French Powder Mystery (29 page)

Ellery opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped his lips together very firmly. He became thoughtful at once.

Weaver seemed confounded by the bombshell he had caused to explode. He subsided limply in his chair.

T
HEY ALL LOOKED AT
Ellery in sudden disquiet. Crouther, his mouth half-open, shut it and began to scratch his head. Weaver and the Inspector shifted heavily in their chairs at the same instant.

Ellery without a word stepped into the kitchenette. His low voice was heard murmuring to Djuna. Ellery reappeared, fumbled for his pince-nez and began to twirl it idly. “The uneasy thought just struck me—and yet,” his face brightened, “it isn’t so bad at that!”

He replaced his glasses on his thin nose and rose to his feet, pacing leisurely up and down before the table. Djuna slipped out of the kitchenette and left the apartment.

“While we’re waiting for the squad wagon,” Ellery said, “we may as well go over some of the ground, in the light of these newest disclosures of Westley’s.

“Does anybody doubt now that French’s is being used as an important medium for drug distribution?”

He challenged them lightly with his eyes. An angry glare lit up Crouther’s heavy features.

“Say, Mr. Queen, that’s pretty rough on me,” he barked. “I’m not denying this Springer guy is a crook—don’t see how it could be otherwise—but how do you figure out a dope ring’s been operating right under our noses at the store?”

“Keep your shirt on, Crouther,” said Ellery mildly. “They’ve merely put one over on the French establishment. What an opportunity,” he went on, in the tone of one who finds much to admire, “for a drug ring! Using a no doubt simple code, which is already fairly clarified in my mind, transmitting it through innocent books, and setting the whole business in the respectable domain of the head of the Anti-Vice League himself! That’s a stroke of genius, that is. … Look here. There can’t be an alternative. We find at intervals of eight days—the only exception being one of nine, and this is plausibly accounted for by the intervention of Sunday—the head of the Book Department marking an address in—and this is one of the beautiful elements of the scheme—in little-used, stodgy books. … Did you notice that the date in each book was
not
the date when Springer prepared it? No, in every case it was for the day
following.
The book marked Wednesday, by the author whose name began with
WE,
was placed on the
same
shelf … it was the same shelf every week, wasn’t it, Wes?”

“Yes.”

“The book marked for Wednesday, then, was placed on the same shelf as all the others on Tuesday evening. The Thursday book on Wednesday evening the week following, and so on. What could this possibly mean? Obviously, that Springer didn’t allow too much time to elapse between the evening he prepared the book with the address and
the time it was to be picked up!”

“Picked up?” demanded the Inspector.

“Of course. Everything points to a well-constructed plan of operation in which Springer’s main job was to inform some one of an address through the medium of a book. If Springer could inform that problematical person or persons by word of mouth, why the complicated book-code system? No. The probability is that Springer knows the people who come in to pick up his doctored volumes, but that they, being mere pawns, don’t know him. But this is really beside the point. The crux of the matter is that Springer would not allow the prepared book to linger on the shelf too long. It might be purchased; the address in it might inadvertently be noticed by a stranger. Dad, if you were in Springer’s place, how would you arrange
the time
when the book should be picked up?”

“Seems clear. If Springer prepared it, at night, then he would have it picked up in the morning.”

Ellery smiled, “Exactly. What risk then does he run? He writes the address in the book after hours, when the book cannot be removed that night in a legitimate way by an outsider; and the very next morning the appointed messenger takes it from its place on the shelf—a place of course set definitely when the plan was originally concocted. The chances are, in fact, that the messenger arrives as early as possible the next morning—perhaps as soon as the store opens, at nine o’clock. He browses around, goes over to the shelf finally, picks up the book he knows about in advance through a sign which I’ll explain in a moment, pays for it in the regular way and walks out with his information under his arm—safe, clean and ridiculously easy.

