Chapter III: Part 3

O'Flaherty took the wisp of silk in his horny fat fingers and turned it over and over, his forehead wrinkled. "Well, sor," he said finally, in a hesitant tone. "I can't rightly say. Seemed to me for a minute as if I'd seen Mrs. French wear it, and then again seemed as if I hadn't. No, I couldn't rightly say. No, sor," and he returned it to the Inspector with a gesture of helplessness.

"You're not sure?" The Inspector dropped the scarf back on the bed. "Everything seem all right last night? No alarms?"

"No, sor. O' course you know th' store's wired against burglars. Quiet as a church last night. S'far as I know, nothin' happened out o' th' way."

Queen said to Sergeant Velie: "Thomas, call up the alarm central office and find out if they've a report on last night. Probably not, or we'd have heard from them by this time." Velie left, silently as usual.

"O'Flaherty, did you see any one else enter the building last night except Mrs. French? At any time during the night?" continued the Inspector.

"No, sor, absolutely not. Not a soul." O'Flaherty seemed anxious to make this point clear, after his defection concerning the scarf.

"Ah there, MacKenzie! Let me have the time-sheet, please." Queen took from the store manager, who had just returned, a long scroll of ruled paper. He looked it over hurriedly. Something seemed to catch his eye.

"I see by your sheet, O'Flaherty," he said, "that Mr. Weaver and a Mr. Springer were the last to leave the store yesterday evening? Did you make these notations?"

"Yes, sor, Mr. Springer went out about a quarter to seven, and Mr. Weaver a few minutes after."

"Is that right, Weaver?" demanded the Inspector, turning to the secretary.

"Yes," replied Weaver in a colorless tone. "I stayed a little later last night to prepare some papers for Mr. French to-day; I believe I shaved.... I left a little before seven."

"Who is this Springer?"

"Oh, James Springer is the head of our Book Department, Inspector," put in mild-mannered MacKenzie. "Often stays late. A very conscientious man, sir."

"Yes, yes. Now--you men!" The Inspector pointed to the two watchmen who had not yet spoken. "Anything to say? Anything to add to O'Flaherty's story? One at a time.... Your name?"

One of the watchmen cleared his throat nervously. "George Powers, Inspector. No, sir, I got nothin' to say."

"Everything all right when you went your rounds? Do you cover this part of the store?"

"Yes, sir, everythin' was okay on my rounds. No, sir, I don't cover the main floor. That's Ralska's job, here."

"Ralska, eh? What's your first name, Ralska?" demanded the Inspector.

The third watchman expelled his breath noisily. "Hermann, sir. Hermann Ralska. I think--"

"You think, eh?" Queen turned. "Hagstrom, you're taking this down, of course?"

"Yep, Chief," grinned the detective, his pencil busy in his notebook.

"Now, Ralska, you were about to think something, no doubt very important," snarled the Inspector. His temper seemed frayed and raw once more. "What was it?"

Ralska held himself stiffly. "I thought I heard somethin' funny last night on the main floor."

"Oh, you did! Where, exactly?"

"Right about here--outside this window-room."

"No!" Inspector Queen grew very quiet. "Outside this window-room. Very good, Ralska. What was it?"

The watchman seemed to take heart at Queen's calmer tone. "It was just about one o'clock in the morning. Maybe a few minutes earlier. I was in the part of the store near the Fift' Avenue and 39t' Street side. This here window faces Fift' Avenue, past the night-office, so it's a good distance away. I heard a queer kind o' noise. Can't make up my mind what it was. Might 'a' been some one movin' around, might 'a' been a footstep, might 'a' been a door closin'--just don't know. Anyway, I wasn't suspicious or anything--you get so you hear noises that never happened on a night job like this.... But I went over in that direction and couldn't see anything wrong, so I thought it must be my imagination. Even tried a couple of the window doors. But they were all locked. Tried this one, too. So I stopped in to have a word with O'Flaherty here, and went on ahead, with my rounds. That's all."

"Oh!" Inspector Queen seemed disappointed. "So you're not certain of where the noise came from--if there was a noise?"

"Well," responded Ralska carefully, "if it was anythin' at all it came from this section o' the floor near these big street-window displays."

"Nothing else all night?"

"No, sir."

"All right, that's all for you four men. You may go back home and catch up on your sleep. Be back here to-night for work as usual."

"Yes, sir; yes, sir." The watchmen backed out of the window-room and disappeared.

The Inspector, brandishing the time-sheet in his hand, addressed the store manager. "MacKenzie, have you given this sheet any study?"

The Scotchman replied, "Yes, Inspector--thought you might be interested and looked it over on the way."

"Fine! MacKenzie, what's the verdict? Was every employee of the store checked out regularly yesterday?" Queen's face was composed, indifferent.

MacKenzie did not hesitate. "As you can see, we have a simple check-out system--by departments.... I can certainly assert that every _employee_ who was _in the store_ yesterday checked out."

"Does that include executives and gentlemen like the Board of Directors?"

"Yes, sir--there are their names in the proper places."

"Very well--thank you," said the Inspector thoughtfully. "Please don't forget that list of absentees, MacKenzie."

Velie and Crouther at this point reëntered the room together. Crouther handed the Inspector a key, an exact replica of the one in Weaver's possession, marked "Master" on its gold disk as O'Flaherty had averred. The detective-sergeant relayed a negative report from the burglar-alarm company. Nothing unusual had occurred during the night.

The Inspector turned again to MacKenzie. "How reliable is this O'Flaherty?"

"True-blue. Would give his life for Mr. French, Inspector," returned MacKenzie warmly. "He's the oldest employee of the store--knew Mr. French in the old days."

"That's a fact," echoed Crouther, as if anxious to have his opinion considered as well.

"It has just occurred to me ..." Inspector Queen faced MacKenzie inquiringly. "Just how private is Mr. French's apartment? Who has access to it besides the French family and Mr. Weaver?"

