French Powder Mystery (31 page)

There was a little silence. Ellery, watching the girl impassively, turned his head away. The Inspector cleared his throat.

“You went directly to bed, Miss French?” he asked.

The girl stared at him. “Why, what do you mean? … I—” Fright gleamed again in her eyes. But she said courageously, “Yes, Inspector, I did.”

“Did anyone see you come into the house?”

“No—no.”

“You saw no one, spoke to no one?”

“No.”

The Inspector frowned. “Well! At any rate, Miss French, you did the right thing—the only thing—in telling us about it.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said in a small voice. “But Westley, when I told him to-day, said I must. And so—”

“Why didn’t you want to?” asked Ellery. It was the first time he had spoken since Marion had begun her story.

The girl did not speak for a long moment. Finally, with a determined expression, she said: “I’d rather not answer that, Mr. Queen,” and rose.

The Inspector was on his feet instantly. He escorted her to the door in an animate silence.

When he returned, Ellery was chuckling. “As transparent as any angel,” he said. “Don’t frown so, dad. Have you checked up on our good friend Cyrus French?”

“Oh, that!” The Inspector looked unhappy. “Yes, I had Johnson working on it last night. Got his report this morning. He was at Whitney’s in Great Neck, all right. I understand he had a slight attack of indigestion about nine o’clock Monday night. Retired immediately.”

“Coincidence?” Ellery grinned.

“Eh?” Queen scowled. “At any rate, that accounts for him.”

“Oh, yes?” Ellery sat down and crossed his long legs. “Purely as an intellectual exercise,” he said mischievously, “it does nothing of the kind. You see, old Cyrus retires at nine. Let us assume that he wishes to return to New York without the knowledge of his host. Suddenly. That night. He slips out of the house and goes trudging down the road. … Hold! Did any one see him leave so early in the morning in Whitney’s car?”

The Inspector stared. “The chauffeur, of course—man who drove him into the city. Johnson told me French left long before any one else was up. But the chauffeur!”

Ellery chuckled. “Better and better,” he said. “Chauffeurs can be hushed. It has been done. … Our worthy anti-vicious magnate, then, slips out of the house; perhaps his accomplice, the chauffeur, even drives him down to the station secretly. There’s a train about that hour. I know, because I took one three weeks ago Monday night when I returned from Boomer’s. And it’s only a half-hour or so into Penn Station. In time to slip through the freight-door. …”

“But he’d have to stay all night!” groaned the Inspector.

“Granted. But then there’s a sagacious chauffeur to alibi one. … You see how simple it is?”

“Oh, tosh!” exploded the Inspector.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” said Ellery, eyes twinkling. “But it’s something to bear in mind.”

“Fairy-tales!” growled the Inspector, and then they laughed together. “I’ve arranged to get those alibis, by the way. I called Zorn from the office and told him to come down here. I want to see how his story checks up with Marion French’s. And what he did after ten last night.”

Ellery lost his bantering air. He looked dissatisfied, rubbed his forehead wearily. “It might be wise,” he said, “to get all those alibis clear, at that. Mightn’t be a bad idea to get Mrs. Zorn down here, too. And I’ll emulate the Stoics meanwhile.”

The Inspector made a number of telephone calls, while Djuna went rapidly through telephone directories, and Ellery slumped into an easy-chair and closed his eyes. …

A half-hour later Mr. and Mrs. Zorn sat in the Queen living-room side by side, facing Inspector Queen. Ellery was far off in a corner, almost hidden by a jutting bookcase.

Mrs. Zorn was a large-boned woman, well fleshed and rosy. Her too-golden hair was cut in a severe, startling bob. She had cold green eyes and a large mouth. She looked, at first glance, under thirty; on closer observation, faint crinkles around her chin and eyes added ten years to her appearance. She was dressed in the height of fashion and carried herself with an air of arrogance.

Despite Marion’s story, Mr. and Mrs. Zorn seemed on the most amicable of terms. Mrs. Zorn acknowledged her husband’s introduction of the Inspector with regal graciousness; she punctuated each remark to Zorn with a sweet “My dear. …”

The Inspector examined her shrewdly with his eyes, and decided not to mince words.

He turned first to Zorn. “I have called you, as a logical step in this inquiry, to explain your movements on the night of Monday past, Mr. Zorn.”

