Chapter IV: Part 4

_"As for the word CLUE, we are indebted for its genesis to
mythology.... Clue has descended etymologically from_ CLEW _(in
common with many other words of similar endings; i.e._, TREW, BLEW,
_etc.) ... being a literal Old English translation of the Greek
word for thread, directly traceable to the legend of Theseus and
Ariadne and the ball of cord she gave him with which to grope his
way out of the Labyrinth after killing the Minotaur.... A clue in
the detectival sense may be of an intangible as well as a tangible
nature; it may be a state of mind as well as a state of fact; or it
may derive from the absence of a relevant object as well as from
the presence of an irrelevant one.... But always, whatever its
nature, a clue is the thread which guides the crime investigator
through the labyrinth of nonessential data into the light of
complete comprehension...."_

--From WILLIAM O. GREEN'S
Introduction to ARS CRIMINALIS
_By_ John Strang

A--Cardroom

B--Card table with banque cards

C--Ash tray with stubs

D--Servant's bedroom

E--Anteroom

F--Library

G--Conference table and chairs

H--Library desk

I--Bedroom

J--Lavatory

K--Spring door to private apartment

L--Elevator shaft

M--Stairway

N--Dressing table ]

13

AT THE APARTMENT: _The Bedroom_

Ellery and Westley Weaver picked their way unnoticed through the throngs on the main floor. At the rear of the store, Weaver indicated around the bend of the wall a small grilled door. A policeman stood guard with his back to the ironwork.

"That's the private elevator, Ellery."

Ellery exhibited a special police pass signed in Inspector Queen's punctilious hand. The policeman touched his cap and opened the grilled door.

Ellery noted the staircase door around the corner, then entered the elevator. He closed the door carefully, touched the button marked 6, and the elevator began to ascend. They stood in silence, Weaver's lip creased under his teeth.

The elevator was finished in bronze and ebony, with an inlaid composition-rubber floor. It was spotlessly clean. On the further wall was a low divan-like seat covered with black velvet. Ellery adjusted his pince-nez and looked about him with interest. He bent over to examine more closely the velvet seat, craned his neck at a suspicious darkening in an angle of the wall.

"Might have known Velie would overlook nothing," he thought.

The elevator clicked to a stop. The door opened automatically and they stepped out into a wide, deserted corridor. At one end of the corridor was a high window. Almost directly opposite the elevator exit was an unpaneled door of heavy mahogany. A neat small tablet, with the words:

PRIVATE
CYRUS FRENCH

was affixed to this door.

A detective in plain clothes indolently leaned against the frame. He seemed to recognize Ellery at once, for he greeted him and stepped aside.

"Going in, Mr. Queen?" he asked.

"Righto!" said Ellery, cheerfully. "Be a good man and stick it outside here while we're sniffing around the apartment. If you see any one--with authority--coming, rap on the door. If it's just anybody, shoo 'im away. Understand?"

The detective nodded.

Ellery turned to Weaver. "Let's have your key, Wes," he said in a natural tone. Without a word Weaver handed him the key-case which Inspector Queen had examined in the window not long before.

Ellery selected the gold-disked key and inserted it in the keyhole. He turned and the tumbler slipped back noiselessly. He pushed open the bulky door.

He seemed surprised at its rigid weight, for he stepped back, taking his hand from the door, and it immediately swung shut. He tried the knob. The door was again locked.

"Stupid of me," he muttered, as he again unlocked the door with the key. He waved Weaver inside the apartment before him, and then allowed the door to swing shut once more.

"Special spring lock," commented Weaver. "Why are you surprised, Ellery? It's to insure absolute privacy. The Old Man's rather a bug on that."

"The door can't be opened from the outside without a key, then?" asked Ellery. "There's no way of fixing the bolt so that the door is temporarily unlocked?"

"The door is always as stubborn as that," said Weaver, with a fleeting grin. "Although I can't see what difference it makes."

"Perhaps all the difference in the universe," said Ellery, knitting his brows. Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked about him.

They stood in a small, almost bare anteroom with a cunningly converted skylight roof.... A Persian rug on the floor, a long leather-upholstered bench flanked with standing ashtrays against the wall opposite the door.... To the left was a single chair and a little magazine rack. And that was all.

The fourth wall was cut through for another door, smaller and not so formidable-looking.

"Not especially prepossessing," remarked Ellery. "Is this the usual taste of our multimillionaires?"

Weaver seemed to have recovered something of his natural buoyancy, now that he and Ellery were alone. "Don't misjudge the Old Man," he said hastily. "He's really a regular old duck, and knows a plain room from a fancy one. But he keeps this anteroom for the purpose of herding together the people who come to see him on business of the Anti-Vice League. This is a sort of waiting-room. Although, to tell the truth, it hasn't been used much. You know, French has an enormous suite of offices further uptown for Anti-Vice League affairs; most of that business is transacted there. I suppose, though, he couldn't resist the thought of entertaining some of his cronies here when he had the place designed."

"Any visitors of that sort lately?" inquired Ellery, his hand on the knob of the inner door.

"Oh, no! Not for several months, I think. The Old Man's been too wrapped up in the approaching merger with Whitney. Anti-Vice League has suffered, I guess."

"Well, then," said Ellery judiciously, "since there's nothing here of interest, let's proceed."

They walked into the next room, and the door swung shut behind them. This door, however, had no lock.

"This," said Weaver, "is the library."

"So I see." Ellery slouched against the door, surveying the room with open eagerness.

Weaver seemed afraid of silences. He wet his lips and said, "This is also the conference room for directors' meetings, the Old Man's hideaway, et cetera. Rather neat layout, don't you think?"

The room was at least twenty feet square, Ellery estimated, and presented a businesslike, if informal, appearance. In the center of the room stood a long mahogany table, surrounded by heavy red-leather-covered chairs. The chairs presented a ragged appearance, distributed unevenly around the table, showing signs of the haste with which the morning's meeting had been adjourned. Papers in disorderly piles were scattered over the table.

