Chapter V: Part 5

"Westley!" he said at once. Weaver approached wearily. He had been standing at a window, looking moodily down over Fifth Avenue.... And when Weaver replaced the pumps in the rack, he grasped the heels and stuck the shoes in tips first.

"Why do you do that?" asked Ellery as the two women, now convinced of his madness, moved uneasily away from the closet.

"Do what?" demanded Weaver.

Ellery smiled. "Easy, Hamlet.... Why do you put the shoes into the bag so that the heels hang over the pocket?"

Weaver stared at him. "Why, they're all that way," he said blankly. "Why should I put them in the opposite way?"

"_Alors_," said Ellery, "_on a raison_.... Miss Underhill, why did you put the shoes back into the rack with the tips showing, when all the others have the heels showing?"

"Anybody would know that," snapped the housekeeper. "These black pumps have big buckles. Didn't you see what happened when Mr. Weaver put them back tips first? The buckles caught on the material of the bag!"

"Wondrous woman!" muttered Ellery. "And the others haven't any buckles, of course...." He read confirmation in the housekeeper's eyes.

He left them standing before the closet and paced silently back and forth the length of the bedroom. His lips puckered fiercely as he mused. Suddenly he turned to Miss Underhill.

"I want you to look this closet over very carefully, Miss Underhill, and tell me, if you possibly can, whether anything is not there which you know should be there...." He stepped back and waved his hand.

She stirred into activity, rummaging efficiently through the gowns, the hat-boxes, the shoes once more. Weaver, the maid, Ellery watched her in silence.

She paused in her work, looked undecidedly at the shoe-bag, then up at the shelf, hesitated, turned to Ellery.

"I can't be sure," she said thoughtfully, her cold eyes searching Ellery's, "but it seems to me that, while all of Mrs. French's things are here that should be here, two things of Bernice's are _not_ here that should be here!"

"No!" breathed Ellery. He did not seem unduly surprised. "A hat and pair of shoes, no doubt?"

She glanced at him quickly. "How did you know?... Yes, that's what I thought. I remember several months ago when I was bringing down some things of Mrs. French's, Bernice asked me to take her grey toque down, too. And I did. And then there was her pair of low-heeled grey kid shoes--two tones of grey, they were--I'm fair certain I brought _those_ down with me once...." She turned sharply on Doris Keaton. "Are they in Miss Bernice's wardrobes at home, Doris?"

The maid shook her head with vigor. "No, Miss Underhill. I haven't seen them for a long time."

"Well, there you are. Grey felt toque, close-fitting, no trimming, and a pair of grey kid walking-shoes. They're missing."

"And that," said Ellery with a little bow that made Miss Underhill stare, "is precisely that. Thank you so much.... Westley, will you escort Miss Underhill and the timidacious Keaton to the door? Tell the man outside to see that they're taken down to Sergeant Velie and kept out of the way of Commissioner Welles at least until everybody troops up here.... Undoubtedly, Miss Underhill, Marion French will be glad," and he bowed again to the housekeeper, "of your maternal and warming presence. _Good_ afternoon!"

The instant the outer door had closed upon Weaver and the two women, Ellery ran across the library to the door of the cardroom. He entered with swift steps and stared down at the card-table with its neatly heaped piles of pasteboards and its butt-strewn ashtray. He sat down carefully in one of the chairs and examined the cards. Picking up the heavy stack of closed cards before him, he spread them out without disturbing their sequence. He frowned after a while, referred to eleven piles of cards in the center of the table.... Finally he rose, puzzled, defeated. He replaced all the stacks exactly as he had found them.

He was staring gloomily at the cigaret-stubs when he heard the outer door click shut and Weaver reënter the library. Ellery turned at once and left the cardroom. The red-leather door swished softly to behind him.

"Ladies taken care of?" he inquired absently. Weaver nodded almost with sulkiness. Ellery squared his shoulders, eyes twinkling. "Worrying about Marion, I'll wager," he said. "Don't, Wes. You're acting like a granny." He looked slowly about the library. His eyes came to rest after a time on the desk before the dormer-window. "I think," he announced dictatorially, sauntering toward the desk, "we'll take our ease, in a manner of speaking, and see what we can see. Rest being the sweet sauce of labor, as Plutarch so aptly says--sit, Wes!"

17

AT THE APARTMENT: _The Library_

They sat down, Ellery at the comfortable swivel-chair behind the desk, Weaver in one of the leather-covered chairs at the conference table.

Ellery relaxed, letting his glance shift from wall to wall of the library, flicker over the table, the litter of business papers, the pictures on the wall, the glass top of the desk before him.... His glance fell idly on the slip of blue memorandum paper by the telephone. With perfect unconcern he picked it up and read it.

It was an official memorandum. On it was neatly typed a message.

Ellery reread the memorandum earnestly. He looked up at the disconsolate countenance of Weaver.

"Is it conceivable ..." he began. He broke off suddenly. "Tell me, Wes--when did you type this memorandum?"

"Eh?" Weaver started at the sound of Ellery's voice. "Oh, that! That's a memo I sent around to the Board of Directors. Typed it yesterday afternoon, after the Old Man left for Great Neck."

"How many copies did you make?"

"There were seven all told--one for each director, one for myself, and one for the files. This copy is the Old Man's."

Ellery spoke quickly. "How is it that I find it here on the desk?"

Weaver was surprised at the seeming inconsequentiality of Ellery's question. "Oh, I say!" he protested. "Just a matter of form. I left it here so that the Old Man could see in the morning that I'd taken care of the matter."

"And it was here--on the desk--when you left the apartment last night?" persisted Ellery.

COPY

To: Mr. French ✓
Mr. Gray
Mr. Marchbanks
Mr. Trask
Mr. Zorn
Mr. Weaver

Monday, May 23, 19--

A special meeting of the Board of Directors is hereby called for the morning of Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth, at eleven o'clock, in the Conference Room. _Do_ _not_ _fail_ _to_ _attend_. Details of the Whitney-French negotiations will be discussed. It is hoped that a final decision may be reached officially at that time. Your presence is imperative.

