The French Powder Mystery

25 Ellerius Bibliophilus

The hearth of the Queen domicile was housed in one of West 87th Street’s lingering brownstones. That the Queens chose to live among the unvarnished woods of a generation dead and gone was a commentary upon the powerful influence of son upon father. For Ellery, whose collection of well-used books, whose dilettante’s knowledge of antiquities, whose love for the best of the past, overwhelmed his natural leaning toward the comforts of the modern age, stood firmly against the Inspector’s groaning indictment of “dustiness and mustiness.”

You might expect, therefore, that the Queens lived on the top floor of this sprawling old mansion, and that the door was of time-softened oak (on which appeared their only concession to expediency — a placard labeled “The Queens”), and that when you were admitted by gypsy-blooded Djuna, an odor redolent of old leather and masculinity would assail the nostrils.

There was an anteroom hung with a vast tapestry (the gift of the Duke of — in return for the Inspector’s services in a matter preserved in silence). The anteroom was opulently Gothic, and it was Ellery’s will again which prevented the Inspector from consigning it, period furniture and all, to the auction rooms.

And there was the living-room and library. Dotted with books, massed with books. Oak-ribbed ceiling — huge natural fireplace with a broad oak mantel and curious old ironwork — the Nuremberg swords crossed martially above — old lamps, brasswork, massive furniture. Chairs, divans, foot-stools, leather cushions, ashstands — a veritable fairyland of easy bachelordom.

Off the living-room was the bedroom, a chaste and comfortable rest-place.

The whole was presided over by small, volatile Djuna, the orphan boy adopted by Inspector Queen during his lonely years when Ellery was attending the University. Djuna’s world was limited to his beloved patron and their common dwelling-place. Valet, cook, housekeeper and on occasion confidant...

At nine o’clock of the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of May — the day after the discovery of Mrs. Winifred French’s lifeless body in the French establishment — Djuna was setting the table in the living-room for a late breakfast. Ellery was conspicuous by his absence from the room. The Inspector sat grumpily in his favorite armchair, staring at Djuna’s twinkling brown hands.

The telephone bell rang. Djuna grasped the instrument.

“For you, Dad Queen,” he announced pompously. “It’s the District Attorney.”

The old man plodded across the room to the telephone.

“Hello! Hello, Henry... We-e-ell, a little progress. Something tells me Ellery is on the scent. In fact, he told me so himself... What?... Yes, as far as I’m concerned it’s a devil’s brew. Can’t make head or tail of it... Oh, go on with your blarney, Henry! I’m talking straight... The situation is briefly this.”

The Inspector spoke for a long time in a voice fluctuating between despair and excitement. District Attorney Henry Sampson listened carefully.

“And that,” concluded the Inspector, “is where it stands at this moment. Something tells me Ellery is up to one of his familiar tricks. He was up half the night poring over those infernal books... Yes, certainly, I’ll keep you posted. May need you soon at that, Henry. Ellery performs miracles at times, although I’d wager my next year’s pay that — Oh, go on back to your work, you ferret!”

He hung up the receiver in time to greet a prodigiously yawning Ellery who fumbled with his necktie and endeavored to keep the folds of his dressing-gown together simultaneously.

“So!” growled the Inspector, plumping into his chair. “What time did you get to bed, young man?”

Ellery finished the delicately dual operation and reached for a chair, digging Djuna surreptitiously in the ribs.

“No scolding now,” he said, reaching for a piece of toast. “Have breakfast yet? No? Waiting for the sluggard? Regale yourself with this Olympian coffee — we can talk as we eat.”

“What time?” repeated the Inspector inexorably, sitting down at the table.

“To be temporal,” said Ellery, his mouth full of coffee, “It was three-twenty A.M.”

The old man’s eyes softened. “Shouldn’t do that,” he mumbled, reaching for the percolator. “It’ll fag you.”

“Essential.” Ellery drained his cup. “There are things to do, Sire... Have you heard anything this morning?”

“Plenty that means nothing,” said the Inspector. “I’ve been at that ’phone since seven... Got a preliminary autopsy report from Sam Prouty. Nothing to add to what he said yesterday except that there was absolutely no signs of drug poisoning or addiction. The woman was certainly not a ‘dope.’”

“Interesting, and not necessarily uninformative,” smiled Ellery. “What else?”

“Knowles, the firearms man, was vague enough to make it unexciting. He claims that he couldn’t place the distance the bullets traveled before they entered the body, exactly to the foot. The angles are easily determined, but from his calculations the murderer might be anywhere from five to six feet in height. Not very illuminating, eh?”

“Hardly. We’ll never convict anybody on that kind of evidence. But I can scarcely blame Knowles. These things are rarely absolute. How about the absentees from the store yesterday?”

The inspector scowled. “Had one of the boys checking up with MacKenzie all yesterday evening. Just had MacKenzie on the wire. Everybody accounted for, not a thing suspicious or unexplained. And as for this Carmody girl, poor Thomas had his strings out all night. Combed the neighborhood. Contacted the Missing Persons Bureau. I tipped him off on the drug business, and the Narcotic Squad’s been busy checking up on known dives. Nothing doing. Not a trace of her.”

“Just dropped out of existence...” Ellery frowned, poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’ll confess the girl has me worried. As I said yesterday, all signs point to her having been done away with. If not done away with, then certainly held very securely in a remote hide-out. If I were the murderer, I think I’d add her to my list of victims... There’s just a bare chance that she may be alive, dad. Velie must redouble his efforts.”

“Don’t worry about Thomas,” said the Inspector grimly. “If she’s alive, he’ll find her in time. If she’s dead— Well! He’s doing all he can.”

The telephone bell rang again. The Inspector answered.

“Yes, this is Inspector Queen talking...” His tone changed magically. It dripped formality. “Good morning, Commissioner. What can I do for you?... Well, sir, we’re getting along very nicely. We’ve gathered together a heap of threads, and it’s not twenty-four hours since we found the body... Oh, no! Mr. French has been a bit upset about the whole affair. We’ve gone quite easy on him — nothing to worry about there, sir... Yes, I know. We’re making it as comfortable for him as we can under the circumstances... No, Commissioner. Lavery has an absolutely unimpeachable reputation. A foreigner, of course... What’s that? Absolutely no!.. We have a perfectly natural explanation for that scarf of Miss Marion French’s, sir. Well, I’m relieved too, to tell the truth, Commissioner... Quick solution? Commissioner, it will be quicker than that!.. Yes, sir, I know... Thank you, Commissioner. I’ll keep you posted.”

“And that,” said the Inspector in a deadly voice, as he hung up the receiver carefully and turned a livid face toward Ellery, “is a sample of the blank-dangest, extra-soft-boiled, unmitigated blatherskite of a mud-hen of a police commissioner that this or any city ever had!”

Ellery laughed aloud. “You’ll be frothing at the mouth if you don’t control yourself. Every time I hear you rave about Welles I’m reminded of that sage Germanic dictum: ‘Who fills an office must learn to bear reproach and blame.’”

“On the contrary, I’m getting soft words from Welles,” said the Inspector, in a calmer tone. “He’s frightened out of his wits about this French affair. French wields a lot of power for a harmless old reformer, and Welles doesn’t like the possibilities. Did you hear the absolute nonsense I salved him with over the ’phone? Sometimes I think I’ve lost my self-respect.”

But Ellery was suddenly plunged in thought. His eyes had spied the five books from French’s desk, which now lay on an end-table nearby. With an indistinct murmur of sympathy, he rose and sauntered over to the table, fingering the books affectionately. The old man’s eyes narrowed.

“Out with it!” he said. “You’ve discovered something in those books!” He hopped out of his chair suspiciously.

“Yes, I think I have,” replied Ellery slowly. He picked up the five books and carried them to the breakfast-table. “Sit down, dad. My work last night wasn’t entirely wasted.”

They sat down. The Inspector’s eyes were bright and curious as he chose one of the books at random and riffled its pages aimlessly. Ellery watched him.

“Suppose, dad,” said Ellery, “you take up these five books and go through them. Here’s the situation. You have five volumes, the only fact to go on being that they’re queer books for a certain person to possess. You’re looking for a reason to explain why those five books are where they are. Go to it.”

He lit a cigaret thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke at the paneled ceiling. The Inspector seized on the volumes and attacked them singly. When he had finished with one, he took up the next, and so on until he had examined all five. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened. He looked up at Ellery out of very puzzled eyes.

“Danged if I can see anything remarkable in these books, Ellery. There doesn’t seem to be a point of similarity among them.”

Ellery smiled, drew his body forward abruptly. He tapped the books with a long forefinger for emphasis. “That’s exactly why they are remarkable,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be a point of similarity. And in fact, except for one little link, they haven’t any points of similarity.”

“You’re talking Greek,” said the Inspector. “Elucidate.”

For answer Ellery rose and disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared in a moment with a long slip of paper on which were copiously inscribed in a weird series of scrawled characters a body of notes.

“This,” he announced, reseating himself at the table, “is the result of last night’s séance with the ghosts of five authors’ brain-children... Lend ear, Father Queen.

“The books, by title and author, are as follows — just to make the analysis entirely clear: New Developments in Philately, by Hugo Salisbury. Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce, by Stani Wedjowski. A Child’s History of Music, by Ramon Freyberg. An Outline of Paleontology, by John Morrison. And finally, Nonsense Anthology, by A. I. Throckmorton.

“Let’s analyze these five books.

“Number one. The titles have not the slightest connection with each other. Because of this fact, we can discard any thought that the subject matter of the books is relevant to our investigation.

“Number two. The dissimilarity is further heightened by a number of small points. For example, all the covers are of different colors. True, there are two blues, but they are of distinct hues. The sizes are different: three of the books are oversize, and all of these oversizes have differing dimensions: one of the books is a pocket edition; the last book is of average size. The bindings are different: three of them are of cloth, but of different grain; one of them is a de luxe leather binding; one of them is bound in linen. The inner format is different. In two cases the paper is light India in shade; in the other three white is used. Of the white different weights are apparent. The type-style, on examination, although I know little enough about such technical matters, is in each instance different. The number of pages differs also — and their actual enumeration elicits no intelligible message. They mean nothing... Even in price they show dissimilarity. The leather-covered book is listed at ten dollars; two others are five; the fourth is three-fifty, and the pocket edition is a dollar and a half. The publishers are different. The dates of issue and number of editions are different...”

“But Ellery — of course — they’re more or less obvious...” objected the Inspector. “Where does this lead you?”

“In an analysis,” returned Ellery, “nothing is too trivial to be overlooked. They may mean nothing and they may mean a heap. In any case, they are definite facts about these five books. And if they point to nothing else, they certainly indicate that physically the books differ in practically every respect.

“Number three — and this is the first exciting development — the right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf — let me repeat that: the right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf — has the notation in hard pencil of a date!”

“A date?” The Inspector snatched one of the books from the table and turned to the back inside leaf. There, in the upper right-hand corner, was a tiny penciled date. He examined the other four books and they exhibited in exactly the same places similar penciled dates.

“If,” continued Ellery calmly, “you arrange these dates arbitrarily in their chronological order this is the result:

“By consulting the calendar I discovered that these dates represent, progressively as I have given them: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Monday.”

“That’s interesting,” muttered the Inspector. “Why is Sunday omitted?”