MacKenzie scraped his jaw slowly. "Hardly any one else, Inspector," he replied. "Of course, the Board of Directors meet in Mr. French's apartment periodically for conferences and other business matters; but the only keys to it are in the possession of the people O'Flaherty has mentioned. As a matter of fact, it's almost peculiar how little we people know about Mr. French's apartment. In all my association with the store, and it's a matter of ten years or so, I can't recall having been in the apartment more than half a dozen times. I was thinking that only last week, when Mr. French summoned me there for some special instructions regarding the store. As for other employees--well, Mr. French has always been adamant in the matter of his privacy. Aside from O'Flaherty opening the door for the cleaning-woman three times a week, and letting her out just before he goes off duty, there's not an employee of the store who has access or occasion to visit the apartment."

"I see, I see. The apartment--we seem to be going back to that apartment," muttered the Inspector. "Well! There seems to be very little left here.... Ellery, what do you think?"

Ellery swung his pince-nez with unaccustomed vigor as he regarded his father. There was a troubled glint in the depths of his eyes.

"Think? Think?" He smiled fretfully. "My ratiocinative machinery has been chiefly occupied in the last half-hour or so with a stubborn little problem." He bit his lip.

"Problem? What problem?" growled his father affectionately. "I haven't had a moment to think clearly, and you talk of problems!"

"The problem," enunciated Ellery distinctly but not loudly enough to be heard by the others, "of why Mrs. French's key to her husband's apartment is missing."

10

MARION

"Not much of a problem," said Inspector Queen. "There is no particular reason for expecting to find the key--here. Besides, I can't see that it's of much importance."

"_Alors_--we'll let it go at that," said Ellery, smiling. "I am always worried by omissions." He dropped back, searching his vest-pocket for a cigaret-case. His father eyed him sharply. Ellery rarely smoked.

A policeman pushed open the window-door at this moment and lumbered over to the Inspector. "Young lady outside giving the name of Marion French. Says she wants Mr. Weaver," he whispered hoarsely. "Scared to death at the mobs and the cops. One o' the floorwalkers is with her. What'll I do, Inspector?"

The Inspector's eyes narrowed. He shot a glance at Weaver. The secretary seemed to sense the import of the message, although he had not heard the whispered words; for he stepped forward at once.

"I beg your pardon, Inspector," he said eagerly, "but if that's Miss French I'd like your permission to go to her at once and--"

"Amazing intuition!" cried the Inspector suddenly, his white face creasing into smiles. "Yes, I think I--Come along, Mr. Weaver. You shall introduce me to Mr. French's daughter." He turned sharply to Velie. "Carry on for a moment, Thomas. No one is to leave. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Preceded by a revitalized Weaver, he trotted out of the window-room.

Weaver broke into a run as they stepped out onto the main floor. The center of a little crowd of detectives and policemen, a young girl stood stiffly, her face drained of color, eyes wild with a nameless fear. As she caught sight of Weaver, a tremulous cry escaped her and she swayed forward weakly.

"Westley! What is the matter? These policemen--detectives--" Her arms stretched out. In full sight of the grinning police and the Inspector, Weaver and the girl embraced.

"Sweetheart! You must get hold of yourself ..." Weaver whispered desperately into the girl's ear as she clung to him.

"Wes--tell me. Who is it? Not--" She drew away from him with horror in her eyes. "Not--Winifred?"

She read the answer in his eyes even before he nodded.

The Inspector obtruded his elastic little figure between them. "Mr. Weaver," he smiled, "may I have the pleasure...?"

"Oh, yes--yes!" Weaver stepped quickly backward, releasing the girl. He seemed astonished at the interruption, as if he had forgotten momentarily the place, the circumstances, the time.... "Marion dear, may I present Inspector Richard Queen. Inspector--Miss French."

Queen took the proffered little hand and bowed. Marion murmured a perfunctory pleasance, while her large grey eyes widened in stricken interest at this tiny middle-aged gentleman with the clean white mustache who bent over her hand.

"You're investigating--a crime, Inspector Queen?" she faltered, shrinking from him, clutching at Weaver's hand.

"Unfortunately, Miss French," said the Inspector. "I'm genuinely grieved that you've had such an unpleasant reception--more than I can say...." Weaver glared at him in bewildered wrath. The old Machiavelli! He had known all along what would happen!... The Inspector proceeded in a gentle tone. "It's your stepmother, my dear--shockingly murdered. Terrible! Terrible!" He clucked his tongue like a solicitous old hen.

"Murdered!" The girl grew very still. The hand in Weaver's twitched once, and was limp. For the instant both Weaver and the Inspector thought she would faint, and involuntarily moved forward to her aid. She staggered back. "No--thank you," she whispered. "My God--Winifred! And she and Bernice were away--all night...."

The Inspector stiffened. Then his hand fumbled for his snuff-box. "Bernice, I believe you said, Miss French?" he said. "The watchman mentioned that name before, too.... A sister, perhaps, my dear?" he asked ingratiatingly.

"Oh--what have I--Oh, Wes dear, take me away, take me away!" She buried her face in the folds of Weaver's coat.

Weaver said, above her head, "A perfectly natural remark, Inspector. The housekeeper, Hortense Underhill, called Mr. French this morning during the conference to report that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice, her daughter, had slept at home.... You see, of course, that Marion--Miss French...."

"Yes, yes, naturally." Queen smiled, touched the girl's arm. She started convulsively. "If you'll come this way, Miss French--? Please be brave. There is something I want you--to see."

He waited. Weaver gave him an outraged glance, but pressed the girl's arm encouragingly and led her, stumbling, toward the window. The Inspector followed, beckoning to one of the detectives nearby, who immediately took his place outside the window-door after the trio entered the room.

There was a little rustle of excitement as Weaver helped the girl into the room. Even old French, shaking as if with ague, showed a light of reason in his eyes as he spied her.

"Marion my dear!" he cried in a terrible voice.