Mr. Weaver is to meet Mr. French in the Conference Room at nine a.m. promptly to prepare the notes for final directorial discussion.

[Signed] Cyrus French,

[Per] Westley Weaver,
Sec'y.
]

"Well, of course!" said Weaver. "Where should it be? Not only that, but it was _still_ there when I got in this morning." He grinned feebly.

But Ellery was serious. His eyes glittered. "You're sure of that?..." He half-rose from the swivel-chair in a strange excitement. He sank back. "Seems to fit with the rest of the jigsaw," he muttered. "How beautifully it explains that one unexplained point!"

Thoughtfully he stowed the blue paper, uncreased, in a capacious wallet which he took from his breast-pocket.

"You'll say nothing of this, of course," he said slowly.... Weaver nodded and relapsed into apathy. Ellery bent forward, placed his elbows on the glass top, his head in his hands. He stared before him.... Something seemed to disturb his revery. His eyes, blank and preoccupied, focused by degrees on the books between the onyx book-ends, standing austerely on the desk in his direct line of vision.

After a moment, as if to satisfy a mounting curiosity, he straightened up and became entirely absorbed in the titles of the books. His long arm swooped down on one of them, carried it back for closer observation.

"By the wisdom of Bibliophilus!" he murmured at last, looking up at Weaver. "What a queer collection of volumes! Does your employer make a habit of reading such heavy stuff as _An Outline of Paleontology_, Wes? Or is this a text-book hang-over from your undergraduate days? I can't recall your having a particular flair for science. It's by old John Morrison, too."

"Oh, that!" Weaver was momentarily embarrassed. "No, that's the--the Old Man's, I suppose, Ellery. His books entirely. Don't think I've ever observed the titles, as a matter of fact. What did you say--paleontology? Didn't know he went in for it."

Ellery regarded him keenly for a brief moment, then replaced the book. "And what's more--do you know," he said softly, "this _is_ fetching!"

"What?" asked Weaver nervously.

"Well, bend an ear to these titles: _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski. There's a rare one for you, although it is fitting that a department store magnate be interested in the history of merchanting.... And this one--_A Child's History of Music_, by Ramon Freyberg. A _child's_ history, mind you. And _New Developments in Philately_, by Hugo Salisbury. A passion for stamps! Queer, queer, I tell you.... And--good heavens!--_Nonsense Anthology_, by that surpassing idiot, A. I. Throckmorton!" Ellery lifted his eyes to Weaver's troubled ones. "Dear young Dane," he said slowly, "I can understand a chronic bibliophile having this bizarre collection on his desk, for some dark purpose of his own, but I'll be immortally damned if I can make it jibe with my conception of Cyrus French, head of the Anti-Vice League and merchant prince.... Your employer does not impress me as having the intellectual potentialities of a paleontological field worker, who is a stamp-collecting addict, who has a passion for medieval commerce, who knows so little of music that he must read a child's history of it, and finally who indulges in the sickening horseplay of the year's best--or worst--vaudeville jokes!... Wes, old boy, there is more here than meets the vacillating eye."

"I'm quite at sea," said Weaver, shifting in his chair.

"And you should be, you should be, my child," said Ellery as he rose and walked over to the bookcase on the wall to his left. He lightly hummed the thematic air of _Marche Slav_ as he scanned the titles of the volumes behind the glass partitions. After a moment's scrutiny he returned to the desk, where he sat down and again fingered the books between the book-ends in an absent way. Weaver's eyes followed him uneasily.

"From the books in the case," resumed Ellery, "my suspicions seem to be borne out. Nothing but works on social welfare and sets of Bret Harte, O. Henry, and Richard Harding Davis, _et al._ All of which compress nicely into the obvious intellectual stratum of your nice Old Man. Yet on the desk...." He mused. "And they show no signs of use," he complained, as if disturbed further by this heinous crime against literature. "In two cases, where the volumes are bound that way, the leaves are still uncut.... Westley, tell me truthfully, is French interested in these subjects?" He flipped his finger at the books before him.

Weaver answered immediately. "Not to my knowledge."

"Marion? Bernice? Mrs. French? The directors?"

"I can answer positively in the case of the French family, Ellery," replied Weaver, jumping from his chair and pacing up and down before the desk. "None of them reads such stuff. As for the directors--well, you've seen them."

"Gray might be interested in this preposterous mélange," said Ellery thoughtfully. "He's the type. But that child's history of music.... Well!"

He bestirred himself. On the fly-leaf of the little volume in his coat pocket he made a careful memorandum of the titles and authors of the desk volumes. With a sigh he dropped the pencil back into his vest pocket and once more began to stare blankly at the books. His hand played idly with one of the book-ends.

"Mustn't forget to ask French about these books," he murmured, more to himself than to Weaver, who still paced furiously up and down the room. "--Sit down, Wes! You disturb my train of thought...." Weaver shrugged, sat down quiescently. "Nice things, these," Ellery said in a casual voice, indicating the book-ends. "That's a very curious bit of carving on the onyx."

"Must have cost Gray a pile of dollars," mumbled Weaver.

"Oh, they were a gift to French?"

"Gray gave them to him on his last birthday--in March. They were imported, I know--I remember Lavery commenting on their rarity and beauty a few weeks ago."

"Did you say--March?" asked Ellery suddenly, bringing the black shining book-end closer to his eyes. "That's only two months ago, and this--" He quickly picked up the companion piece to the book-end in his hand. He placed them side by side on the glass top of the desk, all at once handling them with meticulous delicacy. He beckoned to Weaver.

"Do you see any difference between these?" he asked in some excitement.

Weaver leaned over, put out his hand to lift one of them....

"Don't touch it!" said Ellery sharply. "Well?"

Weaver stood up straight. "No call to shout, Ellery," he said reproachfully. "As far as I can see, the felt under this one seems faded a little."

