Chapter VII: Part 7

"Go on--I know all that," said Queen grumpily.

"Patience, Diogenes!" chuckled Ellery. "The apartment told the story quite graphically. Mrs. French's presence seemed indubitable. The cards, the book-ends and the story they told...."

"I don't know what story they told," grunted the Inspector. "You mean that powder?"

"Not in this instance. Very well, let's forget the book-ends for the moment and go to--the lipstick which I found on the bedroom dressing-table. That belonged to Mrs. French. Its color matched the color on her half-painted lips. Women don't stop fixing their lips unless something of a tremendously serious nature intervenes. The murder? Possibly. Certainly the events leading to the murder.... So, for this reason and that, all of which you will know in greater detail to-morrow, I hope, I came to the conclusion that Mrs. French had been murdered in that apartment."

"I shan't argue with you, because it's probably true, although your reasons are ludicrous right now. But go ahead--get down to more concrete things," said the Inspector.

"You must grant me some premises," laughed Ellery. "I'll prove that apartment business, never fear. At this time, grant me that the apartment is the scene of the crime."

"It's granted--for the time."

"Very well. If the apartment was the scene of the crime, and the window was not, then very simply the body was removed from the apartment to the window and crammed into that wall-bed."

"In that case, yes."

"But why? I asked myself. _Why_ was the body removed to the window? Why wasn't it left in the apartment?"

"To make it appear that the apartment wasn't the scene of the murder? But that doesn't make sense, because--"

"Yes, because no pains were taken to remove traces of Mrs. French's presence, like the game of banque, the lipstick--although I'm inclined to think that leaving the lipstick was an oversight. It is evident, then, that the reason the body was removed was _not_ to make it appear that the apartment was not the scene of the crime, _but to delay the discovery of the body_."

"I see what you mean," muttered the Inspector.

"The time-element, of course," said Ellery. "The murderer must have known that at 12 o'clock sharp, every day, that window was exhibited, _and that the window was locked and unused before 12 o'clock_. I was looking for a reason to explain the removal of the body. The fact that it would not be discovered until after the noon hour gave the answer in a flash. For some reason the murderer wanted to delay the discovery of the crime."

"I can't see why...."

"Not definitely, of course, but we can make a generalization that will serve the immediate purpose. If the murderer arranged it so that the body would not be found before noon, it meant that he had something to do during the morning which the discovery of the body _would have prevented him from doing_. Is that clear?"

"It follows," conceded the Inspector.

"_Allons--continuer!_" said Ellery. "At first glance, that business about having to do something which the discovery of the crime would make impossible of accomplishment, is something of a poser. However, we know certain facts. For example, no matter how the murderer entered the store, _he must have stayed all night_. There were two ways of getting in unnoticed but no way of getting out unnoticed after the murder. He could have remained hidden somewhere in the store until after closing-hours, and then stolen up to the apartment; or he could have slipped through that open freight-door on 39th Street. He certainly couldn't get out through the Employees' Entrance, because O'Flaherty was there all night, in a perfect position to see somebody leave that way. And O'Flaherty saw no one. He couldn't have got out through the freight-door, because that door was locked for the night at eleven-thirty, and Mrs. French didn't arrive until eleven-forty-five. If he had slipped out via the freight-door, he couldn't have committed the murder. Obviously! The freight-door was closed to him at least a half-hour before the woman was killed at all. So--he must have had to remain in the store all night.

"Now, that being the case, he could not escape until at least nine o'clock the next morning, when the doors were opened to the public and any one could walk out as if he were an early customer."

"Well then, why all that rigmarole about stowing the body in the window in order to prevent its discovery before noon? What for?" demanded the Inspector. "If he could get out at nine o'clock and he had something to do, why couldn't he have done it then? In that case he wouldn't care when the body was found, because he could do what was necessary immediately after nine."

"Precisely." Ellery's voice sharpened with a certain zest. "_If he were free to walk out at nine and stay out_, he would have no reason for delaying the discovery of the body."

"But, Ellery," objected the Inspector, "he _did_ delay the discovery of the body! Unless--" A light dawned on his face.

"That's it exactly," Ellery said soberly. "If our murderer was in some way connected with the store, his absence would be noted or at least would be in danger of notice after a murder was discovered. By secreting the body in a place where he knew it would not be found until noon, he had all morning to watch for an opportunity to slip away and do what he had to do....