She broke away from Weaver and fell on her knees before her father's chair. No one spoke. The men looked uneasily away. Father and daughter clung to each other....

For the first time since he had come into the chamber of death, Marchbanks, brother of the dead woman, spoke.

"This--is--hellish," he said, savagely and slowly, glaring out of bloodshot eyes at the trim figure of the Inspector. Ellery, in his corner, crooked his body slightly forward. "I'm--getting--out--of--this."

The Inspector signaled to Velie. The burly Sergeant stumped across the floor and towered above Marchbanks, saying nothing, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Marchbanks, large and corpulent, shrank before the huge detective. He flushed, muttered beneath his breath, stepped back.

"Now," said the Inspector equably, "Miss French, may I trouble you to answer a few questions?"

"Oh, I say, Inspector," protested Weaver, despite Ellery's warning flick of the finger, "do you think it absolutely necessary to--"

"I'm quite ready, sir," came the quiet voice of the girl, and she rose to her feet, her eyes a trifle red, but clearly composed. Her father had slumped back in his chair. He had forgotten her already. She smiled wanly at Weaver, who sent her an ardent glance across the room. But she kept her head averted from the sheeted corpse in the corner by the bed.

"Miss French," snapped the Inspector, flicking the gauzy scarf from the dead woman's clothes before her eyes, "is this your scarf?"

She whitened. "Yes. How does it come here?"

"That," said the Inspector dispassionately, "is what _I_ should like to know. Can you explain its presence?"

The girl's eyes flashed, but she spoke calmly enough. "No, sir, I cannot."

"Miss French," went on the Inspector after a stifling pause, "your scarf was found around Mrs. French's neck under her coat-collar. Does that convey anything to you--perhaps suggest an explanation?"

"She was wearing it?" Marion gasped. "I--I can't understand it. She--she never did that before." She glanced helplessly at Weaver, shifted her gaze and met Ellery's eyes.

They looked at each other for a startled moment. Ellery saw a slender girl with smoky hair and deep grey eyes. There was an unaccented cleanliness about the lines of her young body that made him feel pleased for Weaver's sake. She gave the impression of straightforwardness and strength of will--honest eyes, firm lips, small strong hands, a pleasingly cleft chin and a good straight nose. Ellery smiled.

Marion saw a tall athletic man with a suggestion of nascent vigor, startlingly intellectual about the forehead and lips, cool and quiet and composed. He looked thirty, but was younger. There was a hint of Bond Street about his clothes. His long thin fingers clasped a little book and he regarded her out of pince-nez eyeglasses.... Then she blushed slightly and her eyes wavered away toward the Inspector.

"When did you last see this scarf, Miss French?" went on the old man.

"Oh, I--" Her tone changed; she took command of herself. "I seem to remember wearing it yesterday," she said slowly.

"Yesterday? Very interesting, Miss French. Do you recall just where--?"

"I left the house directly after luncheon," she said, "wearing the scarf under this coat. I met a friend at Carnegie Hall and we spent the afternoon at a recital--Pasternak the pianist. We parted after the recital and I took a 'bus down to the store. I do seem to remember wearing the scarf all day...." Her brow wrinkled prettily. "I don't remember having it, however, when I returned home."

"You say you came to the store, Miss French?" interrupted the Inspector politely. "For any special reason?"

"Why--not particularly. I did think I might still catch father. I knew he was leaving for Great Neck, but I didn't know exactly when, and--"

The Inspector held up a ridiculously tiny white hand. "Just a moment, Miss French. You say your father went to Great Neck yesterday?"

"Why, yes. I understood he was to go out there for business. There's--there's nothing wrong--about that, is there, sir?" She bit her lip.

"No, no--positively no!" said the Inspector, smiling. He turned to Weaver. "Why didn't you tell me that Mr. French took a little trip yesterday, Mr. Weaver?"

"You didn't ask me," retorted Weaver.

The Inspector started, then chuckled. "One on me," he said. "It's true enough. When did he return and why did he go?"

Weaver looked compassionately at the limp, oblivious figure of his employer. "He went early yesterday afternoon to confer with Farnham Whitney on Whitney's estate. A matter of merger, Inspector--the meeting this morning discussed just that. Mr. French told me that he was driven into the city early this morning by Whitney's chauffeur--arrived at the store at nine o'clock. Anything else?"

"Not just now." Queen turned to Marion. "Your pardon, my dear, for the interruption.... Now where specifically did you go when you came to the store?"

"To my father's apartment on the sixth floor."

"Indeed?" muttered the Inspector. "And why, may I ask, did you go to your father's apartment?"

"I usually go there when I'm at the store, which isn't often," explained Marion. "Besides, I was told that Mr. Weaver was there, working, and I thought--it might be nice to pay him a little visit...." She eyed her father apprehensively, but he was insensible to words.

"You went there directly on entering the store? And left immediately from the apartment?"

"Yes."

"Is it possible," insinuated the Inspector very gently, "that you may have dropped your scarf in the apartment, Miss French?"

She did not reply immediately. Weaver tried frantically to catch her eye, moving his lips, framing the word "No!" She shook her head.

"Quite possible, Inspector," she said quietly.

"I see." The Inspector beamed. "Now, when did you see Mrs. French last?"

"At dinner last night. I had an appointment for the evening and left almost immediately."

"Did Mrs. French seem herself? Notice anything unusual, abnormal in her speech or actions?"

"Well.... She did seem worried about Bernice," Marion said slowly.

"Ah!" Queen rubbed his hands together. "Then I infer that your--stepsister, is it?--was not at home for dinner?"

"No," replied Marion after a hesitating silence. "Winifred--my stepmother told me that Bernice had gone out and would not be home for dinner. But she seemed worried nevertheless."

"She gave no indication of a reason for this worry?"

"None whatever."

"What is your step-sister's name? Is it French?"

"No, Inspector. She retains her father's name of Carmody," murmured Marion.

