buffer. Nothing had
the appearance of recent use.
Ellery frowned. He turned his head away, turned it back as if
fascinated by the dressing-table.
"Really," he muttered, "it should be here. Of all places. The logical
one. Of course!"
His fingers had touched the tray. Its shell was slightly curved at the
edges. As the tray moved, something rolled off the table, where it had
nestled under the tray's edge, and fell to the floor.
With a grin of triumph Ellery picked up the article. It was a small,
gold-chased lipstick. Weaver came over in some astonishment to see the
find. Ellery pointed to the three initials on the cap: _W.M.F._
"Why, that's Mrs. French's!" cried Weaver.
"Dear Mrs. French," murmured Ellery under his breath. He lifted the cap
of the stick and twisted. A pinkish blob of paste appeared.
"Seems to jibe," he said aloud. As if struck by a thought, he searched
his coat pocket and pulled out the larger, silver-chased lipstick from
the dead woman's bag in the window.
Weaver suppressed an exclamation. Ellery looked at him pointedly.
"So you recognized it, Wes?" he asked, smiling. "Now tell me--since
we're _tête-à-tête_ and your innocent mind can grope trustingly in my
presence.... To whom does this lipstick marked _C_ belong?"
Weaver winced, raised his eyes to Ellery's cool ones. "To Bernice," he
said slowly.
"Bernice? Bernice Carmody? The missing lady," drawled Ellery. "I
suppose Mrs. French was her real mother?"
"Mrs. French was the Old Man's second wife. His daughter by his first
wife is Marion. First wife died about seven years ago. Bernice came
along with Mrs. French when the Old Man remarried."
"And this is Bernice's lipstick?"
"Yes. I recognized it immediately."
"Evidently," chuckled Ellery, "from the way you jumped.... Just what do
you know, Wes, about this Bernice's disappearance? From Marion French's
demeanor, I gather that she knows something.... Now, now, Wes--be
patient with me! I'm not a lover, you know."
"Oh, but I'm sure Marion's not keeping anything back!" protested
Weaver. "When the Inspector and I went out a while ago to meet her near
the entrance, she told him that Bernice and Mrs. French had not slept
at home...."
"Not really!" Ellery was genuinely startled. "How is that, Wes? The
facts, old boy, the facts!"
"This morning, just before the conference," explained Weaver, "the Old
Man asked me to call his home and let Mrs. French know that he had
returned from Great Neck safely. I talked to Hortense Underhill, the
housekeeper--really more than a housekeeper; she's been with the Old
Man for a dozen years. Hortense said that the only one up and about was
Marion. This was a little after eleven. French spoke to Marion, told
her the usual thing.
"At a quarter to twelve Hortense called up in something of a panic.
She'd been worried over the silence of Mrs. French and Bernice, and on
going to their bedrooms had found both empty, and the beds not slept
in. Which meant, of course, that both women had not been home all
night...."
"And what did French say to that?"
"He seemed annoyed rather than worried," replied Weaver. "Seemed to
think that they had probably stayed overnight with friends. We went on
with the conference, which broke up when we received the news about
the--you know."
"Why on earth dad hasn't followed up that disappearance ..." muttered
Ellery with a singular facial contortion. He sprang to the telephone
and ordered the store operator to summon Sergeant Velie. When Velie's
voice boomed over the wire, Ellery rapidly acquainted him with the
facts, advised him to let the Inspector know that he considered it
imperative that Bernice be searched for immediately; and added that
Commissioner Welles be kept downstairs as long as it was in Inspector
Queen's power to do so. Velie grunted complete understanding and hung
up.
Ellery instantly demanded the French house telephone number from
Weaver, and transmitted it to the operator.
"Hello!" An indistinguishable murmur in the depths of the instrument.
"Hello. This is a police officer talking. Miss Hortense Underhill?...
Never mind that now, Miss Underhill.... Has Bernice Carmody returned
yet?... I see.... Please! Take a cab immediately and come straight
to the French store. Yes, yes, immediately!... By the way, has Miss
Carmody a maid?... Very well. Bring her with you.... Yes, to Mr.
French's private apartment on the sixth floor. Ask for Sergeant Velie
when you get downstairs."
He hung up. "Your Bernice has not returned," he said mildly. "For what
reason Fortunatus alone knows." He looked thoughtfully at the two
lipsticks in his hand. "Was Mrs. French a widow, Wes?" he asked after a
pause.
"No. She was divorced from Carmody."
"That's not Vincent Carmody, the antique-dealer, by any chance?" asked
Ellery, without changing expression.
"That's the man. Know him?"
"Slightly. I've been in his establishment." Ellery frowned as he
regarded the lipsticks. His eyes keened suddenly.
"Now, I wonder ..." he said, putting the gold stick aside and turning
the silver one over in his fingers. He unscrewed the cap, twisted the
body so that the dark red paste emerged. He kept twisting absently
until the entire carmine length was visible. He tried to twist it still
further. To his surprise, there was a distinct click! and the entire
paste in its metal setting fell out of the silver case into his hand.
"What have we here?" he asked in honest astonishment, peering into the
cavity. Weaver leaned over for a better view. Ellery tipped the case
and shook it.
A little capsule about a half-inch around and perhaps an inch long
fell out into his hand. It was filled with a powdery white crystalline
substance.
"What is it?" breathed Weaver.
Ellery shook it, held it up to the light. "Well, sir," he said slowly,
a grim smile lifting the corners of his lips, "it looks very much like
heroin to me!"
"Heroin? The drug, you mean?" asked Weaver excitedly.
"Precisely." Ellery restored the capsule to the lipstick case, screwed
the paste section into place, and put the lipstick into his pocket.
"Nice commercial heroin. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. I'll have the
stuff analyzed for me at Headquarters. Westley," and he turned squarely
to French's secretary, "tell me the truth. To your knowledge is--or
was--any member of the French family a drug addict?"
Weaver replied with unexpected promptitude. "Now that you've found this
heroin, if that's what it is, it seems to me that I recall something
queer in the conduct and actions of Bernice, especially of late. That's
her lipstick, isn't it?--Ellery, I shouldn't be at all surprised
if Bernice is addicted to the stuff. She's been jumpy, nervous,
peaked-looking--alternated fits of gloom with spasms of hilarity...."
"You're describing the symptoms, all right," said Ellery. "Bernice, eh?
The lady becomes more and more interesting with every passing moment.
How about Mrs. French--French himself--Marion?"
"No--not Marion!" almost shouted Weaver. Then he grinned in shame.
"Sorry. No, Ellery, you forget that the Old Man is head of the
Anti-Vice League--good Lord!"
"Quite a situation, eh?" smiled Ellery. "And Mrs. French was normal in
that respect, you think?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"Anybody in the family besides yourself suspect that Bernice is a dope
fiend?"
"I don't think so. No, I'm pretty sure no one did. Certainly not the
Old Man. Marion has commented at times about Bernice's conduct and
queer actions, but I'm positive she doesn't suspect--this. As for Mrs.
French--well, it's hard to tell just what she thought. Always was
tight-mouthed when it came to her darling Bernice. Though if she did
suspect, she did nothing about it. I'm inclined to believe she was
ignorant of the whole business."
"And yet--" Ellery's eyes gleamed, "it's passing strange, Westley, that
the evidence should be found on Mrs. French's body--in her handbag, in
fact ... now, isn't it?"
Weaver shrugged his shoulders wearily. "My head's in a perfect whirl."
"Westley, old boy," pursued Ellery, fingering his pince-nez, "what do
you think Mr. French would say if he knew there was drug-addiction in
his own family?"
Weaver shuddered. "You don't know what a temper the Old Man has when
he's aroused. And I think that that would arouse him--" He stopped
short, looked at Ellery suspiciously. Ellery smiled.
"Time grows apace," he said with heartiness, but there was a disturbed
light in his eye. "On to the lavatory!"
14
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Lavatory_
"I hardly know what we may expect to find here," said Ellery dubiously,
as they stood in the glittering bathroom. "As a matter of fact, the
lavatory is the last place to look.... Everything all right, Westley?
Anything strike you as being out of place?"
Weaver answered rapidly enough, "No," but a tinge of uncertainty shaded
his voice. Ellery glanced at him sharply, then around at the room.
It was long and narrow. The tub was sunken. The washbowl was slender
and modern-looking. Above it hung a cunningly disguised chest. Ellery
pulled open its concealed door. It held on its three glass shelves some
bottles of house medicines, hair tonic, ointment, a tube of tooth-paste
and one of shaving cream, a safety-razor in an odd-looking wooden case,
two combs, and several other articles.
Ellery slammed the door shut in a little flurry of disgust. "Come on,
Wes," he growled. "I'm doddering. There's nothing here." Nevertheless,
he stopped to open a door on the side. It was a closet for lavatory
linens. He poked his hand into a hamper and pulled out several soiled
towels. These he examined carelessly and threw back, looking at
Westley....
"Well, spill it, son!" he said, pleasantly enough. "There is something
on your mind. What's rotten in Denmark?"
"It's queer," said Weaver thoughtfully, pulling at his lip. "I thought
it queer at the time, and now that things have happened, well--I'm
thinking it's even queerer.... Ellery, there's something missing!"
"Missing?" Ellery's hand shot out and closed about Weaver's arm in a
mighty grip. "My God, and you've kept mum! What is it that's missing,
man?"
"You'll think I'm an idiot ..." said Weaver hesitantly.
"Westley!"
"Sorry." Weaver cleared his throat. "Well, there's a razor blade
missing, if you must know!" He scanned Ellery's face for a sign of
levity.
But Ellery did not laugh. "A razor-blade? Tell me about it," he urged,
leaning against the closet door. He eyed the cabinet above the washbowl
speculatively.
"I got here this morning a bit earlier than usual," began Weaver, with
a worried frown. "Had to prepare for the Old Man's arrival, and there
were a number of papers to straighten out for the directors' meeting.
Usually, you know, the Old Man doesn't get here until ten o'clock;
it's only on special occasions--like this one of the conference--that
he comes earlier.... So I left the house in something of a hurry,
intending to shave up here. I do that quite often, by the way--which
is one of the reasons I keep a razor in the apartment.... When I got
here--it was about eight-thirty--I dashed for my razor. And there
wasn't any blade."
"That seems not so extraordinary," said Ellery with a smile. "You
simply didn't have any in the cabinet."
"Oh, but I did!" protested Weaver. "The reason I felt something was
funny was that last evening, before I left the store, I had shaved up
here. I left the blade in the razor."
"Didn't you have any others?"
"No. I'd run out of them and intended to get some more. But I forgot
to bring some in with me this morning. Consequently, when I wanted to
scrape some of the old beard off there wasn't anything to do it with.
Blade had vanished! Sounds silly, doesn't it? And I particularly left
that blade in the razor yesterday because I've forgotten to restock
before, and I found that you can always squeeze another shave out of
the old blade."
"You mean that it had gone, absolutely? You're sure you left it in the
razor?"
"Positive. I cleaned it and slipped it back."
"You didn't break it, or anything like that?"
"I tell you no, Ellery," Weaver replied patiently. "That blade was
there."
Ellery's lips curved upward humorously. "A pretty problem at that," he
said. "Is that why your face is fuzzed?"
"Right enough. I haven't had a chance all day to go out for a shave."
"Seems peculiar," said Ellery thoughtfully. "I mean that you should
have had only one blade left in the cabinet. Where are French's blades?"
"He doesn't shave himself," replied Weaver a trifle stiffly. "He never
has. Patronizes the same barber every morning."
Ellery did not comment further. He opened the cabinet and took down the
wooden razor-case. He examined the plain silver razor inside, but could
see nothing of interest.
"You handled the razor this morning?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you take it out of the case?"
"Oh, no! I didn't at all. When I saw the blade was missing, I didn't
even bother."
"That's _very_ interesting." Ellery lifted the razor handle to the
level of his eyes, holding it by the tip, careful not to touch the
silver surface with his fingers. He breathed on the metal. It clouded
over for an instant.
"Not the sign of a print," he commented. "Wiped away, undoubtedly." He
smiled suddenly. "We begin to find signs of a presence, an apparition,
a wraith here last night, old boy. Careful, wasn't he, she, or weren't
they?"
Weaver laughed aloud. "Then you think my stolen blade has something to
do with this mess?"
"To think," said Ellery solemnly, "is to know.... Keep this in mind,
Westley. I believe I heard you say downstairs that you left here
last night a bit before seven. The blade, then, was taken from this
apartment between about seven o'clock last night and eight-thirty this
morning.
"Astounding!" murmured Weaver derisively. "So that's the sort of
hocus-pocus one must cultivate in order to be a detective?"
"Laugh, varlet!" said Ellery sternly.... He stood in a queer attitude
of reflection. "I think we'll be going into the next chamber," he said
in an altogether different voice. "I begin to see a tiny light. It's
far off but--gossamer glimmer, nevertheless! _Allons, enfant!_"
15
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Cardroom_
He strode purposefully from the lavatory, marched through the bedroom,
entered the library once more. Weaver followed, his face betraying an
objective interest startlingly in variance with his nervousness of the
past hour. He seemed to have forgotten something.
"What's past that door?" demanded Ellery abruptly, pointing to the
second red-leather, brass-studded door on the opposite side of the room.
"That's the cardroom," replied Weaver interestedly. "Think there's
something to look for, El? By George, you're getting me positively
excited!" Then he stopped, his face lengthened, and he stood soberly
surveying his friend.
"Cardroom, eh?" Ellery's eyes were bright. "Tell me, Wes--you were the
first in the apartment this morning and you're in the best position
to know--did any one who was in the library to-day go into any of the
other rooms?"
Weaver pondered for a moment. "Except that the Old Man went into the
bedroom when he got in this morning, and put his coat and hat away,
nobody left the library."
"Didn't French visit the bathroom to wash up?"
"No. He was in a confounded hurry to dictate some store business and
get ready for the conference."
"You were with him when he visited the bedroom?"
"Yes."
"And you're positive that none of the others--Zorn, Trask, Gray,
Marchbanks--left _this room_ all morning?" He took a short turn about
the room. "By the way, you were here every minute of the time, I
suppose?"
Weaver smiled. "I seem to be in an affirmative mood this
afternoon.--Yes to both questions."
Ellery rubbed his hands together in a little spasm of glee. "The
apartment, then, with the one exception of the library, is in exactly
the same condition as when you arrived at eight-thirty. Excellent, most
excellent, my omniscient and exceedingly helpful Westley!"
He walked briskly toward the cardroom door and pushed it open, Weaver
at his heels. And Weaver cried out in sheer astonishment from behind
Ellery's broad shoulders....
The cardroom was smaller than both the library and the bedroom. It was
paneled in walnut. Cheerful drapes hung over the single large window
overlooking Fifth Avenue. A thick rug covered the floor.
But Ellery, following the line of Weaver's gaze, saw that he was
staring in horror at a hexagonal, baize-covered card-table in the
center of the room. A small bronze ashtray and some playing-cards,
peculiarly arranged, were on the table. Two heavy folding-chairs were
pushed away from the table.
"What's the trouble, Wes?" asked Ellery sharply.
"Why, that--that table wasn't there last night!" stammered Weaver. "I
was in here looking for my pipe just before I left, and I'm sure...."
"Not really!" murmured Ellery. "You mean the table was folded up, put
away, out of sight?"
"Of course! The room was cleaned up yesterday morning by the charwoman.
And those cigarets in the ashtray.... Ellery, some one was in here
after I left last night!"
"Obviously. And in the bathroom, too, if we're to believe the story
of the missing razor-blade. The important thing is--why was some one
in here? Just a moment." He went swiftly to the table and looked down
curiously at the cards.
On both sides of the table were two small piles of cards--one stack
with the faces up, the other closed. In the center of the baize were
two rows of four stacks, open, with the pasteboards in descending
order, as Ellery verified by investigating carefully. Between the two
rows were three smaller piles.
"Banque," muttered Ellery. "Peculiar!" He looked at Weaver. "You know
the game, of course?"
"No, I don't," said Weaver. "I recognized the layout of the cards as
that of banque, because I've seen it played at the French house. But I
don't understand the game very well; it gives me a headache. But then
most card-games do. I never was much good at it."
"So I remember," laughed Ellery, "especially that night at Bloombury's
when I had to sit in for you to recoup a hundred dollar I.O.U. at
stud.... You say you've seen the game played at French's--and that's
most interesting. Calls for questions, I do believe. Not many people
know how to play Russian banque."
Weaver regarded Ellery strangely. His eyes went furtively to the stubs
of four cigarets lying in the ashtray. He looked back at once. "Just
two people in the French household," he said in a strangled voice,
"played banque."
"And they are--or were, if I must follow your past tense?" asked Ellery
in a cool voice.
"Mrs. French and--Bernice."
"Oho!" Ellery whistled softly. "The elusive Bernice.... Nobody else
play?"
"The Old Man abhors all forms of gambling," said Weaver, worrying his
lips with a forefinger. "Won't play cards for anything. Doesn't know an
ace from a deuce. Marion plays bridge, but only because it's something
of a social necessity. She dislikes cards, and I never heard of banque
before I entered French's employ.... But Mrs. French and Bernice were
violently addicted to it. Whenever they had the opportunity they played
it. None of us could quite understand it. A form of the glamorous
gambling fever, I don't doubt."
"And the friends of the family?"
"Well," said Weaver slowly, "the Old Man has never been so narrow as to
forbid card-playing altogether in his home. That's why this apartment,
by the way, is fitted out with a cardroom. It's for the convenience of
the directors--sometimes they play here between sessions. But in the
house itself I have had plenty of opportunity to observe visitors and
friends. I've never seen any one play banque except Mrs. French and
Bernice."
"Beautiful--beautiful," said Ellery. "So symmetrically conclusive!
That's the way I like things...." But his brow was wrinkled with
thought. "And the cigarets, old boy--tell me why you've been trying for
five minutes not to look at the cigarets in the ashtray?"
Weaver flushed guiltily. "Oh!" He was silent. "I hate to say it,
Ellery--I'm in the most hellish position imaginable...."
"The cigarets, of course, are Bernice's brand.... You may as well come
out with it," said Ellery wearily.
"How did you know?" cried Weaver. "But--I suppose it was clear enough
to an alert.... Yes, they're Bernice's. Her own brand. She has--had
them made up for her especially."
Ellery picked up one of the stubs. It was silver-tipped, and just
below the tip was printed in script the brand-name: _La Duchesse_.
Ellery poked his finger among the remaining litter of stubs. His look
sharpened as he noted that all, without exception, had been smoked to
approximately the same length--to about a half-inch of the tip.
"Pretty thoroughly smoked out, all of them," he commented. He sniffed
at the cigaret between his fingers, looked at Weaver inquiringly.
"Yes, scented. Violet, I think," Weaver said promptly. "The
manufacturer provides the scent according to the specifications of his
customers. I remember hearing Bernice place an order not long ago when
I was over at the French's--placed it over the telephone."
"And _La Duchesse_ is rare enough to have weight in an inquiry.... Good
fortune, was it?" He talked to himself rather than to his friend.
"What do you mean?"
"No matter.... And, of course, Mrs. French did not smoke?"
"Why--how did you know?" demanded Weaver in surprise.
"How nicely things fit together," murmured Ellery. "So very, very
nicely. And Marion--does she smoke?"
"Thank God--no!"
Ellery regarded him quizzically. "Well!" he said all at once. "Let's
see what's behind this door."
He crossed the room to the wall opposite the window. A small plain door
opened into a little, simply furnished bedroom. Beyond it was a tiny
bathroom.
"A servant's room," explained Weaver. "Originally planned for a valet,
but it's never been used to my knowledge. The Old Man isn't fussy and
he'd rather have his man at the Fifth Avenue house."
Ellery made a swift examination of the two little rooms. He emerged in
a moment, shrugging his shoulders.
"Nothing there, and there wouldn't be...." He paused, twirling his
pince-nez in the air. "We have a rather remarkable situation here, Wes.
Consider: We are now in possession of three direct indications of Miss
Bernice Carmody's presence in this apartment last night. Or rather two
direct indications, and one--the first--of a circumstantial nature.
That is--the lipstick marked _C_ from Mrs. French's handbag. This is
the least damaging of the three, of course, since it does not _prove_
presence and might have been brought here by Mrs. French. But it must
be kept in mind. Second, the game of banque, which any number of
reputable witnesses, I gather, would testify, as strongly as you, was
indulged in by Mrs. French and Bernice practically to the exclusion of
the rest of the family and friends of the family. You noticed, didn't
you, that the game has the appearance of having been interrupted at
a critical stage? The way the cards are lying there--they give the
distinct impression that just when the game became hotly competitive,
it was stopped.... And third, the most critical indication of the
three--the _La Duchesse_ cigarets. These are so obviously Bernice's
that they would be acceptable in court as admissible evidence, I'm
sure, if supported by strong circumstantial evidence of a confirmatory
nature."
"But what? I don't see--" cried Weaver.
"The suspicious fact that Miss Bernice Carmody has vanished," replied
Ellery gravely. "Flight?" He flung the word at Weaver.
"I can't--I won't believe it," said Weaver weakly, but there was a
curious relief in his voice.
"Matricide is an unnatural crime, to be sure," Ellery mused, "but is
not unknown.... Is it possible--" His reflections were disturbed by a
rapid knock at the apartment door. It was surprisingly loud, coming
as it did through the three walls of the cardroom, the library, the
anteroom.
Weaver looked startled. Ellery straightened with a jerk, swiftly looked
around once more, then motioned to Weaver to precede him from the room.
He closed the brass-studded door with gentle fingers.
"That must be your good hussif, Hortense Underhill, and the maid," said
Ellery almost gayly. "I wonder if they can be the harbingers of--more
evidence against Bernice!"
16
AT THE APARTMENT: _Again the Bedroom_
Weaver flung open the outer door to admit two women. Sergeant Thomas
Velie loomed solidly behind them.
"Did you send for these ladies, Mr. Queen?" demanded Velie, his broad
frame filling the door. "One of the boys downstairs caught 'em trying
to get past the man guarding the elevator--said you sent for them. Is
it all right?"
His eyes roved dourly about the apartment--as much of it as he could
see from his position at the corridor door. Ellery smiled.
"It's all right, Velie," he drawled. "They'll be safe with me.... And
how is the dear Commissioner progressing with the Inspector?"
"Got his hooks into the scarf," growled Velie, and shot a keen look at
Weaver's instantly clenched fists.
"Follow up the lead I gave you over the telephone?" asked Ellery
serenely.
"Yes. She's among the missing. Got two men on it already." The
Sergeant's stern face cracked in a fleeting smile. "How much longer
will you need the Inspector's--coöperation downstairs, Mr. Queen?"
"I'll buzz you, Velie. Fly away now, like a good little chap." Velie
grinned, but his face was frozen into its customary immobility as he
wheeled and made for the elevator.
Ellery turned to the two women, who were standing close together eying
him apprehensively. He addressed the taller and elder of the two--a
stiff, slab-figured woman in her early fifties, marble-haired and
viciously blue-eyed.
"You're Miss Hortense Underhill, I take it?" he asked severely.
"That's right--Mr. French's housekeeper." Her voice was not unlike her
person--thin, sharp, steely.
"And this is Miss Bernice Carmody's maid?"
The other woman, a timid little creature with faded brown hair and
a plain face, started convulsively at being directly addressed and
crouched closer to Hortense Underhill.
"Yes," answered the French housekeeper. "This is Miss Doris Keaton,
Bernice's maid."
"Very good." Ellery smiled, stood aside with a deferential little bow.
"If you'll follow me, please--?" He led the way through the red-leather
door leading into the large bedroom. Weaver marched obediently behind.
Ellery indicated the two bedroom chairs. "Sit down, please." The
two women sat down. Doris Keaton kept her big vapid eyes on Ellery,
surreptitiously hitching her chair closer to the housekeeper's.
"Miss Underhill," began Ellery, pince-nez in hand, "have you ever been
in this room before?"
"I have." The housekeeper seemed determined to out-stare Ellery. Her
cold blue eyes flashed colder fire.
"Oh, you have?" Ellery paused politely without removing his gaze.
"When, may I ask, and on what occasion?"
The housekeeper was undaunted by his coolness. "A peck of times. That
is, so to speak. I never came, though, except at Mrs. French's request.
Each time it was clothes."
"It was clothes?" Ellery seemed puzzled.
She nodded stonily. "Why, of course. They were far apart, those times,
but whenever Mrs. French intended to stay here overnight, she would ask
me to bring a next day's change for her. So that is how--"
"Just a moment, Miss Underhill." There was a pleasant glitter in
Ellery's eyes as he reflected. "This was her usual custom?"
"So far as I know."
"When"--Ellery leaned forward--"when was the last time Mrs. French
asked you to do this?"
The housekeeper did not reply at once. "I should say about two months
ago," she answered finally.
"As far back as that?"
"I said two months ago."
Ellery sighed, straightened. "One of these closets, then, belonged to
Mrs. French?" he asked, indicating the two modern doors set in the
wall.
"Yes--that one there," she replied promptly, pointing to the concealed
door nearest the lavatory. "But not only for Mrs. French's clothes--the
other girls sometimes kept things in there, too."
Ellery's eyebrows shot up. "Not really, Miss Underhill!" he ejaculated.
His hand caressed his jaw tenderly. "I may infer, then, that both Miss
Marion and Miss Bernice sometimes used Mr. French's apartment?"
The housekeeper regarded him levelly. "Sometimes. Not very often. Only
when Mrs. French was not using it, and they brought a girl friend along
to spend the night--on a sort of lark, you might call it."
"I see. Have they slept here with a--a 'girl friend,' I believe you
said?--recently?"
"Not that I know. Not for five or six months at least."
"Very good!" Ellery flipped his pince-nez into the air with a certain
briskness. "Now, Miss Underhill, I want you to tell me quite exactly
when you saw Miss Carmody last, and under what circumstances."
The two women exchanged meaningful glances; the maid bit her lip and
looked guiltily away. But the housekeeper retained her poise. "I _knew_
that was coming," she announced in a calm voice. "But you needn't think
either of my poor lambs had anything to do with this, whoever you are.
They didn't and you can take that for gospel. _I_ don't know where
Bernice is, but be sure there's foul play been done her...."
"Miss Underhill," said Ellery gently, "I'm sure this is all quite
interesting, but we are in something of a hurry. If you'll answer my
question--?"
"All right, if you must have it." She set her lips, folded her hands
in her lap, looked at Weaver indifferently, and began. "It was
yesterday.--I'd better begin right with when they woke up; it'll make
easier telling.--Well, both Mrs. French and Bernice woke up at about
ten o'clock yesterday morning, and the hair-dresser attended each in
their rooms. They got dressed and had a bite of something. Marion had
already had lunch. I served them myself...."
"Pardon me, Miss Underhill," interrupted Ellery, "but did you hear what
they talked about over the luncheon table?"
"I don't listen to what isn't my affair," retorted the housekeeper
tartly, "so all I can tell about _that_ is that they talked about
a new gown being made for Bernice. And Mrs. French seemed a little
absent-minded, too. She actually got her sleeve into her coffee--the
poor thing! But then she was always a little funny--maybe she had a
premonition of what was to come, you know?--God rest her troubled
soul!... Well, after lunch they remained in the music-room until about
two o'clock, talking and things. Don't know about what, either! But
they seemed as if they wanted to be let alone. Anyway, when they came
out I heard Mrs. French tell Bernice to go upstairs and dress--they
were going to take a ride through the Park. Bernice went upstairs,
and Mrs. French held back to tell _me_ to tell _Edward Young_, the
chauffeur, to get the car out. Then Mrs. French went upstairs herself
to dress. But in about five minutes I saw Bernice coming down the
stairs, all dressed for the street, and when she saw me she told _me_
to tell her _mother_--whispered, she did--that she'd changed her mind
about taking a ride in the Park and was going out to do some shopping.
And she fair ran out of the house!"
Ellery seemed poignantly concerned. "Clearly if somewhat volubly told,
Miss Underhill. And what would you say was the state of Miss Carmody's
nerves all day?"
"Poor," replied the housekeeper. "But then Bernice has always been a
high-spirited and sensitive girl. Yesterday she seemed a little more
nervous than usual, though, now that I come to think of it. She was
all pale and fidgety when she slipped out of the house...."
Weaver moved sharply. Ellery cautioned him with a glance and motioned
the housekeeper to continue.
"Well, not long after, Mrs. French came down dressed for her drive. She
asked for Bernice, and I told her about Bernice's going off that way,
and I gave her Bernice's message. I thought for a minute that she was
going to faint--poor thing!--she got so pale and sick-looking, which
wasn't like her at all, and then she took hold of herself and she said:
'All right, Hortense. Tell Young to put the car back in the garage. I
shan't be going out, either....' and she marched right back upstairs
again. Oh, yes! She did tell me, though, before she went up, to let
her know the _instant_ Bernice got back home.... Well, sir, that's the
last I saw of Bernice, and practically the last of Mrs. French. For
the poor soul stayed in her room all afternoon, came down for dinner
with Marion, and then went back up to her room again. She seemed more
anxious than ever about Bernice, and twice she made as if to go to the
telephone, but she seemed to change her mind. Anyway, about a quarter
after eleven at night she came down with her hat and coat on--yes,
sir, I know you'll ask me: the brown toque and the fox-trimmed cloth
coat--and she said she was going out. And go out she did. And that's
the last I saw of poor Mrs. French."
"She didn't order the car?"
"No."
Ellery took a turn about the room. "And where was Miss Marion French
all day?" he asked suddenly. Weaver glanced at Ellery in shocked
surprise.
"Oh! Miss Marion was up bright and early--always is an early riser, the
dear child--and she left the house right after luncheon, saying she had
a shopping appointment with one of her friends. I think she also went
to the Carnegie Hall for the afternoon, because only the day before
she showed me the tickets for a piano-playing thing by some foreigner.
She does love music so, that child! She didn't get back home until
about half-past five. She and Mrs. French had dinner together, and she
was surprised that Bernice was absent. Anyway, right after dinner she
dressed over and went out again."
"At what hour did Miss Marion French return?"
"That I can't say. I went to bed myself at eleven-thirty, after
releasing the house staff for the night. Didn't see anybody come in.
Mrs. French had told me not to wait up, besides."
"Not a particularly well-regulated household," murmured Ellery. "Miss
Underhill, please tell me how Miss Carmody was attired when she left
the house--it was about two-thirty, I presume?"
Hortense Underhill shifted restlessly in her chair. The maid still
regarded Ellery with stupid, frightened eyes.
"Just about," said the housekeeper. "Well, Bernice was wearing--let me
see now--her blue felt hat with the brilliant fancy, her grey chiffon
dress, her grey fur-trimmed coat, and a pair of black leather pumps
with rhinestone buckles. Is that what you wanted to know?"
"Precisely," said Ellery with a charming smile. He took Weaver to one
side. "Wes, do you know why I've called these two worthy ladies into
consultation?" he demanded in an undertone.
Weaver shook his head. "Except for the fact that you wanted to know
about Bernice.... Oh, I say, Ellery, it wasn't that you're looking for
further indications of Bernice's presence here, is it?" he asked aghast.
Ellery nodded gloomily. "We have three apparent indications of the
young lady's alleged visit to the apartment, to be journalistic....
Something told me there were more. Indications that I might not be
able to descry. The housekeeper, though--the maid, Bernice's maid--"
He broke off, shook his head with impatience at his own thoughts. He
turned to the waiting women. "Miss Doris Keaton." The maid jumped,
stark terror in her eyes. "Don't be afraid, Miss Keaton," said Ellery
mildly, "I shan't bite you.... Did you help Miss Bernice dress
yesterday afternoon, after luncheon?"
The girl whispered: "Yes, sir."
"Would you recognize the articles of clothing, for example, that she
wore yesterday, if you saw them here and now?"
"I--I think so, sir."
Ellery walked to the closet door nearest the lavatory, threw it
wide--disclosing a rack hung with multicolored gowns, a silken shoe-bag
tacked to the inner side of the door, and a top shelf on which lay
several hat-boxes--stepped back, and said:
"There's your territory, Miss Keaton. See what you can find." He stood
directly behind the girl, watching her with quick sharp flashes of his
eyes. He was so absorbed in her movements that he did not even feel the
presence of Weaver at his side. The housekeeper sat, a thin stone, in
her chair, watching them.
The maid's fingers trembled as she rummaged among the numerous gowns on
the rack. After going through the entire rack, she timidly turned to
Ellery and shook her head. He motioned her to proceed.
She stood on tiptoe and lifted from the shelf the three hat-boxes. She
opened these one by one and scrutinized them briefly. The first two
boxes contained hats belonging to Mrs. French, she said hesitantly.
This was corroborated by a frigid nod from Hortense Underhill.
The maid lifted the lid from the third box. She uttered a little choked
cry and reeled backward, touching Ellery. The contact seemed to burn
her skin. She jumped away, fumbled for a handkerchief.
"Well?" asked Ellery softly.
"That's--that's Miss Bernice's hat," she whispered, biting the
handkerchief nervously. "The one--she wore when she left the house
yesterday afternoon!"
Ellery eyed the hat narrowly as it lay, brim to the bottom, in the
box. The soft blue felt crown, due to its position, had collapsed. A
glittering pin was fixed above the turned-down brim, just visible from
where he stood.... Ellery made a brief request and the maid lifted
the hat from the box and offered it to him. He turned it over in his
fingers, then silently handed the hat back to the girl, who as silently
took it, put her hand inside the crown, flipped the hat upside down,
and deftly returned it to the box in that position. Ellery, who had
been about to turn away, stiffened instantly. Nevertheless, he said
nothing, watching the girl replace the three hat-boxes on the shelf.
"The shoes now, please," he said.
Obediently the maid bent over the silk shoe-rack hanging on the inside
of the closet door. As she was about to remove a woman's pump, Ellery
stopped her with a tap on the shoulder and turned to the housekeeper.
"Miss Underhill, will you please verify the fact that this is Miss
Carmody's hat?"
He lifted a long arm, took down the box with the blue hat inside,
removed the hat, and handed it to Hortense Underhill.
She examined it briefly. Unaccountably, Ellery had stepped away from
the closet to stand by the lavatory door.
"It's hers," said the housekeeper, looking up belligerently. "But what
that has to do with anything, I don't know."
"That's honest." Ellery smiled. "Will you please return it to the
shelf?" As he said this, he stepped slowly forward again.
The woman, sniffing, put her hand inside the hat, inverted it, and
placed it in that position in the hat-box. She carefully lifted it to
the shelf and as carefully returned to her chair.... Weaver observed
Ellery's sudden grin with a lost bewilderment.
Then Ellery did an amazing thing--a thing that brought an unbelieving
stare from each of the three people watching him. He reached up to the
shelf and took down the same hat-box!
He opened it, whistling a tuneless little air and, removing the
much-handled blue hat, offered it to Weaver for inspection.
"Here, Wes, let's have your masculine opinion," he said cheerfully. "Is
this Bernice Carmody's hat?"
Weaver regarded his friend with astonishment, taking the hat
mechanically. Shrugging, he looked at the hat. "Looks familiar, Ellery,
but I can't be positive. I rarely notice women's clothes."
"Hmm." Ellery chuckled. "Put the hat back, Wes old boy." Weaver sighed,
grasped the hat gingerly by the crown and dropped it, brim down, into
the box. He fumbled with the lid, affixed it, shoved the box back onto
the shelf--for the third time in less than five minutes.
Ellery turned briskly to the maid. "Keaton, just how fastidious in her
habits is Miss Carmody?" he asked, feeling for his pince-nez.
"I--I don't get you, sir."
"Does she bother you much? Does she put her own things away generally?
Exactly what are your duties?"
"Oh!" The maid's eyes sought the housekeeper once more for guidance.
Then she looked down at the carpet. "Well, sir, Miss Bernice was--is
always careful about her clothes and things. Most always puts her hats
and coats away herself when she gets in from being out. My work's more
doing personal things--fixing her hair, laying out her dresses, and
such."
"A _very_ careful girl," put in Miss Underhill icily. "Rare and
unusual, I've always called it. And Marion's the same way."
"Delighted to hear it," said Ellery with perfect gravity. "Delighted is
hardly the word for it.... Heigh-ho, Keaton, the shoon!"
"Huh?" The girl was startled.
"Shoes--shoes, I should say."
There were at least a dozen pairs of shoes, of assorted styles and
colors, protruding from separate pockets in the rack. Without exception
each of the shoes lay in its compartment with the tip inside and the
heel showing, hooked over the lip of the pocket.
The maid Keaton went to work. She looked over the shoes, lifting out
several to examine them closely. Suddenly she snatched at a pair of
black leather pumps, lying in adjacent compartments. Each pump sported
a large and heavy rhinestone buckle which glittered in a shaft of
sunlight as she held them up before Ellery.
"These! These shoes!" she cried. "Miss Bernice wore them yesterday when
she went out!"
Ellery took them from her shaking fingers. After a moment he turned to
Weaver.
"Mud splashes," he said laconically. "And here's a spot of wet. Seems
indubitable!" He handed them back to the maid, who tremblingly replaced
them in their compartments.... Ellery's eyes narrowed at once. She had
put the shoes back with the heels _inside_, despite the fact that all
the other shoes in the rack had the heels showing.
"Miss Underhill!" Ellery withdrew the black pumps from their pockets.
The housekeeper rose sulkily.
"Miss Carmody's?" Ellery demanded, handing her the shoes.
She eyed them briefly. "Yes."
"Having reached complete agreement," drawled Ellery with a smiling
change of tone, "please be so good as to return these shoes to the
rack."
Without a word she obeyed. And Ellery, watching closely, chuckled to
observe that she had duplicated the maid's action in putting the pumps
into the rack heels first, so that the tips and buckles protruded from
the pockets.
"Westley!" he said at once. Weaver approached wearily. He had been
standing at a window, looking moodily down over Fifth Avenue.... And
when Weaver replaced the pumps in the rack, he grasped the heels and
stuck the shoes in tips first.
"Why do you do that?" asked Ellery as the two women, now convinced of
his madness, moved uneasily away from the closet.
"Do what?" demanded Weaver.
Ellery smiled. "Easy, Hamlet.... Why do you put the shoes into the bag
so that the heels hang over the pocket?"
Weaver stared at him. "Why, they're all that way," he said blankly.
"Why should I put them in the opposite way?"
"_Alors_," said Ellery, "_on a raison_.... Miss Underhill, why did you
put the shoes back into the rack with the tips showing, when all the
others have the heels showing?"
"Anybody would know that," snapped the housekeeper. "These black pumps
have big buckles. Didn't you see what happened when Mr. Weaver put them
back tips first? The buckles caught on the material of the bag!"
"Wondrous woman!" muttered Ellery. "And the others haven't any buckles,
of course...." He read confirmation in the housekeeper's eyes.
He left them standing before the closet and paced silently back and
forth the length of the bedroom. His lips puckered fiercely as he
mused. Suddenly he turned to Miss Underhill.
"I want you to look this closet over very carefully, Miss Underhill,
and tell me, if you possibly can, whether anything is not there which
you know should be there...." He stepped back and waved his hand.