"Not usually that way," commented Weaver, noticing Ellery's grimace of distaste. "But the conference was an important one, everybody was excited, and then the news of the accident downstairs.... It's a wonder everything isn't in more of a mess than it is."

"Naturally!"

On the wall opposite Ellery was a severely framed portrait in oils of a ruddy-faced, masterful-jawed man, dressed in the fashion of the 'Eighties. Ellery lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Mr. French's father--the Founder," said Weaver.

Under the portrait were built-in bookcases, a large comfortable-looking chair, and an end-table of modern design. An etching hung over the chair.

The wall on the corridor side and the wall near which they stood were tastefully furniture-covered. On both walls, left and right, were identically decorated doors of the swinging, rotary-hinged type. The doors were finished in a fine-grained reddish leather, studded with brass bolts.

The Fifth Avenue side of the room held a large flat-topped desk, at about five feet from the rear wall. Its shining surface held a French-style telephone, a slip of blue memorandum paper, and at the edge of the desk facing the rest of the room a half-dozen books between handsome onyx book-ends. Behind the desk the wall was pierced by a large dormer-window, draped in heavy red velvet. This window overlooked Fifth Avenue.

Ellery completed his stationary examination with a frown. He looked down at Weaver's key-case, which he still held in his hand.

"By the way, Wes," he said suddenly, "is this your own key? Ever lend it to anybody?"

"That's my own, all right, Ellery," replied Weaver indifferently. "Why?"

"I merely thought that it might be interesting to discover whether the key has ever been out of your possession."

"Nothing there, I'm afraid," said Weaver. "It's never been off my person. As a matter of fact, as far as I know, all five keys have been exclusively in their owner's possession since the apartment was built."

"Hardly," said Ellery in a dry tone. "You forget Mrs. French's." He eyed the key contemplatively. "Greatly bother you, Westley, if I appropriate yours for the time? I do believe I shall go into the business of collecting this particular type of key."

"Help yourself," replied Weaver in a small voice. Ellery detached the key from the case, which he forthwith returned to Weaver. The key he put into his vest-pocket.

"By the way," said Ellery, "is this your office too?"

"Oh, no!" replied Weaver. "I have my own office on the fifth floor. I report there in the mornings before coming up here."

"_Enfin!_" Ellery moved suddenly. "_Aux armes!_ Westley, it is my earnest desire to peep into the privacy of Mr. French's bedroom. Will you oblige by leading the way?"

Weaver indicated the brass-studded door on the opposite wall. They traversed the thick-carpeted distance silently and Weaver swung the door inward. They emerged into a large squarish bedroom, with windows overlooking both Fifth Avenue and 39th Street.

The bedroom was, to Ellery's unaccustomed eyes, astonishingly modernistic in tone and decoration. Twin beds sunk almost to the floor level, both based on concentric ovals of a highly polished wood, caught the eye at once. A queerly shaped man's wardrobe and a daringly designed woman's dressing-table indicated that the room had been laid out for the use of Mrs. French as well as of her husband. Two diversions in the quietly toned but cubistic design of the walls pointed to closets within. Two chairs of unorthodox shape, a small night-table, a telephone table between the twin beds, a few bright scatter-rugs--Ellery, unacquainted with the Continental vogue at first hand, found the French bedroom a most engaging study.

On the wall toward the corridor was a door. It was partly open. Through it Ellery saw a lavatory in colored tiles as strikingly modern as the bedroom itself.

"Just what are you looking for, if you're looking for anything specific at all?" inquired Weaver.

"Lipstick. Should be here.... _And_ key. Let's hope it _isn't_ here." Ellery smiled and stepped into the center of the room.

He observed that the beds were made up. Everything seemed in perfect order. He strode over to the wardrobe, looked at its bare top. The dressing-table caught his eye. He walked toward it as if half afraid of what he might find. Weaver followed him curiously.

The top surface of the dressing-table held few articles. A small tray of mother-of-pearl; a powder-jar; a hand-mirror. On the tray were some feminine accoutrements--tiny scissors, a file, a buffer. Nothing had the appearance of recent use.

Ellery frowned. He turned his head away, turned it back as if fascinated by the dressing-table.

"Really," he muttered, "it should be here. Of all places. The logical one. Of course!"

His fingers had touched the tray. Its shell was slightly curved at the edges. As the tray moved, something rolled off the table, where it had nestled under the tray's edge, and fell to the floor.

With a grin of triumph Ellery picked up the article. It was a small, gold-chased lipstick. Weaver came over in some astonishment to see the find. Ellery pointed to the three initials on the cap: _W.M.F._

"Why, that's Mrs. French's!" cried Weaver.

"Dear Mrs. French," murmured Ellery under his breath. He lifted the cap of the stick and twisted. A pinkish blob of paste appeared.

"Seems to jibe," he said aloud. As if struck by a thought, he searched his coat pocket and pulled out the larger, silver-chased lipstick from the dead woman's bag in the window.

Weaver suppressed an exclamation. Ellery looked at him pointedly.

"So you recognized it, Wes?" he asked, smiling. "Now tell me--since we're _tête-à-tête_ and your innocent mind can grope trustingly in my presence.... To whom does this lipstick marked _C_ belong?"

Weaver winced, raised his eyes to Ellery's cool ones. "To Bernice," he said slowly.

"Bernice? Bernice Carmody? The missing lady," drawled Ellery. "I suppose Mrs. French was her real mother?"

"Mrs. French was the Old Man's second wife. His daughter by his first wife is Marion. First wife died about seven years ago. Bernice came along with Mrs. French when the Old Man remarried."

"And this is Bernice's lipstick?"

"Yes. I recognized it immediately."

"Evidently," chuckled Ellery, "from the way you jumped.... Just what do you know, Wes, about this Bernice's disappearance? From Marion French's demeanor, I gather that she knows something.... Now, now, Wes--be patient with me! I'm not a lover, you know."

