The French Powder Mystery

20 Tobacco

Cyrus French’s house fronted the Hudson River, on lower Riverside Drive. It was old and dusky, set well back from the Drive and surrounded by primly kept shrubbery. A low iron fence ran around the property.

When Inspector Queen, Ellery Queen and Westley Weaver entered the reception room, they found Sergeant Velie already there, engaged in earnest conversation with another detective. This man left immediately on the entrance of the small party, and Velie himself turned a perturbed face to his superior.

“We’ve struck oil, Inspector,” he said in his calm bass. “Managed to trace the cab that picked up Mrs. French last night almost at once. It was a Yellow that patrols this neighborhood regularly. Got the driver and he remembered his fare without any trouble.”

“And I suppose—” began the Inspector gloomily.

Velie shrugged. “Nothing to brag about. He picked her up right in front of the house here at about twenty after eleven last night. She told him to take her down Fifth. He followed orders. At 39th Street she told him to pull up, and then she got out. Paid him and he beat it. He did see her cross the street toward the department store. That’s all.”

“Not so much,” murmured Ellery, “to be sure. Did he stop at all on the trip downtown — did she communicate with any one on the way?”

“I asked him that. Nothing doing, Mr. Queen. She didn’t give him another order until they reached 39th Street. Of course, he did say that there was heavy traffic, and he had to stop a number of times. It’s possible that somebody might have hopped in and out of the cab during a traffic wait. But the driver says no, he didn’t see anything wrong.”

“And if he’s alert, he would have, naturally,” said the Inspector, sighing.

A maid took their hats and coats, and immediately afterward Marion French appeared. She squeezed Weaver’s hand, smiled wanly at the Queens, and placed herself at their disposal.

“No, Miss French, there’s nothing we can do with you now,” said the Inspector. “How is Mr. French?”

“Loads better.” She made a little moue of apology. “I did act frightfully at the apartment, Inspector Queen. I know you’ll forgive me — seeing father faint made me lose control of myself.”

“Nothing to forgive, Marion,” growled Weaver, “if I do take the words out of the Inspector’s mouth. I don’t think Inspector Queen quite realized how ill your father really was.”

“Now, now, Mr. Weaver,” said the Inspector mildly. “Miss French, do you think Mr. French will be able to see us in a half hour or so?”

“Well... If the doctor says so, Inspector. But goodness! Won’t you sit down? I’ve been so upset by all this — confusion...” A shadow darkened her face. The men accepted chairs. “You see, Inspector,” continued Marion, “there’s a nurse with daddy, and the doctor’s still here. An old friend. Mr. Gray, too. Shall I see?”

“If you will, my dear. And would you mind having Miss Hortense Underhill come in for a moment?”

When Marion had left the room, Weaver excused himself and hurried after her. Her startled “Why, Westley!” could just be heard from the main hall a moment later. There was a sudden silence, then a suspiciously soft sound, and finally retreating footfalls.

“I think,” said Ellery soberly, “that that was a luscious salute to the Venerian goddess... I wonder why old Cyrus frowns upon Westley as a prospective son-in-law. Wants wealth and position, I suppose.”

“Does he?” asked the Inspector.

“I gather so.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there.” The Inspector delicately took snuff. “Thomas,” he said, “what have you done about Bernice Carmody? Any traces?”

Velie pulled a longer face than usual. “Just one, and it barely helps us to a start. The Carmody girl was seen yesterday afternoon leaving this house by a day watchman — special officer — who’s privately employed to patrol the neighborhood. He knows the girl by sight. He saw her walk quickly down towards 72nd Street — straight down the Drive. She didn’t meet any one, apparently, and was headed for a definite place, because she seemed in a hell of a hurry. He had no reason to give her more than a casual glance or two, and so he couldn’t tell me just how far down the Drive she went or whether she turned down a side street.”

“Worse and worse.” The Inspector grew thoughtful. “That girl is almighty important, Thomas,” he sighed. “Put extra men on her trail if you think it’s necessary. We’ve got to find her. I suppose you’ve got a complete description, clothes and all?”

Velie nodded. “Yes, and four men on her already. If there’s anything at all, Inspector, we’ll find it.”

Hortense Underhill clumped into the room.

Ellery sprang to his feet. “Dad, this is Miss Underhill, the housekeeper. This is Inspector Queen, Miss Underhill. The Inspector has a few questions to ask you.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said the housekeeper.

“Um,” said the Inspector, eying her keenly. “My son tells me, Miss Underhill, that Miss Bernice Carmody left this house yesterday afternoon against her mother’s wishes — in fact, sneaked out behind her back. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct,” snapped the housekeeper, with a malevolent glance toward Ellery, who was smiling. “Though what that has to do, with it, I can’t see.”

“No doubt,” said the old man. “Was that Miss Carmody’s usual procedure — to run away from her mother?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re driving at, Mr. Inspector,” said the housekeeper coldly. “But if you’re aiming to implicate that girl... Well! Yes, she did that a few times a month. Slipped out of the house without a word and was gone usually about three hours. There was always a scene with Mrs. French when she returned.”

“I don’t suppose you know,” asked Ellery slowly, “where she went at such times? Or what Mrs. French said to her when she returned?”

Hortense Underhill clicked her teeth disagreeably. “No. Neither did her mother. That’s why they had a scene. And Bernice would never tell. Just sit calmly and let her mother rave... Except, of course, last week. Then they did have a scene.”

“Oh, something extraordinary a week ago, eh?” said Ellery. “And I gather that Mrs. French did know then?”

The housekeeper permitted an expression of surprise to flick across her hard features. “Yes, I think she did,” she said more quietly than before. She favored Ellery with a suddenly interested glance. “But what it was I don’t know. I think she found out where Bernice was going, and they quarreled about it.”

“Just when was this, Miss Underhill?” asked the Inspector.

“A week ago Monday.”

Ellery whistled softly to himself. He and the Inspector exchanged glances.

The Inspector leaned forward. “Tell me, Miss Underhill — these days on which Miss Carmody generally disappeared — do you recall whether they were all the same, or different days?”

Hortense Underhill looked from father to son, began to speak, thought for an instant, looked up again. “Now that I think of it,” she said slowly, “they weren’t always Mondays. I remember a Tuesday, a Wednesday, and a Thursday... I do believe she went every week on consecutive days! Now, what could that mean?”