She stirred into activity, rummaging efficiently through the gowns, the
hat-boxes, the shoes once more. Weaver, the maid, Ellery watched her in
silence.
She paused in her work, looked undecidedly at the shoe-bag, then up at
the shelf, hesitated, turned to Ellery.
"I can't be sure," she said thoughtfully, her cold eyes searching
Ellery's, "but it seems to me that, while all of Mrs. French's things
are here that should be here, two things of Bernice's are _not_ here
that should be here!"
"No!" breathed Ellery. He did not seem unduly surprised. "A hat and
pair of shoes, no doubt?"
She glanced at him quickly. "How did you know?... Yes, that's what I
thought. I remember several months ago when I was bringing down some
things of Mrs. French's, Bernice asked me to take her grey toque down,
too. And I did. And then there was her pair of low-heeled grey kid
shoes--two tones of grey, they were--I'm fair certain I brought _those_
down with me once...." She turned sharply on Doris Keaton. "Are they in
Miss Bernice's wardrobes at home, Doris?"
The maid shook her head with vigor. "No, Miss Underhill. I haven't seen
them for a long time."
"Well, there you are. Grey felt toque, close-fitting, no trimming, and
a pair of grey kid walking-shoes. They're missing."
"And that," said Ellery with a little bow that made Miss Underhill
stare, "is precisely that. Thank you so much.... Westley, will you
escort Miss Underhill and the timidacious Keaton to the door? Tell the
man outside to see that they're taken down to Sergeant Velie and kept
out of the way of Commissioner Welles at least until everybody troops
up here.... Undoubtedly, Miss Underhill, Marion French will be glad,"
and he bowed again to the housekeeper, "of your maternal and warming
presence. _Good_ afternoon!"
The instant the outer door had closed upon Weaver and the two women,
Ellery ran across the library to the door of the cardroom. He entered
with swift steps and stared down at the card-table with its neatly
heaped piles of pasteboards and its butt-strewn ashtray. He sat down
carefully in one of the chairs and examined the cards. Picking up the
heavy stack of closed cards before him, he spread them out without
disturbing their sequence. He frowned after a while, referred to eleven
piles of cards in the center of the table.... Finally he rose, puzzled,
defeated. He replaced all the stacks exactly as he had found them.
He was staring gloomily at the cigaret-stubs when he heard the outer
door click shut and Weaver reënter the library. Ellery turned at once
and left the cardroom. The red-leather door swished softly to behind
him.
"Ladies taken care of?" he inquired absently. Weaver nodded almost with
sulkiness. Ellery squared his shoulders, eyes twinkling. "Worrying
about Marion, I'll wager," he said. "Don't, Wes. You're acting like
a granny." He looked slowly about the library. His eyes came to rest
after a time on the desk before the dormer-window. "I think," he
announced dictatorially, sauntering toward the desk, "we'll take our
ease, in a manner of speaking, and see what we can see. Rest being the
sweet sauce of labor, as Plutarch so aptly says--sit, Wes!"
17
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Library_
They sat down, Ellery at the comfortable swivel-chair behind the desk,
Weaver in one of the leather-covered chairs at the conference table.
Ellery relaxed, letting his glance shift from wall to wall of the
library, flicker over the table, the litter of business papers, the
pictures on the wall, the glass top of the desk before him.... His
glance fell idly on the slip of blue memorandum paper by the telephone.
With perfect unconcern he picked it up and read it.
It was an official memorandum. On it was neatly typed a message.
Ellery reread the memorandum earnestly. He looked up at the
disconsolate countenance of Weaver.
"Is it conceivable ..." he began. He broke off suddenly. "Tell me,
Wes--when did you type this memorandum?"
"Eh?" Weaver started at the sound of Ellery's voice. "Oh, that! That's
a memo I sent around to the Board of Directors. Typed it yesterday
afternoon, after the Old Man left for Great Neck."
"How many copies did you make?"
"There were seven all told--one for each director, one for myself, and
one for the files. This copy is the Old Man's."
Ellery spoke quickly. "How is it that I find it here on the desk?"
Weaver was surprised at the seeming inconsequentiality of Ellery's
question. "Oh, I say!" he protested. "Just a matter of form. I left it
here so that the Old Man could see in the morning that I'd taken care
of the matter."
"And it was here--on the desk--when you left the apartment last night?"
persisted Ellery.
[Illustration: INTER-OFFICE MEMORANDUM
COPY
To: Mr. French ✓
Mr. Gray
Mr. Marchbanks
Mr. Trask
Mr. Zorn
Mr. Weaver
Monday, May 23, 19--
A special meeting of the Board of Directors is hereby called for the
morning of Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth, at eleven o'clock, in the
Conference Room. _Do_ _not_ _fail_ _to_ _attend_. Details of the
Whitney-French negotiations will be discussed. It is hoped that a final
decision may be reached officially at that time. Your presence is
imperative.
Mr. Weaver is to meet Mr. French in the Conference Room at nine a.m.
promptly to prepare the notes for final directorial discussion.
[Signed] Cyrus French,
[Per] Westley Weaver,
Sec'y.
]
"Well, of course!" said Weaver. "Where should it be? Not only that, but
it was _still_ there when I got in this morning." He grinned feebly.
But Ellery was serious. His eyes glittered. "You're sure of that?..."
He half-rose from the swivel-chair in a strange excitement. He sank
back. "Seems to fit with the rest of the jigsaw," he muttered. "How
beautifully it explains that one unexplained point!"
Thoughtfully he stowed the blue paper, uncreased, in a capacious wallet
which he took from his breast-pocket.
"You'll say nothing of this, of course," he said slowly.... Weaver
nodded and relapsed into apathy. Ellery bent forward, placed his
elbows on the glass top, his head in his hands. He stared before
him.... Something seemed to disturb his revery. His eyes, blank
and preoccupied, focused by degrees on the books between the onyx
book-ends, standing austerely on the desk in his direct line of vision.
After a moment, as if to satisfy a mounting curiosity, he straightened
up and became entirely absorbed in the titles of the books. His long
arm swooped down on one of them, carried it back for closer observation.
"By the wisdom of Bibliophilus!" he murmured at last, looking up at
Weaver. "What a queer collection of volumes! Does your employer make a
habit of reading such heavy stuff as _An Outline of Paleontology_, Wes?
Or is this a text-book hang-over from your undergraduate days? I can't
recall your having a particular flair for science. It's by old John
Morrison, too."
"Oh, that!" Weaver was momentarily embarrassed. "No, that's the--the
Old Man's, I suppose, Ellery. His books entirely. Don't think
I've ever observed the titles, as a matter of fact. What did you
say--paleontology? Didn't know he went in for it."
Ellery regarded him keenly for a brief moment, then replaced the book.
"And what's more--do you know," he said softly, "this _is_ fetching!"
"What?" asked Weaver nervously.
"Well, bend an ear to these titles: _Fourteenth Century Trade and
Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski. There's a rare one for you, although
it is fitting that a department store magnate be interested in the
history of merchanting.... And this one--_A Child's History of
Music_, by Ramon Freyberg. A _child's_ history, mind you. And _New
Developments in Philately_, by Hugo Salisbury. A passion for stamps!
Queer, queer, I tell you.... And--good heavens!--_Nonsense Anthology_,
by that surpassing idiot, A. I. Throckmorton!" Ellery lifted his eyes
to Weaver's troubled ones. "Dear young Dane," he said slowly, "I can
understand a chronic bibliophile having this bizarre collection on his
desk, for some dark purpose of his own, but I'll be immortally damned
if I can make it jibe with my conception of Cyrus French, head of the
Anti-Vice League and merchant prince.... Your employer does not impress
me as having the intellectual potentialities of a paleontological
field worker, who is a stamp-collecting addict, who has a passion for
medieval commerce, who knows so little of music that he must read
a child's history of it, and finally who indulges in the sickening
horseplay of the year's best--or worst--vaudeville jokes!... Wes, old
boy, there is more here than meets the vacillating eye."
"I'm quite at sea," said Weaver, shifting in his chair.
"And you should be, you should be, my child," said Ellery as he rose
and walked over to the bookcase on the wall to his left. He lightly
hummed the thematic air of _Marche Slav_ as he scanned the titles of
the volumes behind the glass partitions. After a moment's scrutiny he
returned to the desk, where he sat down and again fingered the books
between the book-ends in an absent way. Weaver's eyes followed him
uneasily.
"From the books in the case," resumed Ellery, "my suspicions seem to
be borne out. Nothing but works on social welfare and sets of Bret
Harte, O. Henry, and Richard Harding Davis, _et al._ All of which
compress nicely into the obvious intellectual stratum of your nice Old
Man. Yet on the desk...." He mused. "And they show no signs of use,"
he complained, as if disturbed further by this heinous crime against
literature. "In two cases, where the volumes are bound that way, the
leaves are still uncut.... Westley, tell me truthfully, is French
interested in these subjects?" He flipped his finger at the books
before him.
Weaver answered immediately. "Not to my knowledge."
"Marion? Bernice? Mrs. French? The directors?"
"I can answer positively in the case of the French family, Ellery,"
replied Weaver, jumping from his chair and pacing up and down before
the desk. "None of them reads such stuff. As for the directors--well,
you've seen them."
"Gray might be interested in this preposterous mélange," said Ellery
thoughtfully. "He's the type. But that child's history of music....
Well!"
He bestirred himself. On the fly-leaf of the little volume in his coat
pocket he made a careful memorandum of the titles and authors of the
desk volumes. With a sigh he dropped the pencil back into his vest
pocket and once more began to stare blankly at the books. His hand
played idly with one of the book-ends.
"Mustn't forget to ask French about these books," he murmured, more to
himself than to Weaver, who still paced furiously up and down the room.
"--Sit down, Wes! You disturb my train of thought...." Weaver shrugged,
sat down quiescently. "Nice things, these," Ellery said in a casual
voice, indicating the book-ends. "That's a very curious bit of carving
on the onyx."
"Must have cost Gray a pile of dollars," mumbled Weaver.
"Oh, they were a gift to French?"
"Gray gave them to him on his last birthday--in March. They were
imported, I know--I remember Lavery commenting on their rarity and
beauty a few weeks ago."
"Did you say--March?" asked Ellery suddenly, bringing the black shining
book-end closer to his eyes. "That's only two months ago, and this--"
He quickly picked up the companion piece to the book-end in his hand.
He placed them side by side on the glass top of the desk, all at once
handling them with meticulous delicacy. He beckoned to Weaver.
"Do you see any difference between these?" he asked in some excitement.
Weaver leaned over, put out his hand to lift one of them....
"Don't touch it!" said Ellery sharply. "Well?"
Weaver stood up straight. "No call to shout, Ellery," he said
reproachfully. "As far as I can see, the felt under this one seems
faded a little."
"Don't mind my rude manners, old son," Ellery said. "I thought that
difference in shade wasn't wholly my imagination."
"I can't understand why the green felts should vary in color," remarked
Weaver in a puzzled way, returning to his chair. "Those book-ends
are nearly new. They must have been all right when the Old Man got
them--they were, in fact. I'd have noticed the discoloration had there
been one."
Ellery did not answer at once. He stared down at the two pieces of
carved onyx. They were both cylindrical in shape, with the carving on
the outer sides. On the under sides, where the book-ends were to be
placed against the desk, were pieces of fine green felt. In the strong
clear afternoon sun, streaming through the big window, one exhibited a
marked difference in the shade of green.
"Here's a pretty mystery," muttered Ellery. "And what it means, if it
means anything at all, I can't see at the moment...." He looked up at
Weaver with a glint in his eye. "Have these book-ends ever been out of
this room since Gray presented them to French?"
"No," replied Weaver. "Never. I'm here every day, and I would know if
they'd been moved."
"Have they ever been broken, or repaired, even here?"
"Why, of course not!" said Weaver, puzzled. "That seems sort of silly,
El."
"And yet essential." Ellery sat down and began to twirl his pince-nez,
his eyes riveted on the book-ends before him. "Gray's an intimate of
French, I take it?" he asked suddenly.
"His best friend. They've known each other for over thirty years. They
have good-natured quarrels periodically about the Old Man's obsession
in the matter of white slavery, prostitution and the like, but they've
always been unusually close."
"Which is as it should be, I suppose." Ellery sank into deep and
concentrated thought. He did not take his eyes from the book-ends. "I
wonder, now...." His hand dipped into his coat pocket and emerged with
a small magnifying-glass. Weaver regarded his friend in astonishment,
then burst into laughter.
"Ellery! Upon my word! Just like Sherlock Holmes!" His mirth was
unadulterated, inoffensive, like the man himself.
Ellery grinned sheepishly. "It _does_ seem theatrical," he confessed.
"But I've found it a handy little tool at times." He bent lower,
applied the glass to the book-end with the darker green felt.
"Looking for fingerprints?" chuckled Weaver.
"You can never tell," said Ellery sententiously. "Although a glass
isn't infallible. You need fingerprint powder to make absolutely
sure...." He discarded the book-end and bent the glass on its mate. As
he scanned the lighter green of its felt, his hand shook convulsively.
Disregarding Weaver's cry of "What is it?" he fixed his attention
rigidly on a portion of the material where the felt met the onyx, at an
edge. A thin line, so thin that to the naked eye it was like a hair,
broadened slightly under the magnification of the lens. This line,
which extended all around the bottom of the book-end, was actually
composed of glue--the glue with which the felt was pasted to the onyx.
The second book-end also had the glue-line.
"Here, take the glass, Wes, and focus it at the juncture of felt and
onyx," commanded Ellery, pointing to the under-side of the book-end.
"Tell me what you see--be careful you don't touch the surface of the
onyx!"
Weaver bent over and eagerly looked through the glass. "Why, there's a
sort of dust stuck in the glue--it's dust, isn't it?"
"Unorthodox-looking dust," said Ellery grimly, seizing the lens and
again examining the felt at that portion of the glue-line. In another
moment he had swept the eye of the glass over the other surfaces of the
book-end. He employed the same tactics with the second book-end.
Weaver uttered a short exclamation. "I say, El, mightn't it be the same
stuff you found in Bernice's lipstick? Heroin, I think you called it!"
"Smart guess, Westley," smiled Ellery, his eye fast to the lens. "But
I seriously doubt it.... This will require analysis, and immediately.
Something twitters a warning message in my subconscious."
He dropped the magnifying-glass on the table, thoughtfully regarded the
two book-ends once more, then reached for the telephone.
"Get Sergeant Velie--yes, detective-sergeant--on the wire for me
immediately." He spoke rapidly to Weaver while he waited, receiver to
ear. "If this stuff is what I am beginning to think it is, old boy,
the plot thickens like a purée. However, we'll see. Get me a good wad
of absorbent cotton from the bathroom-closet, will you, Wes? Hello,
hello--Velie?" he said into the telephone, as Weaver disappeared
through the brass-studded door, "this is Ellery Queen speaking. Yes,
from the apartment upstairs.... Velie, send me one of your best men at
once.... Who?... Yes, Piggott or Hesse will do. At once! And mum's the
word in the hearing of Welles.... No, you can't help--yet. Hold in, you
bloodhound!" He chuckled as he hung up.
Weaver returned with a large carton filled with absorbent cotton.
Ellery took it from him.
"Watch me, Wes," he announced with a laugh. "Watch carefully, because
it may be necessary for you in the not remote future to testify on the
witness stand as to precisely what I did here to-day.... Are you ready?"
"I'm all eyes," grinned Weaver.
"_Allay-oop!_" With a prestidigitator's flourish Ellery whipped out of
the large pocket of his sack-coat a curious metal packet. He pressed
a tiny button and the lid flew open, disclosing black leather pads of
thin tough texture, pierced for small bits of waxed thread, each of
which held a shining little instrument.
"This," said Ellery, showing his even white teeth, "is one of my
most prized possessions. Given to me with the benediction of _Herr
Burgomeister_ of Berlin last year for the little aid I gave him in
snaring Don Dickey, the American gem-thief.... Cunnin', isn't it?"
Weaver fell back weakly. "What on earth is it?"
"One of the handiest contraptions ever conceived by the mind of man
for the use of the criminal investigator," replied Ellery, his fingers
busy with the thin leather mats. "This was created especially for
your humble servant through the gratitude of the Berlin mayor and
the co-operator of the German central detective bureau. At my own
specifications, incidentally--I knew what I wanted.... You'll observe
that an almost incredible number of articles are packed in this
amazingly small aluminum container--aluminum for its lightness, by the
way. Everything in it that a first-class detective might conceivably
need during a scientific investigation--on a lilliputian scale, but
strong, compact, and extraordinarily utilitarian."
"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Weaver. "I didn't know you went in
for this sort of thing so seriously, Ellery."
"Let the contents of my work-chest convince you," smiled Ellery.
"Here we have two accessory lenses--Zeiss, by the way,--for my pocket
magnifier; stronger than usual, you see. Here's a tiny steel tape
measure with the automatic recoil, 96-inch length, reverse side in
centimeters. Red, blue, and black crayons. Undersize drawing-compass
and special pencil. One vial each of black and white fingerprint
powder, with camel's-hair brushes and stamping pad. Packet of glassine
envelopes. Small calipers and smaller tweezers. Collapsible probe,
adjustable to various lengths. Tempered steel pins and needles. Litmus
paper and two tiny test-tubes. Combination knife containing two blades,
corkscrew, screw-driver, awl, file, scraper. Specially designed
field-compass--and don't laugh. Not all investigations are conducted
in the heart of New York.... And that's not the last by any means.
Red, white and green twine of thread-like thinness, but very strong.
Sealing-wax. Small 'lighter'--made specially for me. Scissors. And,
naturally, a stop-watch made by one of the world's best watch-makers--a
Swiss in the employ of the German government.... How do you like my
traveling work-case, Wes?"
Weaver looked incredulous. "Do you mean to tell me all those things are
in that ridiculously small aluminum container?"
"Exactly. The entire contraption is some four inches wide by six
inches long, and weighs slightly less than two pounds. Thickness of a
fair-sized book. Oh, yes! I forgot to mention a crystal mirror embedded
in the wall of one of the aluminum sides.... But I'd better be getting
down to work. Keep your eyes open!"
From one of the leather mats Ellery extracted the tweezers. Adjusting
one of the more powerful lenses in his pocket-glass, he carefully
placed the first book-end in a fixed position on the desk, held
the magnifier to his eye with his left hand, and with his right
painstakingly maneuvered the tweezers into the hardened glue which
contained the suspicious-looking particles. He instructed Weaver to
hold in readiness one of the glassine envelopes and, uprooting the
almost invisible grains, placed them carefully in the envelope.
He laid down the glass and the tweezers, and sealed the envelope
instantly.
"I think I've bagged them all," he said with satisfaction. "And the
ones I've missed Jimmy will get.... Come!"
It was Detective Piggott. He closed the outer door softly and entered
the library with ill-concealed curiosity.
"Sergeant said you wanted me, Mr. Queen," and his eyes were on Weaver.
"Righto. Just a sec, Piggott, and I'll tell you what to do." Ellery
scribbled an inky note on the reverse side of the envelope. It read:
"DEAR JIMMY: Analyze powder grains in envelope. Extract any
additional particles in glue-line of book-end marked _A_, also
analyze. Check on book-end marked _B_ for similar grains. After
analyzing the grains, _and not until then_, check both book-ends
for fingerprints other than my own. Could bring out a print myself,
but if you find any, have it 'shot' in the lab and a photoprint
immediately made. 'Phone all information to me, _personally_,
as soon as you've done. I'm at French apartment in French store.
Piggott will tell you.
"E. Q."
Marking the book-ends _A_ and _B_ with his red crayon, he swathed both
in absorbent cotton, wrapped them in some paper Weaver found for him in
the desk, and handed package and envelope to the detective.
"Take these down to Jimmy at the headquarters laboratory as fast as
you can get there, Piggott," he said insistently. "Don't let anything
stop you. If Velie or my father corners you on the way out, say it's on
business for me. On no account let the Commissioner get wind of what
you're carrying off the premises. Now scoot!"
Piggott left without a word. He was too well trained in the methods of
the Queens to ask questions.
And as he slipped out of the door, he saw the shadow of a rising
elevator through the frosted glass wall. He turned and sped down the
emergency stairs just as the door slid open and Commissioner Welles,
Inspector Queen and a small cohort of detectives and policemen stepped
out.
18
SCRAMBLED SIGNS
Within five minutes the private corridor outside French's sixth floor
apartment was crowded with a score of people. Two policemen stood guard
at the door. Another stood with his back to the elevator, his eyes on
the emergency staircase-door nearby. In the anteroom lounged several
detectives smoking cigarets.
Ellery sat smiling behind French's desk in the library. Commissioner
Welles puffed about the room, shouting orders to detectives, opening
the doors leading off the library, peering like a myopic owl at things
strange to him. Inspector Queen talked with Velie and Crouther near
the dormer-window. Weaver stood miserably in a corner, unnoticed. His
eyes frequently sought the anteroom door, beyond which he knew was
Marion French....
"You say, Mr. Queen," grunted Welles, out of breath, "that the cigaret
stubs and the game of--blast it! what is it again?--banque are the only
signs of this Carmody girl's presence here?"
"Not at all, Commissioner," said Ellery gravely. "You forget the
shoes and hat in the closet. I believe I recounted the housekeeper's
identification--?"
"Yes, yes, of course!" grumbled Welles. He frowned. "Here, you
fingerprint men!" he shouted, "have you covered that little room
off the cardroom?" Without waiting for a reply, he bellowed an
unintelligible order to several photographers who were busy over the
table holding the cards and cigaret-stubs. Finally, mopping his brow,
he beckoned imperiously to Inspector Queen.
"What do you think, Queen?" he demanded. "Looks like a pretty clear
case, eh?"
The Inspector sent a sidewise glance at his son, and smiled
cryptically. "Hardly, Commissioner. We've got to find the girl first,
you know.... Work's barely scratched. We haven't had the time to
check a single alibi, for example. Despite these clues pointing to
Bernice Carmody, we're not at all satisfied that there isn't something
deeper...." He shook his head. "At any rate, Commissioner, there's a
heap of work waiting for us. Anybody you'd like to question? We have
'em all outside in the corridor waiting."
The Commissioner looked fierce. "No! Can't say I do at this stage...."
He cleared his throat. "What's next on your list? I've got to get down
to City Hall for a conference with the Mayor and I can't give this
thing the personal attention it deserves. Well?"
"I want to clear up a few moot points," replied Queen dryly. "Several
people out there will stand questioning. French himself--"
"French. Yes, yes. Too bad. Feel sorry for the man. Quite a blow."
Welles looked around nervously and lowered his voice. "By the way,
Queen, while there is not to be the slightest deviation from the
highest considerations of duty, you understand, it might be--ah--wise
to allow French to get home to his physician's care.... As for this
stepdaughter business, I hope"--he paused uncomfortably--"I might say I
have the feeling that this girl has made a complete getaway. You're to
follow her up conscientiously, of course.... Too bad. I--Well! I must
be going."
He turned unceremoniously on his heel, and with something like a
sigh of relief tramped toward the door, followed by his bodyguard of
detectives. He turned in the anteroom and shouted back, "I want a quick
solution, Queen--too many unsolved homicides this past month." And he
disappeared with a final quiver of his fat sides.
There was silence for several seconds after the anteroom door closed.
Then the Inspector shrugged his shoulders lightly and crossed the
room to Ellery's side. Ellery dragged a chair over for his father
and they held a whispered conversation for many minutes. The words
"razor-blade," ... "book-ends," ... "books" ... and "Bernice" ...
recurred at intervals. The old man's face grew longer and longer as
Ellery talked. Finally, he shook his head in despair and rose.
An altercation beyond the anteroom door brought up the heads of all the
men in the library. A woman's passionate voice and the gruff tones of a
man intermingled. Weaver's nostrils quivered and he dashed across the
room and flung open the door.
Marion French was endeavoring frantically to push past the burly figure
of a detective in the anteroom.
"But I must see Inspector Queen!" she cried. "My father--Please don't
touch me!"
Weaver grasped the detective's arm and violently pushed him aside.
"Get your hands off her!" he growled. "I'll teach you to handle a lady
that way...."
He would have attacked the amused detective if Marion had not thrown
her arms around him. By this time the Inspector and Ellery had hurried
up.
"Here! Ritter, stand aside!" said the Inspector. "What's the trouble,
Miss French?" he asked gently.
"My--my father," she gasped. "Oh, it's cruel, inhuman.... Can't you see
he's ill, out of his mind? For God's sake, let us take him home! He's
just fainted!"
They pushed into the hallway. A crowd of people were stooping over
Cyrus French, who had collapsed and lay, white-faced, still, on the
marble floor. The store physician, small and dark, bent over him in
distress.
"Out?" asked the Inspector with some concern.
The physician nodded. "Should be in his bed right now, sir. In a
dangerous state of collapse."
Ellery whispered to his father. The old man clucked worriedly, shook
his head. "Can't take a chance, Ellery. The man is ill." He signed to
two detectives and Cyrus French, arms hanging limply, was carried into
the apartment and laid on one of the beds. He regained consciousness a
moment later, groaning.
John Gray wriggled his way past a policeman and stormed into the
bedroom.
"You can't get away with this sort of thing, Inspector or no
Inspector!" he cried in his high-pitched voice. "I demand that Mr.
French be sent home immediately!"
"Keep your shirt on, Mr. Gray," admonished the Inspector mildly. "He's
going in a moment."
"And I'm going with him," squeaked Gray. "He'll want me, he will. I'll
take this up with the Mayor, sir. I'll--"
"Shut _up_, sir!" roared Queen, his face scarlet. He whirled on
Detective Ritter. "Get a cab."
"Miss French." Marion looked up, startled. The Inspector irritably took
a pinch of snuff. "You may leave with your father and Mr. Gray. But
please remain at home until we call this afternoon. We will want to
look over the premises and perhaps question Mr. French, if he's in a
condition to see us. And--I'm sorry, my dear."
The girl smiled through wet lashes. Weaver moved stealthily to her
side, drew her a little apart.
"Marion dear--I'm awfully sorry I didn't lam that brute for you," he
stammered. "Did he hurt you?"
Marion's eyes widened, softened. "Don't be silly, darling," she
whispered. "And don't be getting mixed up with the police. I'll help
Mr. Gray get father home, and stay there just as Inspector Queen
ordered me to.... You won't be--in any trouble, dear?"
"Who? I?" Weaver laughed. "Now don't be worrying your pretty head about
me.--And as for the store, I'll keep an eye on everything. Tell your
father that when he can understand.... Do you love me?"
There was no one looking. He bent swiftly and kissed her. Her eyes
glowed in answer.
Five minutes later Cyrus French, Marion French and John Gray had left
the building under a police escort.
Velie lumbered over. "Got two of the boys on the trail of this
Carmody girl," he reported. "Didn't want to tell you before with the
Commissioner around--busy and all that."
Queen frowned, then chuckled. "All my boys are turning traitor to the
City," he said. "Thomas, I want you to send somebody out on the trail
of Mrs. French after she left her house last night. She walked out
about eleven-fifteen. Probably took a cab, because she got here at
eleven-forty-five, which would make it about right in the after-theater
traffic. Got it?"
Velie nodded and disappeared.
Ellery sat at the desk again, whistling softly to himself, a faraway
look in his eyes.
The Inspector had MacKenzie, the store manager, brought to the library.
"Have you checked the employees, Mr. MacKenzie?"
"A report came through from my assistant a few moments ago." Ellery
listened avidly. "So far as we have been able to determine," continued
the Scotchman, referring to a paper in his hand, "all employees who
checked in both yesterday and to-day were at their posts. As for
to-day, everything seems perfectly regular in that connection. There
is, of course, a list of absentees, which I have here. If you would
like to follow up on these employees, here's the list."
"We'll have a peep at it," said the Inspector, taking the list from
MacKenzie. He turned it over to a detective with a command. "Now,
MacKenzie, you may start the ball rolling again. Store's routine is
to go on as usual, but be careful that you say nothing at all of this
whole business in your publicity. Have that window on Fifth Avenue
kept closed and guarded until further orders. We'll have to seal it up
anyway for a time. That's all. You're free to go."
"I'd like to ask the remaining directors a question, dad, if you
haven't anything to quiz them about," said Ellery, after MacKenzie had
left.
"I haven't a thought in my head about them--that I could turn to
account," answered Queen. "Hesse, bring in Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask.
Let's have another try at 'em."
The detective returned shortly with the three directors. They looked
peaked and ragged; Marchbanks was chewing savagely at a frayed cigar.
The Inspector waved his hand at Ellery and retreated a step.
Ellery rose. "Just one question, gentlemen, and then I think Inspector
Queen will permit you to go about your business."
"High time," muttered Trask, biting his lip.
"Mr. Zorn," said Ellery, ignoring the attenuated and foppish Trask, "is
there a regular meeting-time for your Board of Directors?"
Zorn juggled his heavy gold watch-chain nervously. "Yes--yes, of
course."
"If I'm not too inquisitive, when is that meeting-time?"
"Every other Friday afternoon."
"This is routine, strictly adhered to?"
"Yes--yes."
"How is it that there was a meeting this morning--on a Tuesday?"
"That was a special meeting. Mr. French calls them as the occasion
demands."
"But the semi-monthly meetings are held regardless of special meetings?"
"Yes."
"I take it, then, that there was a meeting on Friday last?"
"Yes."
Ellery turned to Marchbanks and Trask. "Is Mr. Zorn's testimony
substantially correct, gentlemen?"
Both nodded their heads sullenly. Ellery smiled, thanked them, and sat
down. The Inspector smiled, thanked them, and told them politely that
they were free to leave. He escorted them to the door and whispered to
the policeman on guard an inaudible instruction. Zorn, Marchbanks and
Trask left the private corridor immediately.
"There's an interesting feller outside, El," remarked the Inspector.
"Vincent Carmody, Mrs. French's first husband. Think I'll tackle him
next.--Hesse, bring in Mr. Carmody in about two minutes."
"Did you check up at all on the night freight-entrance on 39th Street
while you were downstairs?" asked Ellery.
"Sure did." The Inspector took a pinch of snuff reflectively. "That's
a funny place, El. With the watchman and the truckman in the little
booth, it would have been pie for somebody to slip into the building,
especially at night. Went over it with particular thoroughness. It
certainly looks like the answer to how the murderer gained entry last
night."
"It may answer the question of how the murderer got in," remarked
Ellery lazily, "but it doesn't answer the question of how he got out.
That exit was closed to him by eleven-thirty. If he left the building
by that door, then, he must have done so before eleven-thirty, eh?"
"But Mrs. French didn't get here until eleven-forty-five, El," objected
the Inspector, "and according to Prouty she was killed about midnight.
So how could he have left by that door before eleven-thirty?"
"The answer to that," said Ellery, "is that he couldn't, and therefore
didn't. Is there a door through which he could have slipped into the
main building from the freight room?"
"Nothing to it," growled the Inspector. "There's a door 'way back in
the shadows of the room. It wasn't locked--never is--because these
fools took it for granted that if the outer door was locked, the inner
door didn't have to be. Anyway, it heads right onto a corridor which is
parallel with the corridor that runs past the night-watchman's office,
but further into the body of the main floor.[6] In the darkness, it
must have been ridiculously easy to slip through the door, sneak down
that corridor, turn the corner, and cover the thirty feet or so to the
elevator and stairs. That's probably the answer."
[Footnote 6: See diagram at frontispiece.]
"How about the master-key in that office downstairs?" asked Ellery.
"Did the day-man say anything about it?"
"Nothing there," replied the Inspector disconsolately. "O'Shane is his
name, and he swears the key never left the locked drawer during his
shift."
The door opened and Hesse escorted a preternaturally tall man with
penetrating eyes and a straggly grey beard into the room. He was
handsome in a sophisticated way, and striking. Ellery noted with
interest the triangular lean jaw. The man was dressed carelessly, but
in clothes of quality. He bowed stiffly to the Inspector and stood
waiting. His eyes shifted luminously from man to man in the room.
"I had barely a chance of talking to you downstairs, Mr. Carmody," said
the Inspector pleasantly. "There are a few things I want to ask you.
Won't you sit down?"
Carmody dropped into a chair. He nodded curtly to Weaver as he caught
the secretary's eye, but said nothing.
"Now, Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector, striding up and down before
the desk at which Ellery sat quietly, "a few unimportant but necessary
questions. Hagstrom, you're ready?" He cocked an eye at the detective,
who nodded, notebook in hand. The Inspector resumed his march on the
rug. Suddenly he looked up. Carmody's eyes burned deeply into thin air.
"Mr. Carmody," said the Inspector abruptly, "I understand that you are
the sole owner of the Holbein Studios, dealing in antiques?"
"That is precisely correct," said Carmody. His voice was startling--low
and vibrant and deliberate.
"You were married to Mrs. French, and divorced some seven years ago?"
"That is also correct." There was a finality in his tones that impinged
unpleasantly on the ear. He emanated an aura of complete self-control.
"Have you seen Mrs. French since your divorce?"
"Yes. Many times."
"Socially? There was no particular unpleasantness in your relations?"
"None whatever. Yes, I met Mrs. French socially."
The Inspector was slightly nettled. This witness answered exactly what
he was asked, and no more.
"How often, Mr. Carmody?"
"As often as twice a week during the social season."
"And you last saw her--"
"A week ago Monday evening, at a dinner given by Mrs. Standish Prince
at Mrs. Prince's home."
"You spoke to her?"
"Yes." Carmody stirred. "Mrs. French was very much interested in
antiques, an interest cultivated perhaps during our marriage." The man
seemed made of steel. He showed not the faintest trace of emotion. "We
conversed for a time about a Chippendale chair she was particularly
anxious to have."
"Anything else, Mr. Carmody?"
"Yes. About our daughter."
"Ah!" The Inspector pursed his lips, pulled at his mustache. "Miss
Bernice Carmody was placed in the custody of your wife after your
divorce?"
"Yes."
"You have seen your daughter periodically, perhaps?"
"Yes. Although Mrs. French secured custody of my daughter, our informal
arrangement at the time of our divorce was that I might see the child
at any time." A warm color floated into his voice. The Inspector
regarded him quickly, looked away. He plunged into a new line of
questioning.
"Mr. Carmody, can you suggest any possible explanation to account for
this crime?"
"No, I cannot." Carmody grew colder at once. For no apparent reason his
eyes shifted to Ellery, and held there intently for an instant.
"Had Mrs. French any enemies, to your knowledge?"
"No. She was singularly free from the profundity of character which so
often breeds animosity in others." Carmody might have been talking of
an utter stranger; his tone, his bearing were wholly impersonal.
"Not even yourself, Mr. Carmody?" asked the Inspector softly.
"Not even myself, Inspector," said Carmody in the same frozen tones.
"If it is any concern of yours, my love for my wife dwindled during our
wedded life and when it had entirely disappeared, I secured a divorce.
I felt no bitterness toward her then, nor do I now. You will, of
course," he added without a change in inflection, "have to take my word
for that."
"Did Mrs. French seem nervous the last few times you saw her? Did
anything seem to be troubling her? Did she give you any clue to a
possible secret worry?"
"Our conversations, Inspector, were hardly of so intimate a nature. I
noticed nothing unusual about her. Mrs. French was an extraordinarily
prosaic person. Not at all the worrying kind, I can assure you."
The Inspector paused, Carmody sat quietly. Then he spoke, without
warning, without passion. He merely opened his mouth and began to
speak, but it was so unexpected that the Inspector started violently
and took a hasty pinch of snuff to conceal his agitation.
"Inspector, you are evidently questioning me with the secret hope that
I may have something to do with the crime, or that I may be in the
possession of vital information. Inspector, you are wasting your time."
Carmody leaned forward, his eyes strangely blazing. "Believe me when
I say that I haven't the slightest interest either in the live Mrs.
French--or the dead Mrs. French. Or the whole damned French tribe put
together. My own concern is with my daughter. I understand that she
is missing. If she is, there has been foul play. If you have any idea
in your head that my daughter is a matricide, the more fool you....
You will be perpetrating a crime against an innocent girl if you do
not immediately seek to discover Bernice's present whereabouts and the
reason for her disappearance. And in that connection, you are welcome
to my unstinting co-operation. If you do not look for her immediately,
I shall set private detectives on her trail. I think that is all."
Carmody rose to his astonishing height and stood immovably waiting.
The Inspector stirred. "I should advise a slight softening of tone in
the future, Mr. Carmody," he said dryly. "You may go."
Without another word the antique-dealer turned and left the apartment.
"Well, what do you think of Mr. Carmody?" asked Queen quizzically.
"I've never known an antiquarian who wasn't queer in some way," laughed
Ellery. "Cool customer, however.... Dad, I should very much like to see
Monsieur Lavery again."
The Frenchman was pale and nervous when he was conducted into the
library. He seemed excessively tired and sank into a chair at once,
stretching his long legs with a sigh.
"You might have provided chairs outside in the corridor," he said
reproachfully to the Inspector. "My good fortune to be the last called!
_C'est la vie, hein?_" He shrugged his shoulders humorously. "May I
smoke, Inspector?"
He lit a cigaret without waiting for a reply.
Ellery rose and shook himself vigorously. He looked at Lavery, and
Lavery looked at him, and both smiled for no apparent reason.
"I shall be brutally frank, Mr. Lavery," drawled Ellery. "You are a
man of the world. You will not be constrained by a false sense of
discretion.... Mr. Lavery, have you ever suspected during your stay
with the Frenches, that Bernice Carmody is a drug addict?"
Lavery started, regarded Ellery with alert eyes. "You have discovered
that already? And without seeing the girl? My felicitations, Mr.
Queen.... To your question, let me reply without hesitation--yes."
"Oh, I say!" protested Weaver suddenly, from his corner. "How could you
know, Lavery? On such a short acquaintance?"
"I know the symptoms, Weaver," said Lavery mildly. "The sallow,
almost saffron complexion; the slightly protruding eyeballs; the bad
teeth; the unnatural nervousness and excitability; a certain air of
furtiveness constantly maintained; the sudden hysteria and the more
sudden recovery; the excessive thinness, growing more patent with every
passing day--no, it was not difficult to diagnose the young lady's
ailment." He turned to Ellery with a quick gesture of his thin fingers.
"Let me make it perfectly clear that my opinion is just an opinion,
little more. I have no definite evidence of any kind. But, short of
medical advices to the contrary, I should be ready as a layman to swear
that the girl is a drug fiend in an advanced stage!"
Weaver groaned. "The Old Man--"
"Of course, we're all terribly sorry about that," put in the Inspector
quickly. "You suspected her of being an addict at once, Mr. Lavery?"
"From the moment I laid eyes on her," said the Frenchman emphatically.
"It was a source of constant astonishment to me that more people did
not observe what was so perfectly plain to me."
"Perhaps they did--perhaps they did," muttered Ellery, brows drawn
taut. He brushed a vagrant thought away and addressed Lavery once more.
"Have you ever been in this room before, Mr. Lavery?" he asked, à
propos of nothing.
"In Mr. French's apartment?" cried Lavery. "Why, every day, sir. Mr.
French has been more than kind, and I have used this room incessantly
since my arrival in New York."