"Don't mind my rude manners, old son," Ellery said. "I thought that difference in shade wasn't wholly my imagination."

"I can't understand why the green felts should vary in color," remarked Weaver in a puzzled way, returning to his chair. "Those book-ends are nearly new. They must have been all right when the Old Man got them--they were, in fact. I'd have noticed the discoloration had there been one."

Ellery did not answer at once. He stared down at the two pieces of carved onyx. They were both cylindrical in shape, with the carving on the outer sides. On the under sides, where the book-ends were to be placed against the desk, were pieces of fine green felt. In the strong clear afternoon sun, streaming through the big window, one exhibited a marked difference in the shade of green.

"Here's a pretty mystery," muttered Ellery. "And what it means, if it means anything at all, I can't see at the moment...." He looked up at Weaver with a glint in his eye. "Have these book-ends ever been out of this room since Gray presented them to French?"

"No," replied Weaver. "Never. I'm here every day, and I would know if they'd been moved."

"Have they ever been broken, or repaired, even here?"

"Why, of course not!" said Weaver, puzzled. "That seems sort of silly, El."

"And yet essential." Ellery sat down and began to twirl his pince-nez, his eyes riveted on the book-ends before him. "Gray's an intimate of French, I take it?" he asked suddenly.

"His best friend. They've known each other for over thirty years. They have good-natured quarrels periodically about the Old Man's obsession in the matter of white slavery, prostitution and the like, but they've always been unusually close."

"Which is as it should be, I suppose." Ellery sank into deep and concentrated thought. He did not take his eyes from the book-ends. "I wonder, now...." His hand dipped into his coat pocket and emerged with a small magnifying-glass. Weaver regarded his friend in astonishment, then burst into laughter.

"Ellery! Upon my word! Just like Sherlock Holmes!" His mirth was unadulterated, inoffensive, like the man himself.

Ellery grinned sheepishly. "It _does_ seem theatrical," he confessed. "But I've found it a handy little tool at times." He bent lower, applied the glass to the book-end with the darker green felt.

"Looking for fingerprints?" chuckled Weaver.

"You can never tell," said Ellery sententiously. "Although a glass isn't infallible. You need fingerprint powder to make absolutely sure...." He discarded the book-end and bent the glass on its mate. As he scanned the lighter green of its felt, his hand shook convulsively. Disregarding Weaver's cry of "What is it?" he fixed his attention rigidly on a portion of the material where the felt met the onyx, at an edge. A thin line, so thin that to the naked eye it was like a hair, broadened slightly under the magnification of the lens. This line, which extended all around the bottom of the book-end, was actually composed of glue--the glue with which the felt was pasted to the onyx. The second book-end also had the glue-line.

"Here, take the glass, Wes, and focus it at the juncture of felt and onyx," commanded Ellery, pointing to the under-side of the book-end. "Tell me what you see--be careful you don't touch the surface of the onyx!"

Weaver bent over and eagerly looked through the glass. "Why, there's a sort of dust stuck in the glue--it's dust, isn't it?"

"Unorthodox-looking dust," said Ellery grimly, seizing the lens and again examining the felt at that portion of the glue-line. In another moment he had swept the eye of the glass over the other surfaces of the book-end. He employed the same tactics with the second book-end.

Weaver uttered a short exclamation. "I say, El, mightn't it be the same stuff you found in Bernice's lipstick? Heroin, I think you called it!"

"Smart guess, Westley," smiled Ellery, his eye fast to the lens. "But I seriously doubt it.... This will require analysis, and immediately. Something twitters a warning message in my subconscious."

He dropped the magnifying-glass on the table, thoughtfully regarded the two book-ends once more, then reached for the telephone.

"Get Sergeant Velie--yes, detective-sergeant--on the wire for me immediately." He spoke rapidly to Weaver while he waited, receiver to ear. "If this stuff is what I am beginning to think it is, old boy, the plot thickens like a purée. However, we'll see. Get me a good wad of absorbent cotton from the bathroom-closet, will you, Wes? Hello, hello--Velie?" he said into the telephone, as Weaver disappeared through the brass-studded door, "this is Ellery Queen speaking. Yes, from the apartment upstairs.... Velie, send me one of your best men at once.... Who?... Yes, Piggott or Hesse will do. At once! And mum's the word in the hearing of Welles.... No, you can't help--yet. Hold in, you bloodhound!" He chuckled as he hung up.

Weaver returned with a large carton filled with absorbent cotton. Ellery took it from him.

"Watch me, Wes," he announced with a laugh. "Watch carefully, because it may be necessary for you in the not remote future to testify on the witness stand as to precisely what I did here to-day.... Are you ready?"

"I'm all eyes," grinned Weaver.

"_Allay-oop!_" With a prestidigitator's flourish Ellery whipped out of the large pocket of his sack-coat a curious metal packet. He pressed a tiny button and the lid flew open, disclosing black leather pads of thin tough texture, pierced for small bits of waxed thread, each of which held a shining little instrument.

"This," said Ellery, showing his even white teeth, "is one of my most prized possessions. Given to me with the benediction of _Herr Burgomeister_ of Berlin last year for the little aid I gave him in snaring Don Dickey, the American gem-thief.... Cunnin', isn't it?"

Weaver fell back weakly. "What on earth is it?"

"One of the handiest contraptions ever conceived by the mind of man for the use of the criminal investigator," replied Ellery, his fingers busy with the thin leather mats. "This was created especially for your humble servant through the gratitude of the Berlin mayor and the co-operator of the German central detective bureau. At my own specifications, incidentally--I knew what I wanted.... You'll observe that an almost incredible number of articles are packed in this amazingly small aluminum container--aluminum for its lightness, by the way. Everything in it that a first-class detective might conceivably need during a scientific investigation--on a lilliputian scale, but strong, compact, and extraordinarily utilitarian."

"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Weaver. "I didn't know you went in for this sort of thing so seriously, Ellery."

