Chapter II: Part 2

"Now let's have it, Thomas. From the beginning." His little eyes roved judiciously about the men in the room as Velie rapidly outlined in an undertone the events of the past half-hour.... Outside a body of plainclothes men and a scattering of uniformed policemen could be seen. The patrolman, Bush, was among them.

Ellery Queen shut the door and leaned against it. He was tall and sparely built, with athletic hands, taper-fingered. He wore immaculate grey tweeds and carried a stick and a light coat. On his thin nose perched a pince-nez. Above it rose a forehead of wide proportions, white and untroubled. His hair was smoothly black. From the pocket of the coat protruded a small volume in faded covers.

He looked curiously at each person in the room--curiously and slowly, as if he enjoyed his scrutiny. The characteristics of each individual as his eyes passed from one to another he seemed to store away in a corner of his brain. His examination was almost visibly digestive. Yet it was not entirely concentrated, for he listened intently to each word of Velie's recital to the Inspector. Suddenly his eyes, in their panoramic course, met those of Westley Weaver, who stood miserably in a corner leaning against the wall.

Into the eyes of each leaped instant recognition. They started forward simultaneously, hands outstretched.

"Ellery Queen. Thank God!"

"By the Seven Virgins of Theophilus--Westley Weaver!" They wrung each other's hands with undisguised pleasure. Inspector Queen glanced their way, quizzically; then he turned back to hear the last of Velie's rumbled comments.

"It's awfully good seeing your classic features again, Ellery," murmured Weaver. His face dropped back into strained lines. "Are you--is that the Inspector?"

"In the indefatigable flesh, Westley," said Ellery. "The pater himself, with his nose to the scent.--But tell me things, boy. It's--O Tempes!--isn't it five or six years since we last met?"

"All of that, Ellery. I'm glad you're here, for more than one reason, El. It's a little comforting," said Weaver in a low voice. "This--this thing...."

Ellery's smile faded. "The tragedy, eh, Westley? Tell me--how do you figure in it? You didn't kill the lady, by any chance?" His tone was jocular, but behind it was a certain anxiety which his father, ears cocked, found a little strange.

"Ellery!" Weaver's eyes met his straightforwardly. "That isn't even funny." Then the look of misery crept in again. "It's awful, El. Just awful. You haven't any idea how awful it is...."

Ellery patted Weaver's arm lightly, removed his pince-nez with an absent motion. "I'll get it all in a moment, Westley. I'll hold _tête-à-tête_ conversation with you later. Hang on, won't you? I see my father signaling me frantically. Chin up, Wes!" He moved away, again smiling. Weaver's eyes held a glimmer of hope as he dropped back against the wall.

The Inspector murmured to his son for a moment. Ellery made a low-voiced reply. Then Ellery strode over to the farther side of the bed and stood over Prouty, watching the medical examiner as he worked swiftly over the body.

The Inspector turned to the assembled crowd in the room. "A little quiet now, please," he said.

A thick curtain of silence dropped over the room.

6

TESTIMONY

The Inspector stepped forward.

"It will be necessary for every one to wait here," he began sententiously, "while we make some elementary but essential investigations. Let me say at once, to forestall any claims of special privilege that may be made, that this is undoubtedly a case of murder. In cases of murder, the most serious charge that can be brought against an individual, the law is no respecter either of persons or institutions. A woman is dead of violence. Somebody killed her. That somebody may be miles away at this moment, or in this room now. You can understand, gentlemen"--and his tired eyes considered the five directors especially--"that the sooner we get down to business, the better. Too much time has been lost already."

He went abruptly to the door, opened it, and called in a penetrating voice: "Piggott! Hesse! Hagstrom! Flint! Johnson! Ritter!"

Six detectives strolled into the room. Ritter, a burly man, closed the door behind him.

"Hagstrom, your book." The detective whipped out a small notebook and a pencil.

"Piggott, Hesse, Flint--the room!" He added something in a low tone. The three detectives grinned and dispersed to different portions of the room. They began a slow, methodical search of furniture, floors, walls.

"Johnson--the bed!" One of the two remaining men went directly to the wall-bed and began to examine its contents.

"Ritter--stand by." The Inspector slipped his hands into a coat pocket and withdrew his brown old snuff-box. He filled his nostrils with aromatic snuff, inhaled deeply and restored the box to his pocket.

"Now!" he said, and glared about the room at his thoroughly cowed audience. Ellery met his eye for an instant and smiled slightly. "Now! You, there!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Negress, who was staring at him with wide eyes, her skin greyish-violet with fright.

"Yassuh," she quavered, tottering to her feet.

"Your name?" snapped Queen.

"Di--Diana Johnson, suh," she whispered, gazing at him in scared fascination.

"Diana Johnson, eh?" The Inspector took a step forward, leveled his finger at her. "Why did you open this bed at twelve-fifteen to-day?"

"Ah--Ah had to, suh," she faltered. "Dat was--"

Lavery waved his arm hesitantly at the Inspector. "I can explain that--"

"Sir!" Lavery colored, then smiled cynically. "Go on, Johnson."

"Yassuh, yassuh! Dat was de reg'lar time fo' de exhibition, suh. Ah always comes out into dis room at a couple o' minutes befo' twelve an' gets ready fo' de exhibition, suh." The words tumbled out. "An' den, when Ah'd just got through showin' dis contraption hyah"--she indicated the divan, which seemed a combination of sofa, bed and bookcase--"Ah goes to de wall, pushes de button, and den dat--dat dead 'ooman falls out right at mah feet...." She shuddered and drew a deep breath, glancing at the detective Hagstrom, who was busily taking down her words in shorthand.

"You had no idea the body was inside when you pressed the button, Miss Johnson?" demanded the Inspector.

The Negress's eyes flew wide open. "Nosuh! Ah wouldn't 'a' teched dat bed fo' a thousan' dolluhs ef Ah'd know dat!" The uniformed nurse giggled nervously. She sobered instantly as the Inspector stared in her direction.

