French Powder Mystery (14 page)

Weaver replied with unexpected promptitude. “Now that you’ve found this heroin, if that’s what it is, it seems to me that I recall something queer in the conduct and actions of Bernice, especially of late. That’s her lipstick isn’t it?—Ellery, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Bernice is addicted to the stuff. She’s been jumpy, nervous, peaked-looking—alternated fits of gloom with spasms of hilarity. …”

“You’re describing the symptoms, all right,” said Ellery. “Bernice, eh? The lady becomes more and more interesting with every passing moment. How about Mrs. French—French himself—Marion?”

“No—not Marion!” almost shouted Weaver. Then he grinned in shame. “Sorry. No, Ellery, you forget that the Old Man is head of the Anti-Vice League—good Lord!”

“Quite a situation, eh?” smiled Ellery. “And Mrs. French was normal in that respect, you think?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Anybody in the family besides yourself suspect that Bernice is a dope fiend?”

“I don’t think so. No, I’m pretty sure no one did. Certainly not the Old Man. Marion has commented at times about Bernice’s conduct and queer actions, but I’m positive she doesn’t suspect—this. As for Mrs. French—well, it’s hard to tell just what she thought. Always was tight-mouthed when it came to her darling Bernice. Though if she did suspect her, she did nothing about it. I’m inclined to believe she was ignorant of the whole business.”

“And yet—” Ellery’s eyes gleamed, “it’s passing strange, Westley, that the evidence should be found on Mrs. French’s body—in her handbag, in fact … now, isn’t it?”

Weaver shrugged his shoulders wearily. “My head’s in a perfect whirl.”

“Westley, old boy,” pursued Ellery, fingering his pince-nez, “what do you think Mr. French would say if he knew there was drug-addiction in his own family?”

Weaver shuddered. “You don’t know what a temper the Old Man has when he’s aroused. And I think that that would arouse him—” He stopped short, looked at Ellery suspiciously. Ellery smiled.

“Time grows apace,” he said with heartiness, but there was a disturbed light in his eye. “On to the lavatory!”

The Lavatory

“I
HARDLY KNOW WHAT
we may expect to find here,” said Ellery dubiously, as they stood in the glittering bathroom, “As a matter of fact, the lavatory is the last place to look. … Everything all right, Westley? Anything strike you as being out of place?”

Weaver answered rapidly enough, “No,” but a tinge of uncertainty shaded his voice. Ellery glanced at him sharply, then around at the room.

It was long and narrow. The tub was sunken. The washbowl was slender and modern-looking. Above it hung a cunningly disguised chest. Ellery pulled open its concealed door. It held on its three glass shelves some bottles of house medicines, hair tonic, ointment, a tube of toothpaste and one of shaving cream, a safety-razor in an odd-looking wooden case, two combs, and several other articles.

Ellery slammed the door shut in a little flurry of disgust. “Come on, Wes,” he growled. “I’m doddering. There’s nothing here.” Nevertheless, he stopped to open a door on the side. It was a closet for lavatory linens. He poked his hand into a hamper and pulled out several soiled towels. These he examined carelessly and threw back, looking at Westley. …

“Well, spill it, son!” he said, pleasantly enough. “There is something on your mind. What’s rotten in Denmark?”

“It’s queer,” said Weaver thoughtfully, pulling at his lip. “I thought it queer at the time, and now that things have happened, well—I’m thinking it’s even queerer. … Ellery, there’s something missing!”

“Missing?” Ellery’s hand shot out and closed about Weaver’s arm in a mighty grip. “My God, and you’ve kept mum! What is it that’s missing, man?”

“You’ll think I’m an idiot …” said Weaver hesitantly.

“Westley!”

“Sorry.” Weaver cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a razor blade missing, if you must know!” He scanned Ellery’s face for a sign of levity.

But Ellery did not laugh. “A razor blade? Tell me about it,” he urged, leaning against the closet door. He eyed the cabinet above the washbowl speculatively.

“I got here this morning a bit earlier than usual,” began Weaver, with a worried frown. “Had to prepare for the Old Man’s arrival, and there were a number of papers to straighten out for the directors’ meeting. Usually, you know, the Old Man doesn’t get here until ten o’clock; it’s only on special occasions—like this one of the conference—that he comes earlier. … So I left the house in something of a hurry, intending to shave up here. I do that quite often, by the way—which is one of the reasons I keep a razor in the apartment. … When I got here—it was about eight-thirty—I dashed for my razor. And there wasn’t any blade.”