"Of course, there's something else. It's an open question whether the murderer planned in advance to secrete the body in the window after killing Mrs. French in the apartment. I rather think the switch of locale was not planned on much before the crime. For this reason. Ordinarily the apartment is not entered until about ten o'clock in the morning. Weaver has his own office, and French doesn't get down until that hour. So that the murderer must have figured, in his original plan, on committing the crime in the apartment and leaving the body there. He would have ample time to get out of the building after nine and return before ten, let us say. So long as the body was found _after_ he attended to his nefarious morning business, he was safe.

"But when he entered that apartment, or perhaps after he committed the crime, he saw something which made it absolutely essential for him to remove the body to the window." Ellery paused. "On the desk was a blue official memorandum. It was there all afternoon on Monday, and Weaver swears he left it there on the desk when he quit Monday evening. And it was in exactly the same position on Tuesday morning. So it was there for the murderer to see. And it said that Weaver would be there at nine o'clock! It was an innocent little memo calling a board meeting, but it must have put the murderer into something of a panic. If somebody was coming to the apartment at nine, he wouldn't have a chance to do what evidently was of desperate necessity, although we still don't know what it is. Therefore the removal of the body to the window and the rest of it. Follow?"

"Seems holeproof," grunted the Inspector, but there was a light of absorbing interest in his eye.

"There's one vital thing to be done almost immediately," added Ellery thoughtfully. "Unquestionably whoever committed the crime did not hide in the store yesterday afternoon and wait for closing hour. I'll tell you why. The complete time-sheet is a check-up on everybody connected with this investigation. The time-sheet gives the checking-out time of everybody. _All_ the people we're interested in are reported as having left the building at five-thirty or before, with the exception of Weaver and this man Springer, the head of the book department. And since they were definitely seen leaving, they couldn't obviously have _stayed_ for the crime. You remember the names? Although people like Zorn, Marchbanks, Lavery and the rest do not check out, their name and time are noted when they leave the building, as was the case yesterday. Since everybody did leave, then the murderer must have got into the building by the only way left--the freight-door on 39th Street. It would be the more logical thing for the murderer to do anyway, because he could establish an alibi for the evening, and still have time to get into the store through that freight-entrance between eleven and eleven-thirty."

"We'll have to double-check everybody's movements last night," said the Inspector dolefully. "More work."

"And probably unproductive. But I agree that it's necessary. We should do that as soon as possible."

"Now." Ellery's lips twisted into a rueful smile. "There are so many ramifications to this case," he said apologetically, interrupting his line of thought. "For example--why did Winifred come to the store at all? There's a question for you! And was she lying when she told O'Flaherty that she was going to the apartment upstairs? Of course, the watchman did see her take the elevator, and it is a fair assumption that she went to the sixth floor rooms, especially since we have definite evidence of her presence there. Besides, where else could she go? The window? Preposterous! No, I think we may assume that she went directly to the private apartment."

"Perhaps Marion French's scarf was already in the window and for some obscure reason Mrs. French wished to retrieve it," suggested the Inspector, grinning wryly.

"Yes, you _don't_ think," retorted Ellery. "That business of Marion's scarf has a perfectly simple explanation, I'm positive, whatever else may be mysterious about the girl.... But here's a point. Did Winifred French have an appointment with a particular person, in the store, in the apartment? Granted the whole affair is cloaked in mystery--a clandestine meeting in a deserted department store and all that--yet the hypothesis that the murdered woman came for a definite purpose to meet a definite person seems too inevitable to discard. In that case, then, did she know about the strange manner in which her fellow-conspirator, and as it turned out her murderer, entered the store? Or did she expect him to walk in as she did, through the regular night-entrance? Evidently not, because she made no mention of another person to O'Flaherty, which she might have done had she nothing to conceal, but gave him the distinct impression that she had dropped in for something. Then she _was_ involved in some shady business, _did_ know that her companion would take mysterious precautions against discovery--openly and submissively.

"Was that companion Bernice or Marion? We have reason to believe, from the mere look of things, that it might have been Bernice. The banque game, Bernice's cigarets, Bernice's hat and shoes--very significant and alarming, those last two items. On the other hand, let us examine some sidelights on the question of Bernice.