"Very well. That's all." He turned to Hagstrom. "Got every word?" The detective nodded, maintaining a severe silence as the old man winked fleetingly at him. Inspector Queen turned back to the group. "Nurse, take Diana Johnson to your hospital upstairs and keep her there until I give the word!"

The Negress stumbled in her eagerness to leave the window-room. The nurse followed somewhat sulkily behind.

The Inspector had Patrolman Bush summoned. The policeman saluted, answered a few questions about what had occurred on the sidewalk at the moment the body fell, and subsequently inside the window-room, and was commissioned to go back to his post on Fifth Avenue.

"Crouther!" The store detective was standing by the side of Ellery and Dr. Prouty. He now slouched forward and stared boldly at Queen. "You're the head store detective?"

"Yes, Inspector." He shuffled his feet and grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth.

"Sergeant Velie tells me that he instructed you to scatter your men through the main floor soon after the body was discovered. Have you attended to that?"

"Yes, sir. Got a squad of a half-dozen store detectives workin' outside, and put every available 'spotter' on the job, too," replied Crouther promptly. "But they haven't turned up anybody suspicious yet."

"Could hardly expect it." The Inspector took another pinch of snuff. "Tell me just what you found when you came in here."

"Well, Inspector, the first I knew about the murder was when one of my detectives 'phoned me upstairs in my office that something had happened outside on the sidewalk--riot or something. I came down right away and as I passed this window I heard Mr. Lavery yell for me. I ran in, saw the body layin' here, and the darky fainting on the floor. Bush, the officer on the beat, came in right after me. I told 'em nothing ought to be touched until the Headquarters men got here, and then got right after the mobs outside, and generally kept an eye on everything until Sergeant Velie got here. I followed his orders after that, that's a fact. I--"

"Here, here, Crouther, that's plenty," said the Inspector. "Don't leave, I may be able to use you later. Short-handed enough as it is, the Lord knows. A department store!" He muttered under his breath and turned to Dr. Prouty.

"Doc! Ready for me yet?"

The kneeling police doctor nodded. "Just about, Inspector. Want me to shoot the works right here?" He seemed tacitly to question the wisdom of imparting his information before a group of laymen.

"Might as well," grunted Queen. "It can't be very enlightening."

"Don't know about that." Prouty stood up with a groan, took a firmer grip on the black cigar between his teeth.

"Woman was killed by two bullets," he said deliberately, "both from a Colt .38 revolver. Probably from the same gun--hard to tell exactly without putting them under the microscope." He held up two encarmined blobs of metal, blunted completely out of shape. The Inspector took them, turned them over in his fingers, and in silence handed them to Ellery, who immediately bent over them with a curious eagerness.

Prouty stared dreamily down at the body, plunging his hands into his pockets. "One bullet," he continued, "entered the body directly in the center of the cardiac region. Nice jagged _pericardial_ wound, Inspector. Smashed the _sternum_ bone, pierced the _pericardial septum_, which is the membrane separating the _pericardium_ from the main body cavity, then took the logical course through--first the fibrous layer of the _pericardium_, then the serous inner layer, and finally the anterior tip of the heart, where the great vessels are. Spilled quite a bit of the yellow _pericardial_ fluid, too. Bullet entered the body at an angle and it's left a fearful wound...."

"Then death was instantaneous?" asked Ellery. "The second bullet was unnecessary?"

"Quite," said Prouty dryly. "Death would be instantaneous from either wound. As a matter of fact, the second bullet--maybe it's not the second, though, I can't tell of course which hit her first--bullet number two made a better job of it than even bullet number one. Because it penetrated the _precordia_, which is the region a little below the heart and above the abdomen. This is also a ragged wound, and since the _precordial_ sector takes in muscles and blood-vessels of major importance, it's as vital a spot as the heart itself...." Prouty stopped suddenly. His eyes strayed almost with irritation to the dead woman on the floor.

"Was the revolver fired close to the body?" put in the Inspector.

"No powder stains, Inspector," said Prouty, still regarding the corpse with a frown.

"Were both bullets fired from the same spot?" asked Ellery.

"Hard to say. The lateral angles are similar, indicating that whoever fired both bullets stood to the right of the woman. But the downward course of the bullets disturbs me. They're too much alike."

"What do you mean?" demanded Ellery, leaning forward.

"Well," growled Prouty, biting on his cigar, "if the woman were in exactly the same position when both shots were fired--assuming that both shots were fired almost simultaneously, of course--there should be a greater _downward_ angle to the _precordial_ wound than to the _pericardial_. Because the _precordia_ is located below the heart, and the gun would have to be aimed lower.... Well, perhaps I shouldn't say these things at all. There are any number of explanations, I suppose, for that difference in angle. Ought to have Ken Knowles look over the bullets and the wounds, though."

"He'll get his chance," said the Inspector with a sigh. "Is that all, Doc?"

Ellery looked up from another scrutiny of the two bullets. "How long has she been dead?"

Prouty replied promptly: "About twelve hours, I should say. I'll be able to fix the time of death more accurately after the autopsy. But she certainly died no earlier than midnight and probably no later than two in the morning."

"Through now?" asked Inspector Queen patiently.

"Yes. But there's one thing that has me a little...." Prouty set his jaw. "There's something queer here, Inspector. From what I know of _precordial_ wounds I can't believe that this one should have bled so little. You've noticed, I suppose, that the clothing above both wounds is stiff with coagulated blood, but not so much of it as you might expect. At least as a medical man might expect."

"Why?"

"I've seen plenty of _precordial_ wounds," said Prouty calmly, "and they're messy, Inspector. Bleed like hell. In fact, especially in this case, where the hole is blasted pretty large, due to the angle, there should be pools and pools of it. The _pericardial_ would bleed freely, but not profusely. But the other--I say, there's something queer here, and I thought I'd call it to your attention."

Ellery shot his father a warning glance as the old man opened his mouth to reply. The Inspector clamped his lips together and dismissed Prouty with a nod. Ellery returned the two bullets to Prouty, who put them carefully into his bag.

The police doctor unhurriedly covered the body with a sheet from the hanging bed and departed, his last words a promise to hurry the morgue wagon.

