Chapter I: Part 1

THE FRENCH POWDER MYSTERY

_A Problem in Deduction_

By ELLERY QUEEN

_Author of "The Roman Hat Mystery"_

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
NEW YORK
MCMXXX

COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

_All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced
without the written permission of the publishers._

_Printed in the United States of America_

CONTENTS

THE FIRST EPISODE

1. "THE QUEENS WERE IN THE PARLOR"

2. "THE KINGS WERE IN THE COUNTING-HOUSE"

3. "HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL"

4. "ALL THE KING'S HORSES"

5. "AND ALL THE KING'S MEN"

6. TESTIMONY

7. THE CORPSE

8. THE WATCHER

9. THE WATCHERS

10. MARION

11. LOOSE ENDS

12. OUT THE WINDOW

THE SECOND EPISODE

13. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Bedroom_

14. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Lavatory_

15. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Cardroom_

16. AT THE APARTMENT: _Again the Bedroom_

17. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Library_

18. SCRAMBLED SIGNS

19. OPINIONS AND REPORTS

THE THIRD EPISODE

20. TOBACCO

21. KEYS AGAIN

22. BOOKS AGAIN

23. CONFIRMATION

24. THE QUEENS TAKE STOCK

THE FOURTH EPISODE

25. ELLERIUS BIBLIOPHILUS

26. THE TRAIL TO BERNICE

27. THE SIXTH BOOK

28. UNRAVELING THREADS

29. RAID!

30. REQUIEM

31. ALIBIS: MARION-ZORN

32. ALIBIS: MARCHBANKS

33. ALIBIS: CARMODY

34. ALIBIS: TRASK

35. ALIBIS: GRAY

36. "THE TIME HAS COME...."

THE LAST EPISODE

37. MAKE READY!

38. THE END OF ALL THINGS

SOME PERSONS OF IMPORTANCE ENCOUNTERED IN
THE COURSE OF THE FRENCH INVESTIGATION[1]

[Footnote 1: The success of this device in his recent novel (_The Roman Hat Mystery_) has encouraged Mr. Queen to repeat it here. It was found useful by many of Mr. Queen's readers in keeping the _dramatis personæ_ compactly before them.--THE EDITOR.]

NOTE: A list of the personalities involved in _The French Powder Mystery_ is here set at the disposition of the reader. He is urged indeed to con the list painstakingly before attacking the story proper, so that each name will be vigorously impressed upon his consciousness; moreover, to refer often to this page during his perusal of the story.... Bear in mind that the most piercing enjoyment deriving from indulgence in detectival fiction arises from the battle of wits between author and reader. Scrupulous attention to the cast of characters is frequently a means to this eminently desirable end.

ELLERY QUEEN.

WINIFRED MARCHBANKS FRENCH, _Requiescat in pace_. What cesspool of
evil lies beneath her murder?

BERNICE CARMODY, a child of ill-fortune.

CYRUS FRENCH, a common American avatar--merchant prince and Puritan.

MARION FRENCH, a silken Cinderella?

WESTLEY WEAVER, amanuensis and lover--and friend to the author.

VINCENT CARMODY, _l'homme sombre et malheureux_. A dealer in
antiquities.

JOHN GRAY, director. A donor of book-ends.

HUBERT MARCHBANKS, director. Ursine brother to the late Mrs. French.

A. MELVILLE TRASK, director. Sycophantic blot on a fair 'scutcheon.

CORNELIUS ZORN, director. An Antwerpian nabob, potbelly,
inhibitions and all.

MRS. CORNELIUS ZORN, Zorn's Medusa-wife.

PAUL LAVERY, the impeccable _français_. Pioneer in modern
art-decoration. Author of technical studies in the field of fine
arts, notably _L'Art de Faïence, publi par Monserat, Paris, 1913_.

ARNOLD MACKENZIE, General Manager of French's, a Scot.

WILLIAM CROUTHER, chief guardian of the law employed by French's.

DIANA JOHNSON, a study in normal ebon.

JAMES SPRINGER, Manager of the Book Department; a mysterioso.

PETER O'FLAHERTY, lead head night-watchman of the French
establishment.

HERMANN RALSKA, GEORGE POWERS, BERT BLOOM, nightwatchmen.

HORTENSE UNDERHILL, genus _housekeeper tyranna_.

DORIS KEATON, a maidenly minion.

THE HON. SCOTT WELLES, just a Commissioner of Police.

DR. SAMUEL PROUTY, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County.

HENRY SAMPSON, District Attorney of New York County.

TIMOTHY CRONIN, Assistant District Attorney of New York County.

THOMAS VELIE, Detective-Sergeant under the wing of Inspector Queen.

HAGSTROM, HESSE, FLINT, RITTER, JOHNSON, PIGGOTT, sleuths attached
to the command of Inspector Queen.

SALVATORE FIORELLI, Head of the Narcotic Squad.

"JIMMY," Headquarters fingerprint expert who has ever remained
last-nameless.

DJUNA, The Queens' beloved scull, who appears far too little.

Detectives, policemen, clerks, a physician, a nurse, a Negro
caretaker, a freight watchman, etc., etc., etc., etc.

and

INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN
who, being not himself, is sorely beset in this adventure

_and_

ELLERY QUEEN
who is so fortunate as to resolve it.

[ Illustration:

A--Elevator shaft

B--Stairway shaft

C, D, E, F, G--French apartment

C--Lavatory F--Anteroom D--Bedroom G--Cardroom E--Library

H--Ground floor door to elevator, facing 39th Street corridor

I--Ground floor door to stairway, facing Fifth Avenue corridor

J--Window containing Lavery Exhibition

K--Door to murder-window

L--O'Flaherty's office, with view of 39th Street entrance

M--Door from freight room ]

FOREWORD

EDITOR'S NOTE: It will be recalled by the readers of Mr. Queen's
last detective novel[2] that a foreword appeared therein written
by a gentleman designating himself as _J. J. McC._ The publishers
did not then, nor do they now, know the identity of this friend of
the two Queens. In deference to the author's wish, however, Mr.
McC. has been kind enough to pen once more a prefatory note to his
friend's new novel, and this note appears below.