“That seems not so extraordinary,” said Ellery with a smile. “You simply didn’t have any in the cabinet.”

“Oh, but I did!” protested Weaver. “The reason I felt something was funny was that last evening, before I left the store, I had shaved up here. I left the blade in the razor.”

“Didn’t you have any others?”

“No. I’d run out of them and intended to get some more. But I forgot to bring some in with me this morning. Consequently, when I wanted to scrape some of the old beard off there wasn’t anything to do it with. Blade had vanished! Sounds silly, doesn’t it? And I particularly left that blade in the razor yesterday because I’ve forgotten to restock before, and I found that you can always squeeze another shave out of the old blade.”

“You mean that it had gone, absolutely? You’re sure you left it in the razor?”

“Positive. I cleaned it and slipped it back.”

“You didn’t break it, or anything like that?”

“I tell you no, Ellery,” Weaver replied patiently. “That blade was there.”

Ellery’s lips curved upward humorously. “A pretty problem at that,” he said. “Is that why your face is fuzzed?”

“Right enough. I haven’t had a chance all day to go out for a shave.”

“Seems peculiar,” said Ellery thoughtfully. “I mean that you should have had only one blade left in the cabinet. Where are French’s blades?”

“He doesn’t shave himself,” replied Weaver a trifle stiffly. “He never has. Patronizes the same barber every morning.”

Ellery did not comment further. He opened the cabinet and took down the wooden razor-case. He examined the plain silver razor inside, but could see nothing of interest.

“You handled the razor this morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you take it out of the case?”

“Oh, no! I didn’t at all. When I saw the blade was missing, I didn’t even bother.”

“That’s
very
interesting.” Ellery lifted the razor handle to the level of his eyes, holding it by the tip, careful not to touch the silver surface with his fingers. He breathed on the metal. It clouded over for an instant.

“Not the sign of a print,” he commented. “Wiped away, undoubtedly.” He smiled suddenly. “We begin to find signs of a presence, an apparition, a wraith here last night, old boy. Careful, wasn’t he, she, or weren’t they?”

Weaver laughed aloud. “Then you think my stolen blade has something to do with this mess?”

“To think,” said Ellery solemnly, “is to know. … Keep this in mind, Westley. I believe I heard you say downstairs that you left here last night a bit before seven. The blade, then, was taken from this apartment between about seven o’clock last night and eight-thirty this morning.”

“Astounding!” murmured Weaver derisively. “So that’s the sort of hocus-pocus one must cultivate in order to be a detective?”

“Laugh, varlet!” said Ellery sternly. … He stood in a queer attitude of reflection. “I think we’ll be going into the next chamber,” he said in an altogether different voice. “I begin to see a tiny light. It’s far off but—gossamer glimmer, nevertheless!
Allons, enfant!”

The Cardroom

H
E STRODE PURPOSEFULLY FROM
the lavatory, marched through the bedroom, entered the library once more. Weaver followed, his face betraying an objective interest startlingly in variance with his nervousness of the past hour. He seemed to have forgotten something.

“What’s past that door?” demanded Ellery abruptly, pointing to the second red-leather, brass-studded door on the opposite of the room.

“That’s the cardroom,” replied Weaver interestedly. “Think there’s something to look for, El? By George, you’re getting me positively excited!” Then he stopped, his face lengthened, and he stood soberly surveying his friend.

“Cardroom, eh?” Ellery’s eyes were bright. “Tell me, Wes—you were the first in the apartment this morning and you’re in the best position to know—did any one who was in the library today go into any of the other rooms?”

Weaver pondered for a moment. “Except that the Old Man went into the bedroom when he got in this morning, and put his coat and hat away, nobody left the library.”

“Didn’t French visit the bathroom to wash up?”

“No. He was in a confounded hurry to dictate some store business and get ready for the conference.”

“You were with him when he visited the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re positive that none of the others—Zorn, Trask, Gray, Marchbanks—left
this room
all morning?” He took a short turn about the room. “By the way, you were here every minute of the time, I suppose?”

Weaver smiled. “I seem to be in an affirmative mood this afternoon.—Yes to both questions.”

Ellery rubbed his hands together in a little spasm of glee. “The apartment, then, with the one exception of the library, is in exactly the same condition as when you arrived at eight-thirty. Excellent, most excellent, my omniscient and exceedingly helpful Westley!”