"Is the store physician here?" Queen asked.

The small dark doctor stepped uncertainly forward from a corner. His teeth gleamed as he said, "Yes, sir?"

"Have you anything to add to Dr. Prouty's analysis, doctor?" questioned Queen, with disarming gentleness.

"Not a thing, not a thing, sir," said the store physician, looking uneasily at Prouty's retreating figure. "A precise if somewhat sketchy diagnosis. The bullets entered--"

"Thank you, doctor." Inspector Queen turned his back on the little physician and beckoned imperiously to the store detective.

"Crouther," he asked in a low tone, "who's your head night-watchman?"

"O'Flaherty--Pete O'Flaherty, Inspector."

"How many watchmen are on duty here at night?"

"Four. O'Flaherty tends the night-door on the 39th Street side, Ralska and Powers do the rounds, and Bloom is on duty at the 39th Street night freight-entrance."

"Thanks." The Inspector turned to Detective Ritter. "Get hold of this man MacKenzie, the store manager, find the home addresses of O'Flaherty, Ralska, Powers and Bloom, and get 'em down here as fast as a cab will carry them. Scoot!" Ritter lumbered away.

Ellery suddenly straightened, adjusted his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and strode over to his father. They held a whispered colloquy for a moment, whereupon Ellery quietly retreated to his vantage-point near the bed and the Inspector crooked his finger at Westley Weaver.

"Mr. Weaver," he asked, "I take it that you are Mr. French's confidential secretary?"

"Yes, sir," responded Weaver warily.

The Inspector glanced sidewise at Cyrus French, huddled exhausted in the chair. John Gray's small white hand was solicitously patting French's arm. "I'd rather not bother Mr. French at this time with questions.--You were with him all morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. French was not aware of Mrs. French's presence in the store?"

"No, sir!" The response was immediate and sharp. Weaver regarded Queen with suspicious eyes.

"Were you?"

"I? No, sir!"

"Hmmm!" The Inspector's chin sank on his chest, and he communed with himself for an instant. Suddenly his finger shot toward the group of directors on the other side of the room. "How about you gentlemen? Any of you know that Mrs. French was here--this morning or last night?"

There was a chorus of horrified noes. Cornelius Zorn's face grew red. He began to protest angrily.

"Please!" The Inspector's tone flung them back in silence. "Mr. Weaver. How is it that all these gentlemen are present in the store this morning? They're not here every day, are they?"

Weaver's frank face lightened, as if from relief. "All of our directors are active in the management of the store, Inspector. They're here every day, if only for an hour or so. As for this morning, there was a directors' meeting in Mr. French's private apartment upstairs."

"Eh?" Queen seemed pleased as well as startled. "A private apartment upstairs, you say? On what floor?"

"The sixth--that's the top floor of the store."

Ellery stirred into life. Again he crossed the floor, again he whispered to his father, and again the old man nodded.

"Mr. Weaver," continued the Inspector, a note of eagerness in his voice, "how long were you and the Board in Mr. French's private apartment this morning?"

Weaver seemed surprised at the question. "Why, all morning, Inspector. I arrived at about eight-thirty, Mr. French at about nine, and the other directors at a little past eleven."

"I see." The Inspector mused. "Did you leave the apartment at any time during the morning?"

"No, sir." The reply was snapped back at him.

"And the others--Mr. French, the directors?" pressed the Inspector patiently.

"No, sir! We were all there until one of the store detectives notified us that an accident had occurred here. And I must say, sir--"

"Westley, Westley ..." murmured Ellery chidingly, and Weaver turned to him with startled eyes. They fell before the meaning glance of Ellery, and Weaver bit his lip nervously. He did not finish what he had begun to say.

"Now, sir." The Inspector seemed to be enjoying himself in a tired way--utterly disregarding the bewildered eyes of the many people in the room. "Now, sir! Be very careful. At what time did this notification come?"

"At twelve-twenty-five," replied Weaver in a calmer tone.

"Very well.--Every one then left the apartment?" Weaver nodded. "Did you lock the door?"

"The door closed after us, Inspector."

"And the apartment remained that way, unguarded?"

"Not at all," said Weaver promptly. "At the beginning of the conference this morning, at Mr. French's suggestion, I got one of the store detectives to stand guard outside the apartment door. He is probably still there, because his orders were specific. In fact, I remember seeing him lounging about outside when we all rushed out to see what was the matter down here."

"_Very_ good!" beamed the old man. "A store detective, you say? Reliable?"

"Absolutely, Inspector," said Crouther, from his corner. "Sergeant Velie knows him, too. Jones is his name--an ex-policeman--used to be on a beat with Velie." The Inspector looked at the Sergeant inquiringly; he nodded in confirmation.

"Thomas," said Queen with one hand digging into his side-pocket for a pinch of snuff, "see to it, will you? See if this Jones fellow is still there, if he's been there all the time, if he's seen anything, if any one tried to get into the apartment since Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and the other gentlemen left. And take one of the boys along to relieve him--to relieve him, you understand?"

Velie grunted stonily and tramped out of the window-room. As he left, a policeman entered, saluted Inspector Queen and reported, "There's a 'phone call out there in the leather-goods department for a Mr. Westley Weaver, Inspector."

"What's that? Call?" The Inspector turned on Weaver, who stood miserably in a corner.

Weaver straightened. "Probably from Krafft of the Comptroller's office," he said. "I was to give him a report this morning, and the meeting and everything that happened afterward drove it out of my mind.... May I leave?"

Queen hesitated, his glance flickering toward Ellery, who was absently fingering his pince-nez. Ellery gave a slight nod.

"Go ahead," the Inspector growled to Weaver. "But come right back."

Weaver followed the policeman to the leather-goods counter directly facing the door of the window-room. A clerk eagerly handed the telephone to him.

"Hello--Krafft? This is Weaver speaking. I'm sorry about that report--Who? Oh."

A curious change came over his face as he heard Marion French's voice over the wire. He lowered his voice immediately and bent over the instrument. The policeman, lounging behind him, surreptitiously shuffled closer, trying to catch the conversation.