"Oh, but I'm sure Marion's not keeping anything back!" protested Weaver. "When the Inspector and I went out a while ago to meet her near the entrance, she told him that Bernice and Mrs. French had not slept at home...."

"Not really!" Ellery was genuinely startled. "How is that, Wes? The facts, old boy, the facts!"

"This morning, just before the conference," explained Weaver, "the Old Man asked me to call his home and let Mrs. French know that he had returned from Great Neck safely. I talked to Hortense Underhill, the housekeeper--really more than a housekeeper; she's been with the Old Man for a dozen years. Hortense said that the only one up and about was Marion. This was a little after eleven. French spoke to Marion, told her the usual thing.

"At a quarter to twelve Hortense called up in something of a panic. She'd been worried over the silence of Mrs. French and Bernice, and on going to their bedrooms had found both empty, and the beds not slept in. Which meant, of course, that both women had not been home all night...."

"And what did French say to that?"

"He seemed annoyed rather than worried," replied Weaver. "Seemed to think that they had probably stayed overnight with friends. We went on with the conference, which broke up when we received the news about the--you know."

"Why on earth dad hasn't followed up that disappearance ..." muttered Ellery with a singular facial contortion. He sprang to the telephone and ordered the store operator to summon Sergeant Velie. When Velie's voice boomed over the wire, Ellery rapidly acquainted him with the facts, advised him to let the Inspector know that he considered it imperative that Bernice be searched for immediately; and added that Commissioner Welles be kept downstairs as long as it was in Inspector Queen's power to do so. Velie grunted complete understanding and hung up.

Ellery instantly demanded the French house telephone number from Weaver, and transmitted it to the operator.

"Hello!" An indistinguishable murmur in the depths of the instrument. "Hello. This is a police officer talking. Miss Hortense Underhill?... Never mind that now, Miss Underhill.... Has Bernice Carmody returned yet?... I see.... Please! Take a cab immediately and come straight to the French store. Yes, yes, immediately!... By the way, has Miss Carmody a maid?... Very well. Bring her with you.... Yes, to Mr. French's private apartment on the sixth floor. Ask for Sergeant Velie when you get downstairs."

He hung up. "Your Bernice has not returned," he said mildly. "For what reason Fortunatus alone knows." He looked thoughtfully at the two lipsticks in his hand. "Was Mrs. French a widow, Wes?" he asked after a pause.

"No. She was divorced from Carmody."

"That's not Vincent Carmody, the antique-dealer, by any chance?" asked Ellery, without changing expression.

"That's the man. Know him?"

"Slightly. I've been in his establishment." Ellery frowned as he regarded the lipsticks. His eyes keened suddenly.

"Now, I wonder ..." he said, putting the gold stick aside and turning the silver one over in his fingers. He unscrewed the cap, twisted the body so that the dark red paste emerged. He kept twisting absently until the entire carmine length was visible. He tried to twist it still further. To his surprise, there was a distinct click! and the entire paste in its metal setting fell out of the silver case into his hand.

"What have we here?" he asked in honest astonishment, peering into the cavity. Weaver leaned over for a better view. Ellery tipped the case and shook it.

A little capsule about a half-inch around and perhaps an inch long fell out into his hand. It was filled with a powdery white crystalline substance.

"What is it?" breathed Weaver.

Ellery shook it, held it up to the light. "Well, sir," he said slowly, a grim smile lifting the corners of his lips, "it looks very much like heroin to me!"

"Heroin? The drug, you mean?" asked Weaver excitedly.

"Precisely." Ellery restored the capsule to the lipstick case, screwed the paste section into place, and put the lipstick into his pocket. "Nice commercial heroin. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. I'll have the stuff analyzed for me at Headquarters. Westley," and he turned squarely to French's secretary, "tell me the truth. To your knowledge is--or was--any member of the French family a drug addict?"

Weaver replied with unexpected promptitude. "Now that you've found this heroin, if that's what it is, it seems to me that I recall something queer in the conduct and actions of Bernice, especially of late. That's her lipstick, isn't it?--Ellery, I shouldn't be at all surprised if Bernice is addicted to the stuff. She's been jumpy, nervous, peaked-looking--alternated fits of gloom with spasms of hilarity...."

"You're describing the symptoms, all right," said Ellery. "Bernice, eh? The lady becomes more and more interesting with every passing moment. How about Mrs. French--French himself--Marion?"

"No--not Marion!" almost shouted Weaver. Then he grinned in shame. "Sorry. No, Ellery, you forget that the Old Man is head of the Anti-Vice League--good Lord!"

"Quite a situation, eh?" smiled Ellery. "And Mrs. French was normal in that respect, you think?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Anybody in the family besides yourself suspect that Bernice is a dope fiend?"

"I don't think so. No, I'm pretty sure no one did. Certainly not the Old Man. Marion has commented at times about Bernice's conduct and queer actions, but I'm positive she doesn't suspect--this. As for Mrs. French--well, it's hard to tell just what she thought. Always was tight-mouthed when it came to her darling Bernice. Though if she did suspect, she did nothing about it. I'm inclined to believe she was ignorant of the whole business."

"And yet--" Ellery's eyes gleamed, "it's passing strange, Westley, that the evidence should be found on Mrs. French's body--in her handbag, in fact ... now, isn't it?"

Weaver shrugged his shoulders wearily. "My head's in a perfect whirl."

"Westley, old boy," pursued Ellery, fingering his pince-nez, "what do you think Mr. French would say if he knew there was drug-addiction in his own family?"

Weaver shuddered. "You don't know what a temper the Old Man has when he's aroused. And I think that that would arouse him--" He stopped short, looked at Ellery suspiciously. Ellery smiled.

"Time grows apace," he said with heartiness, but there was a disturbed light in his eye. "On to the lavatory!"

14

AT THE APARTMENT: _The Lavatory_

"I hardly know what we may expect to find here," said Ellery dubiously, as they stood in the glittering bathroom. "As a matter of fact, the lavatory is the last place to look.... Everything all right, Westley? Anything strike you as being out of place?"

