French Powder Mystery (23 page)

The quicksilver eyes ceased rolling and concentrated on the gentle grey face of the Inspector. They blinked suddenly with intelligence.

“Yes … yes …” French whispered, moistening his thin pale lips with a bright tongue. “Anything … to clear up this … ghastly business. …”

“Thank you, Mr. French.” The Inspector leaned closer. “Is there any explanation in your mind that might account for the death of Mrs. French?”

The liquid eyes blinked, closed. When they opened, there was an expression of utter bewilderment within their reddish depths.

“No … none,” French breathed painfully. “None … whatsoever. … She—she had … so many friends … no enemies. … I—it is … unbelievable that any one … should be so … fiendish as to … murder her.”

“I see.” The Inspector tugged at his mustache with nimble fingers. “Then you know of no one who might have had a
motive
for killing her, Mr. French?”

“No. …” The hoarse feeble voice gathered strength suddenly. “The shame—the notoriety. … It will be the death of me. … With all my … unsparing efforts to put an end to vice … that this should happen to me! … Hideous, hideous!”

His voice grew more and more violent. The Inspector motioned in alarm to Dr. Stuart, who leaned quickly over the sick man and felt his pulse. Then, in an extraordinarily gentle voice, the physician soothed his patient until the throaty rumblings faded off and the hand on the coverlet unflexed and lay still.

“Have you much more?” asked the doctor in a gruff undertone. “You must be quick, Inspector!”

“Mr. French,” said Queen quietly, “is your personal key to the store apartment always in your possession?”

The eyes rolled sleepily. “Eh? Key? Yes … yes, always.”

“It has certainly not left your person in the past fortnight or so?”

“No … positively not. …”

“Where is it, Mr. French?” continued the Inspector in an urgent soft voice. “Surely you will not mind letting us have it for a few days, will you, sir? In the interests of justice, of course. … Where? Oh, yes! Dr. Stuart, Mr. French asks that you get the key from the key-ring in his trousers hip-pocket. In the wardrobe, sir, the wardrobe!”

In silence the burly physician went to a wardrobe, rummaged about in the first pair of trousers that met his eye, and returned in a moment with a leather key-case. The Inspector examined the gold-disked key marked
C. F.,
unhooked it, and returned the case to the doctor, who promptly replaced it in the trousers. French lay quietly, eyes veiled by puffy lids.

The Inspector handed Cyrus French’s key to Ellery, who deposited it with the other keys in his pocket. Then Ellery stepped forward and leaned over the sick man.

“Easy, Mr. French,” he murmured in a soothing tone. “We have just two or three more questions, and then you will be left to your much-needed privacy. … Mr. French, do you recall what books are on your desk in the library of your apartment?”

The old man’s eyes flew open. Dr. Stuart growled angrily beneath his breath something about “arrant nonsense … silly sleuthing.” Ellery’s body remained in its deferential attitude, his head close to French’s slack mouth.

“Books?”

“Yes, Mr. French. The books on your apartment desk. Do you recall their titles?” he urged gently.

“Books.” French screwed his mouth up in a desperate effort to concentrate. “Yes, yes. … Of course. My favorites … Jack London’s
Adventure … The Return of Sherlock Holmes,
by Doyle … McCutcheon’s
Graustark … Cardigan,
by Robert W. Chambers, and … let me think … there was one other … yes!
Soldiers of Fortune,
by Richard Harding Davis. … That’s it—Davis. … Knew Davis. … Wild, but a … a great fellow. …”

Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. The Inspector’s face grew crimson with suppressed emotion. He muttered, “What the deuce!”

“You’re certain, Mr. French?” persisted Ellery, leaning over the bed once more.

“Yes … yes. My books … I should know …” whispered the old man, annoyance sounding weakly in his voice.

“Of course! We were merely making sure. … Now, sir, have you ever been interested in such subjects as, let us say, paleontology—philately—medieval commerce—folk lore—elementary music?”

The tired eyes widened with puzzled amazement. The head wagged twice from side to side.

“No … I can’t say that I am. … My serious reading is restricted to works on sociology … my work for the Anti-Vice Society … you know my position. …”

“You are positive that your five books by Davis, Chambers, Doyle and the others are on your apartment desk now, Mr. French?”