"Why, what's the matter, dear?" asked Marion, a note of anxiety in her voice. "Is anything wrong? I tried to get you at the apartment, but there was no answer. The operator had to search for you.... I thought father had a directors' meeting this morning."

"Marion!" Weaver's voice was insistent. "I really can't stop to explain now. Something's happened, dearest--something so ..." He stopped, seemed to be wrestling mentally with some problem. His lips tightened. "Sweetheart, will you do something for me?"

"But, Wes dear," came the girl's anxious voice, "whatever is the matter? Has anything happened to father?"

"No--no." Weaver hunched desperately over the telephone. "Be my own honey and don't ask questions now.... Where are you now?"

"Why, at home, dear. But, Wes, what _is_ the trouble?" There was a frightened catch in her voice. "Has it anything to do with Winifred or Bernice? They're not at home, Wes--haven't been all night...." Then she laughed a little. "But there! I shan't worry you, dearest. I'll take a cab and be down in fifteen minutes."

"I knew you would." Weaver almost sobbed in a tense relief. "Whatever happens, sweet, I love you, I love you, do you understand?"

"Westley! You silly boy--you've frightened me out of my wits. Good-by now--I'll be downtown in a jiffy." There was a tender little sound through the receiver--it might have been a kiss--and Weaver hung up with a sigh.

The policeman jumped back as Weaver turned--jumped back with a broad grin. Weaver flushed furiously, started to speak, then shook his head.

"There's a young lady coming down here, officer," he said swiftly. "She'll be here in about a quarter of an hour. Won't you please let me know the moment she gets here? She's Miss Marion French. I'll be in the window."

The bluecoat lost his grin. "Well now," he said slowly, scraping his jaw, "I just don't know about that. Guess you'll have to tell the Inspector about it. _I_ haven't the authority."

He marched Weaver back into the window-room against the young man's protests at the heavy hand on his arm.

"Inspector," he said respectfully, still grasping Weaver's arm, "this feller wants me to let him know when a certain young lady by the name of Miss Marion French gets here."

Queen looked up in surprise, a surprise that deepened rapidly into brusqueness. "Was that telephone call from your Mr. Krafft?" he asked Weaver.

Before Weaver could speak, the policeman interposed: "Not by a long sight, sir. 'Twas a lady, and I think he called her 'Marion.'"

"Look here, Inspector!" said Weaver hotly, shaking off the bluecoat's hand. "This is asinine. I thought the call was from Mr. Krafft, but it was Miss French--Mr. French's daughter. A--a semi-business call. And I took the liberty of asking her to come down here immediately. That's all. Is that a crime? As for letting me know when she arrives--I naturally want to spare her the shock of walking into this place and seeing her stepmother's dead body on the floor."

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, glancing mildly from Weaver to Ellery. "I see. I see. I'm sorry, Mr. Weaver.... That's right, isn't it, officer?" he snapped, whirling on the bluecoat.

"Yes, sir! Heard it all plain as day. He's telling the truth."

"And mighty fortunate for him he is," grumbled the Inspector. "Stand back, Mr. Weaver. We'll attend to the young lady when she arrives.... Now then!" he cried, rubbing his hands, "Mr. French!"

The old man looked up in bleary bewilderment, his eyes blank and staring.

"Mr. French, is there anything you would like to say that might clear up some of this mystery?"

"I--I--I--beg--your--pardon?" stammered French, raising his head with an effort from the back-cushion of the chair. He seemed stricken by his wife's death to the point of imbecility.

Queen regarded him with pity, looked into the eyes of John Gray, whose face was threatening, muttered, "Never mind," and squared his shoulders. "Ellery, my son, how about a careful look-see at the body?" He peered at Ellery from beneath overhung brows.

Ellery stirred. "Lookers-on," he said clearly, "see more than players. And if you think that quotation is inept, dad, you don't know your son's favorite author, Anonymous. Play on!"

7

THE CORPSE

Inspector Queen moved over to the other side of the room, where the body lay between the bed and the window. Waving aside the detective Johnson, who was rummaging among the bedclothes, the old man knelt on the floor beside the dead woman. He removed the white sheet. Ellery bent over his father's shoulder, his gaze detached but characteristically panoramic.

The body lay in an oddly crumpled position, the left arm outstretched, the right slightly crooked beneath the back. The head was in profile, a brown toque-style hat pushed pathetically over one eye. Mrs. French had been a small slender woman, with delicate hands and feet. The eyes were fixed in a sort of bewildered glare, wide open. The mouth drooled; a thin trickle of blood, now dark and dry, streaked the chin.

The clothes were simple and severe, but rich in quality, as might be expected from a woman of Mrs. French's age and position. There was a light brown cloth coat, trimmed at the collar and cuffs with brown fox; a dark tan dress of a jersey material, with a breast and waist design of orange and brown; brown silk stockings and a pair of uncompromising brown walking-shoes.

The Inspector looked up.

"Notice the mud on her shoes, El?" he asked _sotto voce_.

Ellery nodded. "Doesn't take a heap of perspicacity," he remarked. "It rained all day yesterday; remember the downpour last night? No wonder the poor lady wet her patrician feet. As a matter of fact, you can see traces of the wet even on the trimming of the toque.--Yes, dad, Mrs. French was out in the rain yesterday. Not very important."

"Why not?" the old man asked, his hands softly moving aside the collar of the coat.

"Because she probably wet her shoes and hat in crossing the sidewalk to the store," retorted Ellery. "What of it?"

The Inspector did not reply. His seeking hand plunged suddenly beneath the coat-collar and reappeared with a filmy, color-clouded scarf.

"Here's something," he said, turning the gauze-like material over in his hands. "Must have slipped down inside the coat when she tumbled out of the bed." An exclamation escaped him. On one corner of the scarf was a silk-embroidered monogram. Ellery leaned farther forward over his father's shoulder.

"_M.F._," he said. He straightened up, frowning, saying nothing.

The Inspector turned his head toward the group of directors at the other side of the room. They were huddled together, watching his every gesture. At his movement they started guiltily and averted their heads.