“More, Miss Underhill,” replied Ellery, frowning, “than you can guess — or I, for that matter... Have the bedrooms of Mrs. French and Miss Carmody been disturbed since this morning?”

“No. When I heard about the murder at the store I locked up both bedrooms. I didn’t know but that—”

“That it might have been important, Miss Underhill?” said Ellery. “That was clever of you... Will you please lead the way upstairs?”

The housekeeper rose without a word and walked out into the main hall and up the broad central staircase, the three men following. She stopped on the second floor and opened a door with a key from a bunch in her black silk apron-pocket.

“This is Bernice’s room,” she announced, and stepped aside.

They entered a large green-and-ivory bedroom, ornately furnished with period furniture. A huge canopied bed dominated the room. Despite the mirrors and colors and exotic pieces, the room was unaccountably depressing. It looked cold. The sunbeams that streamed in through the three wide windows, far from lending warmth to the ensemble, in some grotesque way only heightened the general effect of cheerlessness.

Ellery’s eyes, as he stepped into the room, were not concerned with its eeriness. They focused immediately on a large, garishly carved table to the side of the bed, on which was an ashtray filled to overflowing with cigaret stubs. He quickly crossed the room and picked up the tray. Then he put it back on the table with a curious gleam in his eye.

“Was this tray with its cigaret stubs here this morning when you locked up, Miss Underhill? he asked sharply.

“Yes. I didn’t touch anything.”

“Then this room hasn’t been tidied since Sunday?”

The housekeeper flushed. “The room was attended to on Monday morning, after Bernice awoke,” she snarled. “I will not hear any imputations against my household, Mr. Queen! I—”

“But why not Monday afternoon?” interposed Ellery, smiling.

“Because Bernice chased the maid out of the room after the bed was made, that’s why!” snapped the housekeeper. “The girl didn’t have time to empty the ashtray. I hope that satisfies you!”

“It does,” murmured Ellery. “Dad — Velie — come here a moment.”

Ellery silently pointed down to the cigaret stubs. There were at least thirty on the tray. Without exception the cigarets, of a flat Turkish variety, had been smoked only one-quarter of their length, and crushed out against the tray. The Inspector picked one up, and peered at a word of gilt lettering near the tip.

“Well, what’s surprising about that?” he demanded. “They’re the same brand as the ones on the card-table in the apartment. Girl must be frightfully nervous, though.”

“But the length, dad, the length,” said Ellery softly. “However, no matter... Miss Underhill, has Miss Carmody always smoked La Duchesse?”

“Yes, sir,” said the housekeeper unpleasantly. “And too many for her health, too. She gets them from some Greek person with an outlandish name — Xanthos, I think it is — who makes them up on special order for young ladies of the better classes. Perfumed, they are!”

“A standing order, I suppose?”

“You suppose correctly. When Bernice’s supply ran out, she merely repeated her order, which was for a box of five hundred always... That’s one thing about Bernice, although you mustn’t take it as anything against the poor child, because too many young ladies have the same pernicious habit — but she smokes altogether too much for propriety and health, too. Her mother never smoked, nor do Marion and Mr. French.”

“Yes, yes, we are aware of those facts, Miss Underhill, thank you.” Ellery took a glassine envelope from his compact pocket-kit and calmly poured into it the dusty contents of the ashtray. The envelope he handed to Velie.

“You had better keep this with whatever mementoes of the case will be filed at Headquarters,” he said in a sprightly tone. “I think it will prove of interest in the final summation... Now, Miss Underhill, if you will please spare us just another slice of your precious time...”

21 Keys Again

Ellery looked quickly about the garish room and strode over to a large door on the side wall. He opened it and uttered a low exclamation of satisfaction. It was a clothes-closet, packed with feminine garments — gowns, coats, shoes, hats in profusion.

He turned once more to Hortense Underhill, who was regarding him with peculiar disquiet. Her lips compressed as she saw his hand absently ruffle through the mass of gowns hanging from the racks.

“Miss Underhill, I believe you said that Miss Carmody was at the apartment some months ago, and hasn’t been there since?”

She nodded stiffly.

“Do you recall what she wore when she was there last?”

“Really, Mr. Queen,” she said in frigid tones, “I haven’t such a memory as you evidently give me credit for. How could I remember that?”

Ellery grinned. “Very well. Where is Miss Carmody’s apartment key?”

“Oh!” The housekeeper was genuinely startled. “That’s a funny thing, now, Mr. Queen — I mean your asking that. Because only yesterday morning Bernice told me that she thought she’d lost her key and asked me to get one of the others’ keys and duplicate it for her.”

“Lost, eh?” Ellery seemed disappointed. “Are you certain, Miss Underhill?”

“I’ve just told you.”

“Well, there’s no harm in looking,” said Ellery cheerfully. “Here, Velie, lend a hand with these duds. You don’t mind, dad?” And in a moment he and the sergeant had attacked the closet with a furious determination, to the accompaniment of the Inspector’s chuckle and Hortense Underhill’s outraged gasp.

“You see...” said Ellery from clenched teeth, as he swiftly passed his hands through coats and gowns, “people don’t generally lose things. They merely think they do... In this case, Miss Carmody perhaps searched for it in a few obvious places and gave it up as hopeless... She probably didn’t look in the right garments... Ah, there, Velie! Splendid!”

The tall sergeant held up a heavy fur coat. In his left hand gleamed a gold-disked key.

“In an inside pocket, Mr. Queen. The fur coat would make it heavy weather when Miss Carmody last used the key.”

“Fair and subtle enough,” said Ellery, taking the key. It was an exact duplicate of Weaver’s key, which he now took from his pocket and compared with the latest discovery — a twin except for the initials B. C. engraved on the disk.

“Why do you want all the keys, El?” demanded the Inspector. “I can’t see any good reason for it.”

“You have enormous powers of perspicacity,” said Ellery gravely. “Now how did you know I wanted all the keys? But you’re perfectly right — I do, and I shall take up a collection very shortly. The reason is surely as plain as the nose on your face, as Crouther would say... Don’t want anybody getting into that apartment for a while, very simply.”

He deposited both keys in his pocket and turned to the unpleasant housekeeper.

“Did you carry out Miss Carmody’s orders about duplicating this ‘lost’ key?” he asked curtly.