“I suppose so,” mumbled French. “Been there … for ages. … Ought to be. … Never noticed anything wrong. …”

“Very well. That is quite excellent, sir. Thank you.” Ellery glanced swiftly at Dr. Stuart, who was exhibiting marked signs of impatience. “One question, Mr. French, and we shall leave you. Has Mr. Lavery been in your apartment recently?”

“Lavery? Yes, of course. Every day. My guest.”

“Then that will be all.” Ellery stepped back and made a hasty note on the flyleaf of his now overscribbled little volume. French’s eyes closed, and he shifted his body slightly, with an unmistakable relaxation that signified complete fatigue.

“Please leave quietly,” grunted Dr. Stuart. “You’ve retarded his recovery sufficiently for one day.”

He turned his back truculently upon them.

The three men tiptoed from the room.

But on the staircase leading to the main foyer, the Inspector muttered, “Where in time do those books come in?”

“Ask me not in mournful numbers,” said Ellery ruefully. “I wish I knew.”

Thenceforth they descended in silence.

T
HEY FOUND MARION AND
Weaver sitting glumly in the drawing-room, hands clasped, and suspiciously silent. The Inspector coughed, Ellery thoughtfully scrubbed away at his pince-nez, Velie screwed up his eyes and blinked at a Renoir on the wall.

The boy and the girl sprang to their feet.

“How—how is daddy?” asked Marion hurriedly, one slim hand to a crimson-dappled cheek.

“Resting quietly now, Miss French,” replied the Inspector in some embarrassment. “Ah—a question or two, young lady, and then we will be on our way. … Ellery!”

Ellery came directly to the point.

“Your key to your father’s apartment, Miss French” he demanded—“is it always in your possession?”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Queen. You don’t think—”

“A categorical question, Miss French,” said Ellery blandly. “Your key has not left your possession in, let us say, four weeks?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Queen. It’s my own, and every one else who might have occasion to go into the apartment has a key of his or her own, as well.”

“Lucidly said. May I borrow yours temporarily?”

Marion half-turned toward Weaver with hesitation written in her eyes. Weaver pressed her arm reassuringly.

“Do whatever Ellery asks, Marion,” he said.

Without a word Marion rang for a maid, and in a few moments turned over to Ellery another key whose only distinguishing characteristic from the keys already on his person was the neatly engraved
M. F.
on the bright disk. Ellery stowed it away with the others and murmured his thanks, retreating a step.

The Inspector promptly stepped forward.

“I must ask you what may prove an awkward question, Miss French,” he said.

“I—we seem to be completely in your hands, Inspector Queen,” said the girl, smiling faintly.

The Inspector stroked his mustache. “Just what has been the relationship between yourself, let us say, and your stepmother and stepsister? Amicable? Strained? Openly antagonistic?”

Marion did not answer at once. Weaver shuffled his feet and turned away. Then the girl’s magnificent eyes met the old man’s honestly.

“I think ‘strained’ expresses it exactly,” she said in her clear sweet voice. “There has never been much love lost on any side of the triangle. Winifred has always preferred Bernice above me—which is of course natural and as for Bernice, we didn’t agree from the beginning. And as time went on, and—and things began to happen, the rift simply widened. …”

“‘Things’?” prompted the Inspector suggestively.

Marion bit her lip, flushed. “Well—just little things, you know,” she said evasively. She hurried on. “All of us tried very hard to conceal our dislike for each other—for dad’s sake. I’m afraid we weren’t always successful. Dad is keener than people think.”

“I see.” The Inspector tchk-ed with concern. He straightened with a peculiarly swift movement of his body. “Miss French, do you know anything that might give us a hint to the murderer of your stepmother?”

Weaver gasped, whitened. He seemed about to voice a bitter protest. But Ellery laid a restraining hand on his arm. The girl grew still, but she did not flinch. She passed her fingers wearily across her forehead.

“I—no.” It was a bare whisper.

The Inspector made a deprecating little gesture.

“Oh, please don’t ask me anything more about—about
her,”
she cried suddenly in an agonized voice. “I can’t go on this way, talking about her, trying to tell the truth, because …” she spoke more quietly, “… because it would be in the poorest taste to calumniate that poor—dead—thing.” She shuddered. Weaver boldly put his arm about her shoulders. She turned to him with a little sigh of relief and buried her face against his breast.

