French Powder Mystery (15 page)

“Pretty thoroughly smoked out, all of them,” he commented. He sniffed at the cigaret between his fingers, looked at Weaver inquiringly.

“Yes, scented. Violet, I think,” Weaver said promptly. “The manufacturer provides the scent according to the specifications of his customers. I remember hearing Bernice place an order not long ago when I was over at the French’s—placed it over the telephone.”

“And
La Duchesse
is rare enough to have weight in an inquiry. … Good fortune, was it?” He talked to himself rather than to his friend.

“What do you mean?”

“No matter. … And, of course, Mrs. French did not smoke?”

“Why—how did you know?” demanded Weaver in surprise.

“How nicely things fit together,” murmured Ellery. “So very, very nicely. And Marion—does she smoke?”

“Thank God—no!”

Ellery regarded him quizzically. “Well!” he said all at once. “Let’s see what’s behind this door.”

He crossed the room to the wall opposite the window. A small plain door opened into a little, simply furnished bedroom. Beyond it was a tiny bathroom.

“A servant’s room,” explained Weaver. “Originally planned for a valet, but it’s never been used to my knowledge. The Old Man isn’t fussy and he’d rather have his man at the Fifth Avenue house.”

Ellery made a swift examination of the two little rooms. He emerged in a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

“Nothing there, and there wouldn’t be. …” He paused, twirling his pince-nez in the air. “We have a rather remarkable situation here, Wes. Consider: We are now in possession of three direct indications of Miss Bernice Carmody’s presence in this apartment last night. Or rather two direct indications, and one—the first—of a circumstantial nature. That is—the lipstick marked
C
from Mrs. French’s handbag. This is the least damaging of the three, of course, since it does not
prove
presence and might have been brought here by Mrs. French. But it must be kept in mind. Second, the game of banque, which any number of reputable witnesses, I gather, would testify, as strongly as you, was indulged in by Mrs. French and Bernice practically to the exclusion of the rest of the family and friends of the family. You noticed, didn’t you, that the game has the appearance of having been interrupted at a critical stage? The way the cards are lying there—they give the distinct impression that just when the game became hotly competitive, it was stopped. … And third, the most critical indication of the three—the
La Duchesse
cigarets. These are so obviously Bernice’s that they would be acceptable in court as admissible evidence, I’m sure, if supported by strong circumstantial evidence of a confirmatory nature.”

“But what? I don’t see—” cried Weaver.

“The suspicious fact that Miss Bernice Carmody has vanished,” replied Ellery gravely. “Flight?” He flung the word at Weaver.

“I can’t—I won’t believe it,” said Weaver weakly, but there was a curious relief in his voice.

“Matricide is an unnatural crime, to be sure,” Ellery mused, “but it is not unknown. … It is possible—” His reflections were disturbed by a rapid knock at the apartment door. It was surprisingly loud, coming as it did through the three walls of the cardroom, the library, the anteroom.

Weaver looked startled. Ellery straightened with a jerk, swiftly looked around once more, then motioned to Weaver to precede him from the room. He closed the brass-studded door with gentle fingers.

“That must be your good hussif, Hortense Underhill, and the maid,” said Ellery almost gayly. “I wonder if they can be the harbingers of—more evidence against Bernice!”

Again the Bedroom

W
EAVER FLUNG OPEN THE
outer door to admit two women. Sergeant Thomas Velie loomed solidly behind them.

“Did you send for these ladies, Mr. Queen?” demanded Velie, his broad frame filling the door. “One of the boys downstairs caught ’em trying to get past the man guarding the elevator—said you sent for them. Is it all right?”

His eyes roved dourly about the apartment—as much of it as he could see from his position at the corridor door. Ellery smiled.

“It’s all right, Velie,” he drawled. “They’ll be safe with me. … And how is the dear Commissioner progressing with the Inspector?”

“Got his hooks into the scarf,” growled Velie, and shot a keen look at Weaver’s instantly clenched fists.

“Follow up the lead I gave you over the telephone?” asked Ellery serenely.

“Yes. She’s among the missing. Got two men on it already.” The Sergeant’s stern face cracked in a fleeting smile. “How much longer will you need the Inspector’s—cooperation downstairs, Mr. Queen?”

“I’ll buzz you, Velie. Fly away now, like a good little chap.” Velie grinned, but his face was frozen into its customary immobility as he wheeled and made for the elevator.