[Footnote 2: _The Roman Hat Mystery_, by Ellery Queen; published by
Frederick A. Stokes Company, 1929.]

I have followed the fortunes of the Queens, father and son, with more than casual interest for many years. Longer perhaps than any other of their legion friends. Which places me, or so Ellery avers, in the unfortunate position of Chorus, that quaint herald of the olden drama who craves the auditor's sympathetic ear and receives at best his willful impatience.

It is with pleasure nevertheless that I once more enact my rôle of prologue-master in a modern tale of murder and detection. This pleasure derives from two causes: the warm reception accorded Mr. Queen's first novel, for the publication of which I was more or less responsible, under his _nom de plume_; and the long and sometimes arduous friendship I have enjoyed with the Queens.

I say "arduous" because the task of a mere mortal in attempting to keep step with the busy life of a New York detective Inspector and the intellectual activity of a book-worm and logician can adequately be described only by that word. Richard Queen, whom I knew intimately long before he retired, a veteran of thirty-two years' service in the New York police department, was a dynamic little gray man, a bundle of energy and industry. He knew his crime, he knew his criminals, and he knew his law. He brought to these not uncommon attributes, however, a daring of method that put him far above the average Detective Inspector. A firm advocate of the more inspirational methods of his son, he nevertheless was the practical policeman to his fingertips. Under his long régime the Detective Bureau, except for those stormy times when his official superiors took it upon themselves by overhauling the department to satisfy a theory or a press opinion, garnered a record of solved capital crimes which to this day is unique in the police history of New York City.

Ellery Queen, as may be imagined, deplored the more unimaginative aspects of his father's profession. He was the pure logician, with a generous dash of dreamer and artist thrown in--a lethal combination to those felons who were so unfortunate as to be dissected by the keen instruments of his mind, always under those questing pince-nez eyeglasses. His "life work" before his father's retirement was hardly visible to the eye, unless his casual custom of writing a detective story when the spirit moved him may be termed a life work.[3] He occupied himself chiefly in a student's pursuit of culture and knowledge, and since he had an independent income from a maternal uncle which removed him from the class of social parasite, he lived what he characteristically termed the "ideal intellectual life." It was natural for him to evince intense interest in crime, due to his environment, which from childhood had been saturated with tales of murder and law-breaking; but the artistic element in his nature made him useless for routine police investigation.

[Footnote 3: It is interesting to note that "Ellery Queen" published many detective novels during his father's Inspectorship, but under his real name, which is of course not Queen. These unrevealed stories, however, should not be confused with the stories published under the name of Ellery Queen, of which _The French Powder Mystery_ is the second. These latter are taken practically untouched from actual investigations undertaken by the author and his father; which accounts both for the _nom de plume_ and the secrecy shrouding the identity of the Queens.]

I recall vividly a conversation between father and son one day many years ago which brought out their wholly opposed viewpoints on the subject of crime-detection. I relate the conversation here because it will crystallize the difference between the two men so clearly--a point quite essential to complete understanding of the Queens.

The Inspector was expounding on his profession for my benefit, while Ellery lounged in his chair between us.

"Ordinary crime-detection," said the old man, "is almost wholly a mechanical matter. Most crimes are committed by 'criminals'--that is to say, by individuals habituated by environment and repetitious conduct to the pursuit of law-breaking. Such persons in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases have police records.

"The detective in these ninety-nine hypothetical cases has much to go on. Bertillon measurements--fingerprint records, intimate photographs, a complete dossier. Moreover, he has a little file of the criminal's idiosyncrasies. We have not developed this phase of detective science so well as the London, Vienna and Berlin police, but we have at least laid a foundation....

"A burglar who habitually makes use of a certain method of prying open doors and windows, or blowing safes, for example; a hold-up man who always wears a crude, home-made mask; a gunman who smokes and drops a certain brand of cigaret, purely from habit; a gangster with an inordinate fondness for women; a second-story man who always works alone, or one who invariably employs a 'look-out'.... These idiosyncrasies of method are sometimes as definite clues to the identity of a criminal as his fingerprints.

"It seems peculiar to the layman," went on Inspector Queen, when he had inhaled deeply from his old snuff-box--a habit inseparable from the man--"that a criminal should constantly use the same _modus operandi_--always drop the same cigaret smoked the same way; always wear the same kind of mask; always indulge in a wild orgy with women after a 'job.' But they forget that crime is the criminal's business, and that every business leaves its indelible mark of habit on the business man."

"Your psychological policeman, by the way," grinned Ellery, "doesn't scorn the aid of informers, either, McC. Something like the little tick-bird that sits on the rhino's back and warns of approaching danger...."

"I was coming to that," retorted his father equably. "As I said in the beginning, we have plenty to go on in the case of the hardened criminal. But most of all, despite my son's jeering attitude, we have come to depend upon the underworld's 'squealers,' 'stool-pigeons'--they're called less polite names, too--for the solution of routine crimes. It is an open secret that without the stool-pigeon a huge percentage of felonies would remain unsolved. They are as essential to the big city's police as a knowledge of the proper source-book is to the lawyer. It stands to reason--the underworld by its amazing grapevine inevitably knows who has pulled a big 'job.' Our problem is to find a 'stoolie' who will part with the tip for a fair consideration. It isn't always easy even then, by the way...."

"Child's play," said Ellery in a provocative tone. And he grinned.

"I firmly believe," went on the old Inspector imperturbably, "that every police department in the world would collapse in six months if the institution of underworld informing were to come to an end."

Ellery lazily took up the cudgels. "Most of what you say, Sire, is only too true. Which is why ninety per cent of your investigations hold not a vestige of glamour for me. But the last ten per cent!