"I see. I see." The Inspector stood plunged in thought. John Gray shifted impatiently, whispered a word to Cornelius Zorn, who shook his head sadly and leaned resignedly against the back of French's chair. Queen paid no attention to them. He looked up at Marion. Her passive, tired little figure drooped.

"One question more for the moment, Miss French," he said, "and you may rest.... Can you suggest, from anything that you know of Mrs. French's background or affairs, or from anything that transpired recently--last night, yesterday, perhaps--can you suggest," he repeated, "a possible explanation for this crime? It's murder, of course," he continued hastily, before she could reply, "and I know you are naturally chary of answering. Take your time--think carefully over everything that has occurred lately...." He stopped. "Now, Miss French, can you tell me anything I might wish to hear?"

There was naked silence in the room--a raw pulsing quiet that beat invisibly against the atmosphere. Ellery heard quick breaths drawn, saw bodies tense, eyes sharpen, hands twitch as, to a man, the occupants of the room with the exception of Cyrus French leaned forward, watching Marion French as she stood there, facing them.

But she said, "No," very matter-of-factly, and the Inspector's eyes flickered. Everybody relaxed. Some one sighed. Ellery noted that it was Zorn. Trask lit a cigaret nervously and let the fire die. Marchbanks sat frozen to his chair. Weaver made a little movement of despair....

"Then that will be all, Miss French," returned Inspector Queen, in a tone as casual as the girl's had been. He seemed pleasantly absorbed in a contemplation of Lavery's formal cravat. "Please," he added, just as pleasantly, "do not leave the room.... Mr. Lavery, may I have your ear for the moment?"

Marion dropped back and Weaver sprang to her side, dragging a chair with him. She sank into it with a little smile, shading her eyes with a nerveless hand. The other snuggled secretly into Weaver's eager grasp.... Ellery watched them for a moment, then turned his sharp eyes on Lavery.

The Frenchman bowed, waited, fingers riffling his short beard.

11

LOOSE ENDS

"As I understand it, Mr. Lavery, you are responsible for this exhibition of modernistic house-furnishings?" Inspector Queen's voice took a fresh note.

"That is correct."

"How long has this exhibition been going on?"

"About a month, I should say."

"Your main exhibition rooms are where?"

"On the fifth floor." Lavery spread his fingers. "You see, this is more or less of a pioneer project in New York, Inspector. I was invited to exhibit some of my creations to the American public by Mr. French and his Board, who are very much in sympathy with the movement. Most of the purely enterprising details of the present exhibition emanate from Mr. French, allow me to add."

"Just what do you mean?"

Lavery showed his teeth in a smile. "The matter of these window-exhibits, for example. That was wholly Mr. French's idea, and I do suppose it has resulted in much advertising for the establishment. Certainly the crowds have flocked from the sidewalk outside to the fifth floor exhibition rooms in such numbers that we have had to call in special ushers to handle them."

"I see." The Inspector nodded politely. "So these window-exhibits were Mr. French's idea? Yes, yes--you have just told me that.... How long has this particular window been dressed so, Mr. Lavery?"

"This is the--let me see--the end of the second week of the living-room-bedroom exhibit," answered Lavery, stroking his short modish beard again. "The fourteenth day, to be exact. To-morrow we were to have changed the room's contents, removed them to make way for a model dining-room."

"Oh, the windows are changed bi-weekly? Then this is the second room you have exhibited?"

"Quite so. The first was a full bedroom."

Queen mused openly. His eyes drooped with weariness; blackish pouches stood out beneath. He took a short turn up and down the room, halting once more before Lavery.

"It seems to me," he said, more to himself than to Lavery, "that this unfortunate accident and its attendant circumstances dovetail too fortuitously.... However! Mr. Lavery, is this window-exhibit held at the same time each day?"

Lavery stared. "Yes--yes, certainly."

"At _exactly_ the same time each day, Mr. Lavery?" pursued the Inspector.

"Oh, yes!" said Lavery. "The Negress has entered this window at noon of each day ever since the institution of the exhibit."

"Very good!" The Inspector seemed pleased again. "Now, Mr. Lavery--in the month that these demonstrations have taken place, has there ever to your knowledge been one day on which the time-schedule was not adhered to?"

"No," said Lavery with positiveness. "And I am in a position to know, sir. It has been my habit to stand on the main floor behind the window-room during the Negress's demonstration every day. My lecture upstairs is not scheduled until three-thirty of the afternoon, you see."

The Inspector raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you lecture, too, Mr. Lavery?"

"But of course!" cried Lavery. "I have been told," he added gravely, "that my description of the work of the Viennese Hoffman has created something of a stir among the _monde artistique_."

"Indeed!" smiled the Inspector. "One question more, Mr. Lavery, and then I think we will have finished with you for the present.--This exhibition as a whole is not entirely a spontaneous thing? I mean," he added, "steps have been taken to make the public aware both of your window-demonstrations and of your lectures upstairs?"

"Assuredly. The publicity and advertising have been planned most carefully," rejoined Lavery. "We have circularized all the art-schools and allied organizations. The charge-accounts, I understand, have likewise been covered by personal letters from the management. The bulk of the public attention, however, has been secured by means of newspaper advertisements. Of course you have seen those?"

"Well, I rarely read department store ads," the Inspector replied hastily. "And I suppose you have received all sorts of publicity?"

"Yes--yes, indeed," and Lavery again flashed his white teeth. "If you would condescend to examine my scrap-books--"

"Hardly necessary, Mr. Lavery, and thank you for your patience. That's all."

"A moment, please.--May I?" Ellery had stepped forward, smiling. The Inspector glanced at him, waved his hand briefly, as if to say, "Your witness!" and retreated to the bed, where he sat down with a sigh.

Lavery had turned in his tracks and now stood stroking his beard, his eyes politely questioning.

Ellery did not speak for a moment. He twirled his pince-nez, looked up suddenly. "I am quite interested in your work, Mr. Lavery," he said with a disarming grimace. "Although I fear my esthetic studies have not exhausted the field of modern interior decoration. As a matter of fact, I was much interested the other day in your lecture on Bruno Paul...."