Weaver answered rapidly enough, "No," but a tinge of uncertainty shaded his voice. Ellery glanced at him sharply, then around at the room.

It was long and narrow. The tub was sunken. The washbowl was slender and modern-looking. Above it hung a cunningly disguised chest. Ellery pulled open its concealed door. It held on its three glass shelves some bottles of house medicines, hair tonic, ointment, a tube of tooth-paste and one of shaving cream, a safety-razor in an odd-looking wooden case, two combs, and several other articles.

Ellery slammed the door shut in a little flurry of disgust. "Come on, Wes," he growled. "I'm doddering. There's nothing here." Nevertheless, he stopped to open a door on the side. It was a closet for lavatory linens. He poked his hand into a hamper and pulled out several soiled towels. These he examined carelessly and threw back, looking at Westley....

"Well, spill it, son!" he said, pleasantly enough. "There is something on your mind. What's rotten in Denmark?"

"It's queer," said Weaver thoughtfully, pulling at his lip. "I thought it queer at the time, and now that things have happened, well--I'm thinking it's even queerer.... Ellery, there's something missing!"

"Missing?" Ellery's hand shot out and closed about Weaver's arm in a mighty grip. "My God, and you've kept mum! What is it that's missing, man?"

"You'll think I'm an idiot ..." said Weaver hesitantly.

"Westley!"

"Sorry." Weaver cleared his throat. "Well, there's a razor blade missing, if you must know!" He scanned Ellery's face for a sign of levity.

But Ellery did not laugh. "A razor-blade? Tell me about it," he urged, leaning against the closet door. He eyed the cabinet above the washbowl speculatively.

"I got here this morning a bit earlier than usual," began Weaver, with a worried frown. "Had to prepare for the Old Man's arrival, and there were a number of papers to straighten out for the directors' meeting. Usually, you know, the Old Man doesn't get here until ten o'clock; it's only on special occasions--like this one of the conference--that he comes earlier.... So I left the house in something of a hurry, intending to shave up here. I do that quite often, by the way--which is one of the reasons I keep a razor in the apartment.... When I got here--it was about eight-thirty--I dashed for my razor. And there wasn't any blade."

"That seems not so extraordinary," said Ellery with a smile. "You simply didn't have any in the cabinet."

"Oh, but I did!" protested Weaver. "The reason I felt something was funny was that last evening, before I left the store, I had shaved up here. I left the blade in the razor."

"Didn't you have any others?"

"No. I'd run out of them and intended to get some more. But I forgot to bring some in with me this morning. Consequently, when I wanted to scrape some of the old beard off there wasn't anything to do it with. Blade had vanished! Sounds silly, doesn't it? And I particularly left that blade in the razor yesterday because I've forgotten to restock before, and I found that you can always squeeze another shave out of the old blade."

"You mean that it had gone, absolutely? You're sure you left it in the razor?"

"Positive. I cleaned it and slipped it back."

"You didn't break it, or anything like that?"

"I tell you no, Ellery," Weaver replied patiently. "That blade was there."

Ellery's lips curved upward humorously. "A pretty problem at that," he said. "Is that why your face is fuzzed?"

"Right enough. I haven't had a chance all day to go out for a shave."

"Seems peculiar," said Ellery thoughtfully. "I mean that you should have had only one blade left in the cabinet. Where are French's blades?"

"He doesn't shave himself," replied Weaver a trifle stiffly. "He never has. Patronizes the same barber every morning."

Ellery did not comment further. He opened the cabinet and took down the wooden razor-case. He examined the plain silver razor inside, but could see nothing of interest.

"You handled the razor this morning?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you take it out of the case?"

"Oh, no! I didn't at all. When I saw the blade was missing, I didn't even bother."

"That's _very_ interesting." Ellery lifted the razor handle to the level of his eyes, holding it by the tip, careful not to touch the silver surface with his fingers. He breathed on the metal. It clouded over for an instant.

"Not the sign of a print," he commented. "Wiped away, undoubtedly." He smiled suddenly. "We begin to find signs of a presence, an apparition, a wraith here last night, old boy. Careful, wasn't he, she, or weren't they?"

Weaver laughed aloud. "Then you think my stolen blade has something to do with this mess?"

"To think," said Ellery solemnly, "is to know.... Keep this in mind, Westley. I believe I heard you say downstairs that you left here last night a bit before seven. The blade, then, was taken from this apartment between about seven o'clock last night and eight-thirty this morning.

"Astounding!" murmured Weaver derisively. "So that's the sort of hocus-pocus one must cultivate in order to be a detective?"

"Laugh, varlet!" said Ellery sternly.... He stood in a queer attitude of reflection. "I think we'll be going into the next chamber," he said in an altogether different voice. "I begin to see a tiny light. It's far off but--gossamer glimmer, nevertheless! _Allons, enfant!_"

15

AT THE APARTMENT: _The Cardroom_

He strode purposefully from the lavatory, marched through the bedroom, entered the library once more. Weaver followed, his face betraying an objective interest startlingly in variance with his nervousness of the past hour. He seemed to have forgotten something.

"What's past that door?" demanded Ellery abruptly, pointing to the second red-leather, brass-studded door on the opposite side of the room.

"That's the cardroom," replied Weaver interestedly. "Think there's something to look for, El? By George, you're getting me positively excited!" Then he stopped, his face lengthened, and he stood soberly surveying his friend.

"Cardroom, eh?" Ellery's eyes were bright. "Tell me, Wes--you were the first in the apartment this morning and you're in the best position to know--did any one who was in the library to-day go into any of the other rooms?"

Weaver pondered for a moment. "Except that the Old Man went into the bedroom when he got in this morning, and put his coat and hat away, nobody left the library."

"Didn't French visit the bathroom to wash up?"

"No. He was in a confounded hurry to dictate some store business and get ready for the conference."

"You were with him when he visited the bedroom?"

"Yes."