The housekeeper sniffed. “I did not,” she said. “Because now that I think of it, I don’t really know whether or not Bernice was jesting with me when she said she had lost the key. And something happened yesterday afternoon that made me undecided about it, and I thought I’d wait until I saw Bernice again to ask her.”

“And what was that, Miss Underhill?” inquired the Inspector, with a slow gentleness.

“Something queer, to tell the truth,” she replied thoughtfully. Her eyes flashed suddenly, and her expression became remarkably more human. “I do want to help,” she said softly. “And I am beginning to think more and more that what happened will help...”

“You have us simply petrified with excitement, Miss Underhill,” murmured Ellery, without changing expression. “Please proceed.”

“Yesterday afternoon, at about four o’clock — no, I think it must have been closer to half-past three — I received a telephone call from Bernice. That was after she had left the house so mysteriously — you know.”

The three men stiffened into strained attention. Velie muttered an indistinguishable curse beneath his breath, but quieted under a flashing glance from the Inspector. Ellery leaned forward.

“Yes, Miss Underhill?” he urged.

“It was most puzzling,” continued the housekeeper. “Bernice had spoken to me casually about losing the key just before lunch. Yet when she called in the afternoon, the first thing she said was that she wanted her key to the apartment, and would send around for it by messenger at once!”

“Is it possible,” muttered the Inspector, “that she thought you had already had a duplicate key made for her?”

“No, Inspector,” said the housekeeper incisively. “It didn’t sound as if she thought that at all. In fact, it seemed as if she’d utterly forgotten about having lost the key. So much so that I immediately reminded her that she’d told me about losing the key, in the morning, and having another made for her. She seemed quite distressed and said, ‘Oh, yes, Hortense! Isn’t it stupid of me to forget that way,’ and began to say something else, when she stopped suddenly and then said, ‘Don’t bother, Hortense, after all, it isn’t particularly important. I thought I might want to drop in at the apartment this evening.’ I reminded her that she could get the use of the master-key at the nightwatchman’s desk if she wanted to go to the apartment so badly. But she didn’t seem interested and hung up immediately.”

There was a little silence. Then Ellery looked up with a great light of interest in his eyes.

“Can you remember, Miss Underhill,” he asked, “just what it was that Miss Carmody began to say in the middle of the conversation, and then appeared to reconsider?”

“It’s hard to be exact about it, Mr. Queen,” replied the housekeeper. “But somehow I got the impression that Bernice was going to ask me to get one of the other keys to the apartment for her. Perhaps I’m wrong.”

“Perhaps you are,” said Ellery whimsically, “but I’d not give even the most preposterous of odds that you aren’t...”

“You know,” added Hortense Underhill, as an afterthought, “I also got the impression, when she began to say that and stopped, that—”

“That somebody was talking to her, Miss Underhill?” asked Ellery.

“Exactly, Mr. Queen.”

The Inspector turned a startled face toward his son. Velie moved his huge bulk lightly forward and whispered in the Inspector’s ear. The old man grinned.

“Keen, keen, Thomas,” he chuckled. “That’s just what I was thinking, too...”

Ellery flicked his finger warningly.

“Miss Underhill, I can’t expect you to exhibit miracles of acuteness,” he said in a serious, admiring tone. “But I should like to ask — if you’re entirely certain that it was Miss Carmody talking to you over the wire?”

“That’s it!” cried the Inspector. Velie smiled grimly.

The housekeeper regarded the three men with strangely limpid eyes. Something electric shot through all four.

“I don’t — believe — it — was,” she whispered...

After a while they left the missing girl’s bedroom and entered an adjoining room. It was severer in tone and immaculately clean.

“This is Mrs. French’s room,” said the housekeeper in a low voice. Her acid nature seemed sweetened by a sudden realization of complex tragedy. Her eyes followed Ellery with a grave respect.

“Is everything in perfect order, Miss Underhill?” asked the Inspector.

“Yes, sir.”

Ellery walked over to a wardrobe and scanned its neat racks thoughtfully.

“Miss Underhill, will you please look through this rack and tell us if any of Miss Marion French’s clothes are here?”

The housekeeper went through the racks while the three men looked on. She proceeded carefully, then shook her head in an unhesitating negative.

“Then Mrs. French was not in the habit of wearing Miss French’s things?”

“Oh, no, sir!”

Ellery smiled with satisfaction and at once wrote a line of hieroglyphics in his makeshift notebook.

22 Books Again

The three men stood uncomfortably in old Cyrus French’s bedroom. The nurse fluttered about in the hall, a solid door separating her from her charge. Marion and Weaver had been ordered downstairs to the drawing-room. French’s physician, Dr. Stuart, a large impressive man, with a professional irascibility glared at the Queens from his post at French’s bedside.

“Five minutes — no longer,” he snapped. “Mr. French is hardly in a conversational condition!”

The Inspector clucked placatingly, and stared at the sick man. French lay lumpily in his great bed, nervous eyes darting from one to another of his inquisitors. One flabby white hand plucked at the silk coverlet. His face was entirely drained of color, pasty, shockingly unwholesome in appearance. His grey hair straggled over a furrowed forehead.

The Inspector stepped nearer to the bed. He bent forward and said in a low voice, “This is Inspector Queen of the police, Mr. French. Can you hear me? Do you think you are strong enough to answer a few perfunctory questions about Mrs. French’s — accident?”

The quicksilver eyes ceased rolling and concentrated on the gentle grey face of the Inspector. They blinked suddenly with intelligence.

“Yes... yes...” French whispered, moistening his thin pale lips with a bright tongue. “Anything... to clear up this... ghastly business...”

“Thank you, Mr. French.” The Inspector leaned closer. “Is there any explanation in your mind that might account for the death of Mrs. French?”

The liquid eyes blinked, closed. When they opened, there was an expression of utter bewilderment within their reddish depths.

“No... none,” French breathed painfully. “None... whatsoever... She... she had... so many friends... no enemies... I... it is... unbelievable that any one... should be so... fiendish as to... murder her.”

“I see.” The Inspector tugged at his mustache with nimble fingers. “Then you know of no one who might have had a motive for killing her, Mr. French?”

“No...” The hoarse feeble voice gathered strength suddenly. “The shame — the notoriety... It will be the death of me... With all my... unsparing efforts to put an end to vice... that this should happen to me!.. Hideous, hideous!”