"So you attended my impromptu classes upstairs, sir?" exclaimed Lavery, flushing with pleasure. "Perhaps I was a trifle enthusiastic about Paul--I know him quite well, you see...."

"Indeed!" Ellery looked at the floor. "I take it that you have been in America before, Mr. Lavery--your English is quite untouched by Gallicism."

"Well, I have traveled more or less extensively," admitted Lavery. "This is my fifth visit to the States--Mr. Queen, is it?"

"I'm sorry!" said Ellery. "I am Inspector Queen's unruly scion.... Mr. Lavery, how many demonstrations a day are given in this window?"

"Just one." Lavery raised his black brows.

"How long does each demonstration take?"

"Thirty-two minutes exactly."

"Interesting," murmured Ellery. "By the way, is this room kept open at all times?"

"Not at all. There are some very valuable pieces in this room. It is kept locked except when it is being used for demonstration purposes."

"Of course! That was stupid of me," smiled Ellery. "You have a key, naturally?"

"A number of keys exist, Mr. Queen," answered Lavery. "The idea of the lock is more to prevent transient trespassing during the day than to keep out possible night-prowlers. It is presumed that after hours, in an establishment as well guarded as this--provided with modern burglar alarms, guards, and so on--the room would be safe enough against burglary."

"If you will pardon me for interrupting," came the mild voice of MacKenzie, the store manager, "I am in a better position to clear up the question of the keys than Mr. Lavery."

"Delighted to have you," said Ellery quickly, but he began once more to twirl his pince-nez. The Inspector, seated on the bed, preserved a watchful silence.

"We have a number of duplicate keys," explained MacKenzie, "to each of the windows. In this particular instance Mr. Lavery has one, Diana Johnson the demonstrator has one (which she leaves at the Employees' Office desk when she leaves for the day), the floorwalker on this section of the main floor and the store detectives each have one, and there is a complete set of duplicates kept in the general offices on the mezzanine floor. I am afraid very many people could have secured a key."

Ellery did not seem perturbed. He walked suddenly to the door, opened it, peered out over the main floor for a moment, and returned.

"Mr. MacKenzie, will you please summon that clerk at the leather-goods counter opposite this window?"

MacKenzie departed, returning shortly with a short, stout, middle-aged man. He was white-faced and nervous.

"Were you on duty all this morning?" inquired Ellery kindly. The man jerked his head in the affirmative. "And yesterday afternoon?" Another jerk. "Did you leave your post at any time this morning or yesterday afternoon?"

The clerk found his voice. "Oh, no, sir!"

"Very well!" Ellery spoke softly. "Did you at any time during yesterday afternoon or this morning notice any one entering or leaving this window-room?"

"No, sir." The man's tone was assured. "I've been on duty all the time; I couldn't help but notice if any one had used this room, sir. I haven't been very busy," he added, with an apologetic side-glance at MacKenzie.

"Thank you." The clerk left with eager steps.

"Well!" Ellery sighed. "We seem to be progressing, and yet nothing takes definite shape...." Shrugging his shoulders, he turned once more to Lavery.

"Mr. Lavery, are these windows illuminated after dark?"

"No, Mr. Queen. The shades are drawn after every demonstration, and they are kept drawn until the following day."

"Then," and Ellery emphasized the word, "then I take it that these lighting fixtures are dummies?"

Eyes long since dulled by waiting and wretchedness expectantly followed the direction of Ellery's arm. He was pointing toward the oddly cut, clouded-glass wall lights. The eyes all turned, too, to observe the numerous queerly shaped lamps about the room.

For answer Lavery strode to the rear wall and, after a moment's manipulation, removed one of the modernistic fixtures. The socket which should have held an electric bulb was empty.

"We have no use for lights here," he said, "so we have not installed them." With a swift movement he restored the fixture to its place on the wall.

Ellery took a decisive step forward. But then he shook his head, retreated, turned to the Inspector.

"Henceforward, or at least for the present, I shall be silent," he said, smiling, "and latinically pass for a philosopher."

12

OUT THE WINDOW....

A policeman pushed his way into the room, looked about as if to catch the eye of authority, was summoned peremptorily by old Queen, mumbled a few words, and departed almost as quickly as he had come.

The Inspector immediately took John Gray aside and whispered in the little director's ear. Gray nodded and went to the side of Cyrus French, who was staring blankly into space, muttering to himself. With the aid of Weaver and Zorn, Gray managed to twist French's chair around so that the old man's back was to the body. French noticed nothing. The store physician took his pulse professionally. Marion's hand was at her throat; she stood up quickly and leaned against the back of her father's chair.

Then the door opened and two white-garbed men with visored caps entered, bearing a stretcher between them. They saluted the Inspector, who jerked his thumb toward the sheeted corpse.

Ellery had withdrawn into the far corner of the room beyond the bed to hold communion with his pince-nez. He frowned at it, tapped it on the back of his hand, threw his lightcoat on the bed and sat down, taking his head between his hands. Finally, as if he had come to either an impasse or a conclusion, he produced from the pocket of his coat the volume it contained, and began to scribble hurriedly on the fly-leaf. He paid not the slightest attention to the two police doctors stooped over the dead woman.

Nor did he protest when he was unceremoniously moved by a silent, nervous man who had entered immediately behind the stretcher bearers, and who was now engaged with the help of an assistant in photographing the dead woman, her position on the floor, the bed, the handbag and other articles connected with the victim. Ellery's eyes followed the police photographer, but abstractedly.

Suddenly he snapped his little book back into his pocket and waited thoughtfully until he caught his father's eye.

"Lord, son," said the Inspector, coming over, "I'm tired. And worried. _And_ apprehensive."

"Apprehensive? Come, now--don't fall into that silly frame of mind, dad. Why should you be apprehensive? This case is coming along, coming along...."