“A valuable little point,” said Ellery. “In four cases we have consecutive days of the week, one week apart. In one case a day — Sunday — is skipped. That this is an oversight on the part of the dater is not likely; that a book is missing is impossible, because the number of days between the first four dates is eight, and the fifth is increased only to nine. Plainly, then, Sunday was omitted for the reason that Sunday is generally omitted — it is a non-working day. What the work is I haven’t at the moment an answer for. But we may take the irregularity in the case of the Sunday omission as a logical irregularity which you will find in any part of the business world.”

“Follows,” commented the Inspector.

“Very well. We now come to point number four. And this is of considerable interest. Dad, take up the five books and read the titles in the chronological order of their dates.”

The old man obeyed. “Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce, by Stani Wedjowski. The—”

“One moment,” interrupted Ellery. “What’s the date on the back inside leaf?”

“April thirteenth.”

“What day is April thirteenth?”

“Wednesday.”

Ellery’s face lit up triumphantly. “Well?” he cried. “Don’t you see the connection?”

The Inspector looked slightly nettled. “Darned if I do... The second one is Nonsense Anthology, by A. I. Throckmorton.”

“Date and day?”

“Thursday, April twenty-first... The next is A Child’s History of Music, by Ramon Freyberg — Friday, April twenty— By jinks, Ellery! Friday, April twenty-ninth!”

“Yes, go on,” said Ellery approvingly.

The Inspector concluded rapidly. “New Developments in Philately, by Hugo Salisbury — and that’s Saturday, May seventh... And the last one is An Outline of Paleontology, by John Morrison — Monday, of course... Ellery, this is really amazing! In every case the day coincides with the first two letters of the author’s last name!”

“And that’s one of the major results of my all-night session,” smiled Ellery. “Pretty, isn’t it? Wedjowski — Wednesday. Throckmorton — Thursday. Freyberg — Friday. Salisbury — Saturday. And Morrison Monday, with Sunday obligingly omitted. Coincidence? Hardly, hardly, dad!”

“There’s dirty work at the crossroads, all right, my son,” said the Inspector with a sudden grin. “This doesn’t make any impression on me as far as the murder is concerned, but it’s mighty interesting nevertheless. Code, by George!”

“If the murder is worrying you,” retorted Ellery, “harken to my point number five... We have five dates so far. April thirteenth, April twenty-first, April twenty-ninth, May seventh, and May sixteenth. Let us suppose, for the sake of blessed argument, that there is a sixth book somewhere in limbo. Then, by all the laws of probability, that sixth book, if it exists, should bear a date eight days from Monday the sixteenth of May, which is—”

The Inspector leaped to his feet. “Why, this is extraordinary, Ellery,” he cried. “Tuesday, May twenty-fourth — the day of...” His voice fell flatly in a curious disappointment. “No, that’s not the day of the murder; it’s the day after the murder.”

“Now, dad,” laughed Ellery, “don’t go moping so soon because of a little thing like that. It is extraordinary, as you say. If a sixth book is extant, then it bears the date of May twenty-fourth. If we can do nothing else at this time, we can certainly suppose the existence of that sixth book. The continuity is too compelling. Things don’t merely happen that way... This problematical sixth book gives us our first definite link between the books and the crime... Dad, has it occurred to you that our criminal had to do something on Tuesday morning, the twenty-fourth of May?”

The Inspector stared at him. “You think the book—”

“Oh, I think so many things,” said Ellery ruefully, rising and stretching his lean figure. “But it does seem to me that we have every reason to believe in the existence of a sixth book. And there is only one possible clue to that sixth book...”

“It’s author’s name begins with Tu,” said the Inspector quickly.

“Exactly.” Ellery gathered up the tell-tale volumes and stowed them carefully away in a drawer of a large desk. He returned to the table and looked thoughtfully down at his father’s grey head with its tiny pink bald spot.

“All night,” he said, “I have felt that one person alone can furnish me — willingly — with the missing information... Dad, there is a story behind these codified books, and the story is undoubtedly tied up with the crime. I am so positive of that that I’ll bet you a dinner at Pietro’s.”

“I don’t bet,” growled the Inspector, twinkling, “at least with you, you dunderhead. And who’s this know-it-all?”

“Westley Weaver,” replied Ellery. “And he doesn’t know it all. I believe that he is withholding some information which to him is meaningless, but which to us may mean a solution of the mystery. I believe that if for any reason he is deliberately withholding this information, that reason concerns Marion French. Poor Wes thinks Marion is up to her knees in the muck of this thing. And perhaps he’s right — who knows? At any rate, if there’s one person in this whole investigation whom I trust implicitly it’s Westley. He’s a little dense at times, but he’s the real thing... I do believe I’ll have a little chat with Westley. It may do us all good to have him down here for a round-table discussion.”

He took up the telephone and gave the number of the French’ store. The Inspector watched him dubiously as he waited.

“Wes? This is Ellery Queen... Can you jump into a cab, Westley, and come down to my place for a half-hour or so? It’s quite important... Yes, drop everything and come over.”

26 The Trail to Bernice

The Inspector prowled about the apartment in a fever of restlessness. Ellery completed his toilet in the bedroom and listened calmly to his father’s occasional outbursts of invective against fate, crime and police commissioners. Djuna, silent as ever, removed the breakfast things from the living-room table and retired to his kitchenette.

“Of course,” said the Inspector in a more lucid moment, “Prouty did say that he and Knowles were pretty sure Mrs. French was sitting down when the second shot was fired. That corroborates part of your analysis, anyway.”

“It helps,” said Ellery, struggling with his shoes. “Expert testimony never hurt any trial, especially when the experts are men like Prouty and Knowles.”

Queen snorted. “You haven’t seen as many trials as I have... But what gets me is that revolver. Knowles says the bullets are from one of those black .38 Colts that you can buy for a dime a dozen from any ‘fence.’ Of course, if Knowles could get hold of the gun, he could absolutely establish that the bullets were shot from it, because they still retain enough barrel marks of a unique character to make identification positive. Incidentally, they’re both from the same gun. But how on earth can we get hold of it?”

“You’re riddling,” said Ellery. “I don’t know.”

“And without the gun we’re terribly short of vital evidence. It isn’t in the French store — the boys have searched from cellar to roof. Then the murderer took it away with him. Too much to expect that we’ll ever get our hands on it.”

“Well,” remarked Ellery, putting on a smoking-jacket, “I shouldn’t be so positive. Criminals do stupid things, dad, as you know better than I. Although I will admit that—”

The doorbell rang imperiously and Ellery started in astonishment. “Why, that can’t be Westley so soon!”

The Inspector and Ellery went into the library and found a very dignified little Djuna ushering William Crouther, the French store detective, into the room. Crouther was flushed and excited; he began to speak at once.

“Morning, gentlemen, morning!” he cried genially. “Resting up after a hard day, eh, Inspector? Well, I think I’ve got something you’ll be interested in — yes, sir, that’s a fact.”

“Glad to see you, Crouther,” lied the Inspector, while Ellery’s eyes narrowed as if in anticipation of the news Crouther had to transmit. “Sit down, man, and tell us all about it.”

“Thank you, thank you, Inspector,” said Crouther, sinking into the Inspector’s sacred armchair with an explosive sigh. “I haven’t been exactly sleeping myself,” he announced as a preliminary, chuckling. “Did considerable flat-footing last night and I’ve been on the go since six this morning.”

“Honest toil requireth no reward before heaven,” murmured Ellery.

“Eh?” Crouther seemed puzzled, but a grin spread over his florid face as he fumbled in his breast-pocket and produced two oily cigars. “Little joke, eh, Mr. Queen? Smoke, Inspector? You, Mr. Queen?... Don’t mind if I do myself.” He lit the cigar and flicked the burnt match carelessly into the fireplace. A pained spasm passed over the face of Djuna, who was removing the last traces of the breakfast meal from the table. Djuna was tyrannical when his household was upset. He cast a venomous glance at Crouther’s broad back and stumped away into the kitchenette.

“Well, Crouther, what is it?” demanded the Inspector with a crackle of impatience in his voice. “Spill it, spill it!”

“Right you are, Inspector.” Crouther lowered his voice mysteriously, leaning forward toward the two men and emphasizing his forthcoming remarks with the butt of his fuming cigar. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“We haven’t the slightest idea,” said Ellery, with interest.

“I’ve — been — on — the — trail — of — Bernice Carmody!” whispered Crouther in a vibrant bass voice.

“Oh!” The Inspector was patently disappointed. He regarded Crouther morosely. “Is that all? I’ve got a squad of my best men on the same job, Crouther.”

“Well,” said Crouther, leaning back and flicking ashes on the carpet, “I didn’t exactly expect you to kiss me at that statement, Inspector, that’s a fact... But,” his voice lowered cunningly again, “I’ll bet your men didn’t get what I got!”

“Oh, you got something, did you?” asked the Inspector quickly. “Now, that is news, Crouther. Sorry I was so hasty... Just what is it you’ve dug up?”

Crouther leered triumphantly. “The trail of the girl out of the city!”

Ellery’s eyes flicked with sincere surprise. “You got that far, did you?” He turned to his father with a smile. “That seems to be one on Velie, dad.”

The Inspector looked disgruntled and curious at the same time. “I’ll be hanged for a rascal!” he muttered. “How did you do it, and what’s the dope exactly, Crouther?”

“It was this way,” said Crouther promptly, crossing his legs and puffing smoke into the air. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. “I’ve worked all along — with due respect to you and your boys, Inspector — on the idea that this Bernice Carmody was done away with. Kidnapped, murdered — I don’t know but somethin’ like that. I felt that she didn’t do the job, although the signs do point to her, and that’s a fact... So I took the liberty of snoopin’ around the French house last night and seeing what I could see about how the girl got out of the place. Saw this housekeeper up there and she told me what she told you, I guess. Don’t mind, Inspector?... Anyway, I found out too about that ‘special’ who saw her walkin’ down the Drive toward 72nd Street. That set me going, and before I got stuck I’d traced her a long way. I found a cruising cab-driver who said he picked up a woman of her description on West End Avenue and 72nd. Private cab, it is; and I guess I was just lucky, that’s all. This whole business of trailing is part luck and part perspiration — fact, ain’t it, Inspector?”

“Ummh,” said the Inspector sourly. “You’ve certainly put one over on Tom Velie. What then? Get any more?”

“Sure did!” Crouther relit his cigar. “Driver took the girl to the Hotel Astor. She told him to wait for her. She went into the lobby and in about two minutes came out again with a tall blond man dressed kind of swell, and carrying a suitcase. They piled into the cab. Driver said the girl seemed kind of scared, but she didn’t say anything, and the tall man told him to take ’em for a drive through Central Park. In the Park, just about the middle, man tapped on the window and told the driver to stop — they were goin’ to get out. That was what made the driver kind of leery, anyway — couldn’t ever remember anybody payin’ off in the middle of the Park. But he didn’t say anything, and the blond gent paid the fare and told him to drive off. He did, but not before he’d caught a look at the girl’s face. She was pale and sort of half-shot — looked drunk, he said. So he just moved off slow and careless, and kept his eyes open. And sure enough, he saw the pair of ’em go over to a parked car not fifty feet away, get in, and right away the car shot out of the Park goin’ uptown!”