His voice grew more and more violent. The Inspector motioned in alarm to Dr. Stuart, who leaned quickly over the sick man and felt his pulse. Then, in an extraordinarily gentle voice, the physician soothed his patient until the throaty rumblings faded off and the hand on the coverlet unflexed and lay still.

“Have you much more?” asked the doctor in a gruff undertone. “You must be quick, Inspector!”

“Mr. French,” said Queen quietly, “is your personal key to the store apartment always in your possession?”

The eyes rolled sleepily. “Eh? Key? Yes... yes, always.”

“It has certainly not left your person in the past fortnight or so?”

“No... positively not...”

“Where is it, Mr. French?” continued the Inspector in an urgent soft voice. “Surely you will not mind letting us have it for a few days, will you, sir? In the interests of justice, of course... Where? Oh, yes! Dr. Stuart, Mr. French asks that you get the key from the key-ring in his trousers hip-pocket. In the wardrobe, sir, the wardrobe!”

In silence the burly physician went to a wardrobe, rummaged about in the first pair of trousers that met his eye, and returned in a moment with a leather key-case. The Inspector examined the gold-disked key marked C. F., unhooked it, and returned the case to the doctor, who promptly replaced it in the trousers. French lay quietly, eyes veiled by puffy lids.

The Inspector handed Cyrus French’s key to Ellery, who deposited it with the other keys in his pocket. Then Ellery stepped forward and leaned over the sick man.

“Easy, Mr. French,” he murmured in a soothing tone. “We have just two or three more questions, and then you will be left to your much-needed privacy... Mr. French, do you recall what books are on your desk in the library of your apartment?”

The old man’s eyes flew open. Dr. Stuart growled angrily beneath his breath something about “arrant nonsense... silly sleuthing.” Ellery’s body remained in its deferential attitude, his head close to French’s slack mouth.

“Books?”

“Yes, Mr. French. The books on your apartment desk. Do you recall their titles?” he urged gently.

“Books.” French screwed his mouth up in a desperate effort to concentrate. “Yes, yes... Of course. My favorites... Jack London’s Adventure... The Return of Sherlock Holmes, by Doyle... McCutcheon’s Graustark... Cardigan, by Robert W. Chambers, and... let me think... there was one other... yes! Soldiers of Fortune, by Richard Harding Davis... That’s it — Davis... Knew Davis... Wild, but a... a great fellow...”

Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. The Inspector’s face grew crimson with suppressed emotion. He muttered, “What the deuce!”

“You’re certain, Mr. French?” persisted Ellery, leaning over the bed once more.

“Yes... yes. My books... I should know...” whispered the old man, annoyance sounding weakly in his voice.

“Of course! We were merely making sure... Now, sir, have you ever been interested in such subjects as, let us say, paleontology — philately — medieval commerce — folk lore — elementary music?”

The tired eyes widened with puzzled amazement. The head wagged twice from side to side.

“No... I can’t say that I am... My serious reading is restricted to works on sociology... my work for the Anti-Vice Society... you know my position...”

“You are positive that your five books by Davis, Chambers, Doyle and the others are on your apartment desk now, Mr. French?”

“I suppose so,” mumbled French. “Been there... for ages... Ought to be... Never noticed anything wrong...”

“Very well. That is quite excellent, sir. Thank you.” Ellery glanced swiftly at Dr. Stuart, who was exhibiting marked signs of impatience. “One question, Mr. French, and we shall leave you. Has Mr. Lavery been in your apartment recently?”

“Lavery? Yes, of course. Every day. My guest.”

“Then that will be all.” Ellery stepped back and made a hasty note on the flyleaf of his now overscribbled little volume. French’s eyes closed, and he shifted his body slightly, with an unmistakable relaxation that signified complete fatigue.

“Please leave quietly,” grunted Dr. Stuart. “You’ve retarded his recovery sufficiently for one day.”

He turned his back truculently upon them.

The three men tiptoed from the room.

But on the staircase leading to the main foyer, the Inspector muttered, “Where in time do those books come in?”

“Ask me not in mournful numbers,” said Ellery ruefully. “I wish I knew.”

Thenceforth they descended in silence.

23 Confirmation

They found Marion and Weaver sitting glumly in the drawing-room, hands clasped, and suspiciously silent. The Inspector coughed, Ellery thoughtfully scrubbed away at his pince-nez, Velie screwed up his eyes and blinked at a Renoir on the wall.

The boy and the girl sprang to their feet.

“How... how is daddy?” asked Marion hurriedly, one slim hand to a crimson-dappled cheek.

“Resting quietly now, Miss French,” replied the Inspector in some embarrassment. “Ah — a question or two, young lady, and then we will be on our way... Ellery!”

Ellery came directly to the point.

“Your key to your father’s apartment, Miss French” he demanded — “is it always in your possession?”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Queen. You don’t think—”

“A categorical question, Miss French,” said Ellery blandly. “Your key has not left your possession in, let us say, four weeks?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Queen. It’s my own, and every one else who might have occasion to go into the apartment has a key of his or her own, as well.”

“Lucidly said. May I borrow yours temporarily?”

Marion half-turned toward Weaver with hesitation written in her eyes. Weaver pressed her arm reassuringly.

“Do whatever Ellery asks, Marion,” he said.

Without a word Marion rang for a maid, and in a few moments turned over to Ellery another key whose only distinguishing characteristic from the keys already on his person was the neatly engraved M. F. on the bright disk. Ellery stowed it away with the others and murmured his thanks, retreating a step.

The Inspector promptly stepped forward.

“I must ask you what may prove an awkward question, Miss French,” he said.

“I... we seem to be completely in your hands, Inspector Queen,” said the girl, smiling faintly.

The Inspector stroked his mustache. “Just what has been the relationship between yourself, let us say, and your stepmother and stepsister? Amicable? Strained? Openly antagonistic?”

Marion did not answer at once. Weaver shuffled his feet and turned away. Then the girl’s magnificent eyes met the old man’s honestly.

“I think ‘strained’ expresses it exactly,” she said in her clear sweet voice. “There has never been much love lost on any side of the triangle. Winifred has always preferred Bernice above me — which is of course natural and as for Bernice, we didn’t agree from the beginning. And as time went on, and — and things began to happen, the rift simply widened...”

“‘Things’?” prompted the Inspector suggestively.

Marion bit her lip, flushed. “Well — just little things, you know,” she said evasively. She hurried on. “All of us tried very hard to conceal our dislike for each other — for dad’s sake. I’m afraid we weren’t always successful. Dad is keener than people think.”