"Let the contents of my work-chest convince you," smiled Ellery. "Here we have two accessory lenses--Zeiss, by the way,--for my pocket magnifier; stronger than usual, you see. Here's a tiny steel tape measure with the automatic recoil, 96-inch length, reverse side in centimeters. Red, blue, and black crayons. Undersize drawing-compass and special pencil. One vial each of black and white fingerprint powder, with camel's-hair brushes and stamping pad. Packet of glassine envelopes. Small calipers and smaller tweezers. Collapsible probe, adjustable to various lengths. Tempered steel pins and needles. Litmus paper and two tiny test-tubes. Combination knife containing two blades, corkscrew, screw-driver, awl, file, scraper. Specially designed field-compass--and don't laugh. Not all investigations are conducted in the heart of New York.... And that's not the last by any means. Red, white and green twine of thread-like thinness, but very strong. Sealing-wax. Small 'lighter'--made specially for me. Scissors. And, naturally, a stop-watch made by one of the world's best watch-makers--a Swiss in the employ of the German government.... How do you like my traveling work-case, Wes?"

Weaver looked incredulous. "Do you mean to tell me all those things are in that ridiculously small aluminum container?"

"Exactly. The entire contraption is some four inches wide by six inches long, and weighs slightly less than two pounds. Thickness of a fair-sized book. Oh, yes! I forgot to mention a crystal mirror embedded in the wall of one of the aluminum sides.... But I'd better be getting down to work. Keep your eyes open!"

From one of the leather mats Ellery extracted the tweezers. Adjusting one of the more powerful lenses in his pocket-glass, he carefully placed the first book-end in a fixed position on the desk, held the magnifier to his eye with his left hand, and with his right painstakingly maneuvered the tweezers into the hardened glue which contained the suspicious-looking particles. He instructed Weaver to hold in readiness one of the glassine envelopes and, uprooting the almost invisible grains, placed them carefully in the envelope.

He laid down the glass and the tweezers, and sealed the envelope instantly.

"I think I've bagged them all," he said with satisfaction. "And the ones I've missed Jimmy will get.... Come!"

It was Detective Piggott. He closed the outer door softly and entered the library with ill-concealed curiosity.

"Sergeant said you wanted me, Mr. Queen," and his eyes were on Weaver.

"Righto. Just a sec, Piggott, and I'll tell you what to do." Ellery scribbled an inky note on the reverse side of the envelope. It read:

"DEAR JIMMY: Analyze powder grains in envelope. Extract any
additional particles in glue-line of book-end marked _A_, also
analyze. Check on book-end marked _B_ for similar grains. After
analyzing the grains, _and not until then_, check both book-ends
for fingerprints other than my own. Could bring out a print myself,
but if you find any, have it 'shot' in the lab and a photoprint
immediately made. 'Phone all information to me, _personally_,
as soon as you've done. I'm at French apartment in French store.
Piggott will tell you.

"E. Q."

Marking the book-ends _A_ and _B_ with his red crayon, he swathed both in absorbent cotton, wrapped them in some paper Weaver found for him in the desk, and handed package and envelope to the detective.

"Take these down to Jimmy at the headquarters laboratory as fast as you can get there, Piggott," he said insistently. "Don't let anything stop you. If Velie or my father corners you on the way out, say it's on business for me. On no account let the Commissioner get wind of what you're carrying off the premises. Now scoot!"

Piggott left without a word. He was too well trained in the methods of the Queens to ask questions.

And as he slipped out of the door, he saw the shadow of a rising elevator through the frosted glass wall. He turned and sped down the emergency stairs just as the door slid open and Commissioner Welles, Inspector Queen and a small cohort of detectives and policemen stepped out.

18

SCRAMBLED SIGNS

Within five minutes the private corridor outside French's sixth floor apartment was crowded with a score of people. Two policemen stood guard at the door. Another stood with his back to the elevator, his eyes on the emergency staircase-door nearby. In the anteroom lounged several detectives smoking cigarets.

Ellery sat smiling behind French's desk in the library. Commissioner Welles puffed about the room, shouting orders to detectives, opening the doors leading off the library, peering like a myopic owl at things strange to him. Inspector Queen talked with Velie and Crouther near the dormer-window. Weaver stood miserably in a corner, unnoticed. His eyes frequently sought the anteroom door, beyond which he knew was Marion French....

"You say, Mr. Queen," grunted Welles, out of breath, "that the cigaret stubs and the game of--blast it! what is it again?--banque are the only signs of this Carmody girl's presence here?"

"Not at all, Commissioner," said Ellery gravely. "You forget the shoes and hat in the closet. I believe I recounted the housekeeper's identification--?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" grumbled Welles. He frowned. "Here, you fingerprint men!" he shouted, "have you covered that little room off the cardroom?" Without waiting for a reply, he bellowed an unintelligible order to several photographers who were busy over the table holding the cards and cigaret-stubs. Finally, mopping his brow, he beckoned imperiously to Inspector Queen.

"What do you think, Queen?" he demanded. "Looks like a pretty clear case, eh?"

The Inspector sent a sidewise glance at his son, and smiled cryptically. "Hardly, Commissioner. We've got to find the girl first, you know.... Work's barely scratched. We haven't had the time to check a single alibi, for example. Despite these clues pointing to Bernice Carmody, we're not at all satisfied that there isn't something deeper...." He shook his head. "At any rate, Commissioner, there's a heap of work waiting for us. Anybody you'd like to question? We have 'em all outside in the corridor waiting."

The Commissioner looked fierce. "No! Can't say I do at this stage...." He cleared his throat. "What's next on your list? I've got to get down to City Hall for a conference with the Mayor and I can't give this thing the personal attention it deserves. Well?"

"I want to clear up a few moot points," replied Queen dryly. "Several people out there will stand questioning. French himself--"

"French. Yes, yes. Too bad. Feel sorry for the man. Quite a blow." Welles looked around nervously and lowered his voice. "By the way, Queen, while there is not to be the slightest deviation from the highest considerations of duty, you understand, it might be--ah--wise to allow French to get home to his physician's care.... As for this stepdaughter business, I hope"--he paused uncomfortably--"I might say I have the feeling that this girl has made a complete getaway. You're to follow her up conscientiously, of course.... Too bad. I--Well! I must be going."