"And you're positive that none of the others--Zorn, Trask, Gray, Marchbanks--left _this room_ all morning?" He took a short turn about the room. "By the way, you were here every minute of the time, I suppose?"

Weaver smiled. "I seem to be in an affirmative mood this afternoon.--Yes to both questions."

Ellery rubbed his hands together in a little spasm of glee. "The apartment, then, with the one exception of the library, is in exactly the same condition as when you arrived at eight-thirty. Excellent, most excellent, my omniscient and exceedingly helpful Westley!"

He walked briskly toward the cardroom door and pushed it open, Weaver at his heels. And Weaver cried out in sheer astonishment from behind Ellery's broad shoulders....

The cardroom was smaller than both the library and the bedroom. It was paneled in walnut. Cheerful drapes hung over the single large window overlooking Fifth Avenue. A thick rug covered the floor.

But Ellery, following the line of Weaver's gaze, saw that he was staring in horror at a hexagonal, baize-covered card-table in the center of the room. A small bronze ashtray and some playing-cards, peculiarly arranged, were on the table. Two heavy folding-chairs were pushed away from the table.

"What's the trouble, Wes?" asked Ellery sharply.

"Why, that--that table wasn't there last night!" stammered Weaver. "I was in here looking for my pipe just before I left, and I'm sure...."

"Not really!" murmured Ellery. "You mean the table was folded up, put away, out of sight?"

"Of course! The room was cleaned up yesterday morning by the charwoman. And those cigarets in the ashtray.... Ellery, some one was in here after I left last night!"

"Obviously. And in the bathroom, too, if we're to believe the story of the missing razor-blade. The important thing is--why was some one in here? Just a moment." He went swiftly to the table and looked down curiously at the cards.

On both sides of the table were two small piles of cards--one stack with the faces up, the other closed. In the center of the baize were two rows of four stacks, open, with the pasteboards in descending order, as Ellery verified by investigating carefully. Between the two rows were three smaller piles.

"Banque," muttered Ellery. "Peculiar!" He looked at Weaver. "You know the game, of course?"

"No, I don't," said Weaver. "I recognized the layout of the cards as that of banque, because I've seen it played at the French house. But I don't understand the game very well; it gives me a headache. But then most card-games do. I never was much good at it."

"So I remember," laughed Ellery, "especially that night at Bloombury's when I had to sit in for you to recoup a hundred dollar I.O.U. at stud.... You say you've seen the game played at French's--and that's most interesting. Calls for questions, I do believe. Not many people know how to play Russian banque."

Weaver regarded Ellery strangely. His eyes went furtively to the stubs of four cigarets lying in the ashtray. He looked back at once. "Just two people in the French household," he said in a strangled voice, "played banque."

"And they are--or were, if I must follow your past tense?" asked Ellery in a cool voice.

"Mrs. French and--Bernice."

"Oho!" Ellery whistled softly. "The elusive Bernice.... Nobody else play?"

"The Old Man abhors all forms of gambling," said Weaver, worrying his lips with a forefinger. "Won't play cards for anything. Doesn't know an ace from a deuce. Marion plays bridge, but only because it's something of a social necessity. She dislikes cards, and I never heard of banque before I entered French's employ.... But Mrs. French and Bernice were violently addicted to it. Whenever they had the opportunity they played it. None of us could quite understand it. A form of the glamorous gambling fever, I don't doubt."

"And the friends of the family?"

"Well," said Weaver slowly, "the Old Man has never been so narrow as to forbid card-playing altogether in his home. That's why this apartment, by the way, is fitted out with a cardroom. It's for the convenience of the directors--sometimes they play here between sessions. But in the house itself I have had plenty of opportunity to observe visitors and friends. I've never seen any one play banque except Mrs. French and Bernice."

"Beautiful--beautiful," said Ellery. "So symmetrically conclusive! That's the way I like things...." But his brow was wrinkled with thought. "And the cigarets, old boy--tell me why you've been trying for five minutes not to look at the cigarets in the ashtray?"

Weaver flushed guiltily. "Oh!" He was silent. "I hate to say it, Ellery--I'm in the most hellish position imaginable...."

"The cigarets, of course, are Bernice's brand.... You may as well come out with it," said Ellery wearily.

"How did you know?" cried Weaver. "But--I suppose it was clear enough to an alert.... Yes, they're Bernice's. Her own brand. She has--had them made up for her especially."

Ellery picked up one of the stubs. It was silver-tipped, and just below the tip was printed in script the brand-name: _La Duchesse_. Ellery poked his finger among the remaining litter of stubs. His look sharpened as he noted that all, without exception, had been smoked to approximately the same length--to about a half-inch of the tip.

"Pretty thoroughly smoked out, all of them," he commented. He sniffed at the cigaret between his fingers, looked at Weaver inquiringly.

"Yes, scented. Violet, I think," Weaver said promptly. "The manufacturer provides the scent according to the specifications of his customers. I remember hearing Bernice place an order not long ago when I was over at the French's--placed it over the telephone."

"And _La Duchesse_ is rare enough to have weight in an inquiry.... Good fortune, was it?" He talked to himself rather than to his friend.

"What do you mean?"

"No matter.... And, of course, Mrs. French did not smoke?"

"Why--how did you know?" demanded Weaver in surprise.

"How nicely things fit together," murmured Ellery. "So very, very nicely. And Marion--does she smoke?"

"Thank God--no!"

Ellery regarded him quizzically. "Well!" he said all at once. "Let's see what's behind this door."

He crossed the room to the wall opposite the window. A small plain door opened into a little, simply furnished bedroom. Beyond it was a tiny bathroom.

"A servant's room," explained Weaver. "Originally planned for a valet, but it's never been used to my knowledge. The Old Man isn't fussy and he'd rather have his man at the Fifth Avenue house."

