The French Powder Mystery

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:

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!”

One 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 five 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 owners’ 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 her, 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 Apartments: 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 toothpaste 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 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 today 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 it is not unknown... It is 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 — cooperation 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 eyeing 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 meaning 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 questions—?”

“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 bit 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 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 ringers 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. “This 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 Į 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 out door click shut and Weaver reenter 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.

“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 magnet 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, steaming 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 ultimate 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 obsessions 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 waded 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 cooperation 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. Every thing 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, screwdriver, 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 threadlike 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 workcase, 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:

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 word “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 today were at their posts. As for today, 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 nightwatchman’s office, but farther into the body of the main floor.[3] 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.”

“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 anytime.” 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 cooperation. 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 flyleaf 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. “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 today the morning I got a written order from the boss, with signatures and a lot of that bunk, requisitioning a special made lock. That was when they were remodeling the apartment, about two years ago. So I 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 role 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 wizened 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 card-room 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. Well 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 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 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 was 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 hotelroom 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 case 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 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. “Well 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.