"Where the police detective woefully falls down, J.J.," he said smiling, turning to me, "is in the case of the crime whose perpetrator is _not_ a habitual criminal, who has therefore left _no_ handy fingerprints which will correspond with another set in your files, about whose idiosyncrasies _nothing_ is known for the ludicrously simple reason that he has never been a criminal before. Such a person, generally speaking, is not of the underworld, and you can therefore pump your stool-pigeon to your heart's delight without eliciting the slightest morsel of useful information.

"You have nothing to go on, I am happy to say," he continued, twirling his pince-nez, "except the crime itself, and such clues and pertinences as that crime reveals upon observation and investigation. Obviously--and I say this with proper respect for my father's ancient profession--obviously to nab the criminal in such a case is the more difficult job by many headaches. Which explains two things--the hideously high percentage of unsolved crimes in this country, and my own absorbing avocation."

* * * * *

_The French Powder Mystery_ is one of the older cases from the Queens' files--an actual case, as I have said, and one in which Ellery exhibited scintillating proofs of his unique talents. He kept notes of this case during the French investigation--one of his few practical habits. Subsequently, with the unmasking of the murderer, he wrote a book around the real-life plot, developing and embroidering the facts to fit a literary pattern.

I induced him to polish up the manuscript and have it published as the second novel under his pen-name--and this at a time when I was under his sacred roof in the Queens' Italian villa. For it will be recalled that Ellery, having renounced his old profession utterly, now that he is married and domesticated, has hidden his old cases in the depths of a filing-cabinet and nothing less than the detonation of a presumptuous friend's exhortations has been able to make him consent to a revivication of the mellowed manuscripts.

It should be borne in mind, in all fairness to Inspector Queen, that the old sleuth's comparatively small rôle in the French case was due to the enormous press of official business during that hectic season, and in no small degree to the heckling he was subjected to by the newly appointed civilian, Scott Welles, to the post of Commissioner of Police.

In closing, it might be pleasant to point out that the Queens are at this writing still in their tiny mountain-home in Italy; that Ellery's son has learned to toddle and say with innocent gravity, "gramps"; that Djuna is in perfect health and has recently undergone the stress of a cosmic love-affair with a little witch of a country girl; that the Inspector is still writing monographs for German magazines and making occasional tours of inspection through the Continental police departments; that Mrs. Ellery Queen has happily recovered from her recent illness; and finally that Ellery himself, after his visit last fall to New York, has returned to that "gem-encrusted" Roman scenery with gratitude in his heart and, he says, (but I doubt it), no regrets for the distractions of the West Side.

Which leaves me little else to write but a most sincere hope that you will enjoy the reading of _The French Powder Mystery_ fully as much as I did.

J. J. MCC.

NEW YORK
_June, 1930_

THE FIRST EPISODE

"_Parenthetically speaking ... in numerous cases the sole
difference between success and failure in the detection of crime is
a sort of ... osmotic reluctance (on the part of the detective's
mental perceptions) to seep through the cilia of_ WHAT SEEMS TO BE
_and reach the vital stream of_ WHAT ACTUALLY IS."

--From A PRESCRIPTION FOR CRIME,
_By_ Dr. Luigi Pinna

1

"THE QUEENS WERE IN THE PARLOR"

They sat about the old walnut table in the Queen apartment--five oddly assorted individuals. There was District Attorney Henry Sampson, a slender man with bright eyes. Beside Sampson glowered Salvatore Fiorelli, head of the Narcotic Squad, a burly Italian with a long black scar on his right cheek. Red-haired Timothy Cronin, Sampson's assistant, was there. And Inspector Richard Queen and Ellery Queen sat shoulder to shoulder with vastly differing facial expressions. The old man sulked, bit the end of his mustache. Ellery stared vacantly at Fiorelli's cicatrix.

The calendar on the desk nearby read Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth, 19--. A mild spring breeze fluttered the window draperies.

The Inspector glared about the board. "What did Welles ever do? I'd like to know, Henry!"

"Come now, Q, Scott Welles isn't a bad scout."

"Rides to hounds, shoots a 91 on the course, and that makes him eligible for the police commissionership, doesn't it? Of course, of course! And the unnecessary work he piles on us...."

"It isn't so bad as that," said Sampson. "He's done some useful things, in all fairness. Flood Relief Committee, social work.... A man who has been so active in non-political fields can't be a total loss, Q."

The Inspector snorted. "How long has he been in office? No, don't tell me--let me guess. Two days.... Well, here's what he's done to us in two days. Get your teeth into this.

"Number one--reorganized the Missing Persons Bureau. And why poor Parsons got the gate _I_ don't know.... Number two--scrambled seven precinct captains so thoroughly that they need road maps to get back to familiar territory. Why? You tell me.... Number three--shifted the make-up of Traffic B, C, and D. Number four--reduced a square two dozen second-grade detectives to pounding beats. Any reason? Certainly! Somebody whose grand-uncle's niece knows the Governor's fourth secretary is out for blood.... Number five--raked over the Police School and changed the rules. And I know he has his eagle eye on my pet Homicide Squad...."

"You'll burst a blood-vessel," said Cronin.

"You haven't heard anything yet," said the Inspector grimly. "Every first-grade detective must now make out a daily report--in line of duty, mind you--a daily personal report direct to the Commissioner's office!"

"Well," grinned Cronin, "he's welcome to read 'em all. Half those babies can't _spell_ homicide."

"Read them nothing, Tim. Do you think he'd waste _his_ time? Not by your Aunt Martha. No, sir! He sends them into _my_ office by his shiny little secretary, Theodore B. B. St. Johns, with a polite message: 'The Commissioner's respects to Inspector Richard Queen, and the Commissioner would be obliged for an opinion within the hour on the veracity of the attached reports.' And there I am, sweating marbles to keep my head clear for this narcotic investigation--there I am putting my mark on a flock of flatfoot reports." The Inspector dug viciously into his snuff-box.