“Well,” said the Inspector in a hushed voice, “that’s quite a story. We’ll have to look over this cab-driver... Did he catch the license-number of the car?”

“Too far away,” said Crouther, scowling for an instant. Then his face cleared. “But he wasn’t too far away to spot the fact that it had a Massachusetts license-plate.”

“Excellent, Crouther, excellent!” cried Ellery suddenly, springing to his feet. “Thank goodness some one has kept his head about him! What kind of car was it — did your man see?”

“Yep,” grinned Crouther, expanding under the praise. “Closed car — sedan — dark blue — and a Buick. How’s that?”

“Mighty nice work,” said the Inspector grudgingly. “How did the girl act on the trip over to the other automobile?”

“Well, the driver couldn’t see so well,” said Crouther, “but he did tell me that the girl sort of stumbled and the tall man grabbed her arm and sort of forced her.”

“Slick, slick!” muttered the Inspector. “Did he catch a glimpse of the driver in the closed car?”

“Nope. But there must have been some one in the Buick, because our man says the couple climbed into the back, and then the car streaked it right out of the Park.”

“How about this tall blond man, Crouther?” asked Ellery, puffing furiously at his cigaret. “We should be able to get a fairly complete description of him from the taxicab driver!”

Crouther scratched his head. “Never thought of askin’ the guy,” he confessed. “Here, Inspector — how about your boys taking it up from where I’ve left off? I got plenty of work at the store, now that things are shot to pieces down there... Want this driver’s name and address?”

“Certainly.” The Inspector wrestled inwardly with a spiritual problem as Crouther wrote out the name and address. When the store detective handed it to him it was evident that virtue had won, for he smiled weakly and stretched cut his hand. “Let me congratulate you, Crouther. That was a good night’s work!”

Crouther pumped the Inspector’s hand up and down heartily, grinning. “Glad to help, Inspector — that’s a fact. Just goes to prove that us boys on the outside do know a thing or two, eh? I always say—”

The doorbell trilled, relieving the Inspector of the embarrassment of having his hand held. Ellery and the old man looked at each other for a fleeting instant. Then Ellery sprang toward the door.

“Expecting company, Inspector?” asked Crouther broadly. “Don’t want to butt in. I guess I’d better—”

“No, no, Crouther, stay right where you are! I have an idea you may come in handy,” called Ellery rapidly, as he made for the door in the anteroom.

Crouther beamed and sat down again.

Ellery threw open the door. Westley Weaver, his hair rumpled, a worried look on his face, walked hurriedly into the apartment.

27 The Sixth Book

Weaver shook hands all round, expressed surprise at the presence of Crouther — who shuffled his feet awkwardly and grinned — rubbed his face with one nervous hand, and then sat down, waiting. He eyed the Inspector apprehensively.

Ellery, noting this, smiled. “No cause for neurosis, Wes,” he said gently. “This isn’t quite a third degree. Have a cigaret, make yourself comfortable, and listen for a moment.”

They drew chairs around the table. Ellery looked at his fingernails thoughtfully.

“We’ve been muddling over those books I picked up on the desk in French’s apartment,” he began. “And we’ve discovered some interesting things there.”

“Books?” exclaimed Crouther in a bewildered way.

“Books?” echoed Weaver, but his tone was flat and unconvincing.

“Yes,” repeated Ellery, “books. The five volumes that you saw me puzzling over. Westley,” and he looked full into the young man’s eyes, “I have an idea that somewhere at the back of your mind is a lump of information that we can use. Information about these volumes. To be perfectly frank, I noticed a queer hesitancy on your part when I first got my hooks into them. Just what are your scruples — if you have any — about this story I’ve laid to you — if there is a story?”

Weaver flushed violently, began to stammer. “Why, Ellery, I never—”

“Look here, Wes.” Ellery leaned forward. “There’s something on your mind. If it’s Marion, let me tell you here and now that none of us has the slightest suspicion of the girl. There may be something behind her nervous attitude, but whatever it is, it isn’t criminal, and probably has little to do directly with the murder of Mrs. French... Does that sweep away any scruples in your mind?”

Weaver stared at his friend for a long time. The Inspector and Crouther sat quietly. Then the young man spoke — in a different voice this time, a voice colored with a new confidence. “Yes, it does,” he said slowly. “Marion has been on my mind, and her possible connection with the affair has made me not quite so frank as I might have been. And I do know something about those books.”

Ellery smiled with satisfaction. They waited in silence for Weaver to collect his thoughts.

“You’ve had occasion,” said Weaver at last, lapsing into a clear narrative tone, “to mention a man by the name of Springer. I believe his name arose when you were looking over the nightwatchman’s chart, Inspector. You remember that on Monday evening Springer didn’t leave the building until seven o’clock, and that I followed him out directly after. These facts were recorded on O’Flaherty’s chart.”

“Springer?” Ellery frowned. The Inspector nodded.

Weaver looked hesitantly at Crouther and then turned to the Inspector. “Is it all right—?” he began in some embarrassment.

Ellery replied at once for his father. “Perfectly, Wes. Crouther has been in on the case from the beginning, and I imagine he may be of help in the future as well. Go ahead.”

“Very well, then,” said Weaver. Crouther sank back into his chair complacently. “About two months ago — I forget the exact date — the Accounting Department brought to the attention of Mr. French certain suspicious irregularities in the Book Department. Springer, of course, is head of the department. The irregularities were of a financial nature, and it was thought that receipts were not commensurate with the volume of business. It was a confidential matter, and the Old Man was quite upset about it. There was nothing definite in the Accounting Department’s suspicions, and because the whole business was vague, the accountants were ordered to forget all about it temporarily, and the Old Man asked me to conduct a little private investigation of my own.”

“Springer, hey?” scowled Crouther. “Funny I didn’t hear about it, Mr. Weaver.”

“Mr. French didn’t believe,” explained Weaver, “that too many people should know about it. The suspicions were just nebulous enough to call for secrecy. And because I handle most of the matters connected with the Old Man personally, he turned to me rather than to any one else... I couldn’t, of course,” continued Weaver wearily, “do any scouting around during the working day. Springer himself was always there. So I was compelled to do my investigating after hours. I had been checking up sales slips and records for about three or four days in the Book Department, after everybody had left the building, as I thought, when one evening I got wind of something queer. I might say that my few nights’ snooping hadn’t got me anywhere — everything seemed all right.”

The Queens and Crouther were listening now with strained attention.

“The night I’ve referred to,” went on Weaver, “I was about to enter the Book Department when I noticed an unusual brightness — a number of lamps were lit up. My first thought was that somebody was working overtime, and when I looked in cautiously the thought seemed corroborated. It was Springer, alone, pottering about in the aisles of the Department. I don’t know exactly what made me keep out of sight — perhaps it was the fact that I was already suspicious of him — but I did, and watched curiously to see what he was doing.

“I saw him go over to one of the wall-shelves, after looking around with a furtive air, and swiftly take down a book. He took a long patent pencil from his pocket and, opening the book somewhere at the back, he made a rapid notation with the pencil. He snapped the book shut, made some sort of mark on the back-board, and immediately placed the book on a different shelf. I noted that he seemed quite anxious about how he placed the book; he fussed with it for several moments before he seemed satisfied. And that was all. He entered his private office in the rear and reappeared shortly after wearing his hat and coat. He then walked out of the Department, almost brushing by me as I stood huddled in a little alcove in the shadow. A few moments later the lights, except for one or two bulbs kept lit all night, snapped out. I found out later that he had checked out the regular way, informing the nightwatchman that he was through for the night, and that O’Flaherty should have the switch for the book section turned off.”

“That doesn’t seem so fluky to me,” said Crouther. “Probably just part of his job.”

“When you’re looking for suspicious activity,” said the Inspector vaguely, “you can generally find it.”

“I had something of the same thought,” replied Weaver. “It was a trifle peculiar to find Springer working overtime in the first place — the practice is rather discouraged by Mr. French. But then the incident itself might be perfectly innocent. I did go over to that shelf after Springer had gone and inquisitively I took down the book he had just placed there. I turned to the back and on an inside leaf I found in pencil a date and a street-and-number address.”

“An address?” Both Ellery and the Inspector exclaimed simultaneously. “What was it?” demanded the Inspector.

“I forget just now,” said Weaver, “but I have a note of it in my pocket. Would you like—?”

“Never mind the address at the moment,” said Ellery with a curious calm. “I’m not quite clear on this matter of the five books I took from French’s desk. Are they the actual books Springer marked?”

“No, they’re not,” replied Weaver. “But perhaps I had better give you my story in something like a sequence of incidents. It’s rather complicated... After noticing the date and address, which I couldn’t figure out at all as far as a possible meaning was concerned, I examined the back-board on which I had seen Springer write something. I found it was merely a light pencil-line under the name of the author.”

“That back-board fascinated me from the moment you mentioned it,” mused Ellery. “Are you sure, Westley, that the mark was under the entire name? Wasn’t it perhaps under the first two letters?”

Weaver stared. “Why, so it was,” he cried. “But how on earth could you know, Ellery?”

“Guess-work,” said Ellery negligently. “But it follows. No wonder,” he said, turning to his father, “I couldn’t get more out of these books, dad. They aren’t the originals... Go on, Wes.”

“I had no reason then,” continued Weaver, “to take decisive action about that book. I merely noted the address and date and, after slipping the book back into the exact place in which Springer had originally set it, I went about my business of checking up on Springer’s records. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the whole thing. It wasn’t until the following week — eight days, to be exact — that the incident was recalled — to my mind.”

“Springer did the same thing, I’ll bet!” cried Crouther.

“Bravo, Crouther,” murmured Ellery.

Weaver smiled fleetingly and went on. “Yes, under the same circumstances Springer did the same thing, and because I had gone down into the Book Department on my regular nightly check-up, I caught him at it again. This time I was puzzled to note that he repeated his performance of the week before in every detail. And the business still didn’t register any meaning in my mind. I merely jotted down the address and date once more — they were different from the previous week’s, incidentally — and went about my business. It wasn’t until the third week — after eight days had passed — that my suspicions began to function a little more actively.”

“Then,” said Ellery, “you took a duplicate of the book and the book was Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce, by a gentleman named Stani Wedjowski.”

“Correct,” said Weaver. “On that third occasion, it came to me that the addresses were of vital importance. What that importance was I had no idea. But I realized that the books were there for some purpose, and I decided to try a little experiment. In the case of the Wedjowski book, after Springer had gone I got another copy of the book, marked the date in the back for reference, made a private note of the new address, and took the duplicate book back upstairs with me to study. Perhaps, I thought, there’s something about this book that will enlighten me. I left the original exactly where Springer had placed it, naturally.

“I studied that book until I was blue in the face. I couldn’t make a thing of it. And I repeated my tactics for the next four weeks — Springer did his mysterious little job every eight days, I noticed — and studied my duplicate books very assiduously. They didn’t make sense, and I was getting desperate. I might add that all this time I had been keeping tabs on Springer’s records, and I was just beginning to see light. Springer was taking advantage of the one flaw in the departmental system, and was falsifying his accounts in a devilishly clever manner. And then I knew that the books must have some significance — whether connected with my own investigation or not I didn’t know. But I had no doubt now that they signified something crooked.