"Then there is nothing more to be said," Ellery smiled. "You may now
retire to your lecture-room, if it isn't too late, and carry on the
grand work of continentalizing America. Good day, sir!"
Lavery bowed, showed his white teeth all around, and left the apartment
with long strides.
Ellery sat down at the desk and wrote earnestly on the fly-leaf of his
sadly abused little book.
19
OPINIONS AND REPORTS
Inspector Queen stood Napoleonically in the center of the library,
staring vindictively at the anteroom door. He muttered to himself,
turning his head slowly from side to side like a terrier.
He beckoned to Crouther, the head store detective, who was assisting
one of the photographers at the door of the cardroom.
"Look here, Crouther, you ought to be in a good position to know about
this." The Inspector filled his nostrils with snuff. The burly store
detective scraped his jaw expectantly. "Seeing that door there reminded
me. What in heaven's name was French's idea in having a special spring
lock put on the corridor door? Seems to me that for an apartment only
occasionally used this is pretty well guarded."
Crouther grinned deprecatingly. "Now don't go bothering your head about
that, Inspector. The old boy's just a bug on privacy, that's all. Hates
to be interrupted--that's a fact."
"But a burglar-proof lock in a burglar-proof building!"
"Well," said Crouther, "you either have to take him that way or go
nuts. Matter of fact, Inspector," he lowered his voice, "he's always
been a little queer on some subjects. I can remember like to-day the
morning I got a written order from the boss, with signatures and a
lot of that bunk, requisitioning a specially made lock. That was when
they were remodeling the apartment, about two years ago. Sol followed
my orders and had an expert locksmith manufacture the dingus on that
outside door. Boss liked it pretty much, too--was happy as an Irish
cop."
"How about this business of setting a man at the door?" demanded the
Inspector. "Certainly that lock would keep out anybody who wasn't
wanted."
"We-ell," said Crouther hesitantly, "the boss is such a bug on this
privacy business that he didn't even want knocks on the door. Guess
that's why he asked me for a man to stand guard every once in a while.
Always kept the boys in the corridor, too--they hate the job, the whole
crew of 'em. Couldn't even come into the anteroom and sit down."
The Inspector scowled down at his regulation policeman's boots for a
moment and crooked his finger at Weaver.
"Come here, my boy." Weaver trudged wearily across the rug. "Just
what's behind French's craze for privacy? From what Crouther tells me,
this place _is_ like a fortress most times. Who in heaven's name is
allowed in here besides his family?"
"It's just an idiosyncrasy of the Old Man's, Inspector," said Weaver.
"Don't take it too seriously. He's a good deal of an eccentric. Very
few people see the inside of this apartment. Apart from myself, the
immediate family, the Board of Directors, and during the last month
Mr. Lavery, practically no one in the store organization is allowed
in here. No, that's not quite true. MacKenzie, the store manager, is
called in occasionally to get direct orders from the Old Man--was in
last week, in fact. But aside from MacKenzie, this place is a complete
mystery to the store forces."
"You tell 'em, Mr. Weaver," put in Crouther jocularly.
"And that's how it is, Inspector," continued Weaver. "Not even Crouther
has been here in the past few years."
"Last time I saw this place before this morning," amended Crouther,
"was two years ago when they were redecorating and refurnishing it." He
grew red in the face at the thought of some secret injury. "That's a
heck of a way to treat a head store detective, believe me."
"You ought to work for the City, Crouther," said the Inspector grimly.
"Shut up and be satisfied with a soft job!"
"I should explain, if I haven't done so before," added Weaver, "that
the taboo is more or less limited to employees. A great many people
come here, but most of the visits are strictly by appointment with the
Old Man, and his visitors come on Anti-Vice League business. Clergymen,
most of them. A few politicians, not many."
"That's a fact," put in Crouther.
"Well!" The Inspector shot a keen glance toward the two men before him.
"It looks mighty bad for this Carmody girl, eh? What do you think?"
Weaver looked pained and half-turned away.
"Well, I don't know about that, Inspector," said Crouther with heavy
importance. "My own ideas about this case--"
"Eh? Your own ideas?" The Inspector looked startled, then suppressed
a smile. "What _are_ your own ideas, Crouther? Might be of some
value--never can tell."
Ellery, who had been sitting abstractedly at the desk, listening to the
conversation with half-cocked ears, jammed his little volume into his
pocket, rose, and sauntered idly over to the group.
"What's this? A post-mortem?" he demanded, smiling. "And what do I
hear, Crouther, about an idea of yours on the case?"
Crouther looked embarrassed for a moment and shuffled his feet. But
then he squared his thick shoulders and lashed out into speech, openly
enjoying his rôle of orator.
"I think," he began--
"Ah!" said the Inspector.
"I think," Crouther repeated, unabashed, "that Miss Carmody is a
victim. Yes, sir, victim of a frame-up!"
"No!" murmured Ellery.
"Go on," said the Inspector curiously.
"It's as plain as the nose--beg pardon, Inspector--on your face. Who
ever heard of a girl bumping her own mother off? It ain't natural."
"But the cards, Crouther--the shoes, the hat," said the Inspector
gently.
"Just hooey, Inspector," said Crouther with confidence. "Hell! That's
no trick, to plant a pair o' shoes and a hat. No, sir, you can't tell
me Miss Carmody did the job. Don't believe it and won't believe it. I
go on common sense, and that's a fact. Girl shoot her own mother! No,
sir!"
"Well, there's something in that," remarked the Inspector
sententiously. "What do you make of Miss Marion French's scarf, while
you're analyzing the crime, Crouther? Think she's mixed up in it
anywhere?"
"Who? That little girl?" Crouther expanded, snorted. "Say, that's
another plant. Or else she left it here by mistake. Kind o' like the
plant idea, though, myself. Fact!"
"You would say, then," interpolated Ellery, "while you're on the
Holmesian track, that this is a case of--what?"
"Don't get you entirely, sir," said Crouther stoutly, "but it looks
darned near like a case of murder and kidnapping. Can't see any other
way to explain it."
"Murder and kidnapping?" Ellery smiled. "Not a bad idea at that. Good
recitation, Crouther."
The detective beamed. Weaver, who had resolutely refrained from
commenting, heaved a sigh of relief when a knock on the outer door
interrupted the conversation.
The policeman stationed outside opened the door to admit a weazened
little man, completely bald, carrying a bulging brief-case.
"Afternoon, Jimmy!" said the Inspector cheerfully. "Got anything for us
in that bag of yours?"
"Sure have, Inspector," squeaked the little old man. "Got down here as
fast as I could.--Hello, Mr. Queen."
"Glad to see you, Jimmy," said Ellery, and the expression on his face
was one of intense expectancy. At this moment the photographers and
fingerprint investigators trooped into the library, hats and coats on,
their apparatus stowed away. "Jimmy" greeted them all by name.
"Through here, Inspector," announced one of the photographers. "Any
orders?"
"Not at the moment." Queen turned to the fingerprint men. "Anybody find
anything?"
"Got a lot of prints," reported one of them, "but practically all came
from this room. Not a one in the cardroom and none in the bedroom,
except for a few stray prints of Mr. Queen's, here."
"Anything in the prints from this room?"
"Hard to say. If the room's been used all morning by this Board of
Directors, chances are they're all legitimate. We'll have to get hold
of these people and check their prints. Okay, Inspector?"
"Go ahead. But be nice about it, boys." He waved them toward the door.
"So long, Crouther. See you later."
"Good enough," said Crouther cheerfully, and departed behind the police
workers.
The Inspector, Weaver, the man called "Jimmy," and Ellery were left
standing in the center of the room. The detectives personally attached
to Queen lounged about in the anteroom, conversing in low tones. The
old man carefully closed the anteroom door and hurried back toward the
group, rubbing his hands briskly together.
"Now, Mr. Weaver--" he began.
"Perfectly all right, dad," said Ellery mildly. "No secrets from Wes.
Jimmy, if you've anything to tell, tell it rapidly, graphically, and
above all rapidly. Talk, James!"
"Okay," responded "Jimmy," scratching his bald pate dubiously. "What
would you like to know?" His hand dived into the bag he carried and
reappeared with an article painstakingly wrapped in soft tissue paper.
He carefully unwrapped the package, and one of the onyx book-ends
emerged. The second book-end, similarly sheathed in tissue, he placed
by the side of the first on the glass top of French's desk.
"The book-ends, eh?" muttered Queen, bending forward curiously to
examine the barely visible glue-lines where felt and stone met.
"In the onyx itself," ventured Ellery. "Jimmy, what were those whitish
grains I sent you in the glassine envelope?"
"Ordinary fingerprint powder," replied "Jimmy," at once. "The white
variety. And how it got there, maybe you can answer--I can't, Mr.
Queen."
"Not at the moment," smiled Ellery. "Fingerprint powder, eh? Did you
find any more in the glue?"
"You got nearly all of them," said the little bald-headed man. "Did
find a few, though. Found a bit of foreign matter, of course--some dust
chiefly. But the grains are what I've told you. There's not a print on
either of them, except your own, Mr. Queen."
Inspector Queen stared from "Jimmy" to Weaver to Ellery, a strange
light dawning on his face. His hand fumbled nervously for his snuff-box.
"Fingerprint powder!" he said in a stunned voice. "Is it possible
that--?"
"No, I've checked on what you're thinking, dad," said Ellery soberly.
"This room was not entered by the police before I myself found the
grains in the glue. As a matter of fact, I suspected their identity at
once, but of course I wished to be certain.... No, if you're thinking
that one of your men sprinkled the powder on these book-ends, you're
mistaken. They couldn't have, possibly."
"You realize what this means, of course?" The Inspector's voice grew
shrill with excitement. He took a short turn on the rug. "I have had
all sorts of experience," he said, "with criminals who use gloves.
That's one of the accepted habits of the law-breaking profession,
it seems--maybe it's an outgrowth of fiction and newspaper exposés.
Gloves, canvas, cheesecloth, felt--they're all used either to prevent
leaving fingerprints or to destroy what prints may be left. But
this--this is the work of a--"
"A super-criminal?" suggested Weaver timidly.
"Exactly. A super-criminal!" replied the old man. "Sounds
dime-novelish, does it, El? Coming from me, too--with comparative
butchers like Tony the Wop and Red McCloskey waiting for me down at the
Tombs. Most cops scoff at the mere suggestion of super-criminals. But
I've known them--rare and precious birds when they do crop out...."
He looked at his son defiantly. "Ellery, the man--or woman, for that
matter--who committed this crime is not the usual criminal. He--or
she--is so careful as to do the job and then, not satisfied with
possibly using gloves and letting it go at that, sprinkles the room
with the policeman's pet crime-detector, fingerprint powder, to bring
out his or her _own_ prints, in order to wipe them out of existence!...
There isn't the slightest doubt in my mind--we're dealing with a most
unusual character, a habitual criminal who's risen far above the
stupidity of his generally dull-witted kind."
"Super-criminal...." Ellery thought for a moment, then shrugged his
shoulders lightly. "It does look that way, doesn't it?... Commits the
murder in this room, then goes about the enormously ticklish job of
cleaning up afterward. Has he left prints? Perhaps. Perhaps the work
he had to do was so delicate as to make it impossible for him to use
gloves--there's a thought, eh, dad?" He smiled.
"Doesn't make sense, though--that last," muttered Queen. "Can't see
what he might possibly have to do that he couldn't do with gloves on."
"I have a little idea about that," remarked Ellery. "But to go on. He
hasn't used gloves, let us say, at least for one small but important
operation, and he's certain that there are prints of his fingers left
on the book-ends--which of necessity, then, are connected with what
he had to do. Very well! Does he merely wipe the surface of the onyx
carefully, trusting that he's eradicated all the tell-tale marks? He
does not! He produces fingerprint powder, whisks it gently over all the
surfaces of the onyx, one at a time, and where he sees a convolvular
smudge, he immediately destroys it. In this way he's _sure_ there are
no fingerprints left. Smart! A little painstaking, of course--but he
was gambling with his life, remember, and he took no chances. No--"
Ellery said slowly, "he took--no chances."
There was a little silence, broken only by the soft swish of "Jimmy's"
hand caressing his bald head.
"At least," said the Inspector impatiently, at last, "there's no sense
in looking for prints anywhere about. The criminal who was clever
enough to go through a rigmarole like this would be mighty sure he
left none. So--let's forget it for the moment and get back to some
personalities. Jimmy, wrap those book-ends up again and take them back
to Headquarters with you. Better have one of the boys go along with
you--let's take no chances on your, well, let's say, losing 'em."
"Right, Inspector." The police laboratory worker deftly rewrapped the
book-ends in the tissue paper, stowed them away in his bag, and with a
cheery, "So long!" disappeared from the room.
"Now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector, settling himself comfortably
in a chair, "have a seat and let's hear some things about the various
people we've met in the course of this investigation. Sit down, Ellery,
you make me fidgety!"
Ellery smiled and seated himself at the desk, for which he seemed
to have developed a curious passion. Weaver relaxed in one of the
leather-covered chairs, resignedly.
"Anything you say, Inspector." He looked over at Ellery. Ellery was
gazing fixedly at the books on the desk-top.
"Well, for an introduction," began the Inspector briskly, "tell us
something about that employer of yours. Mighty queer cuss, isn't he?
Anti-vice work made him daffy, perhaps?"
"I think you've judged the Old Man a trifle inaccurately," said Weaver
tiredly. "He's the best and most generous soul in the world. If you can
conceive a strange combination of Arthurian purity of nature with a
definite narrowness of outlook, you'll hit close to understanding him.
He's not a broad-minded man, in the generally accepted sense of the
word. He has a little iron in him, too, or he wouldn't be crusading
against vice. He loathes it instinctively, I think, because certainly
there's never been the smallest element of scandal or criminality in
his family. That's why this thing has hit him so hard. He probably
foresees the ravenous way in which the newspapers will pick up the
choice morsel--wife of the Anti-Vice League head mysteriously murdered,
and all that. And then, too, I think he loved Mrs. French dearly. I
don't think she loved him--" he hesitated, but continued loyally, "but
she was always good to him in her cold, self-contained way. She was a
good bit younger than he, of course."
The Inspector coughed gently. Ellery regarded Weaver with morose eyes,
but his thoughts seemed far away. Perhaps on the books, for his fingers
played idly with their covers.
"Tell me, Mr. Weaver," said Queen, "have you noticed anything--well,
abnormal--in Mr. French's actions lately? Or better still, do you know
personally of anything that might have caused him secret worry in
recent months?"
Weaver was silent for a long time. "Inspector," he said at last,
meeting Queen's eyes frankly, "the truth is that I know a great
many things about Mr. French and his family and friends. I'm not
a scandal-monger. You must understand that this is an extremely
embarrassing position for me. It's hard to betray confidences...."
The Inspector looked pleased. "Spoken like a man, Mr. Weaver. Ellery,
answer your friend."
Ellery regarded Weaver compassionately. "Wes, old boy," he said, "a
human being has been killed in cold blood. It is our business to punish
the murderer who took that life. I can't answer for you--it's difficult
for a straight-thinking man to spill a heap of family secrets--but if
I were you, I should talk. Because, Wes"--he paused--"you're not with
policemen. You're with friends."
"Then I'll talk," said Weaver despairingly, "and hope for the best.--I
believe you asked about something abnormal in the Old Man's actions
recently, Inspector? You've hit a truth. Mr. French _is_ secretly
worried and upset. Because--"
"Because--?"
"Because," said Weaver in a spiritless voice, "a few months ago an
unfortunate friendship sprang up between Mrs. French and--Cornelius
Zorn."
"Zorn, eh? Love-affair, Weaver?" asked Queen in a soothing voice.
"I'm afraid so," replied Weaver uncomfortably. "Though what she saw in
_him_--But now I'm becoming gossipy! The fact is that they were seeing
each other much too often, so much so that even the Old Man, the most
unsuspicious soul that ever breathed, began to realize that something
was wrong."
"Nothing definite, I suppose?"
"I don't think there was anything radically wrong, Inspector. And
of course Mr. French never breathed a word of it to his wife. He
wouldn't dream of hurting her feelings. But I know it touched him
deeply, because once he let slip something in my presence that gave
all his transparent broodings away. I'm reasonably certain that he was
desperately hoping things would work out for the best."
"I thought Zorn held aloof from French in that window," mused the
Inspector.
"Undoubtedly. Zorn makes no bones about his feeling for Mrs. French.
She was not an unattractive woman, Inspector. And Zorn is pretty small
potatoes. He broke a lifelong friendship when he began to dally with
the Old Man's wife. It's that, I think, as much as anything, that made
the Old Man feel so badly."
"Is Zorn married?" put in Ellery suddenly.
"Why, yes, El," replied Weaver, facing his friend for the moment.
"Sophia Zorn's a queer woman, too. I think she hated Mrs. French--not
the slightest feminine sympathy in her make-up. Pretty objectionable
character, that woman."
"Does she love Zorn?"
"That's hard to answer. She has an abnormal streak of possessiveness,
and that may be why she was so jealous. She showed it at every
opportunity and made things quite uncomfortable for all of us at times."
"I suppose," put in the Inspector with a grim smile, "it's common
knowledge. Those things always are."
"Much too common," said Weaver bitterly. "It's been a hideous farce,
the whole business. My God, there have been times when I was tempted to
strangle Mrs. French myself for the ghastly wreck she was making out of
the Old Man!"
"Well, don't make that statement when the Commissioner is around,
Weaver," smiled the Inspector. "What is French's feeling for his
immediate family?"
"Of course he loved Mrs. French--was uncommonly thoughtful in the
little things for a man of his age," said Weaver. "As for Marion"--his
eyes brightened--"she's always been the apple of his eye. A perfect
love between father and daughter.... It's been a little unpleasant--for
me," he added in a lower tone.
"So I gathered from the coldness with which you two kids habitually
greet each other," remarked the Inspector dryly. Weaver flushed
boyishly. "Now, how about Bernice?"
"Bernice and Mr. French?" Weaver sighed. "About what you would expect
under the circumstances. If the Old Man's anything, he's fair. Almost
leans over backward in that respect. Of course, Bernice is not his
daughter--he couldn't love her as he loves Marion, for instance. But he
treats them exactly alike. They get equally as much of his attention,
the same allowance for pin-money and clothes--not the slightest
difference in their status as far as he is concerned. But--well, one is
his daughter, and the other is his stepdaughter."
"And there," said Ellery with a little chuckle, "is a pointed epigram.
Tell us, Wes--how about Mrs. French and Carmody? You've heard what he
said--does it all fit?"
"He told the exact truth," replied Weaver at once. "He's an enigma
of a man, is Carmody--cold-blooded as a fish except where Bernice is
concerned. I think he'd give his shirt for her. But he treated Mrs.
French after their divorce precisely as if she were an unavoidable
social necessity."
"Why were they divorced, by the way?" asked the Inspector.
"Infidelity on Carmody's part," said Weaver.--"Good night! I feel like
a tongue-slapping washerwoman.--Well, Carmody was so injudicious as
to be caught in a hotel-room with a lady of the chorus, and though
the affair was hushed up, the truth couldn't be kept from trickling
out. Mrs. French, who was something of a moral virago in those days,
immediately sued for divorce, and got it--and with it, custody of
Bernice."
"Hardly a moral virago, Wes," remarked Ellery. "Not from the Zornian
implications. Say rather--she knew what side her bread was buttered
on and decided that there were more fish in the sea than a faithless
husband...."
"A complicated figure of speech," said Weaver, with a smile. "But I see
what you mean."
"I'm beginning to get little sidelights into Mrs. French's character,"
murmured Ellery. "This Marchbanks fellow--her brother, I believe?"
"And that's about all," said Weaver grimly. "Hated each other like
poison. I think Marchbanks had her number. He's no glistening lily
himself. Anyway, they never had much use for each other. It made it a
little embarrassing for the Old Man, because Marchbanks had been on the
Board for many years."
"Drinks too much, that's plain," said the Inspector. "Marchbanks and
French get along all right?"
"They have very little contact socially," said Weaver. "In business,
they seem to jibe nicely. But that's because the Old Man's so darned
sensible."
"There's only one other member of the cast about whom I have any
curiosity at the moment," said the Inspector. "And that's the
dissipated-looking, fashionable gentleman of the Board named Trask. Has
he any contacts with the French family other than business?"
"More 'other' than 'business,'" replied Weaver. "I may as well go the
whole hog while I'm tattling. I'll need a scrubbing-brush after I'm
through!--Mr. A. Melville Trask is on the Board purely as a result of
tradition. His father was the original member, and it was the elder
Trask's dying wish that his son succeed him. It meant loads of red
tape, but finally they succeeded in dragging him in, where he's been an
ornament ever since. Not a brain in his head. But shrewdness?--plenty!
Because Mr. Trask has ever since been gunning for Bernice for over a
year now--ever since he was elected to the Board, as a matter of fact."
"Interesting," murmured Ellery. "What's the idea, Wes--the family
fortune?"
"You've hit it exactly. Old Man Trask lost a lot in the stock market,
and his son has been plunging so heavily that the report is he's near
the end of his rope financially. So I guess he figured his best bet was
a fortuitous marriage. And that's where Bernice comes in. He's been
hounding her, courting her, taking her out, flattering her mother for
months now. He's wormed his way into the affections of Bernice--who
has few enough admirers, poor kid!--so much so that they're virtually
engaged. Nothing official, but that's the understanding."
"Opposition?" demanded the Inspector.
"Plenty," replied Weaver grimly. "Chiefly from the Old Man. He feels it
his duty to protect his stepdaughter from a man of Trask's stamp. Trask
is a cad and a rounder of the worst sort. The poor girl would lead a
dog's life with him."
"Wes, what makes him so sure she'll come into money?" asked Ellery
suddenly.
"Well"--Weaver hesitated--"you see, El, Mrs. French had a respectable
wad herself. And, of course, it's been an open secret that when she
died--"
"It would go to Bernice," said the Inspector.
"Interesting," said Ellery, rising to his full length and stretching
wearily. "And for no reason at all, I'm reminded that I haven't had a
bite to eat since this morning. Let's all go out for a sandwich and a
sip of java. Anything more, dad?"
"Can't think of a thing," said the old man with a return to his
glumness. "We'll lock up and go. Hagstrom! Hesse! Get those cigaret
stubs and cards into my own bags--and the shoes and hat, too...."
Ellery picked up the five books from the desk and handed them to
Hagstrom.
"You might pack these, too, Hagstrom," he said. "You're taking these
things to Headquarters, dad?"
"Why, of course!"
"Then, on reconsideration, Hagstrom, I'll take these books myself." The
detective wrapped them carefully in a piece of brown paper he took from
one of the police kits and returned them to Ellery. Weaver retrieved
his hat and coat from one of the bedroom closets and the Inspector,
Ellery and Weaver, preceded by the detectives, walked out of the
apartment.
Ellery was the last one out. As he stood in the corridor, one hand on
the knob of the outer door, he looked slowly from the apartment to the
brown-papered package in his hand.
"Thus endeth," he said softly to himself, "the first lesson." His hand
dropped and the door snapped shut.
Two minutes later only a lone bluecoat was left in the corridor,
propped up against the door in a nondescript chair he had appropriated
somewhere, reading a tabloid newspaper.
THE THIRD EPISODE
"_Manhunting is by all odds the most thrilling profession in the
world. Its thrills ... are in exact proportion to the temperament
of the manhunter. It reaches its completest fulfillment in the
investigator who ... observing microscopically the phenomena of a
crime and collating them precisely, exercises his God-given gift
of imagination and concocts a theory which embraces_ ALL _the
phenomena and omits none, not the tiniest crumb of a fact....
Penetration, patience, and passion--these rarely combined qualities
make the genius of criminal investigation, just as they make
the genius of any profession, unless the extra-mundane arts be
excepted...._"
--From THERE IS AN UNDER WORLD
_By_ James Redix (the Elder).
20
TOBACCO
Cyrus French's house fronted the Hudson River, on lower Riverside
Drive. It was old and dusky, set well back from the Drive and
surrounded by primly kept shrubbery. A low iron fence ran around the
property.
When Inspector Queen, Ellery Queen and Westley Weaver entered the
reception room, they found Sergeant Velie already there, engaged in
earnest conversation with another detective. This man left immediately
on the entrance of the small party, and Velie himself turned a
perturbed face to his superior.
"We've struck oil, Inspector," he said in his calm bass. "Managed to
trace the cab that picked up Mrs. French last night almost at once. It
was a Yellow that patrols this neighborhood regularly. Got the driver
and he remembered his fare without any trouble."
"And I suppose--" began the Inspector gloomily.
Velie shrugged. "Nothing to brag about. He picked her up right in front
of the house here at about twenty after eleven last night. She told him
to take her down Fifth. He followed orders. At 39th Street she told him
to pull up, and then she got out. Paid him and he beat it. He did see
her cross the street toward the department store. That's all."
"Not so much," murmured Ellery, "to be sure. Did he stop at all on the
trip downtown--did she communicate with any one on the way?"
"I asked him that. Nothing doing, Mr. Queen. She didn't give him
another order until they reached 39th Street. Of course, he did say
there was heavy traffic, and he had to stop a number of times. It's
possible that somebody might have hopped in and out of the cab during a
traffic wait. But the driver says no, he didn't see anything wrong."
"And if he's alert, he would have, naturally," said the Inspector,
sighing.
A maid took their hats and coats, and immediately afterward Marion
French appeared. She squeezed Weaver's hand, smiled wanly at the
Queens, and placed herself at their disposal.
"No, Miss French, there's nothing we can do with you now," said the
Inspector. "How is Mr. French?"
"Loads better." She made a little _moué_ of apology. "I did act
frightfully at the apartment, Inspector Queen. I know you'll forgive
me--seeing father faint made me lose control of myself."
"Nothing to forgive, Marion," growled Weaver, "if I do take the words
out of the Inspector's mouth. I don't think Inspector Queen quite
realized how ill your father really was."
"Now, now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector mildly. "Miss French, do you
think Mr. French will be able to see us in a half-hour or so?"
"Well.... If the doctor says so, Inspector. But goodness! Won't you sit
down? I've been so upset by all this--confusion...." A shadow darkened
her face. The men accepted chairs. "You see, Inspector," continued
Marion, "there's a nurse with daddy, and the doctor's still here. An
old friend. Mr. Gray, too. Shall I see?"
"If you will, my dear. And would you mind having Miss Hortense
Underhill come in for a moment?"
When Marion had left the room, Weaver excused himself and hurried after
her. Her startled "Why, Westley!" could just be heard from the main
hall a moment later. There was a sudden silence, then a suspiciously
soft sound, and finally retreating footfalls.
"I think," said Ellery soberly, "that that was a luscious salute to the
Venerian goddess.... I wonder why old Cyrus frowns upon Westley as a
prospective son-in-law. Wants wealth and position, I suppose."
"Does he?" asked the Inspector.
"I gather so."
"Well, that's neither here nor there." The Inspector delicately took
snuff. "Thomas," he said, "what have you done about Bernice Carmody?
Any traces?"
Velie pulled a longer face than usual. "Just one, and it barely helps
us to a start. The Carmody girl was seen yesterday afternoon leaving
this house by a day watchman--special officer--who's privately employed
to patrol the neighborhood. He knows the girl by sight. He saw her walk
quickly down towards 72nd Street--straight down the Drive. She didn't
meet any one, apparently, and was headed for a definite place, because
she seemed in a hell of a hurry. He had no reason to give her more than
a casual glance or two, and so couldn't tell me just how far down the
Drive she went or whether she turned down a side street."
"Worse and worse." The Inspector grew thoughtful. "That girl is
almighty important, Thomas," he sighed. "Put extra men on her trail if
you think it's necessary. We've got to find her. I suppose you've got a
complete description, clothes and all?"
Velie nodded. "Yes, and four men on her already. If there's anything at
all, Inspector, we'll find it."
Hortense Underhill clumped into the room.
Ellery sprang to his feet. "Dad, this is Miss Underhill, the
housekeeper. This is Inspector Queen, Miss Underhill. The Inspector has
a few questions to ask you."
"That's what I'm here for," said the housekeeper.
"Um," said the Inspector, eyeing her keenly. "My son tells me, Miss
Underhill, that Miss Bernice Carmody left this house yesterday
afternoon against her mother's wishes--in fact, sneaked out behind her
back. Is that correct?"
"That's correct," snapped the housekeeper, with a malevolent glance
toward Ellery, who was smiling. "Though what _that_ has to do with it,
_I_ can't see."
"No doubt," said the old man. "Was that Miss Carmody's usual
procedure--to run away from her mother?"
"I haven't the faintest notion of what you're driving at, Mr.
Inspector," said the housekeeper coldly. "But if you're aiming to
implicate that girl.... Well! Yes, she did that a few times a month.
Slipped out of the house without a word and was gone usually about
three hours. There was always a scene with Mrs. French when she
returned."
"I don't suppose you know," asked Ellery slowly, "where she went at
such times? Or what Mrs. French said to her when she returned?"
Hortense Underhill clicked her teeth disagreeably. "No. Neither did her
mother. That's why they had a scene. And Bernice would never tell. Just
sit calmly and let her mother rave.... Except, of course, last week.
Then they _did_ have a scene."
"Oh, something extraordinary a week ago, eh?" said Ellery. "And I
gather that Mrs. French _did_ know then?"
The housekeeper permitted an expression of surprise to flick across
her hard features. "Yes, I think she did," she said more quietly than
before. She favored Ellery with a suddenly interested glance. "But what
it was I don't know. I think she found out where Bernice was going, and
they quarreled about it."
"Just when was this, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.
"A week ago Monday."
Ellery whistled softly to himself. He and the Inspector exchanged
glances.
The Inspector leaned forward. "Tell me, Miss Underhill--these days on
which Miss Carmody generally disappeared--do you recall whether they
were all the same, or different days?"
Hortense Underhill looked from father to son, began to speak, thought
for an instant, looked up again. "Now that I think of it," she
said slowly, "they weren't always Mondays. I remember a Tuesday, a
Wednesday, and a Thursday.... I do believe she went every week on
consecutive days! Now, what could that mean?"
"More, Miss Underhill," replied Ellery, frowning, "than you can
guess--or I, for that matter.... Have the bedrooms of Mrs. French and
Miss Carmody been disturbed since this morning?"
"No. When I heard about the murder at the store I locked up both
bedrooms. I didn't know but that--"
"That it might have been important, Miss Underhill?" said Ellery. "That
was clever of you.... Will you please lead the way upstairs?"
The housekeeper rose without a word and walked out into the main hall
and up the broad central staircase, the three men following. She
stopped on the second floor and opened a door with a key from a bunch
in her black silk apron-pocket.
"This is Bernice's room," she announced, and stepped aside.
They entered a large green-and-ivory bedroom, ornately furnished with
period furniture. A huge canopied bed dominated the room. Despite
the mirrors and colors and exotic pieces, the room was unaccountably
depressing. It looked cold. The sunbeams that streamed in through the
three wide windows, far from lending warmth to the ensemble, in some
grotesque way only heightened the general effect of cheerlessness.
Ellery's eyes, as he stepped into the room, were not concerned with its
eeriness. They focused immediately on a large, garishly carved table to
the side of the bed, on which was an ashtray filled to overflowing with
cigaret-stubs. He quickly crossed the room and picked up the tray. Then
he put it back on the table with a curious gleam in his eye.
"Was this tray with its cigaret-stubs here this morning when you locked
up, Miss Underhill?" he asked sharply.
"Yes. I didn't touch anything."
"Then this room hasn't been tidied since Sunday?"
The housekeeper flushed. "The room was attended to on Monday morning,
after Bernice awoke," she snarled. "I will _not_ hear any imputations
against my household, Mr. Queen! I--"
"But why not Monday afternoon?" interposed Ellery, smiling.
"Because Bernice chased the maid out of the room after the bed was
made, that's why!" snapped the housekeeper. "The girl didn't have time
to empty the ashtray. I hope that satisfies you!"
"It does," murmured Ellery. "Dad--Velie--come here a moment."
Ellery silently pointed down to the cigaret-stubs. There were at least
thirty on the tray. Without exception the cigarets, of a flat Turkish
variety, had been smoked only one-quarter of their length, and crushed
out against the tray. The Inspector picked one up, and peered at a word
of gilt lettering near the tip.
"Well, what's surprising about that?" he demanded. "They're the same
brand as the ones on the card-table in the apartment. Girl must be
frightfully nervous, though."
"But the length, dad, the length," said Ellery softly. "However,
no matter.... Miss Underhill, has Miss Carmody always smoked _La
Duchesse_?"
"Yes, _sir_," said the housekeeper unpleasantly. "And too many for her
health, too. She gets them from some Greek person with an outlandish
name--Xanthos, I think it is--who makes them up on special order for
young ladies of the better classes. Perfumed, they are!"
"A standing order, I suppose?"
"You suppose correctly. When Bernice's supply ran out, she merely
repeated her order, which was for a box of five hundred always....
That's one thing about Bernice, although you mustn't take it as
anything against the poor child, because too many young ladies have the
same pernicious habit--but she smokes altogether too much for propriety
and health, too. Her mother never smoked, nor do Marion and Mr. French."
"Yes, yes, we are aware of those facts, Miss Underhill, thank you."
Ellery took a glassine envelope from his compact pocket-kit and calmly
poured into it the dusty contents of the ashtray. The envelope he
handed to Velie.
"You had better keep this with whatever mementoes of the case will be
filed at Headquarters," he said in a sprightly tone. "I think it will
prove of interest in the final summation.... Now, Miss Underhill, if
you will please spare us just another slice of your precious time...."
21
KEYS AGAIN
Ellery looked quickly about the garish room and strode over to a large
door on the side wall. He opened it and uttered a low exclamation
of satisfaction. It was a clothes-closet, packed with feminine
garments--gowns, coats, shoes, hats in profusion.
He turned once more to Hortense Underhill, who was regarding him with
peculiar disquiet. Her lips compressed as she saw his hand absently
ruffle through the mass of gowns hanging from the racks.
"Miss Underhill, I believe you said that Miss Carmody was at the
apartment some months ago, and hasn't been there since?"
She nodded stiffly.
"Do you recall what she wore when she was there last?"
"Really, Mr. Queen," she said in frigid tones, "I haven't such a memory
as you evidently give me credit for. How _could_ I remember that?"
Ellery grinned. "Very well. Where is Miss Carmody's apartment key?"
"Oh!" The housekeeper was genuinely startled. "That's a funny thing,
now, Mr. Queen--I mean your asking that. Because only yesterday morning
Bernice told me that she thought she'd lost her key and asked me to get
one of the others' keys and duplicate it for her."
"Lost, eh?" Ellery seemed disappointed. "Are you certain, Miss
Underhill?"
"I've just told you."
"Well, there's no harm in looking," said Ellery cheerfully. "Here,
Velie, lend a hand with these duds. You don't mind, dad?" And in a
moment he and the sergeant had attacked the closet with a furious
determination, to the accompaniment of the Inspector's chuckle and
Hortense Underhill's outraged gasp.
"You see ..." said Ellery from clenched teeth, as he swiftly passed
his hands through coats and gowns, "people don't generally lose
things. They merely think they do. In this case, Miss Carmody perhaps
searched for it in a few obvious places and gave it up as hopeless....
She probably didn't look in the right garments.... Ah, there, Velie!
Splendid!"
The tall sergeant held up a heavy fur coat. In his left hand gleamed a
gold-disked key.
"In an inside pocket, Mr. Queen. The fur coat would make it heavy
weather when Miss Carmody last used the key."
"Fair and subtle enough," said Ellery, taking the key. It was an exact
duplicate of Weaver's key, which he now took from his pocket and
compared with the latest discovery--a twin except for the initials
_B.C._ engraved on the disk.
"Why do you want all the keys, El?" demanded the Inspector. "I can't
see any good reason for it."
"You have enormous powers of perspicacity," said Ellery gravely. "Now
how did you know I wanted _all_ the keys? But you're perfectly right--I
do, and I shall take up a collection very shortly. The reason is surely
as plain as the nose on your face, as Crouther would say.... Don't want
anybody getting into that apartment for a while, very simply."
He deposited both keys in his pocket and turned to the unpleasant
housekeeper.
"Did you carry out Miss Carmody's orders about duplicating this 'lost'
key?" he asked curtly.
The housekeeper sniffed. "I did not," she said. "Because now that I
think of it, I don't really know whether or not Bernice was jesting
with me when she said she had lost the key. And something happened
yesterday afternoon that made me undecided about it, and I thought I'd
wait until I saw Bernice again to ask her."
"And what was that, Miss Underhill?" inquired the Inspector, with a
slow gentleness.
"Something queer, to tell the truth," she replied thoughtfully. Her
eyes flashed suddenly, and her expression became remarkably more human.
"I _do_ want to help," she said softly. "And I am beginning to think
more and more that what happened _will_ help...."
"You have us simply petrified with excitement, Miss Underhill,"
murmured Ellery, without changing expression. "Please proceed."
"Yesterday afternoon, at about four o'clock--no, I think it must have
been closer to half-past three--I received a telephone call from
Bernice. That was after she had left the house so mysteriously--you
know."
The three men stiffened into strained attention. Velie muttered an
indistinguishable curse beneath his breath, but quieted under a
flashing glance from the Inspector. Ellery leaned forward.
"Yes, Miss Underhill?" he urged.
"It was most puzzling," continued the housekeeper. "Bernice had spoken
to me casually about losing the key just before lunch. Yet when she
called in the afternoon, the first thing she said was that she wanted
her key to the apartment, and would send around for it by messenger at
once!"
"Is it possible," muttered the Inspector, "that she thought you had
already had a duplicate key made for her?"
"No, Inspector," said the housekeeper incisively. "It didn't sound as
if she thought that at all. In fact, it seemed as if she'd utterly
forgotten about having lost the key. So much so that I immediately
reminded her that she'd told me about losing the key, in the morning,
and having another made for her. She seemed quite distressed and said,
'Oh, yes, Hortense! Isn't it stupid of me to forget that way,' and
began to say something else, when she stopped suddenly and then said,
'Don't bother, Hortense, after all, it isn't particularly important.
I thought I might want to drop in at the apartment this evening.'
I reminded her that she could get the use of the master-key at the
night-watchman's desk if she wanted to go to the apartment so badly.
But she didn't seem interested and hung up immediately."
There was a little silence. Then Ellery looked up with a great light of
interest in his eyes.
"Can you remember, Miss Underhill," he asked, "just what it was that
Miss Carmody began to say in the middle of the conversation, and then
appeared to reconsider?"
"It's hard to be exact about it, Mr. Queen," replied the housekeeper.
"But somehow I got the impression that Bernice was going to ask me to
get one of the other keys to the apartment for her. Perhaps I'm wrong."
"Perhaps you are," said Ellery whimsically, "but I'd not give even the
most preposterous of odds that you aren't...."
"You know," added Hortense Underhill, as an afterthought, "I also got
the impression, when she began to say that and stopped, that--"
"_That somebody was talking to her, Miss Underhill?_" asked Ellery.
"Exactly, Mr. Queen."