"What was Mrs. French's first name?" Queen questioned the group; and as if each one had been addressed individually, there was an instant chorus of "Winifred!"

"Winifred, eh?" muttered the old man, letting his eyes return fleetingly to the body. Then he fixed Weaver with his grey eyes.

"Winifred, eh?" he repeated. Weaver bobbed his head mechanically. He seemed horrified at the wisp of silk in the Inspector's hand. "Winifred what? Any middle name or initials?"

"Winifred--Winifred Marchbanks French," stammered the secretary.

The Inspector nodded curtly. Rising, he strode over to Cyrus French, who was watching him with dull, uncomprehending eyes.

"Mr. French--" Queen shook the millionaire's shoulder gently--"Mr. French, is this your wife's scarf?" He held the scarf up before French's eyes. "Do you understand me, sir? Is this scarf Mrs. French's?"

"Eh? I--Let me see it!" The old man snatched it in a sort of frenzy from the Inspector's hand. He bent over it avidly, pulled it smooth, examined the monogram with feverish fingers--and slumped back in his chair.

"Is it, Mr. French?" pursued the Inspector, taking the scarf from him.

"No." It was a flat, colorless, indifferent negative.

The Inspector turned toward the silent group. "Can any one here identify this scarf?" He held it high. There was no answer. The Inspector repeated his question, glaring at each one individually. Of them all, only Westley Weaver averted his glance.

"So! Weaver, eh? No nonsense, now, young man!" snapped Queen, grasping the secretary by the arm. "What do the letters _M.F._ stand for--Marion French?"

The young man gulped, sent an agonized glance toward Ellery, who returned the glance commiseratingly, looked at old Cyrus French, who was mumbling to himself....

"You can't believe she had anything to do--to do with it!" cried Weaver, shaking his arm free. "It's absurd--crazy!... You _can't_ believe she had anything to do with this, Inspector. She's too fine, too young, too--"

"Marion French." The Inspector turned toward John Gray. "Mr. French's daughter, I believe Mr. Weaver said before?"

Gray nodded sullenly. Cyrus French suddenly attempted to leap from his chair. He uttered a hoarse cry. "My God, no! Not Marion! Not Marion!" His eyes blazed as Gray and Marchbanks, the directors nearest the old man, jumped to support his quivering body. The spasm lasted for a brief moment; he collapsed into his chair.

Inspector Queen returned without a word to his examination of the dead woman. Ellery had been a silent witness of the little drama, his sharp eyes flitting from face to face as it unfolded. Now he sent a glance of reassurance at Weaver, who was leaning abjectly against a table, and then stooped to pick up an object from the floor which was almost hidden by the dead woman's tumbled skirt.

It was a small handbag of dark brown suède, monogrammed with the initials _W.M.F._ Ellery sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the bag over in his hands. Curiously he lifted the flap and began to spread the contents of the bag on the mattress. He removed a small change-purse, a gold vanity-case, a lace handkerchief, a gold card-case, all monogrammed _W.M.F._, and finally a silver-chased lipstick.

The Inspector looked up. "What's that you have there?" he asked sharply.

"Bag of the deceased," murmured Ellery. "Would you care to examine it?"

"Would I--" The Inspector glared at his son in mock heat. "Ellery, sometimes you try me beyond patience!"

Ellery handed it over with a smile. The old man examined the bag minutely. He pawed over the articles on the bed and gave up in disgust.

"Nothing there that I can see," he snorted. "And I'm--"

"No?" Ellery's tone was provocative.

"What do you mean?" asked his father with a change of tone, looking back at the contents of the bag. "Purse, vanity, hanky, card-case, lipstick--what's interesting there?"

Ellery faced about squarely so that his back hid the articles on the bed from the observation of the others. He picked up the lipstick with care and offered it to his father. The old man took it cautiously, suspiciously. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him.

"Exactly--_C_," murmured Ellery. "What do you make of it?"

The lipstick was large and deep. On the cap was a chastely engraved initial, _C_. The Inspector peered at it in some astonishment and made as if to question the men in the room. But Ellery halted him with a warning gesture and took the lipstick from his father's fingers. He unscrewed the initialed cap and twisted the body of the stick until a half-inch of red paste was visible above the orifice. His eyes shifted toward the dead woman's face. They brightened at what they saw.

He knelt quickly by his father's side, their bodies still shielding their movements from the eyes of the onlookers.

"Have a peep at this, dad," he said in an undertone, offering the lipstick. The old man looked at it in a puzzled way.

"Poisoned?" he asked. "But that's impossible--how could you tell without an analysis?"

"No, no!" exclaimed Ellery in the same low tone. "The color, dad--the color!"

The Inspector's face lightened. He looked from the stick in Ellery's hand to the dead woman's lips. The fact was self-evident--the coloring on the lips had not come from the stick in Ellery's possession. The lips were painted a light shade of red, almost pink, whereas the stick itself was a dark carmine in shade.

"Here, El--let me have that!" said the Inspector. He took the open stick and swiftly made a red mark on the dead woman's face.

"Different, all right," he muttered. He wiped off the smudge with a corner of the sheet. "But I don't see--"

"There really should be another lipstick, eh?" remarked Ellery lightly, standing up.

The old man snatched at the woman's handbag and went through it once more, hurriedly. No, there was no sign of another lipstick. He motioned to the detective Johnson.

"Find anything in the bed or the closet here, Johnson?"

"Not a thing, Chief."

"Sure? No sign of a lipstick?"

"Nope."

"Piggott! Hesse! Flint!" The three detectives stopped short in their search of the room and crossed to the Inspector's side. The old man repeated his questions.... Nothing. The detectives had found no alien articles in the room.

"Is Crouther here? Crouther!" The store detective hurried over.

"Been out seeing that things were moving in the store," he announced unasked. "Everything's shipshape--boys've been hustling, that's a fact.--What can I do for you, Inspector?"

"Did you see a lipstick around here when you found the body?"

"Lipstick? No, sir! Wouldn't have touched it if I'd seen it anyway. Told everybody to leave things alone. I know that much, Inspector!"