“At any rate, by the sixth week I was quite desperate. This was Monday evening — the night of the murder, although I had no idea of what was going to happen within a few hours. I watched Springer as usual, saw him go through the customary ritual, and leave. But this time I meant to do a daring thing. I took the original book.”

“Good for you!” cried Ellery. He lit a cigaret with unsteady fingers. “Brilliant, in fact. Go on, Wes; this is tremendously exciting.” The Inspector said nothing; Crouther regarded Weaver with a new respect.

“I duplicated the markings in another book exactly and placed it where Springer had left the original, which I took away with me. I had to do these things in a hurry, because I meant to follow Springer that night to see if I could get any clue from his movements. I was in luck, because he had stopped to chat with O’Flaherty. As I dashed out of the building, Springer’s latest book under my arm, I was just in time to see him turn the corner on Fifth Avenue.”

“Regular detective,” remarked Crouther admiringly.

“Well, hardly,” laughed Weaver. “At any rate I followed Springer’s wandering trail all evening. He had dinner alone in a Broadway restaurant and then went to a movie. I stuck to his trail like the fool I am, I suppose, because he did nothing at all suspicious, telephoned no one, spoke to no one, all evening. Finally, about midnight, he got home — he lives in the Bronx in an apartment house. I watched that house for an hour — even pussyfooted up to the floor on which his apartment is. But Springer stayed in. And so I finally went home, still carrying Springer’s book, but no wiser when I left him than when I’d begun to follow.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Inspector, “you showed good judgment in sticking to him.”

“What’s the title of that sixth book and where is it? How does it happen that I didn’t find it among the five others in French’s apartment? You put the five books there, of course?” asked Ellery rapidly.

“One at a time,” pleaded Weaver, smiling. “The book is Modern Trends in Interior Decoration, by Lucian Tucker...” Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances at Weaver’s mention of the author’s name. “You didn’t find it among the other five because I didn’t leave it there. I took it home with me. You see, I felt all along that the duplicates weren’t important. It was evidently the originals that counted. Perhaps I was wrong, but I certainly figured that the sixth, being an original, was more precious than the other five. So I put it in a safe place Monday night when I got home — my own bedroom. As for the five, the reason I kept them at the store was that I was studying them at odd moments and wanted them handy. I didn’t want to bother the Old Man about them and the whole business, because he was having his hands full negotiating this new merger with Whitney, and he always leaves details to me anyway. So I merely slipped each book, as I got it, between the book ends on the Old Man’s desk. I also took away one of the Old Man’s books to keep the count similar, and merely hid them in the bookcase, behind odd volumes there. In this way, by the end of five weeks the Old Man’s five books had entirely disappeared into the bookcase, and the duplicates of Springer’s books were between the book-ends. I meant to explain if the Old Man noticed the new volumes on his desk, but he didn’t, so I didn’t bother. Those ‘favorites’ of his are mere atmosphere, anyway; he’d got so accustomed to seeing them there on his desk that he sort of took it for granted they were still there, even though he was up and about that desk every day for weeks. It often happens that way... As for Springer noticing the strange books on the desk, that was impossible. Springer never had occasion to come to Mr. French’s apartment.”

“Then I take it,” demanded Ellery, with a creeping light of animation in his eyes, “that you put the five books between the book-ends week for week? In other words, that the first book, the Wedjowski thing, was on that desk six weeks ago?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s most interesting,” said Ellery, and subsided in his chair.

The Inspector stirred into action. “Here, Weaver, let’s have a look at those addresses. You have them on you, I think you said?”

For answer, Weaver took a small notebook from his breast-pocket and extracted a slip of paper. The Inspector, Ellery and Crouther bent curiously over to read the seven addresses.

“Well, I’ll be—” The Inspector’s voice was hushed, quietly throbbing. “Ellery, do you know what these are? Here are two addresses that Fiorelli’s boys have had under suspicion for weeks as depots for the distribution of dope!”

Ellery dropped back thoughtfully, while Crouther and Weaver stared at each other. “I’m not particularly surprised,” said Ellery. “Two, eh? That means all seven are probably dope-distributing headquarters... changed from week to week... clever, no doubt about it!” Suddenly he started forward. “Wes!” he almost shouted, “the sixth address! Where is it? Quickly!”

Weaver hastily produced another memorandum, The address was a number on East 98th Street.

“Dad,” said Ellery at once, “this is remarkable luck. Do you realize what we’ve in our hands? Yesterday’s dope depot! The date — May twenty-fourth — Tuesday — the trail is so hot it sparks!”

“By the lord Harry,” muttered the Inspector, “you’re right. If that 98th Street place should still be tenanted — I can’t see why not—” He sprang to his feet and reached for the telephone. He gave the number of Police Headquarters and in a moment was speaking to Sergeant Velie. He spoke rapidly, had his call switched to the office of the Narcotic Squad. He spoke tersely to Fiorelli, head of the Squad, and hung up.

“I’ve just tipped off Fiorelli and they’re going to raid that 98th Street address immediately,” he said briskly, taking a pinch of snuff with practiced fingers. “They’re taking Thomas with them, and they’ll stop here to pick us up. I want to be in on this one!” His jaw stiffened grimly.

“Raid, hey?” Crouther rose and tightened his muscles. “Mind if I go along, Inspector? Be a picnic for me — that’s a fact!”

“No objection at all, Crouther,” said the Inspector absently. “You deserve a bit of the show, anyway... Fiorelli has raided those two addresses I recognized, but in each case the birds had shut up shop and disappeared. Let’s hope they haven’t had time in this case!”

Ellery opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped his lips together very firmly. He became thoughtful at once.

Weaver seemed confounded by the bombshell he had caused to explode. He subsided limply in his chair.

28 Unraveling Threads

They all looked at Ellery in sudden disquiet. Crouther, his mouth half-open, shut it and began to scratch his head. Weaver and the Inspector shifted heavily in their chairs at the same instant.

Ellery without a word stepped into the kitchenette. His low voice was heard murmuring to Djuna. Ellery reappeared, fumbled for his pince-nez and began to twirl it idly. “The uneasy thought just struck me — and yet,” his face brightened, “it isn’t so bad at that!”

He replaced his glasses on his thin nose and rose to his feet, pacing leisurely up and down before the table. Djuna slipped out of the kitchenette and left the apartment.

“While we’re waiting for the squad wagon,” Ellery said, “we may as well go over some of the ground, in the light of these newest disclosures of Westley’s.

“Does anybody doubt now that French’s is being used as an important medium for drug distribution?”

He challenged them lightly with his eyes. An angry glare lit up Crouther’s heavy features.

“Say, Mr. Queen, that’s pretty rough on me,” he barked. “I’m not denying this Springer guy is a crook — don’t see how it could be otherwise — but how do you figure out a dope ring’s been operating right under our noses at the store?”

“Keep your shirt on, Crouther,” said Ellery mildly. “They’ve merely put one over on the French establishment. What an opportunity,” he went on, in the tone of one who finds much to admire, “for a drug ring! Using a no doubt simple code, which is already fairly clarified in my mind, transmitting it through innocent books, and setting the whole business in the respectable domain of the head of the Anti-Vice League himself! That’s a stroke of genius, that is... Look here. There can’t be an alternative. We find at intervals of eight days — the only exception being one of nine, and this is plausibly accounted for by the intervention of Sunday — the head of the Book Department marking an address in — and this is one of the beautiful elements of the scheme — in little-used, stodgy books... Did you notice that the date in each book was not the date when Springer prepared it? No, in every case it was for the day following. The book marked Wednesday, by the author whose name began with WE, was placed on the same shelf... it was the same shelf every week, wasn’t it, Wes?”

“Yes.”

“The book marked for Wednesday, then, was placed on the same shelf as all the others on Tuesday evening. The Thursday book on Wednesday evening the week following, and so on. What could this possibly mean? Obviously, that Springer didn’t allow too much time to elapse between the evening he prepared the book with the address and the time it was to be picked up!”

“Picked up?” demanded the Inspector.

“Of course. Everything points to a well-constructed plan of operation in which Springer’s main job was to inform some one of an address through the medium of a book. If Springer could inform that problematical person or persons by word of mouth, why the complicated book-code system? No. The probability is that Springer knows the people who come in to pick up his doctored volumes, but that they, being mere pawns, don’t know him. But this is really beside the point. The crux of the matter is that Springer would not allow the prepared book to linger on the shelf too long. It might be purchased; the address in it might inadvertently be noticed by a stranger. Dad, if you were in Springer’s place, how would you arrange the time when the book should be picked up?”

“Seems clear. If Springer prepared it, at night, then he would have it picked up in the morning.”

Ellery smiled, “Exactly. What risk then does he run? He writes the address in the book after hours, when the book cannot be removed that night in a legitimate way by an outsider; and the very next morning the appointed messenger takes it from its place on the shelf — a place of course set definitely when the plan was originally concocted. The chances are, in fact, that the messenger arrives as early as possible the next morning — perhaps as soon as the store opens, at nine o’clock. He browses around, goes over to the shelf finally, picks up the book he knows about in advance through a sign which I’ll explain in a moment, pays for it in the regular way and walks out with his information under his arm — safe, clean and ridiculously easy.

“Now! There are a few inferences to be drawn. We must suppose that when the messenger arrives in the morning he has no contact with Springer — really, everything points to this complete alienation between Springer and the messenger, with one or both ignorant of the other’s identity. Then the only clue the messenger has to the book fixed the night before is a code, or system, arranged beforehand. That’s just common sense. But what could the code be? And that is the beautiful part of the plan.

“Why, I asked myself, was it necessary to the plan to have the author’s name — at least its first two letters — coincide with the first two letters of the day on which the book was to be picked up by the messenger? The question is answered if we suppose complete ignorance of detail on the part of the messenger. If, when he got his job, his first instructions, he was told the following, then the whole procedure becomes clear: ‘Every week you are to call at the French Book Department for a book which will contain an address. The book will be on the top shelf of the fourth tier of book-racks situated in such and such a place in the Department. The book will always be on that shelf... Now. Every week you are to call on a different day. Eight days apart, to be exact. Except when Sunday intervenes, and then it will be nine days — from the proceeding Saturday to the following Monday. Let us say the morning you are due to call for the book is a Wednesday. Then the book you should pick up will be by an author whose last name begins with a WE, to correspond to the WE of Wednesday. To make identification absolutely positive, and to get you out of the Book Department as quickly as possible, so that you will not be compelled to rummage through every book on that shelf, a light pencil-mark will appear on the first two letters of the author’s name, positively identifying the proper volume. You pick up the book, look at the back liner leaf to make sure the address is there, then buy the book and walk out of the store.’... Does that sound plausible?”

There was a vehement chorus of assents from the three men.

“It’s a devilishly ingenious scheme,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “if a little complicated. Really, though, the complications iron themselves away with the passage of time. The beauty of the plan is that the messenger needs his instructions only once, the first time, and he can carry on indefinitely, for months, without a slip-up... The next Thursday he has to look for a pencil-mark on a book whose author’s name begins with TH; the Friday following, an FR; and so on. What the messenger does with the book when he gets it is debatable. From the looks of things, this is a highly centralized society of drug distributors, with the pawns in the game knowing as little as possible about the business at hand, probably being kept in complete ignorance of the ringleader or leaders. The question naturally arises—”

“But why,” asked Weaver, “that period of eight days? Why not merely every week on the same day?”