“I see.” The Inspector tchk-ed with concern. He straightened with a peculiarly swift movement of his body. “Miss French, do you know anything that might give us a hint to the murderer of your stepmother?”

Weaver gasped, whitened. He seemed about to voice a bitter protest. But Ellery laid a restraining hand on his arm. The girl grew still, but she did not flinch. She passed her fingers wearily across her forehead.

“I... no.” It was a bare whisper.

The Inspector made a deprecating little gesture.

“Oh, please don’t ask me anything more about — about her,” she cried suddenly in an agonized voice. “I can’t go on this way, talking about her, trying to tell the truth, because...” she spoke more quietly, “... because it would be in the poorest taste to calumniate that poor — dead — thing.” She shuddered. Weaver boldly put his arm about her shoulders. She turned to him with a little sigh of relief and buried her face against his breast.

“Miss French.” Ellery’s tone was gentleness itself. “You can help us on one point... Your stepsister — what brand of cigaret does she smoke?”

Marion’s astonishment at the seemingly irrelevant question brought her head up with a start.

“Why... La Duchesse.”

“Exactly. And she smoked La Duchesse exclusively?”

“Yes. At least, for as long as I’ve known her.”

“Has she” — Ellery was casual — “has she any peculiarity in her method of smoking, Miss French? Any perhaps slightly unusual habit?”

The pretty brows drew closer together in a little frown. “If you mean by habit” — she hesitated — “a distinct nervousness — yes.”

“Does this nervousness manifest itself in a noticeable way?”

“She smokes incessantly, Mr. Queen. And she never takes more than five or six puffs at a cigaret. She doesn’t seem by nature able to smoke calmly. A few puffs, and she grinds out the long stump of tobacco still remaining almost with — viciousness. The cigarets she leaves are always bent and twisted out of shape.”

“Thank you so much.” Ellery’s firm lips lifted in a smile of satisfaction.

“Miss French—” the Inspector took up the attack — “you left this house last night after dinner. You did not return until midnight. Where were you during those four hours?”

Silence. A frightened silence so suddenly fraught with hidden complications of emotion that it seemed almost of physical substance. It was a tableau created for a single moment’s duration: the slight Inspector, alert, controlled, leaning forward; the straight body of Ellery, muscles completely inanimate; the vague bulk of Velie, drawn and powerful; a petrified agony on Weaver’s mobile features — and the utter misery of Marion French’s slender, stricken figure.

It passed in the drawing of a breath. Marion sighed, and the four men relaxed stealthily.

“I was... walking in... the Park,” she said.

“Oh!” The Inspector smiled, bowed, smoothed his mustache. “Then there is nothing more to be said, Miss French. Good afternoon.”

It was simply said, and the Inspector, Ellery and Velie passed from the room, into the reception hall, out of the house without another word spoken.

But it left Marion and Weaver in a dejection and apprehension so profound that they stood in their places, exactly as they had been, eyes turned away from each other, long after the outer door had snicked cleanly shut.

24 The Queens Take Stock

Dusk was descending, on the city when Velie took leave of the Queens outside the French mansion to manipulate the official machinery already operating on the shadowy trial of the vanished Bernice Carmody.

After Velie had gone, the Inspector looked at the quiet river, looked at the darkening sky, looked at his son, who was energetically polishing his pince-nez and staring down at the pavement.

The Inspector sighed. “The air will do both of us a lot of good,” he said tiredly. “I need something to clear my addled brain, anyway... Ellery, let’s walk home.”

Ellery nodded, and side by side they sauntered down the Drive toward the corner. At the corner they turned east and settled down to a slow, thoughtful pace. They walked another block before the silence was broken.

“This is really the first chance,” remarked Ellery at last, grasping his father’s arm encouragingly at the elbow, “that I’ve had to mull over the multitude of factors that have arisen so far. Significant factors. Telling factors, dad! There are so many they give me mal à la tête.”

“Really?” The Inspector was depressed, morose. His shoulders sagged.

Ellery regarded him keenly. He tightened his grip on the old man’s arm. “Come, dad! Buck up. I know you’re at sea, but it’s because of the trouble and worry you’ve had on your mind recently. My brain has been more than usually free from occupation lately. It’s been clear enough to grasp the amazing fundamentals this case has spewed up today. Let me think aloud.”

“Go ahead, son.”

“One of the two most valuable clues this affair has given us is the fact that the corpse was found in the Fifth Avenue exhibition window.”

The Inspector snorted. “I suppose you’ll tell me now that you already know who did the job.”

“Yes.”

The Inspector was so taken aback that he stopped in his tracks and stared at Ellery with an expression of complete dismay and unbelief.

“Ellery! You’re joking. How could you?” he finally managed to splutter.

Ellery smiled gravely. “Don’t misunderstand me. I say I know who murdered Mrs. French. I should qualify that by saying that certain indications point with incredible consistency at one individual. I have no proof. I don’t grasp one-tenth of the implications. I am entirely ignorant of the motive, the undoubtedly sordid story behind the crime... Consequently, I shall not tell you whom I have in mind.”

“You wouldn’t,” growled the Inspector, as they walked on.

“Now, dad!” Ellery laughed a little. He tightened his hold on the small package of books from French’s library table, which he had carried stubbornly from the moment they had left the department store. “I have a good reason. In the first place, it’s quite conceivable that I’m being misled by a series of coincidences. In that case, I should merely be making an ass of myself if I accused some one and then had to eat crow... When I have proof — you’ll know, dad, the very first one... There are so many unexplained, seemingly inexplicable things. These books, for example... Well!”

He said no more for a few moments as they strode through the streets.

“I began,” he said at last, “with the suspicious fact that Mrs. French’s body was found in the exhibition-window. And it was suspicious, to say the least. For all the reasons that we went over before — the lack of blood, the missing key, the lipstick and the half-painted lips, the lack of illumination, the general preposterousness of the window as the scene of the crime.

“It was quite plain that Mrs. French had not been murdered in that window. Where had she been murdered, then? The watchman’s report that she had signified the apartment as her destination; the missing apartment key which she had when O’Flaherty saw her go toward the elevator — these suggested that the apartment should be examined at once. Which I immediately proceeded to do.”

“Go on — I know all that,” said Queen grumpily.

