French Powder Mystery (18 page)

He laid down the glass and the tweezers, and sealed the envelope instantly.

“I think I’ve bagged them all,” he said with satisfaction. “And the ones I’ve missed Jimmy will get. … Come!”

It was Detective Piggott. He closed the outer door softly and entered the library with ill-concealed curiosity.

“Sergeant said you wanted me, Mr. Queen,” and his eyes were on Weaver.

“Righto. Just a sec, Piggott, and I’ll tell you what to do.” Ellery scribbled an inky note on the reverse side of the envelope. It read:

“DEAR JIMMY:
Analyze powder-grains in envelope. Extract any additional particles in glue-line of book-end marked
A,
also analyze. Check on book-end marked
B
for similar grains. After analyzing the grains,
and not until then,
check both book-ends for fingerprints other than my own. Could bring out a print myself, but if you find any, have it ‘shot’ in the lab and a photoprint immediately made. ’Phone all information to me,
personally,
as soon as you’ve done. I’m at French apartment in French store. Piggott will tell you.

E. Q.”

Marking the book-ends
A
and
B
with his red crayon, he swathed both in absorbent cotton, wrapped them in some paper Weaver found for him in the desk, and handed package and envelope to the detective.

“Take these down to Jimmy at the headquarters laboratory as fast as you can get there, Piggott,” he said insistently. “Don’t let anything stop you. If Velie or my father corners you on the way out, say it’s on business for me. On no account let the Commissioner get wind of what you’re carrying off the premises. Now scoot!”

Piggott left without a word. He was too well trained in the methods of the Queens to ask questions.

And as he slipped out of the door, he saw the shadow of a rising elevator through the frosted glass wall. He turned and sped down the emergency stairs just as the door slid open and Commissioner Welles, Inspector Queen and a small cohort of detectives and policemen stepped out.

W
ITHIN FIVE MINUTES THE
private corridor outside French’s sixth floor apartment was crowded with a score of people. Two policemen stood guard at the door. Another stood with his back to the elevator, his eyes on the emergency staircase-door nearby. In the anteroom lounged several detectives smoking cigarets.

Ellery sat smiling behind French’s desk in the library. Commissioner Welles puffed about the room, shouting orders to detectives, opening the doors leading off the library, peering like a myopic owl at things strange to him. Inspector Queen talked with Velie and Crouther near the dormer-window. Weaver stood miserably in a corner, unnoticed. His eyes frequently sought the anteroom door, beyond which he knew was Marion French. …

“You say, Mr. Queen,” grunted Welles, out of breath, “that the cigaret stubs and the game of—blast it! what is it again?—banque are the only signs of this Carmody girl’s presence here?”

“Not at all, Commissioner,” said Ellery gravely. “You forget the shoes and hat in the closet. I believe I recounted the housekeeper’s identification—?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” grumbled Welles. He frowned. “Here, you fingerprint men!” he shouted, “have you covered that little room off the cardroom?” Without waiting for a reply, he bellowed an unintelligible order to several photographers who were busy over the table holding the cards and cigaret stubs. Finally, mopping his brow, he beckoned imperiously to Inspector Queen.

“What do you think, Queen?” he demanded. “Looks like a pretty clear case, eh?”

The Inspector sent a sidewise glance at his son, and smiled cryptically. “Hardly, Commissioner. We’ve got to find the girl first, you know. … Work’s barely scratched. We haven’t had the time to check a single alibi, for example. Despite these clues pointing to Bernice Carmody, we’re not at all satisfied that there isn’t something deeper. …” He shook his head. “At any rate, Commissioner, there’s a heap of work waiting for us. Anybody you’d like to question? We have ’em all outside in the corridor waiting.”

The Commissioner looked fierce. “No! Can’t say I do at this stage. …” He cleared his throat. “What’s next on your list? I’ve got to get down to City Hall for a conference with the Mayor and I can’t give this thing the personal attention it deserves. Well?”