"You ain't spilled half of it, Queen," growled Fiorelli. "What's this wall-eyed walrus, this pussy-footing specimen of a 'civvie' do but sneak in on my department, sniff around among the boys, hook a can of opium on the sly, and send it down to Jimmy for--guess what--fingerprints! Fingerprints, by God! As if Jimmy could find the print of a dope-peddler after a dozen of the gang had had their paws on the can. Besides, we had the prints already! But no, he didn't stop for explanations. And then Stern searched high and low for the can and came runnin' to me with some crazy story that the guy we're lookin' for'd walked himself straight into Headquarters and snitched a pot of opium!" Fiorelli spread his huge hands mutely, stuck a stunted black cheroot into his mouth.

It was at this moment that Ellery picked up a little volume with torn covers from the table and began to read.

Sampson's grin faded. "All joking aside, though, if we don't gain ground soon on the drug ring we'll all be in a mess. Welles shouldn't have forced our hand and stirred up the White test case now. Looks as if this gang--" He shook his head dubiously.

"That's what riles me," complained the Inspector. "Here I am, just getting the feel of Pete Slavin's mob, and I have to spend a whole day down in Court testifying."

There was silence, broken after a moment by Cronin. "How did you come out on O'Shaughnessy in the Kingsley Arms murder?" he asked curiously. "Has he come clean?"

"Last night," said the Inspector. "We had to sweat him a little, but he saw we had the goods on him and came through." The harsh lines around his mouth softened. "Nice piece of work Ellery did there. When you stop to think that we were on the case a whole day without a glimmer of proof that O'Shaughnessy killed Herrin, although we were sure he'd done it--along comes my son, spends ten minutes on the scene, and comes out with enough proof to burn the murderer."

"Another miracle, eh?" chuckled Sampson. "What's the inside story, Q?" They glanced toward Ellery, but he was hunched in his chair, assiduously reading.

"As simple as rolling off a log," said Queen proudly. "It generally is when he explains it.--Djuna, more coffee, will you, son?"

An agile little figure popped out of the kitchenette, grinned, bobbed his dark head, and disappeared. Djuna was Inspector Queen's valet, man-of-all-work, cook, chambermaid, and unofficially the mascot of the Detective Bureau.[4] He emerged with a percolator and refilled the cups on the table. Ellery grasped his with a questioning hand and began to sip, his eyes riveted on the book.

[Footnote 4: See "_The Roman Hat Mystery_."]

"Simple's hardly the word," resumed the Inspector. "Jimmy had sprinkled that whole room with fingerprint powder and found nothing but Herrin's own prints--and Herrin was deader than a mackerel. The boys all took a whack at suggesting different places to sprinkle--it was quite a game while it lasted...." He slapped the table. "Then Ellery marched in. I reviewed the case for him and showed him what we'd found. You remember we spotted Herrin's footprints in the crumbled plaster on the dining-room floor. We were mighty puzzled about that, because from the circumstances of the crime it was impossible for Herrin to have been in that dining-room. And that's where superior mentality, I suppose you'd call it, turned the trick. Ellery said: 'Are you certain those are Herrin's footprints?' I told him they were, beyond a doubt. When I told him why, he agreed--yet it was impossible for Herrin to have been in that room. And there lay the prints, giving us the lie. 'Very well,' says this precious son o' mine, 'maybe he wasn't in the room, after all.' 'But Ellery--the prints!' I objected. 'I have a notion,' he says, and goes into the bedroom.

"Well," sighed the Inspector, "he certainly did have a notion. In the bedroom he looked over the shoes on Herrin's dead feet, took them off, got some of the print powder from Jimmy, called for the copy of O'Shaughnessy's fingerprints, sprinkled the shoes--and sure enough, there was a beautiful thumb impression! He matched it with the file print, and it proved to be O'Shaughnessy's.... You see, we'd looked in every place in that apartment for fingerprints except the one place where they were--on the dead body itself. Who'd ever think of looking for the murderer's sign on his victim's shoes?"

"Unlikely place," grunted the Italian. "How'd it figure?"

"Ellery reasoned that if Herrin wasn't in that room and his shoes were, it simply meant that somebody else wore or planted Herrin's shoes there. Infantile, isn't it? But it had to be thought of." The old man bore down on Ellery's bowed head with unconvincing irritability. "Ellery, what on earth are you reading? You're hardly an attentive host, son."

"That's one time a layman's familiarity with fingerprints came in handy," grinned Sampson.

"Ellery!"

Ellery looked up excitedly. He waved his book in triumph, and began to recite to the amazed group at the table: "'If they went to sleep with the sandals on, the thong worked into the feet and the sandals were frozen fast to them. This was partly due to the fact that, since their old sandals had failed, they wore untanned brogans made of newly flayed ox-hides.'[5] Do you know, dad, that gives me a splendid idea?" His face beamed as he reached for a pencil.

[Footnote 5: I had been brushing up on my Xenophon, and when I ran across the passage relating to the Retreat of the Ten Thousand through ancient Armenia, the shoe reference gave me an idea for a short story. The incident is ridiculous in retrospect, although at the time I was quite oblivious to its humor.--E. Q.]

Inspector Queen swung to his feet, grumbling. "You can't get anything out of him when he's in that mood.... Come along, Henry--you going, Fiorelli?--let's get down to City Hall."

2

"THE KINGS WERE IN THE COUNTING-HOUSE"

It was eleven o'clock when Inspector Queen left his apartment on West 87th Street in the company of Sampson, Cronin and Fiorelli, bound for the Criminal Courts Building.

At precisely the same moment, some miles to the south, a man stood quietly at the library dormer-window of a private apartment. The apartment was situated on the sixth floor of French's, the Fifth Avenue department store. The man at the window was Cyrus French, chief stockholder of French's and president of its Board of Directors.

French was watching the swirling traffic at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 39th Street with unseeing eyes. He was a dour-visaged man of sixty-five, stocky, corpulent, iron-grey. He was dressed in a dark business suit. A white flower gleamed on his lapel.

He said: "I hope you made it clear that the meeting was for this morning at eleven, Westley," and turned sharply to eye a man seated beside a glass-topped desk before the window.