He walked briskly toward the cardroom door and pushed it open, Weaver at his heels. And Weaver cried out in sheer astonishment from behind Ellery’s broad shoulders. …

The cardroom was smaller than both the library and the bedroom. It was paneled in walnut. Cheerful drapes hung over the single large window overlooking Fifth Avenue. A thick rug covered the floor.

But Ellery, following the line of Weaver’s gaze, saw that he was staring in horror at a hexagonal, baize-covered card-table in the center of the room. A small bronze ashtray and some playing-cards, peculiarly arranged, were on the table. Two heavy folding-chairs were pushed away from the table.

“What’s the trouble, Wes?” asked Ellery sharply.

“Why, that—that table wasn’t there last night!” stammered Weaver. “I was in here looking for my pipe just before I left, and I’m sure. …”

“Not really!” murmured Ellery. “You mean the table was folded up, put away, out of sight?”

“Of course! The room was cleaned up yesterday morning by the charwoman. And those cigarets in the ashtray … Ellery, some one was in here after I left last night!”

“Obviously. And in the bathroom, too, if we’re to believe the story of the missing razor blade. The important thing is—why was some one in here? Just a moment.” He went swiftly to the table and looked down curiously at the cards.

On both sides of the table were two small piles of cards—one stack with the faces up, the other closed. In the center of the baize were two rows of four stacks, open, with the pasteboards in descending order, as Ellery verified by investigating carefully. Between the two rows were three smaller piles.

“Banque,” muttered Ellery. “Peculiar!” He looked at Weaver. “You know the game, of course?”

“No, I don’t,” said Weaver. “I recognized the layout of the cards as that of banque, because I’ve seen it played at the French house. But I don’t understand the game very well; it gives me a headache. But then most card-games do. I never was much good at it.”

“So I remember,” laughed Ellery, “especially that night at Bloombury’s when I had to sit in for you to recoup a hundred dollar I.O.U. at stud. … You say you’ve seen the game played at French’s—and that’s most interesting. Calls for questions, I do believe. Not many people know how to play Russian banque.”

Weaver regarded Ellery strangely. His eyes went furtively to the stubs of four cigarets lying in the ashtray. He looked back at once. “Just two people in the French household,” he said in a strangled voice, “played banque.”

“And they are—or were, if I must follow your past tense?” asked Ellery in a cool voice.

“Mrs. French and—Bernice.”

“Oho!” Ellery whistled softly. “The elusive Bernice. … Nobody else play?”

“The Old Man abhors all forms of gambling,” said Weaver, worrying his lips with a forefinger. “Won’t play cards for anything. Doesn’t know an ace from a deuce. Marion plays bridge, but only because it’s something of a social necessity. She dislikes cards, and I never heard of banque before I entered French’s employ. … But Mrs. French and Bernice were violently addicted to it. Whenever they had the opportunity they played it. None of us could quite understand it. A form of the glamorous gambling fever, I don’t doubt.”

“And the friends of the family?”

“Well,” said Weaver slowly, “the Old Man has never been so narrow as to forbid card-playing altogether in his home. That’s why this apartment, by the way, is fitted out with a cardroom. It’s for the convenience of the directors—sometimes they play here between sessions. But in the house itself I have had plenty of opportunity to observe visitors and friends. I’ve never seen any one play banque except Mrs. French and Bernice.”

“Beautiful—beautiful,” said Ellery. “So symmetrically conclusive! That’s the way I like things. …” But his brow was wrinkled with thought. “And the cigarets, old boy—tell me why you’ve been trying for five minutes not to look at the cigarets in the ashtray?”

Weaver flushed guiltily. “Oh!” He was silent. “I hate to say it, Ellery—I’m in the most hellish position imaginable. …”

“The cigarets, of course, are Bernice’s brand. … You may as well come out with it,” said Ellery wearily.

“How did you know?” cried Weaver. “But—I suppose it was clear enough to an alert … Yes, they’re Bernice’s. Her own brand. She has—had them made up for her especially.”

Ellery picked up one of the stubs. It was silver-tipped, and just below the tip was printed in script the brand-name:
La Duchesse.
Ellery poked his finger among the remaining litter of stubs. His look sharpened as he noted that all, without exception, had been smoked to approximately the same length—to about a half-inch of the tip.