"Oh, you've probably caught the murderer and hidden him in your vest-pocket," growled the old man. "I'm not worried about the murderer, I'm worried about Welles."

"Sorry!" Ellery moved closer. "Don't let Welles rile you, dad; I don't think he's as bad as you've painted him. And while he's merely heckling you, I'll be working under-cover--grasp the idea?"

"It's not half bad at that," said the Inspector. "My gosh! He's liable to walk in here any minute now, El! I never thought of that! By this time he has a telephoned report and--Yes! What is it?"

A bluecoat tramped in with a message and left.

The Inspector groaned. "Word's just come that Welles is on his way here--now we'll have arrests, interviews, grillings, reporters running over the place, and merry--"

Ellery's air of raillery vanished. He grasped his father's arm and guided him swiftly to an angle in the wall.

"If that's the case, dad, let me tell you what is in my mind--quickly." He looked around; they were fairly unobserved. He lowered his voice. "Have you reached any definite conclusions yet? I'd like to have your reactions before I tell you mine."

"Well--" the old man peered about him cautiously, then cupped his mouth in his small hands--"between you and me, son, there's something queer about the whole business. As far as details are concerned, I'm a little hazy--if you're clearer than I, it's probably because you have had something of the advantage of an observer. But as to the crime itself--the possible motive--the story behind it--I have the inescapable feeling that the murder of Mrs. French is not half so important to us as what may have necessitated the murder...." Ellery nodded thoughtfully. "I have no doubt that this is a carefully planned murder. Despite the weirdness of the place, the apparent sloppiness of the crime, there is amazingly little to go on."

"What about Marion French's scarf?" asked Ellery.

"Fiddlesticks!" said the Inspector contemptuously. "Can't see that it means anything intelligible. In all probability she left it somewhere about and Mrs. French picked it up.... But I'll bet a cookie that the Commissioner grabs it."

"I think you're wrong there," commented Ellery. "He'll be afraid to tackle French. Don't lose sight of French's power as head of the Anti-Vice Society.... No, dad, for the present Welles will keep his hands off Marion French."

"Well, what have you concluded, Ellery?"

Ellery produced his small volume and turned to the fly-leaf on which he had scribbled a few moments before. He looked up. "I hadn't thought about the remote nuances of the crime, dad," he said. "Although, now that you've brought it up, it seems to me that you are probably correct about the far-reaching significance of the motive as opposed to the crime itself.... No, I've been chiefly occupied until now with more direct affairs. I have four interesting little puzzlers to elucidate. Listen carefully.

"First, and probably most important," he began, referring to his notes, "there is the puzzle of Mrs. French's key. We have a fair sequence of incident. The night-watchman, O'Flaherty, observes the victim at about eleven-fifty last night with the gold-disked apartment key in her possession. She is lost sight of until twelve-fifteen to-day, when she is found dead--still in the store, but with the key missing from the scene of the crime. The question arises, then: Why is the key missing? It seems on the face of it a pure matter of discovery, doesn't it? Yet--regard the possibilities. It is plausible enough at this time to suspect that the key's disappearance is connected with the crime, more directly with the murderer. A murderer disappears, a key disappears. It is not difficult to imagine that they disappeared together. Now, if this is so--and for the present let us assume that it _is_ so--why did the murderer take the key? Obviously, we can't answer that question--yet. But--we now know that the murderer has in his possession a key to a certain apartment--French's private apartment on the sixth floor."

"That's so," muttered the Inspector. "I'm glad you suggested sending one of the boys to watch that apartment this morning."

"I had that thought," said Ellery. "But something else disturbs me. I can't help asking myself: Doesn't the absence of the key perhaps indicate that the body was brought to this window from some other place?"

"I can't see that at all," objected the Inspector. "Can't see that it has anything to do with it."

"Let's not quarrel about it," murmured Ellery. "I can see one very, very interesting possibility that makes my question logical and the item of Marion French's scarf seems to point the same way. I think that I'll be able to check up soon on the facts--which will put me in a position to prove more definitely what I've just postulated.... Let me get on to point number two.

"The natural thought one has on finding the body in this window is that the crime was committed here. Of course! Usually, one would not even stop to question it."

"It seemed funny to me, though," said the Inspector, frowning.

"Ah! It did, eh? Perhaps I can crystallize your suspicion a bit later," said Ellery brightly. "We enter, we see a body, we say: Crime was committed here. But then we stop to observe. We are told by Prouty that the woman has been dead some twelve hours. The body is found a bit after noon. That would make it a short time after midnight when Mrs. French died. In other words, when the crime was committed. Observe that in any case the crime was committed in dead of night. What is the appearance of this window at such a time--of this whole section of the building? Total darkness!"

"And--?" put in the Inspector dryly.

"You don't seem to take my dramatics very seriously," laughed Ellery. "Total darkness, I repeat. Yet we are supposing that this window is the scene of the crime. We prowl about the window, ask ourselves: Are there lights in here? If there are, that's the end of it. With the door closed, and these heavy drapes on the street side, light would be unobserved outside the window-room. We investigate and find--no, no lights. Plenty of lamps, plenty of sockets--no bulbs. I doubt, indeed, if the lamps are even wired. So--we suddenly visualize a crime in total darkness. What--you don't like that idea? Neither do I!"

"There are such things as flashlights, you know," objected Queen.

"So there are. That occurred to me. Then I asked myself: If there was a crime here, there was some logically necessary antecedent action. A crime presupposes a meeting, a probable quarrel, a murder, and in this case, disposal of the body in a _very_ queer and inconvenient place--a wall-bed.... And all in the rays of a flashlight! As redoubtable Cyrano would remark: No, I thank you!"

"Might have carried bulbs with him, of course," muttered the Inspector, then their eyes met and they both laughed at once.

Ellery grew serious. "Well, let's leave the little matter of illumination for the present. You'll admit it reeks slightly of improbability?