Westley Weaver nodded. He was a fresh-faced young man, clean-shaven and alert, in the early thirties.

"Quite clear," he replied pleasantly. He looked up from a stenographic notebook in which he had been writing. "As a matter of fact, here is a carbon copy of the memorandum I typed yesterday afternoon. I left one copy for each director, besides this one which you found on the desk this morning." He indicated a slip of blue-tinted paper lying beside the desk telephone. Except for five books standing between cylindrical onyx book-ends at the extreme right of the desk, a telephone, and the memorandum, the glass top was bare. "I followed up the memos to the directors with telephone calls about a half-hour ago. They all promised to be here on time."

French grunted and turned again to look down upon the maze of morning traffic. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to dictate store business in his slightly grating voice.

They were interrupted five minutes later by a knock on the outer door, beyond an anteroom. French irritably called, "Come!" and there was the sound of a hand fumbling with the invisible knob. French said, "Oh, yes, the door's shut, of course; open it, Westley."

Weaver went quickly through the anteroom and flung open the heavy door. He admitted a weazened little old man who showed pale gums in a grin, and with an amazing celerity for a man of his years tripped into the room.

"Never seem to remember that locked door of yours, Cyrus," he piped, shaking hands with Westley and French. "Am I the first?"

"That you are, John," said French with a vague smile. "The others should be here any moment now."

Weaver offered the old man a chair. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Gray?"

Gray's seventy years sat lightly on his thin shoulders. He had a bird-like head covered with thin white hair. His face was the indeterminate color of parchment; it was constantly wreathed in smiles which lifted his white mustache above thin red lips. He wore a wing collar and an ascot tie.

He accepted the chair and sat down with a preposterously lithe movement.

"How was your trip, Cyrus?" he asked. "Did you find Whitney amenable?"

"Quite, quite!" returned French, resuming his pacing. "In fact, I should say that if we officially come to a complete agreement this morning, we can consummate the merger in less than a month."

"Fine! Good stroke of business!" John Gray rubbed his hands in a curious gesture; they rasped together.

There was a second knock at the door. Weaver again went into the anteroom.

"Mr. Trask and Mr. Marchbanks," he announced. "And if I'm not mistaken, there comes Mr. Zorn from the elevator." Two men passed into the room, and a moment later a third; whereupon Weaver hurried back to his chair by the desk. The door swung shut with a click.

The newcomers shook hands all around and dropped into chairs at a long conference table in the middle of the room. They made a peculiar group. Trask--A. Melville Trask in the Social Register--fell into a habitually drooping attitude, sprawling in his chair and playing idly with a pencil on the table before him. His associates paid little attention to him. Hubert Marchbanks sat down heavily. He was a fleshy man of forty-five, florid and clumsy-handed. At regular intervals his loud voice broke in an asthmatic wheeze. Cornelius Zorn regarded his fellow directors from behind old-fashioned gold-rimmed eyeglasses. His head was bald and square, his fingers were thick, and he wore a reddish mustache. His short figure completely filled the chair. He looked startlingly like a prosperous butcher.

French took a seat at the head of the table and regarded the others solemnly.

"Gentlemen--this is a meeting which will go down in the history of department store merchandising." He paused, cleared his throat. "Westley, will you see that a man is posted at the door so that we may continue absolutely undisturbed?"

"Yes, sir." Weaver picked up the telephone on the desk and said, "Mr. Crouther's office, please." A moment later he said, "Crouther? Who? Oh, yes.... Never mind looking for him; you can take care of it. Send one of the store detectives up to the door of Mr. French's private apartment. He is to see that no one disturbs Mr. French while the Board meeting is going on.... He is not to interrupt us--merely station himself at the door.... Whom will you send?... Oh! Jones? Good enough. Tell Crouther about it when he comes in.... Oh, he's been in since nine? Well, tell him for me when you see him; I'm very busy just now." He hung up and returned quickly to a chair at French's right. He snatched his pencil and poised it over his notebook.

The five directors were poring over a sheaf of papers. French sat staring at the blue May sky outside while they familiarized themselves with the details of the documents, his heavy hands restless on the table top.

Suddenly he turned to Weaver and said in an undertone, "I'd almost forgotten, Westley. Get the house on the wire. Let's see--it's eleven-fifteen. They should be up by this time. Mrs. French may be anxious about me--I haven't communicated with her since I left for Great Neck yesterday."

Weaver gave the number of the French house to the operator, and a moment later spoke incisively into the mouthpiece.

"Hortense? Is Mrs. French up yet?... Well, is Marion there, then? Or Bernice?... Very well, let me speak with Marion...."

He shifted his body away from French, who was talking in a low tone to old John Gray. Weaver's eyes were bright and his face suddenly flushed.

"Hello, hello! Marion?" he breathed into the telephone. "This is Wes. I'm sorry--you know--I'm calling from the apartment--your father would like to speak to you...."

A woman's low voice answered. "Westley dear! I understand.... Oh, I'm so sorry, darling, but if father's there we can't talk very long. You love me? Say it!"

"Oh, but I _can't_," whispered Weaver fiercely, his back rigid and formal. But his face, turned away from French, was eloquent.

"I know you can't, silly boy." The girl laughed. "I just said it to make you wriggle. But you do, don't you?" She laughed again.

"Yes. Yes. Oh, YES!"

"Then let me talk to father, darling."

Weaver cleared his throat hastily and turned to French.

"Here's Marion at last, sir," he said, handing the instrument to the old man. "Hortense Underhill says that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice has come down yet."

French hurriedly took the telephone from Weaver's hands. "Marion, this is father. I've just arrived from Great Neck and I'm feeling fine. Everything all right?... What's the matter? You seem a little tired.... All right, dear. I merely wanted to let you know that I'm back safely. You might tell Mother for me--I'll be too busy to call again this morning. Good-by, dear."

