French Powder Mystery (27 page)

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.”

T
HE 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.

W
EAVER 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.”