“Patience, Diogenes!” chuckled Ellery. “The apartment told the story quite graphically. Mrs. French’s presence seemed indubitable. The cards, the book-ends and the story they told...”

“I don’t know what story they told,” grunted the Inspector. “You mean that powder?”

“Not in this instance. Very well, let’s forget the bookends for the moment and go to — the lipstick which I found on the bedroom dressing-table. That belonged to Mrs. French. Its color matched the color on her half-painted lips. Women don’t stop fixing their lips unless something of a tremendously serious nature intervenes. The murder? Possibly. Certainly the events leading to the murder... So, for this reason and that, all of which you will know in greater detail tomorrow, I hope, I came to the conclusion that Mrs. French had been murdered in that apartment.”

“I shan’t argue with you, because it’s probably true, although your reasons are ludicrous right now. But go ahead — get down to more concrete things,” said the Inspector.

“You must grant me some premises,” laughed Ellery. “I’ll prove that apartment business, never fear. At this time, grant me that the apartment is the scene of the crime.”

“It’s granted — for the time.”

“Very well. If the apartment was the scene of the crime, and the window was not, then very simply the body was removed from the apartment to the window and crammed into that wall-bed.”

“In that case, yes.”

“But why? I asked myself. Why was the body removed to the window? Why wasn’t it left in the apartment?”

“To make it appear that the apartment wasn’t the scene of the murder? But that doesn’t make sense, because—”

“Yes, because no pains were taken to remove traces of Mrs. French’s presence, like the game of banque, the lipstick — although I’m inclined to think that leaving the lipstick was an oversight. It is evident, then, that the reason the body was removed was not to make it appear that the apartment was not the scene of the crime, but to delay the discovery of the body.”

“I see what you mean,” muttered the Inspector.

“The time-element, of course,” said Ellery. “The murderer must have known that at 12 o’clock sharp, every day, that window was exhibited, and that the window was locked and unused before 12 o’clock. I was looking for a reason to explain the removal of the body. The fact that it would not be discovered until after the noon hour gave the answer in a flash. For some reason the murderer wanted to delay the discovery of the crime.”

“I can’t see why...”

“Not definitely, of course, but we can make a generalization that will serve the immediate purpose. If the murderer arranged it so that the body would not be found before noon, it meant that he had something to do during the morning which the discovery of the body would have prevented him from doing. Is that clear?”

“It follows,” conceded the Inspector.

“Allons — continuons!” said Ellery. “At first glance, that business about having to do something which the discovery of the crime would make impossible of accomplishment, is something of a poser. However, we know certain facts. For example, no matter how the murderer entered the store, he must have stayed all night. There were two ways of getting in unnoticed but no way of getting out unnoticed after the murder. He could have remained hidden somewhere in the store until after closing-hours, and then stolen up to the apartment; or he could have slipped through that open freight-door on 39th Street. He certainly couldn’t get out through the Employees’ Entrance, because O’Flaherty was there all night, in a perfect position to see somebody leave that way. And O’Flaherty saw no one. He couldn’t have got out through the freight-door, because that door was locked for the night at eleven-thirty, and Mrs. French didn’t arrive until eleven-forty-five. If he had slipped out via the freight-door, he couldn’t have committed the murder. Obviously! The freight-door was closed to him at least a half-hour before the woman was killed at all. So — he must have had to remain in the store all night.

“Now, that being the case, he could not escape until at least nine o’clock the next morning, when the doors were opened to the public and any one could walk out as if he were an early customer.”

“Well then, why all that rigmarole about stowing the body in the window in order to prevent its discovery before noon? What for?” demanded the Inspector. “If he could get out at nine o’clock and he had something to do, why couldn’t he have done it then? In that case he wouldn’t care when the body was found, because he could do what was necessary immediately after nine.”

“Precisely.” Ellery’s voice sharpened with a certain zest. “If he were free to walk out at nine and stay out, he would have no reason for delaying the discovery of the body.”

“But, Ellery,” objected the Inspector, “he did delay the discovery of the body! Unless—” A light dawned on his face.

“That’s it exactly,” Ellery said soberly. “If our murderer was in some way connected with the store, his absence would be noted or at least would be in danger of notice after a murder was discovered. By secreting the body in a place where he knew it would not be found until noon, he had all morning to watch for an opportunity to slip away and do what he had to do...

“Of course, there’s something else. It’s an open question whether the murderer planned in advance to secrete the body in the window after killing Mrs. French in the apartment. I rather think the switch of locale was not planned on much before the crime. For this reason. Ordinarily the apartment is not entered until about ten o’clock in the morning. Weaver has his own office, and French doesn’t get down until that hour. So that the murderer must have figured, in his original plan, on committing the crime in the apartment and leaving the body there. He would have ample time to get out of the building after nine and return before ten, let us say. So long as the body was found after he attended to his nefarious morning business, he was safe.

“But when he entered that apartment, or perhaps after he committed the crime, he saw something which made it absolutely essential for him to remove the body to the window.” Ellery paused. “On the desk was a blue official memorandum. It was there all afternoon on Monday, and Weaver swears he left it there on the desk when he quit Monday evening. And it was in exactly the same position on Tuesday morning. So it was there for the murderer to see. And it said that Weaver would be there at nine o’clock! It was an innocent little memo calling a board meeting, but it must have put the murderer into something of a panic. If somebody was coming to the apartment at nine, he wouldn’t have a chance to do what evidently was of desperate necessity, although we still don’t know what it is. Therefore the removal of the body to the window and the rest of it. Follow?”

“Seems holeproof,” grunted the Inspector, but there was a light of absorbing interest in his eye.

“There’s one vital thing to be done almost immediately,” added Ellery thoughtfully. “Unquestionably whoever committed the crime did not hide in the store yesterday afternoon and wait for closing hour. I’ll tell you why. The complete time-sheet is a check-up on everybody connected with this investigation. The time-sheet gives the checking-out time of everybody. All the people we’re interested in are reported as having left the building at five-thirty or before, with the exception of Weaver and this man Springer, the head of the book department. And since they were definitely seen leaving, they couldn’t obviously have stayed for the crime. You remember the names? Although people like Zorn, Marchbanks, Lavery and the rest do not check out, their name and time are noted when they leave the building, as was the case yesterday. Since everybody did leave, then the murderer must have got into the building by the only way left — the freight-door on 39th Street. It would be the more logical thing for the murderer to do anyway, because he could establish an alibi for the evening, and still have time to get into the store through that freight-entrance between eleven and eleven-thirty.”