"We are fairly agreed that the murderer of Mrs. French took away Mrs. French's apartment key. This might point to Bernice on first thought, because we know she did not have her own key that afternoon--in fact, she couldn't have had her own key, since we actually found it in her closet at home to-day. Yes, it appears that if Bernice had been in that store last night, she would have taken her mother's key away. _But was she in the store?_

"The time has come, I do believe," said Ellery quizzically, "to lay that particular ghost. Bernice was _not_ in the French department store last night. Perhaps I had better say at this point that Bernice is not a matricide. In the first place, despite the presence of the game of banque, which is known by many people to be a passion of both women, the presence of the cigarets betrays the frame-up. Bernice, who is a drug addict, has been indicated beyond a doubt as _always_ smoking only one-quarter of the length of her _La Duchesse_ cigarets, and crushing out the long stub. Yet the stubs we found were _without exception_ smoked carefully down almost to the tip. This is so unnatural as to be conclusive. One or two cigarets might conceivably be found so consumed; but to find a dozen! It's no go, dad. Bernice did not smoke those cigarets we found on the card-table. And, of course, if she did not, then some once else prepared them with the obvious intention of throwing suspicion on the missing girl. Then there's the matter of the 'phone call to Hortense Underhill, presumably from Bernice. Fishy, dad--exceedingly piscine! No, Bernice didn't forget about her key so foolishly. _Somebody wanted her key badly enough to risk a call and a messenger._"

"The shoes--the hat," murmured the Inspector suddenly, looking up at Ellery in a startled way.

"Exactly," said Ellery somberly, "very significant and alarming, as I said before. If Bernice was framed, and we find on the scene of the crime the shoes and hat she wore the day of the murder--then it simply means that Bernice has met with violence herself! She must be a victim, dad. Whether she is already dead or not I don't know. It depends on the masked story behind the crime. But certainly this deduction links the disappearance of Bernice and the murder of her mother very closely. Now why should the girl be done away with also? Perhaps, dad, if she were left at large, she might be a dangerous source of information--dangerous as far as the criminal is concerned."

"Ellery!" exclaimed the Inspector. He was trembling with excitement. "Mrs. French's murder--Bernice's kidnapping--_and she was a drug fiend_...."

"I'm not particularly surprised, dad," said Ellery warmly. "You have always been quick on the scent.... Yes, it looks that way to me, too. Remember that Bernice walked out of her stepfather's house not only willingly, but eagerly. Is it too much to suppose that she was going--_to replenish a waning supply of drugs?_

"If that is so, and it seems a good sound possibility, then this whole case is shrouded and complicated by the manipulations--of drug distributors. I'm very much afraid we've fallen into just such a prosaic business as that."

"Prosaic your left eyebrow!" cried Inspector Queen. "Ellery, it gets clearer and clearer. And with all this rumpus about the increase in drug distribution--if we should uncover the ring that's been operating so hugely--if we should actually _nab_ the ringleaders--Ellery, it will be a remarkable achievement! How I'd like to see Fiorelli's face, when I tell him what's behind this!"

"Well, don't be over-sanguine, dad," said Ellery pessimistically. "It may be a _tour de force_. At any rate it's sheer conjecture at this stage of the game, and we shouldn't be too uplifted by hope.

"We have another angle that helps us localize the geography of the crime even more precisely."

"The book-ends?" Inspector Queen's voice was uncertain.

"Of course. This too is based on pure reasoning, but I'll wager any one anything that in the end we find it's true. Conclusions that fit a series of circumstances so snugly have an overwhelmingly high percentage of probability in their favor....

"Westley Weaver avers positively that the onyx book-ends have neither been repaired nor removed from the apartment library since they were presented to French by John Gray. In examining the book-ends we find a noticeable difference in the color of the green felt, or baize, pasted on the bases, the under surfaces. Weaver offers the suggestion that something is wrong. Why? Because this is the first time he has noticed the differing shades of green. He has seen those book-ends for months. He is certain that when the book-ends were new the felts were alike in color, that they must have been alike all along.

"As a matter of fact, while there is no evidential method whereby we may tell when exactly that lighter felt appeared, there is one corroboration." Ellery stared thoughtfully at the pavement. "The book-end with the lighter felt was newly glued. That I would take my oath on. The glue, while powerful in action and already quite hard, retained a viscidity and suspicious stickiness that told the story at once. And the powder grains stuck in the glue-line--no, the evidence is there. The book-ends were handled last night by the criminal. We might suspect Mrs. French, perhaps, if not for the fact that the fingerprint powder was used. That's the work of your 'super-criminal,' dad, not of an elderly society lady." He smiled.