Ellery made a swift examination of the two little rooms. He emerged in a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

"Nothing there, and there wouldn't be...." He paused, twirling his pince-nez in the air. "We have a rather remarkable situation here, Wes. Consider: We are now in possession of three direct indications of Miss Bernice Carmody's presence in this apartment last night. Or rather two direct indications, and one--the first--of a circumstantial nature. That is--the lipstick marked _C_ from Mrs. French's handbag. This is the least damaging of the three, of course, since it does not _prove_ presence and might have been brought here by Mrs. French. But it must be kept in mind. Second, the game of banque, which any number of reputable witnesses, I gather, would testify, as strongly as you, was indulged in by Mrs. French and Bernice practically to the exclusion of the rest of the family and friends of the family. You noticed, didn't you, that the game has the appearance of having been interrupted at a critical stage? The way the cards are lying there--they give the distinct impression that just when the game became hotly competitive, it was stopped.... And third, the most critical indication of the three--the _La Duchesse_ cigarets. These are so obviously Bernice's that they would be acceptable in court as admissible evidence, I'm sure, if supported by strong circumstantial evidence of a confirmatory nature."

"But what? I don't see--" cried Weaver.

"The suspicious fact that Miss Bernice Carmody has vanished," replied Ellery gravely. "Flight?" He flung the word at Weaver.

"I can't--I won't believe it," said Weaver weakly, but there was a curious relief in his voice.

"Matricide is an unnatural crime, to be sure," Ellery mused, "but is not unknown.... Is it possible--" His reflections were disturbed by a rapid knock at the apartment door. It was surprisingly loud, coming as it did through the three walls of the cardroom, the library, the anteroom.

Weaver looked startled. Ellery straightened with a jerk, swiftly looked around once more, then motioned to Weaver to precede him from the room. He closed the brass-studded door with gentle fingers.

"That must be your good hussif, Hortense Underhill, and the maid," said Ellery almost gayly. "I wonder if they can be the harbingers of--more evidence against Bernice!"

16

AT THE APARTMENT: _Again the Bedroom_

Weaver flung open the outer door to admit two women. Sergeant Thomas Velie loomed solidly behind them.

"Did you send for these ladies, Mr. Queen?" demanded Velie, his broad frame filling the door. "One of the boys downstairs caught 'em trying to get past the man guarding the elevator--said you sent for them. Is it all right?"

His eyes roved dourly about the apartment--as much of it as he could see from his position at the corridor door. Ellery smiled.

"It's all right, Velie," he drawled. "They'll be safe with me.... And how is the dear Commissioner progressing with the Inspector?"

"Got his hooks into the scarf," growled Velie, and shot a keen look at Weaver's instantly clenched fists.

"Follow up the lead I gave you over the telephone?" asked Ellery serenely.

"Yes. She's among the missing. Got two men on it already." The Sergeant's stern face cracked in a fleeting smile. "How much longer will you need the Inspector's--coöperation downstairs, Mr. Queen?"

"I'll buzz you, Velie. Fly away now, like a good little chap." Velie grinned, but his face was frozen into its customary immobility as he wheeled and made for the elevator.

Ellery turned to the two women, who were standing close together eying him apprehensively. He addressed the taller and elder of the two--a stiff, slab-figured woman in her early fifties, marble-haired and viciously blue-eyed.

"You're Miss Hortense Underhill, I take it?" he asked severely.

"That's right--Mr. French's housekeeper." Her voice was not unlike her person--thin, sharp, steely.

"And this is Miss Bernice Carmody's maid?"

The other woman, a timid little creature with faded brown hair and a plain face, started convulsively at being directly addressed and crouched closer to Hortense Underhill.

"Yes," answered the French housekeeper. "This is Miss Doris Keaton, Bernice's maid."

"Very good." Ellery smiled, stood aside with a deferential little bow. "If you'll follow me, please--?" He led the way through the red-leather door leading into the large bedroom. Weaver marched obediently behind.

Ellery indicated the two bedroom chairs. "Sit down, please." The two women sat down. Doris Keaton kept her big vapid eyes on Ellery, surreptitiously hitching her chair closer to the housekeeper's.

"Miss Underhill," began Ellery, pince-nez in hand, "have you ever been in this room before?"

"I have." The housekeeper seemed determined to out-stare Ellery. Her cold blue eyes flashed colder fire.

"Oh, you have?" Ellery paused politely without removing his gaze. "When, may I ask, and on what occasion?"

The housekeeper was undaunted by his coolness. "A peck of times. That is, so to speak. I never came, though, except at Mrs. French's request. Each time it was clothes."

"It was clothes?" Ellery seemed puzzled.

She nodded stonily. "Why, of course. They were far apart, those times, but whenever Mrs. French intended to stay here overnight, she would ask me to bring a next day's change for her. So that is how--"

"Just a moment, Miss Underhill." There was a pleasant glitter in Ellery's eyes as he reflected. "This was her usual custom?"

"So far as I know."

"When"--Ellery leaned forward--"when was the last time Mrs. French asked you to do this?"

The housekeeper did not reply at once. "I should say about two months ago," she answered finally.

"As far back as that?"

"I said two months ago."

Ellery sighed, straightened. "One of these closets, then, belonged to Mrs. French?" he asked, indicating the two modern doors set in the wall.

"Yes--that one there," she replied promptly, pointing to the concealed door nearest the lavatory. "But not only for Mrs. French's clothes--the other girls sometimes kept things in there, too."

Ellery's eyebrows shot up. "Not really, Miss Underhill!" he ejaculated. His hand caressed his jaw tenderly. "I may infer, then, that both Miss Marion and Miss Bernice sometimes used Mr. French's apartment?"

The housekeeper regarded him levelly. "Sometimes. Not very often. Only when Mrs. French was not using it, and they brought a girl friend along to spend the night--on a sort of lark, you might call it."

"I see. Have they slept here with a--a 'girl friend,' I believe you said?--recently?"

"Not that I know. Not for five or six months at least."

"Very good!" Ellery flipped his pince-nez into the air with a certain briskness. "Now, Miss Underhill, I want you to tell me quite exactly when you saw Miss Carmody last, and under what circumstances."