“Miss French.” Ellery’s tone was gentleness itself. “You can help us on one point. … Your stepsister—what brand of cigaret does she smoke?”

Marion’s astonishment at the seemingly irrelevant question brought her head up with a start.

“Why—
La Duchesse.”

“Exactly. And she smoked
La Duchesse
exclusively?”

“Yes. At least, for as long as I’ve known her.”

“Has she”—Ellery was casual—“has she any peculiarity in her method of smoking, Miss French? Any perhaps slightly unusual habit?”

The pretty brows drew closer together in a little frown. “If you mean by habit”—she hesitated—“a distinct nervousness—yes.”

“Does this nervousness manifest itself in a noticeable way?”

“She smokes incessantly, Mr. Queen. And she never takes more than five or six puffs at a cigaret. She doesn’t seem by nature able to smoke calmly. A few puffs, and she grinds out the long stump of tobacco still remaining almost with—viciousness. The cigarets she leaves are always bent and twisted out of shape.”

“Thank you so much.” Ellery’s firm lips lifted in a smile of satisfaction.

“Miss French—” the Inspector took up the attack—“you left this house last night after dinner. You did not return until midnight.
Where were you during those four hours?”

Silence. A frightened silence so suddenly fraught with hidden complications of emotion that it seemed almost of physical substance. It was a tableau created for a single moment’s duration: the slight Inspector, alert, controlled, leaning forward; the straight body of Ellery, muscles completely inanimate; the vague bulk of Velie, drawn and powerful; a petrified agony on Weaver’s mobile features—and the utter misery of Marion French’s slender, stricken figure.

It passed in the drawing of a breath. Marion sighed, and the four men relaxed stealthily.

“I was … walking in … the Park,” she said.

“Oh!” The Inspector smiled, bowed, smoothed his mustache. “Then there is nothing more to be said, Miss French. Good afternoon.”

It was simply said, and the Inspector, Ellery and Velie passed from the room, into the reception hall, out of the house without another word spoken.

But it left Marion and Weaver in a dejection and apprehension so profound that they stood in their places, exactly as they had been, eyes turned away from each other, long after the outer door had snicked cleanly shut.

D
USK WAS DESCENDING, ON
the city when Velie took leave of the Queens outside the French mansion to manipulate the official machinery already operating on the shadowy trial of the vanished Bernice Carmody.

After Velie had gone, the Inspector looked at the quiet river, looked at the darkening sky, looked at his son, who was energetically polishing his pince-nez and staring down at the pavement.

The Inspector sighed. “The air will do both of us a lot of good,” he said tiredly. “I need something to clear my addled brain, anyway. … Ellery, let’s walk home.”

Ellery nodded, and side by side they sauntered down the Drive toward the corner. At the corner they turned east and settled down to a slow, thoughtful pace. They walked another block before the silence was broken.

“This is really the first chance,” remarked Ellery at last, grasping his father’s arm encouragingly at the elbow, “that I’ve had to mull over the multitude of factors that have arisen so far. Significant factors. Telling factors, dad! There are so many they give me
mal à la tête.”

“Really?” The Inspector was depressed, morose. His shoulders sagged.

Ellery regarded him keenly. He tightened his grip on the old man’s arm. “Come, dad! Buck up. I know you’re at sea, but it’s because of the trouble and worry you’ve had on your mind recently. My brain has been more than usually free from occupation lately. It’s been clear enough to grasp the amazing fundamentals this case has spewed up today. Let me think aloud.”

“Go ahead, son.”

“One of the two most valuable clues this affair has given us is the fact that the corpse was found in the Fifth Avenue exhibition window.”

The Inspector snorted. “I suppose you’ll tell me now that you already know who did the job.”

“Yes.”

The Inspector was so taken aback that he stopped in his tracks and stared at Ellery with an expression of complete dismay and unbelief.

“Ellery! You’re joking. How
could
you?” he finally managed to splutter.

Ellery smiled gravely. “Don’t misunderstand me. I say I know who murdered Mrs. French. I should qualify that by saying that certain indications point with incredible consistency at one individual. I have no proof. I don’t grasp one-tenth of the implications. I am entirely ignorant of the motive, the undoubtedly sordid story behind the crime. … Consequently, I shall not tell you whom I have in mind.”