"Let's try to link book-ends and crime more closely." He squinted ahead in a little tempest of silence. The old man trudged by his side, eyes on the changing street vista. "We enter the scene of the crime. We find many things of a peculiar nature there. The cards, the lipsticks, the cigarets, the shoes, the hat, the book-ends--all out of tune with normality. We have linked every element except the book-ends directly with the crime. Why, in the face of the possibilities--why not the book-ends too? I can furnish excellent hypotheses commensurate with known facts. The fingerprint powder grains, for one thing. Accessories of crime. And a crime was committed. We find the grains stuck in a newly glued felt, which is also suspiciously different in shade from its fellow. Certainly it is against all reason to say that the felts might have been differently colored from the beginning. Not with such an expensive and unique pair of book-ends. And the difference was never noticed before.... No, the human probabilities all point to the conclusion that last night some one removed the original felt from the first book-end, pasted on a new piece of felt, sprinkled fingerprint powder to bring out any prints that might be on the book-end, removed the fingerprints, and inadvertently left some minute grains in the fresh glue-line of the piece."

"You've proved it to my satisfaction," said the Inspector. "Go on."

"_Alors!_ I examine the book-ends. They are of solid onyx. Furthermore, the only change in their composition is the removal of the original felt from one of them. I conclude therefore that the book-end was _not_ repaired in order to hide something inside or because something was extracted from its interior. There is no interior. Everything is on the surface.

"With this in mind, I ask myself: What other reason could have caused the repair of the onyx piece, if it was not to hide traces of a secretion or a removal? Well, there's the crime itself. Can we tie the crime and the fixing of the book-ends into one knot?

"Yes, we can! Why should a felt be removed and another substituted? _Because something happened to that felt which, if the felt were left as it was, would have betrayed traces of a crime._ Remember that the murderer's most pressing need was to keep knowledge of the murder from every one until he had delivered the all-important message during the morning. And he knew that that library would be tenanted at nine o'clock in the morning, that if anything were wrong with the book-end it would be noticed in all probability."

"Blood!" exclaimed the Inspector.

"You've hit on it," replied Ellery. "It could scarcely be anything else but blood-stains. It would have to be something of a directly suspicious nature, or the murderer would not have taken all the trouble he did. The cards, the other things--these in themselves would never suggest a murder before the body was found or foul play even suspected. But blood! That's the water-mark of violence.

"So I reasoned that in some way blood soaked the felt, and the murderer was compelled to change the felt and dispose of the tell-tale bloody one."

They walked on in silence for a long time. The Inspector was buried in thought. Then Ellery spoke once more.

"You see," he said, "I was progressing with commendable rapidity in the reconstruction of the physical elements of the crime. And, when I had reached the conclusion about the blood-soaked felt, immediately another isolated fact leaped into my mind.... You remember Prouty's suspicions in connection with the lack of blood on the corpse? And our instant deduction that the murder must have been committed somewhere else? Here was the missing link."

"Good, good," murmured the Inspector, reaching excitedly for his snuff-box.

"The book-ends," went on Ellery rapidly, "were obviously of no importance in the crime _until_ they became blood-soaked. After that, of course, the whole chain of incident was a logical outgrowth--changing the felt, handling the book-ends, and then applying the powder to efface prints made necessary by the handling....

"Then, I reasoned, the staining of the book-end was an accident. It was standing innocently on the glass-topped desk. How could the blood have got on it? There are two possibilities. The first is that the book-end was used as a weapon. But this is indefensible, because the wounds were the result of revolver-shots, and there are no signs of a _striking_ blow with such a bludgeon as the book-end might have made. Then the only remaining possibility is that the blood got on it inadvertently. How might this have occurred?

"Easily. The book-end is on the glass-topped desk. The only way blood could get on the bottom of the book-end, where the blood would show ineffaceably, would be by its _trickling across the glass_ and soaking into the material. But you see what this gives us."

"Mrs. French was sitting at the desk when she was shot," announced the old man gloomily. "She was shot below the heart. She fell into the chair and got another in the heart itself. The blood from the first wound gushed out before she fell. The blood from the second wound trickled out as she lay across the table--and soaked into the felt."

"And that," said Ellery, smiling, "is a perfect recitation. Remember that Prouty is sure that the _precordial_ type of wound particularly would bleed profusely. That's probably what happened.... Now we can further reconstruct the crime. If Mrs. French sat at the desk and was shot in the heart, then her murderer was in front of her and shot across the desk. It must have been at a distance of several feet, because there are no powder marks on the woman's clothes. We can perhaps compute the approximate height of the murderer by determining the angle at which the bullets entered the body. But I have little faith in this, because there is no exact way of judging just how far the bullets traveled, or in other words how far from Mrs. French the murderer stood when he fired. And an error of inches would throw off all our calculations as to his height, considerably. You might get your firearms expert, Kenneth Knowles, on the job, but I don't think much will come of it."

"Neither do I," sighed the Inspector. "Nevertheless, it's comforting to be able to place the crime so precisely. It all hangs together, Ellery--a nice bit of reasoning. I'll get Knowles to work immediately. Is there anything else, son?"