"Mr. Lavery!" The Frenchman sauntered up. No, he had seen no sign of a lipstick. Perhaps the Negress--?

"Hardly! Piggott, send some one up to the infirmary and find out if this Johnson girl saw it."

The Inspector turned back to Ellery with a frowning brow. "Now, that's funny, isn't it, Ellery? Could some one here have appropriated the darned thing?"

Ellery smiled. "'Honest labor,' as old Tom Dekker had it, 'bears a lovely face,' but I'm very much afraid, dad.... No, your efforts in the direction of finding a lipstick thief are wasted. I could almost make a nice conjecture...."

"What _do_ you mean, Ellery?" groaned the Inspector. "Where is it, then, if no one took it?"

"We'll come to that in the course of inexorable time," said Ellery imperturbably. "But examine the face of our poor clay again, dad--particularly the labial portion. See anything interesting aside from the color of the lipstick?"

"Eh?" The Inspector turned startled eyes to the corpse. He felt for his snuff-box and nervously took a generous pinch. "No, I can't say that I--By jiminy!" He muttered beneath his breath. "The lips--unfinished...."

"Precisely." Ellery twirled his pince-nez about his finger. "Observed the phenomenon the moment I looked at the body. What amazing juxtaposition of circumstances could have caused a handsome woman still in her prime to leave her lips only half painted?" He pursed his mouth, fell into deep thought. His eyes did not leave the dead woman's lips, which showed the pinkish color of the lipstick on both the upper and lower lip, on the upper two dabs of unsmeared color and on the lower one a dab exactly in the center. Where the lipstick had not yet been smeared, the lips were a sickly purple--the color of unadorned death.

The Inspector passed his hand wearily across his brow just as Piggott returned.

"Well?"

"The colored girl fainted," reported the detective, "just as the body fell out of the wall-bed. Never saw anything, much less a lipstick." Inspector Queen draped the sheet over the body in baffled silence.

8

THE WATCHER

The door opened and Sergeant Velie entered, accompanied by a steady-eyed man dressed in black. This newcomer saluted the Inspector respectfully and stood waiting.

"This is Robert Jones, Inspector," said Velie in his deep clipped tones. "Attached to the store force, and I'll vouch for him personally. Jones was the man called by Mr. Weaver this morning to stand outside the apartment door during the directors' meeting."

"How about it, Jones?" asked Inspector Queen.

"I was ordered to Mr. French's apartment this morning at eleven," replied the store detective. "I was told to stand guard outside and see that no one disturbed the meeting. According to my instructions...."

"And where did your instructions come from?"

"I understood that Mr. Weaver had 'phoned, sir," replied Jones. The Inspector looked at Weaver, who nodded, and then motioned the man to continue.

"According to my instructions," said Jones, "I strolled about outside the apartment without interrupting the meeting. I was in the sixth floor corridor near the apartment until about twelve-fifteen. At that time the door opened and Mr. French, the other directors and Mr. Weaver ran out and took the elevator, going downstairs. They all seemed excited...."

"Did you know why Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and the others ran out of the apartment that way?"

"No, sir. As I said, they seemed excited and paid no attention to me. I didn't hear about Mrs. French being dead until one of the boys dropped by about a half-hour later with the news."

"Did the directors close the door when they left the apartment?"

"The door closed by itself--swung shut."

"So you didn't enter the apartment?"

"No, sir!"

"Did any one come up to the apartment while you stood guard this morning?"

"Not a soul, Inspector. And after the directors left, there was no one except the chap I told you about, who merely spilled his story and went right down again. I've been on duty until five minutes ago, when Sergeant Velie had two of his own men relieve me."

The Inspector mused. "And you're certain no one went into the apartment, Jones? It may be quite important."

"Dead certain, Inspector," replied Jones clearly. "The reason I stayed on after the directors left was because I didn't know exactly what to do under the circumstances, and I've always found it a safe bet to stand pat when something unusual happens."

"Good enough, Jones!" said the Inspector. "That's all."

Jones saluted, went up to Crouther and asked what he was to do. The head store detective, his chest held high, detailed him to help handle the crowds in the store. And Jones departed.

9

THE WATCHERS

The Inspector went quickly to the door and peered over the heads of the seething crowds on the main floor.

"MacKenzie! Is MacKenzie there?" he shouted.

"Right here!" came the faint bellow of the store manager's voice. "Coming!"

Queen trotted back into the room, fumbling for his snuff-box. He eyed the directors almost roguishly; his good humor seemed for the moment to have returned. The occupants of the room, with the exception of Cyrus French, who was still plunged in a deep lethargy of grief and indifference to what was going on, had by this time shaken off some of their horror and were growing restless. Zorn stole surreptitious glances at his heavy gold watch; Marchbanks was pacing belligerently up and down the room; Trask at regular intervals averted his head and gulped down some whisky from a flask in his pocket; Gray, his face as ashen as his hair, stood in silence behind old French's chair. Lavery was very quiet, watching with bright inquisitive eyes the least movement of the Inspector and his men. Weaver, his boyish face strained and lined, seemed to be enduring agonies. He frequently sought Ellery with pleading eyes, as if asking for help which he knew, instinctively, could not be forthcoming.

"I must ask you to have patience for a short time longer, gentlemen," said the Inspector, smoothing his mustache with the back of his small hand. "We have a few things more to do here--and then we'll see.... Ah! You're MacKenzie, I take it? Are those the watchmen? Bring 'em in, man!"

The middle-aged Scotchman had entered the window-room, herding before him four oldish men with frightened faces and fidgety hands. Ritter made up the rear.

"Yes, Inspector. By the way, I'm having the employees checked up, as Sergeant Velie instructed me to." MacKenzie waved the four men forward. They shuffled a step farther into the room, reluctantly.

"Who's the head night-watchman among you?" demanded the Inspector.

A corpulent old man with fleshy features and placid eyes stepped forward, touching his forehead.

"I am, sor--Peter O'Flaherty's me name."

"Were you on duty last night, O'Flaherty?"

"Yes, sor. That I was."