“A good question, and it has, I think, a simple answer,” replied Ellery. “These people were taking not the slightest chance of a slip-up. If a certain person came into the Book Department at nine o’clock every Monday, he might after a time be noticed and remarked on. But coming in on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Wednesday, all a week and a day apart, there was little likelihood that he would be remembered.”

“My God, what a racket!” muttered Crouther. “No wonder we never got wind of it!”

“Clever’s no name for it,” sighed the Inspector. “Then you think, Ellery, that the addresses are all local ‘joints’ for the selling of the dope?”

“No question about it,” said Ellery, lighting another cigaret. “And while we’re remarking about cleverness, how does this strike you? The ring never uses the same address twice! That’s patent from the different address each week. And it’s apparent, too, that their system of distribution makes it a methodical weekly affair. Your Narcotic Squad has a chance to ferret out a drug depot if it’s used week after week; people notice suspicious activity, perhaps; the address and the word go around through the grapevine of the underworld. But how can your Squad ever get on the track of a gang which uses a different depot every week? Why, the scheme is amazing. As it is, Fiorelli did get wind of two of the addresses through informers or stool-pigeons; the fact that he didn’t get any other shows how holeproof the plot really is. And of course, when he raided the places, he found the ring gone — cleared out. They probably have an afternoon soirée week after week and dismantle the place immediately after the last customer’s gone.

“Now consider how safe the ring really is. They must have a regular channel of communication with their customers — and I suspect it’s a limited list. Too many would be dangerous by their very numbers. That means, then, that the customers are wealthy, probably society people, who get a weekly tipoff by telephone, we’ll say — just an address. They know the rest. And what can the customer do? What does he want to do? We all know the desperate uncontrollable craving of the addict for his drug. Here he has a safe source of supply, and what’s more important, a regular source of supply. No — the customers aren’t blabbing. What could be sweeter?”

“It staggers the imagination,” muttered the Inspector. “What a plan! But if we clean them up this time—!”

“I need only refer to the well-known cup and the better-known lip,” laughed Ellery. “However, we’ll see.

“Some questions arise, as I began to say a few moments ago, more directly applicable to the murder. We may certainly presume that Bernice is — or was — one of the ring’s customers. And I do believe that shady, mysterious motive of which we haven’t been able to grasp the merest shadow, is beginning to emerge into daylight. Winifred French was not an addict. She carried in her bag a lipstick belonging to Bernice and filled with heroin... And carried it to her death. A strong line of incident, dad! Very, very strong... Interesting, isn’t it, especially since we haven’t been able to discover any other motive for the crime? But motive won’t mean much in the unraveling of this case, I’m afraid; the big job is to corral the murderer and also to round up the drug ring. A dual task which presents to my deduction-weary mind a suggestion of difficulty...

“Another question. Is Springer pawn or king in this drug game? My guess is — he’s on the inside, knows all the facts, but is not top man. And the question naturally arises, too — did Mr. Springer fire the lethal weapon aimed at Mrs. French’s heart? I’d rather not go into that at the moment.

“And finally, doesn’t this business of the drug ring indicate that Winifred’s murder — and Bernice’s disappearance — are integral parts of the same crime, rather than two unrelated crimes? I think it does, but I cannot see how we shall ever get to the truth of the matter unless a certain eventuality occurs. Deponent being temporarily out of wind, deponent will sit down and think of the case in toto.”

And Ellery, without another word, seated himself and worried his pince-nez in a thoroughly absent manner.

The Inspector, Weaver and Crouther sighed all at once.

They were sitting that way, silently, looking at each other, when a short siren blast from the street below announced the arrival of Fiorelli, Velie and the raiding party.

29 — Raid!

The police van, crammed with detectives and officers, rushed through the West Side, headed uptown. Traffic opened magically before its wailing siren. Hundreds of eyes followed its reckless course wonderingly.

The Inspector shouted to a grim and chagrined Velie, above the roar of the exhaust, Crouther’s story of the lone taxicab driver and the mysterious automobile with the Massachusetts license-plate. The sergeant gloomily promised an immediate check-up on the chauffeur’s story and dissemination of the new information to all his operatives on the trail of the vanished girl. Crouther sat chuckling by his side as Velie took from the Inspector’s hand the name and address of the cab-driver.

Weaver had been excused, and with the arrival of the van had left to return to the French store.

Fiorelli sat quietly chewing his fingernails. His face was haggard and feverish as he pulled the Inspector to one side.

“Had a bunch of boys beat it up to the 98th Street address beforehand to surround the house,” he boomed hoarsely. “Not taking any chances on their doing a fade-away. The boys are keeping under cover, but they won’t let a rat slip through the net!”

Ellery sat calmly in the van, watching the crowds jump into view and disappear. His fingers thrummed a rhythmic tattoo on the iron mesh obscuring the view.

The powerful truck turned into 98th Street and dashed eastward. The neighborhood thickened, grew squalid. As the van plunged farther toward the East River the onrushing scene became one of ramshackle buildings and ramshackle humanity...

At last the police car ground to a stop. A man in plain clothes had stepped suddenly from a doorway into the middle of the street, pointing meaningly toward a low, two-story building of rotten wood and peeled paint, leaning crazily over the sidewalk as if the slightest convulsion of nature would topple it, a brittle wreck, into the gutter. The front door was closed. The windows were heavily shaded. The house looked tenantless, lifeless.

With the first grinding of the van’s brakes, a dozen men in plain clothes ran into view from odd corners and doorways. Several in the dilapidated backyard of the house drew guns and advanced on the rear of the building. An avalanche of policemen and detectives poured out of the truck, headed by Fiorelli, Velie and the Inspector, Crouther close behind, and ran up the crumbling wooden steps to the front door.

Fiorelli pounded fiercely on the cracked panels. There was not a whisper of audible response. At a sign from Inspector Queen, Velie and Fiorelli put their formidable shoulders to the door and shoved. The wood splintered and the door cracked back, revealing a dim, musty interior, a broken old chandelier, and a flight of uncarpeted steps leading up to a second floor.

The police streamed into the building, investing both floors simultaneously, opening doors, pushing into corners, guns ready.

And Ellery, sauntering leisurely behind, openly amused at the psychology of the gaping mob which had miraculously gathered outside the house, kept back by the clubs of several bluecoats, saw at once that the raid was a failure.

The house was empty, without the least sign of occupancy.

30 Requiem

They stood about in one of the dusty, deserted rooms — an old-fashioned parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely proclaiming its fall upon evil days — and talked quietly. Fiorelli was beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was one to be found in the neighborhood.

Ellery said nothing.

The detective returned shortly with a strapping, livid Negro.

“Do you take care of this house?” asked the Inspector brusquely of the Negro.

The Negro removed his rusty derby and shuffled his feet. “I expect so, sir.”

“What are you — janitor, superintendent?”

“Kind of. I take care of a whole pack of houses on this block. Rent them for the owners when a tenant comes along.”

“I see. Was this house occupied yesterday?”

The janitor bobbed his head vigorously. “Yes sir!” About four or five days ago a party comes along and rents the whole house. That’s what the agent says when he brings them down. Paid the agent cash for a month. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“What sort of a man was the tenant?”

“Kinda shortish and had a long black mustache.”

“When did he move in?”

“The next day — Sunday, I think. Van came moseying down with some furniture.”

“Did you see the name of the van company on the truck.”

“No sir, sure didn’t. There wasn’t any. One of these open trucks with the sides covered with black tarpaulin. No name on the truck at all.”

“Did you see the man with the black mustache around much?”

The Negro scratched his head. “No sir, can’t say I did. Don’t believe I saw him at all till yesterday morning.”

“How was that?”

“That’s when he moved out again, sir. Didn’t say anything to me, but just about eleven o’clock in the morning the same truck rolls up to the door and the two drivers go into the house and pretty soon they start piling the furniture out of the house and into the truck. Didn’t take them long — there wasn’t much furniture and then I saw the man come out of the house, say something to the drivers and walk away. The truck went away, too. And the man just flung the key that the agent gave him right out there on the stoop of the house before he walked off.”

The Inspector spoke in a low voice to Velie for a moment, then turned back to the Negro.

“Did you see anybody go into the house during the four days?” asked the Inspector. “Especially Tuesday afternoon — yesterday?”

“Why... yes sir, yesterday, but not before. My old woman, she sits out generally all day, and she told me last night that there was a whole raft of folks coming up to that empty house all yesterday afternoon. They was all kinda put out when they saw the house was closed. Oh, about a dozen of them. They all went away quick.”

“That’ll do,” said the Inspector slowly. “Give your name and address and the name of the realty company you’re working for to that man over there, and keep your mouth tight about all this. Remember!”

The man stiffened, mumbled, stammered the required information to a detective of the Narcotic Squad, and shuffled rapidly from the room.

“Well, that settles it,” said Inspector Queen to Velie, Fiorelli, Ellery and Crouther, who were grouped together. “They got wind and beat it. Something made ’em suspicious and they had to clear out — didn’t even have time to distribute the dope to their customers. There must be a dozen mighty sick addicts in the city today.”

Fiorelli made a disgusted gesture. “Aw, let’s fade,” he growled. “They got a jinx on me, that gang.”

“Tough luck,” said Crouther. “That must have been fast work.”

“I’m going to trace that truck, if I can,” said Velie. “Want to help, Crouther?” He smiled sardonically.

“Hey, lay off,” said Crouther good-naturedly.

“Don’t quarrel, now,” sighed the Inspector. “You might try, Thomas, but I have a notion that’s a privately owned truck that operates only on the ring’s jobs. And I suppose that now the gang is scared off, we’ll not pick up their trail again in a hurry. Eh, Ellery?”

“I suggest,” said Ellery, speaking for the first time since the raid, “that we go home. We’ve met our Waterloo for—” he smiled sadly — “to put it mildly, the nonce.”

Fiorelli and Velie mustered the squad of officers and took the police van back to Headquarters, leaving a bluecoat on guard outside the 98th Street shack. Crouther, poking Velie slyly in the ribs as the burly Sergeant swung into the truck, departed early for the French store.

“They’ll be sendin’ out an alarm for me,” he grinned. “After all, I got a job.”

He hailed a cruising taxicab which headed west and south. The Queens followed suit in another cab.

Ellery took out his thin silver watch in the car and stared at its dial with amused eyes. The Inspector regarded him in a puzzled way.

“I can’t see why you want to go home,” he grumbled. “I’m a long time overdue at my office now. There must be a pile of work on my desk. I’ve missed the morning line-up for the first time in months, and I suppose Welles has called again, and—”

Ellery stared fixedly at his watch, a faint smile on his lips. The Inspector subsided, muttering.

Ellery paid the cab-driver when the taxi drew up before their brownstone on 87th Street, herded his father gently upstairs, and did not speak until Djuna had closed the door behind them.

“Ten minutes,” he announced with satisfaction, snapping the watch-case shut and returning the watch to his vest-pocket. “That’s average time, I should say, from 98th Street and the River to 87th Street on the other side.” He grinned and threw off his light coat.

“Have you gone fay?” gasped the Inspector.