“Well have to double-check everybody’s movements last night,” said the Inspector dolefully. “More work.”

“And probably unproductive. But I agree that it’s necessary. We should do that as soon as possible.”

“Now.” Ellery’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “There are so many ramifications to this case,” he said apologetically, interrupting his line of thought. “For example — why did Winifred come to the store at all? There’s a question for you! And was she lying when she told O’Flaherty that she was going to the apartment upstairs? Of course, the watchman did see her take the elevator, and it is a fair assumption that she went to the sixth floor rooms, especially since we have definite evidence of her presence there. Besides, where else could she go? The window? Preposterous! No, I think we may assume that she went directly to the private apartment.”

“Perhaps Marion French’s scarf was already in the window and for some obscure reason Mrs. French wished to retrieve it,” suggested the Inspector, grinning wryly.

“Yes, you don’t think,” retorted Ellery. “That business of Marion’s scarf has a perfectly simple explanation, I’m positive, whatever else may be mysterious about the girl... But here’s a point. Did Winifred French have an appointment with a particular person, in the store, in the apartment? Granted the whole affair is cloaked in mystery — a clandestine meeting in a deserted department store and all that — yet the hypothesis that the murdered woman came for a definite purpose to meet a definite person seems too inevitable to discard. In that case, then, did she know about the strange manner in which her fellow-conspirator, and as it turned out her murderer, entered the store? Or did she expect him to walk in as she did, through the regular night-entrance? Evidently not, because she made no mention of another person to O’Flaherty, which she might have done had she nothing to conceal, but gave him the distinct impression that she had dropped in for something. Then she was involved in some shady business, did know that her companion would take mysterious precautions against discovery — openly and submissively.

“Was that companion Bernice or Marion? We have reason to believe, from the mere look of things, that it might have been Bernice. The banque game, Bernice’s cigarets, Bernice’s hat and shoes — very significant and alarming, those last two items. On the other hand, let us examine some sidelights on the question of Bernice.

“We are fairly agreed that the murderer of Mrs. French took away Mrs. French’s apartment key. This might point to Bernice on first thought, because we know she did not have her own key that afternoon — in fact, she couldn’t have had her own key, since we actually found it in her closet at home today. Yes, it appears that if Bernice had been in that store last night, she would have taken her mother’s key away. But was she in the store?

“The time has come, I do believe,” said Ellery quizzically, “to lay that particular ghost. Bernice was not in the French department store last night. Perhaps I had better say at this point that Bernice is not a matricide. In the first place, despite the presence of the game of banque, which is known by many people to be a passion of both women, the presence of the cigarets betrays the frame-up. Bernice, who is a drug addict, has been indicated beyond a doubt as always smoking only one-quarter of the length of her La Duchesse cigarets, and crushing out the long stub. Yet the stubs we found were without exception smoked carefully down almost to the tip. This is so unnatural as to be conclusive. One or two cigarets might conceivably be found so consumed; but to find a dozen! It’s no go, dad. Some one else prepared them with the obvious intention of throwing suspicion on the missing girl. Then there’s the matter of the ’phone call to Hortense Underhill, presumably from Bernice. Fishy, dad — exceedingly piscine! No, Bernice didn’t forget about her key so foolishly. Somebody wanted her key badly enough to risk a call and a messenger.”

“The shoes — the hat,” murmured the Inspector suddenly, looking up at Ellery in a startled way.

“Exactly,” said Ellery somberly, “very significant and alarming, as I said before. If Bernice was framed, and we find on the scene of the crime the shoes and hat she wore the day of the murder — then it simply means that Bernice has met with violence herself! She must be a victim, dad. Whether she is already dead or not I don’t know. It depends on the masked story behind the crime. But certainly this deduction links the disappearance of Bernice and the murder of her mother very closely. Now why should the girl be done away with also? Perhaps, dad, if she were left at large, she might be a dangerous source of information — dangerous as far as the criminal is concerned.”

“Ellery!” exclaimed the Inspector. He was trembling with excitement. “Mrs. French’s murder — Bernice’s kidnapping — and she was a drug fiend...”

“I’m not particularly surprised, dad,” said Ellery warmly. “You have always been quick on the scent... Yes, it looks that way to me, too. Remember that Bernice walked out of her stepfather’s house not only willingly, but eagerly. Is it too much to suppose that she was going — to replenish a waning supply of drugs?

“If that is so, and it seems a good sound possibility, then this whole case is shrouded and complicated by the manipulations — of drug distributors. I’m very much afraid we’ve fallen into just such a prosaic business as that.”

“Prosaic your left eyebrow!” cried Inspector Queen. “Ellery, it gets clearer and clearer. And with all this rumpus about the increase in drug distribution — if we should uncover the ring that’s been operating so hugely — if we should actually nab the ringleaders — Ellery, it will be a remarkable achievement! How I’d like to see Fiorelli’s face when I tell him what’s behind this!”

“Well, don’t be oversanguine, dad,” said Ellery pessimistically. “It may be a tour de force. At any rate it’s sheer conjecture at this stage of the game, and we shouldn’t be too uplifted by hope.

“We have another angle that helps us localize the geography of the crime even more precisely.”

“The book-ends?” Inspector Queen’s voice was uncertain.

“Of course. This too is based on pure reasoning, but I’ll wager any one anything that in the end we find it’s true. Conclusions that fit a series of circumstances so snugly have an overwhelmingly high percentage of probability in their favor...

“Westley Weaver avers positively that the onyx book-ends have neither been repaired nor removed from the apartment library since they were presented to French by John Gray. In examining the book-ends we find a noticeable difference in the color of the green felt, or baize, pasted on the bases, the under surfaces. Weaver offers the suggestion that something is wrong. Why? Because this is the first time he has noticed the differing shades of green. He has seen those book-ends for months. He is certain that when the book-ends were new the felts were alike in color, that they must have been alike all along.

“As a matter of fact, while there is no evidential method whereby we may tell when exactly that lighter felt appeared, there is one corroboration.” Ellery stared thoughtfully at the pavement. “The book-end with the lighter felt was newly glued. That I would take my oath on. The glue, while powerful in action and already quite hard, retained a viscidity and suspicious stickiness that told the story at once. And the powder grains stuck in the glue-line — no, the evidence is there. The book-ends were handled last night by the criminal. We might suspect Mrs. French, perhaps, if not for the fact that the fingerprint powder was used. That’s the work of your ‘supercriminal,’ dad, not of an elderly society lady.” He smiled.