Ellery said nothing for an appreciable moment. They turned into West 87th Street. Half-way up the block stood the brownstone old house in which they lived. They quickened their steps.

"There's a heap more, dad, that I haven't gone into, because of this and that," Ellery said absently. "The signs were all there, for the world to see. They needed intelligent assembly, however. You're probably the only one on the scene who has the mental potentiality for piecing them together. The others.... And you're exceptionally dulled by care." He smiled as they reached the brownstone steps of their dwelling.

"Dad," he said, one foot on the lowest step, "on one phase of this investigation I am entirely at sea. And that--" he tapped the package under his arm, "is the five books I plucked from old French's desk. It seems silly to suppose that they can have anything to do with the murder, and yet--I have the queerest feeling that they can explain so much if we worm out their secret."

"You've gone slightly daffy with concentration," growled the Inspector, laboriously ascending the stairs.

"Nevertheless," remarked Ellery, inserting a key into the lock of the big carved old-fashioned door, "this night is dedicated to a sedulous analysis of the books."

THE FOURTH EPISODE

"_Oriental police set far smaller store by the criminal alibi
than do Occidentals.... We know only too well what warped cunning
is capable of ... and prefer to probe emotions and instincts
rather than crack down highly glazed stories. This is undoubtedly
explained by the difference in psychology of the two racial
strains.... The Oriental is notoriously more suspicious than the
Occidental, dealing with fundamentals rather than superficials....
Where the Western world is inclined to shout a lusty_ BANZAI!
_in acclamation of its more successful rogues, we cut off their
ears, or put them in stocks for milder crimes, or behead them
for major ones--but always pointing out by example (with true
Japanese subtlety, perhaps?) the over-whelming ignominy of the
punishment...._"

--From the Preface to the English edition of A THOUSAND LEAVES,
_By_ Tamaka Hiero.

25

ELLERIUS BIBLIOPHILUS

The hearth of the Queen domicile was housed in one of the West 87th Street's lingering brownstones. That the Queens chose to live among the unvarnished woods of a generation dead and gone was a commentary upon the powerful influence of son upon father. For Ellery, whose collection of well-used books, whose dilettante's knowledge of antiquities, whose love for the best of the past, over-whelmed his natural leaning toward the comforts of the modern age, stood firmly against the Inspector's groaning indictment of "dustiness and mustiness."

You might expect, therefore, that the Queens lived on the top floor of this sprawling old mansion, and that the door was of time-softened oak (on which appeared their only concession to expediency--a placard labeled "The Queens"), and that when you were admitted by gypsy-blooded Djuna, an odor redolent of old leather and masculinity would assail the nostrils.

There was an anteroom hung with a vast tapestry (the gift of the Duke of ---- in return for the Inspector's services in a matter preserved in silence). The anteroom was opulently Gothic, and it was Ellery's will again which prevented the Inspector from consigning it, period furniture and all, to the auction rooms.

And there was the living-room and library. Dotted with books, massed with books. Oak-ribbed ceiling--huge natural fireplace with a broad oak mantel and curious old ironwork--the Nuremberg swords crossed martially above--old lamps, brasswork, massive furniture. Chairs, divans, footstools, leather cushions, ashstands--a veritable fairyland of easy bachelordom.

Off the living-room was the bedroom, a chaste and comfortable rest-place.

The whole was presided over by small, volatile Djuna, the orphan boy adopted by Inspector Queen during his lonely years when Ellery was attending the University. Djuna's world was limited to his beloved patron and their common dwelling-place. Valet, cook, housekeeper and on occasion confidant....

At nine o'clock of the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of May--the day after the discovery of Mrs. Winifred French's lifeless body in the French establishment--Djuna was setting the table in the living-room for a late breakfast. Ellery was conspicuous by his absence from the room. The Inspector sat grumpily in his favorite armchair, staring at Djuna's twinkling brown hands.

The telephone bell rang. Djuna grasped the instrument.

"For you, Dad Queen," he announced pompously. "It's the District Attorney."

The old man plodded across the room to the telephone.

"Hello! Hello, Henry.... We-e-ell, a little progress. Something tells me Ellery is on the scent. In fact, he told me so himself.... What?... Yes, as far as I'm concerned it's a devil's brew. Can't make head or tail of it.... Oh, go on with your blarney, Henry! I'm talking straight.... The situation is briefly this."

The Inspector spoke for a long time in a voice fluctuating between despair and excitement. District Attorney Henry Sampson listened carefully.