Ellery turned to the two women, who were standing close together eyeing him apprehensively. He addressed the taller and elder of the two—a stiff, slab-figured woman in her early fifties, marble-haired and viciously blue-eyed.

“You’re Miss Hortense Underhill, I take it?” he asked severely.

“That’s right—Mr. French’s housekeeper.” Her voice was not unlike her person—thin, sharp, steely.

“And this is Miss Bernice Carmody’s maid?”

The other woman, a timid little creature with faded brown hair and a plain face, started convulsively at being directly addressed and crouched closer to Hortense Underhill.

“Yes,” answered the French housekeeper. “This is Miss Doris Keaton, Bernice’s maid.”

“Very good.” Ellery smiled, stood aside with a deferential little bow. “If you’ll follow me, please?—” He led the way through the red-leather door leading into the large bedroom. Weaver marched obediently behind.

Ellery indicated the two bedroom chairs. “Sit down please.” The two women sat down. Doris Keaton kept her big vapid eyes on Ellery, surreptitiously hitching her chair closer to the housekeeper’s.

“Miss Underhill,” began Ellery, pince-nez in hand, “have you ever been in this room before?”

“I have.” The housekeeper seemed determined to out-stare Ellery. Her cold blue eyes flashed colder fire.

“Oh, you have?” Ellery paused politely without removing his gaze. “When, may I ask, and on what occasion?”

The housekeeper was undaunted by his coolness. “A peck of times. That is, so to speak. I never came, though, except at Mrs. French’s request. Each time it was clothes.”

“It was clothes?” Ellery seemed puzzled.

She nodded stonily. “Why, of course. They were far apart, those times, but whenever Mrs. French intended to stay here overnight, she would ask me to bring a next day’s change for her. So that is how—”

“Just a moment, Miss Underhill.” There was a pleasant glitter in Ellery’s eyes as he reflected. “This was her usual custom?”

“So far as I know.”

“When”—Ellery leaned forward—“when was the last time Mrs. French asked you to do this?”

The housekeeper did not reply at once. “I should say about two months ago,” she answered finally.

“As far back as that?”

“I said two months ago.”

Ellery sighed, straightened. “One of these closets, then, belonged to Mrs. French?” he asked, indicating the two modern doors set in the wall.

“Yes—that one there,” she replied promptly, pointing to the concealed door nearest the lavatory. “But not only for Mrs. French’s clothes—the other girls sometimes kept things in there, too.”

Ellery’s eyebrows shot up. “Not really, Miss Underhill!” he ejaculated. His hand caressed his jaw tenderly. “I may infer, then, that both Miss Marion and Miss Bernice sometimes used Mr. French’s apartment?”

The housekeeper regarded him levelly. “Sometimes. Not very often. Only when Mrs. French was not using it, and they brought a girl friend along to spend the night—on a sort of lark, you might call it.”

“I see. Have they slept here with a—a ‘girl friend,’ I believe you said?—recently?”

“Not that I know. Not for five or six months at least.”

“Very good!” Ellery flipped his pince-nez into the air with a certain briskness. “Now, Miss Underhill, I want you to tell me quite exactly when you saw Miss Carmody last, and under what circumstances.”

The two women exchanged meaning glances; the maid bit her lip and looked guiltily away. But the housekeeper retained her poise. “I
knew
that was coming,” she announced in a calm voice. “But you needn’t think either of my poor lambs had anything to do with this, whoever you are. They didn’t and you can take that for gospel.
I
don’t know where Bernice is, but be sure there’s foul play been done her. …”

“Miss Underhill,” said Ellery gently, “I’m sure this is all quite interesting, but we are in something of a hurry. If you’ll answer my questions—?”

“All right, if you must have it.” She set her lips, folded her hands in her lap, looked at Weaver indifferently, and began. “It was yesterday.—I’d better begin right with when they woke up; it’ll make easier telling.—Well, both Mrs. French and Bernice woke up at about ten o’clock yesterday morning, and the hair-dresser attended each in their rooms. They got dressed and had a bit of something. Marion had already had lunch. I served them myself. …”

“Pardon me, Miss Underhill,” interrupted Ellery, “but did you hear what they talked about over the luncheon table?”