The Inspector turned a startled face toward his son. Velie moved his
huge bulk lightly forward and whispered in the Inspector's ear. The old
man grinned.
"Keen, keen, Thomas," he chuckled. "That's just what I was thinking,
too...."
Ellery flicked his finger warningly.
"Miss Underhill, I can't expect you to exhibit miracles of acuteness,"
he said in a serious, admiring tone. "But I should like to ask--if
you're entirely certain that it was Miss Carmody talking to you over
the wire?"
"That's it!" cried the Inspector. Velie smiled grimly.
The housekeeper regarded the three men with strangely limpid eyes.
Something electric shot through all four.
"I don't--believe--it--was," she whispered....
After a while they left the missing girl's bedroom and entered an
adjoining room. It was severer in tone and immaculately clean.
"This is Mrs. French's room," said the housekeeper in a low voice.
Her acid nature seemed sweetened by a sudden realization of complex
tragedy. Her eyes followed Ellery with grave respect.
"Is everything in perfect order, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes, sir."
Ellery walked over to a wardrobe and scanned its neat racks
thoughtfully.
"Miss Underhill, will you please look through this rack and tell us if
any of Miss Marion French's clothes are here?"
The housekeeper went through the racks while the three men looked
on. She proceeded carefully, then shook her head in an unhesitating
negative.
"Then Mrs. French was not in the habit of wearing Miss French's things?"
"Oh, no, sir!"
Ellery smiled with satisfaction and at once wrote a line of
hieroglyphics in his makeshift notebook.
22
BOOKS AGAIN
The three men stood uncomfortably in old Cyrus French's bedroom. The
nurse fluttered about in the hall, a solid door separating her from
her charge. Marion and Weaver had been ordered downstairs to the
drawing-room. French's physician, Dr. Stuart, a large impressive man,
with a professional irascibility glared at the Queens from his post at
French's bedside.
"Five minutes--no longer," he snapped. "Mr. French is hardly in a
conversational condition!"
The Inspector clucked placatingly, and stared at the sick man. French
lay lumpily in his great bed, nervous eyes darting from one to another
of his inquisitors. One flabby white hand plucked at the silk coverlet.
His face was entirely drained of color, pasty, shockingly unwholesome
in appearance. His grey hair straggled over a furrowed forehead.
The Inspector stepped nearer to the bed. He bent forward and said in a
low voice, "This is Inspector Queen of the police, Mr. French. Can you
hear me? Do you think you are strong enough to answer a few perfunctory
questions about Mrs. French's--accident?"
The quicksilver eyes ceased rolling and concentrated on the gentle grey
face of the Inspector. They blinked suddenly with intelligence.
"Yes ... yes ..." French whispered, moistening his thin pale lips
with a bright tongue. "Anything ... to clear up this ... ghastly
business...."
"Thank you, Mr. French." The Inspector leaned closer. "Is there any
explanation in your mind that might account for the death of Mrs.
French?"
The liquid eyes blinked, closed. When they opened, there was an
expression of utter bewilderment within their reddish depths.
"No ... none," French breathed painfully. "None ... whatsoever....
She--she had ... so many friends ... no enemies.... I--it is ...
unbelievable that any one ... should be so ... fiendish as to ...
murder her."
"I see." The Inspector tugged at his mustache with nimble fingers.
"Then you know of no one who might have had a _motive_ for killing her,
Mr. French?"
"No...." The hoarse feeble voice gathered strength suddenly. "The
shame--the notoriety.... It will be the death of me.... With all my ...
unsparing efforts to put an end to vice ... that this should happen to
me!... Hideous, hideous!"
His voice grew more and more violent. The Inspector motioned in alarm
to Dr. Stuart, who leaned quickly over the sick man and felt his pulse.
Then, in an extraordinarily gentle voice, the physician soothed his
patient until the throaty rumblings faded off and the hand on the
coverlet unflexed and lay still.
"Have you much more?" asked the doctor in a gruff undertone. "You must
be quick, Inspector!"
"Mr. French," said Queen quietly, "is your personal key to the store
apartment always in your possession?"
The eyes rolled sleepily. "Eh? Key? Yes ... yes, always."
"It has certainly not left your person in the past fortnight or so?"
"No ... positively not...."
"Where is it, Mr. French?" continued the Inspector in an urgent soft
voice. "Surely you will not mind letting us have it for a few days,
will you, sir? In the interests of justice, of course.... Where? Oh,
yes! Dr. Stuart, Mr. French asks that you get the key from the key-ring
in his trousers' hip-pocket. In the wardrobe, sir, the wardrobe!"
In silence the burly physician went to a wardrobe, rummaged about in
the first pair of trousers that met his eye, and returned in a moment
with a leather key-case. The Inspector examined the gold-disked key
marked _C.F._, unhooked it, and returned the case to the doctor, who
promptly replaced it in the trousers. French lay quietly, eyes veiled
by puffy lids.
The Inspector handed Cyrus French's key to Ellery, who deposited it
with the other keys in his pocket. Then Ellery stepped forward and
leaned over the sick man.
"Easy, Mr. French," he murmured in a soothing tone. "We have just two
or three more questions, and then you will be left to your much-needed
privacy.... Mr. French, do you recall what books are on your desk in
the library of your apartment?"
The old man's eyes flew open. Dr. Stuart growled angrily beneath his
breath something about "arrant nonsense ... silly sleuthing." Ellery's
body remained in its deferential attitude, his head close to French's
slack mouth.
"Books?"
"Yes, Mr. French. The books on your apartment desk. Do you recall their
titles?" he urged gently.
"Books." French screwed his mouth up in a desperate effort to
concentrate. "Yes, yes.... Of course. My favorites ... Jack London's
_Adventure_ ... _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_, by Doyle ...
McCutcheon's _Graustark_ ... _Cardigan_, by Robert W. Chambers, and ...
let me think ... there was one other ... yes! _Soldiers of Fortune_, by
Richard Harding Davis.... That's it--Davis.... Knew Davis.... Wild, but
a ... a great fellow...."
Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. The Inspector's face grew
crimson with suppressed emotion. He muttered, "What the deuce!"
"You're certain, Mr. French?" persisted Ellery, leaning over the bed
once more.
"Yes ... yes. My books ... I should know ..." whispered the old man,
annoyance sounding weakly in his voice.
"Of course! We were merely making sure.... Now, sir, have
you ever been interested in such subjects as, let us say,
paleontology--philately--medieval commerce--folk lore--elementary
music?"
The tired eyes widened with puzzled amazement. The head wagged twice
from side to side.
"No ... I can't say that I am.... My serious reading is restricted to
works on sociology ... my work for the Anti-Vice Society ... you know
my position...."
"You are positive that your five books by Davis, Chambers, Doyle and
the others are on your apartment desk now, Mr. French?"
"I--suppose so," mumbled French. "Been there ... for ages.... Ought to
be.... Never noticed anything wrong...."
"Very well. That is quite excellent, sir. Thank you." Ellery glanced
swiftly at Dr. Stuart, who was exhibiting marked signs of impatience.
"One question, Mr. French, and we shall leave you. Has Mr. Lavery been
in your apartment recently?"
"Lavery? Yes, of course. Every day. My guest."
"Then that will be all." Ellery stepped back and made a hasty note
on the fly-leaf of his now overscribbled little volume. French's
eyes closed, and he shifted his body slightly, with an unmistakable
relaxation that signified complete fatigue.
"Please leave quietly," grunted Dr. Stuart. "You've retarded his
recovery sufficiently for one day."
He turned his back truculently upon them.
The three men tiptoed from the room.
But on the staircase leading to the main foyer, the Inspector muttered,
"Where in time do those books come in?"
"Ask me not in mournful numbers," said Ellery ruefully. "I wish I knew."
Thenceforth they descended in silence.
23
CONFIRMATION
They found Marion and Weaver sitting glumly in the drawing-room,
hands clasped, and suspiciously silent. The Inspector coughed, Ellery
thoughtfully scrubbed away at his pince-nez, Velie screwed up his eyes
and blinked at a Renoir on the wall.
The boy and the girl sprang to their feet.
"How--how is daddy?" asked Marion hurriedly, one slim hand to a
crimson-dappled cheek.
"Resting quietly now, Miss French," replied the Inspector in some
embarrassment. "Ah--a question or two, young lady, and then we will be
on our way.... Ellery!"
Ellery came directly to the point.
"Your key to your father's apartment, Miss French--" he demanded--"is
it always in your possession?"
"Why, certainly, Mr. Queen. You don't think--"
"A categorical question, Miss French," said Ellery blandly. "Your key
has not left your possession in, let us say, four weeks?"
"Certainly not, Mr. Queen. It's my own, and every one else who might
have occasion to go into the apartment has a key of his or her own, as
well."
"Lucidly said. May I borrow yours temporarily?"
Marion half-turned toward Weaver with hesitation written in her eyes.
Weaver pressed her arm reassuringly.
"Do whatever Ellery asks, Marion," he said.
Without a word Marion rang for a maid, and in a few moments turned over
to Ellery another key whose only distinguishing characteristic from the
keys already on his person was the neatly engraved _M.F._ on the bright
disc. Ellery stowed it away with the others and murmured his thanks,
retreating a step.
The Inspector promptly stepped forward.
"I must ask you what may prove an awkward question, Miss French," he
said.
"I--we seem to be completely in your hands, Inspector Queen," said the
girl, smiling faintly.
The Inspector stroked his mustache. "Just what has been the
relationship between yourself, let us say, and your stepmother and
stepsister? Amicable? Strained? Openly antagonistic?"
Marion did not answer at once. Weaver shuffled his feet and turned
away. Then the girl's magnificent eyes met the old man's honestly.
"I think 'strained' expresses it exactly," she said in her clear
sweet voice. "There has never been much love lost on any side of the
triangle. Winifred has always preferred Bernice above me--which is of
course natural--and as for Bernice, we didn't agree from the beginning.
And as time went on, and--and things began to happen, the rift simply
widened...."
"'Things'?" prompted the Inspector suggestively.
Marion bit her lip, flushed. "Well--just little things, you know," she
said evasively. She hurried on. "All of us tried very hard to conceal
our dislike for each other--for dad's sake. I'm afraid we weren't
always successful. Dad is keener than people think."
"I see." The Inspector tchk-ed with concern. He straightened with
a peculiarly swift movement of his body. "Miss French, do you know
anything that might give us a hint to the murderer of your stepmother?"
Weaver gasped, whitened. He seemed about to voice a bitter protest. But
Ellery laid a restraining hand on his arm. The girl grew still, but she
did not flinch. She passed her fingers wearily across her forehead.
"I--no." It was a bare whisper.
The Inspector made a deprecating little gesture.
"Oh, please don't ask me anything more about--about _her_," she cried
suddenly in an agonized voice. "I can't go on this way, talking about
her, trying to tell the truth, because ..." she spoke more quietly,
"... because it would be in the poorest taste to calumniate that
poor--dead--thing." She shuddered. Weaver boldly put his arm about her
shoulders. She turned to him with a little sigh of relief and buried
her face against his breast.
"Miss French." Ellery's tone was gentleness itself. "You can help us on
one point.... Your stepsister--what brand of cigaret does she smoke?"
Marion's astonishment at the seemingly irrelevant question brought her
head up with a start.
"Why--_La Duchesse_."
"Exactly. And she smoked _La Duchesse_ exclusively?"
"Yes. At least, for as long as I know her."
"Has she"--Ellery was casual--"has she any peculiarity in her method of
smoking, Miss French? Any perhaps slightly unusual habit?"
The pretty brows drew closer together in a little frown. "If you mean
by habit"--she hesitated--"a distinct nervousness--yes."
"Does this nervousness manifest itself in a noticeable way?"
"She smokes incessantly, Mr. Queen. And she never takes more than five
or six puffs at a cigaret. She doesn't seem by nature able to smoke
calmly. A few puffs, and she grinds out the long stump of tobacco still
remaining almost with--viciousness. The cigarets she leaves are always
bent and twisted out of shape."
"Thank you so much." Ellery's firm lips lifted in a smile of
satisfaction.
"Miss French--" the Inspector took up the attack--"you left this house
last night after dinner. You did not return until midnight. _Where were
you during those four hours?_"
Silence. A frightened silence so suddenly fraught with hidden
complications of emotion that it seemed almost of physical substance.
It was a tableau created for a single moment's duration: the slight
Inspector, alert, controlled, leaning forward; the straight body of
Ellery, muscles completely inanimate; the vague bulk of Velie, drawn
and powerful; a petrified agony on Weaver's mobile features--and the
utter misery of Marion French's slender, stricken figure.
It passed in the drawing of a breath. Marion sighed, and the four men
relaxed stealthily.
"I was ... walking in ... the Park," she said.
"Oh!" The Inspector smiled, bowed, smoothed his mustache. "Then there
is nothing more to be said, Miss French. Good afternoon."
It was simply said, and the Inspector, Ellery and Velie passed from the
room, into the reception hall, out of the house without another word
spoken.
But it left Marion and Weaver in a dejection and apprehension so
profound that they stood in their places, exactly as they had been,
eyes turned away from each other, long after the outer door had snicked
cleanly shut.
24
THE QUEENS TAKE STOCK
Dusk was descending on the city when Velie took leave of the Queens
outside the French mansion to manipulate the official machinery already
operating on the shadowy trail of the vanished Bernice Carmody.
After Velie had gone, the Inspector looked at the quiet River, looked
at the darkening sky, looked at his son, who was energetically
polishing his pince-nez and staring down at the pavement.
The Inspector sighed. "The air will do both of us a lot of good," he
said tiredly. "I need something to clear my addled brain, anyway....
Ellery, let's walk home."
Ellery nodded, and side by side they sauntered down the Drive toward
the corner. At the corner they turned east and settled down to a slow,
thoughtful pace. They walked another block before the silence was
broken.
"This is really the first chance," remarked Ellery at last, grasping
his father's arm encouragingly at the elbow, "that I've had to mull
over the multitude of factors that have arisen so far. Significant
factors. Telling factors, dad! There are so many they give me _mal à la
tête_."
"Really?" The Inspector was depressed, morose. His shoulders sagged.
Ellery regarded him keenly. He tightened his grip on the old man's arm.
"Come, dad! Buck up. I know you're at sea, but it's because of the
trouble and worry you've had on your mind recently. My brain has been
more than usually free from occupation lately. It's been clear enough
to grasp the amazing fundamentals this case has spewed up to-day. Let
me think aloud."
"Go ahead, son."
"One of the two most valuable clues this affair has given us is the
fact that the corpse was found in the Fifth Avenue exhibition-window."
The Inspector snorted. "I suppose you'll tell me now that you already
know who did the job."
"Yes."
The Inspector was so taken aback that he stopped in his tracks and
stared at Ellery with an expression of complete dismay and unbelief.
"Ellery! You're joking. How _could_ you?" he finally managed to
splutter.
Ellery smiled gravely. "Don't misunderstand me. I say I know who
murdered Mrs. French. I should qualify that by saying that certain
indications point with incredible consistency at one individual. I have
no proof. I don't grasp one-tenth of the implications. I am entirely
ignorant of the motive, the undoubtedly sordid story behind the
crime.... Consequently, I shall not tell you whom I have in mind."
"You wouldn't," growled the Inspector, as they walked on.
"Now, dad!" Ellery laughed a little. He tightened his hold on the small
package of books from French's library table, which he had carried
stubbornly from the moment they had left the department store. "I have
a good reason. In the first place, it's quite conceivable that I'm
being misled by a series of coincidences. In that case, I should merely
be making an ass of myself if I accused some one and then had to eat
crow.... When I have _proof_--you'll know, dad, the very first one....
There are so many unexplained, seemingly inexplicable things. These
books, for example.... Well!"
He said no more for a few moments as they strode through the streets.
"I began," he said at last, "with the suspicious fact that Mrs.
French's body was found in the exhibition-window. And it _was_
suspicious, to say the least. For all the reasons that we went
over before--the lack of blood, the missing key, the lipstick
and the half-painted lips, the lack of illumination, the general
preposterousness of the window as the scene of the crime.
"It was quite plain that Mrs. French had not been murdered in that
window. Where had she been murdered, then? The watchman's report
that she had signified the apartment as her destination; the missing
apartment key _which she had_ when O'Flaherty saw her go toward the
elevator--these suggested that the apartment should be examined at
once. Which I immediately proceeded to do."
"Go on--I know all that," said Queen grumpily.
"Patience, Diogenes!" chuckled Ellery. "The apartment told the story
quite graphically. Mrs. French's presence seemed indubitable. The
cards, the book-ends and the story they told...."
"I don't know what story they told," grunted the Inspector. "You mean
that powder?"
"Not in this instance. Very well, let's forget the book-ends for
the moment and go to--the lipstick which I found on the bedroom
dressing-table. That belonged to Mrs. French. Its color matched the
color on her half-painted lips. Women don't stop fixing their lips
unless something of a tremendously serious nature intervenes. The
murder? Possibly. Certainly the events leading to the murder.... So,
for this reason and that, all of which you will know in greater detail
to-morrow, I hope, I came to the conclusion that Mrs. French had been
murdered in that apartment."
"I shan't argue with you, because it's probably true, although your
reasons are ludicrous right now. But go ahead--get down to more
concrete things," said the Inspector.
"You must grant me some premises," laughed Ellery. "I'll prove that
apartment business, never fear. At this time, grant me that the
apartment is the scene of the crime."
"It's granted--for the time."
"Very well. If the apartment was the scene of the crime, and the window
was not, then very simply the body was removed from the apartment to
the window and crammed into that wall-bed."
"In that case, yes."
"But why? I asked myself. _Why_ was the body removed to the window? Why
wasn't it left in the apartment?"
"To make it appear that the apartment wasn't the scene of the murder?
But that doesn't make sense, because--"
"Yes, because no pains were taken to remove traces of Mrs. French's
presence, like the game of banque, the lipstick--although I'm inclined
to think that leaving the lipstick was an oversight. It is evident,
then, that the reason the body was removed was _not_ to make it appear
that the apartment was not the scene of the crime, _but to delay the
discovery of the body_."
"I see what you mean," muttered the Inspector.
"The time-element, of course," said Ellery. "The murderer must have
known that at 12 o'clock sharp, every day, that window was exhibited,
_and that the window was locked and unused before 12 o'clock_. I was
looking for a reason to explain the removal of the body. The fact that
it would not be discovered until after the noon hour gave the answer in
a flash. For some reason the murderer wanted to delay the discovery of
the crime."
"I can't see why...."
"Not definitely, of course, but we can make a generalization that will
serve the immediate purpose. If the murderer arranged it so that the
body would not be found before noon, it meant that he had something
to do during the morning which the discovery of the body _would have
prevented him from doing_. Is that clear?"
"It follows," conceded the Inspector.
"_Allons--continuer!_" said Ellery. "At first glance, that business
about having to do something which the discovery of the crime would
make impossible of accomplishment, is something of a poser. However,
we know certain facts. For example, no matter how the murderer entered
the store, _he must have stayed all night_. There were two ways of
getting in unnoticed but no way of getting out unnoticed after the
murder. He could have remained hidden somewhere in the store until
after closing-hours, and then stolen up to the apartment; or he
could have slipped through that open freight-door on 39th Street. He
certainly couldn't get out through the Employees' Entrance, because
O'Flaherty was there all night, in a perfect position to see somebody
leave that way. And O'Flaherty saw no one. He couldn't have got out
through the freight-door, because that door was locked for the night at
eleven-thirty, and Mrs. French didn't arrive until eleven-forty-five.
If he had slipped out via the freight-door, he couldn't have committed
the murder. Obviously! The freight-door was closed to him at least a
half-hour before the woman was killed at all. So--he must have had to
remain in the store all night.
"Now, that being the case, he could not escape until at least nine
o'clock the next morning, when the doors were opened to the public and
any one could walk out as if he were an early customer."
"Well then, why all that rigmarole about stowing the body in the window
in order to prevent its discovery before noon? What for?" demanded the
Inspector. "If he could get out at nine o'clock and he had something
to do, why couldn't he have done it then? In that case he wouldn't
care when the body was found, because he could do what was necessary
immediately after nine."
"Precisely." Ellery's voice sharpened with a certain zest. "_If he were
free to walk out at nine and stay out_, he would have no reason for
delaying the discovery of the body."
"But, Ellery," objected the Inspector, "he _did_ delay the discovery of
the body! Unless--" A light dawned on his face.
"That's it exactly," Ellery said soberly. "If our murderer was in
some way connected with the store, his absence would be noted or at
least would be in danger of notice after a murder was discovered. By
secreting the body in a place where he knew it would not be found until
noon, he had all morning to watch for an opportunity to slip away and
do what he had to do....
"Of course, there's something else. It's an open question whether
the murderer planned in advance to secrete the body in the window
after killing Mrs. French in the apartment. I rather think the switch
of locale was not planned on much before the crime. For this reason.
Ordinarily the apartment is not entered until about ten o'clock in the
morning. Weaver has his own office, and French doesn't get down until
that hour. So that the murderer must have figured, in his original
plan, on committing the crime in the apartment and leaving the body
there. He would have ample time to get out of the building after nine
and return before ten, let us say. So long as the body was found
_after_ he attended to his nefarious morning business, he was safe.
"But when he entered that apartment, or perhaps after he committed the
crime, he saw something which made it absolutely essential for him to
remove the body to the window." Ellery paused. "On the desk was a blue
official memorandum. It was there all afternoon on Monday, and Weaver
swears he left it there on the desk when he quit Monday evening. And it
was in exactly the same position on Tuesday morning. So it was there
for the murderer to see. And it said that Weaver would be there at nine
o'clock! It was an innocent little memo calling a board meeting, but it
must have put the murderer into something of a panic. If somebody was
coming to the apartment at nine, he wouldn't have a chance to do what
evidently was of desperate necessity, although we still don't know what
it is. Therefore the removal of the body to the window and the rest of
it. Follow?"
"Seems holeproof," grunted the Inspector, but there was a light of
absorbing interest in his eye.
"There's one vital thing to be done almost immediately," added Ellery
thoughtfully. "Unquestionably whoever committed the crime did not hide
in the store yesterday afternoon and wait for closing hour. I'll tell
you why. The complete time-sheet is a check-up on everybody connected
with this investigation. The time-sheet gives the checking-out time
of everybody. _All_ the people we're interested in are reported as
having left the building at five-thirty or before, with the exception
of Weaver and this man Springer, the head of the book department. And
since they were definitely seen leaving, they couldn't obviously have
_stayed_ for the crime. You remember the names? Although people like
Zorn, Marchbanks, Lavery and the rest do not check out, their name and
time are noted when they leave the building, as was the case yesterday.
Since everybody did leave, then the murderer must have got into the
building by the only way left--the freight-door on 39th Street. It
would be the more logical thing for the murderer to do anyway, because
he could establish an alibi for the evening, and still have time to
get into the store through that freight-entrance between eleven and
eleven-thirty."
"We'll have to double-check everybody's movements last night," said the
Inspector dolefully. "More work."
"And probably unproductive. But I agree that it's necessary. We should
do that as soon as possible."
"Now." Ellery's lips twisted into a rueful smile. "There are so many
ramifications to this case," he said apologetically, interrupting his
line of thought. "For example--why did Winifred come to the store
at all? There's a question for you! And was she lying when she told
O'Flaherty that she was going to the apartment upstairs? Of course, the
watchman did see her take the elevator, and it is a fair assumption
that she went to the sixth floor rooms, especially since we have
definite evidence of her presence there. Besides, where else could she
go? The window? Preposterous! No, I think we may assume that she went
directly to the private apartment."
"Perhaps Marion French's scarf was already in the window and for
some obscure reason Mrs. French wished to retrieve it," suggested the
Inspector, grinning wryly.
"Yes, you _don't_ think," retorted Ellery. "That business of Marion's
scarf has a perfectly simple explanation, I'm positive, whatever
else may be mysterious about the girl.... But here's a point. Did
Winifred French have an appointment with a particular person, in
the store, in the apartment? Granted the whole affair is cloaked in
mystery--a clandestine meeting in a deserted department store and all
that--yet the hypothesis that the murdered woman came for a definite
purpose to meet a definite person seems too inevitable to discard. In
that case, then, did she know about the strange manner in which her
fellow-conspirator, and as it turned out her murderer, entered the
store? Or did she expect him to walk in as she did, through the regular
night-entrance? Evidently not, because she made no mention of another
person to O'Flaherty, which she might have done had she nothing to
conceal, but gave him the distinct impression that she had dropped in
for something. Then she _was_ involved in some shady business, _did_
know that her companion would take mysterious precautions against
discovery--openly and submissively.
"Was that companion Bernice or Marion? We have reason to believe, from
the mere look of things, that it might have been Bernice. The banque
game, Bernice's cigarets, Bernice's hat and shoes--very significant and
alarming, those last two items. On the other hand, let us examine some
sidelights on the question of Bernice.
"We are fairly agreed that the murderer of Mrs. French took away Mrs.
French's apartment key. This might point to Bernice on first thought,
because we know she did not have her own key that afternoon--in fact,
she couldn't have had her own key, since we actually found it in her
closet at home to-day. Yes, it appears that if Bernice had been in
that store last night, she would have taken her mother's key away. _But
was she in the store?_
"The time has come, I do believe," said Ellery quizzically, "to lay
that particular ghost. Bernice was _not_ in the French department store
last night. Perhaps I had better say at this point that Bernice is not
a matricide. In the first place, despite the presence of the game of
banque, which is known by many people to be a passion of both women,
the presence of the cigarets betrays the frame-up. Bernice, who is a
drug addict, has been indicated beyond a doubt as _always_ smoking only
one-quarter of the length of her _La Duchesse_ cigarets, and crushing
out the long stub. Yet the stubs we found were _without exception_
smoked carefully down almost to the tip. This is so unnatural as to
be conclusive. One or two cigarets might conceivably be found so
consumed; but to find a dozen! It's no go, dad. Bernice did not smoke
those cigarets we found on the card-table. And, of course, if she did
not, then some once else prepared them with the obvious intention of
throwing suspicion on the missing girl. Then there's the matter of the
'phone call to Hortense Underhill, presumably from Bernice. Fishy,
dad--exceedingly piscine! No, Bernice didn't forget about her key so
foolishly. _Somebody wanted her key badly enough to risk a call and a
messenger._"
"The shoes--the hat," murmured the Inspector suddenly, looking up at
Ellery in a startled way.
"Exactly," said Ellery somberly, "very significant and alarming, as I
said before. If Bernice was framed, and we find on the scene of the
crime the shoes and hat she wore the day of the murder--then it simply
means that Bernice has met with violence herself! She must be a victim,
dad. Whether she is already dead or not I don't know. It depends
on the masked story behind the crime. But certainly this deduction
links the disappearance of Bernice and the murder of her mother very
closely. Now why should the girl be done away with also? Perhaps,
dad, if she were left at large, she might be a dangerous source of
information--dangerous as far as the criminal is concerned."
"Ellery!" exclaimed the Inspector. He was trembling with excitement.
"Mrs. French's murder--Bernice's kidnapping--_and she was a drug
fiend_...."
"I'm not particularly surprised, dad," said Ellery warmly. "You have
always been quick on the scent.... Yes, it looks that way to me,
too. Remember that Bernice walked out of her stepfather's house not
only willingly, but eagerly. Is it too much to suppose that she was
going--_to replenish a waning supply of drugs?_
"If that is so, and it seems a good sound possibility, then this
whole case is shrouded and complicated by the manipulations--of drug
distributors. I'm very much afraid we've fallen into just such a
prosaic business as that."
"Prosaic your left eyebrow!" cried Inspector Queen. "Ellery, it gets
clearer and clearer. And with all this rumpus about the increase in
drug distribution--if we should uncover the ring that's been operating
so hugely--if we should actually _nab_ the ringleaders--Ellery, it will
be a remarkable achievement! How I'd like to see Fiorelli's face, when
I tell him what's behind this!"
"Well, don't be over-sanguine, dad," said Ellery pessimistically. "It
may be a _tour de force_. At any rate it's sheer conjecture at this
stage of the game, and we shouldn't be too uplifted by hope.
"We have another angle that helps us localize the geography of the
crime even more precisely."
"The book-ends?" Inspector Queen's voice was uncertain.
"Of course. This too is based on pure reasoning, but I'll wager any
one anything that in the end we find it's true. Conclusions that
fit a series of circumstances so snugly have an overwhelmingly high
percentage of probability in their favor....
"Westley Weaver avers positively that the onyx book-ends have neither
been repaired nor removed from the apartment library since they were
presented to French by John Gray. In examining the book-ends we find a
noticeable difference in the color of the green felt, or baize, pasted
on the bases, the under surfaces. Weaver offers the suggestion that
something is wrong. Why? Because this is the first time he has noticed
the differing shades of green. He has seen those book-ends for months.
He is certain that when the book-ends were new the felts were alike in
color, that they must have been alike all along.
"As a matter of fact, while there is no evidential method whereby
we may tell when exactly that lighter felt appeared, there is one
corroboration." Ellery stared thoughtfully at the pavement. "The
book-end with the lighter felt was newly glued. That I would take my
oath on. The glue, while powerful in action and already quite hard,
retained a viscidity and suspicious stickiness that told the story at
once. And the powder grains stuck in the glue-line--no, the evidence is
there. The book-ends were handled last night by the criminal. We might
suspect Mrs. French, perhaps, if not for the fact that the fingerprint
powder was used. That's the work of your 'super-criminal,' dad, not of
an elderly society lady." He smiled.
"Let's try to link book-ends and crime more closely." He squinted ahead
in a little tempest of silence. The old man trudged by his side, eyes
on the changing street vista. "We enter the scene of the crime. We
find many things of a peculiar nature there. The cards, the lipsticks,
the cigarets, the shoes, the hat, the book-ends--all out of tune with
normality. We have linked every element except the book-ends directly
with the crime. Why, in the face of the possibilities--why not the
book-ends too? I can furnish excellent hypotheses commensurate with
known facts. The fingerprint powder grains, for one thing. Accessories
of crime. And a crime was committed. We find the grains stuck in a
newly glued felt, which is also suspiciously different in shade from
its fellow. Certainly it is against all reason to say that the felts
might have been differently colored from the beginning. Not with such
an expensive and unique pair of book-ends. And the difference was
never noticed before.... No, the human probabilities all point to the
conclusion that last night some one removed the original felt from the
first book-end, pasted on a new piece of felt, sprinkled fingerprint
powder to bring out any prints that might be on the book-end, removed
the fingerprints, and inadvertently left some minute grains in the
fresh glue-line of the piece."
"You've proved it to my satisfaction," said the Inspector. "Go on."
"_Alors!_ I examine the book-ends. They are of solid onyx. Furthermore,
the only change in their composition is the removal of the original
felt from one of them. I conclude therefore that the book-end was _not_
repaired in order to hide something inside or because something was
extracted from its interior. There is no interior. Everything is on the
surface.
"With this in mind, I ask myself: What other reason could have caused
the repair of the onyx piece, if it was not to hide traces of a
secretion or a removal? Well, there's the crime itself. Can we tie the
crime and the fixing of the book-ends into one knot?
"Yes, we can! Why should a felt be removed and another substituted?
_Because something happened to that felt which, if the felt were left
as it was, would have betrayed traces of a crime._ Remember that the
murderer's most pressing need was to keep knowledge of the murder
from every one until he had delivered the all-important message during
the morning. And he knew that that library would be tenanted at nine
o'clock in the morning, that if anything were wrong with the book-end
it would be noticed in all probability."
"Blood!" exclaimed the Inspector.
"You've hit on it," replied Ellery. "It could scarcely be anything
else but blood-stains. It would have to be something of a directly
suspicious nature, or the murderer would not have taken all the trouble
he did. The cards, the other things--these in themselves would never
suggest a murder before the body was found or foul play even suspected.
But blood! That's the water-mark of violence.
"So I reasoned that in some way blood soaked the felt, and the murderer
was compelled to change the felt and dispose of the tell-tale bloody
one."
They walked on in silence for a long time. The Inspector was buried in
thought. Then Ellery spoke once more.
"You see," he said, "I was progressing with commendable rapidity in the
reconstruction of the physical elements of the crime. And, when I had
reached the conclusion about the blood-soaked felt, immediately another
isolated fact leaped into my mind.... You remember Prouty's suspicions
in connection with the lack of blood on the corpse? And our instant
deduction that the murder must have been committed somewhere else? Here
was the missing link."
"Good, good," murmured the Inspector, reaching excitedly for his
snuff-box.
"The book-ends," went on Ellery rapidly, "were obviously of no
importance in the crime _until_ they became blood-soaked. After
that, of course, the whole chain of incident was a logical
outgrowth--changing the felt, handling the book-ends, and then
applying the powder to efface prints made necessary by the handling....
"Then, I reasoned, the staining of the book-end was an accident. It was
standing innocently on the glass-topped desk. How could the blood have
got on it? There are two possibilities. The first is that the book-end
was used as a weapon. But this is indefensible, because the wounds were
the result of revolver-shots, and there are no signs of a _striking_
blow with such a bludgeon as the book-end might have made. Then the
only remaining possibility is that the blood got on it inadvertently.
How might this have occurred?
"Easily. The book-end is on the glass-topped desk. The only way blood
could get on the bottom of the book-end, where the blood would show
ineffaceably, would be by its _trickling across the glass_ and soaking
into the material. But you see what this gives us."
"Mrs. French was sitting at the desk when she was shot," announced the
old man gloomily. "She was shot below the heart. She fell into the
chair and got another in the heart itself. The blood from the first
wound gushed out before she fell. The blood from the second wound
trickled out as she lay across the table--and soaked into the felt."
"And that," said Ellery, smiling, "is a perfect recitation. Remember
that Prouty is sure that the _precordial_ type of wound particularly
would bleed profusely. That's probably what happened.... Now we can
further reconstruct the crime. If Mrs. French sat at the desk and was
shot in the heart, then her murderer was in front of her and shot
across the desk. It must have been at a distance of several feet,
because there are no powder marks on the woman's clothes. We can
perhaps compute the approximate height of the murderer by determining
the angle at which the bullets entered the body. But I have little
faith in this, because there is no exact way of judging just how far
the bullets traveled, or in other words how far from Mrs. French the
murderer stood when he fired. And an error of inches would throw off
all our calculations as to his height, considerably. You might get your
firearms expert, Kenneth Knowles, on the job, but I don't think much
will come of it."
"Neither do I," sighed the Inspector. "Nevertheless, it's comforting
to be able to place the crime so precisely. It all hangs together,
Ellery--a nice bit of reasoning. I'll get Knowles to work immediately.
Is there anything else, son?"
Ellery said nothing for an appreciable moment. They turned into West
87th Street. Half-way up the block stood the brownstone old house in
which they lived. They quickened their steps.
"There's a heap more, dad, that I haven't gone into, because of this
and that," Ellery said absently. "The signs were all there, for the
world to see. They needed intelligent assembly, however. You're
probably the only one on the scene who has the mental potentiality for
piecing them together. The others.... And you're exceptionally dulled
by care." He smiled as they reached the brownstone steps of their
dwelling.
"Dad," he said, one foot on the lowest step, "on one phase of this
investigation I am entirely at sea. And that--" he tapped the package
under his arm, "is the five books I plucked from old French's desk.
It seems silly to suppose that they can have anything to do with the
murder, and yet--I have the queerest feeling that they can explain so
much if we worm out their secret."
"You've gone slightly daffy with concentration," growled the Inspector,
laboriously ascending the stairs.
"Nevertheless," remarked Ellery, inserting a key into the lock of the
big carved old-fashioned door, "this night is dedicated to a sedulous
analysis of the books."
THE FOURTH EPISODE
"_Oriental police set far smaller store by the criminal alibi
than do Occidentals.... We know only too well what warped cunning
is capable of ... and prefer to probe emotions and instincts
rather than crack down highly glazed stories. This is undoubtedly
explained by the difference in psychology of the two racial
strains.... The Oriental is notoriously more suspicious than the
Occidental, dealing with fundamentals rather than superficials....
Where the Western world is inclined to shout a lusty_ BANZAI!
_in acclamation of its more successful rogues, we cut off their
ears, or put them in stocks for milder crimes, or behead them
for major ones--but always pointing out by example (with true
Japanese subtlety, perhaps?) the over-whelming ignominy of the
punishment...._"
--From the Preface to the English edition of A THOUSAND LEAVES,
_By_ Tamaka Hiero.
25
ELLERIUS BIBLIOPHILUS
The hearth of the Queen domicile was housed in one of the West 87th
Street's lingering brownstones. That the Queens chose to live among the
unvarnished woods of a generation dead and gone was a commentary upon
the powerful influence of son upon father. For Ellery, whose collection
of well-used books, whose dilettante's knowledge of antiquities, whose
love for the best of the past, over-whelmed his natural leaning toward
the comforts of the modern age, stood firmly against the Inspector's
groaning indictment of "dustiness and mustiness."
You might expect, therefore, that the Queens lived on the top floor
of this sprawling old mansion, and that the door was of time-softened
oak (on which appeared their only concession to expediency--a placard
labeled "The Queens"), and that when you were admitted by gypsy-blooded
Djuna, an odor redolent of old leather and masculinity would assail the
nostrils.
There was an anteroom hung with a vast tapestry (the gift of the Duke
of ---- in return for the Inspector's services in a matter preserved
in silence). The anteroom was opulently Gothic, and it was Ellery's
will again which prevented the Inspector from consigning it, period
furniture and all, to the auction rooms.
And there was the living-room and library. Dotted with books, massed
with books. Oak-ribbed ceiling--huge natural fireplace with a broad oak
mantel and curious old ironwork--the Nuremberg swords crossed martially
above--old lamps, brasswork, massive furniture. Chairs, divans,
footstools, leather cushions, ashstands--a veritable fairyland of easy
bachelordom.
Off the living-room was the bedroom, a chaste and comfortable
rest-place.
The whole was presided over by small, volatile Djuna, the orphan boy
adopted by Inspector Queen during his lonely years when Ellery was
attending the University. Djuna's world was limited to his beloved
patron and their common dwelling-place. Valet, cook, housekeeper and on
occasion confidant....
At nine o'clock of the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of
May--the day after the discovery of Mrs. Winifred French's lifeless
body in the French establishment--Djuna was setting the table in the
living-room for a late breakfast. Ellery was conspicuous by his absence
from the room. The Inspector sat grumpily in his favorite armchair,
staring at Djuna's twinkling brown hands.
The telephone bell rang. Djuna grasped the instrument.
"For you, Dad Queen," he announced pompously. "It's the District
Attorney."
The old man plodded across the room to the telephone.
"Hello! Hello, Henry.... We-e-ell, a little progress. Something tells
me Ellery is on the scent. In fact, he told me so himself.... What?...
Yes, as far as I'm concerned it's a devil's brew. Can't make head
or tail of it.... Oh, go on with your blarney, Henry! I'm talking
straight.... The situation is briefly this."
The Inspector spoke for a long time in a voice fluctuating between
despair and excitement. District Attorney Henry Sampson listened
carefully.