“Like a fox,” said Ellery, He took up the telephone and called a number. “French’s? Connect me with Mr. Springer in the Book Department... Hello, Book Department? Mr. Springer, please... What? Who is this speaking?... Oh, I see... No, it’s quite all right. Thank you!”

He hung up.

“The Inspector was twisting his mustache in an agony of apprehension. He glared at Ellery. “Do you mean to say that Springer’s—” he began in a thunderous voice.

Ellery seemed not perturbed. “I’m so glad,” he said with sly simplicity. “Mr. Springer, according to his young lady assistant, was taken suddenly ill not five minutes ago and left in something of a hurry, saying he would not return to-day.”

The old man sank into his chair worriedly. “How under heaven could I have anticipated this?” he said. “I surely thought he’d keep until later in the day. Return, he said did he? We’ll never set eyes on him again!”

“Oh, but you shall,” said Ellery gently.

And quoth Ellery: “‘Preparation is half the battle, and nothing is lost by being on one’s guard.’ The good Spanish don uttered a homely truth there, padre!”

31 Alibis: Marion-Zorn

Muttering imprecations upon the elusive head of James Springer, the Inspector departed for a flying visit to Headquarters, leaving Ellery hunched comfortably before the open dormer-window, smoking and thinking. Djuna, in his uncanny simian way, sat motionless on the floor at his feet, unblinking in the soft glare of sunlight streaming into the room... When the Inspector returned two hours later Ellery, still smoking, was seated at the desk reading over a batch of notes.

“Still at it?” asked Queen with quick concern, hurling his hat and coat toward a chair. Djuna noiselessly picked them up and hung them in a closet.

“Still at it,” rejoined Ellery. But there was a deep wrinkle between his brows. He rose, looked reflectively at his notes, then with a sigh replaced them in the desk and shrugged his shoulders. The wrinkle disappeared, dissolved smoothly into small fine lines of humor as he caught sight of his father’s worried mustache and high color.

“Nothing new downtown?” he asked sympathetically. He sat down at the window again.

Queen paced nervously up and down the rug. “Little enough. Thomas has looked up that cab-driver of Crouther’s — and we’ve driven up another blind alley, it seems. The man gave us a pretty clear description of this tall blond abductor, and of course we’ve flashed wires through the entire East. Particularly Massachusetts. With a description of the car and Bernice Carmody. Now I suppose we’ll have to wait...”

“Umm.” Ellery flicked the ashes from his cigaret. “Waiting won’t bring Bernice Carmody back from the grave,” he said in sudden earnestness. “And there’s still a chance she may be alive... I shouldn’t confine my search to the northeast, dad. This gang is clever. They may have pulled the old license-plate trick. They may actually have headed south, changed cars — any one of a dozen things. In fact, if you found Bernice Carmody, dead or alive, right here in New York City, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. After all, the trail ended in Central Park...”

“Thomas has his eyes open and his beaters out,” said the Inspector disconsolately. “And he’s up to the tricks as well as you, my son. If there’s the faintest spoor, he’ll follow it — and get not only the girl but the men too.”

“Cherchez la femme,” said Ellery lightly... He sat musing. The Inspector placed his hands behind his small back and strode up and down, eyeing Ellery in a puzzled manner meanwhile.

“Marion French called me at Headquarters,” he stated suddenly.

Ellery’s head lifted slowly. “Yes?”

The old man chuckled. “I thought that would get you!.. Yes, the girl called several times this morning while I was here, and when I finally got to the office she seemed quite feverish with — well, not excitement exactly, but anticipation. So, being thoughtful of you, my son — which is more than you can say about yourself, incidentally — I asked her to meet me here.”

Ellery merely smiled.

“I suppose Weaver’s been talking to her,” continued the Inspector grumpily.

“Dad!” Ellery laughed outright. “Occasionally you positively startle me with your insight...”

The doorbell rang, and Djuna ran to answer it. Marion French, dressed in a severe black suit and a pert little black hat, her chin set at a charmingly defiant angle, stood outside.

Ellery sprang to his feet, his fingers straying to his tie. The Inspector stepped forward quickly and opened wide the anteroom door.

“Come in, come in, Miss French!” He was all smiles and fatherliness. Marion smiled bewilderingly at Djuna and greeted the Inspector in a grave undertone as she walked into the living-room. She blushed at Ellery’s warm words of welcome. And sat down in the Inspector’s own armchair at his magnanimous command, perched on the edge of the leather seat, hands tightly clasped, chiseled lips firm.

Ellery stood by the window. The Inspector drew up a chair and sat close to the girl, facing her.

“Now, what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my dear?” he asked in a conversational tone.

Marion’s glance flew timidly to Ellery and returned. “I... It’s about—”

“About your visit to Mr. Zorn’s place Monday evening, Miss French?” inquired Ellery, smiling.

She gasped. “Why... why, you knew!” Ellery made a deprecatory gesture. “It is hardly knowledge. Some call it guessing.”

The Inspector’s eyes bored into hers. But his voice was gentle now. “Has Mr. Zorn a hold over you — or is it a matter more directly concerned with your father, my dear?”

She stared from one to the other as if she could not believe her ears. “To think—” She laughed a trifle hysterically. “And I thought all the while that it was a deep, dark secret...” A shadow that seemed to lift from her face fell at once. “I suppose you want a coherent story. You have heard, Westley tells me—” she bit her lip and crimsoned — “I shouldn’t have said that — he told me particularly not to say we’d discussed this...” Both the Inspector and Ellery laughed aloud at her naïveté. “At any rate,” she went on, smiling faintly, “I gather that you’ve heard about — about my stepmother and Mr. Zorn... Really, it was more gossip than anything else!” she cried. She calmed immediately. “But I wasn’t sure. And we all tried — so hard — to keep the nasty rumors from father. I’m afraid we weren’t entirely successful.” Fear suddenly flamed in her eyes. She stopped short and looked down at the floor.

Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. “Go on Miss French,” said the Inspector in the same soothing tone.

“Then” — she spoke more rapidly now — “I overhead, quite by accident, something that confirmed part of the rumors. Nothing — it hadn’t gone far, their affair, but it was getting dangerous. Even I could see that... That’s the way things were on Monday.”

“You told your father?” asked Queen.

She shivered. “Oh, no! But I had to save daddy’s health, his reputation, his — his peace of mind. I didn’t even take Westley into my confidence. He would have forbidden me to do — what I did. I called on Mr. Zorn — and his wife.”

“Go on.”

“I went to their apartment. I was frankly desperate. It was just after dinner and I knew they’d both be at home. And I wanted Mrs. Zorn to be there, because she knew — and she was jealous as a witch. She’d even threatened—”

“Threatened, Miss French?” demanded the Inspector.

“Oh, it was nothing, Inspector,” said Marion hurriedly, “but it told me that she knew what was going on. And it was as much her fault that Mr. Zorn fell in love with... with Winifred as anything. Mrs. Zorn is... oh, quite awful...” She smiled wanly. “You’ll think me a scandalous gossip... But before both of them I accused Mr. Zorn, and... and told it him it must stop. Mrs. Zorn flew into a terrible rage and began to swear. All her spite turned against Winifred. She threatened dire things. Mr. Zorn tried to argue with me, but... I suppose the weight of two women railing at him just sapped his strength. He left his apartment in a huff — left me with that awful woman. She looked almost insane...” Marion shuddered. “So I became a little frightened and — well, I suppose it was a good deal like running. I could hear her screaming even in the corridor... And — and that’s all, Inspector Queen, that’s all,” she faltered. “When I left the Zorns’ apartment it was a little after ten. I felt weak and sick. I really did walk in the Park, as I told you yesterday. I walked and walked until I thought I’d drop from exhaustion, and then I went home. It was just about midnight.”

There was a little silence. Ellery, watching the girl impassively, turned his head away. The Inspector cleared his throat.

“You went directly to bed, Miss French?” he asked.

The girl stared at him. “Why, what do you mean?... I—” Fright gleamed again in her eyes. But she said courageously, “Yes, Inspector, I did.”

“Did anyone see you come into the house?”

“No... no.”

“You saw no one, spoke to no one?”

“No.”

The Inspector frowned. “Well! At any rate, Miss French, you did the right thing — the only thing — in telling us about it.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said in a small voice. “But Westley, when I told him to-day, said I must. And so—”

“Why didn’t you want to?” asked Ellery. It was the first time he had spoken since Marion had begun her story.

The girl did not speak for a long moment. Finally, with a determined expression, she said: “I’d rather not answer that, Mr. Queen,” and rose.

The Inspector was on his feet instantly. He escorted her to the door in an animate silence.

When he returned, Ellery was chuckling. “As transparent as any angel,” he said. “Don’t frown so, dad. Have you checked up on our good friend Cyrus French?”

“Oh, that!” The Inspector looked unhappy. “Yes, I had Johnson working on it last night. Got his report this morning. He was at Whitney’s in Great Neck, all right. I understand he had a slight attack of indigestion about nine o’clock Monday night. Retired immediately.”

“Coincidence?” Ellery grinned.

“Eh?” Queen scowled. “At any rate, that accounts for him.”

“Oh, yes?” Ellery sat down and crossed his long legs. “Purely as an intellectual exercise,” he said mischievously, “it does nothing of the kind. You see, old Cyrus retires at nine. Let us assume that he wishes to return to New York without the knowledge of his host. Suddenly. That night. He slips out of the house and goes trudging down the road... Hold! Did any one see him leave so early in the morning in Whitney’s car?”

The Inspector stared. “The chauffeur, of course — man who drove him into the city. Johnson told me French left long before any one else was up. But the chauffeur!”

Ellery chuckled. “Better and better,” he said. “Chauffeurs can be hushed. It has been done... Our worthy anti-vicious magnate, then, slips out of the house; perhaps his accomplice, the chauffeur, even drives him down to the station secretly. There’s a train about that hour. I know, because I took one three weeks ago Monday night when I returned from Boomer’s. And it’s only a half-hour or so into Penn Station. In time to slip through the freight-door...”

“But he’d have to stay all night!” groaned the Inspector.

“Granted. But then there’s a sagacious chauffeur to alibi one... You see how simple it is?”

“Oh, tosh!” exploded the Inspector.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” said Ellery, eyes twinkling. “But it’s something to bear in mind.”

“Fairy-tales!” growled the Inspector, and then they laughed together. “I’ve arranged to get those alibis, by the way. I called Zorn from the office and told him to come down here. I want to see how his story checks up with Marion French’s. And what he did after ten last night.”

Ellery lost his bantering air. He looked dissatisfied, rubbed his forehead wearily. “It might be wise,” he said, “to get all those alibis clear, at that. Mightn’t be a bad idea to get Mrs. Zorn down here, too. And I’ll emulate the Stoics meanwhile.”

The Inspector made a number of telephone calls, while Djuna went rapidly through telephone directories, and Ellery slumped into an easy-chair and closed his eyes...

A half-hour later Mr. and Mrs. Zorn sat in the Queen living-room side by side, facing Inspector Queen. Ellery was far off in a corner, almost hidden by a jutting bookcase.

Mrs. Zorn was a large-boned woman, well fleshed and rosy. Her too-golden hair was cut in a severe, startling bob. She had cold green eyes and a large mouth. She looked, at first glance, under thirty; on closer observation, faint crinkles around her chin and eyes added ten years to her appearance. She was dressed in the height of fashion and carried herself with an air of arrogance.