“I want to clear up a few moot points,” replied Queen dryly. “Several people out there will stand questioning. French himself—”

“French. Yes, yes. Too bad. Feel sorry for the man. Quite a blow.” Welles looked around nervously and lowered his voice. “By the way Queen, while there is not to be the slightest deviation from the highest considerations of duty, you understand, it might be—ah—wise to allow French to get home to his physician’s care. … As for this stepdaughter business, I hope”—he paused uncomfortably—“I might say I have the feeling that this girl has made a complete getaway. You’re to follow her up conscientiously, of course. … Too bad. I—Well! I must be going.”

He turned unceremoniously on his heel, and with something like a sigh of relief tramped toward the door, followed by his bodyguard of detectives. He turned in the anteroom and shouted back, “I want a quick solution, Queen—too many unsolved homicides this past month.” And he disappeared with a final quiver of his fat sides.

There was silence for several seconds after the anteroom door closed. Then the Inspector shrugged his shoulders lightly and crossed the room to Ellery’s side. Ellery dragged a chair over for his father and they held a whispered conversation for many minutes. The word “razor-blade,” … “book-ends,” … “books” … and “Bernice” … recurred at intervals. The old man’s face grew longer and longer as Ellery talked. Finally, he shook his head in despair and rose.

An altercation beyond the anteroom door brought up the heads of all the men in the library. A woman’s passionate voice and the gruff tones of a man intermingled. Weaver’s nostrils quivered and he dashed across the room and flung open the door.

Marion French was endeavoring frantically to push past the burly figure of a detective in the anteroom.

“But I must see Inspector Queen!” she cried. “My father—Please don’t touch me!”

Weaver grasped the detective’s arm and violently pushed him aside.

“Get your hands off her!” he growled. “I’ll teach you to handle a lady that way. …”

He would have attacked the amused detective if Marion had not thrown her arms around him. By this time the Inspector and Ellery had hurried up.

“Here! Ritter, stand aside!” said the Inspector. “What’s the trouble, Miss French?” he asked gently.

“My—my father,” she gasped. “Oh, it’s cruel, inhuman. … Can’t you see he’s ill, out of his mind? For God’s sake, let us take him home! He’s just fainted!”

They pushed into the hallway. A crowd of people were stooping over Cyrus French, who had collapsed and lay, white-faced, still, on the marble floor. The store physician, small and dark, bent over him in distress.

“Out?” asked the Inspector with some concern.

The physician nodded. “Should be in his bed right now, sir. In a dangerous state of collapse.”

Ellery whispered to his father. The old man clucked worriedly, shook his head. “Can’t take a chance, Ellery. The man is ill.” He signed to two detectives and Cyrus French, arms hanging limply, was carried into the apartment and laid on one of the beds. He regained consciousness a moment later, groaning.

John Gray wriggled his way past a policeman and stormed into the bedroom.

“You can’t get away with this sort of thing, Inspector or no Inspector!” he cried in his high-pitched voice. “I demand that Mr. French be sent home immediately”

“Keep your shirt on, Mr. Gray,” admonished the Inspector mildly. “He’s going in a moment.”

“And I’m going with him,” squeaked Gray. “He’ll want me, he will. I’ll take this up with the Mayor, sir. I’ll—”

“Shut
up,
sir!” roared Queen, his face scarlet. He whirled on Detective Ritter. “Get a cab.”

“Miss French.” Marion looked up, startled. The Inspector irritably took a pinch of snuff. “You may leave with your father and Mr. Gray. But please remain at home until we call this afternoon. We will want to look over the premises and perhaps question Mr. French, if he’s in a condition to see us. And—I’m sorry, my dear.”

The girl smiled through wet lashes. Weaver moved stealthily to her side, drew her a little apart.

“Marion dear—I’m awfully sorry I didn’t lam that brute for you,” he stammered. “Did he hurt you?”

Marion’s eyes widened, softened. “Don’t be silly, darling,” she whispered. “And don’t be getting mixed up with the police, I’ll help Mr. Gray get father home, and stay there just as Inspector Queen ordered me to. … You won’t be—in any trouble, dear?”