"And that," concluded the Inspector, "is where it stands at this
moment. Something tells me Ellery is up to one of his familiar tricks.
He was up half the night poring over those infernal books.... Yes,
certainly, I'll keep you posted. May need you soon at that, Henry.
Ellery performs miracles at times, although I'd wager my next year's
pay that--Oh, go on back to your work, you ferret!"
He hung up the receiver in time to greet a prodigiously yawning Ellery
who fumbled with his necktie and endeavored to keep the folds of his
dressing-gown together simultaneously.
"So!" growled the Inspector, plumping into his chair. "What time did
you get to bed, young man?"
Ellery finished the delicately dual operation and reached for a chair,
digging Djuna surreptitiously in the ribs.
"No scolding now," he said, reaching for a piece of toast. "Have
breakfast yet? No? Waiting for the sluggard? Regale yourself with this
Olympian coffee--we can talk as we eat."
"What time?" repeated the Inspector inexorably, sitting down at the
table.
"To be temporal," said Ellery, his mouth full of coffee, "it was
three-twenty A.M."
The old man's eyes softened. "Shouldn't do that," he mumbled, reaching
for the percolator. "It'll fag you."
"Essential." Ellery drained his cup. "There are things to do, Sire....
Have you heard anything this morning?"
"Plenty that means nothing," said the Inspector. "I've been at that
'phone since seven.... Got a preliminary autopsy report from Sam
Prouty. Nothing to add to what he said yesterday except that there
are absolutely no signs of drug poisoning or addiction. The woman was
certainly not a 'dope.'"
"Interesting, and not necessarily uninformative," smiled Ellery. "What
else?"
"Knowles, the firearms man, was vague enough to make it unexciting. He
claims that he couldn't place the distance the bullets traveled before
they entered the body, exactly to the foot. The angles are easily
determined, but from his calculations the murderer might be anywhere
from five to six feet in height. Not very illuminating, eh?"
"Hardly. We'll never convict anybody on that kind of evidence. But I
can scarcely blame Knowles. These things are rarely absolute. How about
the absentees from the store yesterday?"
The Inspector scowled. "Had one of the boys checking up with MacKenzie
all yesterday evening. Just had MacKenzie on the wire. Everybody
accounted for, not a thing suspicious or unexplained. And as for this
Carmody girl, poor Thomas had his strings out all night. Combed the
neighborhood. Contacted the Missing Persons Bureau. I tipped him off on
the drug business, and the Narcotic Squad's been busy checking up on
known dives. Nothing doing. Not a trace of her."
"Just dropped out of existence...." Ellery frowned, poured himself
another cup of coffee. "I'll confess the girl has me worried. As I said
yesterday, all signs point to her having been done away with. If not
done away with, then certainly held very securely in a remote hide-out.
If I were the murderer, I think I'd add her to my list of victims....
There's just a bare chance that she may be alive, dad. Velie must
redouble his efforts."
"Don't worry about Thomas," said the Inspector grimly. "If she's alive,
he'll find her in time. If she's dead--Well! He's doing all he can."
The telephone bell rang again. The Inspector answered.
"Yes, this is Inspector Queen talking...." His tone changed magically.
It dripped formality. "Good morning, Commissioner. What can I do for
you?... Well, sir, we're getting along very nicely. We've gathered
together a heap of threads, and it's not twenty-four hours since we
found the body.... Oh, no! Mr. French has been a bit upset about the
whole affair. We've gone quite easy on him--nothing to worry about
there, sir.... Yes, I know. We're making it as comfortable for him
as we can under the circumstances.... No, Commissioner. Lavery has an
absolutely unimpeachable reputation. A foreigner, of course.... What's
that? Absolutely no!... We have a perfectly natural explanation for
that scarf of Miss Marion French's, sir. Well, I'm relieved too, to
tell the truth, Commissioner.... Quick solution? Commissioner, it will
be quicker than that!... Yes, sir, I know.... Thank you, Commissioner.
I'll keep you posted."
"And that," said the Inspector in a deadly voice, as he hung up the
receiver carefully and turned a livid face toward Ellery, "is a sample
of the blank-dangest, extra-soft-boiled, unmitigated blatherskite of a
mud-hen of a police commissioner that this or any city ever had!"
Ellery laughed aloud. "You'll be frothing at the mouth if you don't
control yourself. Every time I hear you rave about Welles I'm reminded
of that sage Germanic dictum: 'Who fills an office must learn to bear
reproach and blame.'"
"On the contrary, I'm getting soft words from Welles," said the
Inspector, in a calmer tone. "He's frightened out of his wits about
this French affair. French wields a lot of power for a harmless old
reformer, and Welles doesn't like the possibilities. Did you hear the
absolute nonsense I salved him with over the phone? Sometimes I think
I've lost my self-respect."
But Ellery was suddenly plunged in thought. His eyes had spied the five
books from French's desk, which now lay on an end-table nearby. With an
indistinct murmur of sympathy, he rose and sauntered over to the table,
fingering the books affectionately. The old man's eyes narrowed.
"Out with it!" he said. "You've discovered something in those books!"
He hopped out of his chair suspiciously.
"Yes, I think I have," replied Ellery slowly. He picked up the five
books and carried them to the breakfast-table. "Sit down, dad. My work
last night wasn't entirely wasted."
They sat down. The Inspector's eyes were bright and curious as he chose
one of the books at random and riffled its pages aimlessly. Ellery
watched him.
"Suppose, dad," said Ellery, "you take up these five books and go
through them. Here's the situation. You have five volumes, the only
fact to go on being that they're queer books for a certain person to
possess. You're looking for a reason to explain why those five books
are where they are. Go to it."
He lit a cigaret thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, blowing
smoke at the paneled ceiling. The Inspector seized on the volumes and
attacked them singly. When he had finished with one, he took up the
next, and so on until he had examined all five. The wrinkles on his
forehead deepened. He looked up at Ellery out of very puzzled eyes.
"Danged if I can see anything remarkable in these books, Ellery. There
doesn't seem to be a point of similarity among them."
Ellery smiled, drew his body forward abruptly. He tapped the books
with a long forefinger for emphasis. "That's exactly why they _are_
remarkable," he said. "There doesn't seem to be a point of similarity.
And in fact, except for one little link, they _haven't_ any points of
similarity."
"You're talking Greek," said the Inspector. "Elucidate."
For answer Ellery rose and disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared
in a moment with a long slip of paper on which were copiously inscribed
in a weird series of scrawled characters a body of notes.
"This," he announced, reseating himself at the table, "is the
result of last night's séance with the ghosts of five authors'
brain-children.... Lend ear, Father Queen.
"The books, by title and author, are as follows--just to make the
analysis entirely clear: _New Developments in Philately_, by Hugo
Salisbury. _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski.
_A Child's History of Music_, by Ramon Freyberg. _An Outline of
Paleontology_, by John Morrison. And finally, _Nonsense Anthology_, by
A. I. Throckmorton.
"Let's analyze these five books.
"Number one. The titles have not the slightest connection with each
other. Because of this fact, we can discard any thought that the
_subject matter_ of the books is relevant to our investigation.
"Number two. The dissimilarity is further heightened by a number of
small points. For example, all the covers are of different colors.
True, there are two blues, but they are of distinct hues. The sizes are
different: three of the books are oversize, and all of these oversizes
have differing dimensions: one of the books is a pocket edition; the
last book is of average size. The bindings are different: three of
them are of cloth, but of different grain; one of them is a de luxe
leather binding; one of them is bound in linen. The inner format is
different. In two cases the paper is light India in shade; in the other
three white is used. Of the white different weights are apparent. The
type-style, on examination, although I know little enough about such
technical matters, is in each instance different. The number of pages
differs also--and their actual enumeration elicits no intelligible
message. They mean nothing.... Even in price they show dissimilarity.
The leather-covered is three-fifty, and the pocket edition is a dollar
and a half. The publishers are different. The dates of issue and number
of editions are different...."
"But Ellery--of course--they're more or less obvious ..." objected the
Inspector. "Where does this lead you?"
"In an analysis," returned Ellery, "nothing is too trivial to be
overlooked. They may mean nothing and they may mean a heap. In any
case, they are definite facts about these five books. And if they point
to nothing else, they certainly indicate that physically the books
differ in practically every respect.
"Number three--and this is the first exciting development--the
right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--let me repeat that: the
right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--has the notation in hard
pencil of a date!"
"A date?" The Inspector snatched one of the books from the table and
turned to the back inside leaf. There, in the upper right-hand corner,
was a tiny penciled date. He examined the other four books and they
exhibited in exactly the same places similar penciled dates.
"If," continued Ellery calmly, "you arrange these dates arbitrarily in
their chronological order this is the result:
4/13/19--
4/21/19--
4/29/19--
5/7 /19--
5/16/19--
"By consulting the calendar I discovered that these dates represent,
progressively as I have given them: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, and Monday."
"That's interesting," muttered the Inspector. "Why is Sunday omitted?"
"A valuable little point," said Ellery. "In four cases we have
consecutive days of the week, one week apart. In one case a
day--Sunday--is skipped. That this is an oversight on the part of the
dater is not likely; that a book is missing is impossible, because the
number of days between the first four dates is eight, and the fifth
is increased only to nine. Plainly, then, Sunday was omitted for the
reason that Sunday is generally omitted--it is a non-working day.
What the work is I haven't at the moment an answer for. But we may
take the irregularity in the case of the Sunday omission as a logical
irregularity which you will find in any part of the business world."
"Follows," commented the Inspector.
"Very well. We now come to point number four. And this is of
considerable interest. Dad, take up the five books and read the titles
in the chronological order of their dates."
The old man obeyed. "_Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani
Wedjowski. The--"
"One moment," interrupted Ellery. "What's the date on the back inside
leaf?"
"April thirteenth."
"What day is April thirteenth?"
"Wednesday."
Ellery's face lit up triumphantly. "Well?" he cried. "Don't you see the
connection?"
The Inspector looked slightly nettled. "Darned if I do.... The second
one is _Nonsense Anthology_, by A. I. Throckmorton."
"Date and day?"
"Thursday, April twenty-first.... The next is _A Child's History of
Music_, by Ramon Freyberg--Friday, April twenty--By jinks, Ellery!
Friday, April twenty-ninth!"
"Yes, go on," said Ellery approvingly.
The Inspector concluded rapidly. "_New Developments in Philately_, by
Hugo Salisbury--and that's _Saturday_, May seventh.... And the last
one is _An Outline of Paleontology_, by John Morrison--_Monday_, of
course.... Ellery, this is really amazing! In every case the _day_
coincides with the first two letters of the author's last name!"
"And that's one of the major results of my all-night session,"
smiled Ellery. "Pretty, isn't it? _We_djowski--Wednesday.
_Th_rockmorton--Thursday. _Fr_eyberg--Friday. _Sa_lisbury--Saturday.
And _Mo_rrison--Monday, with Sunday obligingly omitted. Coincidence?
Hardly, hardly, dad!"
"There's dirty work at the crossroads, all right, my son," said the
Inspector with a sudden grin. "This doesn't make any impression on
me as far as the murder is concerned, but it's mighty interesting
nevertheless. Code, by George!"
"If the murder is worrying you," retorted Ellery, "harken to my point
number five.... We have five dates so far. April thirteenth, April
twenty-first, April twenty-ninth, May seventh, and May sixteenth. Let
us suppose, for the sake of blessed argument, that there is a sixth
book somewhere in limbo. Then, by all the laws of probability, that
sixth book, if it exists, should bear a date eight days from Monday the
sixteenth of May, which is--"
The Inspector leaped to his feet. "Why, this is extraordinary, Ellery,"
he cried. "Tuesday, May twenty-fourth--the day of...." His voice fell
flatly in a curious disappointment. "No, that's not the day of the
murder; it's the day _after_ the murder."
"Now, dad," laughed Ellery, "don't go moping so soon because of a
little thing like that. It _is_ extraordinary, as you say. If a sixth
book is extant, then it bears the date of May twenty-fourth. If we can
do nothing else at this time, we can certainly suppose the existence of
that sixth book. The continuity is too compelling. Things don't merely
happen that way.... This problematical sixth book gives us our first
definite link between the books and the crime.... Dad, has it occurred
to you that our criminal had to _do_ something on Tuesday morning, the
twenty-fourth of May?"
The Inspector stared at him. "You think the book--"
"Oh, I think so many things," said Ellery ruefully, rising and
stretching his lean figure. "But it does seem to me that we have every
reason to believe in the existence of a sixth book. And there is only
one possible clue to that sixth book...."
"It's author's name begins with _Tu_," said the Inspector quickly.
"Exactly." Ellery gathered up the tell-tale volumes and stowed them
carefully away in a drawer of a large desk. He returned to the table
and looked thoughtfully down at his father's grey head with its tiny
pink bald spot.
"All night," he said, "I have felt that one person alone can furnish
me--willingly--with the missing information.... Dad, there is a story
behind these codified books, and the story is undoubtedly tied up with
the crime. I am so positive of that that I'll bet you a dinner at
Pietro's."
"I don't bet," growled the Inspector, twinkling, "at least with you,
you dunderhead. And who's this know-it-all?"
"Westley Weaver," replied Ellery. "And he doesn't know it all. I
believe that he is withholding some information which to him is
meaningless, but which to us may mean a solution of the mystery. I
believe that if for any reason he is deliberately withholding this
information, that reason concerns Marion French. Poor Wes thinks
Marion is up to her knees in the muck of this thing. And perhaps he's
right--who knows? At any rate, if there's one person in this whole
investigation whom I trust implicitly it's Westley. He's a little dense
at times, but he's the real thing.... I do believe I'll have a little
chat with Westley. It may do us all good to have him down here for a
round-table discussion."
He took up the telephone and gave the number of the French store. The
Inspector watched him dubiously as he waited.
"Wes? This is Ellery Queen.... Can you jump into a cab, Westley, and
come down to my place for a half-hour or so? It's quite important....
Yes, drop everything and come over."
26
THE TRAIL TO BERNICE
The Inspector prowled about the apartment in a fever of restlessness.
Ellery completed his toilet in the bedroom and listened calmly to his
father's occasional outbursts of invective against fate, crime and
police commissioners. Djuna, silent as ever, removed the breakfast
things from the living-room table and retired to his kitchenette.
"Of course," said the Inspector in a more lucid moment, "Prouty did say
that he and Knowles were pretty sure Mrs. French was sitting down when
the second shot was fired. That corroborates part of your analysis,
anyway."
"It helps," said Ellery, struggling with his shoes. "Expert testimony
never hurt any trial, especially when the experts are men like Prouty
and Knowles."
Queen snorted. "You haven't seen as many trials as I have.... But
what gets me is that revolver. Knowles says the bullets are from one
of those black .38 Colts that you can buy for a dime a dozen from any
'fence.' Of course, if Knowles could get hold of the gun, he could
absolutely establish that the bullets were shot from it, because
they still retain enough barrel marks of a unique character to make
identification positive. Incidentally, they're both from the same gun.
But how on earth can we get hold of it?"
"You're riddling," said Ellery. "_I_ don't know."
"And without the gun we're terribly short of vital evidence. It isn't
in the French store--the boys have searched from cellar to roof. Then
the murderer took it away with him. Too much to expect that we'll ever
get our hands on it."
"Well," remarked Ellery, putting on a smoking-jacket, "I shouldn't be
so positive. Criminals do stupid things, dad, as you know better than
I. Although I will admit that--"
The doorbell rang imperiously and Ellery started in astonishment. "Why,
that can't be Westley so soon!"
The Inspector and Ellery went into the library and found a very
dignified little Djuna ushering William Crouther, the French store
detective, into the room. Crouther was flushed and excited; he began to
speak at once.
"Morning, gentlemen, morning!" he cried genially. "Resting up after a
hard day, eh, Inspector? Well, I think I've got something you'll be
interested in--yes, sir, that's a fact."
"Glad to see you, Crouther," lied the Inspector, while Ellery's eyes
narrowed as if in anticipation of the news Crouther had to transmit.
"Sit down, man, and tell us all about it."
"Thank you, thank you, Inspector," said Crouther, sinking into the
Inspector's sacred armchair with an explosive sigh. "I haven't been
exactly sleeping myself," he announced as a preliminary, chuckling.
"Did considerable flat-footing last night and I've been on the go since
six this morning."
"Honest toil requireth no reward before heaven," murmured Ellery.
"Eh?" Crouther seemed puzzled, but a grin spread over his florid face
as he fumbled in his breast-pocket and produced two oily cigars.
"Little joke, eh, Mr. Queen? Smoke, Inspector? You, Mr. Queen?... Don't
mind if I do myself." He lit the cigar and flicked the burnt match
carelessly into the fireplace. A pained spasm passed over the face of
Djuna, who was removing the last traces of the breakfast meal from the
table. Djuna was tyrannical when his household was upset. He cast a
venomous glance at Crouther's broad back and stumped away into the
kitchenette.
"Well, Crouther, what is it?" demanded the Inspector with a crackle of
impatience in his voice. "Spill it, spill it!"
"Right you are, Inspector." Crouther lowered his voice mysteriously,
leaning forward toward the two men and emphasizing his forthcoming
remarks with the butt of his fuming cigar. "What do you think I've been
doing?"
"We haven't the slightest idea," said Ellery, with interest.
"I've--been--on--the--trail--of--Bernice Carmody!" whispered Crouther
in a vibrant bass voice.
"Oh!" The Inspector was patently disappointed. He regarded Crouther
morosely. "Is that all? I've got a squad of my best men on the same
job, Crouther."
"Well," said Crouther, leaning back and flicking ashes on the
carpet, "I didn't exactly expect you to kiss me at that statement,
Inspector--that's a fact.... But," his voice lowered cunningly again,
"I'll bet your men didn't get what I got!"
"Oh, you got something, did you?" asked the Inspector quickly. "Now,
that _is_ news, Crouther. Sorry I was so hasty.... Just what is it
you've dug up?"
Crouther leered triumphantly. "The trail of the girl out of the city!"
Ellery's eyes flickered with sincere surprise. "You got that far, did
you?" He turned to his father with a smile. "That seems to be one on
Velie, dad."
The Inspector looked disgruntled and curious at the same time. "I'll be
hanged for a rascal!" he muttered. "How did you do it and what's the
dope exactly, Crouther?"
"It was this way," said Crouther promptly, crossing his legs and
puffing smoke into the air. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.
"I've worked all along--with due respect to you and your boys,
Inspector--on the idea that this Bernice Carmody was done away with.
Kidnapped, murdered--I don't know--but somethin' like that. I felt that
she didn't do the job, although the signs do point to her, and that's a
fact.... So I took the liberty of snoopin' around the French house last
night and seeing what I could see about how the girl got out of the
place. Saw this housekeeper up there and she told me what she told you,
I guess. Don't mind, Inspector?... Anyway, I found out too about that
'special' who saw her walkin' down the Drive toward 72nd Street. That
set me going, and before I got stuck I'd traced her a long way. I found
a cruising cab-driver who said he picked up a woman of her description
on West End Avenue and 72nd. Private cab, it is; and I guess I was just
lucky, that's all. This whole business of trailing is part luck and
part perspiration--fact, ain't it, Inspector?"
"Ummh," said the Inspector sourly. "You've certainly put one over on
Tom Velie. What then? Get any more?"
"Sure did!" Crouther relit his cigar. "Driver took the girl to the
Hotel Astor. She told him to wait for her. She went into the lobby and
in about two minutes came out again with a tall blond man dressed kind
of swell, and carrying a suitcase. They piled into the cab. Driver
said the girl seemed kind of scared, but she didn't say anything, and
the tall man told him to take 'em for a drive through Central Park.
In the Park, just about the middle, man tapped on the window and told
the driver to stop--they were goin' to get out. That was what made the
driver kind of leery, anyway--couldn't ever remember anybody payin'
off in the middle of the Park. But he didn't say anything, and the
blond gent paid the fare and told him to drive off. He did, but not
before he'd caught a look at the girl's face. She was pale and sort
of half-shot--looked drunk, he said. So he just moved off slow and
careless, and kept his eyes open. And sure enough, he saw the pair of
'em go over to a parked car not fifty feet away, get in, and right away
the car shot out of the Park goin' uptown!"
"Well," said the Inspector in a hushed voice, "that's quite a
story. We'll have to look over this cab-driver.... Did he catch the
license-number of the car?"
"Too far away," said Crouther, scowling for an instant. Then his face
cleared. "But he wasn't too far away to spot the fact that it had a
Massachusetts license-plate."
"Excellent, Crouther, excellent!" cried Ellery suddenly, springing to
his feet. "Thank goodness some one has kept his head about him! What
kind of car was it--did your man see?"
"Yep," grinned Crouther, expanding under the praise. "Closed
car--sedan--dark blue--and a Buick. How's that?"
"Mighty nice work," said the Inspector grudgingly. "How did the girl
act on the trip over to the other automobile?"
"Well, the driver couldn't see so well," said Crouther, "but he did
tell me that the girl sort of stumbled and the tall man grabbed her arm
and sort of forced her."
"Slick, slick!" muttered the Inspector. "Did he catch a glimpse of the
driver in the closed car?"
"Nope. But there must have been some one in the Buick, because our man
says the couple climbed into the back, and then the car streaked it
right out of the Park."
"How about this tall blond man, Crouther?" asked Ellery, puffing
furiously at his cigaret. "We should be able to get a fairly complete
description of him from the taxicab driver."
Crouther scratched his head. "Never thought of askin' the guy," he
confessed. "Here, Inspector--how about your boys taking it up from
where I've left off? I got plenty of work at the store, now that things
are shot to pieces down there.... Want this driver's name and address?"
"Certainly." The Inspector wrestled inwardly with a spiritual problem
as Crouther wrote out the name and address. When the store detective
handed it to him it was evident that virtue had won, for he smiled
weakly and stretched out his hand. "Let me congratulate you, Crouther.
That was a good night's work!"
Crouther pumped the Inspector's hand up and down heartily, grinning.
"Glad to help, Inspector--that's a fact. Just goes to prove that us
boys on the outside _do_ know a thing or two, eh? I always say--"
The doorbell trilled, relieving the Inspector of the embarrassment of
having his hand held. Ellery and the old man looked at each other for a
fleeting instant. Then Ellery sprang toward the door.
"Expecting company, Inspector?" asked Crouther broadly. "Don't want to
butt in. I guess I'd better--"
"No, no, Crouther, stay right where you are! I have an idea you may
come in handy," called Ellery rapidly, as he made for the door in the
anteroom.
Crouther beamed and sat down again.
Ellery threw open the door. Westley Weaver, his hair rumpled, a worried
look on his face, walked hurriedly into the apartment.
27
THE SIXTH BOOK
Weaver shook hands all round, expressed surprise at the presence of
Crouther--who shuffled his feet awkwardly and grinned--rubbed his
face with one nervous hand, and then sat down, waiting. He eyed the
Inspector apprehensively.
Ellery, noting this, smiled. "No cause for neurosis, Wes," he said
gently. "This isn't quite a third degree. Have a cigaret, make
yourself comfortable, and listen for a moment."
They drew chairs around the table. Ellery looked at his fingernails
thoughtfully.
"We've been muddling over those books I picked up on the desk in
French's apartment," he began. "And we've discovered some interesting
things there."
"Books?" exclaimed Crouther in a bewildered way.
"Books?" echoed Weaver, but his tone was flat and unconvincing.
"Yes," repeated Ellery, "books. The five volumes that you saw me
puzzling over. Westley," and he looked full into the young man's eyes,
"I have an idea that somewhere at the back of your mind is a lump
of information that we can use. Information about these volumes. To
be perfectly frank, I noticed a queer hesitancy on your part when I
first got my hooks into them. Just what are your scruples--if you have
any--about this story I've laid to you--if there is a story?"
Weaver flushed violently, began to stammer. "Why, Ellery, I never--"
"Look here, Wes." Ellery leaned forward. "There's something on your
mind. If it's Marion, let me tell you here and now that none of us has
the slightest suspicion of the girl. There may be something behind her
nervous attitude, but whatever it is, it isn't criminal, and probably
has little to do directly with the murder of Mrs. French.... Does that
sweep away any scruples in your mind?"
Weaver stared at his friend for a long time. The Inspector and Crouther
sat quietly. Then the young man spoke--in a different voice this time,
a voice colored with a new confidence. "Yes, it does," he said slowly.
"Marion _has_ been on my mind, and her possible connection with the
affair has made me not quite so frank as I might have been. And I do
know something about those books."
Ellery smiled with satisfaction. They waited in silence for Weaver to
collect his thoughts.
"You've had occasion," said Weaver at last, lapsing into a clear
narrative tone, "to mention a man by the name of Springer. I believe
his name arose when you were looking over the night-watchman's chart,
Inspector. You remember that on Monday evening Springer didn't leave
the building until seven o'clock, and that I followed him out directly
after. These facts were recorded on O'Flaherty's chart."
"Springer?" Ellery frowned. The Inspector nodded.
Weaver looked hesitantly at Crouther and then turned to the Inspector.
"Is it all right--?" he began in some embarrassment.
Ellery replied at once for his father. "Perfectly, Wes. Crouther has
been in on the case from the beginning, and I imagine he may be of help
in the future as well. Go ahead."
"Very well, then," said Weaver. Crouther sank back into his chair
complacently. "About two months ago--I forget the exact date--the
Accounting Department brought to the attention of Mr. French certain
suspicious irregularities in the Book Department. Springer, of course,
is head of the department. The irregularities were of a financial
nature, and it was thought that receipts were not commensurate with
the volume of business. It was a confidential matter, and the Old Man
was quite upset about it. There was nothing definite in the Accounting
Department's suspicions, and because the whole business was vague, the
accountants were ordered to forget all about it temporarily, and the
Old Man asked me to conduct a little private investigation of my own."
"Springer, hey?" scowled Crouther. "Funny I didn't hear about it, Mr.
Weaver."
"Mr. French didn't believe," explained Weaver, "that too many people
should know about it. The suspicions were just nebulous enough to call
for secrecy. And because I handle most of the matters connected with
the Old Man personally, he turned to me rather than to any one else....
I couldn't, of course," continued Weaver wearily, "do any scouting
around during the working day. Springer himself was always there. So I
was compelled to do my investigating after hours. I had been checking
up sales slips and records for about three or four days in the Book
Department, after everybody had left the building, as I thought, when
one evening I got wind of something queer. I might say that my few
nights' snooping hadn't got me anywhere--everything seemed all right."
The Queens and Crouther were listening now with strained attention.
"The night I've referred to," went on Weaver, "I was about to enter the
Book Department when I noticed an unusual brightness--a number of lamps
were lit up. My first thought was that somebody was working overtime,
and when I looked in cautiously the thought seemed corroborated. It
was Springer, alone, pottering about in the aisles of the Department.
I don't know exactly what made me keep out of sight--perhaps it was
the fact that I was already suspicious of him--but I did, and watched
curiously to see what he was doing.
"I saw him go over to one of the wall-shelves, after looking around
with a furtive air, and swiftly take down a book. He took a long patent
pencil from his pocket and, opening the book somewhere at the back, he
made a rapid notation with the pencil. He snapped the book shut, made
some sort of mark on the back-board, and immediately placed the book on
a different shelf. I noted that he seemed quite anxious about _how_ he
placed the book; he fussed with it for several moments before he seemed
satisfied. And that was all. He entered his private office in the rear
and reappeared shortly after wearing his hat and coat. He then walked
out of the Department, almost brushing by me as I stood huddled in a
little alcove in the shadow. A few moments later the lights, except for
one or two bulbs kept lit all night, snapped out. I found out later
that he had checked out the regular way, informing the night-watchman
that he was through for the night, and that O'Flaherty should have the
switch for the book section turned off."
"That doesn't seem so flukey to me," said Crouther. "Probably just part
of his job."
"When you're looking for suspicious activity," said the Inspector
vaguely, "you can generally find it."
"I had something of the same thought," replied Weaver. "It was a trifle
peculiar to find Springer working overtime in the first place--the
practice is rather discouraged by Mr. French. But then the incident
itself might be perfectly innocent. I did go over to that shelf after
Springer had gone and inquisitively I took down the book he had just
placed there. I turned to the back and on an inside leaf I found in
pencil a date and a street-and-number address."
"An address?" Both Ellery and the Inspector exclaimed simultaneously.
"What was it?" demanded the Inspector.
"I forget just now," said Weaver, "but I have a note of it in my
pocket. Would you like--?"
"Never mind the address at the moment," said Ellery with a curious
calm. "I'm not quite clear on this matter of the five books I took from
French's desk. Are they the actual books Springer marked?"
"No, they're not," replied Weaver. "But perhaps I had better give
you my story in something like a sequence of incidents. It's rather
complicated.... After noticing the date and address, which I couldn't
figure out at all as far as a possible meaning was concerned, I
examined the back-board on which I had seen Springer write something.
I found it was merely a light pencil-line under the name of the author."
"That back-board fascinated me from the moment you mentioned it," mused
Ellery. "Are you sure, Westley, that the mark was under the _entire_
name? Wasn't it perhaps under _the first two letters_?"
Weaver stared. "Why, so it was," he cried. "But how on earth could you
know, Ellery?"
"Guess-work," said Ellery negligently. "But it follows. No wonder," he
said, turning to his father, "I couldn't get more out of these books,
dad. They aren't the originals.... Go on, Wes."
"I had no reason then," continued Weaver, "to take decisive action
about that book. I merely noted the address and date and, after
slipping the book back into the exact place in which Springer had
originally set it, I went about my business of checking up on
Springer's records. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the whole
thing. It wasn't until the following week--nine days, to be exact--that
the incident was recalled to my mind."
"Springer did the same thing, I'll bet!" cried Crouther.
"Bravo, Crouther," murmured Ellery.
Weaver smiled fleetingly and went on. "Yes, under the same
circumstances Springer did the same thing, and because I had gone down
into the Book Department on my regular nightly check-up, I caught
him at it again. This time I was puzzled to note that he repeated
his performance of the week before in every detail. And the business
still didn't register any meaning in my mind. I merely jotted down
the address and date once more--they were different from the previous
week's, incidentally--and went about my business. It wasn't until the
third week--after eight days had passed--that my suspicions began to
function a little more actively."
"Then," said Ellery, "you took a duplicate of the book, and the book
was _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by a gentleman named Stani
Wedjowski."
"Correct," said Weaver. "On that third occasion, it came to me that the
addresses were of vital importance. What that importance was I had no
idea. But I realized that the books were there for some purpose, and I
decided to try a little experiment. In the case of the Wedjowski book,
after Springer had gone I got another copy of the book, marked the date
in the back for reference, made a private note of the new address, and
took the duplicate book back upstairs with me to study. Perhaps, I
thought, there's something _about_ this book that will enlighten me. I
left the original exactly where Springer had placed it, naturally.
"I studied that book until I was blue in the face. I couldn't
make a thing of it. And I repeated my tactics for the next four
weeks--Springer did his mysterious little job every eight days, I
noticed--and studied my duplicate books very assiduously. They didn't
make sense, and I was getting desperate. I might add that all this
time I had been keeping tabs on Springer's records, and I was just
beginning to see light. Springer was taking advantage of the one
flaw in the departmental system, and was falsifying his accounts in
a devilishly clever manner. And then I knew that the books must have
some significance--whether connected with my own investigation or not
I didn't know. But I had no doubt now that they signified something
crooked.
"At any rate, by the sixth week I was quite desperate. This was Monday
evening--the night of the murder, although I had no idea of what was
going to happen within a few hours. I watched Springer as usual, saw
him go through the customary ritual, and leave. But this time I meant
to do a daring thing. _I took the original book._"
"Good for you!" cried Ellery. He lit a cigaret with unsteady fingers.
"Brilliant, in fact. Go on, Wes; this is tremendously exciting." The
Inspector said nothing; Crouther regarded Weaver with a new respect.
"I duplicated the markings in another book exactly and placed it where
Springer had left the original, which I took away with me. I had to
do these things in a hurry, because I meant to follow Springer that
night to see if I could get any clue from his movements. I was in luck,
because he had stopped to chat with O'Flaherty. As I dashed out of the
building, Springer's latest book under my arm, I was just in time to
see him turn the corner on Fifth Avenue."
"Regular detective," remarked Crouther admiringly.
"Well, hardly," laughed Weaver. "At any rate I followed Springer's
wandering trail all evening. He had dinner alone in a Broadway
restaurant and then went to a movie. I stuck to his trail like the fool
I am, I suppose, because he did nothing at all suspicious, telephoned
no one, spoke to no one, all evening. Finally, about midnight, he got
home--he lives in the Bronx in an apartment house. I watched that house
for an hour--even pussyfooted up to the floor on which his apartment
is. But Springer stayed in. And so I finally went home, still carrying
Springer's book, but no wiser when I left him than when I'd begun to
follow."
"Nevertheless," said the Inspector, "you showed good judgment in
sticking to him."
"What's the title of that sixth book and where is it? How does it
happen that I didn't find it among the five others in French's
apartment? You put the five books there, of course?" asked Ellery
rapidly.
"One at a time," pleaded Weaver, smiling. "The book is _Modern Trends
in Interior Decoration_, by Lucian Tucker...." Ellery and the Inspector
exchanged glances at Weaver's mention of the author's name. "You didn't
find it among the other five because I didn't leave it there. I took it
home with me. You see, I felt all along that the duplicates weren't
important. It was evidently the originals that counted. Perhaps I was
wrong, but I certainly figured that the sixth, being an original, was
more precious than the other five. So I put it in a safe place Monday
night when I got home--my own bedroom. As for the five, the reason I
kept them at the store was that I was studying them at odd moments and
wanted them handy. I didn't want to bother the Old Man about them and
the whole business, because he was having his hands full negotiating
this merger with Whitney, and he always leaves details to me, anyway.
So I merely slipped each book, as I got it, between the book-ends on
the Old Man's desk. I also took away one of the Old Man's books to keep
the count similar, and merely hid them in the bookcase, behind odd
volumes there. In this way, by the end of five weeks the Old Man's five
books had entirely disappeared into the bookcase, and the duplicates of
Springer's books were between the book-ends. I meant to explain if the
Old Man noticed the new volumes on his desk, but he didn't, so I didn't
bother. Those 'favorites' of his are mere atmosphere, anyhow; he'd got
so accustomed to seeing them there on his desk that he sort of took it
for granted they were still there, even though he was up and about that
desk every day for weeks. It often happens that way.... As for Springer
noticing the strange books on the desk, that was impossible. Springer
never had occasion to come to Mr. French's apartment."
"Then I take it," demanded Ellery, with a creeping light of animation
in his eyes, "that you put the five books between the book-ends week
for week? In other words, that the first book, the Wedjowski thing, was
on that desk six weeks ago?"
"Exactly."
"That's _most_ interesting," said Ellery, and subsided in his chair.
The Inspector stirred into action. "Here, Weaver, let's have a look at
those addresses. You have them on you, I think you said?"
For answer, Weaver took a small notebook from his breast-pocket and
extracted a slip of paper. The Inspector, Ellery and Crouther bent
curiously over to read the seven addresses.
"Well, I'll be--" The Inspector's voice was hushed, quietly throbbing.
"Ellery, do you know what these are? Here are _two_ addresses that
Fiorelli's boys have had under suspicion for weeks as depots for the
distribution of dope!"
Ellery dropped back thoughtfully, while Crouther and Weaver stared at
each other. "I'm not particularly surprised," said Ellery. "Two, eh?
That means all seven are probably dope-distributing headquarters ...
changed from week to week ... clever, no doubt about it!" Suddenly he
started forward. "Wes!" he almost shouted, "the sixth address! Where is
it? Quickly!"
Weaver hastily produced another memorandum. The address was a number on
East 98th Street.
"Dad," said Ellery at once, "this is remarkable luck. Do you realize
what we've in our hands? _Yesterday's dope depot!_ The date--May
twenty-fourth--Tuesday--the trail is so hot it sparks!"
"By the lord Harry," muttered the Inspector, "you're right. If that
98th Street place should still be tenanted--I can't see why not--" He
sprang to his feet and reached for the telephone. He gave the number
of Police Headquarters and in a moment was speaking to Sergeant Velie.
He spoke rapidly, had his call switched to the office of the Narcotic
Squad. He spoke tersely to Fiorelli, head of the Squad, and hung up.
"I've just tipped off Fiorelli and they're going to raid that 98th
Street address immediately," he said briskly, taking a pinch of
snuff with practiced fingers. "They're taking Thomas with them, and
they'll stop here to pick us up. I want to be in on this one!" His jaw
stiffened grimly.
"Raid, hey?" Crouther rose and tightened his muscles. "Mind if I go
along, Inspector? Be a picnic for me--that's a fact!"
"No objection at all, Crouther," said the Inspector absently. "You
deserve a bit of the show, anyway.... Fiorelli has raided those two
addresses I recognized, but in each case the birds had shut up shop and
disappeared. Let's hope they haven't had time in this case!"
Ellery opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped his lips together
very firmly. He became thoughtful at once.
Weaver seemed confounded by the bombshell he had caused to explode. He
subsided limply in his chair.
28
UNRAVELING THREADS
They all looked at Ellery in sudden disquiet. Crouther, his mouth
half-open, shut it and began to scratch his head. Weaver and the
Inspector shifted heavily in their chairs at the same instant.
Ellery without a word stepped into the kitchenette. His low voice was
heard murmuring to Djuna. Ellery reappeared, fumbled for his pince-nez
and began to twirl it idly. "The uneasy thought just struck me--and
yet," his face brightened, "it isn't so bad at that!"
He replaced his glasses on his thin nose and rose to his feet, pacing
leisurely up and down before the table. Djuna slipped out of the
kitchenette and left the apartment.
"While we're waiting for the squad wagon," Ellery said, "we may as well
go over some of the ground, in the light of these newest disclosures of
Westley's.
"Does anybody doubt now that French's is being used as an important
medium for drug distribution?"
He challenged them lightly with his eyes. An angry glare lit up
Crouther's heavy features.
"Say, Mr. Queen, that's pretty rough on me," he barked. "I'm not
denying this Springer guy is a crook--don't see how it could be
otherwise--but how do you figure out a dope ring's been operating right
under our noses at the store?"
"Keep your shirt on, Crouther," said Ellery mildly. "They've merely
put one over on the French establishment. What an opportunity," he
went on, in the tone of one who finds much to admire, "for a drug
ring! Using a no doubt simple code, which is already fairly clarified
in my mind, transmitting it through innocent books, and setting the
whole business in the respectable domain of the head of the Anti-Vice
League himself! That's a stroke of genius, that is.... Look here. There
can't be an alternative. We find at intervals of eight days--the only
exception being one of nine, and this is plausibly accounted for by
the intervention of Sunday--the head of the Book Department marking an
address in--and this is one of the beautiful elements of the scheme--in
little-used, stodgy books.... Did you notice that the date in each book
was _not_ the date when Springer prepared it? No, in every case it was
for the day _following_. The book marked Wednesday, by the author whose
name began with WE, was placed on the _same_ shelf ... it was the same
shelf every week, wasn't it, Wes?"
"Yes."