The two women exchanged meaningful glances; the maid bit her lip and looked guiltily away. But the housekeeper retained her poise. "I _knew_ that was coming," she announced in a calm voice. "But you needn't think either of my poor lambs had anything to do with this, whoever you are. They didn't and you can take that for gospel. _I_ don't know where Bernice is, but be sure there's foul play been done her...."

"Miss Underhill," said Ellery gently, "I'm sure this is all quite interesting, but we are in something of a hurry. If you'll answer my question--?"

"All right, if you must have it." She set her lips, folded her hands in her lap, looked at Weaver indifferently, and began. "It was yesterday.--I'd better begin right with when they woke up; it'll make easier telling.--Well, both Mrs. French and Bernice woke up at about ten o'clock yesterday morning, and the hair-dresser attended each in their rooms. They got dressed and had a bite of something. Marion had already had lunch. I served them myself...."

"Pardon me, Miss Underhill," interrupted Ellery, "but did you hear what they talked about over the luncheon table?"

"I don't listen to what isn't my affair," retorted the housekeeper tartly, "so all I can tell about _that_ is that they talked about a new gown being made for Bernice. And Mrs. French seemed a little absent-minded, too. She actually got her sleeve into her coffee--the poor thing! But then she was always a little funny--maybe she had a premonition of what was to come, you know?--God rest her troubled soul!... Well, after lunch they remained in the music-room until about two o'clock, talking and things. Don't know about what, either! But they seemed as if they wanted to be let alone. Anyway, when they came out I heard Mrs. French tell Bernice to go upstairs and dress--they were going to take a ride through the Park. Bernice went upstairs, and Mrs. French held back to tell _me_ to tell _Edward Young_, the chauffeur, to get the car out. Then Mrs. French went upstairs herself to dress. But in about five minutes I saw Bernice coming down the stairs, all dressed for the street, and when she saw me she told _me_ to tell her _mother_--whispered, she did--that she'd changed her mind about taking a ride in the Park and was going out to do some shopping. And she fair ran out of the house!"

Ellery seemed poignantly concerned. "Clearly if somewhat volubly told, Miss Underhill. And what would you say was the state of Miss Carmody's nerves all day?"

"Poor," replied the housekeeper. "But then Bernice has always been a high-spirited and sensitive girl. Yesterday she seemed a little more nervous than usual, though, now that I come to think of it. She was all pale and fidgety when she slipped out of the house...."

Weaver moved sharply. Ellery cautioned him with a glance and motioned the housekeeper to continue.

"Well, not long after, Mrs. French came down dressed for her drive. She asked for Bernice, and I told her about Bernice's going off that way, and I gave her Bernice's message. I thought for a minute that she was going to faint--poor thing!--she got so pale and sick-looking, which wasn't like her at all, and then she took hold of herself and she said: 'All right, Hortense. Tell Young to put the car back in the garage. I shan't be going out, either....' and she marched right back upstairs again. Oh, yes! She did tell me, though, before she went up, to let her know the _instant_ Bernice got back home.... Well, sir, that's the last I saw of Bernice, and practically the last of Mrs. French. For the poor soul stayed in her room all afternoon, came down for dinner with Marion, and then went back up to her room again. She seemed more anxious than ever about Bernice, and twice she made as if to go to the telephone, but she seemed to change her mind. Anyway, about a quarter after eleven at night she came down with her hat and coat on--yes, sir, I know you'll ask me: the brown toque and the fox-trimmed cloth coat--and she said she was going out. And go out she did. And that's the last I saw of poor Mrs. French."

"She didn't order the car?"

"No."

Ellery took a turn about the room. "And where was Miss Marion French all day?" he asked suddenly. Weaver glanced at Ellery in shocked surprise.

"Oh! Miss Marion was up bright and early--always is an early riser, the dear child--and she left the house right after luncheon, saying she had a shopping appointment with one of her friends. I think she also went to the Carnegie Hall for the afternoon, because only the day before she showed me the tickets for a piano-playing thing by some foreigner. She does love music so, that child! She didn't get back home until about half-past five. She and Mrs. French had dinner together, and she was surprised that Bernice was absent. Anyway, right after dinner she dressed over and went out again."

"At what hour did Miss Marion French return?"

"That I can't say. I went to bed myself at eleven-thirty, after releasing the house staff for the night. Didn't see anybody come in. Mrs. French had told me not to wait up, besides."

"Not a particularly well-regulated household," murmured Ellery. "Miss Underhill, please tell me how Miss Carmody was attired when she left the house--it was about two-thirty, I presume?"

Hortense Underhill shifted restlessly in her chair. The maid still regarded Ellery with stupid, frightened eyes.

"Just about," said the housekeeper. "Well, Bernice was wearing--let me see now--her blue felt hat with the brilliant fancy, her grey chiffon dress, her grey fur-trimmed coat, and a pair of black leather pumps with rhinestone buckles. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Precisely," said Ellery with a charming smile. He took Weaver to one side. "Wes, do you know why I've called these two worthy ladies into consultation?" he demanded in an undertone.

Weaver shook his head. "Except for the fact that you wanted to know about Bernice.... Oh, I say, Ellery, it wasn't that you're looking for further indications of Bernice's presence here, is it?" he asked aghast.

Ellery nodded gloomily. "We have three apparent indications of the young lady's alleged visit to the apartment, to be journalistic.... Something told me there were more. Indications that I might not be able to descry. The housekeeper, though--the maid, Bernice's maid--" He broke off, shook his head with impatience at his own thoughts. He turned to the waiting women. "Miss Doris Keaton." The maid jumped, stark terror in her eyes. "Don't be afraid, Miss Keaton," said Ellery mildly, "I shan't bite you.... Did you help Miss Bernice dress yesterday afternoon, after luncheon?"

The girl whispered: "Yes, sir."

"Would you recognize the articles of clothing, for example, that she wore yesterday, if you saw them here and now?"

"I--I think so, sir."