He turned unceremoniously on his heel, and with something like a sigh of relief tramped toward the door, followed by his bodyguard of detectives. He turned in the anteroom and shouted back, "I want a quick solution, Queen--too many unsolved homicides this past month." And he disappeared with a final quiver of his fat sides.

There was silence for several seconds after the anteroom door closed. Then the Inspector shrugged his shoulders lightly and crossed the room to Ellery's side. Ellery dragged a chair over for his father and they held a whispered conversation for many minutes. The words "razor-blade," ... "book-ends," ... "books" ... and "Bernice" ... recurred at intervals. The old man's face grew longer and longer as Ellery talked. Finally, he shook his head in despair and rose.

An altercation beyond the anteroom door brought up the heads of all the men in the library. A woman's passionate voice and the gruff tones of a man intermingled. Weaver's nostrils quivered and he dashed across the room and flung open the door.

Marion French was endeavoring frantically to push past the burly figure of a detective in the anteroom.

"But I must see Inspector Queen!" she cried. "My father--Please don't touch me!"

Weaver grasped the detective's arm and violently pushed him aside.

"Get your hands off her!" he growled. "I'll teach you to handle a lady that way...."

He would have attacked the amused detective if Marion had not thrown her arms around him. By this time the Inspector and Ellery had hurried up.

"Here! Ritter, stand aside!" said the Inspector. "What's the trouble, Miss French?" he asked gently.

"My--my father," she gasped. "Oh, it's cruel, inhuman.... Can't you see he's ill, out of his mind? For God's sake, let us take him home! He's just fainted!"

They pushed into the hallway. A crowd of people were stooping over Cyrus French, who had collapsed and lay, white-faced, still, on the marble floor. The store physician, small and dark, bent over him in distress.

"Out?" asked the Inspector with some concern.

The physician nodded. "Should be in his bed right now, sir. In a dangerous state of collapse."

Ellery whispered to his father. The old man clucked worriedly, shook his head. "Can't take a chance, Ellery. The man is ill." He signed to two detectives and Cyrus French, arms hanging limply, was carried into the apartment and laid on one of the beds. He regained consciousness a moment later, groaning.

John Gray wriggled his way past a policeman and stormed into the bedroom.

"You can't get away with this sort of thing, Inspector or no Inspector!" he cried in his high-pitched voice. "I demand that Mr. French be sent home immediately!"

"Keep your shirt on, Mr. Gray," admonished the Inspector mildly. "He's going in a moment."

"And I'm going with him," squeaked Gray. "He'll want me, he will. I'll take this up with the Mayor, sir. I'll--"

"Shut _up_, sir!" roared Queen, his face scarlet. He whirled on Detective Ritter. "Get a cab."

"Miss French." Marion looked up, startled. The Inspector irritably took a pinch of snuff. "You may leave with your father and Mr. Gray. But please remain at home until we call this afternoon. We will want to look over the premises and perhaps question Mr. French, if he's in a condition to see us. And--I'm sorry, my dear."

The girl smiled through wet lashes. Weaver moved stealthily to her side, drew her a little apart.

"Marion dear--I'm awfully sorry I didn't lam that brute for you," he stammered. "Did he hurt you?"

Marion's eyes widened, softened. "Don't be silly, darling," she whispered. "And don't be getting mixed up with the police. I'll help Mr. Gray get father home, and stay there just as Inspector Queen ordered me to.... You won't be--in any trouble, dear?"

"Who? I?" Weaver laughed. "Now don't be worrying your pretty head about me.--And as for the store, I'll keep an eye on everything. Tell your father that when he can understand.... Do you love me?"

There was no one looking. He bent swiftly and kissed her. Her eyes glowed in answer.

Five minutes later Cyrus French, Marion French and John Gray had left the building under a police escort.

Velie lumbered over. "Got two of the boys on the trail of this Carmody girl," he reported. "Didn't want to tell you before with the Commissioner around--busy and all that."

Queen frowned, then chuckled. "All my boys are turning traitor to the City," he said. "Thomas, I want you to send somebody out on the trail of Mrs. French after she left her house last night. She walked out about eleven-fifteen. Probably took a cab, because she got here at eleven-forty-five, which would make it about right in the after-theater traffic. Got it?"

Velie nodded and disappeared.

Ellery sat at the desk again, whistling softly to himself, a faraway look in his eyes.

The Inspector had MacKenzie, the store manager, brought to the library.

"Have you checked the employees, Mr. MacKenzie?"

"A report came through from my assistant a few moments ago." Ellery listened avidly. "So far as we have been able to determine," continued the Scotchman, referring to a paper in his hand, "all employees who checked in both yesterday and to-day were at their posts. As for to-day, everything seems perfectly regular in that connection. There is, of course, a list of absentees, which I have here. If you would like to follow up on these employees, here's the list."

"We'll have a peep at it," said the Inspector, taking the list from MacKenzie. He turned it over to a detective with a command. "Now, MacKenzie, you may start the ball rolling again. Store's routine is to go on as usual, but be careful that you say nothing at all of this whole business in your publicity. Have that window on Fifth Avenue kept closed and guarded until further orders. We'll have to seal it up anyway for a time. That's all. You're free to go."

"I'd like to ask the remaining directors a question, dad, if you haven't anything to quiz them about," said Ellery, after MacKenzie had left.

"I haven't a thought in my head about them--that I could turn to account," answered Queen. "Hesse, bring in Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask. Let's have another try at 'em."

The detective returned shortly with the three directors. They looked peaked and ragged; Marchbanks was chewing savagely at a frayed cigar. The Inspector waved his hand at Ellery and retreated a step.

Ellery rose. "Just one question, gentlemen, and then I think Inspector Queen will permit you to go about your business."