"The book marked for Wednesday, then, was placed on the same shelf
as all the others on Tuesday evening. The Thursday book on Wednesday
evening the week following, and soon. What could this possibly mean?
Obviously, that Springer didn't allow too much time to elapse between
the evening he prepared the book with the address and _the time it was
to be picked up_!"
"Picked up?" demanded the Inspector.
"Of course. Everything points to a well-constructed plan of
operation in which Springer's main job was to inform some one of an
address through the medium of a book. If Springer could inform that
problematical person or persons by word of mouth, why the complicated
book-code system? No. The probability is that Springer knows the people
who come in to pick up his doctored volumes, but that they, being mere
pawns, don't know him. But this is really beside the point. The crux of
the matter is that Springer would not allow the prepared book to linger
on the shelf too long. It might be purchased; the address in it might
inadvertently be noticed by a stranger. Dad, if you were in Springer's
place, how would you arrange _the time_ when the book should be picked
up?"
"Seems clear. If Springer prepared it at night, then he would have it
picked up in the morning."
Ellery smiled. "Exactly. What risk then does he run? He writes the
address in the book after hours, when the book cannot be removed that
night in a legitimate way by an outsider; and the very next morning
the appointed messenger takes it from its place on the shelf--a place
of course set definitely when the plan was originally concocted. The
chances are, in fact, that the messenger arrives as early as possible
the next morning--perhaps as soon as the store opens, at nine o'clock.
He browses around, goes over to the shelf finally, picks up the book he
knows about in advance through a sign which I'll explain in a moment,
pays for it in the regular way and walks out with his information under
his arm--safe, clean and ridiculously easy.
"Now! There are a few inferences to be drawn. We must suppose that
when the messenger arrives in the morning he has no contact with
Springer--really, everything points to this complete alienation
between Springer and the messenger, with one or both ignorant of the
other's identity. Then the only clue the messenger has to the book
fixed the night before is a code, or system, arranged beforehand.
That's just common sense. But what could the code be? And that is the
beautiful part of the plan.
"Why, I asked myself, was it necessary to the plan to have the
author's name--at least its first two letters--coincide with the first
two letters of the day on which the book was to be picked up by the
messenger? The question is answered if we suppose complete ignorance
of detail on the part of the messenger. If, when he got his job,
his first instructions, he was told the following, then the whole
procedure becomes clear: 'Every week you are to call at the French Book
Department for a book which will contain an address. The book will be
on the top shelf of the fourth tier of book-racks situated in such
and such a place in the Department. The book will always be on that
shelf.... Now. Every week you are to call on a different day. Eight
days apart, to be exact. Except when Sunday intervenes, and then it
will be nine days--from the preceding Saturday to the following Monday.
Let us say the morning you are due to call for the book is a Wednesday.
Then the book you should pick up will be by an author whose last name
begins with a _WE_, to correspond to the _WE_ of Wednesday. To make
identification absolutely positive, and to get you out of the Book
Department as quickly as possible, so that you will not be compelled
to rummage through every book on that shelf, a light pencil-mark will
appear on the first two letters of the author's name, positively
identifying the proper volume. You pick up the book, look at the back
inner leaf to make sure the address is there, then buy the book and
walk out of the store.'... Does that sound plausible?"
There was a vehement chorus of assents from the three men.
"It's a devilishly ingenious scheme," said Ellery thoughtfully, "if a
little complicated. Really, though, the complications iron themselves
away with the passage of time. The beauty of the plan is that the
messenger needs his instructions _only once_, the first time, and he
can carry on indefinitely, for months, without a slip-up.... The next
Thursday he has to look for a pencil-mark on a book whose author's
last name begins with _TH_; the Friday following, an _FR_; and so on.
What the messenger does with the book when he gets it is debatable.
From the look of things, this is a highly centralized society of drug
distributors, with the pawns in the game knowing as little as possible
about the business at hand, probably being kept in complete ignorance
of the ringleader or leaders. The question naturally arises--"
"But why," asked Weaver, "that period of _eight_ days? Why not merely
every week on the same day?"
"A good question, and it has, I think, a simple answer," replied
Ellery. "These people were taking not the slightest chance of a
slip-up. If a certain person came into the Book Department at nine
o'clock _every Monday_, he might after a time be noticed and remarked
on. But coming in on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Wednesday, all
a week and a day apart, there was little likelihood that he would be
remembered."
"My God, what a racket!" muttered Crouther. "No wonder we never got
wind of it!"
"Clever's no name for it," sighed the Inspector. "Then you think,
Ellery, that the addresses are all local 'joints' for the selling of
the dope?"
"No question about it," said Ellery, lighting another cigaret. "And
while we're remarking about cleverness, how does this strike you?
The ring never uses the same address twice! That's patent from the
different address each week. And it's apparent, too, that their system
of distribution makes it a methodical weekly affair. Your Narcotic
Squad has a chance to ferret out a drug depot if it's used week after
week; people notice suspicious activity, perhaps; the address and the
word go around through the grapevine of the underworld. But how can
your Squad ever get on the track of a gang which uses a _different_
depot every week? Why, the scheme is amazing. As it is, Fiorelli did
get wind of two of the addresses through informers or stool-pigeons;
the fact that he didn't get any other shows how holeproof the plot
really is. And of course, when he raided the places, he found the ring
gone--cleared out. They probably have an afternoon _soirée_ week after
week and dismantle the place immediately after the last customer's gone.
"Now consider how safe the ring really is. They must have a regular
channel of communication with their customers--and I suspect it's a
limited list. Too many would be dangerous by their very numbers. That
means, then, that the customers are wealthy, probably society people,
who get a weekly tipoff by telephone, we'll say--just an address. They
know the rest. And what can the customer do? What does he _want_ to do?
We all know the desperate, uncontrollable craving of the addict for his
drug. Here he has a safe source of supply, and what's more important, a
regular source of supply. No--the customers aren't blabbing. What could
be sweeter?"
"It staggers the imagination," muttered the Inspector. "What a plan!
But if we clean them up this time--!"
"I need only refer to the well-known cup and the better-known lip,"
laughed Ellery. "However, we'll see.
"Some questions arise, as I began to say a few moments ago, more
directly applicable to the murder. We may certainly presume that
Bernice is--or was--one of the ring's customers. And I do believe
that shady, mysterious motive of which we haven't been able to grasp
the merest shadow, is beginning to emerge into daylight. Winifred
French was not an addict. She carried in her bag a lipstick belonging
to Bernice and filled with heroin.... And carried it to her death.
A strong line of incident, dad! Very, very strong.... Interesting,
isn't it, especially since we haven't been able to discover any other
motive for the crime? But motive won't mean much in the unraveling
of this case, I'm afraid; the big job is to corral the murderer and
also to round up the drug ring. A dual task which presents to my
deduction-weary mind a suggestion of difficulty....
"Another question. Is Springer pawn or king in this drug game? My guess
is--he's on the inside, knows all the facts, but is not top man. And
the question naturally arises, too--did Mr. Springer fire the lethal
weapon aimed at Mrs. French's heart? I'd rather not go into that at the
moment.
"And finally, doesn't this business of the drug ring indicate that
Winifred's murder--and Bernice's disappearance--are integral parts of
the same crime, rather than two unrelated crimes? I think it does, but
I cannot see how we shall ever get to the truth of the matter unless--a
certain eventuality occurs. Deponent being temporarily out of wind,
deponent will sit down and think of the case _in toto_."
And Ellery, without another word, seated himself and worried his
pince-nez in a thoroughly absent manner.
The Inspector, Weaver and Crouther sighed all at once.
They were sitting that way, silently, looking at each other, when
a short siren blast from the street below announced the arrival of
Fiorelli, Velie and the raiding party.
29
RAID!
The police van, crammed with detectives and officers, rushed through
the West Side, headed uptown. Traffic opened magically before
its wailing siren. Hundreds of eyes followed its reckless course
wonderingly.
The Inspector shouted to a grim and chagrined Velie, above the roar
of the exhaust, Crouther's story of the lone taxicab driver and the
mysterious automobile with the Massachusetts license-plate. The
Sergeant gloomily promised an immediate check-up on the chauffeur's
story and dissemination of the new information to all his operatives
on the trail of the vanished girl. Crouther sat chuckling by his side
as Velie took from the Inspector's hand the name and address of the
cab-driver.
Weaver had been excused, and with the arrival of the van had left to
return to the French store.
Fiorelli sat quietly chewing his fingernails. His face was haggard and
feverish as he pulled the Inspector to one side.
"Had a bunch of boys beat it up to the 98th Street address beforehand
to surround the house," he boomed hoarsely. "Not taking any chances on
their doing a fade-away. The boys are keeping under cover, but they
won't let a rat slip through the net!"
Ellery sat calmly in the van, watching the crowds jump into view and
disappear. His fingers thrummed a rhythmic tattoo on the iron mesh
obscuring the view.
The powerful truck turned into 98th Street and dashed eastward. The
neighborhood thickened, grew squalid. As the van plunged further toward
the East River the on-rushing scene became one of ramshackle buildings
and ramshackle humanity....
At last the police car ground to a stop. A man in plain clothes had
stepped suddenly from a doorway into the middle of the street,
pointing meaningly toward a low, two-story building of rotten wood and
peeled paint, leaning crazily over the sidewalk as if the slightest
convulsion of nature would topple it, a brittle wreck, into the gutter.
The front door was closed. The windows were heavily shaded. The house
looked tenantless, lifeless.
With the first grinding of the van's brakes, a dozen men in plain
clothes ran into view from odd corners and doorways. Several in the
dilapidated backyard of the house drew guns and advanced on the rear of
the building. An avalanche of policemen and detectives poured out of
the truck, headed by Fiorelli, Velie and the Inspector, Crouther close
behind, and ran up the crumbling wooden steps to the front door.
Fiorelli pounded fiercely on the cracked panels. There was not a
whisper of audible response. At a sign from Inspector, Queen Velie
and Fiorelli put their formidable shoulders to the door and shoved.
The wood splintered and the door cracked back, revealing a dim, musty
interior, a broken old chandelier, and a flight of uncarpeted steps
leading up to a second floor.
The police streamed into the building, investing both floors
simultaneously, opening doors, pushing into corners, guns ready.
And Ellery, sauntering leisurely behind, openly amused at the
psychology of the gaping mob which had miraculously gathered outside
the house, kept back by the clubs of several bluecoats, saw at once
that the raid was a failure.
The house was empty, without the least sign of occupancy.
30
REQUIEM
They stood about in one of the dusty, deserted rooms--an old-fashioned
parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely
proclaiming its fall upon evil days--and talked quietly. Fiorelli was
beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of
slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked
glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of
the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the
detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was
one to be found in the neighborhood.
Ellery said nothing.
The detective returned shortly with a strapping, livid Negro.
"Do you take care of this house?" asked the Inspector brusquely of the
Negro.
The Negro removed his rusty derby and shuffled his feet. "'Spects so,
yassuh!"
"What are you--janitor, superintendent?"
"Kinda, suh. Ah takes care of a whole passel o' houses on dis block.
Rents 'em fo' de ownahs when a tenant comes 'long."
"I see. Was this house occupied yesterday?"
The Negro bobbed his head vigorously. "Yassuh! 'Bout fo'-five days ago
party comes 'long an' rents de whole house. Da's wha' de agent says
when he brung 'm down. Paid de agent cash money fo' a month. Saw it wiv
mah own eyes."
"What sort of man was the tenant?"
"Kinda shortish an' had a long black mustache, suh."
"When did he move in?"
"De nex' day--Sunday, Ah don' doubt. Van come moseyin' down wiv some
fu'niture."
"Did you see the name of the van company on the truck?"
"Nosuh, sho' didn't. Dey weren't none. One o' dese open trucks wiv de
sides covuhed wiv black ta'paulin. No name on de truck a-tall."
"Did you see the man with the black mustache around much?"
The Negro scratched his short woolly thatch. "Nosuh, kain't say Ah did.
Don't believe Ah seed him a-tall till yestiddy mo'nin'."
"How was that?"
"Dat's when he moved out agin, suh. Didn't say nuffin' to me, but jes'
about eleven o'clock in de mo'nin' de same truck she rolls up to de do'
and de two drivuhs dey goes into de house an' purty soon dey stahts
pilin' de fu'niture out o' de house an' into de truck. Didn't take 'em
long--dey wan't much fu'niture, an' den Ah sees de boss-man come out o'
de house, say sumpin' to de drivuhs, an' walk away. De truck went away,
too. Yassuh, an' de boss-man jes' flung dat key de agent gave'm right
out deah on de stoop o' de house befo' he walked off. Yassuh."
The Inspector spoke in a low voice to Velie for a moment, then turned
back to the Negro.
"Did you see anybody go into the house during the four days?" asked the
Inspector. "Especially Tuesday afternoon--yesterday?"
"Why--yassuh, yestiddy, but not befo'. Mah old 'ooman, she sets out
yonduh gen'ally all day, an' she told me las' night dat dey was a
whole raft o' white folks comin' up to dat empty house all yestiddy
aftuhnoon. Dey was all kinda put out when dey saw de house was closed.
Oh, 'bout a dozen of 'em. Dey all went away quick."
"That'll do," said the Inspector slowly. "Give your name and address
and the name of the realty company you're working for to that man over
there, and keep your mouth tight about all this. Remember!"
The Negro stiffened, mumbled, stammered the required information to a
detective of the Narcotic Squad, and shuffled rapidly from the room.
"Well, that settles it," said Inspector Queen to Velie, Fiorelli,
Ellery and Crouther, who were grouped together. "They got wind and beat
it. Something made 'em suspicious and they had to clear out--didn't
even have time to distribute the dope to their customers. There must be
a dozen mighty sick addicts in the city to-day."
Fiorelli made a disgusted gesture. "Aw, let's fade," he growled. "They
got a jinx on me, that gang."
"Tough luck," said Crouther. "That must have been fast work."
"I'm going to trace that truck, if I can," said Velie. "Want to help,
Crouther?" He smiled sardonically.
"Hey, lay off," said Crouther good-naturedly.
"Don't quarrel, now," sighed the Inspector. "You might try, Thomas, but
I have a notion that's a privately owned truck that operates only on
the ring's jobs. And I suppose that now the gang is scared off, we'll
not pick up their trail again in a hurry. Eh, Ellery?"
"I suggest," said Ellery, speaking for the first time since the raid,
"that we go home. We've met our Waterloo for--" he smiled sadly--"to
put it mildly, the nonce."
Fiorelli and Velie mustered the squad of officers and took the police
van back to Headquarters, leaving a bluecoat on guard outside the 98th
Street shack. Crouther, poking Velie slyly in the ribs as the burly
Sergeant swung into the truck, departed early for the French store.
"They'll be sendin' out an alarm for me," he grinned. "After all, I got
a job."
He hailed a cruising taxicab which headed west and south. The Queens
followed suit in another cab.
Ellery took out his thin silver watch in the car and stared at its dial
with amused eyes. The Inspector regarded him in a puzzled way.
"I can't see why you want to go home," he grumbled. "I'm a long time
overdue at my office now. There must be a pile of work on my desk. I've
missed the morning line-up for the first time in months, and I suppose
Welles has called again, and--"
Ellery stared fixedly at his watch, a faint smile on his lips. The
Inspector subsided, muttering.
Ellery paid the cab-driver when the taxi drew up before their
brownstone on 87th Street, herded his father gently upstairs, and did
not speak until Djuna had closed the door behind them.
"Ten minutes," he announced with satisfaction, snapping the watchcase
shut and returning the watch to his vest-pocket. "That's average time,
I should say, from 98th Street and the River to 87th Street on the
other side." He grinned and threw off his light coat.
"Have you gone fay?" gasped the Inspector.
"Like a fox," said Ellery. He took up the telephone and called
a number. "French's? Connect me with Mr. Springer in the Book
Department.... Hello, Book Department? Mr. Springer, please.... What?
Who is this speaking?... Oh, I see.... No, it's quite all right. Thank
you!"
He hung up.
The Inspector was twisting his mustache in an agony of apprehension. He
glared at Ellery. "Do you mean to say that Springer's--" he began in a
thunderous voice.
Ellery seemed not perturbed. "I'm so glad," he said with sly
simplicity. "Mr. Springer, according to his young lady assistant, was
taken suddenly ill not five minutes ago and left in something of a
hurry, saying he would not return to-day."
The old man sank into his chair worriedly. "How under heaven could I
have anticipated this?" he said. "I surely thought he'd keep until
later in the day. Return, he said, did he? We'll never set eyes on him
again!"
"Oh, but you shall," said Ellery gently.
And quoth Ellery: "'Preparation is half the battle, and nothing is lost
by being on one's guard.' The good Spanish don uttered a homely truth
there, padre!"
31
ALIBIS: MARION-ZORN
Muttering imprecations upon the elusive head of James Springer,
the Inspector departed for a flying visit to Headquarters, leaving
Ellery hunched comfortably before the open dormer-window, smoking and
thinking. Djuna, in his uncanny simian way, sat motionless on the floor
at his feet, unblinking in the soft glare of sunlight streaming into
the room.... When the Inspector returned two hours later Ellery, still
smoking, was seated at the desk reading over a batch of notes.
"Still at it?" asked Queen with quick concern, hurling his hat and coat
toward a chair. Djuna noiselessly picked them up and hung them in a
closet.
"Still at it," rejoined Ellery. But there was a deep wrinkle between
his brows. He rose, looked reflectively at his notes, then with a sigh
replaced them in the desk and shrugged his shoulders. The wrinkle
disappeared, dissolved smoothly into small fine lines of humor as he
caught sight of his father's worried mustache and high color.
"Nothing new downtown?" he asked sympathetically. He sat down at the
window again.
Queen paced nervously up and down the rug. "Little enough. Thomas has
looked up that cab-driver of Crouther's--and we've driven up another
blind alley, it seems. The man gave us a pretty clear description of
this tall blond abductor, and of course we've flashed wires through
the entire East. Particularly Massachusetts. With a description of the
car and Bernice Carmody. Now I suppose we'll have to wait...."
"Umm." Ellery flicked the ashes from his cigaret. "Waiting won't bring
Bernice Carmody back from the grave," he said in sudden earnestness.
"And there's still a chance she may be alive.... I shouldn't confine my
search to the northeast, dad. This gang is clever. They may have pulled
the old license-plate trick. They may actually have headed south,
changed cars--any one of a dozen things. In fact, if you found Bernice
Carmody, dead or alive, right here in New York City, it wouldn't
surprise me in the least. After all, the trail ended in Central
Park...."
"Thomas has his eyes open and his beaters out," said the Inspector
disconsolately. "And he's up to the tricks as well as you, my son. If
there's the faintest spoor, he'll follow it--and get not only the girl
but the man too."
"_Cherchez la femme_," said Ellery lightly.... He sat musing. The
Inspector placed his hands behind his small back and strode up and
down, eying Ellery in a puzzled manner meanwhile.
"Marion French called me at Headquarters," he stated suddenly.
Ellery's head lifted slowly. "Yes?"
The old man chuckled. "I thought that would get you!... Yes, the girl
called several times this morning while I was here, and when I finally
got to the office she seemed quite feverish with--well, not excitement
exactly, but anticipation. So, being thoughtful of you, my son--which
is more than you can say about yourself, incidentally--I asked her to
meet me here."
Ellery merely smiled.
"I suppose Weaver's been talking to her," continued the Inspector
grumpily.
"Dad!" Ellery laughed outright. "Occasionally you positively startle me
with your insight...."
The doorbell rang, and Djuna ran to answer it. Marion French, dressed
in a severe black suit and a pert little black hat, her chin set at a
charmingly defiant angle, stood outside.
Ellery sprang to his feet, his fingers straying to his tie. The
Inspector stepped forward quickly and opened wide the anteroom door.
"Come in, come in, Miss French!" He was all smiles and fatherliness.
Marion smiled bewilderingly at Djuna and greeted the Inspector in a
grave undertone as she walked into the living-room. She blushed at
Ellery's warm words of welcome. And sat down in the Inspector's own
armchair at his magnanimous command, perched on the edge of the leather
seat, hands tightly clasped, chiseled lips firm.
Ellery stood by the window. The Inspector drew up a chair and sat close
to the girl, facing her.
"Now, what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my dear?" he asked in
a conversational tone.
Marion's glance flew timidly to Ellery and returned. "I--It's about--"
"About your visit to Mr. Zorn's place Monday evening, Miss French?"
inquired Ellery, smiling.
She gasped. "Why--why, you knew!"
Ellery made a deprecatory gesture. "It is hardly knowledge. Some call
it guessing."
The Inspector's eyes bored into hers. But his voice was gentle now.
"Has Mr. Zorn a hold over you--or is it a matter more directly
concerned with your father, my dear?"
She stared from one to the other as if she could not believe her ears.
"To think--" She laughed a trifle hysterically. "And I thought all
the while that it was a deep, dark secret...." A shadow seemed to
lift from her face all at once. "I suppose you want a coherent story.
You have heard, Westley tells me--" she bit her lip and crimsoned--"I
shouldn't have said that--he told me _particularly_ not to say we'd
discussed this...." Both the Inspector and Ellery laughed aloud at her
_naïveté_. "At any rate," she went on, smiling faintly, "I gather that
you've heard about--about my stepmother and Mr. Zorn.... Really, it was
more gossip than anything else!" she cried. She calmed immediately.
"But I wasn't sure. And we all tried--so hard--to keep the nasty rumors
from father. I'm afraid we weren't entirely successful." Fear suddenly
flamed in her eyes. She stopped short and looked down at the floor.
Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. "Go on, Miss French," said
the Inspector in the same soothing tone.
"Then"--she spoke more rapidly now--"I overheard, quite by accident,
something that confirmed part of the rumors. Nothing--it hadn't gone
far, their affair, but it was getting dangerous. Even I could see
that.... That's the way things were on Monday."
"You told your father?" asked Queen.
She shivered. "Oh, no! But I had to save daddy's health, his
reputation, his--his peace of mind. I didn't even take Westley into my
confidence. He would have forbidden me to do--what I did. I called on
Mr. Zorn--and his wife."
"Go on."
"I went to their apartment. I was frankly desperate. It was just after
dinner and I knew they'd both be at home. And I wanted Mrs. Zorn to be
there, because she knew--and she was as jealous as a witch. She'd even
threatened--"
"Threatened, Miss French?" demanded the Inspector.
"Oh, it was nothing, Inspector," said Marion hurriedly, "but it told
me that she knew what was going on. And it was as much her fault
that Mr. Zorn fell in love with--with Winifred as anything. Mrs.
Zorn is--oh, quite awful...." She smiled wanly. "You'll think me a
scandalous gossip.... But before both of them I accused Mr. Zorn,
and--and told him it must stop. Mrs. Zorn flew into a terrible rage and
began to swear. All her spite turned against Winifred. She threatened
dire things. Mr. Zorn tried to argue with me, but--I suppose the
weight of two women railing at him just sapped his strength. He left
his apartment in a huff--left me with that awful woman. She looked
almost insane...." Marion shuddered. "So I became a little frightened
and--well, I suppose it _was_ a good deal like running. I could hear
her screaming even in the corridor.... And--and that's all, Inspector
Queen, that's all," she faltered. "When I left the Zorns' apartment it
was a little after ten. I felt weak and sick. I really did walk in the
Park, as I told you yesterday at the store. I walked and walked until
I thought I'd drop from exhaustion, and then I went home. It was just
about midnight."
There was a little silence. Ellery, watching the girl impassively,
turned his head away. The Inspector cleared his throat.
"You went directly to bed, Miss French?" he asked.
The girl stared at him. "Why, what do you mean?... I--" Fright gleamed
again in her eyes. But she said courageously, "Yes, Inspector, I did."
"Did any one see you come into the house?"
"No--no."
"You saw no one, spoke to no one?"
"No."
The Inspector frowned. "Well! At any rate, Miss French, you did the
right thing--the only thing--in telling us about it."
"I didn't want to," she said in a small voice. "But Westley, when I
told him to-day, said I must. And so--"
"Why didn't you want to?" asked Ellery. It was the first time he had
spoken since Marion had begun her story.
The girl did not speak for a long moment. Finally, with a determined
expression, she said: "I'd rather not answer that, Mr. Queen," and rose.
The Inspector was on his feet instantly. He escorted her to the door in
an animate silence.
When he returned, Ellery was chuckling. "As transparent as any angel,"
he said. "Don't frown so, dad. Have you checked up on our good friend
Cyrus French?"
"Oh, that!" The Inspector looked unhappy. "Yes, I had Johnson working
on it last night. Got his report this morning. He was at Whitney's
in Great Neck, all right. I understand he had a slight attack of
indigestion about nine o'clock Monday night. Retired immediately."
"Coincidence?" Ellery grinned.
"Eh?" Queen scowled. "At any rate, that accounts for him."
"Oh, yes?" Ellery sat down and crossed his long legs. "Purely as an
intellectual exercise," he said mischievously, "it does nothing of the
kind. You see, old Cyrus retires at nine. Let us assume that he wishes
to return to New York without the knowledge of his host. Suddenly. That
night. He slips out of the house and goes trudging down the road....
Hold! Did any one see him leave so early in the morning in Whitney's
car?"
The Inspector stared. "The chauffeur, of course--man who drove him into
the city. Johnson told me French left long before any one else was up.
But the chauffeur!"
Ellery chuckled. "Better and better," he said. "Chauffeurs can be
hushed. It has been done.... Our worthy anti-vicious magnate, then,
slips out of the house; perhaps his accomplice, the chauffeur, even
drives him down to the station secretly. There's a train about that
hour. I know, because I took one three weeks ago Monday night when
I returned from Boomer's. And it's only a half-hour or so into Penn
Station. In time to slip through the freight-door...."
"But he'd have to stay all night!" groaned the Inspector.
"Granted. But then there's a sagacious chauffeur to alibi one.... You
see how simple it is?"
"Oh, tosh!" exploded the Inspector.
"I didn't say it wasn't," said Ellery, eyes twinkling. "But it's
something to bear in mind."
"Fairy-tales!" growled the Inspector, and then they laughed together.
"I've arranged to get those alibis, by the way. I called Zorn from the
office and told him to come down here. I want to see how his story
checks up with Marion French's. And what he did after ten last night."
Ellery lost his bantering air. He looked dissatisfied, rubbed his
forehead wearily. "It might be wise," he said, "to get all those alibis
clear, at that. Mightn't be a bad idea to get Mrs. Zorn down here, too.
And I'll emulate the Stoics meanwhile."
The Inspector made a number of telephone calls, while Djuna went
rapidly through telephone directories, and Ellery slumped into an
easy-chair and closed his eyes....
A half-hour later Mr. and Mrs. Zorn sat in the Queen living-room side
by side, facing Inspector Queen. Ellery was far off in a corner, almost
hidden by a jutting bookcase.
Mrs. Zorn was a large-boned woman, well fleshed and rosy. Her
too-golden hair was cut in a severe, startling bob. She had cold green
eyes and a large mouth. She looked, at first glance, under thirty; on
closer observation, faint crinkles around her chin and eyes added ten
years to her appearance. She was dressed in the height of fashion and
carried herself with an air of arrogance.
Despite Marion's story, Mr. and Mrs. Zorn seemed on the most amicable
of terms. Mrs. Zorn acknowledged her husband's introduction of the
Inspector with regal graciousness; she punctuated each remark to Zorn
with a sweet "My dear...."
The Inspector examined her shrewdly with his eyes, and decided not to
mince words.
He turned first to Zorn. "I have called you, as a logical step in this
inquiry, to explain your movements on the night of Monday past, Mr.
Zorn."
The director's hand strayed to his bald pate. "Monday night? The
night--of the murder, Inspector?"
"Exactly."
"Are you insinuating--" Rage leaped into his eyes behind their heavy
gold-rimmed spectacles. Mrs. Zorn made the least gesture with a finger.
Zorn calmed magically. "I had dinner," he said, as if nothing had
happened, "at our apartment with Mrs. Zorn. We stayed in all evening.
At ten o'clock or so I left the apartment and went directly to the
Penny Club on Fifth Avenue and 32nd Street. I met Gray there and
we discussed the Whitney merger for a half-hour or so. I developed
a headache and told Gray I thought I'd try to walk it off. We said
good-night and I left the Club. I did take a long walk up the Avenue
and, in fact, walked all the way home to 74th Street."
"And what time was that, Mr. Zorn?" asked the Inspector.
"I should say about a quarter to twelve."
"Was Mrs. Zorn up--did she see you?"
The large rosy woman chose to reply for her husband. "No, Inspector,
no indeed! I had dismissed the servants for the night a little after
Mr. Zorn left the apartment, and I'd gone to bed myself. I fell
asleep almost immediately, and didn't hear him come in." She smiled,
exhibiting huge white teeth.
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand how--" began the Inspector
courteously.
"Mr. Zorn and I have separate sleeping apartments, Inspector Queen,"
she said, dimpling.
"Umm." The Inspector turned once more to Zorn, who had sat perfectly
still during this colloquy. "Did you meet any one you knew during your
walk, Mr. Zorn?"
"Why--no."
"When you entered your apartment house, did any of the house personnel
see you?"
Zorn fumbled with his massive red mustache. "I'm afraid not. There's
only a night-man at the switchboard after eleven, and when I came in he
was absent from his post."
"The elevator, I suppose, is of the self-service type?" asked Queen
dryly.
"Yes--that's correct."
The Inspector turned to Mrs. Zorn. "At what time did you see your
husband in the morning--Tuesday morning?"
She raised her blond brows archly. "Tuesday morning--let me see.... Oh,
yes! It was ten o'clock."
"Fully dressed, Mrs. Zorn?"
"Yes. He was reading his morning paper when I came into our
living-room."
The Inspector smiled, quite wearily, and rose to take a short turn
about the room. Finally he stopped before Zorn and fixed him with a
stern eye. "Why haven't you told me about Miss French's visit to your
apartment Monday evening?"
Zorn grew very still. The effect of Marion's name on Mrs. Zorn was
startling. The color drained from her face and her pupils dilated
tigerishly. It was she who spoke.
"That----!" she said in a low passionate voice. But her body was tense
with anger. The mask of politeness fell from her face and revealed an
older woman--shrewish, cruel.
The Inspector seemed not to hear. "Mr. Zorn?" he said.
Zorn moistened his lips with a nervous tongue. "That's true--true
enough. I didn't see that it had anything to do.... Yes, Miss French
visited us. She left about ten o'clock."
The Inspector made an impatient movement. "You talked about your
relations with Mrs. French, Mr. Zorn?" he asked.
"Yes, yes. That's it." The words tumbled out, gratefully.
"Mrs. Zorn flew into a rage?"
The woman's eyes darted cold green fire. Zorn mumbled, "Yes."
"Mrs. Zorn." The eyes became veiled. "You went to bed shortly after
ten Monday night and did not leave your chamber until ten o'clock the
following morning?"
"Right, Inspector Queen."
"In that case," concluded the Inspector, "there is nothing more to be
said--now."
When the Zorns had departed, the Inspector saw that Ellery was sitting
in his forgotten corner laughing silently to himself.
"I fail to see the joke," said the old man ruefully.
"Oh, dad--the mess and mire of it!" cried Ellery. "_La vie c'est
confusée!_ How beautifully events belie each other.... What do you make
of your late interview?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," growled the Inspector, "but
I know one thing. _Any one_ who can't be accounted for by the visual
evidence of witnesses between eleven-thirty o'clock Monday night and a
little after nine on Tuesday morning might have done this job. Let's
take a hypothetical case. Suppose X is a possibility as the murderer. X
is not seen after eleven-thirty Monday night. He says he went home and
went to sleep. There is no witness. Suppose he didn't go home. Suppose
he slipped into the French store through that freight-entrance. And got
out the next morning at nine. Returned home, sneaked into his apartment
without any one seeing him, and then reappeared about ten-thirty or
so, letting lots of people see him. The presumption is that he slept
home all night and therefore couldn't have committed the crime. Yet
physically it was possible...."
"Too true, too true," murmured Ellery. "Well, evoke the next victim."
"He should be here any moment now," said the Inspector, and went into
the bathroom to bathe his perspiring face.
32
ALIBIS: MARCHBANKS
Marchbanks glowered. He bore himself with the sullenness of a man who
nurses a grudge. He snapped at the Inspector and ignored Ellery. He
deposited his stick and hat on the table with a bang, rudely refusing
to allow Djuna to take them from him. He sat down uninvited and drummed
nastily on the arm of the chair.
"Well, sir," thought the Inspector, "we'll have at _you_." He took
a pinch of snuff with deliberation, regarding Marchbanks curiously.
"Marchbanks," he said in curt tones, "where were you Monday evening and
night?"
The dead woman's brother scowled. "What's this--a third degree?"
"If you choose to make it so," retorted the Inspector, in his most
unpleasant voice. "I repeat--where were you Monday night?"
"If you must know," said Marchbanks bitingly, "I was out on Long
Island."
"Oh, Long _Island_!" The Inspector seemed duly impressed. "When did you
go, where did you go, and how long did you stay?"
"You people always insist on a 'story,'" wheezed Marchbanks, setting
his feet solidly on the rug. "Very well. I left town at about seven
o'clock Monday evening. In my car...."
"You drove yourself?"
"Yes. I--"
"Anybody with you?"
"NO!" shouted Marchbanks. "Do you want my story or don't you? I--"
"Continue," said the Inspector judicially.
Marchbanks glared. "As I began to say--I left town Monday evening at
seven in my car. I was bound for Little Neck--"
"Little Neck, eh?" interpolated the Inspector exasperatingly.
"Yes, Little Neck," stormed Marchbanks. "What's wrong in that? I had
been invited to a small party at the house of a friend of mine there--"
"His name?"
"Patrick Malone," replied Marchbanks resignedly. "When I got there, I
found no one at home except Malone's man. He explained that at the last
moment Malone had been called away on business and had had to call off
the party...."
"Did you know that such an eventuality might occur?"
"If you mean did I know that Malone was going to be called away--yes,
in a way. He'd mentioned the possibility of it over the 'phone to me
earlier in the day. At any rate, I saw no use in staying, so I left
at once and proceeded off the main road to my own shack, a few miles
farther on. I keep it for occasional jaunts into the Island. I--"
"Have you any servants there?"
"No. It's a small place and I prefer solitude when I'm out that way. So
I slept there overnight and returned to the City in the morning by car."
The Inspector smiled sardonically. "I suppose you met no one all night
or in the morning who might verify your statements?"
"I don't know what you mean. What are you driving at--?"
"Yes or no?"
"... No."
"What time did you get to the City?"
"About ten-thirty. I rose rather late."
"And what time was it Monday evening when you reached your friend
Malone's place and spoke to his valet?"
"Oh, I should say about eight or eight-thirty. I don't recall exactly."
The Inspector sent a mutely humorous glance across the room to Ellery.
Then he shrugged his shoulders. Marchbanks' florid face darkened and he
rose abruptly.
"If you have nothing more to ask me, Inspector Queen, I must be going."
He picked up his hat and stick.
"Ah! Just one other thing. Sit down, Marchbanks." Marchbanks
reluctantly reseated himself. "How do you account for the murder of
your sister?"
Marchbanks sniggered. "I thought you'd ask that. Up a tree, eh? Well,
I'm not surprised. The police of this city are--"
"Answer my question, please."
"I don't account for it, and I can't account for it!" cried Marchbanks
suddenly. "That's your business! All I know is that my sister has been
shot to death, and I want her murderer sizzling in the Chair." He
stopped, out of breath.
"Yes, yes, I realize your natural desire for revenge," said the
Inspector tiredly. "You may go, Mr. Marchbanks, but keep in town."
33
ALIBIS: CARMODY
Vincent Carmody was the next caller. His reticence was as marked as
usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiseless in
the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.
"Ah--Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector uneasily. The antique-dealer
disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. "Ah--Mr.
Carmody, I've called you in for a little consultation. We are checking
up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with
Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand...."
"Ummm," said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.
The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuff-box. "Now, I
should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday
night--the night of the murder."
"The murder." Carmody said it negligently. "Not interested in that,
Inspector. What about my daughter?"
The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody's
expressionless lean face. "Your daughter's search is being conducted
by the proper authorities. We haven't found her yet, but we have new
information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my
question."
"Results!" Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. "I know what
that word means in the police vocabulary. You're stumped and you know
it. I'll put my own detective on the case."
"Will you _please_ answer my question?" grated the Inspector.
"Keep cool," said Carmody. "Don't see what my movements on Monday night
have to do with the case. I certainly didn't kidnap my own daughter.
But if you must have it, here it is.
"Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported
the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces
in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that
nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central--the 9:14. Changed
at Stamford and didn't get to my destination until nearly midnight.
It's far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called
on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don't
know what went wrong. Had no place to stay--no hotel there--and had to
return to the city. Couldn't make a decent connection and didn't get
back to my apartment until four in the morning. That's all."
"Not quite, Mr. Carmody." The Inspector mused. "Did any one see you
when you returned to the city--at your apartment, perhaps?"
"No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast
at the apartment dining-room at ten o'clock. The head-waiter will
identify me."
"No doubt," said the Inspector disagreeably. "Meet any one on your trip
who might remember you?"
"No. Unless the conductor of the train."
"Well!" Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody
with open distaste. "Please make a note of all your movements and mail
it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your
daughter Bernice is a drug addict?"
Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been
transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose
from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the
antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very
still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in
his chair.
"How did you find that out?" he muttered in a strangled voice. The
muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. "I didn't
think any one knew--except Winifred and me."
"Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?" queried the Inspector instantly. "Had
she known it long?"
"So it's out," growled Carmody. "Good God!" He raised a haggard face
to Queen. "I've known it for about a year. Winifred--" his face
hardened--"Winifred didn't know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all
that," he added bitterly. "Rot! She thought chiefly of herself.... So
I told her--two weeks ago. She didn't believe it. We quarreled. But
at the end she knew--I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice
countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge
the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred.
I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don't know
any more...." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I was going to take
Bernice away--somewhere--anywhere--cure her.... And then Winifred was
murdered and Bernice--gone...." His voice died away. Huge welts stood
out under his eyes. The man was suffering--how deeply, by what perverse
psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.
And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of
explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed
from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running
wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.
34
ALIBIS: TRASK
Trask was a half-hour late for his appointment at the Queen apartment.
He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently
sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which
was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the
Inspector's questions.
Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town--vaguely, with an idle
gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.
Where "about town"? Well, really--can't remember. Some night-club or
other at first.
At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.
Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he'd been disappointed by some
friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.
What was the name of the night-club? Really, don't recall it.
What did he mean by "not recalling it"? Well--to tell the truth, he
had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite--ha, ha!
Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn't remember anything
except dashing cold water on his face at ten o'clock Tuesday morning
in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must
have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in
the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some
fresh clothes. Then the directors' meeting at the French store.
"Beautiful!" muttered the Inspector, eying Trask as if he were an
obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in
the general direction of a tray.
"Trask!" The whip in Queen's voice brought the tall, dissipated
director's body up with a start. "Are you sure you can't remember what
night-club you were in?"
"I say now," drawled Trask, sinking back, "you scared me that time,
Inspector. I've told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don't
recall a thing."