Ellery walked to the closet door nearest the lavatory, threw it wide--disclosing a rack hung with multicolored gowns, a silken shoe-bag tacked to the inner side of the door, and a top shelf on which lay several hat-boxes--stepped back, and said:

"There's your territory, Miss Keaton. See what you can find." He stood directly behind the girl, watching her with quick sharp flashes of his eyes. He was so absorbed in her movements that he did not even feel the presence of Weaver at his side. The housekeeper sat, a thin stone, in her chair, watching them.

The maid's fingers trembled as she rummaged among the numerous gowns on the rack. After going through the entire rack, she timidly turned to Ellery and shook her head. He motioned her to proceed.

She stood on tiptoe and lifted from the shelf the three hat-boxes. She opened these one by one and scrutinized them briefly. The first two boxes contained hats belonging to Mrs. French, she said hesitantly. This was corroborated by a frigid nod from Hortense Underhill.

The maid lifted the lid from the third box. She uttered a little choked cry and reeled backward, touching Ellery. The contact seemed to burn her skin. She jumped away, fumbled for a handkerchief.

"Well?" asked Ellery softly.

"That's--that's Miss Bernice's hat," she whispered, biting the handkerchief nervously. "The one--she wore when she left the house yesterday afternoon!"

Ellery eyed the hat narrowly as it lay, brim to the bottom, in the box. The soft blue felt crown, due to its position, had collapsed. A glittering pin was fixed above the turned-down brim, just visible from where he stood.... Ellery made a brief request and the maid lifted the hat from the box and offered it to him. He turned it over in his fingers, then silently handed the hat back to the girl, who as silently took it, put her hand inside the crown, flipped the hat upside down, and deftly returned it to the box in that position. Ellery, who had been about to turn away, stiffened instantly. Nevertheless, he said nothing, watching the girl replace the three hat-boxes on the shelf.

"The shoes now, please," he said.

Obediently the maid bent over the silk shoe-rack hanging on the inside of the closet door. As she was about to remove a woman's pump, Ellery stopped her with a tap on the shoulder and turned to the housekeeper.

"Miss Underhill, will you please verify the fact that this is Miss Carmody's hat?"

He lifted a long arm, took down the box with the blue hat inside, removed the hat, and handed it to Hortense Underhill.

She examined it briefly. Unaccountably, Ellery had stepped away from the closet to stand by the lavatory door.

"It's hers," said the housekeeper, looking up belligerently. "But what that has to do with anything, I don't know."

"That's honest." Ellery smiled. "Will you please return it to the shelf?" As he said this, he stepped slowly forward again.

The woman, sniffing, put her hand inside the hat, inverted it, and placed it in that position in the hat-box. She carefully lifted it to the shelf and as carefully returned to her chair.... Weaver observed Ellery's sudden grin with a lost bewilderment.

Then Ellery did an amazing thing--a thing that brought an unbelieving stare from each of the three people watching him. He reached up to the shelf and took down the same hat-box!

He opened it, whistling a tuneless little air and, removing the much-handled blue hat, offered it to Weaver for inspection.

"Here, Wes, let's have your masculine opinion," he said cheerfully. "Is this Bernice Carmody's hat?"

Weaver regarded his friend with astonishment, taking the hat mechanically. Shrugging, he looked at the hat. "Looks familiar, Ellery, but I can't be positive. I rarely notice women's clothes."

"Hmm." Ellery chuckled. "Put the hat back, Wes old boy." Weaver sighed, grasped the hat gingerly by the crown and dropped it, brim down, into the box. He fumbled with the lid, affixed it, shoved the box back onto the shelf--for the third time in less than five minutes.

Ellery turned briskly to the maid. "Keaton, just how fastidious in her habits is Miss Carmody?" he asked, feeling for his pince-nez.

"I--I don't get you, sir."

"Does she bother you much? Does she put her own things away generally? Exactly what are your duties?"

"Oh!" The maid's eyes sought the housekeeper once more for guidance. Then she looked down at the carpet. "Well, sir, Miss Bernice was--is always careful about her clothes and things. Most always puts her hats and coats away herself when she gets in from being out. My work's more doing personal things--fixing her hair, laying out her dresses, and such."

"A _very_ careful girl," put in Miss Underhill icily. "Rare and unusual, I've always called it. And Marion's the same way."

"Delighted to hear it," said Ellery with perfect gravity. "Delighted is hardly the word for it.... Heigh-ho, Keaton, the shoon!"

"Huh?" The girl was startled.

"Shoes--shoes, I should say."

There were at least a dozen pairs of shoes, of assorted styles and colors, protruding from separate pockets in the rack. Without exception each of the shoes lay in its compartment with the tip inside and the heel showing, hooked over the lip of the pocket.

The maid Keaton went to work. She looked over the shoes, lifting out several to examine them closely. Suddenly she snatched at a pair of black leather pumps, lying in adjacent compartments. Each pump sported a large and heavy rhinestone buckle which glittered in a shaft of sunlight as she held them up before Ellery.

"These! These shoes!" she cried. "Miss Bernice wore them yesterday when she went out!"

Ellery took them from her shaking fingers. After a moment he turned to Weaver.

"Mud splashes," he said laconically. "And here's a spot of wet. Seems indubitable!" He handed them back to the maid, who tremblingly replaced them in their compartments.... Ellery's eyes narrowed at once. She had put the shoes back with the heels _inside_, despite the fact that all the other shoes in the rack had the heels showing.

"Miss Underhill!" Ellery withdrew the black pumps from their pockets. The housekeeper rose sulkily.

"Miss Carmody's?" Ellery demanded, handing her the shoes.

She eyed them briefly. "Yes."

"Having reached complete agreement," drawled Ellery with a smiling change of tone, "please be so good as to return these shoes to the rack."

Without a word she obeyed. And Ellery, watching closely, chuckled to observe that she had duplicated the maid's action in putting the pumps into the rack heels first, so that the tips and buckles protruded from the pockets.