French Powder Mystery (21 page)

“Why, yes, El,” replied Weaver, facing his friend for the moment. “Sophia Zorn’s a queer woman, too. I think she hated Mrs. French—not the slightest feminine sympathy in her make-up. Pretty objectionable character, that woman.”

“Does she love Zorn?”

“That’s hard to answer. She has an abnormal streak of possessiveness, and that may be why she was so jealous. She showed it at every opportunity and made things quite uncomfortable for all of us at times.”

“I suppose,” put in the Inspector with grim smile, “it’s common knowledge. Those things always are.”

“Much too common,” said Weaver bitterly. “It’s been a hideous farce, the whole business. My God, there have been times when I was tempted to strangle Mrs. French myself for the ghastly wreck she was making out of the Old Man!”

“Well, don’t make that statement when the Commissioner is around, Weaver,” smiled the Inspector. “What is French’s feeling for his immediate family?”

“Of course he loved Mrs. French—was uncommonly thoughtful in the little things for a man of his age,” said Weaver. “As for Marion”—his eyes brightened—“she’s always been the apple of his eye. A perfect love between father and daughter. … It’s been a little unpleasant—for me,” he added in a lower tone.

“So I gathered from the coldness with which you two kids habitually greet each other,” remarked the Inspector dryly. Weaver flushed boyishly. “Now, how about Bernice?”

“Bernice and Mr. French?” Weaver sighed. “About what you would expect under the circumstances. If the Old Man’s anything, he’s fair. Almost leans over backward in that respect. Of course, Bernice is not his daughter—he couldn’t love her as he loves Marion, for instance. But he treats them exactly alike. They get equally as much of his attention, the same allowance for pin-money and clothes—not the slightest difference in their status as far as he is concerned. But—well, one is his daughter, and the other is his stepdaughter.”

“And there,” said Ellery with a little chuckle, “is a pointed epigram. Tell us, Wes—how about Mrs. French and Carmody? You’ve heard what he said—does it all fit?”

“He told the exact truth,” replied Weaver at once. “He’s an enigma of a man, is Carmody—cold-blooded as a fish except where Bernice is concerned. I think he’d give his shirt for her. But he treated Mrs. French after their divorce precisely as if she was an unavoidable social necessity.”

“Why were they divorced, by the way?” asked the Inspector.

“Infidelity on Carmody’s part,” said Weaver.—“Good night! I feel like a tongue-slapping washerwoman.—Well, Carmody was so injudicious as to be caught in a hotelroom with a lady of the chorus, and though the affair was hushed up, the truth couldn’t be kept from trickling out. Mrs. French, who was something of a moral virago in those days, immediately sued for divorce, and got it—and with it, custody of Bernice.”

“Hardly a moral virago, Wes,” remarked Ellery. “Not from the Zornian implications. Say rather—she knew what side her bread was buttered on and decided that there were more fish in the sea than a faithless husband. …”

“A complicated figure of speech,” said Weaver, with a smile. “But I see what you mean.”

“I’m beginning to get little sidelights into Mrs. French’s character,” murmured Ellery. “This Marchbanks fellow—her brother, I believe?”

“And that’s about all,” said Weaver grimly, “Hated each other like poison. I think Marchbanks had her number. He’s no glistening lily himself. Anyway, they never had much use for each other. It made it a little embarrassing for the Old Man, because Marchbanks had been on the Board for many years.”

“Drinks too much, that’s plain,” said the Inspector. “Marchbanks and French get along all right?”

“They have very little contact socially,” said Weaver. “In business, they seem to jibe nicely. But that’s because the Old Man’s so darned sensible.”

“There’s only one other member of the case about whom I have any curiosity at the moment,” said the Inspector. “And that’s the dissipated-looking, fashionable gentleman of the Board named Trask. Has he any contacts with the French family other than business?”

“More ‘other’ than ‘business,’” replied Weaver. “I may as well go the whole hog while I’m tattling. I’ll need a scrubbing-brush after I’m through!—Mr. A. Melville Trask is on the Board purely as a result of tradition. His father was the original member, and it was the elder Trask’s dying wish that his son succeed him. It meant loads of red tape, but finally they succeeded in dragging him in, where he’s been an ornament ever since. Not a brain in his head. But shrewdness?—plenty! Because Mr. Trask has been gunning for Bernice for over a year now—ever since he was elected to the Board, as a matter of fact.”