“Who? I?” Weaver laughed. “Now don’t be worrying your pretty head about me.—And as for the store, I’ll keep an eye on everything. Tell your father that when he can understand. … Do you love me?”

There was no one looking. He bent swiftly and kissed her. Her eyes glowed in answer.

Five minutes later Cyrus French, Marion French and John Gray had left the building under a police escort.

Velie lumbered over. “Got two of the boys on the trail of this Carmody girl,” he reported. “Didn’t want to tell you before with the Commissioner around—busy and all that.”

Queen frowned, then chuckled. “All my boys are turning traitor to the City,” he said. “Thomas, I want you to send somebody out on the trail of Mrs. French after she left her house last night. She walked out about eleven-fifteen. Probably took a cab, because she got here at eleven-forty-five, which would make it about right in the after-theater traffic. Got it?”

Velie nodded and disappeared.

Ellery sat at the desk again, whistling softly to himself, a faraway look in his eyes.

The Inspector had MacKenzie, the store manager, brought to the library.

“Have you checked the employees, Mr. MacKenzie?”

“A report came through from my assistant a few moments ago.” Ellery listened avidly. “So far as we have been able to determine,” continued the Scotchman, referring to a paper in his hand, “all employees who checked in both yesterday and today were at their posts. As for today, everything seems perfectly regular in that connection. There is, of course, a list of absentees, which I have here. If you would like to follow up on these employees, here’s the list.”

“We’ll have a peep at it,” said the Inspector, taking the list from MacKenzie. He turned it over to a detective with a command. “Now, MacKenzie, you may start the ball rolling again. Store’s routine is to go on as usual, but be careful that you say nothing at all of this whole business in your publicity. Have that window on Fifth Avenue kept closed and guarded until further orders. We’ll have to seal it up anyway for a time. That’s all. You’re free to go.”

“I’d like to ask the remaining directors a question, dad, if you haven’t anything to quiz them about,” said Ellery, after MacKenzie had left.

“I haven’t a thought in my head about them—that I could turn to account,” answered Queen. “Hesse, bring in Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask. Let’s have another try at ’em.”

The detective returned shortly with the three directors. They looked peaked and ragged; Marchbanks was chewing savagely at a frayed cigar. The Inspector waved his hand at Ellery and retreated a step.

Ellery rose. “Just one question, gentlemen, and then I think Inspector Queen will permit you to go about your business.”

“High time,” muttered Trask, biting his lip.

“Mr. Zorn,” said Ellery, ignoring the attenuated and foppish Trask, “is there a regular meeting-time for your Board of Directors?”

Zorn juggled his heavy gold watch-chain nervously. “Yes—yes, of course.”

“If I’m not too inquisitive, when is that meeting-time?”

“Every other Friday afternoon.”

“This is routine, strictly adhered to?”

“Yes—yes.”

“How is it that there was a meeting this morning—on a Tuesday?”

“That was a special meeting. Mr. French calls them as the occasion demands.”

“But the semi-monthly meetings are held regardless of special meetings?”

“Yes.”

“I take it, then, that there was a meeting on Friday last?”

“Yes.”

Ellery turned to Marchbanks and Trask. “Is Mr. Zorn’s testimony substantially correct, gentlemen?”

Both nodded their heads sullenly. Ellery smiled, thanked them, and sat down. The Inspector smiled, thanked them, and told them politely that they were free to leave. He escorted them to the door and whispered to the policeman on guard an inaudible instruction. Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask left the private corridor immediately.

“There’s an interesting feller outside, El,” remarked the Inspector. “Vincent Carmody, Mrs. French’s first husband. Think I’ll tackle him next.—Hesse, bring in Mr. Carmody in about two minutes.”

“Did you check up at all on the night freight-entrance on 39th Street while you were downstairs?” asked Ellery.

“Sure did.” The Inspector took a pinch of snuff reflectively. “That’s a funny place, El. With the watchman and the truckman in the little booth, it would have been pie for somebody to slip into the building, especially at night. Went over it with particular thoroughness. It certainly looks like the answer to how the murderer gained entry last night.”