Despite Marion’s story, Mr. and Mrs. Zorn seemed on the most amicable of terms. Mrs. Zorn acknowledged her husband’s introduction of the Inspector with regal graciousness; she punctuated each remark to Zorn with a sweet “My dear...”

The Inspector examined her shrewdly with his eyes, and decided not to mince words.

He turned first to Zorn. “I have called you, as a logical step in this inquiry, to explain your movements on the night of Monday past, Mr. Zorn.”

The Director’s hand strayed to his bald pate. “Monday night? The night — of the murder, Inspector?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you insinuating—” Rage leaped into his eyes behind their heavy gold-rimmed spectacles. Mrs. Zorn made the least gesture with a finger. Zorn calmed magically. “I had dinner,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “at our apartment with Mrs. Zorn. We stayed in all evening. At ten o’clock or so I left the apartment and went directly to the Penny Club on Fifth Avenue and 32nd Street. I met Gray there and we discussed the Whitney merger for a half-hour or so. I developed a headache and told Gray I thought I’d try to walk it off. We said good night and I left the Club. I did take a long walk up the Avenue and, in fact, walked all the way home to 74th Street.”

“And what time was that, Mr. Zorn?” asked the Inspector.

“I should say about a quarter to twelve.”

“Was Mrs. Zorn up — did she see you?”

The large rosy woman chose to reply for her husband. “No, Inspector, no indeed! I had dismissed the servants for the night a little after Mr. Zorn left the apartment, and I’d gone to bed myself. I fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t hear him come in.” She smiled, exhibiting huge white teeth.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand how—” began the Inspector courteously.

“Mr. Zorn and I have separate sleeping apartments, Inspector Queen,” she said, dimpling.

“Umm.” The Inspector turned once more to Zorn, who had sat perfectly still during this colloquy. “Did you meet any one you knew during your walk, Mr. Zorn?”

“Why — no.”

“When you entered your apartment house, did any of the house personnel see you?”

Zorn fumbled with his massive red mustache. “I’m afraid not. There’s only a night-man at the switchboard after eleven, and when I came in he was absent from his post.”

“The elevator, I suppose, is of the self-service type?” asked Queen dryly.

“Yes — that’s correct.”

The Inspector turned to Mrs. Zorn. “At what time did you see your husband in the morning — Tuesday morning?”

She raised her blond brows archly. “Tuesday morning — let me see... Oh, yes! It was ten o’clock.”

“Fully dressed, Mrs. Zorn?”

“Yes. He was reading his morning paper when I came into our living-room.”

The Inspector smiled, quite wearily, and rose to take a short turn about the room. Finally he stopped before Zorn and fixed him with a stern eye. “Why haven’t you told me about Miss French’s visit to your apartment Monday evening?”

Zorn grew very still. The effect of Marion’s name on Mrs. Zorn was startling. The color drained from her face and her pupils dilated tigerishly. It was she who spoke.

“That—!” she said in a low passionate voice. But her body was tense with anger. The mask of politeness fell from her face and revealed an older woman — shrewish, cruel.

The Inspector seemed not to hear. “Mr. Zorn?” he said.

Zorn moistened his lips with a nervous tongue. “That’s true... true enough. I didn’t see that it had anything to do... Yes, Miss French visited us. She left about ten o’clock.”

The Inspector made an impatient movement. “You talked about your relations with Mrs. French, Mr. Zorn?” he asked.

“Yes, yes. That’s it.” The words tumbled out, gratefully.

“Mrs. Zorn flew into a rage?”

The woman’s eyes darted cold green fire. Zorn mumbled, “Yes.”

“Mrs. Zorn.” The eyes became veiled. “You went to bed shortly after ten Monday night and did not leave your chamber until ten o’clock the following morning?”

“Right, Inspector Queen.”

“In that case,” concluded the Inspector, “there is nothing more to be said — now.”

When the Zorns had departed, the Inspector saw that Ellery was sitting in his forgotten corner laughing silently to himself.

“I fail to see the joke,” said the old man ruefully.

“Oh, dad — the mess and mire of it!” cried Ellery. “La vie, c’est confuse! How beautifully events belie each other... What do you make of your late interview?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled the Inspector, “but I know one thing. Anyone who can’t be accounted for by the visual evidence of witnesses between eleven-thirty o’clock Monday night and a little after nine on Tuesday morning might have done this job. Let’s take a hypothetical case. Suppose X is a possibility as the murderer. X is not seen after eleven-thirty Monday night. He says he went home and went to sleep. There is no witness. Suppose he didn’t go home. Suppose he slipped into the French store through that freight entrance. And got out the next morning at nine. Returned home, sneaked into his apartment without any one seeing him, and then reappeared about ten-thirty or so, letting lots of people see him. The presumption is that he slept home all night and therefore couldn’t have committed the crime. Yet physically it was possible...”

“Too true, too true,” murmured Ellery. “Well, evoke the next victim.”

“He should be here any moment now,” said the Inspector, and went into the bathroom to bathe his perspiring face.

32 Alibis: Marchbanks

Marchbanks glowered. He bore himself with the sullenness of a man who nurses a grudge. He snapped at the Inspector and ignored Ellery. He deposited his stick and hat on the table with a bang, rudely refusing to allow Djuna to take them from him. He sat down uninvited and drummed nastily on the arm of the chair.

“Well, sir,” thought the Inspector, “we’ll have at you.” He took a pinch of snuff with deliberation, regarding Marchbanks curiously. “Marchbanks,” he said in curt tones, “where were you Monday evening and night?”

The dead woman’s brother scowled. “What’s this — a third degree?”

“If you choose to make it so,” retorted the Inspector, in his most unpleasant voice. “I repeat — where were you Monday night?”

“If you must know,” said Marchbanks bitingly, “I was out on Long Island.”

“Oh, Long Island!” The Inspector seemed duly impressed. “When did you go, where did you go, and how long did you stay?”

“You people always insist on a story,” wheezed Marchbanks, setting his feet solidly on the rug. “Very well. I left town at about seven o’clock Monday evening. In my car...”

“You drove yourself?”

“Yes. I—”

“Anybody with you?”

“NO!” shouted Marchbanks. “Do you want my story or don’t you? I—”

“Continue,” said the Inspector judicially.

Marchbanks glared. “As I began to say — I left town Monday evening at seven in my car. I was bound for Little Neck—”

“Little Neck, eh?” interpolated the Inspector exasperatingly.

“Yes, Little Neck,” stormed Marchbanks. “What’s wrong in that? I had been invited to a small party at the house of a friend of mine there—”

“His name?”

“Patrick Malone,” replied Marchbanks resignedly. “When I got there, I found no one at home except Malone’s man. He explained that at the last moment Malone had been called away on business and had had to call off the party...”

“Did you know that such an eventuality might occur?”

“If you mean did I know that Malone was going to be called away — yes, in a way. He’d mentioned the possibility of it over the ’phone to me earlier in the day. At any rate, I saw no use in staying, so I left at once and proceeded off the main road to my own shack, a few miles farther on. I keep it for occasional jaunts into the Island. I—”

“Have you any servants there?”

“No. It’s a small place and I prefer solitude when I’m out that way. So I slept there overnight and returned to the city in the morning by car.”

The Inspector smiled sardonically. “I suppose you met no one all night or in the morning who might verify your statements?”

“I don’t know what you mean. What are you driving at—?”

“Yes or no?”

“... No.”

“What time did you get to the city?”

“About ten-thirty. I rose rather late.”

“And what time was it Monday evening when you reached your friend Malone’s place and spoke to his valet?”

“Oh, I should say about eight or eight-thirty. I don’t recall exactly.”

The Inspector sent a mutely humorous glance across the room to Ellery. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Marchbanks’ florid face darkened and he rose abruptly.

“If you have nothing more to ask me, Inspector Queen, I must be going.” He picked up his hat and stick.

“Ah! Just one other thing. Sit down, Marchbanks.” Marchbanks reluctantly reseated himself. “How do you account for the murder of your sister?”

Marchbanks sniggered. “I thought you’d ask that. Up a tree, eh? Well, I’m not surprised. The police of this city are—”

“Answer my question, please.”

“I don’t account for it, and I can’t account for it!” cried Marchbanks suddenly. “That’s your business! All I know is that my sister has been shot to death, and I want her murderer sizzling in the chair.” He stopped, out of breath.

“Yes, yes, I realize your natural desire for revenge,” said the Inspector tiredly. “You may go, Mr. Marchbanks, but keep in town.”

33 Alibis: Carmody

Vincent Carmody was the next caller. His reticence was as marked as usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiselessly in the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.

“Ah — Mr. Carmody,” began the Inspector uneasily. The antique dealer disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. “Ah... Mr. Carmody, I’ve called you in for a little consultation. We are checking up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand...”

“Ummm,” said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.

The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuffbox. “Now, I should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday night — the night of the murder.”

“The murder.” Carmody said it negligently. “Not interested in that, Inspector. What about my daughter?”

The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody’s expressionless lean face. “Your daughter’s search is being conducted by the proper authorities. We haven’t found her yet, but we have new information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my question.”

“Results!” Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. “I know what that word means in the police vocabulary. You’re stumped and you know it. I’ll put my own detective on the case.”

“Will you please answer my question?” grated the Inspector.

“Keep cool,” said Carmody. “Don’t see what my movements on Monday night have to do with the case. I certainly didn’t kidnap my own daughter. But if you must have it, here it is.

“Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central — the 9:14. Changed at Stamford and didn’t get to my destination until nearly midnight. It’s far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don’t know what went wrong. Had no place to stay — no hotel there — and had to return to the city. Couldn’t make a decent connection and didn’t get back to my apartment until four in the morning. That’s all.”

“Not quite, Mr. Carmody.” The Inspector mused. “Did anyone see you when you returned to the city — at your apartment, perhaps?”

“No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast at the apartment dining-room at ten o’clock. The head-waiter will identify me.”

“No doubt,” said the Inspector disagreeably. “Meet anyone on your trip who might remember you?”

“No. Unless the conductor of the train.”

“Well!” Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody with open distaste. “Please make a note of all your movements and mail it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your daughter Bernice is a drug addict?”

Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in his chair.

“How did you find that out?” he muttered in a strangled voice. The muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. “I didn’t think any one knew — except Winifred and me.”

“Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?” queried the Inspector instantly. “Had she known it long?”

“So it’s out,” growled Carmody. “Good God!” He raised a haggard face to Queen. “I’ve known it for about a year. Winifred—” his face hardened — “Winifred didn’t know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all that,” he added bitterly. “Rot! She thought chiefly of herself... So I told her — two weeks ago. She didn’t believe it. We quarreled. But at the end she knew — I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred. I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don’t know any more...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was going to take Bernice away — somewhere — anywhere — cure her... And then Winifred was murdered and Bernice — gone...” His voice died away. Huge welts stood out under his eyes. The man was suffering — how deeply, by what perverse psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.

And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.

34 Alibis: Trask

Trask was a half-hour late for his appointment at the Queen apartment. He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the Inspector’s questions.

Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town — vaguely, with an idle gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.

Where “about town”? Well, really — can’t remember. Some night-club or other at first.

At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.

Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he’d been disappointed by some friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.

What was the name of the night-club? Really, don’t recall it.