“I don’t listen to what isn’t my affair,” retorted the housekeeper tartly, “so all I can tell about
that
is that they talked about a new gown being made for Bernice. And Mrs. French seemed a little absent-minded, too. She actually got her sleeve into her coffee—the poor thing! But then she was always a little funny—maybe she had premonition of what was to come, you know?—God rest her troubled soul! … Well, after lunch they remained in the music-room until about two o’clock, talking and things. Don’t know about what, either! But they seemed as if they wanted to be let alone. Anyway, when they came out I heard Mrs. French tell Bernice to go upstairs and dress—they were going to take a ride through the Park. Bernice went upstairs, and Mrs. French held back to tell
me
to tell
Edward Young,
the chauffeur, to get the car out. Then Mrs. French went upstairs herself to dress. But in about five minutes I saw Bernice coming down the stairs, all dressed for the street, and when she saw me she told
me
to tell her
mother
—whispered, she did—that she’d changed her mind about taking a ride in the Park and was going out to do some shopping. And she fair ran out of the house!”

Ellery seemed poignantly concerned. “Clearly if somewhat volubly told, Miss Underhill. And what would you say was the state of Miss Carmody’s nerves all day?

“Poor,” replied the housekeeper. “But then Bernice has always been a high-spirited and sensitive girl. Yesterday she seemed a little more nervous than usual, though, now that I come to think of it. She was all pale and fidgety when she slipped out of the house. …”

Weaver moved sharply. Ellery cautioned him with a glance and motioned the housekeeper to continue.

“Well, not long after, Mrs. French came down dressed for her drive. She asked for Bernice, and I told her about Bernice’s going off that way, and I gave her Bernice’s message. I thought for a minute that she was going to faint—poor thing!—she got so pale and sick-looking, which wasn’t like her at all, and then she took hold of herself and she said: ‘All right, Hortense. Tell Young to put the car back in the garage. I shan’t be going out, either …’ and she marched right back upstairs again. Oh, yes! She did tell me, though, before she went up, to let her know the
instant
Bernice got back home. … Well, sir, that’s the last
I
saw of Bernice, and practically the last of Mrs. French. For the poor soul stayed in her room all afternoon, came down for dinner with Marion, and then went back up to her room again. She seemed more anxious than ever about Bernice, and twice she made as if to go to the telephone, but she seemed to change her mind. Anyway, about a quarter after eleven at night she came down with her hat and coat on—yes, sir, I know you’ll ask me: the brown toque and the fox-trimmed cloth coat—and she said she was going out. And go out she did. And that’s the last I saw of poor Mrs. French.”

“She didn’t order the car?”

“No.”

Ellery took a turn about the room. “And where was Miss Marion French all day?” he asked suddenly. Weaver glanced at Ellery in shocked surprise.

“Oh! Miss Marion was up bright and early—always is an early riser, the dear child—and she left the house right after luncheon, saying she had a shopping appointment with one of her friends. I think she also went to the Carnegie Hall for the afternoon, because only the day before she showed me the tickets for a piano-playing thing by some foreigner. She does love music so, that child! She didn’t get back home until about half-past five. She and Mrs. French had dinner together, and she was surprised that Bernice was absent. Anyway, right after dinner she dressed over and went out again.”

“At what hour did Miss Marion French return?”

“That I can’t say. I went to bed myself at eleven-thirty, after releasing the house staff for the night. Didn’t see anybody come in. Mrs. French had told me not to wait up, besides.”

“Not a particularly well-regulated household,” murmured Ellery. “Miss Underhill, please tell me how Miss Carmody was attired when she left the house—it was about two-thirty, I presume?”

Hortense Underhill shifted restlessly in her chair. The maid still regarded Ellery with stupid, frightened eyes.

“Just about,” said the housekeeper. “Well, Bernice was wearing—let me see now—her blue felt hat with the brilliant fancy, her grey chiffon dress, her grey fur-trimmed coat, and a pair of black leather pumps with rhinestone buckles. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Precisely,” said Ellery with a charming smile. He took Weaver to one side. “Wes, do you know why I’ve called these two worthy ladies into consultation?” he demanded in an undertone.

Weaver shook his head. “Except for the fact that you wanted to know about Bernice. … Oh, I say, Ellery, it wasn’t that you’re looking for further indications of Bernice’s presence here, is it?” he asked aghast.