"Well, that's just too bad," grunted the Inspector. "If I'm not
disturbing you, Trask--do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual
drug-user?"
"Not really!" Trask sat up straight. "Then I _was_ right!"
"Oh, you suspected it?"
"A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the
symptoms. I've seen plenty of 'em." He brushed a speck of ash from his
gardenia with languid distaste.
The Inspector smiled. "Which didn't daunt you from going ahead with
your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?"
Trask looked virtuous. "Oh, no--really! I'd intended to cure her after
we were married. Without her family's knowledge, and all that. Too
bad--too bad," he sighed. He sighed again.
"What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?" demanded the
Inspector impatiently.
"Oh, that!" Trask brightened. "Absolutely of the best, Inspector.
You--er--you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future
father-in-law. Haw-haw!"
"Get out of here," said the Inspector distinctly.
35
ALIBIS: GRAY
John Gray folded his gloves neatly, deposited them in his rich black
derby, and handed them with a cheerful smile to Djuna. Then he shook
hands decorously with the Inspector, nodded to Ellery with just
the proper note of heartiness, and obediently seated himself at the
Inspector's request.
"Well!" he chuckled, smoothing his white mustache. "Very charming
household, I see. Very! And how is the investigation proceeding,
Inspector? Tchk, tchk!" He chattered like a spry old parrot, his
twinkling eyes never still.
The Inspector cleared his throat. "A little matter of check-up, Mr.
Gray. Routine. I haven't inconvenienced you by this summons?"
"Not at all, not at all," said Gray amiably. "I've just come from a
visit to Cyrus--Cyrus French, I should say--and he's much better, by
the way, much better."
"That's nice," said the Inspector. "Now, Mr. Gray, just to make it
legal--can you account for your movements on Monday night?"
Gray looked blank. Then he smiled slowly. Then he burst into an
infectious chuckle. "I see, I see! Clever, Inspector, quite clever. You
want to be sure of everything. Very interesting! I suppose every one is
coming in for a similar quiz?"
"Oh, yes!" said the Inspector reassuringly. "We've had a number of
your colleagues on the carpet to-day already." They both laughed. Gray
became politely serious.
"Monday night? Let me see." He plucked his mustache thoughtfully.
"Of course! Monday night I spent the entire evening at my Club. The
Penny Club, you know. Had dinner there with some of my cronies, played
billiards--the usual thing. At about ten o'clock, I believe, or perhaps
a little after ten, Zorn--you remember Zorn, of course, one of my
fellow-directors--Zorn dropped in for a chat. We discussed the coming
merger, the details of which we were to work out in conference the next
morning with French and the rest, and about a half-hour later Zorn
left, complaining of headache."
"Well, that tallies nicely," said Queen, with a grin. "Because Mr. Zorn
was here not long ago and told us about your meeting at the Penny Club."
"Really?" Gray smiled. "Then I gather there is little left to be said,
Inspector."
"Not quite, Mr. Gray." The Inspector clucked cheerfully. "You see, just
to keep the record straight--how did you spend the rest of the evening?"
"Oh! In a commonplace manner, sir. I left the Club at about eleven and
walked home--I live not far from there, on Madison Avenue. Simply went
home and to bed."
"You live alone, Mr. Gray?"
Gray grimaced. "Unfortunately, being a misogynist, I have no family,
Inspector. An old servant keeps house for me--I live in an apartment
hotel, you know."
"Then your housekeeper was up when you returned from the Club, Mr.
Gray?"
Gray spread his hands briefly. "No. Hilda had left on Saturday evening
to visit a sick brother in Jersey City, and did not get back until
Tuesday afternoon."
"I see." The Inspector took snuff. "But surely _some one_ saw you get
home, Mr. Gray?"
Gray looked startled, then he smiled again one of his twinkling smiles.
"Oh, you want me to establish my--alibi, is it, Inspector?"
"That's what it's called, sir."
"Then there's nothing more to be said," replied Gray happily. "Because
Jackson, the night-clerk, saw me when I entered the building. I asked
for mail and stood chatting with him for several minutes. Then I took
the elevator to my suite."
The Inspector's face brightened. "Then really," he said, "there
_is_ nothing more to be said. Except--" his face lengthened
momentarily--"what time was it when you stopped talking with this
night-clerk and went upstairs?"
"Just eleven-forty. I remember glancing at the clock above Jackson's
desk to compare it with my own watch."
"And where is your hotel, Mr. Gray?"
"Madison and 37th, Inspector. The _Burton_."
"Then I think--Unless, Ellery, you would like to ask Mr. Gray a
question or two?"
The aged little director turned quickly, in open surprise. He had
forgotten the presence of Ellery, who was sitting quietly in his corner
listening to the conversation. Gray looked expectant as Ellery smiled.
"Thank you, dad--I _have_ something to ask Mr. Gray, if we're not
keeping him too long?" He looked questioningly at their visitor.
Gray expostulated. "Not at all, Mr. Queen. Anything I can do to help
you--"
"Very well, then." Ellery hoisted his lean length from the chair and
stretched his muscles. "Mr. Gray, I'm going to ask you a peculiar
question. I rely upon your discretion to preserve silence, for one
thing, and upon your undoubted loyalty to Mr. French and your concern
in his bereavement to answer frankly."
"I'm entirely at your service."
"Let me present a hypothetical case," continued Ellery rapidly. "Let us
suppose that Bernice Carmody was a drug addict...."
Gray frowned. "A drug addict?"
"Exactly. And let us suppose further that neither her mother nor her
stepfather suspected her malady and condition. Then let us suppose that
Mrs. French suddenly discovered the truth...."
"I see, I see," murmured Gray.
"The hypothetical question arising from this hypothetical case is:
What do you think Mrs. French would do?" Ellery lit a cigaret.
Gray grew thoughtful. Then he looked into Ellery's eyes. "The first
thing that occurs to me, Mr. Queen," he said simply, "is that Mrs.
French would _not_ confide in Cyrus."
"That's interesting. You know them both so well...."
"Yes." Gray set his small wrinkled jaw. "Cyrus has been a lifelong
friend. I know--or knew--Mrs. French perhaps as well as any one
acquainted with the French family. And I am certain, familiar as I am
with Cyrus's character and Mrs. French's knowledge of his character,
that she would not dare to tell him such a thing. She would keep it
strictly to herself. She might possibly inform Carmody, her first
husband...."
"We needn't go into that, Mr. Gray," said Ellery. "But why would she
keep it a secret from French?"
"Because," said Gray frankly, "Cyrus is hypersensitive on the subject
of vice, particularly drug addiction. You must remember that most of
his latter years have been devoted to wiping out as much of this sort
of vice in the City as possible. To find it in his own family would, I
firmly believe, unbalance him.... But, of course," he added quickly,
"he doesn't know; I'm positive Mrs. French would keep a thing like that
to herself. She might try to cure the girl secretly, perhaps...."
Ellery said clearly: "One of the major reasons for Mrs. French's
silence in a case like this would be, I suppose, that she was aiming to
secure for her daughter a generous slice of her husband's fortune?"
Gray started uncomfortably. "Well.... I don't.... Yes, if you must
have the truth, I think that is so. Mrs. French was a calculating--not
necessarily unscrupulous, mind you--but a calculating and very
practical woman. I believe that, motherlike, she was determined that
Bernice come in for a good share of Cyrus's estate when Cyrus should
pass on.... Is there anything else, Mr. Queen?"
"That is," said Ellery, smiling, "quite sufficient. Thank you
immeasurably, Mr. Gray."
"Then," said the Inspector, "that will be all."
Gray looked relieved, accepted his coat, hat and gloves from Djuna,
murmured polite adieux, and left.
The Inspector and Ellery heard his light quick step on the staircase as
he descended to the street.
36
"THE TIME HAS COME ..."
The Queens had dinner in silence. Djuna served in silence, and in
silence cleared the table afterward. The Inspector dipped into the
browned interior of his snuff-box and Ellery held communion with first
a cigaret, then a pipe, then a cigaret again. In all this time no word
was spoken. It was a silence of sympathy, not infrequent in the Queen
household.
Finally Ellery sighed and stared into the fireplace. But it was the
Inspector who spoke first.
"As far as I am concerned," he said with a grim disappointment, "this
day has been entirely wasted."
Ellery raised his eyebrows. "Dad, dad, you grow more irascible with
every passing day.... If I didn't know how upset and overworked you've
been of late, I'd be annoyed with you."
"At my obtuseness?" demanded the Inspector, twinkling.
"No, at the lapse of your usual mental vigor." Ellery twisted his head
and grinned at his father. "Do you mean to say that to-day's incidents
have meant nothing to you?"
"The raid flat, Springer skipped, nothing tangible from the alibis of
these people--I can't see any cause for celebration," retorted the
Inspector.
"Well, well!" Ellery frowned. "Perhaps I'm over-sanguine.... But the
whole thing is so clear!"
He sprang to his feet and began to rummage in his desk. He produced his
voluminous sheets of notes and thumbed rapidly through them under the
Inspector's wearied and bewildered eyes. Then he slapped them back into
their receptacle.
"It's all over," he announced, "all over but the shouting and--the
proof. I have all the threads--or rather, all the threads which lead
inexorably to the murderer of Mrs. French. They don't make solid proof,
such as is demanded by our venerable courts of law and our prosecuting
system. What would you do in a case like that, dad?"
The Inspector wrinkled his nose in self-disgust. "I take it that what's
been a hopeless maze to me has been a clear thoroughfare to you. That
rankles, son! I have raised up a Frankenstein to haunt my old age ..."
Then he chuckled and laid a slightly infirm hand on Ellery's knee.
"Good lad," he said. "I don't know _what_ I'd do without you."
"Shucks." Ellery blushed. "You've gone sentimental, too, dad ..." Their
fingers met covertly. "Now, look here, Inspector! You've got to help me
to a decision!"
"Yes, yes ..." Queen dropped back, embarrassed. "You've got a case, an
explanation and no proof. What to do.... Bluff, my son. Bluff as if
you'd raised the pot before the draw on a pair of fours and then found
real opposition staring at you. Raise again!"
Ellery looked thoughtful. "I've been tottering on the edge....
Christmas!" His eyes brightened with a sudden thought. "How stupid I've
been!" he cried at once. "I've a beautiful card up my sleeve and I've
forgotten all about it! Bluff? We'll just about sweep our slippery
friend off our slippery friend's feet!"
He yanked the telephone toward him, hesitated, then turned it over to
the Inspector, who was regarding him with gloomy fondness.
"Here's a list," he said, scribbling on a piece of paper, "of some
people of importance. Will you blow the conch, dad, while I begin a
memorization of these pesky notes?"
"The time is--" asked the Inspector submissively.
"To-morrow morning at nine-thirty," replied Ellery. "And you might call
the D.A. and tell him to close in on our friend Springer."
"Springer!" cried the Inspector.
"Springer," replied Ellery. And thereafter there was silence, broken
periodically by the voice of the Inspector on the telephone.
PARENTHESIS AND CHALLENGE
I have often found it a stimulating exercise in my own reading of
murder fiction to pause at that point in the story immediately
preceding the solution, and to try by a logical analysis to
determine for myself the identity of the criminal.... Because
I believe that numerous gourmets of this species of fictional
delicacy are as interested in the reasoning as in the reading,
I submit in the proper spirit of sportsmanship an amiable
challenge to the reader.... Without reading the concluding pages,
Reader--Who killed Mrs. French?... There is a great tendency among
detective-story lovers to endeavor to "guess" the criminal by
submitting to the play of a blind instinct. A certain amount of
this is inevitable, I will admit, but the application of logic and
common sense is the important thing, the source of the greater
enjoyment.... Whereupon I state without reservation that the reader
is at this stage in the recounting of _The French Powder Mystery_
fully cognizant of all the facts pertinent to the discovery of the
criminal; and that a sufficiently diligent study of what has gone
before should educe a clear understanding of what is to come. _A
rivederci!_
E. Q.
THE LAST EPISODE
"_Forty years in the service of the_ SÛRETÉ, _one might hazard,
would dull the edge of one's zest for the hunt. Thank the good
Lord, this is not so! at least in my own case, which has been
as full of interest, I dare say, as the next.... There was the
admirable Henri Tencqueville, who cut his throat before my very
eyes when we cornered him in his Montmartre hideaway ... and Petit
Charlot, who shot two of my faithful lads to death and bit off a
piece of the good Sergeant Mousson's nose in the_ mêlée _before he
was subdued.... Ah, well! I grow tender in reminiscence, but ... I
would make the point that even to-day, old and enfeebled as I am,
I would not give up the thrill of that final_ coup de main, _that
last stage of the chase when the quarry, panting and desperate, has
his back to the wall--no, not for all the everlasting delights of
the Turkish heaven!..._"
--From THE MEMOIRS OF A PREFECT,
_By_ Auguste Brillon.
37
MAKE READY!
They came in one by one--furtive, curious, impassive, bored, reluctant,
openly nervous. Quietly they came in, conscious of the tight police
cordon, of a quivering strain in the atmosphere, of shrewd eyes that
noted and calculated their least movement--conscious most of all of
grim over-hanging disaster, to whom and with what dire effects they did
not know and could only guess.
It was nine-thirty of the fateful Thursday morning. The door through
which they shuffled in silence was the door marked PRIVATE: CYRUS
FRENCH.... They passed inside through the bare lofty anteroom,
into the heavy quiet of the library, sat down in incredible camp-chairs
set up martially facing the dormer-windows.
They crowded the room. In the front row sat old Cyrus French himself,
a white and trembling figure. His fingers were desperately entwined
in the fingers of Marion French by his side. Westley Weaver, harried
face gaunted by sleeplessness, occupied the seat next to Marion's. To
French's left was Dr. Stuart, the old man's physician, watching his
patient with a professional pantherishness. By Stuart's side sat John
Gray, dapper and bird-like, occasionally leaning over the doctor's
bulky abdomen to talk into the sick man's ear.
In the row behind were Hortense Underhill, the housekeeper, and Doris
Keaton, the maid. Both sat rigidly, whispering to each other out of the
corners of their mouths, peering about with frightened eyes.
In serried ranks.... Wheezing Marchbanks; the portly Zorn fingering his
watch-chain; a befurred and aromatic Mrs. Zorn dispensing smiles to
the grave Frenchman, Paul Lavery, who stroked his short beard; Trask,
a flower in his lapel, but utterly pale, with enormous leaden rings
under his eyes; the antique-dealer Vincent Carmody, a saturnine figure,
uncompromising, somber, even in his chair towering above the heads of
the company; mild-mannered Arnold MacKenzie, the general manager of the
store; Diana Johnson, the Negress who had discovered Mrs. French's dead
body; the four watchmen--O'Flaherty, Bloom, Ralska, Powers....
There was little conversation. Each time the anteroom door opened
people twisted about in their seats, craned, jerked their eyes back to
the window again with guilty side-glances toward each other.
The conference table had been pushed against the wall. In a row
of chairs before the table sat Sergeant Thomas Velie and William
Crouther, chief of the store's detective force, talking in undertones;
scowling Salvatore Fiorelli, of the Narcotic Squad, bright black
eyes snapping at some inexpressible thought, his scar pulsing slowly
beneath the swarthy skin; "Jimmy," the little bald-headed operative of
the Headquarters fingerprint department. At the anteroom door stood
Patrolman Bush, relegated to the important post of guardian of the
door. A cloud of detectives, among them Inspector Queen's favorite
operatives--Hagstrom, Flint, Ritter, Johnson, and Piggott--massed along
the wall directly opposite the conference table. At each corner of the
room stood a silent officer in blue, cap in hand.
Neither Inspector Queen nor Ellery Queen had yet put in his appearance.
People whispered this information to each other. They looked sidelong
at the anteroom door, against which Bush's broad back was set.
Gradually, tangibly, another silence came over the scene.
Whispers trembled, wavered, ceased. Glances became more furtive,
chair-twistings more frequent. Cyrus French coughed violently;
he doubled up in agony. Dr. Stuart's eyes flickered with a vague
anxiety. Weaver bent far to the side when the old man's paroxysm had
passed; Marion looked startled; soon their heads were close together,
touching....
Crouther scraped his hand over his face. "What the hell is holdin' up
the works, Sergeant?" Velie shook his head gloomily. "What's it all
about?"
"Got me."
Crouther shrugged.
The silence thickened. Every one grew still as stone.... The silence
grew more embarrassing with each passing moment--a silence that
swelled, breathed, became alive....
Then Sergeant Velie did a strange thing. His spatulate forefinger,
resting on his knee, tapped three distinct times, in rhythm. Not even
Crouther caught the signal, and Crouther was at Velie's side. But
the officer on guard, who had been watching the Sergeant's hand for
minutes, immediately sprang into motion. All eyes flashed instantly
upon him, grasping at this sign of life, of happening with a pitiful
eagerness.... The policeman went to the desk, which was shrouded by a
light tarpaulin, and bending far over carefully removed the covering.
He stepped back, folded the tarpaulin neatly, retreated to his
corner....
But he was already forgotten. As if the sheer rays of a searchlight
had been trained upon the desk, every one in the room eyed the objects
revealed with a fascination drawn from the deepest crevices of his
being.
They were many, and heterogeneous. Ranged in orderly rows along the
glass top, each with a small labeled card before it, were the gold
lipstick marked _W.M.F._, which Ellery had found on the bedroom
dressing-table; the silver-chased lipstick with the _C_ monogram from
the dead woman's bag in the exhibition-window; six keys with gold
discs--the keys to the apartment, five of which bore the initials
of Cyrus French, Winifred Marchbanks French, Marion French, Bernice
Carmody, Westley Weaver, and the sixth the word Master; the two
carved onyx book-ends, lying with a small jar of white powder and a
camel's-hair brush between them; the five strange volumes which Ellery
had found on French's desk; the shaving-set from the lavatory cabinet;
two ashtrays filled with cigaret-stubs--one set much shorter in length
than the other; the gauzy scarf initialed _M.F._, taken from the neck
of the victim; a board on which were tacked the cards from the cardroom
table, laid out exactly as they had first appeared to the police; the
slip of blue memorandum paper which was checked off at Cyrus French's
typewritten name; the blue hat and the walking shoes from the bedroom
closet which Hortense Underhill and Doris Keaton had identified as
having been worn by Bernice Carmody the day she disappeared; and a
black .38 Colt revolver, with the two now rusty-looking splatters of
metal which had been the lethal bullets lying near the muzzle.
Quite by itself, prominently in view of the audience, lay a pair of
dull, steely manacles--a symbol and a portent of what was to come....
And there they reposed, the silent clues garnered during the
investigation frankly open to the gaze of the uneasy guests of Ellery
Queen. Again they stared, whispered.
But this time they had not long to wait. A slight commotion in the
corridor outside became plainly audible in the library. Sergeant Velie
lumbered to his feet and went quickly to the anteroom door, motioning
Patrolman Bush aside. He disappeared, the door swinging shut behind him.
Now the door became the focal point of those half-angry, bewildered
eyes--that door behind which the deep murmur of several voices kept up
a short mysterious litany.... And as if it had been cut cleanly by a
knife, the voices broke off and an instant of silence fell before the
knob of the door was rattled, the door was pushed inward, and eight men
stepped into the room.
38
THE END OF ALL THINGS
It had been Ellery Queen's hand on the knob--a subtly changed young man
with drawn features and a sharpened glance that swept the room once and
then returned to the anteroom.
"Before me, Commissioner," he murmured, holding the door wide.
Commissioner Scott Welles grunted, pushed his heavy body into view.
Three tight-lipped men in plain clothes--his bodyguard--flanked him as
he crossed the room toward the desk.
Next to appear in full sight of the assembled company was a strangely
altered Inspector Richard Queen, holding himself rigidly erect. He was
pale. He followed the police commissioner in silence.
After Queen came District Attorney Henry Sampson and his assistant, the
red-haired Timothy Cronin. They were whispering to each other, paying
no attention to the occupants of the room.
Velie, making up the rear, carefully closed the anteroom door, flipped
Bush back to his post with a curt finger, and dropped into his chair
beside Crouther. The store detective looked up at him inquiringly;
Velie said nothing and settled his big body. Both men turned to watch
the newcomers.
There was a little flurry of conversation as Ellery Queen and his
companions stood near the desk at the head of the room. Inspector Queen
indicated one of the leather-padded conference chairs immediately to
the right and a little behind the desk, as the seat to be occupied by
the Commissioner. Welles seemed a sadder and wiser man--he sat down
without a word, his eyes on Ellery's quiet figure before the desk.
The three guards disposed themselves with the other detectives at the
side of the room.
Inspector Queen himself sat down in a big chair to the left of the
desk, with Cronin at his side. The District Attorney dropped into a
chair next to the Commissioner. Desk in the center, its varied articles
beckoning attention. On either side two chairs with official occupants.
And dominating the scene....
The stage was set.
Ellery Queen, cynically examining the room and its occupants once
more, expressed himself as satisfied at the Commissioner's brusque
question. Ellery stepped behind the desk and stood with his back to
the dormer-windows. His head was lowered, his eyes on the desk-top.
His hand strayed to the glass, hovered over the book-ends, played with
the jar of white powder.... He smiled, straightened, raised his head,
removed his pince-nez glasses, looked calmly at his hushed audience,
waited.... Not until there was absolute silence did he speak.
"Ladies and gentleman." Prosy beginning! Yet something vaguely eerie
shivered through the air; it was a simultaneous sigh from many breasts.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Sixty hours ago Mrs. Winifred French was shot to
death in this building. Forty-eight hours ago her body was found. This
morning we have assembled at a private Waterloo to name her murderer."
Ellery had spoken quietly; now he paused for the slightest instant....
But after that sigh _en masse_ even breaths seemed to be drawn with
care. No one spoke; no one whispered. They merely sat and waited.
A cutting edge slipped into the tone of Ellery's voice. "Very well!
A few preliminary explanations are required. Commissioner Welles--"
he turned slightly toward Welles, "it is with your permission that I
conduct this unofficial inquest?"
Welles nodded, once.
"Then let me explain," continued Ellery, turning back to his auditors,
"that I am merely taking the place of Inspector Queen, who is unable
to take charge because of a minor throat ailment which makes long
speaking difficult and painful. Correct, sir?" He bowed very solemnly
in the direction of his father. The Inspector grew even paler than
before, nodded wordlessly. "Further," Ellery went on, "if I shall at
any time use the personal 'I' in my discourse this morning, you are to
understand that it is merely for convenience--that in reality I shall
be describing the investigatory processes of Inspector Queen himself."
He halted abruptly, threw a challenging glance about the room, met
nothing but wide eyes and ears, and plunged at once into an analysis of
the French murder case.
"I shall take you through our investigation of this crime, ladies and
gentlemen," he began in a sharp decisive tone, "step by step, deduction
by deduction, observation by observation, until I arrive at what is an
inevitable conclusion. Hagstrom, you are taking this down?"
Eyes followed the direction of Ellery's glance. At the side of the room
where the detectives were congregated, Detective Hagstrom was seated,
pencil poised above a stenographic notebook. Hagstrom bobbed his head.
"What transpires here this morning," explained Ellery pleasantly, "will
become part of the official dossier of the case. Enough of asides!" He
cleared his throat.
"Mrs. Winifred Marchbanks French was discovered dead--killed by two
bullets, one in the heart and one in the _precordial_ region below the
heart--on Tuesday at fifteen minutes or so past noon. When Inspector
Queen arrived upon the scene he noted several facts which led him to
believe that"--he paused--"the exhibition-window on the main floor was
_not_ in effect the place where the crime was committed."
The room was deathly still. Fascination, fear, aversion, grief--the
gamut of emotions played upon those intent white faces. Ellery Queen
went on, rapidly.
"There were five component elements in this initial investigation," he
said, "that pointed to the conclusion that the murder was not committed
in the window.
"The first was the fact that, while on Monday night Mrs. French had in
her possession her personal key to this apartment, the key was missing
from her person and effects Tuesday morning, on the discovery of her
dead body. O'Flaherty, the head night-watchman, testified that she
had the key at eleven-fifty Monday night when she left his cubbyhole
to take the elevator upstairs. Yet it was gone. Search of the store
and premises left the key still unfound. What was the inference? That
the key and the crime were in some way connected. How? Well, the key
appertained to the apartment. If it was missing, wasn't there an
indication that the apartment also entered into the crime somewhere? At
least there was enough suspicion to be gleaned from the missing key to
warrant a belief that the apartment _might have been_ the scene of the
crime."
Ellery paused; his lips twitched with fleeting amusement at the
frowning faces before him.
"Captious reasoning? I see the disbelief on your faces. Yet bear it in
mind. The fact of the key's being missing meant nothing of itself--but
when it was added to the four other facts of which I shall speak, it
took on significance indeed."
He swung back into his main narrative.
"The second element was a grotesque and even amusing one--you will
see, incidentally, that the detection of crime is not built upon
weighty salient factors, but upon just such incongruities as I shall
have occasion to mention this morning.... I refer to the fact that the
crime must have been committed a short time after midnight. This was
simply calculated from Dr. Prouty's report--Dr. Prouty is the Assistant
Medical Examiner--that Mrs. French had been dead some twelve hours when
she was found.
"If Mrs. French had been shot to death in the window-room at a little
past midnight, ladies and gentlemen," continued Ellery, with a twinkle
in his eye, "her murderer must have committed his crime either in
total darkness or by the feeble illumination of a pocket-torch! For
there were no lighting fixtures that worked in the room--in fact, no
bulbs--and the room was not even wired. Yet we were forced to suppose
that the murderer met his victim, talked with her, perhaps quarreled
with her, then shot her unerringly in two vital spots, disposed of her
body in the wall-bed, cleaned up the blood-stains and what not--all in
a room at best illuminated by a flashlight! No, it was not reasonable.
Wherefore Inspector Queen, quite logically, I believe, concluded that
the crime was not committed in the exhibition-window."
There was a little rustle of excitement. Ellery smiled, continued.
"This, however, was not the only reason for his belief. There was
a third point. And that was the lipstick--the long, silver-chased
lipstick--monogrammed _C_, found in Mrs. French's handbag by her body.
That this lipstick obviously was not Mrs. French's I shall not discuss
at this point. The pertinent factor was that it contained lip-rouge of
a decidedly darker shade of red than the lip-rouge on the dead woman's
lips. But this meant that Mrs. French's own lipstick--with which she
daubed the lighter rouge on her lips--should be somewhere about. But
it was not! Where could it be? Perhaps the murderer took it? That
sounded rather nonsensical. The most plausible explanation seemed to be
that the missing lipstick was somewhere else in the building.... Why
somewhere else in the building?--why not at Mrs. French's home, or at
least outside the store?
"For this very good reason. That Mrs. French's lips--her dead mute
lips--which were painted with the lighter shade of red, indicated that
she had not completed her application of the rouge! There were two dabs
on either side of her upper lip, and another small dab in the center
of her lower lip. The rouge had not been smeared--it had patently been
applied with a finger and left that way..." Ellery turned toward Marion
French. He said gently, "How do you apply your lip-rouge, Miss French?"
The girl whispered: "Just as you described, Mr. Queen. Three pats, one
on each side of the upper lip and one in the center of the lower lip."
"Thank you." Ellery smiled. "We had, then, visible evidence of a
case where a woman began to paint her lips and did not complete the
operation. But this was unnatural, remarkable. There are very few
things that will keep a woman from finishing this delicate task. Very,
very few! One of them might be a violent interruption of some kind.
A violent interruption? But there was murder committed! Was that the
interruption?"
He changed his tone, forged ahead. "It seemed likely. But in any
case, those lips had not been painted in the window-room. Where was
the lipstick? That we found it later in the apartment was merely
confirmation....
"Point number four was physiological. Dr. Prouty was puzzled by the
fact that there was so little blood on the corpse. Both wounds--one
particularly--should have bled considerably. The _precordial_ region
contains many blood-vessels and muscles which would have been badly
torn by the passage of the bullet, which left a ragged wound. Where
was the blood? Had the murderer cleaned it up? But in the dark, or
semi-darkness, he could not possibly have removed all traces of the
copious blood-flow from those wounds. Whereupon we were compelled
once more to conclude that that blood had flowed--_somewhere else_.
Which meant that Mrs. French had been shot somewhere else than in the
window-room.
"And the fifth point was a psychological one which I fear"--he smiled
sadly--"would not carry much weight in a court of law. Nevertheless to
me it was quite over-whelming in its indication. For the mind rebelled
at the thought that the window-room was the scene of the crime. It was
preposterous, dangerous, asinine from the point of view of a potential
murderer. A meeting and a murder connote secrecy, privacy--any number
of exact requirements. The window-room afforded none of these. The
room is not fifty feet away from the head night-watchman's office.
That area is well-patrolled at periodic intervals. Revolver-shots had
to be fired--and none was heard. No! Both Inspector Queen and myself
felt--for the five reasons I have given you, no single one of which was
conclusive, but which were collectively significant--that the crime was
not committed in the window-room."
Ellery paused. His audience was following the story with eager, panting
concentration. Commissioner Welles regarded Ellery with a new light in
his small eyes. The Inspector was sunk deeply in thought.
"If not the window," continued Ellery, "where then? The key pointed
to the apartment--the required privacy, illumination, a logical
place for the use of lipstick--certainly the apartment seemed the
best possibility. So Inspector Queen, relying upon my discretion and
discernment, since he himself could not leave the window-room where
the preliminary investigation was still going on, asked me to go to
the apartment and see what I could see. Which I did, with interesting
results....
"The first thing I found in the apartment was Mrs. French's own
lipstick, lying on the bedroom dressing-table." Ellery picked up
the gold lipstick from the desk and held it up for a moment. "This
lipstick proved at once, of course, that Mrs. French had been in the
apartment on Monday night. The fact that it was lying under the curved
edge of a mother-of-pearl tray on the dressing-table and was quite
hidden, showed that it had probably been overlooked by the murderer.
In fact, the murderer had no reason even to look for it, because he
did not apparently observe that the lipstick in Mrs. French's bag and
the coloring on her lips were not identical." Ellery replaced the
glittering metal case on the desk.
"Now, I found the lipstick on the dressing-table. What did this mean?
It seemed rather plain that Mrs. French had been using the stick at
that dressing-table inside when she was interrupted. But the fact that
the lipstick was still there on the table when I found it pointed, it
seemed to me, to the fact that Mrs. French was not shot in the bedroom.
What was the interruption, then? Obviously, either a knock on the outer
door or the noise of the murderer entering the apartment. It was not
the latter, for the murderer had no key to the apartment, as I shall
soon prove. Then it must have been a knock at the door. Then, too, Mrs.
French must have been expecting it, for it so disturbed her, or it
was so important to her, that she immediately put down her lipstick,
neglecting to complete the daubing of her lips, and hurried through
the library and into the anteroom to admit her nocturnal visitor.
Presumably she opened the door, the visitor entered, and they went into
the library where Mrs. French stood behind the desk and the visitor
stood to the right, facing her--that is, Mrs. French stood where I am
standing now and the murderer stood about where Detective Hagstrom is
sitting at this moment.
"How do I know this?" went on Ellery rapidly. "Very simply. On
examining the library, I discovered that these book-ends, which lay on
the desk"--he lifted the two onyx book-ends carefully and exhibited
them--"had been tampered with. The green felt sheathing of one of
them was lighter in shade than its mate. Mr. Weaver volunteered the
information that the book-ends were only two months old, having been
presented to Mr. French by Mr. Gray on the occasion of Mr. French's
last birthday, and that he had observed them at that time in perfect
condition, with the felts exactly alike in color. Furthermore, the
book-ends had never left the room, or in fact the desk itself.
Apparently, then, the change of felt had occurred the night before. And
that was proved when, on examining the felt under a powerful glass, I
noted some scattered grains of a white powder stuck in the glue-line
where felt and onyx met!
"The glue was still a trifle viscid," said Ellery, "showing that it
had been very recently applied. The grains, on examination, by myself
cursorily and on analysis by the official fingerprint expert, proved
to be ordinary fingerprint powder, such as is used by the police.
But the use of fingerprint powder predicated a crime. There were no
fingerprints on the onyx. That meant the fingerprints had been removed.
Why the powder, then? Obviously, first to sprinkle the surface in order
to bring out what fingerprints might be there, and second to remove the
ones found. So much was evident.
"But the larger question arose--why were these book-ends handled at
all?" Ellery smiled. "It was an important question, and its answer
told an important story. Well, we now knew that they were handled in
order to change the felt on one of them. _But why had that felt been
changed?_"
His eyes challenged them mischievously. "There was only one logical
answer. _To hide or remove a trace of the crime._ But what could such
a trace be--one that would necessitate carefully ripping off a whole
felt, running down to some department in the store which stocks felts
and baizes (with what risk you may imagine!), bringing back the felt
and some glue, and finally pasting the new protector on the book-end?
It must be a damaging trace indeed. The most damaging trace of a crime
which I can conceive is--blood. And that was the answer.
"For Dr. Prouty had stated positively that much blood had flowed.
Then I had found the exact spot where Mrs. French's heart-blood had
poured out of her body! I proceeded to reconstruct that incident. The
book-ends were on the far edge of the desk, opposite the place where
I am now standing. The blood must have come, then, from a position
similar to mine at this moment. If we suppose that Mrs. French had been
shot as she stood here, the first bullet striking above the abdomen in
the _precordial_ region, then the blood spurted out directly on the
glass top of the desk and trickled across to the book-end, soaking
it in gore. Whereupon she must have collapsed in the chair, falling
forward just as the second bullet, fired from the same spot, hit her
directly in the heart. This also bled a little. Only one book-end was
affected--the one nearer the center of the table. It was so bloody that
the murderer was compelled to remove the felt altogether and substitute
a new one. Why he felt compelled to hide this trace of the crime I
shall go into later. As for the different shade of the new felt--it is
an optical fact that colors are more difficult to distinguish truly
by artificial light than by daylight. At night, no doubt, the two
shades of green seemed identical. With the aid of the sun I immediately
detected the difference....
"You see now how we concluded exactly where Mrs. French was when she
was murdered. As for the position of her assailant, it was determined
from the angle of the wounds themselves, which were pointing to the
left and quite ragged, indicating that the murderer stood rather
sharply to the right."
Ellery paused, patting his lips with a handkerchief. "I have strayed
a little from the main line of my exposition," he said, "because it
was necessary to convince you that I now had genuine proof that the
murder had been committed in the apartment. Until the discovery of the
tampered book-ends I could not be sure, despite the fact that I found
these cards and cigaret-stubs"--he displayed them briefly--"in the
cardroom next door."
He put down the board on which the cards were tacked. "We found the
cards lying on the table there arranged in such a manner as to indicate
immediately that a game of Russian banque had been interrupted. Mr.
Weaver testified that the cardroom had been tidy the evening before,
that the cards had not been there. That meant, of course, that some one
had used them during the night. Mr. Weaver further attested to the fact
that of all the French family and their friends and acquaintances, Mrs.
French and her daughter Bernice Carmody were the only ones addicted to
the game of banque--that in fact it was well known in many quarters how
passionately devoted to it they were.
"The cigaret-stubs in the ashtray on the table bore the brand-name _La
Duchesse_--again identified by Mr. Weaver as Miss Carmody's brand. It
was scented with her favorite _odour_, violet.
"It seemed, then, that Mrs. French and Miss Carmody had both been in
the apartment Monday night, that Miss Carmody had smoked her unusual
cigarets, and that they had played a game of their beloved banque.
"In the bedroom closet we found a hat and a pair of shoes identified by
Miss Underhill, the French housekeeper, and Miss Keaton, a maid in the
French employ, as having been worn by Miss Carmody on Monday, the day
of the murder, when she left the house and was not seen again. Another
hat and another pair of shoes were missing from the closet, seeming to
indicate that the girl had changed the damp ones she was wearing for
the dry ones that were missing.
"So much for that." Ellery paused and looked about him, eyes glittering
strangely. There was not the slightest sound from his audience. They
seemed mesmerized, intent only on watching the slowly rising structure
of damning evidence.
"To make an all-important point.... Now that I knew that the apartment
was the scene of the crime, the question inevitably arose: _Why was the
body removed to the window downstairs?_ What purpose did it serve? For
it must have served some purpose--we saw too many signs of cunning,
coördinated scheming to believe that the murderer was an arrant
lunatic, doing things for no reason at all.
"The first alternative was that the body was removed to make it appear
that the apartment was not the scene of the murder. But this did not
follow from the facts, for if the murderer wished to remove all traces
of the crime from the apartment, why did he not also remove the banque
game, the cigaret-stubs, the shoes and the hat? True, if the body
were not discovered or the murder not suspected, the finding of these
articles would indicate no crime. But the murderer could not hope to
conceal the body forever. Some day, somehow, it would be found, the
apartment gone over, and the cards, cigarets and other things would
point to the apartment as the place where the murder was committed.
"So, it was evident that the body was removed for another reason
entirely. What could that be? The answer came after thought--_to
delay the discovery of the body_. How was this arrived at? Simple
mental arithmetic. The exhibition was held every single day at noon
sharp. This was an unvarying rule. The window was not entered until
noon. These facts were common knowledge. If the body were hidden in
that wall-bed the murderer had absolute assurance that it would not be
discovered before twelve-fifteen. There was the good sharp reason ready
made for us--the only gleam of light in the whole muddle, which was
complicated by such questions as why the window was used at all when it
had so many obvious disadvantages, and so on. So we had no doubt that
the murderer took the trouble of carrying the body down six flights of
stairs and into the exhibition-room because he knew that the body would
not be found all the next morning.
"Logically, then, the question followed: Why did the murderer desire to
delay the discovery of the body? Think it over and you will see that
there can be only one convincing reason--because he had to do something
on Tuesday morning which the discovery of the body would have rendered
dangerous or even impossible!"
They were hanging on his words now breathlessly.
"How could this be?" asked Ellery, his eyes sparkling. "Let's shift to
a new tack for the moment.... No matter how the murderer entered the
store, he must have stayed all night. He had three ways to enter, but
no way to get out unobserved. He could have hidden in the store during
the day; he could have come in after hours by the Employees' Entrance;
or he could have slipped into the building by the freight-door at
eleven o'clock at night while the commissary truck was unloading the
food supplies for the next day. The chances were that this last was
the method used, for O'Flaherty had seen no one enter by his door, and
coming in at eleven at night was better for the murderer's purpose
than having to stay in the store from five-thirty until midnight.
"But how to get out? O'Flaherty reports no one left by his door; all
other exits were locked and bolted; and the freight-door on 39th Street
was closed at eleven-thirty, fifteen minutes before Mrs. French even
arrived at the store and a half-hour before she was murdered. So the
criminal had no recourse but to stay in the store all night. Then he
could not escape until nine the next morning, when the doors were
opened to the public. At that time he could walk out of the store as if
he were an early customer.
"But here another factor entered. If he could walk out of the store at
nine, a free man, why couldn't he also attend to whatever business he
had without the rigmarole of taking the body to the window in order to
secure a delay? The point is that he _did_ transfer the body. Then he
_couldn't_ walk out of the store at nine, a free man. He _needed_ that
delay. He had _to stay in the store even after nine_!"