“Let’s try to link book-ends and crime more closely.” He squinted ahead in a little tempest of silence. The old man trudged by his side, eyes on the changing street vista. “We enter the scene of the crime. We find many things of a peculiar nature there. The cards, the lipsticks, the cigarets, the shoes, the hat, the book-ends — all out of tune with normality. We have linked every element except the book-ends directly with the crime. Why, in the face of the possibilities — why not the book-ends too? I can furnish excellent hypotheses commensurate with known facts. The fingerprint powder grains, for one thing. Accessories of crime. And a crime was committed. We find the grains stuck in a newly glued felt, which is also suspiciously different in shade from its fellow. Certainly it is against all reason to say that the felts might have been differently colored from the beginning. Not with such an expensive and unique pair of book-ends. And the difference was never noticed before... No, the human probabilities all point to the conclusion that last night some one removed the original felt from the first book-end, pasted on a new piece of felt, sprinkled fingerprint powder to bring out any prints that might be on the book-end, removed the fingerprints, and inadvertently left some minute grains in the fresh glue-line of the piece.”

“You’ve proved it to my satisfaction,” said the Inspector. “Go on.”

“Alors! I examine the book-ends. They are of solid onyx. Furthermore, the only change in their composition is the removal of the original felt from one of them. I conclude therefore that the book-end was not repaired in order to hide something inside or because something was extracted from its interior. There is no interior. Everything is on the surface.

“With this in mind, I ask myself: What other reason could have caused the repair of the onyx piece, if it was not to hide traces of a secretion or a removal? Well, there’s the crime itself. Can we tie the crime and the fixing of the book-ends into one knot?

“Yes, we can! Why should a felt be removed and another substituted? Because something happened to that felt which, if the felt were left as it was, would have betrayed traces of a crime. Remember that the murderer’s most pressing need was to keep knowledge of the murder from every one until he had delivered the all-important message during the morning. And he knew that that library would be tenanted at nine o’clock in the morning, that if anything were wrong with the book-end it would be noticed in all probability.”

“Blood!” exclaimed the Inspector.

“You’ve hit on it,” replied Ellery. “It could scarcely be anything else but bloodstains. It would have to be something of a directly suspicious nature, or the murderer would not have taken all the trouble he did. The cards, the other things — these in themselves would never suggest a murder before the body was found or foul play even suspected. But blood! That’s the water-mark of violence.

“So I reasoned that in some way blood soaked the felt, and the murderer was compelled to change the felt and dispose of the tell-tale bloody one.”

They walked on in silence for a long time. The Inspector was buried in thought. Then Ellery spoke once more.

“You see,” he said, “I was progressing with commendable rapidity in the reconstruction of the physical elements of the crime. And, when I had reached the conclusion about the blood-soaked felt, immediately another isolated fact leaped into my mind... You remember Prouty’s suspicions in connection with the lack of blood on the corpse? And our instant deduction that the murder must have been committed somewhere else? Here was the missing link.”

“Good, good,” murmured the Inspector, reaching excitedly for his snuff-box.

“The book-ends,” went on Ellery rapidly, “were obviously of no importance in the crime until they became blood-soaked. After that, of course, the whole chain of incident was a logical outgrowth — changing the felt, handling the book-ends, and then applying the powder to efface prints made necessary by the handling...

“Then, I reasoned, the staining of the book-end was an accident. It was standing innocently on the glass-topped desk. How could the blood have got on it? There are two possibilities. The first is that the book-end was used as a weapon. But this is indefensible, because the wounds were the result of revolver-shots, and there are no signs of a striking blow with such a bludgeon as the book-end might have made. Then the only remaining possibility is that the blood got on it inadvertently. How might this have occurred?

“Easily. The book-end is on the glass-topped desk. The only way blood could get on the bottom of the book-end, where the blood would show ineffaceably, would be by its trickling across the glass and soaking into the material. But you see what this gives us.”

“Mrs. French was at the desk when she was shot,” announced the old man gloomily. “She was shot below the heart. She fell into the chair and got another in the heart itself. The blood from the first wound gushed out before she fell. The blood from the second wound trickled out as she lay across the table — and soaked into the felt.”

“And that,” said Ellery, smiling, “is a perfect recitation. Remember that Prouty is sure that the precordial type of wound particularly would bleed profusely. That’s probably what happened... Now we can further reconstruct the crime. If Mrs. French was at the desk and was shot in the heart, then her murderer was in front of her and shot across the desk. It must have been at a distance of several feet, because there are no powder marks on the woman’s clothes. We can perhaps compute the approximate height of the murderer by determining the angle at which the bullets entered the body. But I have little faith in this, because there is no exact way of judging just how far the bullets traveled, or in other words how far from Mrs. French the murderer stood when he fired. And an error of inches would throw off all our calculations as to his height, considerably. You might get your firearms expert, Kenneth Knowles, on the job, but I don’t think much will come of it.”

“Neither do I,” sighed the Inspector. “Nevertheless, it’s comforting to be able to place the crime so precisely. It all hangs together, Ellery — a nice bit of reasoning. I’ll get Knowles to work immediately. Is there anything else, son?”

Ellery said nothing for an appreciable moment. They turned into West 87th Street. Half-way up the block stood the brownstone old house in which they lived. They quickened their steps.

“There’s a heap more, dad that I haven’t gone into, because of this and that,” Ellery said absently. “The signs were all there, for the world to see. They needed intelligent assembly, however. You’re probably the only one on the scene who has the mental potentiality for piecing them together. The others... And you’re exceptionally dulled by care.” He smiled as they reached the brownstone steps of their dwelling.

“Dad,” he said, one foot on the lowest step, “on one phase of this investigation I am entirely at sea. And that—” he tapped the package under his arm, “is the five books I plucked from old French’s desk. It seems silly to suppose that they can have anything to do with the murder, and yet — I have the queerest feeling that they can explain so much if we worm out their secret.”

“You’ve gone slightly daffy with concentration,” growled the Inspector, laboriously ascending the stairs.

“Nevertheless,” remarked Ellery, inserting a key into the lock of the big carved old-fashioned door, “this night is dedicated to a sedulous analysis of the books.”