"High time," muttered Trask, biting his lip.

"Mr. Zorn," said Ellery, ignoring the attenuated and foppish Trask, "is there a regular meeting-time for your Board of Directors?"

Zorn juggled his heavy gold watch-chain nervously. "Yes--yes, of course."

"If I'm not too inquisitive, when is that meeting-time?"

"Every other Friday afternoon."

"This is routine, strictly adhered to?"

"Yes--yes."

"How is it that there was a meeting this morning--on a Tuesday?"

"That was a special meeting. Mr. French calls them as the occasion demands."

"But the semi-monthly meetings are held regardless of special meetings?"

"Yes."

"I take it, then, that there was a meeting on Friday last?"

"Yes."

Ellery turned to Marchbanks and Trask. "Is Mr. Zorn's testimony substantially correct, gentlemen?"

Both nodded their heads sullenly. Ellery smiled, thanked them, and sat down. The Inspector smiled, thanked them, and told them politely that they were free to leave. He escorted them to the door and whispered to the policeman on guard an inaudible instruction. Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask left the private corridor immediately.

"There's an interesting feller outside, El," remarked the Inspector. "Vincent Carmody, Mrs. French's first husband. Think I'll tackle him next.--Hesse, bring in Mr. Carmody in about two minutes."

"Did you check up at all on the night freight-entrance on 39th Street while you were downstairs?" asked Ellery.

"Sure did." The Inspector took a pinch of snuff reflectively. "That's a funny place, El. With the watchman and the truckman in the little booth, it would have been pie for somebody to slip into the building, especially at night. Went over it with particular thoroughness. It certainly looks like the answer to how the murderer gained entry last night."

"It may answer the question of how the murderer got in," remarked Ellery lazily, "but it doesn't answer the question of how he got out. That exit was closed to him by eleven-thirty. If he left the building by that door, then, he must have done so before eleven-thirty, eh?"

"But Mrs. French didn't get here until eleven-forty-five, El," objected the Inspector, "and according to Prouty she was killed about midnight. So how could he have left by that door before eleven-thirty?"

"The answer to that," said Ellery, "is that he couldn't, and therefore didn't. Is there a door through which he could have slipped into the main building from the freight room?"

"Nothing to it," growled the Inspector. "There's a door 'way back in the shadows of the room. It wasn't locked--never is--because these fools took it for granted that if the outer door was locked, the inner door didn't have to be. Anyway, it heads right onto a corridor which is parallel with the corridor that runs past the night-watchman's office, but further into the body of the main floor.[6] In the darkness, it must have been ridiculously easy to slip through the door, sneak down that corridor, turn the corner, and cover the thirty feet or so to the elevator and stairs. That's probably the answer."

[Footnote 6: See diagram at frontispiece.]

"How about the master-key in that office downstairs?" asked Ellery. "Did the day-man say anything about it?"

"Nothing there," replied the Inspector disconsolately. "O'Shane is his name, and he swears the key never left the locked drawer during his shift."

The door opened and Hesse escorted a preternaturally tall man with penetrating eyes and a straggly grey beard into the room. He was handsome in a sophisticated way, and striking. Ellery noted with interest the triangular lean jaw. The man was dressed carelessly, but in clothes of quality. He bowed stiffly to the Inspector and stood waiting. His eyes shifted luminously from man to man in the room.

"I had barely a chance of talking to you downstairs, Mr. Carmody," said the Inspector pleasantly. "There are a few things I want to ask you. Won't you sit down?"

Carmody dropped into a chair. He nodded curtly to Weaver as he caught the secretary's eye, but said nothing.

"Now, Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector, striding up and down before the desk at which Ellery sat quietly, "a few unimportant but necessary questions. Hagstrom, you're ready?" He cocked an eye at the detective, who nodded, notebook in hand. The Inspector resumed his march on the rug. Suddenly he looked up. Carmody's eyes burned deeply into thin air.

"Mr. Carmody," said the Inspector abruptly, "I understand that you are the sole owner of the Holbein Studios, dealing in antiques?"

"That is precisely correct," said Carmody. His voice was startling--low and vibrant and deliberate.

"You were married to Mrs. French, and divorced some seven years ago?"

"That is also correct." There was a finality in his tones that impinged unpleasantly on the ear. He emanated an aura of complete self-control.

"Have you seen Mrs. French since your divorce?"

"Yes. Many times."

"Socially? There was no particular unpleasantness in your relations?"

"None whatever. Yes, I met Mrs. French socially."

The Inspector was slightly nettled. This witness answered exactly what he was asked, and no more.

"How often, Mr. Carmody?"

"As often as twice a week during the social season."

"And you last saw her--"

"A week ago Monday evening, at a dinner given by Mrs. Standish Prince at Mrs. Prince's home."

"You spoke to her?"

"Yes." Carmody stirred. "Mrs. French was very much interested in antiques, an interest cultivated perhaps during our marriage." The man seemed made of steel. He showed not the faintest trace of emotion. "We conversed for a time about a Chippendale chair she was particularly anxious to have."

"Anything else, Mr. Carmody?"

"Yes. About our daughter."

"Ah!" The Inspector pursed his lips, pulled at his mustache. "Miss Bernice Carmody was placed in the custody of your wife after your divorce?"

"Yes."

"You have seen your daughter periodically, perhaps?"

"Yes. Although Mrs. French secured custody of my daughter, our informal arrangement at the time of our divorce was that I might see the child at any time." A warm color floated into his voice. The Inspector regarded him quickly, looked away. He plunged into a new line of questioning.

"Mr. Carmody, can you suggest any possible explanation to account for this crime?"

"No, I cannot." Carmody grew colder at once. For no apparent reason his eyes shifted to Ellery, and held there intently for an instant.

"Had Mrs. French any enemies, to your knowledge?"

"No. She was singularly free from the profundity of character which so often breeds animosity in others." Carmody might have been talking of an utter stranger; his tone, his bearing were wholly impersonal.