“Now! There are a few inferences to be drawn. We must suppose that when the messenger arrives in the morning he has no contact with Springer—really, everything points to this complete alienation between Springer and the messenger, with one or both ignorant of the other’s identity. Then the only clue the messenger has to the book fixed the night before is a code, or system, arranged beforehand. That’s just common sense. But what could the code be? And that is the beautiful part of the plan.

“Why, I asked myself, was it necessary to the plan to have the author’s name—at least its first two letters—coincide with the first two letters of the day on which the book was to be picked up by the messenger? The question is answered if we suppose complete ignorance of detail on the part of the messenger. If, when he got his job, his first instructions, he was told the following, then the whole procedure becomes clear: ‘Every week you are to call at the French Book Department for a book which will contain an address. The book will be on the top shelf of the fourth tier of book-racks situated in such and such a place in the Department. The book will always be on that shelf. … Now. Every week you are to call on a different day. Eight days apart, to be exact. Except when Sunday intervenes, and then it will be nine days—from the proceeding Saturday to the following Monday. Let us say the morning you are due to call for the book is a Wednesday. Then the book you should pick up will be by an author whose last name begins with a
WE,
to correspond to the
WE
of Wednesday. To make identification absolutely positive, and to get you out of the Book Department as quickly as possible, so that you will not be compelled to rummage through every book on that shelf, a light pencil-mark will appear on the first two letters of the author’s name, positively identifying the proper volume. You pick up the book, look at the back liner leaf to make sure the address is there, then buy the book and walk out of the store.’ … Does that sound plausible?”

There was a vehement chorus of assents from the three men.

“It’s a devilishly ingenious scheme,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “if a little complicated. Really, though, the complications iron themselves away with the passage of time. The beauty of the plan is that the messenger needs his instructions
only once,
the first time, and he can carry on indefinitely, for months, without a slip-up. … The next Thursday he has to look for a pencil-mark on a book whose author’s name begins with
TH;
the Friday following, an
FR;
and so on. What the messenger does with the book when he gets it is debatable. From the looks of things, this is a highly centralized society of drug distributors, with the pawns in the game knowing as little as possible about the business at hand, probably being kept in complete ignorance of the ringleader or leaders. The question naturally arises—”

“But why,” asked Weaver, “that period of
eight
days? Why not merely every week on the same day?”

“A good question, and it has, I think, a simple answer,” replied Ellery. “These people were taking not the slightest chance of a slip-up. If a certain person came into the Book Department at nine o’clock
every Monday,
he might after a time be noticed and remarked on. But coming in on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Wednesday, all a week and a day apart, there was little likelihood that he would be remembered.”

“My God, what a racket!” muttered Crouther. “No wonder we never got wind of it!”

“Clever’s no name for it,” sighed the Inspector. “Then you think, Ellery, that the addresses are all local ‘joints’ for the selling of the dope?”

“No question about it,” said Ellery, lighting another cigaret. “And while we’re remarking about cleverness, how does this strike you? The ring never uses the same address twice! That’s patent from the different address each week. And it’s apparent, too, that their system of distribution makes it a methodical weekly affair. Your Narcotic Squad has a chance to ferret out a drug depot if it’s used week after week; people notice suspicious activity, perhaps; the address and the word go around through the grapevine of the underworld. But how can your Squad ever get on the track of a gang which uses a
different
depot every week? Why, the scheme is amazing. As it is, Fiorelli did get wind of two of the addresses through informers or stool-pigeons; the fact that he didn’t get any other shows how holeproof the plot really is. And of course, when he raided the places, he found the ring gone—cleared out. They probably have an afternoon
soirée
week after week and dismantle the place immediately after the last customer’s gone.

“Now consider how safe the ring really is. They must have a regular channel of communication with their customers—and I suspect it’s a limited list. Too many would be dangerous by their very numbers. That means, then, that the customers are wealthy, probably society people, who get a weekly tipoff by telephone, we’ll say—just an address. They know the rest. And what can the customer do? What does he
want
to do? We all know the desperate uncontrollable craving of the addict for his drug. Here he has a safe source of supply, and what’s more important, a regular source of supply. No—the customers aren’t blabbing. What could be sweeter?”