The Director’s hand strayed to his bald pate. “Monday night? The night—of the murder, Inspector?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you insinuating—” Rage leaped into his eyes behind their heavy gold-rimmed spectacles. Mrs. Zorn made the least gesture with a finger. Zorn calmed magically. “I had dinner,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “at our apartment with Mrs. Zorn. We stayed in all evening. At ten o’clock or so I left the apartment and went directly to the Penny Club on Fifth Avenue and 32nd Street. I met Gray there and we discussed the Whitney merger for a half-hour or so. I developed a headache and told Gray I thought I’d try to walk it off. We said good night and I left the Club. I did take a long walk up the Avenue and, in fact, walked all the way home to 74th Street.”

“And what time was that, Mr. Zorn?” asked the Inspector.

“I should say about a quarter to twelve.”

“Was Mrs. Zorn up—did she see you?”

The large rosy woman chose to reply for her husband. “No, Inspector, no indeed! I had dismissed the servants for the night a little after Mr. Zorn left the apartment, and I’d gone to bed myself. I fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t hear him come in.” She smiled, exhibiting huge white teeth.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand how—” began the Inspector courteously.

“Mr. Zorn and I have separate sleeping apartments, Inspector Queen,” she said, dimpling.

“Umm.” The Inspector turned once more to Zorn, who had sat perfectly still during this colloquy. “Did you meet any one you knew during your walk, Mr. Zorn?”

“Why—no.”

“When you entered your apartment house, did any of the house personnel see you?”

Zorn fumbled with his massive red mustache. “I’m afraid not. There’s only a night-man at the switchboard after eleven, and when I came in he was absent from his post.”

“The elevator, I suppose, is of the self-service type?” asked Queen dryly.

“Yes—that’s correct.”

The Inspector turned to Mrs. Zorn. “At what time did you see your husband in the morning—Tuesday morning?”

She raised her blond brows archly. “Tuesday morning—let me see. … Oh, yes! It was ten o’clock.”

“Fully dressed, Mrs. Zorn?”

“Yes. He was reading his morning paper when I came into our living-room.”

The Inspector smiled, quite wearily, and rose to take a short turn about the room. Finally he stopped before Zorn and fixed him with a stern eye. “Why haven’t you told me about Miss French’s visit to your apartment Monday evening?”

Zorn grew very still. The effect of Marion’s name on Mrs. Zorn was startling. The color drained from her face and her pupils dilated tigerishly. It was she who spoke.

“That—!” she said in a low passionate voice. But her body was tense with anger. The mask of politeness fell from her face and revealed an older woman—shrewish, cruel.

The Inspector seemed not to hear. “Mr. Zorn?” he said.

Zorn moistened his lips with a nervous tongue. “That’s true—true enough. I didn’t see that it had anything to do. … Yes, Miss French visited us. She left about ten o’clock.”

The Inspector made an impatient movement. “You talked about your relations with Mrs. French, Mr. Zorn?” he asked.

“Yes, yes. That’s it.” The words tumbled out, gratefully.

“Mrs. Zorn flew into a rage?”

The woman’s eyes darted cold green fire. Zorn mumbled, “Yes.”

“Mrs. Zorn.” The eyes became veiled. “You went to bed shortly after ten Monday night and did not leave your chamber until ten o’clock the following morning?”

“Right, Inspector Queen.”

“In that case,” concluded the Inspector, “there is nothing more to be said—now.”

When the Zorns had departed, the Inspector saw that Ellery was sitting in his forgotten corner laughing silently to himself.

“I fail to see the joke,” said the old man ruefully.

“Oh, dad—the mess and mire of it!” cried Ellery.
“La vie, c’est confuse!
How beautifully events belie each other. … What do you make of your late interview?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled the Inspector, “but I know one thing.
Anyone
who can’t be accounted for by the visual evidence of witnesses between eleven-thirty o’clock Monday night and a little after nine on Tuesday morning might have done this job. Let’s take a hypothetical case. Suppose X is a possibility as the murderer. X is not seen after eleven-thirty Monday night. He says he went home and went to sleep. There is no witness. Suppose he didn’t go home. Suppose he slipped into the French store through that freight entrance. And got out the next morning at nine. Returned home, sneaked into his apartment without any one seeing him, and then reappeared about ten-thirty or so, letting lots of people see him. The presumption is that he slept home all night and therefore couldn’t have committed the crime. Yet physically it was possible. …”

“Too true, too true,” murmured Ellery. “Well, evoke the next victim.”