"Not even yourself, Mr. Carmody?" asked the Inspector softly.

"Not even myself, Inspector," said Carmody in the same frozen tones. "If it is any concern of yours, my love for my wife dwindled during our wedded life and when it had entirely disappeared, I secured a divorce. I felt no bitterness toward her then, nor do I now. You will, of course," he added without a change in inflection, "have to take my word for that."

"Did Mrs. French seem nervous the last few times you saw her? Did anything seem to be troubling her? Did she give you any clue to a possible secret worry?"

"Our conversations, Inspector, were hardly of so intimate a nature. I noticed nothing unusual about her. Mrs. French was an extraordinarily prosaic person. Not at all the worrying kind, I can assure you."

The Inspector paused, Carmody sat quietly. Then he spoke, without warning, without passion. He merely opened his mouth and began to speak, but it was so unexpected that the Inspector started violently and took a hasty pinch of snuff to conceal his agitation.

"Inspector, you are evidently questioning me with the secret hope that I may have something to do with the crime, or that I may be in the possession of vital information. Inspector, you are wasting your time." Carmody leaned forward, his eyes strangely blazing. "Believe me when I say that I haven't the slightest interest either in the live Mrs. French--or the dead Mrs. French. Or the whole damned French tribe put together. My own concern is with my daughter. I understand that she is missing. If she is, there has been foul play. If you have any idea in your head that my daughter is a matricide, the more fool you.... You will be perpetrating a crime against an innocent girl if you do not immediately seek to discover Bernice's present whereabouts and the reason for her disappearance. And in that connection, you are welcome to my unstinting co-operation. If you do not look for her immediately, I shall set private detectives on her trail. I think that is all."

Carmody rose to his astonishing height and stood immovably waiting.

The Inspector stirred. "I should advise a slight softening of tone in the future, Mr. Carmody," he said dryly. "You may go."

Without another word the antique-dealer turned and left the apartment.

"Well, what do you think of Mr. Carmody?" asked Queen quizzically.

"I've never known an antiquarian who wasn't queer in some way," laughed Ellery. "Cool customer, however.... Dad, I should very much like to see Monsieur Lavery again."

The Frenchman was pale and nervous when he was conducted into the library. He seemed excessively tired and sank into a chair at once, stretching his long legs with a sigh.

"You might have provided chairs outside in the corridor," he said reproachfully to the Inspector. "My good fortune to be the last called! _C'est la vie, hein?_" He shrugged his shoulders humorously. "May I smoke, Inspector?"

He lit a cigaret without waiting for a reply.

Ellery rose and shook himself vigorously. He looked at Lavery, and Lavery looked at him, and both smiled for no apparent reason.

"I shall be brutally frank, Mr. Lavery," drawled Ellery. "You are a man of the world. You will not be constrained by a false sense of discretion.... Mr. Lavery, have you ever suspected during your stay with the Frenches, that Bernice Carmody is a drug addict?"

Lavery started, regarded Ellery with alert eyes. "You have discovered that already? And without seeing the girl? My felicitations, Mr. Queen.... To your question, let me reply without hesitation--yes."

"Oh, I say!" protested Weaver suddenly, from his corner. "How could you know, Lavery? On such a short acquaintance?"

"I know the symptoms, Weaver," said Lavery mildly. "The sallow, almost saffron complexion; the slightly protruding eyeballs; the bad teeth; the unnatural nervousness and excitability; a certain air of furtiveness constantly maintained; the sudden hysteria and the more sudden recovery; the excessive thinness, growing more patent with every passing day--no, it was not difficult to diagnose the young lady's ailment." He turned to Ellery with a quick gesture of his thin fingers. "Let me make it perfectly clear that my opinion is just an opinion, little more. I have no definite evidence of any kind. But, short of medical advices to the contrary, I should be ready as a layman to swear that the girl is a drug fiend in an advanced stage!"

Weaver groaned. "The Old Man--"

"Of course, we're all terribly sorry about that," put in the Inspector quickly. "You suspected her of being an addict at once, Mr. Lavery?"

"From the moment I laid eyes on her," said the Frenchman emphatically. "It was a source of constant astonishment to me that more people did not observe what was so perfectly plain to me."

"Perhaps they did--perhaps they did," muttered Ellery, brows drawn taut. He brushed a vagrant thought away and addressed Lavery once more.

"Have you ever been in this room before, Mr. Lavery?" he asked, à propos of nothing.

"In Mr. French's apartment?" cried Lavery. "Why, every day, sir. Mr. French has been more than kind, and I have used this room incessantly since my arrival in New York."

"Then there is nothing more to be said," Ellery smiled. "You may now retire to your lecture-room, if it isn't too late, and carry on the grand work of continentalizing America. Good day, sir!"

Lavery bowed, showed his white teeth all around, and left the apartment with long strides.

Ellery sat down at the desk and wrote earnestly on the fly-leaf of his sadly abused little book.

19

OPINIONS AND REPORTS

Inspector Queen stood Napoleonically in the center of the library, staring vindictively at the anteroom door. He muttered to himself, turning his head slowly from side to side like a terrier.

He beckoned to Crouther, the head store detective, who was assisting one of the photographers at the door of the cardroom.

"Look here, Crouther, you ought to be in a good position to know about this." The Inspector filled his nostrils with snuff. The burly store detective scraped his jaw expectantly. "Seeing that door there reminded me. What in heaven's name was French's idea in having a special spring lock put on the corridor door? Seems to me that for an apartment only occasionally used this is pretty well guarded."

Crouther grinned deprecatingly. "Now don't go bothering your head about that, Inspector. The old boy's just a bug on privacy, that's all. Hates to be interrupted--that's a fact."

"But a burglar-proof lock in a burglar-proof building!"