“It staggers the imagination,” muttered the Inspector. “What a plan! But if we clean them up this time—!”

“I need only refer to the well-known cup and the better-known lip,” laughed Ellery. “However, we’ll see.

“Some questions arise, as I began to say a few moments ago, more directly applicable to the murder. We may certainly presume that Bernice is—or was—one of the ring’s customers. And I do believe that shady, mysterious motive of which we haven’t been able to grasp the merest shadow, is beginning to emerge into daylight. Winifred French was not an addict. She carried in her bag a lipstick belonging to Bernice and filled with heroin. … And carried it to her death. A strong line of incident, dad! Very, very strong. … Interesting, isn’t it, especially since we haven’t been able to discover any other motive for the crime? But motive won’t mean much in the unraveling of this case, I’m afraid; the big job is to corral the murderer and also to round up the drug ring. A dual task which presents to my deduction-weary mind a suggestion of difficulty. …

“Another question. Is Springer pawn or king in this drug game? My guess is—he’s on the inside, knows all the facts, but is not top man. And the question naturally arises, too—did Mr. Springer fire the lethal weapon aimed at Mrs. French’s heart? I’d rather not go into that at the moment.

“And finally, doesn’t this business of the drug ring indicate that Winifred’s murder—and Bernice’s disappearance—are integral parts of the same crime, rather than two unrelated crimes? I think it does, but I cannot see how we shall ever get to the truth of the matter unless a certain eventuality occurs. Deponent being temporarily out of wind, deponent will sit down and think of the case
in toto.”

And Ellery, without another word, seated himself and worried his pince-nez in a thoroughly absent manner.

The Inspector, Weaver and Crouther sighed all at once.

They were sitting that way, silently, looking at each other, when a short siren blast from the street below announced the arrival of Fiorelli, Velie and the raiding party.

T
HE POLICE VAN, CRAMMED
with detectives and officers, rushed through the West Side, headed uptown. Traffic opened magically before its wailing siren. Hundreds of eyes followed its reckless course wonderingly.

The Inspector shouted to a grim and chagrined Velie, above the roar of the exhaust, Crouther’s story of the lone taxicab driver and the mysterious automobile with the Massachusetts license-plate. The sergeant gloomily promised an immediate check-up on the chauffeur’s story and dissemination of the new information to all his operatives on the trail of the vanished girl. Crouther sat chuckling by his side as Velie took from the Inspector’s hand the name and address of the cab-driver.

Weaver had been excused, and with the arrival of the van had left to return to the French store.

Fiorelli sat quietly chewing his fingernails. His face was haggard and feverish as he pulled the Inspector to one side.

“Had a bunch of boys beat it up to the 98th Street address beforehand to surround the house,” he boomed hoarsely. “Not taking any chances on their doing a fade-away. The boys are keeping under cover, but they won’t let a rat slip through the net!”

Ellery sat calmly in the van, watching the crowds jump into view and disappear. His fingers thrummed a rhythmic tattoo on the iron mesh obscuring the view.

The powerful truck turned into 98th Street and dashed eastward. The neighborhood thickened, grew squalid. As the van plunged farther toward the East River the onrushing scene became one of ramshackle buildings and ramshackle humanity. …

At last the police car ground to a stop. A man in plain clothes had stepped suddenly from a doorway into the middle of the street, pointing meaningly toward a low, two-story building of rotten wood and peeled paint, leaning crazily over the sidewalk as if the slightest convulsion of nature would topple it, a brittle wreck, into the gutter. The front door was closed. The windows were heavily shaded. The house looked tenantless, lifeless.

With the first grinding of the van’s brakes, a dozen men in plain clothes ran into view from odd corners and doorways. Several in the dilapidated backyard of the house drew guns and advanced on the rear of the building. An avalanche of policemen and detectives poured out of the truck, headed by Fiorelli, Velie and the Inspector, Crouther close behind, and ran up the crumbling wooden steps to the front door.