"What time did you go on?"

"Me reg'lar hour, sor," said the watchman. "Ha'past five. It's O'Shane I relieve at th' desk in the night-office on th' 39th Street side. These boys here"--he indicated the three men behind him with a fat and calloused forefinger--"they come on with me. They was with me last night, reg'lar."

"I see." The Inspector paused. "O'Flaherty, do you know what has happened?"

"Yes, sor. I've been told. And a shame it is, sor," responded O'Flaherty soberly. He stole a glance at the limp figure of Cyrus French, then jerked his head back toward the Inspector as if he had committed an indiscretion. His cronies followed his gaze, and looked forward again in exactly the same manner.

"Did you know Mrs. French by sight?" asked the Inspector, his keen little eyes studying the old man.

"I did, sor," replied O'Flaherty. "She used to come to th' store sometimes after closing when Mr. French was still here."

"Often?"

"No, sor. Not so very. But I knowed her right enough, sor."

"Hmmm." Inspector Queen relaxed. "Now, O'Flaherty, answer carefully--and truthfully. As truthfully as if you were on the witness-stand.--Did you see Mrs. French last night?"

Silence had fallen in the room--a silence pregnant with beating hearts and racing pulses. All eyes were on the broad mottled face of the old watchman. He licked his lips, seemed to reflect, squared his shoulders.

"Yes, sor," he said, with a little hiss.

"At what time?"

"'Twas just eleven forty-five, sor," replied O'Flaherty. "Y'see, there ain't but one night-entrance to th' store after hours. All th' other doors and exits are ironed up. That one door is on 39th Street, th' Employees' Entrance. There ain't no way but that t'get in or out o' the buildin'. I--"

Ellery moved suddenly, and everybody turned toward him. He smiled deprecatingly at O'Flaherty. "Sorry, dad, but I've just thought of something.... O'Flaherty, do I understand you to say that there is only one way into the store after hours--the Employees' Entrance?"

O'Flaherty champed his blue old jaws reflectively. "Why, yes, sor," he said. "And what's wrong about that?"

"Very little," smiled Ellery, "except that I believe there is a night freight-entrance on the 39th Street side as well...."

"Oh, that!" snorted the old watchman. "'Tain't hardly an entrance, sor. Mostly always shut. So, as I was sayin'--"

Ellery lifted a slender hand. "One moment, O'Flaherty. You say, 'Mostly always shut.' Just what do you mean by that?"

"Well," replied O'Flaherty, scratching his poll, "it's shut down tighter'n a drum all night exceptin' between eleven o'clock and eleven-thirty. So it don't hardly count."

"That's _your_ point of view," said Ellery argumentatively. "I thought there must be a good reason for having a special night-watchman at the spot all night. Who is he?"

"That's Bloom over here," said O'Flaherty. "Bloom, step out, man, and let the gentlemen look ye over."

Bloom, a sturdy middle-aged man with reddish, graying hair, stepped uncertainly forward. "That's me," he said. "Nothin' wrong in my freight department last night, if that's what you wanna know...."

"No?" Ellery eyed him keenly. "Exactly why is the freight-entrance opened between eleven and eleven-thirty?"

"Fer the delivery of groceries an' meats an' such," answered Bloom. "Big turn-over every day in the store restaurant, and then there's the Employees' Restaurant too. Get supplies fresh every night."

"Who is the trucker?" interrupted the Inspector.

"Buckley & Green. Same driver an' unloader every night, sir."

"I see," said the Inspector. "Get it down, Hagstrom, and make a note to question the men on the truck.... Anything else, Ellery?"

"Yes." Ellery turned once more to the red-haired night-watchman. "Tell us just what happens every night when the Buckley & Green truck arrives."

"Well, I go on duty at ten," said Bloom. "At eleven every night the truck rolls up and Johnny Salvatore, the driver, rings the night bell outside the freight-door...."

"Is the freight-door kept locked after five-thirty?"

MacKenzie, the store manager, interrupted. "Yes, sir. It's automatically locked at closing-time. Never opened till the truck comes up at eleven."

"Go on, Bloom."

"When Johnny rings, I unlock the door--it's sheet iron--and roll 'er up. Then the truck drives inside, an' Marino, the unloader, unpacks the stuff and stores it, while Johnny and myself check it over in my booth near the door. That's all. When they're through, they take the truck out, I unroll the door, and lock it, and just stay there all night."

Ellery pondered. "Does the door remain open while the truck is being unloaded?"

"Sure," said Bloom. "It's only for a half an hour, and besides, nobody could hardly get in without one of us seeing 'em."

"You're sure of that?" asked Ellery sharply. "Positive? Swear to it, man?"

Bloom hesitated. "Well, I don't hardly see how anybody _could_," he said lamely. "Marino's out there unloading, and Johnny and me in the booth right by the door...."

"How many electric lights are there in this freight room?" demanded Ellery.

Bloom looked bewildered. "Why, there's one big light right over where the truck is, and then there's a small one in my booth. Johnny keeps his headlights on, too."

"How big is this freight room?"

"Oh, about seventy-five foot deep by fifty wide. Store emergency trucks are parked there for the night, too."

"How far from your booth does the truck unload?"

"Oh, 'way in, near the back, where there's a chute from the kitchen."

"And one light in all that black expanse," murmured Ellery. "The booth is enclosed, I suppose?"

"Just a glass window facing the inside of the room."

Ellery played with his pince-nez. "Bloom, if I told you to swear that nobody could get into that freight room, past the entrance, without your seeing him, would you do it?"

Bloom smiled in a sickly fashion. "Well, sir," he said, "I don't know as I would."

"Did you see anybody get in last night while the door was open and you and Salvatore were in the booth checking over the goods?"

"No, sir!"

"But somebody might have got in?"

"I--I guess so...."

"One question more," said Ellery genially. "These deliveries are made _every night_, without fail, and at exactly the same hour?"

"Yes, sir. Been that way as long as I can remember."

"Another, if you'll pardon me. Did you lock that freight-door last night promptly at eleven-thirty?"

"To the dot."

"Were you at that door all night?"

