French Powder Mystery (30 page)

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.

T
HEY 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 watchcase 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!”

M
UTTERING 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.”