"And now to that exceedingly fascinating little thingamajig," he continued, "the lipstick engraved with the letter _C_. That's my point number three. In many ways, it's of extreme significance. The immediate conclusion is that Lipstick marked _C_ does not belong to Mrs. French, whose initials, engraved on three other articles in her bag, are _W.M.F._ Now, Lipstick marked _C_ is of a noticeably darker shade than the paint on the dead woman's lips. Which not only corroborates the premise that Lipstick marked _C_ is not Mrs. French's, but also that there is _another_ lipstick extant somewhere which _did_ belong to Mrs. French. Follow?... Now where is that lipstick? It is not in this window anywhere. Therefore it is somewhere else. Did the murderer take it, along with the key? That seems silly. Ah--but haven't we a clue? Of course! For observe ..." he paused, "the dead woman's lips. Half-finished! And of a lighter shade. What does this mean? Undoubtedly that Mrs. French was interrupted while she was dabbing at her lips with her own lipstick now missing."

"Why interrupted?" demanded the Inspector.

"Have you ever seen a woman who began to paint her lips leave them half-painted? It just isn't done. It _must_ have been an interruption which prevented those lips from being entirely daubed. And a violent interruption, I'll wager; nothing short of an unprecedentedly odd occurrence would stop a woman from smearing that last red blob on the right place."

"The murder!" exclaimed the Inspector with a queer light in his eye.

Ellery smiled. "Perhaps.--But do you grasp the implication, dad? If she was interrupted by the murder or the incidents immediately preceding the murder, and the lipstick is not in this window--"

"Of course, of course!" exclaimed the old man. He sobered. "It's true, though, that the lipstick might have been taken by the murderer for purposes of his own."

"On the other hand," returned Ellery, "if it was not taken by the murderer, then it is still somewhere in or about the building. You might institute a search through six floors of this drygoods mortuary."

"Oh, impossible! But I suppose we'll have to have a try at it later."

"Perhaps it won't be necessary in about fifteen minutes," said Ellery. "At any rate, a genuinely interesting question comes up: To whom does the _C_ lipstick belong, if it is not Mrs. French's? You might look into that, dad. I have an idea that the answer to that question will bring complications--_à la_ Scott Welles...."

At mention of the Police Commissioner's name the Inspector's features lengthened. "You'd better finish what you began, Ellery; he'll be here any minute now."

"And so I shall." Ellery removed his pince-nez and twirled it recklessly in the air. "Before we proceed to point number four, bear in mind that you're _cherchez_-ing two feminine accessories--_la lipstick de Madame, et sa clef_....

"To point number four, then," continued Ellery with a faraway gleam in his eye. "For point number four we must credit the habitually sharpened perceptions of our grossly underpaid and revered medico, Sam Prouty. He thought it strange that wounds of the nature of Mrs. French's should have bled so little. At least, there was little trace of blood on her body and clothes.... By the way, there was also a smear of dried blood on the palm of her left hand--you noticed it, of course?"

"Saw it, all right," muttered the Inspector. "Probably clapped her hand to one of the wounds at the moment she was shot, and then--"

"And then," finished Ellery, "her hand dropped in death and the divine ichor, which by all the laws of physics, according to friend Sam, should have gushed forth, did--what? I should say," he remarked seriously after a pause, "that it obeyed the immutable laws of that exact science and did gush forth freely...."

"I see what you mean ..." murmured the old man.

"It gushed forth freely--but not in this window. In other words, we must look for an interesting combination of elements to explain away the phenomenon of two bloody revolver-wounds being practically bloodless on the discovery of the body...."

"Let me sum up the indications to this point," Ellery continued swiftly. "To my mind the absence of Mrs. French's apartment key; the absence of normal illuminating-facilities in this window; the absence of Mrs. French's rightful lipstick, which she must have had almost directly before her death, since her lips are only half-painted; the absence of blood from two logically bloody wounds; the presence of Marion French's scarf; and another item of a more general but none the less convincing nature--all converge into one conclusion."

"And that is that the murder was not committed in this window," said the Inspector, taking snuff with a steady hand.

"Exactly."

"Just what do you mean by still another item which points toward that conclusion, Ellery?"

"Has it struck you at all," answered Ellery slowly, "what an utterly preposterous setting this window-room is for the crime of murder?"

"I did think of it, as I mentioned before, but--"

"You've been too plunged into detail to get a psychological slant on this affair. Think of the privacy, the secrecy, the conveniences, that a fully planned murder requires. Here--what did the murderer have? An unlit, periodically patrolled window. Dangerous from start to finish. In the heart of the main floor, where the nucleus of the night-watchman's staff is located. Not fifty feet from the constantly present head night-watchman's office. Why? No, dad, it's perfectly silly! It was the first thought I had when I came in here."

"True enough," muttered the Inspector. "Yet--if it didn't take place here, why transport the body here at all _after_ the murder, if that is what was done? It seems to me that almost as much danger, if not more, existed in that event as in the first...."

Ellery frowned. "That had occurred to me, of course.... There is an explanation; there must be. I begin to see the manipulation of a fine Italian hand...."

"At any rate," broke in the Inspector with a slight impatience, "so much is clear to me after your analysis: this window is certainly not the scene of the crime. I think I see--yes, of course--it's as plain as day--the apartment upstairs!"

"Oh, that!" Ellery said absently. "Naturally. Wouldn't make sense otherwise. The key, a logical place for the lipstick, privacy, illumination ... yes, yes, the sixth floor apartment by all means. It's my next stop...."

"And it's positively depressing, El!" exclaimed the Inspector, as if struck by a thought. "Imagine! That apartment has been used by five people incessantly since eight-thirty this morning, when Weaver arrived. Nobody noticed anything up there, so evidently traces of the crime were removed from the apartment before that time. Goodness--if only...."

"Now don't be bothering your poor grey head with fancy!" laughed Ellery, suddenly restored to good humor. "Of course the traces of the crime have been removed. The top layer, so to speak. Perhaps even the middle layer. But away down deep, underneath, we may find--who knows? Yes, that's my next stop."