He returned to his chair, looked gravely around at the Board, and said, "Now gentlemen, since you've had a few moments to become familiar with the figures I thrashed out with Whitney, let's get to work." He brandished a forefinger.

* * * * *

At eleven forty-five the telephone bell jangled, interrupting a heated discussion between French and Zorn. Weaver's hand leaped to the instrument.

"Hello, hello! Mr. French is very busy just now.... Is that you, Hortense? What is it?... Just a moment." He turned to French. "Pardon me, sir--Hortense Underhill is on the wire and she seems disturbed about something. Will you talk to her or call back?"

French glared at Zorn, who was fiercely dabbing away the perspiration on his thick neck, and snatched the telephone from Weaver.

"Well, what is it?"

A quavering feminine voice answered. "Mr. French, something dreadful's happened. I can't find Mrs. French or Miss Bernice!"

"Eh? What's that you say? What's the matter? Where are they?"

"I don't know, sir. They hadn't rung for the maids all morning, and I went up to see if anything was wrong a few minutes ago. You'll--you'll never believe it, sir--I can't understand--"

"Well!"

"Their beds aren't touched. I don't think they slept home last night."

French's voice rose in anger. "You silly woman--is that why you're interrupting my Board meeting? It was raining last night and they probably stayed overnight somewhere with friends."

"But Mr. French--they would have called, or--"

"Please, Hortense! Go back to your housework. I'll look into this later." He slammed the receiver on the hook.

"Foolishness ..." he muttered. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He turned to Zorn again, palms on the table. "Now what's that? Do you mean to tell me that you'd stand in the way of this merger just because of a paltry few thousands? Let me tell you something, Zorn...."

3

"HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL"

French's occupied a square block in the heart of the mid-town section of New York, on Fifth Avenue. On the borderline between the more fashionable upper avenue and the office-building district farther downtown, it catered to a mixed patronage of wealth and penury. At the noon hour its broad aisles and six floors were crowded with shop girls and stenographers; in mid-afternoon the tone of its clientele improved perceptibly. It boasted at once therefore the lowest prices, the most modern models, the widest assortment of saleable articles, in New York. As a result of this compromise between attractive prices and exclusive merchandise it was the most popular department store in the city. From nine o'clock in the morning until five-thirty in the evening French's was thronged with shoppers, the sidewalks surrounding the marble structure and its many wings almost impassable.

Cyrus French, pioneer department store owner, assisted by his associate Board, exerted the full financial strength of his powerful organization to make French's--an institution of two generations of French ownership--the show place of the city. In those days, long before the artistic movement had been communicated in the United States to the more practical articles of use and wear, French's had already made contact with its European representatives and held public exhibitions of art objects, art furniture, and kindred modernistic ware. These exhibits attracted huge crowds to the store. One of its main windows fronting Fifth Avenue was devoted to exhibits of periodically imported articles. This window became the focal point for the eyes of all New York. Curious throngs constantly besieged its sheathing of plate glass.

On the morning of Tuesday the twenty-fourth of May, at three minutes of the noon hour, the heavy unpaneled door to this window opened and a Negress in black dress, white apron and white cap entered. She sauntered about the window, seemed to appraise its contents, and then stood stiffly at attention, as if awaiting a predetermined moment to begin her mysterious work.

The contents of the window were arranged to illustrate a combination living-room and bedroom, of an ultra-modern design created by Paul Lavery, of Paris, according to a placard in a corner. This card acknowledged Lavery's authorship of the articles on exhibition, and called attention to "lectures on the fifth floor by M. Lavery." The rear wall, into which the one door opened by which the Negress had entered, was unrelieved by ornament and tinted a pastelle green. On this wall hung a huge Venetian mirror, unframed, its edges cut in an irregular design. Against the wall stood a long narrow table, exhibiting an unpainted grain highly waxed. On the table stood a squat prismatic lamp, made of a clouded glass procurable at that period only from a unique modern art-objects factory in Austria. Odd pieces--chairs, end-tables, bookcases, a divan, all of unorthodox construction, peculiar and daring in conception--stood about the gleaming floor of the window-room. The side walls served as background for several pieces of miscellaneous utility.

The lighting fixtures in the ceiling and on the side walls were all of the "concealed" variety rapidly gaining vogue on the Continent.

At the stroke of noon the Negress, who had remained motionless since her entrance into the room, stirred into activity. By this time a viscid mass of people had gathered outside the window on the sidewalk, awaiting the Negress's demonstration with hungry eyes and restless shoulders.

Setting down a metal rack on which were hung a number of simply lettered placards, the Negress picked up a long ivory wand and, pointing to the legend on the first placard, proceeded solemnly to one of the pieces on the east wall and began a pantomimic demonstration of its construction and properties.

The fifth placard--by this time the crowd had doubled in size and overflowed from the sidewalk--bore the words:

WALL-BED

This Article of Furniture
Is Concealed in the West
Wall and Is Operated Electrically
by a Push-Button.
It is of Special Design,
Created by M. Paul Lavery,
and Is the Only One of Its
Kind in This Country.

Pointing to the words once more, for emphasis, the Negress sedately walked to the west wall, indicated with a flourish a small ivory button set in a nacreous panel, and touched the button with one long black finger.

Before pressing it, she looked out once more on the jostling, expectant crowd before the window. Necks craned eagerly to see the marvel about to be revealed.

What they saw was a marvel indeed--so unexpected, so horrible, so grotesque that at the instant of its occurrence faces froze into masks of stunned incredulity. It was like a moment snatched out of an unbelievable nightmare.... For, as the Negress pushed the ivory button, a section of the wall slid outward and downward with a swift noiseless movement, two small wooden legs unfolded and shot out of the forepart of the bedstead, the bed settled to a horizontal position--and the body of a woman, pale-faced, crumpled, distorted, her clothes bloody in two places, fell from the silken sheet to the floor at the Negress's feet.

It was twelve-fifteen exactly.

4

"ALL THE KING'S HORSES"

The Negress uttered one horrified shriek, so piercing that it was distinctly audible through the heavy glass window, rolled her eyes wildly, and fell fainting at the side of the body.