"And that," concluded the Inspector, "is where it stands at this moment. Something tells me Ellery is up to one of his familiar tricks. He was up half the night poring over those infernal books.... Yes, certainly, I'll keep you posted. May need you soon at that, Henry. Ellery performs miracles at times, although I'd wager my next year's pay that--Oh, go on back to your work, you ferret!"

He hung up the receiver in time to greet a prodigiously yawning Ellery who fumbled with his necktie and endeavored to keep the folds of his dressing-gown together simultaneously.

"So!" growled the Inspector, plumping into his chair. "What time did you get to bed, young man?"

Ellery finished the delicately dual operation and reached for a chair, digging Djuna surreptitiously in the ribs.

"No scolding now," he said, reaching for a piece of toast. "Have breakfast yet? No? Waiting for the sluggard? Regale yourself with this Olympian coffee--we can talk as we eat."

"What time?" repeated the Inspector inexorably, sitting down at the table.

"To be temporal," said Ellery, his mouth full of coffee, "it was three-twenty A.M."

The old man's eyes softened. "Shouldn't do that," he mumbled, reaching for the percolator. "It'll fag you."

"Essential." Ellery drained his cup. "There are things to do, Sire.... Have you heard anything this morning?"

"Plenty that means nothing," said the Inspector. "I've been at that 'phone since seven.... Got a preliminary autopsy report from Sam Prouty. Nothing to add to what he said yesterday except that there are absolutely no signs of drug poisoning or addiction. The woman was certainly not a 'dope.'"

"Interesting, and not necessarily uninformative," smiled Ellery. "What else?"

"Knowles, the firearms man, was vague enough to make it unexciting. He claims that he couldn't place the distance the bullets traveled before they entered the body, exactly to the foot. The angles are easily determined, but from his calculations the murderer might be anywhere from five to six feet in height. Not very illuminating, eh?"

"Hardly. We'll never convict anybody on that kind of evidence. But I can scarcely blame Knowles. These things are rarely absolute. How about the absentees from the store yesterday?"

The Inspector scowled. "Had one of the boys checking up with MacKenzie all yesterday evening. Just had MacKenzie on the wire. Everybody accounted for, not a thing suspicious or unexplained. And as for this Carmody girl, poor Thomas had his strings out all night. Combed the neighborhood. Contacted the Missing Persons Bureau. I tipped him off on the drug business, and the Narcotic Squad's been busy checking up on known dives. Nothing doing. Not a trace of her."

"Just dropped out of existence...." Ellery frowned, poured himself another cup of coffee. "I'll confess the girl has me worried. As I said yesterday, all signs point to her having been done away with. If not done away with, then certainly held very securely in a remote hide-out. If I were the murderer, I think I'd add her to my list of victims.... There's just a bare chance that she may be alive, dad. Velie must redouble his efforts."

"Don't worry about Thomas," said the Inspector grimly. "If she's alive, he'll find her in time. If she's dead--Well! He's doing all he can."

The telephone bell rang again. The Inspector answered.

"Yes, this is Inspector Queen talking...." His tone changed magically. It dripped formality. "Good morning, Commissioner. What can I do for you?... Well, sir, we're getting along very nicely. We've gathered together a heap of threads, and it's not twenty-four hours since we found the body.... Oh, no! Mr. French has been a bit upset about the whole affair. We've gone quite easy on him--nothing to worry about there, sir.... Yes, I know. We're making it as comfortable for him as we can under the circumstances.... No, Commissioner. Lavery has an absolutely unimpeachable reputation. A foreigner, of course.... What's that? Absolutely no!... We have a perfectly natural explanation for that scarf of Miss Marion French's, sir. Well, I'm relieved too, to tell the truth, Commissioner.... Quick solution? Commissioner, it will be quicker than that!... Yes, sir, I know.... Thank you, Commissioner. I'll keep you posted."

"And that," said the Inspector in a deadly voice, as he hung up the receiver carefully and turned a livid face toward Ellery, "is a sample of the blank-dangest, extra-soft-boiled, unmitigated blatherskite of a mud-hen of a police commissioner that this or any city ever had!"

Ellery laughed aloud. "You'll be frothing at the mouth if you don't control yourself. Every time I hear you rave about Welles I'm reminded of that sage Germanic dictum: 'Who fills an office must learn to bear reproach and blame.'"

"On the contrary, I'm getting soft words from Welles," said the Inspector, in a calmer tone. "He's frightened out of his wits about this French affair. French wields a lot of power for a harmless old reformer, and Welles doesn't like the possibilities. Did you hear the absolute nonsense I salved him with over the phone? Sometimes I think I've lost my self-respect."