What did he mean by “not recalling it”? Well — to tell the truth, he had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite — ha, ha! Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn’t remember anything except dashing cold water on his face at ten o’clock Tuesday morning in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some fresh clothes. Then the directors’ meeting at the French store.

“Beautiful!” muttered the Inspector, eyeing Trask as if he were an obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in the general direction of a tray.

“Trask!” The whip in Queen’s voice brought the tall, dissipated director’s body up with a start. “Are you sure you can’t remember what night-club you were in?”

“I say now,” drawled Trask, sinking back, “you scared me that time, Inspector. I’ve told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don’t recall a thing.”

“Well, that’s just too bad,” grunted the Inspector. “If I’m not disturbing you, Trask — do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual drug-user?”

“Not really!” Trask sat up straight. “Then I was right!”

“Oh, you suspected it?”

“A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the symptoms. I’ve seen plenty of ’em.” He brushed a speck of ash from his gardenia with languid distaste.

The Inspector smiled. “Which didn’t daunt you from going ahead with your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?”

Trask looked virtuous. “Oh, no — really! I’d intended to cure her after we were married. Without her family’s knowledge, and all that. Too bad — too bad,” he sighed. He sighed again.

“What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?” demanded the Inspector impatiently.

“Oh, that!” Trask brightened. “Absolutely of the best, Inspector. You — er — you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future father-in-law. Haw-haw!”

“Get out of here,” said the Inspector distinctly.

35 Alibis: Gray

John Gray folded his gloves neatly, deposited them in his rich black derby, and handed them with a cheerful smile to Djuna. Then he shook hands decorously with the Inspector, nodded to Ellery with just the proper note of heartiness, and obediently seated himself at the Inspector’s request.

“Well!” he chuckled, smoothing his white mustache. “Very charming household, I see. Very! And how is the investigation proceeding, Inspector? Tchk, tchk!” He chattered like a spry old parrot, his twinkling eyes never still.

The Inspector cleared his throat. “A little matter of checkup, Mr. Gray. Routine. I haven’t inconvenienced you by this summons?”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Gray amiably. “I’ve just come from a visit to Cyrus — Cyrus French, I should say — and he’s much better, by the way, much better.”

“That’s nice,” said the Inspector. “Now, Mr. Gray, just to make it legal — can you account for your movements on Monday night?”

Gray looked blank. Then he smiled slowly. Then he burst into an infectious chuckle. “I see, I see! Clever, Inspector, quite clever. You want to be sure of everything. Very interesting! I suppose every one is coming in for a similar quiz?”

“Oh, yes!” said the Inspector reassuringly. “We’ve had a number of your colleagues on the carpet today already.” They both laughed. Gray became politely serious.

“Monday night? Let me see.” He plucked his mustache thoughtfully. “Of course! Monday night I spent the entire evening at my club. The Penny Club, you know. Had dinner there with some of my cronies, played billiards — the usual thing. At about ten o’clock, I believe, or perhaps a little after ten, Zorn — you remember Zorn, of course, one of my fellow-directors — Zorn dropped in for a chat. We discussed the coming merger, the details of which we were to work out in conference the next morning with French and the rest, and about a half-hour later Zorn left, complaining of a headache.”

“Well, that tallies nicely,” said Queen, with a grin. “Because Mr. Zorn was here not long ago and told us about your meeting at the Penny Club.”

“Really?” Gray smiled. “Then I gather there is little left to be said, Inspector.”

“Not quite, Mr. Gray.” The Inspector clucked cheerfully. “You see, just to keep the record straight — how did you spend the rest of the evening?”

“Oh! In a commonplace manner, sir. I left the club at about eleven and walked home — I live not far from there, on Madison Avenue. Simply went home and to bed.”

“You live alone, Mr. Gray?”

Gray grimaced. “Unfortunately, being a misogynist, I have no family, Inspector. An old servant keeps house for me — I live in an apartment hotel, you know.”

“Then your housekeeper was up when you returned from the club, Mr. Gray?”

Gray spread his hands briefly. “No. Hilda had left on Saturday evening to visit a sick brother in Jersey City, and did not get back until Tuesday afternoon.”

“I see.” The Inspector took snuff. “But surely someone saw you get home, Mr. Gray?”

Gray looked startled, then he smiled again one of his twinkling smiles. “Oh, you want me to establish my — alibi, is it, Inspector?”

“That’s what it’s called, sir.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said,” replied Gray happily. “Because Jackson, the night-clerk, saw me when I entered the building. I asked for mail and stood chatting with him for several minutes. Then I took the elevator to my suite.”

The Inspector’s face brightened. “Then really,” he said, “there is nothing more to be said. Except—” his face lengthened momentarily — “what time was it when you stopped talking with this night-clerk and went upstairs?”

“Just eleven-forty. I remember glancing at the clock above Jackson’s desk to compare it with my own watch.”

“And where is your hotel, Mr. Gray?”

“Madison and 37th, Inspector. The Burton.”

“Then I think — Unless, Ellery, you would like to ask Mr. Gray a question or two?”

The aged little director turned quickly, in open surprise. He had forgotten the presence of Ellery, who was sitting quietly in his corner listening to the conversation. Gray looked expectant as Ellery smiled.

“Thank you, dad — I have something to ask Mr. Gray, if we’re not keeping him too long?” He looked questioningly at their visitor.

Gray expostulated. “Not at all, Mr. Queen. Anything I can do to help you—”

“Very well, then.” Ellery hoisted his lean length from the chair and stretched his muscles. “Mr. Gray, I’m going to ask you a peculiar question. I rely upon your discretion to preserve silence, for one thing, and upon your undoubted loyalty to Mr. French and your concern in his bereavement to answer frankly.”

“I’m entirely at your service.”

“Let me present a hypothetical case,” continued Ellery rapidly. “Let us suppose that Bernice Carmody was a drug addict...”

Gray frowned. “A drug addict?”

“Exactly. And let us suppose further that neither her mother nor her stepfather suspected her malady and condition. Then let us suppose that Mrs. French suddenly discovered the truth...”

“I see, I see,” murmured Gray.

“The hypothetical question arising from this hypothetical case is: What do you think Mrs. French would do?” Ellery lit a cigaret.

Gray grew thoughtful. Then he looked into Ellery’s eyes. “The first thing that occurs to me, Mr. Queen,” he said simply, “is that Mrs. French would not confide in Cyrus.”

“That’s interesting. You know them both so well...”

“Yes.” Gray set his small wrinkled jaw. “Cyrus has been a lifelong friend. I know — or knew — Mrs. French perhaps as well as anyone acquainted with the French family. And I am certain, familiar as I am with Cyrus’s character and Mrs. French’s knowledge of his character, that she would not dare to tell him such a thing. She would keep it strictly to herself. She might possibly inform Carmody, her first husband...”

“We needn’t go into that, Mr. Gray,” said Ellery. “But why would she keep it a secret from French?”

“Because,” said Gray frankly, “Cyrus is hypersensitive on the subject of vice, particularly drug addiction. You must remember that most of his latter years have been devoted to wiping out as much of this sort of vice in the city as possible. To find it in his own family would, I firmly believe, unbalance him... But, of course,” he added quickly, “he doesn’t know; I’m positive Mrs. French would keep a thing like that to herself. She might try to cure the girl secretly, perhaps...”

Ellery said clearly: “One of the major reasons for Mrs. French’s silence in a case like this would be, I suppose, that she was aiming to secure for her daughter a generous slice of her husband’s fortune?”

Gray started uncomfortably. “Well... I don’t... Yes, if you must have the truth, I think that is so. Mrs. French was a calculating — not necessarily unscrupulous, mind you — but a calculating and very practical woman. I believe that, motherlike, she was determined that Bernice come in for a good share of Cyrus’s estate when Cyrus should pass on... Is there anything else, Mr. Queen?”

“That is,” said Ellery, smiling, “quite sufficient. Thank you immeasurably, Mr. Gray.”

“Then,” said the Inspector, “that will be all.”

Gray looked relieved, accepted his coat, hat and gloves from Djuna, murmured polite adieux, and left.

The Inspector and Ellery heard his light quick step on the staircase as he descended to the street.

36 “The Time Has Come...”

The Queens had dinner in silence. Djuna served in silence, and in silence cleared the table afterward. The Inspector dipped into the browned interior of his snuff-box and Ellery held communion with first a cigaret, then a pipe, then a cigaret again. In all this time no word was spoken. It was a silence of sympathy, not infrequent in the Queen household.

Finally Ellery sighed and stared into the fireplace. But it was the Inspector who spoke first.

“As far as I am concerned,” he said with a grim disappointment, “this day has been entirely wasted.”

Ellery raised his eyebrows. “Dad, dad, you grow more irascible with every passing day... If I didn’t know how upset and overworked you’ve been of late, I’d be annoyed with you.”

“At my obtuseness?” demanded the Inspector, twinkling.

“No, at the lapse of your usual mental vigor.” Ellery twisted his head and grinned at his father. “Do you mean to say that today’s incidents have meant nothing to you?”

“The raid flat, Springer skipped, nothing tangible from the alibis of these people — I can’t see any cause for celebration,” retorted the Inspector.

“Well, well!” Ellery frowned. Perhaps I’m oversanguine... But the whole thing is so clear!”

He sprang to his feet and began to rummage in his desk. He produced his voluminous sheets of notes and thumbed rapidly through them under the Inspector’s wearied and bewildered eyes. Then he slapped them back into their receptacle.

“It’s all over,” he announced, “all over but the shouting and — the proof. I have all the threads — or rather, all the threads which lead inexorably to the murderer of Mrs. French. They don’t make solid proof, such as is demanded by our venerable courts of law and our prosecuting system. What would you do in a case like that, dad?”

The Inspector wrinkled his nose in self-disgust. “I take it that what’s been a hopeless maze to me has been a clear thoroughfare to you. That rankles, son! I have raised up a Frankenstein to haunt my old age...” Then he chuckled and laid a slightly infirm hand on Ellery’s knee.

“Good lad,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Shucks.” Ellery blushed. “You’ve gone sentimental, too, dad...” Their fingers met covertly. “Now, look here, Inspector! You’ve got to help me to a decision!”

“Yes, yes...” Queen dropped back, embarrassed. “You’ve got a case, an explanation and no proof. What to do... Bluff, my son. Bluff as if you’d raised the pot before the draw on a pair of fours and then found real opposition staring at you. Raise again!”

Ellery looked thoughtful. “I’ve been tottering on the edge... Christmas!” His eyes brightened with a sudden thought. “How stupid I’ve been!” he cried at once. “I’ve a beautiful card up my sleeve and I’ve forgotten all about it! Bluff? We’ll just about sweep our slippery friend off our slippery friend’s feet!”

He yanked the telephone toward him, hesitated, then turned it over to the Inspector, who was regarding him with gloomy fondness.

“Here’s a list,” he said, scribbling on a piece of paper, “of some people of importance. Will you blow the conch, dad, while I begin a memorization of these pesky notes?”

“The time is—” asked the Inspector submissively.

“To-morrow morning at nine-thirty,” replied Ellery. “And you might call the D.A. and tell him to close in on our friend Springer.”

“Springer!” cried the Inspector.

“Springer,” replied Ellery. And thereafter there was silence, broken periodically by the voice of the Inspector on the telephone.