The spectators outside still presented a tableau--they were stricken into silence, petrified with fright. Then a woman on the sidewalk, her face pressed immovably to the glass, screamed. Immobility became frenzy, silence a dull unpunctuated roar. The crowd surged away from the window, pushing madly backward, stampeding in terror. A child fell and was trampled in the crush. A police whistle blew, and a bluecoat ran shouting through the crowd, using his club freely. He seemed bewildered by the uproar--he had not yet seen the two still figures in the exhibition-window.

Suddenly the door in the window burst open and a lean man wearing a short pointed beard and a monocle ran into the room. His staring eyes took in the two motionless figures on the shining floor, traveled jerkily to the milling crowd outside and the policeman swinging his club, and returned with dazed disbelief to the floor. With a soundless oath he sprang forward, grasped a heavy silk cord in a corner near the plate-glass window, and pulled. A translucent curtain fell immediately, shutting off the view of the frantic people in the street.

The bearded man knelt at the side of the Negress, felt her pulse, hesitantly touched the skin of the other woman, rose and ran back to the door. A growing crowd of sales-girls and shoppers was collecting on the main floor of the department store, just outside the window. Three men--floorwalkers--rushed through as if to enter.

The man in the window spoke sharply: "You--get the head store detective at once--no, never mind--here he comes--Mr. Crouther! _Mr. Crouther!_ This way! Here!"

A heavy-set, broad-shouldered man with a mottled complexion shoved his way, cursing, through the crowd. He had just reached the entrance of the window when the policeman who had dispersed the crowd on the sidewalk ran up and dashed after him into the window. The three men disappeared, the bluecoat slamming the door shut behind them.

The bearded man stood aside. "There's been a terrible accident, Crouther.... Glad you're here, officer.... My God, what an affair!"

The head store detective pounded across the room and glared down at the two women. "What happened to the coon, Mr. Lav-ery?" he bellowed at the bearded man.

"Fainted, I suppose!"

"Here, Crouther, let me take a look," said the policeman, unceremoniously pushing Lavery aside. He bent over the body of the woman who had tumbled from the bed.

Crouther cleared his throat importantly. "Listen here, Bush. This is no time to make an examination. We oughtn't to touch a thing until Headquarters is notified. Mr. Lav-ery and me--we'll stand guard here while you use the 'phone. Go ahead now, Bush, don't be an egg!"

The policeman stood undecidedly for a moment, scratched his head, and finally left the room with hurried steps.

"This is one sweet mess," growled Crouther. "What happened here, Mr. Lav-ery? Who in hell is _this_ woman?"

Lavery started nervously and plucked at his beard with long thin fingers. "Why, don't you know? But of course not.... Good Heavens, Crouther, what are we to do?"

Crouther frowned. "Now don't go getting yourself all excited, Mr. Lav-ery. This is a police job, pure and simple. Lucky I was on the scene so quick. We gotta wait for the detail from Headquarters. Just take it easy now--"

Lavery regarded the store detective coldly. "I'm perfectly all right, Mr. Crouther," he said. "I suggest--" he weighted the word with authority--"that you immediately marshal your store forces to keep order on the main floor. Make it appear as if nothing out of the way has happened. Call Mr. MacKenzie. Send somebody to notify Mr. French and the Board of Directors. I understand they're having a meeting upstairs. This is--an affair of a grave nature--graver than you know. Go now!"

Crouther looked at Lavery rebelliously, shook his head, and made for the door. As he opened it a small dark man with a physician's bag stepped into the room. He glanced quickly around and without a word crossed to the side of the two bodies.

He favored the Negress with a scant glance and a feeling of the pulse. He spoke without looking up.

"Here--Mr. Lavery, is it?--you'll have to help--get one of the men outside to give you a hand--the Negress has merely fainted--get her a glass of water and put her on that divan there--send somebody for one of the nurses from the infirmary...."

Lavery nodded. He went to the door and looked out over the whispering crowd on the floor.

"Mr. MacKenzie! Here, please!"

A middle-aged man with a pleasant Scotch face hurried up and into the room. "Help me, please," said Lavery.

The doctor busied himself over the body of the other woman. His movements concealed her face. Lavery and MacKenzie picked up the reviving form of the Negress and carried her to the divan. A floorwalker outside was dispatched for a glass of water and reappeared in a twinkling. The Negress gulped, groaned.

The doctor looked up gravely. "This woman is dead," he announced. "Has been for quite a while. What's more, she's been shot. Got it in the heart. Looks like murder, Mr. Lavery!"

"_Nom du chien!_" muttered Lavery. His face was sickly white.

MacKenzie scurried across the room to look down at the huddled corpse. He fell back with a cry.

"Good God! _It's Mrs. French!_"

5

"AND ALL THE KING'S MEN"

The window-door opened quickly and two men stepped in. One, a tall lank individual smoking a blackish cigar, stopped short, peered about him, and then, catching sight of the body, immediately advanced to the farther side of the wall-bed, on the floor by which lay the dead woman. He favored the little physician with a keen glance, nodded and without further ado dropped to his knees. After a moment he looked up.

"The store doctor, are you?"

The physician nodded nervously. "Yes. I've made a superficial examination. She's dead. I--"

"I can see that," said the newcomer. "I'm Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner. Stand by, doctor." Again he bent over the body, opening his bag with one hand.

The second of the two men who had arrived was an iron-jawed giant. He had stopped at the door, softly prodding it shut behind him. Now his eyes flickered over the frozen faces of Lavery, MacKenzie and the store doctor. His own face was cold and harsh and expressionless.

It was not until Dr. Prouty began his examination that this man vitalized into action. He took a purposeful step forward toward MacKenzie, but stopped suddenly as the door shivered under a violent pounding.

"Come in!" he said sharply, standing between the door and the bed, so that the body was hidden from the newcomers.

The door was flung aside. A small army of men surged forward. The tall man blocked their path.