Simultaneously there came a short gasp from different quarters of the
room. Ellery looked around quickly, as if anxious to determine exactly
who had been shocked into astonishment and perhaps fear.
"I see that several of you catch the inference on the wing," he said,
smiling. "There could be only one reason to explain why our murderer
had to stay in the store even after nine--and that is that _he was
connected with the store_!"
This time incredulity, suspicion, dread were written on all those
plastic faces. Every one drew unconsciously away from his neighbor, as
if suddenly aware of the many persons which this last indictment might
implicate.
"Yes, that is where we arrived finally," continued Ellery in an
unemotional voice. "If our mysterious criminal were an employee of the
store or connected with the store in some official or even unofficial
capacity, his absence on the discovery of a murder would certainly be
noted. He could not afford to have his absence, which was evidently
of paramount importance, noted. He was in a difficult position. The
memorandum note"--he exhibited the blue slip on the desk before
him--"left on this desk by Mr. Weaver overnight told the murderer
that both Mr. Weaver and Mr. French would be in the apartment at nine
o'clock the next morning. If he left the body in the apartment, the
murder would be discovered at nine, the hue and cry raised, and he
would never get his chance to slip out of the store and attend to his
secret business. And even telephone calls might be watched. So he had
to make sure the body was not discovered until he had time to slip
away, or even telephone (for this would be untraceable if there was
no reason to check calls). The only method which he knew would surely
delay the discovery of the body was to hide it in the window-room.
Which he did, and quite successfully.
"By this time we were able to clear up finally that minor point of how
the murderer entered the building. We had the Monday time-chart. Our
murderer must be, we said, an employee of the store or in some way
connected with it. Yet the time-chart showed that every one had checked
out regularly before or at five-thirty. Then the murderer must have
entered the building by the freight-door, as the only means left.
"One other point, while we are on the subject of the murderer's desire
to delay the discovery of the body.... It occurred to me, as no doubt
it has occurred to you, that our mysterious criminal ran uncommon
risks and embarked on numerous voyages of complication when he began
to clean up the mess after his crime. For example--that he carried
the body downstairs. But that is explained by the fact that he had to
have time in the morning to attend to this vague business, an item,
incidentally, which we have not as yet explained. Also--why did he go
to the trouble of securing a new felt, carefully mopping up the blood,
and so on? Again this is answered by the need for time in the morning,
and the fact that if a bloody book-end were found by Mr. Weaver,
let us say, at nine o'clock a crime would be suspected at once, and
undoubtedly the criminal's chance of getting his business done would
be seriously jeopardized. Evidently then, what he had to do was of the
most pressing importance--so pressing that he could not run the risk
of the crime's even being suspected before that business was attended
to...."
Ellery paused and referred to a sheaf of paper which he took from
his breast-pocket. "We must leave for the moment our general
conclusion that the person we are seeking is connected officially or
semi-officially with this establishment," he said at last. "Please
bear that statement in mind while I veer off into another lane of
speculation entirely....
"I brought to your attention a few moments ago four concrete evidences
of the presence of Miss Bernice Carmody in this apartment on Monday
night. These were, in the order in which we found them, the game of
banque exclusively indulged in by Miss Carmody and her mother; the _La
Duchesse_ cigarets, violet-scented, known to be Miss Carmody's special
brand; Miss Carmody's hat, which she was observed wearing on Monday
afternoon when she disappeared from sight; and her shoes, which fit the
same description.
"Now I shall show you that, far from proving that Miss Carmody was
present here on Monday night, they prove exactly the contrary,"
continued Ellery briskly. "The banque game contributes nothing to our
little refutation; the cards lay there in a legitimate array, and we
must leave them for the present.
"The cigarets, however, present a more illuminating view of
my contention. These"--he held up one of the ashtrays on the
exhibit-table--"these cigaret-stubs were found on the table in the
cardroom." He lifted one of the stubs from the tray and held it high.
"As you can see, this cigaret has been almost entirely consumed--in
fact, only the small strip which bears the brand imprint is left.
Without exception, each of the ten or twelve cigarets in this ashtray
have been uniformly smoked to the same tiny stub.
"On the other hand, in Miss Carmody's bedroom at the French house we
found these stubs." He exhibited the second ashtray, picking out one of
the cigarets from its cluttered, dusty depths to show to his audience.
"You will observe that in the case of this stub, the cigaret, also
a _La Duchesse_ of course, has been little more than one-quarter
consumed--Miss Carmody evidently having taken only five or six puffs
before crushing the remainder in the tray. Every stub in this tray from
Miss Carmody's bedroom has been similarly treated.
"In other words," he said with a bare smile, "we find the amusing
phenomenon of two sets of cigarets, both presumably smoked by the
same person, exhibiting distinctly opposite physical remains. On
investigating, we discovered that Miss Carmody, for reasons soon to be
clarified, is extremely nervous--so much so that none of those persons
who know her best can recall any occasion on which she has not smoked
her favorite cigarets in exactly this wasteful, convulsive manner.
"What is the inference?" A perceptible pause. "Merely that Miss
Carmody did _not_ smoke the cigarets we found on the cardroom table;
that they were smoked or prepared by some one else who did not know
Miss Carmody's unvarying method of throwing away cigarets one-quarter
consumed....
"Now, as for the shoes and hat," Ellery said without allowing his
auditors time in which to digest this latest pronouncement, "we found
further signs of a tampering hand. The appearance of things is that
Miss Carmody was here Monday night, having been wet by the rain of
the afternoon and evening, and that before leaving the apartment
she changed her soaked hat and shoes, putting on others from the
small stock of her clothing already in the bedroom closet. _But_ we
discovered that the hat had been inserted in a hat-box with its brim to
the bottom. And that the shoes had been stuck into the shoe-bag with
their heels projecting from the pocket.
"In testing the habituary nature of such a procedure, we considered
that an over-whelming percentage of women put their hats away in
hat-boxes with the crowns _to the bottom_ and the brims to the top;
also that when shoes have large buckles, as this pair has, they are put
away with the heels inside, so that the buckles will not catch on the
material of the bag. Yet both articles denoted this peculiar ignorance
of feminine custom. Here the inference is also obvious--Miss Carmody
did not put away those shoes and the hat; _a man did_. For it is the
masculine custom to put hats away with the brim downward; and a man
would not grasp the significance of the buckle. All the shoes in the
rack had the heels showing, because none happened to have buckles;
whoever put Miss Carmody's shoes in the rack automatically followed
suit, which a woman would not have done.
"Now these points, taken by and of themselves, are, I will confess,
rather weak and inconclusive. But when you put the three together, the
evidence is too strong to be overlooked--it was not Miss Carmody who
smoked the cigarets and put away shoes and hat, but some one else--a
man."
Ellery cleared away a huskiness in his throat. His tone was barbed
with earnestness, despite a growing hoarseness. "There is another
item of considerable interest in this last connection," he continued.
"In examining the lavatory inside, Mr. Weaver and I ran across an
intriguing theft. A safety-razor blade of Mr. Weaver's, which he had
used after five-thirty Monday afternoon and had cleaned and restored
to the case because it was his last blade and he knew he would have
to shave in the morning--this blade, I say, was missing on Tuesday
morning. Mr. Weaver, who was busy Monday night and consequently forgot
to put in a new supply of blades, came to the apartment Tuesday
morning early--at eight-thirty, in fact, because he had to clear up
some business and reports before the arrival of Mr. French at nine. He
intended to shave in the apartment. The blade, which he had put away
only the late afternoon before, was gone. Mr. French, let me explain,
does not keep a razor, never shaving himself.
"Now why was the blade gone? Of course, it was plain that the blade
must have been used Monday night or early Tuesday morning before Mr.
Weaver arrived here. Who could have used it? One of two people--Mrs.
French or her murderer. Mrs. French could have used it as a cutting
instrument of some sort; or her murderer could have used it.
"Of the two alternatives, surely the second is more tenable. Remember
that the criminal was constrained by circumstances to pass the night
in the store. Where could he stay with most safety? Certainly in the
apartment itself! He could not roam about the dark floors, or even hide
among them with as great a margin of safety as in the apartment--not
with the watchman prowling about all night! Now--we find a blade
used. It suggests normally the process of shaving. Well, why not? We
know that the murderer had to make an appearance in the morning as an
employee or official of the store. Why shouldn't he shave while he was
temporarily occupying the apartment? It predicates a cold-blooded
personality, but that is an argument for rather than an argument
against it. Why is the blade missing? Evidently something happened
to it. What could have happened to it? Did it break? Why not! The
blade had been used a few times; it was brittle. A little extra force
in screwing the parts of the razor together, and the blade might
easily have snapped. Let us suppose that this happened. Why didn't
the murderer merely leave the broken blade? Because the murderer is
a canny scoundrel and in his own way an excellent psychologist. If a
broken blade remains it is more likely to be recalled that it was _not_
broken at a former date than to take it for granted that the blade
_was_ broken at that former date. If the blade is missing there is no
incentive to suspicion or memory. An altered object is a more vigorous
mental stimulant than a missing one. At least, that is what I should
have thought if I had been in the murderer's place; and in effect I
believe the person who planned this affair did the correct thing in
taking away the blade--correct according to his lights. The proof is
that Mr. Weaver thought little or nothing of the missing blade until
I probed it out of him; and then it was only because I brought to the
investigation an unprejudiced, impersonal observation."
Ellery grinned a little. "I have been working on presumptions and more
or less feeble deductions, as you can see; yet if you put together
all the scattered, flimsy facts which I have outlined in the past ten
minutes, I think you will see that common sense simply cries out that
the blade was used for shaving, that it was broken, and that it was
taken away. We find no evidence that the blade might have been used
for anything but its legitimate purpose; and this only strengthens
the contention. Let me leave this line of thought temporarily and go
to another, altogether different, and in its way one of the most
significant in the entire investigation."
There was a surreptitious rustling of bodies in hard chairs, a quick
intake of breaths. The eyes on Ellery did not waver.
"It may have come to you," he said in a quiet, merciless voice, "that
more than one person could have been implicated in this affair;
that, perhaps, if Miss Carmody did not put away her shoes and
hat--disregarding the damning evidence of the cigarets--she still might
have been present; for another--a man--could have disposed of the shoes
and hat while she stood by or did something else. I shall disprove that
with the most gratifying expedition."
He put his palms flat on the desk, leaned slightly forward. "Who,
ladies and gentlemen, had rightful access to this apartment? Answer:
The five possessors of the keys. That is--Mr. French, Mrs. French,
Miss Carmody, Miss Marion French, and Mr. Weaver. The master-key in
O'Flaherty's desk was closely guarded, and no one could have got it
without either his knowledge or the knowledge of the day-man, O'Shane.
And no such knowledge exists, which makes it plain that the master key
in no way enters our calculations.
"Of the six keys _in esse_, as it were, we are now able to account for
five. Mrs. French's is missing. All the others are absolutely accounted
for as having been exclusively in the possession of their owners.
Mrs. French's key has been sought for by the combined cunning of the
detective force. It is still missing. In other words, it is not on
these premises, despite the fact that O'Flaherty positively avers that
Mrs. French had it in her possession when she entered the store Monday
night.
"I told you at the beginning of this impromptu demonstration that the
murderer probably took that key. Now I tell you not only that he took
it, but that _he had to take it_.
"We have one confirmation in fact that the criminal _wanted_ a key. On
Monday afternoon, some time after Miss Carmody left the French house
furtively, Miss Underhill, the housekeeper, received a telephone call.
The caller claimed to be Miss Carmody. The caller asked Miss Underhill
to have Miss Carmody's key to the apartment ready, that a messenger
would be sent for it at once. Yet only the very same morning, Miss
Carmody had told Miss Underhill that she had lost her key, she thought,
and asked Miss Underhill to secure one of the other keys and make a
duplicate for her!
"Miss Underhill doubts that the caller was Miss Carmody. She is ready
to swear that some one stood by the telephone at the other end and
prompted the caller's reply when Miss Underhill reminded the caller
about the lost key and the morning's instructions. The caller then hung
up in some confusion....
"What is the inference? Surely that the caller was not Miss Carmody,
but a hireling or accomplice of the murderer, who prompted the call in
order to secure a key to the apartment!"
Ellery drew a long breath. "I leave you for the moment to your own
cogitations on the interesting inflections this incident raises.... Now
let me conduct you through a logical maze to another conclusion--the
one with which I began this branch of my thesis.
"Why did the murderer want a key? Obviously, to secure a means of
access to the apartment. He could not get in except through the agency
of a second person who possessed a key, if he had not one himself.
Presumably he expected to be admitted to the apartment by Mrs. French,
but in the careful planning of the crime the possession of a key for
himself might conceivably be important, and this explains the call and
the projected 'messenger.' But to the case in point!
"The criminal killed Mrs. French in the apartment. Now that he had a
corpse and knew that he must take it down into the window-room, for
the various reasons I have given, he pulled up with a sudden thought.
He knew that the door to the apartment had a spring lock that snapped
shut. He had no key, having failed in his effort to get hold of Bernice
Carmody's. He must carry the body out of the apartment. Yet he had much
to do in the apartment afterward--clean up the evidences of blood,
'plant' the shoes and hat, the banque game and cigarets. As a matter of
fact, even if he cleaned up the room and 'planted' the false evidence
before he took the body down, he still needed means of reëntry into
the apartment. He had to pussyfoot through the store for the felt,
the glue, and other paraphernalia needed to fix the book-ends. How
was he to get back into the apartment? He also meant to sleep in the
apartment, apparently--again, how was he to get back? You see, whether
he took the body downstairs before or after he cleaned up, he still
needed a means of reëntry to the apartment....
"His first thought must have been to insert something between the
door and the floor to keep the springed door from clicking shut. But
what about the watchmen? He must have thought: 'The watchmen make
rounds through this corridor by the hour. They will be sure to notice
a partly open door and investigate.' No, the door had to be closed.
But--a thought! Mrs. French had a key, her own key--the one by which
she herself entered the apartment. He would use that. We can picture
him opening her bag while she lay, bleeding and dead, across the desk,
finding the key, putting it into his own pocket, picking up the corpse
and leaving the apartment, now certain of a means of reëntering it
when he was through with his grisly task.
"_But_"--and Ellery smiled grimly--"he had to bring the key back
upstairs with him, obviously, to get into the apartment again.
Therefore we didn't find it on the body. True, he might have gone
upstairs, done his cleaning up, and then taken the key downstairs
again. But--of course that's inane--how would he get back again?
Besides, the danger he would encounter--taking still another chance
of being detected on the main floor getting into the window.... It
was dangerous enough the first time, but that was inescapable. No, he
probably figured that the best thing he could do would be to pocket the
key and dispose of it when he left the building in the morning. True,
he might have left it in the apartment, on the card-table for example.
But the fact that it isn't in the apartment shows that he took it away
with him--he had two alternatives and chose one of them.
"We find then--" Ellery paused for the merest instant--"that our
criminal committed the murder _without accomplices_.
"I see doubt on some faces. But surely it is quite clear. If he had an
accomplice, he wouldn't have been forced to take the key at all!...
He would have carried the body downstairs, and his accomplice would
have remained in the apartment to open the door for him when he was
finished downstairs. Don't you see? The very fact that he had to take
the key shows that it was a one-man job. I might be confronted with
the objection: 'Well, it could have been two people at that, because
both might have carried the body downstairs.' To that I reply with
certainty, 'No!' because it would have involved a double risk--two
people would have been easier to detect by a watchman than one. This
crime is well thought out--the author of it would never have taken
this unnecessary chance of discovery."
Ellery stopped abruptly and stared down at his notes. No one moved.
When he looked up there was a tightness about his lips that revealed an
inward strain whose cause no one there could guess.
"I have now reached the point, ladies and gentlemen," he announced in
a calm flat voice, "where I can go to some length in describing our
elusive criminal. Would you care to hear my description?"
He looked about the room, challenging them with his eyes. Bodies rigid
through excitement sagged in reaction. Every one averted his head.
There was no sound from them.
"I take it that you would," said Ellery in the same flat voice, which
contained a note of amused menace. "Very well, then!"
He leaned forward, eyes glittering. "Our murderer is a man. The tactics
employed in putting the shoes and hat into the closet plus the evidence
of the missing blade point to this masculinity. The physical energy
required in disposing of the body and the rest; the mental agility,
with its recurrent traces of hard common sense; the cold-bloodedness,
the unscrupulosity--all these point unerringly to a masculine figure
with, if you will, a fairly heavy beard which requires daily shaving."
They followed the movements of his lips with bated breaths.
"Our man worked alone, without accomplices. The deductions from the
missing key, which I have gone into at great length, point to this."
There was not a tremor of movement in the room.
"Our lone man is connected with the store. The removal of the body to
the window downstairs and all its attendant complications, which I
have also expounded at some length, prove this."
Ellery relaxed slightly. Again he looked about the room with a little
smile. He applied his handkerchief to his lips, glanced slyly at
Commissioner Welles, who sat perspiring and alert in his chair; at his
father, who was slumped in an attitude of weariness, one fragile hand
shielding his eyes; at the motionless detectives to his left; at Velie,
Crouther, "Jimmy," and Fiorelli to his right. Then he began once more.
"On one point," he said dryly, "we have as yet reached no definite
conclusion. I refer to the nature of the business which the murderer
considered so imperative as to require special attention Tuesday
morning....
"Which brings me to the most absorbing subject of the five books which
we discovered on this desk--that interesting mélange of paleontology,
elementary music, commerce of the _moyen age_, philately, and bad
vaudeville jokes."
Ellery launched into a short, graphic description of the five strange
volumes, the markings, Weaver's story of Springer's duplicity, the
revelation that the addresses were drug-distributing depots, and
finally the unsuccessful raid on the house at the 98th Street address,
taken from the sixth book in Weaver's possession.
"When Springer prepared the sixth book," continued Ellery, to his
ever-tensing audience, "we can assume that he had no suspicion that
the book-code was being tampered with or known to an outsider. If he
had, he would not have prepared the book and left it for Mr. Weaver's
investigating fingers. So that, when Springer left the store on Monday
night, followed by Mr. Weaver, he did not know that this sixth book,
_Modern Trends in Interior Decoration_, by Lucian Tucker, was in our
young amateur detective's possession. And since Springer met and spoke
to no one all evening, even when he arrived at his Bronx apartment
(for we have checked up through the telephone company and found that
he did not make any telephone calls when he got home), he could not
therefore have known that the book-system had been tampered with until,
at the very earliest, the next morning, Tuesday, when he returned
to work. In other words, after the murder. If we presume that not
Springer, but some one else, would have been apprised by an outsider
of the discovery of the code-system, we must not forget that the only
method by which any one could have communicated with another about
the matter from the store would be by telephoning, since he could not
leave the store during the night. And we discovered that the telephone
service at this store is cut off at night, with the exception of
one trunk line leading to O'Flaherty's desk; and this was not used,
according to O'Flaherty's own testimony.
"Then we are forced to conclude that it was impossible for any one in
the store Monday night and early Tuesday morning to have communicated
with Springer or any one else about the missing sixth book, which
Weaver took away with him."
Ellery forged ahead rapidly. "The fact that the system of dope
distribution was disorganized the next morning, Tuesday--as it was, for
the sudden abandonment of the 98th Street house on Tuesday afternoon
is clear evidence--could have been due only to some one of the drug
ring discovering during the night that the system was being tampered
with. I repeat here the fact that Springer went ahead on Monday evening
with his regular task of codifying the sixth book, showing that up to
that time the ring considered their system safe. Yet by next morning
they had become alarmed and fled the 98th Street rendezvous, even
before catering to their addict-customers. Again, then, the logical
explanation is that it was during the previous night that some one
discovered something wrong.
"This discovery could have been caused only by, first, noticing the
absence of the sixth book from its accustomed shelf in the Book
Department Monday night after Weaver left--the last one to check out
of the store; second, finding the five duplicate books on Mr. French's
desk Monday night; or third, both. We must conclude therefore that,
since the disorganization did take place the morning after the crime,
it could have only been ordered by some one who made one or both of
these discoveries Monday night. Some one--to amplify--who must have
been in the store after Springer and Weaver left, and who therefore
could not get out of the store or communicate with any one until at
least nine o'clock Tuesday morning."
Dawning comprehension shone from several faces before him. Ellery
smiled. "I see that some of you are anticipating the inevitable
conclusion.... Who in the store that night was in a position to make
one or both of these bibliographical discoveries? The answer is: the
murderer, the man who killed Mrs. French in the room in which the five
books were prominently in sight. Is there anything about the murderer's
subsequent actions which proves that he _did_ make the discovery of the
five books in the apartment? Yes, there is. The fact that the murderer
removed the body to the window-room in order to give himself time next
morning to attend to his 'business'--which until this point has been
obscure....
"The deductive chain, ladies and gentlemen," said Ellery in a curiously
triumphant voice, "is too strong and perfectly welded to be anything
but truth. _The murderer warned the drug ring Tuesday morning._
"In other words, to add an element to our growing description--our
murderer is a man, who worked alone, who is connected with the store,
and who belongs to a large, well-organized drug ring."
He paused, fingered the five books on the desk with sensitive fingers.
"Furthermore, we are now in a position to add another qualifying item
to the growing description of the murderer.
"For had our drug-distributing murderer been present in the French
apartment _before_ the night of the murder--and by 'before' I mean at
any time within five weeks prior to the fatal night--he would have
seen the books on the table, would have become suspicious, would have
at once ordered the cessation of the book-code operations in the
Book Department. And since up to the very night of the murder the
book system was still in effect, it follows most gracefully that the
murderer had not been in the French library for between one and five
weeks before Monday night last.... We have confirmation that it was
the murderer again who saw those books on the desk. For in examining
and later fixing the damaged book-ends, he could scarcely have missed
seeing--and understanding to his horror the significance of--the five
volumes....
"As a matter of fact," continued Ellery swiftly, "there is no
difficulty in deducing that the murderer, upon seeing the incriminating
books on this desk, immediately stole downstairs to the Book Department
with a flashlight to determine whether the sixth book had been
tampered with also. And of course he would have found it gone--the
climax-capping discovery which would make it imperative for him to
get word to his confederates that the game was up. This is a decently
reasonable conjecture which very soon, I am happy to announce, we shall
be able to check more positively!"
And with this he stopped short, mopped his forehead with his
handkerchief, and polished the lenses of his pince-nez with absent
fingers. This time a ripple of conversation disturbed the quiet
atmosphere, beginning in a minor cadence that swelled to excited
proportions, only to cease abruptly when Ellery lifted a hand for
silence.
"To make the analysis complete," he resumed, restoring his glasses
to his nose, "I shall now become perhaps objectionably personal. For
I mean to take up, one by one, each of you and measure you by the
yardstick I have constructed in this analysis!"
Instantly the room was a babel of exclamations, expressions of anger,
resentment, bewilderment, uncomfortable self-interest. Ellery shrugged
his shoulders, turned toward Commissioner Welles. The Commissioner said
"Yes!" in a decisive tone and glared at the people assembled before
him. They subsided, muttering.
Ellery turned back to his audience with a half-smile. "Really," he
said, "I have not sprung my greatest surprise by any means. So there is
little cause for protest on the part of any one here--or should I say
nearly any one? At any rate, let's begin this fascinating little game
of elimination.
"From the first unit on my yardstick--the fact that the murderer is
a man--" he said, "we may at once absolve, even as an intellectual
exercise, Miss Marion French, Miss Bernice Carmody, and Mrs. Cornelius
Zorn.
"The second unit--that this man worked alone--is irrelevant and useless
to determine identity, so we will proceed to the third unit, which is
that the murderer, a man, is connected with this establishment. And to
the fourth, which is that the murderer has not been in this apartment
within the past five weeks.
"There is, first, Mr. Cyrus French." Ellery bowed insouciantly to the
feeble old millionaire. "Mr. French is certainly connected with this
establishment. Mr. French, further, could have committed the crime, if
you judge physical possibility a factor. I demonstrated privately not
long ago that, had Mr. French bribed the chauffeur of his host, Mr.
Whitney, to take him into the City from Great Neck on Monday night and
forget about it, he could have arrived at this apartment in sufficient
time to slip through the freight-entrance and into the apartment. He
was not seen again, except by the chauffeur, after he retired to his
room in the Whitney house at nine o'clock Monday night complaining of a
slight indisposition.
"However--" Ellery smiled at the purpling face of French--"Mr. French
has certainly been in this room within the past five weeks--every day,
in fact, for years. And if this seems inconclusive, Mr. French, rest
easy. For there is another reason, that thus far I have purposely
neglected to mention, which makes your culpability a psychological
impossibility."
French relaxed, a vague smile lifting the corners of his tremulous old
mouth. Marion squeezed his hand. "Now," said Ellery busily, "Mr. John
Gray, donor of the entangled book-ends and close friend to the French
family. You, Mr. Gray," he said gravely, directly addressing the spruce
old director, "are eliminated on a number of counts. Although you are
connected with the store in a very important capacity, and although
your absence on Tuesday morning would have been seriously noticed,
you too have been a frequent visitor to these rooms during the past
five weeks; in fact, you attended a meeting here on Friday, I believe.
And you had an alibi for Monday night which we checked up and found
stronger than even you believe. For not only does the night-man at your
hotel desk confirm your statement that you were talking with him at
eleven-forty Monday night, making it impossible for you to have entered
the store, but another person, unknown to you--a fellow-resident at the
same apartment hotel--saw you enter your suite at eleven-forty-five....
Even without this we could not seriously have entertained a thought
of your guilt, for we had no reason to believe that your friend the
night-clerk is anything but an honest man. No more reason, in fact,
than that Mr. Whitney's chauffeur, in the case of Mr. French, is
dishonest. In Mr. French's case I merely mentioned the bribe as an
eventuality, improbable but certainly within the realm of possibility."
Gray sank back with a curious sigh, dug his small hands into the
pockets of his coat. Ellery turned to red-faced, nervous Cornelius
Zorn, who was fumbling with his watch-chain. "Mr. Zorn, your alibi was
weak, and you could have, with perjured testimony on the part of Mrs.
Zorn, committed the murder. But although you are a prominent official
of the store, you too have been in this room at least once weekly for
many months. And you, too, as well as Mr. French and Mr. Gray, are
further absolved by this psychological inadmissibility of which I spoke
before.
"Mr. Marchbanks," continued Ellery, turning to the heavy-set, lowering
brother of the dead woman, "your story about the automobile trip to
Long Island and staying overnight at your house in Little Neck, unseen
by any one who might vouch for your presence, also made it physically
possible for you to have returned to the city in time to get into
the store and commit the murder. But you needn't have been so irate
yesterday--you are absolved too by this secret point of mine, besides
being eliminated, as a regular attendant here at the directorial
conferences, on the same account as Mr. Zorn.
"And Mr. Trask--" Ellery's tone hardened slightly--"although you were
drunk and rolling about the streets--" Trask's jaw dropped in vapid
astonishment--"on Monday night and Tuesday morning, you, too, are set
free by my yardstick, as well as by my as yet undivulged item."
Ellery paused, looked contemplatively at the stony, dark features
of Vincent Carmody. "Mr. Carmody. In many respects you deserve our
apologies and genuine commiserations. You were entirely eliminated from
our speculations by the fact that you are in no way connected with the
store. Had you committed the murder, despite your story of the night
trip to Connecticut, which was unsubstantiated and might have been
false, there would have been no necessity for taking the body of Mrs.
French downstairs to the window-room. Because you could have walked
out of the store at nine o'clock unrestrained by any fear that your
absence might be noticed. You did not belong in the store at all. You,
too, incidentally, are eliminated further by my charming and mysterious
little point.
"And now," continued Ellery, turning to the disturbed Gallic features
of Paul Lavery, "we come to you. Don't be afraid!" he smiled--"you
didn't commit the crime! I was so certain that I did not even bother
to ask you for a statement of your movements on Monday night. You
have been in this apartment daily for weeks. Besides, you came here
directly from France only a short time ago--it was quite beyond the
area of probability to suspect you, therefore, of being embroiled in
a gang of drug-peddlers operating with intense organization in this
city and country. And you, too, cannot very well be our murderer, since
you do not logically measure up to my last point, still withheld. And,
if I were to be minutely psychiatric, I might add that a man of your
refined and Continental intelligence would never have committed the
regrettable mistakes which got our esteemed mysterioso into trouble.
For I do believe that, out of all of us, you alone would have been
man-of-the-world enough to know how a woman puts her hat into a
hat-box, and how she stores buckled shoes in a shoe-bag....
"We have now," continued Ellery pleasantly, but there was a feverish
glitter in his eye, "narrowed the field of inquiry considerably. We
might discuss, of course, Mr. MacKenzie, the general manager, who
is an employee of the store. No, no! Mr. MacKenzie, don't rise to
protest--we've eliminated you already. Because of this last point of
ours, which is almost ready for exposition, and because you have
been in this apartment within five weeks. But any of the hundreds
of employees of the store who have _never_ been in this apartment
and whose movements Monday night are unaccounted for, might be the
murderer. We'll come to that in a moment. At this time, ladies and
gentlemen--" Ellery made a sharp sign to Patrolman Bush at the anteroom
door, who immediately bobbed his head and went out, leaving the door
open behind him--"at this time I wish to present to you a gentleman
who until now has been more or less of an unknown quantity; no less
a personage than--" there was a flurry at the outer door; it opened
and Bush entered, followed by a detective who held a white-faced man,
manacled, tightly by the elbow--"Mr. James Springer!"
Ellery retreated slightly, a grim smile on his face. The detective
escorted his prisoner to the front of the room, where two chairs were
immediately set by one of the attendant policemen. The two men sat
down, Springer holding his manacled hands limply in his lap, staring
steadfastly at the floor. He was a middle-aged man with sharp features
and grey hair; a livid bruise on his right cheek was mute evidence of a
recent scuffle.
Everybody in the room stared at him wordlessly. Old French was
speechless with rage at the sight of the employee who had betrayed him.
Weaver and Marion both laid restraining hands on his shaking arm. But
there were no words in that audience--only hot eager glances, and in
one case a frozen steady immutability....
"Mr. Springer," said Ellery quietly--yet his voice exploded like a
shell in the strained atmosphere of the room--"Mr. Springer has been
kind enough to turn State's evidence. Mr. Springer, who ran away with
the deluded thought that he might successfully evade the police, was
caught the very day he attempted to escape because we were prepared for
it. Mr. Springer's capture has been kept very quiet. Mr. Springer has
cleared up many little items of procedure which we could not possibly
have deduced.
"For example, that the murderer is his chief in the drug ring, which
even now is being scattered and pursued throughout the country. That
the murderer is the right-hand man of the eloquently termed 'master
mind' of the drug ring in this city. That Miss Bernice Carmody, who we
discovered by investigation was probably a drug addict in an advanced
stage, had come under the influence of the heroin habit, had met by
devious ways the 'master mind,' had been introduced to the code-system,
had become so dependent upon the drug that she willingly solicited
new customers from her social circle, becoming in a way therefore
almost a member of the ring. That Miss Carmody's pernicious addiction
was unsuspected by her family until, as we know, her father, Mr.
Carmody, began to suspect and told his former wife, Mrs. French, what
he suspected; and Mrs. French, observing, saw that it was true. That
Mrs. French, in her assertive way, directly accused her daughter of
addiction and finally broke down the girl's weakened will until she
confessed everything--including the name of the man connected with
the French store who was supplying her directly with her own drugs.
That Mrs. French, who we may suppose did not inform her husband of the
true state of affairs because of his violent aversion to this form
of vice, on Monday took away from Miss Carmody the newly replenished
supply of drugs which she kept in the false bottom of her specially
made lipstick. That Mrs. French further forced her daughter to make
an appointment for her with this man, this employee in her husband's
store, for Monday night at midnight, secretly, to plead with him for
her daughter--to force him, by threats of disclosing to the police
what she now knew about the drug organization, to loose his grip on
her daughter and allow the girl to be cured secretly by her mother.
That this appointment was made on Sunday through Miss Carmody. That
this man immediately reported the alarming state of affairs to his
chief, the ubiquitous 'master mind,' who in his customary cold-blooded
fashion commanded him to kill Mrs. French, who by now, in turn, was in
possession of too much vital information to be allowed to live; and
also to do away with Miss Carmody, who had proved a weak cog in the
machine and must also be disposed of. That this man, under threat of
being killed himself, laid his plans and made his appointment. That
he entered secretly through the freight-door, which as an employee
of the store he knew was open at that exact half-hour each night.
That he waited until midnight in a store lavatory and then made his
way stealthily to the apartment on the sixth floor, knocked, and was
admitted by Mrs. French, who had arrived a few minutes before. That
she stood by the desk, as we deduced, and they argued; that he was
not aware of the heroin-filled lipstick in her bag, or he would have
taken it; that without hesitation he shot and killed Mrs. French,
who bled profusely, the blood staining the book-end; that on bending
over the desk he saw the five books, and realized that some one had
been tampering with the code-system; that he saw the blue memorandum
announcing the arrival next morning at nine of Mr. Weaver and Mr.
French; that he realized he could not communicate with any one of the
ring about this latest unforeseen development, because he was unable
to get out before the next morning and could not telephone; that he
therefore decided to hide the body in the exhibition-window, which
would give him ample time next morning to slip away and warn his gang,
for if the body were left in the apartment and discovered at nine, he
would be unable for precautionary reasons to leave the building; and
finally that he disposed of the body where we found it. Also that on
his way back he stopped at the Book Department on the main floor and
confirmed his suspicion that the sixth book was also missing. That
he took Mrs. French's key back with him, having been unsuccessful in
his attempt to get Bernice Carmody's that afternoon by the ruse of
the telephone call. Finally, that he cleaned up the apartment, fixed
the book-end, 'planted' the evidence against Miss Carmody, stayed
overnight, shaved in the morning, broke the blade and took it away
with him; and slipped out shortly after nine, emerging with the early
shoppers only to reënter the building at once through the regular
Employees' Entrance, in order to be checked in officially. And that
he managed soon after to sneak off and warn his gang leader of the
discovery of the book-system...."
Ellery cleared his throat, went on relentlessly. "Mr. Springer was also
kind enough to clear up the matter of Miss Carmody's abduction. With
the action of Mrs. French on Sunday of taking away her store of the
drug, the girl became desperate and got in touch with the murderer.
This fitted in with his plans--he told her to come to a rendezvous
in the lower part of the city for a new supply. She went on Monday
afternoon and was promptly abducted, being taken by confederates to
a Brooklyn hideaway and murdered. Her clothes were confiscated and
brought back to our murderer, who had as yet committed no capital
crime. These clothes the murderer brought with him to the apartment
Monday night--the hat and shoes, tied up innocently in a small parcel,
but wet a trifle with rain to make the deception perfect.
"There is only one thing more to explain before proceeding to the
much-wished-for _dénouement_.... And that is the reason for 'planting'
the banque game, cigarets, shoes and hat to make it appear as if
Bernice herself had been implicated in the crime. And this, too, was
outlined--under protest--by Mr. Springer, who has been just a cog--an
important cog, perhaps--in the vicious wheel....
"The murderer left evidences of Miss Carmody's presence because she
had necessarily vanished. Since she had been murdered and would be
missing, there was a logical reason for connecting the two events--the
disappearance of the girl and the murder of her mother. It would seem
perhaps as if the girl had committed the crime. Since this was untrue,
the murderer felt that it might confuse the police and put them off
the real track. The murderer did not really hope that the deception
would be successful for long--it was merely another red herring drawn
across the trail, and anything which would lead the scent away from him
in another direction he felt was desirable. And the actual 'framing'
required little enough trouble and work. The cigarets he secured from
Xanthos', Miss Carmody's tobacconist, since she had once told him where
she secured her private supply. The banque he knew about from Miss
Carmody, also. The rest was child's play...."
They were sitting on the edge of the hard camp-chairs now, straining
forward to catch every syllable. Occasionally they looked at each other
in a puzzled manner, as if unable to see clearly to the end of the
analysis. Ellery brought them back to attention with his next words.
"Springer!" The name cracked out sharply. The prisoner started,
paled, looked up furtively. His eyes fell at once to the carpet he
had been studiously observing. "Springer, have I given your story
faithfully--and completely?"
The man's eyes fluttered in a sudden agony, rolled in their sockets,
wildly seeking a face in the swaying crowd before him. When he spoke,
it was in a husky monotone, barely audible to those avid ears.
"Yes."
"Very well, then!" exclaimed Ellery, leaning forward, his tone keenly
triumphant. "I have still to expatiate upon that unspoken point which I
termed mysterious a few moments ago....
"You will recall that I spoke of the book-ends and the few grains of
powder stuck in the glue between the onyx and the new felt. That powder
was ordinary fingerprint powder.
"From the moment that I was certain of the nature of the powder, the
veils dissipated before my eyes and I sensed the truth. We thought
at first, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "that the use of
fingerprint powder by the criminal indicated a very superior sort of
murderer--a super-criminal, in fact. One who would use the implements
of the police's own trade--it was a natural thought....
"But"--and the word lashed into them with deadly emphasis--"there was
another inference to be drawn--an inference which in a fell swoop
eliminated all suspects but one...." His eyes flashed fire; the
hoarseness disappeared from his voice. He leaned forward carefully,
over the desk with its litter of clues, holding them with the magnetism
of his personality. "All suspects--but one...." he repeated slowly.
After a pregnant moment he said: "That one is the man who was employed
by this store; who had not been in this room for at least five
weeks; who attempted to put us off the track of himself by getting
an accomplice without a record to give false information about the
'movements' of Bernice Carmody, who was already dead, in fact; who at
the same time was clever enough to say, when he saw that we believed
Miss Carmody to have been 'framed,' that he thought so, too, despite
the fact that he himself had done the framing; who was present--the
only suspect to be present, by the way--when the full story of the
codified books and the culpability of Springer was told, and who took
the very first opportunity of warning Springer to flee, realizing
that, with Springer caught, he himself was in serious danger; _who,
most important of all, was the only personality connected with this
investigation to whom the use of fingerprint powder was natural and
thoroughly logical_...."
He stopped abruptly, eyes fixed with interest, expectancy, the
eagerness of the chase, upon one corner of the room.
"_Watch him, Velie!_" he cried suddenly, in a piercing voice.
Before they could turn, before they could grasp the significance of
the scene enacted before them so swiftly and vitally, there came the
sounds of a short violent struggle, a bull-like bellow of rage, the
hoarse panting of breaths, and finally one sharp stupendous deafening
report....
Ellery stood limply, wearily in his fixed position at the desk. He did
not move while they rushed concertedly from all sides of the room to
the quiet spot where the body of a man lay, already stiff in death, in
a pool of blood.
It was Inspector Queen who reached that contorted body first, by a
lightning leap; who knelt quickly on the carpet, motioning aside the
red-faced, heaving figure of Sergeant Velie; who turned the convulsed
corpse of the suicide over; who muttered in words inaudible even to the
nearest spectator:
"No legal evidence--and the bluff worked!... Thank God for a son...."
The face was the face of the head store detective, Thomas Crouther.
THE END
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