"Yes, sir. On my chair, right by the door."

"No disturbance? Didn't hear or see anything suspicious?"

"No, sir."

"If--any one--tried--to--get--out--of--the--building--by--that--door," said Ellery with startling emphasis, "you would have heard and seen him?"

"Sure thing, sir," said Bloom weakly, glancing with despair at MacKenzie.

"Very well, then," drawled Ellery, waving his arm negligently toward Bloom, "the inquisition may proceed, Inspector." And he stepped back, making furious notes in his book.

The Inspector, who had been listening with a gradually clarifying expression on his face, sighed and said to O'Flaherty, "You were saying that Mrs. French came into the building at eleven-forty-five, O'Flaherty. Let's have the rest of it."

The head night-watchman wiped his brow with a slightly shaking hand and a dubious glance in Ellery's direction. Then he took up the thread of his story. "Well, I sits at th' night-desk all night--never gets up, while Ralska and Powers here does the rounds every hour. That's me job, sor--an' besides I check out all those who put in overtime, like th' executive people, and such. Yes, sor. I--"

"Easy, O'Flaherty," said the Inspector, with interest. "Tell us just exactly what happened when Mrs. French arrived. You're sure it was eleven-forty-five?"

"Yes, sor. I looked at th' time-clock next th' desk, 'cause I gotta put down all arrivals on me time-sheet...."

"Oh, the time-sheet?" muttered Queen. "Mr. MacKenzie, will you please see that I get last night's time-sheet at once? Even before the report on the employees." MacKenzie nodded and left. "All right, O'Flaherty. Go on."

"Well, sor, through the night-door acrost th' hall I sees a taxi roll up and Mrs. French she steps out. She pays th' driver and knocks. I sees who 'tis and opens quick. She gives me a cheery good-evenin', and asks if Mr. Cyrus French was still in th' buildin', I says no, ma'am, Mr. Cyrus French'd left early in th' afternoon, as he had, sor, carryin' a brief-case. She thanks me, stops to think a bit, then she says she'll go up to Mr. French's private apartment anyway, and starts to walk out o' th' office toward the private elevator that's only used to go up to th' apartment. I says to her, I says, Kin I get one o' the boys to run th' elevator up for her an' open th' apartment door? She says no thanks, right polite, sor, and rummages in her bag for a minute, as if to see she's got her key. Yes, she had it--she fishes it out o' her bag and shows it to me. Then she--"

"Just a moment, O'Flaherty." The Inspector seemed perturbed. "You say she had a key to the apartment? How is that, do you know?"

"Well, sor, there're only a certain number o' keys to Mr. French's apartment, sor," answered O'Flaherty, more comfortably. "S'far as I know, Mr. Cyrus French has one, Mrs. French had one, Miss Marion has one, Miss Bernice has one--me workin' here for seventeen years, I knows th' fam'ly right well, sor--Mr. Weaver has one, and there's one master-key in th' desk in my office all th' time. That's half a dozen altogether, sor. Th' master-key is in case a key is needed in an emergency."

"You say Mrs. French showed you her key before she left your office, O'Flaherty? How do you know it was the key to the apartment?" asked the Inspector.

"Easy enough, sor. Y'see, each key--they're special Yales, sor--each key has a little gold dingus on it with th' initials o' the person it belongs to. Th' key Mrs. French showed me had that on. Besides, I know th' looks o' that key; it was the right one, all right."

"One second, O'Flaherty." The Inspector turned to Weaver. "Have you your apartment key on you, Weaver? Let me have it, please?"

Weaver extracted a leather key-case from his vest-pocket and handed it to Queen. Among a number of different keys was one with a small gold disc fused into the tiny hole at the top. On this disc were engraved the initials, _W.W._ The Inspector looked up at O'Flaherty.

"A key like this?"

"Just th' same, sor," said O'Flaherty, "exceptin' th' initials."

"Very well." Queen returned the key-case to Weaver. "Now, O'Flaherty, before you continue, tell me this--where do you keep your master-key to the apartment?"

"Right in a special drawer in th' desk, sor. It's there all the time, day and night."

"Was it in its place last night?"

"Yes, sor. I always looks for it special. It was there--the right key, no mistake, sor. It's got a tab on it too, with th' word 'Master' on it."

"O'Flaherty," asked the Inspector quietly, "were you at your desk all night? Did you leave your office at all?"

"No, sor!" answered the old watchman emphatically. "From th' minute I got there, at five-thirty, I didn't leave th' office until I was relieved this mornin' by O'Shane at eight-thirty. I got longer hours than him 'cause he's got more to do on his shift, with checkin' in employees and all. And as for leavin' the desk, I brings me own feed from home, even hot coffee in a thermos bottle. No, sor, I was on th' watch all night."

"I see." Queen shook his head as if to clear the mists of weariness and motioned the watchman to continue with his story.

"Well, sor," said O'Flaherty, "when Mrs. French left me office, I got up out o' me chair, went into the hall, and watched her. She went to th' elevator, opened th' door, an' went in. That's the last I saw o' her, sor. When I saw she didn't come down I thought nothin' of it, 'cause a number o' times Mrs. French has stayed overnight in Mr. French's apartment upstairs. I thought she'd done th' same this night. So that's all I know, sor."

Ellery stirred. He lifted the dead woman's handbag from the bed and dangled it before the watchman's eyes.

"O'Flaherty," he asked in a drawling voice, "have you ever seen this before?"

The watchman replied, "Yes, sor! That's th' bag Mrs. French was carryin' last night."

"The bag, then," pursued Ellery softly, "from which she took her gold-topped key?"

The watchman seemed puzzled. "Why, yes, sor." Ellery seemed satisfied and dropped back to whisper in his father's ear. The Inspector frowned, then nodded. He turned to Crouther.

"Crouther, will you please get the master-key in the office on the 39th Street side." Crouther grunted cheerfully and departed. "Now then." The Inspector picked up the gauzy scarf initialed _M.F._ which he had found on the dead body. "O'Flaherty, do you recall Mrs. French's having worn this last night? Think carefully."