But Ellery was suddenly plunged in thought. His eyes had spied the five books from French's desk, which now lay on an end-table nearby. With an indistinct murmur of sympathy, he rose and sauntered over to the table, fingering the books affectionately. The old man's eyes narrowed.

"Out with it!" he said. "You've discovered something in those books!" He hopped out of his chair suspiciously.

"Yes, I think I have," replied Ellery slowly. He picked up the five books and carried them to the breakfast-table. "Sit down, dad. My work last night wasn't entirely wasted."

They sat down. The Inspector's eyes were bright and curious as he chose one of the books at random and riffled its pages aimlessly. Ellery watched him.

"Suppose, dad," said Ellery, "you take up these five books and go through them. Here's the situation. You have five volumes, the only fact to go on being that they're queer books for a certain person to possess. You're looking for a reason to explain why those five books are where they are. Go to it."

He lit a cigaret thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke at the paneled ceiling. The Inspector seized on the volumes and attacked them singly. When he had finished with one, he took up the next, and so on until he had examined all five. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened. He looked up at Ellery out of very puzzled eyes.

"Danged if I can see anything remarkable in these books, Ellery. There doesn't seem to be a point of similarity among them."

Ellery smiled, drew his body forward abruptly. He tapped the books with a long forefinger for emphasis. "That's exactly why they _are_ remarkable," he said. "There doesn't seem to be a point of similarity. And in fact, except for one little link, they _haven't_ any points of similarity."

"You're talking Greek," said the Inspector. "Elucidate."

For answer Ellery rose and disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared in a moment with a long slip of paper on which were copiously inscribed in a weird series of scrawled characters a body of notes.

"This," he announced, reseating himself at the table, "is the result of last night's séance with the ghosts of five authors' brain-children.... Lend ear, Father Queen.

"The books, by title and author, are as follows--just to make the analysis entirely clear: _New Developments in Philately_, by Hugo Salisbury. _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski. _A Child's History of Music_, by Ramon Freyberg. _An Outline of Paleontology_, by John Morrison. And finally, _Nonsense Anthology_, by A. I. Throckmorton.

"Let's analyze these five books.

"Number one. The titles have not the slightest connection with each other. Because of this fact, we can discard any thought that the _subject matter_ of the books is relevant to our investigation.

"Number two. The dissimilarity is further heightened by a number of small points. For example, all the covers are of different colors. True, there are two blues, but they are of distinct hues. The sizes are different: three of the books are oversize, and all of these oversizes have differing dimensions: one of the books is a pocket edition; the last book is of average size. The bindings are different: three of them are of cloth, but of different grain; one of them is a de luxe leather binding; one of them is bound in linen. The inner format is different. In two cases the paper is light India in shade; in the other three white is used. Of the white different weights are apparent. The type-style, on examination, although I know little enough about such technical matters, is in each instance different. The number of pages differs also--and their actual enumeration elicits no intelligible message. They mean nothing.... Even in price they show dissimilarity. The leather-covered is three-fifty, and the pocket edition is a dollar and a half. The publishers are different. The dates of issue and number of editions are different...."

"But Ellery--of course--they're more or less obvious ..." objected the Inspector. "Where does this lead you?"

"In an analysis," returned Ellery, "nothing is too trivial to be overlooked. They may mean nothing and they may mean a heap. In any case, they are definite facts about these five books. And if they point to nothing else, they certainly indicate that physically the books differ in practically every respect.

"Number three--and this is the first exciting development--the right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--let me repeat that: the right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--has the notation in hard pencil of a date!"

"A date?" The Inspector snatched one of the books from the table and turned to the back inside leaf. There, in the upper right-hand corner, was a tiny penciled date. He examined the other four books and they exhibited in exactly the same places similar penciled dates.

"If," continued Ellery calmly, "you arrange these dates arbitrarily in their chronological order this is the result:

4/13/19--
4/21/19--
4/29/19--
5/7 /19--
5/16/19--

"By consulting the calendar I discovered that these dates represent, progressively as I have given them: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Monday."

"That's interesting," muttered the Inspector. "Why is Sunday omitted?"

"A valuable little point," said Ellery. "In four cases we have consecutive days of the week, one week apart. In one case a day--Sunday--is skipped. That this is an oversight on the part of the dater is not likely; that a book is missing is impossible, because the number of days between the first four dates is eight, and the fifth is increased only to nine. Plainly, then, Sunday was omitted for the reason that Sunday is generally omitted--it is a non-working day. What the work is I haven't at the moment an answer for. But we may take the irregularity in the case of the Sunday omission as a logical irregularity which you will find in any part of the business world."