"I can't help worrying about the reason this window was used at all," frowned the Inspector. "Unless it's that time element...."

"Heavens! You're becoming positively a genius, dad!" chuckled Ellery affectionately. "I've just got over solving that little problem for myself. Why was the body placed in the window? Let's apply unfailing _logos_....

"There are two possibilities, either or both of which may be correct. First: to keep attention away from the _real_ scene of the crime, which is undoubtedly the apartment. Second, and more logically, _to prevent the body from being discovered before noon_. The dead certainty of the daily demonstration time--which, you have reasoned, of course, was common knowledge to all New York--tenons much too snugly."

"But why, Ellery?" objected Inspector Queen. "Why delay the body's discovery until noon?"

"If only we knew that!" murmured Ellery, with a shrug. "But in a general way it seems reasonable that, if the murderer left the body to be discovered--and he knew it with certainty--at twelve-fifteen, then he had something to do _before noon_ which the discovery of the body prematurely would have made dangerous or impossible. Do you follow me?"

"But what on earth--"

"Yes, what on earth," replied Ellery sadly. "What did the murderer have to do on the morning of the crime? _I_ don't know."

"We're just stumbling in the dark, Ellery," said the Inspector with a faint groan. "Just staggering from premise to conclusion without a ray of light anywhere.... For example, why couldn't the murderer have done what he had to do last night, _in the building_? There are telephones, you know, if he had to communicate with some one...."

"Are there? But--we'll have to check up on that later."

"I'll do that right away--"

"Just a second, dad," interrupted Ellery. "Why not send Velie out to that private elevator to look for traces of blood?"

The Inspector stared at him, made a fist. "Goodness! How stupidly I've managed things!" he cried. "Of course! Thomas!"

Velie stalked across the room, received an inaudible instruction, and immediately left.

"I should have thought of that before," growled the Inspector, turning back to Ellery. "Naturally, if the murder was committed in the apartment, the body had to be brought down here from the sixth floor."

"Probably find nothing," commented Ellery. "I'd pick the staircase, myself.... But look here, dad. I want you to do something for me.--Welles will be here any moment now. To all intents and purposes this window is the scene of the crime. He'll want to hear all the testimony all over again, anyway. Keep him down here--give me an hour upstairs alone with Wes Weaver, won't you? I must see that apartment at once. Nobody has been in it since the meeting broke up--it's been watched all the time--there _must_ be something there.... Will you?"

The Inspector wrung his hands helplessly. "Of course, son--anything you say. You can certainly tackle it with a fresher mind than I can. I'll keep Welles down here. Want to examine that Employees' Entrance office, the freight room, and that whole section of the main floor, anyway.... But why are you taking Weaver?" His voice sank lower. "Ellery--aren't you playing a dangerous game?"

"Why, dad!" Ellery's eyes opened wide in honest astonishment. "What do you mean? If you've any suspicion of poor Wes, disabuse your mind of it right now. Wes and I were bunkies at school; remember that summer during which I stayed with a chum in Maine? That was Westley's father's place. I know the poor boy as well as I know you. Father's a clergyman, mother's a saint. Background clean, life's always been an open book. No secrets, no past...."

"But you don't know what he's bumped into in the city here, Ellery," objected the Inspector. "You haven't seen him for years."

"Look here, dad," said Ellery gravely. "You've never made a mistake following my judgment, have you? Follow it now. Weaver's as innocent of this crime as a lamb. His nervousness is plainly connected with Marion French.... There! The photographer wants to talk to you."

They turned back to the group. Inspector Queen spoke to the police photographer for a few moments. Then, dismissing the man, he resolutely beckoned the Scotch store manager.

"Mr. MacKenzie, tell me--" he asked abruptly, "what is the condition of your telephone service after shopping hours?"

MacKenzie said: "All 'phones except on one trunk line are cut off at six o'clock. That line is connected with O'Flaherty's desk at the night exit. If there are any incoming calls, he takes them. Otherwise, there is no telephone service at night."

"I see by O'Flaherty's time-sheet and report-sheet that there were no incoming or outgoing calls last night," remarked the Inspector, consulting the chart.

"You can rely on O'Flaherty, Inspector."

"Well," pursued Queen, "suppose some department is working overtime? 'Phone service kept open?"

"Yes," replied MacKenzie. "But only on written request of the head of the department.--I should add that we have very little of that sort of thing here, sir. Mr. French has always insisted that the closing hour be kept more or less strictly. Of course, there are exceptions every once in a while.--If there is no record on O'Flaherty's chart of such a request, you may be sure no lines were open last night."

"Not even in Mr. French's private apartment?"

"Not even in Mr. French's apartment," returned the store manager. "Unless Mr. French or Mr. Weaver instructs the head operator to the contrary."

The Inspector turned questioningly to Weaver, and Weaver shook his head in an emphatic negative.

"One thing more, Mr. MacKenzie. Are you aware of the last time before yesterday that Mrs. French visited the store?"

"I believe it was a week ago Monday, Inspector," replied MacKenzie after some hesitation. "Yes, I'm fairly certain. She came in to speak to me about some imported dress material."

"And she did not appear at the store after that?" Inspector Queen looked around at the other occupants of the room. There was no answer.

At this moment Velie reëntered. He whispered to his superior and stepped back. The Inspector turned to Ellery. "Nothing in the elevator--not a sign of blood."

A policeman stepped into the window-room and made for the Inspector.

"The Commissioner's here, Inspector."

"I'll be right out," said the Inspector wearily. As he left the room, Ellery gave him a meaning glance. He nodded slightly.

When he returned a few moments later, escorting the portly, pompous figure of Commissioner Scott Welles and a small army of detectives and deputies, Ellery and Westley Weaver had vanished. And Marion French sat in her chair, clutching her father's hand, watching the window-door as if with Weaver had gone some of her heart and courage.

THE SECOND EPISODE