"Well," said Crouther, "you either have to take him that way or go nuts. Matter of fact, Inspector," he lowered his voice, "he's always been a little queer on some subjects. I can remember like to-day the morning I got a written order from the boss, with signatures and a lot of that bunk, requisitioning a specially made lock. That was when they were remodeling the apartment, about two years ago. Sol followed my orders and had an expert locksmith manufacture the dingus on that outside door. Boss liked it pretty much, too--was happy as an Irish cop."

"How about this business of setting a man at the door?" demanded the Inspector. "Certainly that lock would keep out anybody who wasn't wanted."

"We-ell," said Crouther hesitantly, "the boss is such a bug on this privacy business that he didn't even want knocks on the door. Guess that's why he asked me for a man to stand guard every once in a while. Always kept the boys in the corridor, too--they hate the job, the whole crew of 'em. Couldn't even come into the anteroom and sit down."

The Inspector scowled down at his regulation policeman's boots for a moment and crooked his finger at Weaver.

"Come here, my boy." Weaver trudged wearily across the rug. "Just what's behind French's craze for privacy? From what Crouther tells me, this place _is_ like a fortress most times. Who in heaven's name is allowed in here besides his family?"

"It's just an idiosyncrasy of the Old Man's, Inspector," said Weaver. "Don't take it too seriously. He's a good deal of an eccentric. Very few people see the inside of this apartment. Apart from myself, the immediate family, the Board of Directors, and during the last month Mr. Lavery, practically no one in the store organization is allowed in here. No, that's not quite true. MacKenzie, the store manager, is called in occasionally to get direct orders from the Old Man--was in last week, in fact. But aside from MacKenzie, this place is a complete mystery to the store forces."

"You tell 'em, Mr. Weaver," put in Crouther jocularly.

"And that's how it is, Inspector," continued Weaver. "Not even Crouther has been here in the past few years."

"Last time I saw this place before this morning," amended Crouther, "was two years ago when they were redecorating and refurnishing it." He grew red in the face at the thought of some secret injury. "That's a heck of a way to treat a head store detective, believe me."

"You ought to work for the City, Crouther," said the Inspector grimly. "Shut up and be satisfied with a soft job!"

"I should explain, if I haven't done so before," added Weaver, "that the taboo is more or less limited to employees. A great many people come here, but most of the visits are strictly by appointment with the Old Man, and his visitors come on Anti-Vice League business. Clergymen, most of them. A few politicians, not many."

"That's a fact," put in Crouther.

"Well!" The Inspector shot a keen glance toward the two men before him. "It looks mighty bad for this Carmody girl, eh? What do you think?"

Weaver looked pained and half-turned away.

"Well, I don't know about that, Inspector," said Crouther with heavy importance. "My own ideas about this case--"

"Eh? Your own ideas?" The Inspector looked startled, then suppressed a smile. "What _are_ your own ideas, Crouther? Might be of some value--never can tell."

Ellery, who had been sitting abstractedly at the desk, listening to the conversation with half-cocked ears, jammed his little volume into his pocket, rose, and sauntered idly over to the group.

"What's this? A post-mortem?" he demanded, smiling. "And what do I hear, Crouther, about an idea of yours on the case?"

Crouther looked embarrassed for a moment and shuffled his feet. But then he squared his thick shoulders and lashed out into speech, openly enjoying his rôle of orator.

"I think," he began--

"Ah!" said the Inspector.

"I think," Crouther repeated, unabashed, "that Miss Carmody is a victim. Yes, sir, victim of a frame-up!"

"No!" murmured Ellery.

"Go on," said the Inspector curiously.

"It's as plain as the nose--beg pardon, Inspector--on your face. Who ever heard of a girl bumping her own mother off? It ain't natural."

"But the cards, Crouther--the shoes, the hat," said the Inspector gently.

"Just hooey, Inspector," said Crouther with confidence. "Hell! That's no trick, to plant a pair o' shoes and a hat. No, sir, you can't tell me Miss Carmody did the job. Don't believe it and won't believe it. I go on common sense, and that's a fact. Girl shoot her own mother! No, sir!"

"Well, there's something in that," remarked the Inspector sententiously. "What do you make of Miss Marion French's scarf, while you're analyzing the crime, Crouther? Think she's mixed up in it anywhere?"

"Who? That little girl?" Crouther expanded, snorted. "Say, that's another plant. Or else she left it here by mistake. Kind o' like the plant idea, though, myself. Fact!"

"You would say, then," interpolated Ellery, "while you're on the Holmesian track, that this is a case of--what?"

"Don't get you entirely, sir," said Crouther stoutly, "but it looks darned near like a case of murder and kidnapping. Can't see any other way to explain it."

"Murder and kidnapping?" Ellery smiled. "Not a bad idea at that. Good recitation, Crouther."

The detective beamed. Weaver, who had resolutely refrained from commenting, heaved a sigh of relief when a knock on the outer door interrupted the conversation.

The policeman stationed outside opened the door to admit a weazened little man, completely bald, carrying a bulging brief-case.

"Afternoon, Jimmy!" said the Inspector cheerfully. "Got anything for us in that bag of yours?"

"Sure have, Inspector," squeaked the little old man. "Got down here as fast as I could.--Hello, Mr. Queen."

"Glad to see you, Jimmy," said Ellery, and the expression on his face was one of intense expectancy. At this moment the photographers and fingerprint investigators trooped into the library, hats and coats on, their apparatus stowed away. "Jimmy" greeted them all by name.

"Through here, Inspector," announced one of the photographers. "Any orders?"

"Not at the moment." Queen turned to the fingerprint men. "Anybody find anything?"

"Got a lot of prints," reported one of them, "but practically all came from this room. Not a one in the cardroom and none in the bedroom, except for a few stray prints of Mr. Queen's, here."

"Anything in the prints from this room?"

"Hard to say. If the room's been used all morning by this Board of Directors, chances are they're all legitimate. We'll have to get hold of these people and check their prints. Okay, Inspector?"

"Go ahead. But be nice about it, boys." He waved them toward the door. "So long, Crouther. See you later."

"Good enough," said Crouther cheerfully, and departed behind the police workers.