"Just a moment," he said lowly. "We can't have so many people in here. Who are you?"

Cyrus French, flushed and choleric, snapped: "I am the owner of this establishment, and these gentlemen all have a right to be here. They are the Board of Directors--this is Mr. Crouther, our head store detective--stand aside, please."

The tall man did not move. "Mr. French, eh? Board of Directors?... Hello, Crouther.... Who is this?" He pointed to Westley Weaver, who hovered about the edge of the group, a trifle pale.

"Mr. Weaver, my secretary," said French impatiently. "Who are you, sir? What's happened here? Let me pass."

"I see." The tall man reflected a moment, hesitated, then said firmly, "I'm Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad. Sorry, Mr. French, but you'll have to abide by my orders here. Come in, but don't touch anything and let me give the orders." He stepped aside. He seemed to be waiting for something with unwearying patience.

Lavery ran forward, his eyes distended as he saw Cyrus French stride toward the bed. He intercepted the old man, grasped his lapel.

"Mr. French--please do not look--just now...."

French petulantly brushed him aside. "Let me be, Lavery! What is this--a conspiracy? Ordered about in my own store!" He proceeded to the bed, and Lavery fell back, a resigned look on his mobile face. Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he took John Gray aside, speaking in the director's ear. Gray paled, stood transfixed to the spot, then with an indistinct cry he leaped to French's side.

He was just in time. The store owner had bent curiously over Dr. Prouty's shoulder, taken one look at the woman on the floor, and collapsed without a sound. Gray caught him as he sank. Lavery sprang forward and assisted in carrying the old man's limp body to a chair on the other side of the room.

A nurse in white cap and gown had slipped into the room and was ministering to the hysterical Negress on the divan. She went quickly over to French, slipped a vial under his nose, and instructed Lavery to chafe his hands. Gray paced nervously up and down, muttering to himself. The store doctor hurried over to help the nurse.

The directors and the secretary, huddled together in a horror-struck group, moved hesitantly toward the body. Weaver and Marchbanks cried out together at seeing the woman's face. Zorn bit his lip and turned away. Trask averted his face in horror. Then, in the same mechanical motion, they moved slowly backward to a corner, glancing helplessly at each other.

Velie crooked a huge finger at Crouther. "What have you done?"

The store detective grinned. "Taken care of all the details, don't you worry. I've got all my men scrambled on the main floor and they've scattered the mob. Got everything well in hand. Trust Bill Crouther for that, Sergeant! Won't be much for you guys to do, that's a fact."

Velie grunted. "Well, here's something for you to do while we're waiting. Get a big stretch of the main floor roped off right around this section, and keep everybody away. It's a little late now, I suppose, to close the doors. Wouldn't do much good. Whoever did this job is miles away from here by now. Get going, Crouther!"

The store detective nodded, turned away, turned back. "Say, Sergeant--know just who the woman on the floor is? Might help us right now."

"Yes?" Velie smiled frostily. "Can't see how. But it doesn't take much to figure it out. It's French's wife. Blast it, this is a great place for a murder!"

"No!" Crouther's jaw dropped. "French's wife, hey? The big cheese himself.... Well, well!" He stole a glance at the slack figure of French and a moment later his voice resounded through the window as he roared instructions outside.

Silence in the window-room. The group in the corner had not moved. The Negress and French had both been revived--the black woman's eyes rolling wildly as she clung to the starched skirt of the nurse, French's face a pasty white as he half-lay in the chair listening to Gray's low-voiced words of sympathy. Gray himself seemed drained of his queer vitality.

Velie beckoned to MacKenzie, who hovered nervously at Prouty's shoulder.

"You're MacKenzie, the store manager?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"It's time to get a move on, Mr. MacKenzie." Velie eyed him coldly. "Get a hold on yourself. Somebody's got to keep his wits about him. This is part of your job." The store manager squared his shoulders. "Now listen. This is important and it's got to be done thoroughly." He lowered his voice. "No employees to leave the building--item number one, and I'm holding you responsible for its execution. Number two, check up on all employees who are not at their posts. Number three, make out a list of all employees absent from the store to-day, with the reasons for their absence. Hop to it!"

MacKenzie mumbled submissively, shuffled away.

Velie took Lavery, who stood talking to Weaver, to one side.

"You seem to have some authority here. May I ask who you are?"

"My name is Paul Lavery, and I am exhibiting the modern furniture on display upstairs on the fifth floor. This room is a sample of my exhibition."

"I see. Well, you've kept your head, Mr. Lavery. The dead woman is Mrs. French?"

Lavery averted his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant. It was quite a shock to all of us, no doubt. How in God's name did she ever get--" He stopped abruptly, worried his lip.

"Did she ever get here, you meant to say?" finished Velie grimly. "Well now, that's a question, isn't it? I--Just a moment, Mr. Lavery!"

He turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the door to greet a group of new arrivals.

"Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Queen! Glad you've come, sir. You'll find things in a rotten mess." He stepped aside and waved a large hand at the room and its assorted occupants. "Pretty, eh, sir? More like a wake than the scene of a crime!" It was a long speech for Velie.

Inspector Richard Queen--small, pert, like a white-thatched bird--followed the circuit of Velie's hand with his eyes.

"My goodness!" he exclaimed in annoyance. "How did so many people get into this room? I'm surprised at you, Thomas."

"Inspector." Queen paused at Velie's deep voice. "I thought it might--" his voice became inaudible as he murmured a few words in the Inspector's ear.

"Yes, yes, I see, Thomas." The Inspector patted his arm. "Tell me soon. Let's have a peep at the body."

He trotted across the room and slipped to the far side of the wall-bed. Prouty, his hands busy on the corpse, nodded in greeting.

"Murder," he said. "No sign of the revolver."

The Inspector peered intently into the ghastly face of the dead woman, ran his eye over the disarranged clothing.

"Well, we'll have the boys look a little later. Keep going, Doc." He sighed and returned to Velie at the other side of the room.