“He should be here any moment now,” said the Inspector, and went into the bathroom to bathe his perspiring face.

M
ARCHBANKS GLOWERED. HE BORE
himself with the sullenness of a man who nurses a grudge. He snapped at the Inspector and ignored Ellery. He deposited his stick and hat on the table with a bang, rudely refusing to allow Djuna to take them from him. He sat down uninvited and drummed nastily on the arm of the chair.

“Well, sir,” thought the Inspector, “we’ll have at
you.”
He took a pinch of snuff with deliberation, regarding Marchbanks curiously. “Marchbanks,” he said in curt tones, “where were you Monday evening and night?”

The dead woman’s brother scowled. “What’s this—a third degree?”

“If you choose to make it so,” retorted the Inspector, in his most unpleasant voice. “I repeat—where were you Monday night?”

“If you must know,” said Marchbanks bitingly, “I was out on Long Island.”

“Oh, Long
Island!”
The Inspector seemed duly impressed. “When did you go, where did you go, and how long did you stay?”

“You people always insist on a story,” wheezed Marchbanks, setting his feet solidly on the rug. “Very well. I left town at about seven o’clock Monday evening. In my car. …”

“You drove yourself?”

“Yes. I—”

“Anybody with you?”

“NO!” shouted Marchbanks. “Do you want my story or don’t you? I—”

“Continue,” said the Inspector judicially.

Marchbanks glared. “As I began to say—I left town Monday evening at seven in my car. I was bound for Little Neck—”

“Little Neck, eh?” interpolated the Inspector exasperatingly.

“Yes, Little Neck,” stormed Marchbanks. “What’s wrong in that? I had been invited to a small party at the house of a friend of mine there—”

“His name?”

“Patrick Malone,” replied Marchbanks resignedly. “When I got there, I found no one at home except Malone’s man. He explained that at the last moment Malone had been called away on business and had had to call off the party. …”

“Did you know that such an eventuality might occur?”

“If you mean did I know that Malone was going to be called away—yes, in a way. He’d mentioned the possibility of it over the ’phone to me earlier in the day. At any rate, I saw no use in staying, so I left at once and proceeded off the main road to my own shack, a few miles farther on. I keep it for occasional jaunts into the Island. I—”

“Have you any servants there?”

“No. It’s a small place and I prefer solitude when I’m out that way. So I slept there overnight and returned to the city in the morning by car.”

The Inspector smiled sardonically. “I suppose you met no one all night or in the morning who might verify your statements?”

“I don’t know what you mean. What are you driving at—?”

“Yes or no?”

“… No.”

“What time did you get to the city?”

“About ten-thirty. I rose rather late.”

“And what time was it Monday evening when you reached your friend Malone’s place and spoke to his valet?”

“Oh, I should say about eight or eight-thirty. I don’t recall exactly.”

The Inspector sent a mutely humorous glance across the room to Ellery. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Marchbanks’ florid face darkened and he rose abruptly.

“If you have nothing more to ask me, Inspector Queen, I must be going.” He picked up his hat and stick.

“Ah! Just one other thing. Sit down, Marchbanks.” Marchbanks reluctantly reseated himself. “How do you account for the murder of your sister?”

Marchbanks sniggered. “I thought you’d ask that. Up a tree, eh? Well, I’m not surprised. The police of this city are—”

“Answer my question, please.”

“I don’t account for it, and I can’t account for it!” cried Marchbanks suddenly. “That’s your business! All I know is that my sister has been shot to death, and I want her murderer sizzling in the chair.” He stopped, out of breath.

“Yes, yes, I realize your natural desire for revenge,” said the Inspector tiredly. “You may go, Mr. Marchbanks, but keep in town.”

V
INCENT CARMODY WAS THE
next caller. His reticence was as marked as usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiselessly in the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.

“Ah—Mr. Carmody,” began the Inspector uneasily. The antique dealer disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. “Ah—Mr. Carmody, I’ve called you in for a little consultation. We are checking up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand. …”