“Interesting,” murmured Ellery. “What’s the idea, Wes—the family fortune?”

“You’ve hit it exactly. Old Man Trask lost a lot in the stock market, and his son has been plunging so heavily that the report is he’s near the end of his rope financially. So I guess he figured his best bet was a fortuitous marriage. And that’s where Bernice comes in. He’s been hounding her, courting her, taking her out, flattering her mother for months now. He’s wormed his way into the affections of Bernice—who has few enough admirers, poor kid!—so much so that they’re virtually engaged. Nothing official, but that’s the understanding.”

“Opposition?” demanded the Inspector.

“Plenty,” replied Weaver grimly. “Chiefly from the Old Man. He feels it his duty to protect his stepdaughter from a man of Trask’s stamp. Trask is a cad and a rounder of the worst sort. The poor girl would lead a dog’s life with him.”

“Wes, what makes him so sure she’ll come into money?” asked Ellery suddenly.

“Well”—Weaver hesitated—“you see, El, Mrs. French had a respectable wad herself. And, of course, it’s been an open secret that when she died—”

“It would go to Bernice,” said the Inspector.

“Interesting,” said Ellery, rising to his full length and stretching wearily. “And for no reason at all, I’m reminded that I haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning. Let’s all go out for a sandwich and a sip of java. Anything more, dad?”

“Can’t think of a thing,” said the old man with a return to his glumness. “Well lock up and go. Hagstrom! Hesse! Get those cigaret stubs and cards into my own bags—and the shoes and hat, too. …”

Ellery picked up the five books from the desk and handed them to Hagstrom.

“You might pack these, too, Hagstrom,” he said. “You’re taking these things to Headquarters, dad?”

“Why, of course!”

“Then, on reconsideration, Hagstrom, I’ll take these books myself.” The detective wrapped them carefully in a piece of brown paper he took from one of the police kits and returned them to Ellery. Weaver retrieved his hat and coat from one of the bedroom closets and the Inspector, Ellery and Weaver, preceded by the detectives, walked out of the apartment.

Ellery was the last one out. As he stood in the corridor, one hand on the knob of the outer door, he looked slowly from the apartment to the brown-papered package in his hand.

“Thus endeth,” he said softly to himself, “the first lesson.” His hand dropped and the door snapped shut.

Two minutes later only a lone bluecoat was left in the corridor, propped up against the door in a nondescript chair he had appropriated somewhere, reading a tabloid newspaper.

“Manhunting is by all odds the most thrilling profession in the world. Its thrills … are in exact proportion to the temperament of the manhunter. It reaches its completest fulfillment in the investigator who … observing microscopically the phenomena of a crime and collating them precisely, exercises his God-given gift of imagination and concocts a theory which embraces
ALL
the phenomena and omits none, not the tiniest crumb of a fact. … Penetration, patience, and passion
—
these rarely combined qualities make the genius of criminal investigation, just as they make the genius of any profession, unless the extra-mundane arts be excepted. …”

—From
THERE IS AN UNDER WORLD

by
James Redix (the Elder).

C
YRUS FRENCH’S HOUSE FRONTED
the Hudson River, on lower Riverside Drive. It was old and dusky, set well back from the Drive and surrounded by primly kept shrubbery. A low iron fence ran around the property.

When Inspector Queen, Ellery Queen and Westley Weaver entered the reception room, they found Sergeant Velie already there, engaged in earnest conversation with another detective. This man left immediately on the entrance of the small party, and Velie himself turned a perturbed face to his superior.

“We’ve struck oil, Inspector,” he said in his calm bass. “Managed to trace the cab that picked up Mrs. French last night almost at once. It was a Yellow that patrols this neighborhood regularly. Got the driver and he remembered his fare without any trouble.”

“And I suppose—” began the Inspector gloomily.

Velie shrugged. “Nothing to brag about. He picked her up right in front of the house here at about twenty after eleven last night. She told him to take her down Fifth. He followed orders. At 39th Street she told him to pull up, and then she got out. Paid him and he beat it. He did see her cross the street toward the department store. That’s all.”

“Not so much,” murmured Ellery, “to be sure. Did he stop at all on the trip downtown—did she communicate with any one on the way?”

“I asked him that. Nothing doing, Mr. Queen. She didn’t give him another order until they reached 39th Street. Of course, he did say that there was heavy traffic, and he had to stop a number of times. It’s possible that somebody might have hopped in and out of the cab during a traffic wait. But the driver says no, he didn’t see anything wrong.”

“And if he’s alert, he would have, naturally,” said the Inspector, sighing.

A maid took their hats and coats, and immediately afterward Marion French appeared. She squeezed Weaver’s hand, smiled wanly at the Queens, and placed herself at their disposal.

“No, Miss French, there’s nothing we can do with you now,” said the Inspector. “How is Mr. French?”

“Loads better.” She made a little
moue
of apology. “I did act frightfully at the apartment, Inspector Queen. I know you’ll forgive me—seeing father faint made me lose control of myself.”

“Nothing to forgive, Marion,” growled Weaver, “if I do take the words out of the Inspector’s mouth. I don’t think Inspector Queen quite realized how ill your father really was.”

“Now, now, Mr. Weaver,” said the Inspector mildly. “Miss French, do you think Mr. French will be able to see us in a half hour or so?”

“Well … If the doctor says so, Inspector. But goodness! Won’t you sit down? I’ve been so upset by all this—confusion. …” A shadow darkened her face. The men accepted chairs. “You see, Inspector,” continued Marion, “there’s a nurse with daddy, and the doctor’s still here. An old friend. Mr. Gray, too. Shall I see?”

“If you will, my dear. And would you mind having Miss Hortense Underhill come in for a moment?”

When Marion had left the room, Weaver excused himself and hurried after her. Her startled “Why, Westley!” could just be heard from the main hall a moment later. There was a sudden silence, then a suspiciously soft sound, and finally retreating footfalls.

“I think,” said Ellery soberly, “that that was a luscious salute to the Venerian goddess. … I wonder why old Cyrus frowns upon Westley as a prospective son-in-law. Wants wealth and position, I suppose.”

“Does he?” asked the Inspector.

“I gather so.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there.” The Inspector delicately took snuff. “Thomas,” he said, “what have you done about Bernice Carmody? Any traces?”

Velie pulled a longer face than usual. “Just one, and it barely helps us to a start. The Carmody girl was seen yesterday afternoon leaving this house by a day watchman—special officer—who’s privately employed to patrol the neighborhood. He knows the girl by sight. He saw her walk quickly down towards 72nd Street—straight down the Drive. She didn’t meet any one, apparently, and was headed for a definite place, because she seemed in a hell of a hurry. He had no reason to give her more than a casual glance or two, and so he couldn’t tell me just how far down the Drive she went or whether she turned down a side street.”

“Worse and worse.” The Inspector grew thoughtful. “That girl is almighty important, Thomas,” he sighed. “Put extra men on her trail if you think it’s necessary. We’ve got to find her. I suppose you’ve got a complete description, clothes and all?”

Velie nodded. “Yes, and four men on her already. If there’s anything at all, Inspector, we’ll find it.”

Hortense Underhill clumped into the room.

Ellery sprang to his feet. “Dad, this is Miss Underhill, the housekeeper. This is Inspector Queen, Miss Underhill. The Inspector has a few questions to ask you.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said the housekeeper.

“Um,” said the Inspector, eying her keenly. “My son tells me, Miss Underhill, that Miss Bernice Carmody left this house yesterday afternoon against her mother’s wishes—in fact, sneaked out behind her back. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct,” snapped the housekeeper, with a malevolent glance toward Ellery, who was smiling. “Though what
that
has to do, with it,
I
can’t see.”

“No doubt,” said the old man. “Was that Miss Carmody’s usual procedure—to run away from her mother?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re driving at, Mr. Inspector,” said the housekeeper coldly. “But if you’re aiming to implicate that girl … Well! Yes, she did that a few times a month. Slipped out of the house without a word and was gone usually about three hours. There was always a scene with Mrs. French when she returned.”

“I don’t suppose you know,” asked Ellery slowly, “where she went at such times? Or what Mrs. French said to her when she returned?”

Hortense Underhill clicked her teeth disagreeably. “No. Neither did her mother. That’s why they had a scene. And Bernice would never tell. Just sit calmly and let her mother rave. … Except, of course, last week. Then they
did
have a scene.”