"Follows," commented the Inspector.

"Very well. We now come to point number four. And this is of considerable interest. Dad, take up the five books and read the titles in the chronological order of their dates."

The old man obeyed. "_Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski. The--"

"One moment," interrupted Ellery. "What's the date on the back inside leaf?"

"April thirteenth."

"What day is April thirteenth?"

"Wednesday."

Ellery's face lit up triumphantly. "Well?" he cried. "Don't you see the connection?"

The Inspector looked slightly nettled. "Darned if I do.... The second one is _Nonsense Anthology_, by A. I. Throckmorton."

"Date and day?"

"Thursday, April twenty-first.... The next is _A Child's History of Music_, by Ramon Freyberg--Friday, April twenty--By jinks, Ellery! Friday, April twenty-ninth!"

"Yes, go on," said Ellery approvingly.

The Inspector concluded rapidly. "_New Developments in Philately_, by Hugo Salisbury--and that's _Saturday_, May seventh.... And the last one is _An Outline of Paleontology_, by John Morrison--_Monday_, of course.... Ellery, this is really amazing! In every case the _day_ coincides with the first two letters of the author's last name!"

"And that's one of the major results of my all-night session," smiled Ellery. "Pretty, isn't it? _We_djowski--Wednesday. _Th_rockmorton--Thursday. _Fr_eyberg--Friday. _Sa_lisbury--Saturday. And _Mo_rrison--Monday, with Sunday obligingly omitted. Coincidence? Hardly, hardly, dad!"

"There's dirty work at the crossroads, all right, my son," said the Inspector with a sudden grin. "This doesn't make any impression on me as far as the murder is concerned, but it's mighty interesting nevertheless. Code, by George!"

"If the murder is worrying you," retorted Ellery, "harken to my point number five.... We have five dates so far. April thirteenth, April twenty-first, April twenty-ninth, May seventh, and May sixteenth. Let us suppose, for the sake of blessed argument, that there is a sixth book somewhere in limbo. Then, by all the laws of probability, that sixth book, if it exists, should bear a date eight days from Monday the sixteenth of May, which is--"

The Inspector leaped to his feet. "Why, this is extraordinary, Ellery," he cried. "Tuesday, May twenty-fourth--the day of...." His voice fell flatly in a curious disappointment. "No, that's not the day of the murder; it's the day _after_ the murder."

"Now, dad," laughed Ellery, "don't go moping so soon because of a little thing like that. It _is_ extraordinary, as you say. If a sixth book is extant, then it bears the date of May twenty-fourth. If we can do nothing else at this time, we can certainly suppose the existence of that sixth book. The continuity is too compelling. Things don't merely happen that way.... This problematical sixth book gives us our first definite link between the books and the crime.... Dad, has it occurred to you that our criminal had to _do_ something on Tuesday morning, the twenty-fourth of May?"

The Inspector stared at him. "You think the book--"

"Oh, I think so many things," said Ellery ruefully, rising and stretching his lean figure. "But it does seem to me that we have every reason to believe in the existence of a sixth book. And there is only one possible clue to that sixth book...."

"It's author's name begins with _Tu_," said the Inspector quickly.

"Exactly." Ellery gathered up the tell-tale volumes and stowed them carefully away in a drawer of a large desk. He returned to the table and looked thoughtfully down at his father's grey head with its tiny pink bald spot.

"All night," he said, "I have felt that one person alone can furnish me--willingly--with the missing information.... Dad, there is a story behind these codified books, and the story is undoubtedly tied up with the crime. I am so positive of that that I'll bet you a dinner at Pietro's."

"I don't bet," growled the Inspector, twinkling, "at least with you, you dunderhead. And who's this know-it-all?"

"Westley Weaver," replied Ellery. "And he doesn't know it all. I believe that he is withholding some information which to him is meaningless, but which to us may mean a solution of the mystery. I believe that if for any reason he is deliberately withholding this information, that reason concerns Marion French. Poor Wes thinks Marion is up to her knees in the muck of this thing. And perhaps he's right--who knows? At any rate, if there's one person in this whole investigation whom I trust implicitly it's Westley. He's a little dense at times, but he's the real thing.... I do believe I'll have a little chat with Westley. It may do us all good to have him down here for a round-table discussion."

He took up the telephone and gave the number of the French store. The Inspector watched him dubiously as he waited.

"Wes? This is Ellery Queen.... Can you jump into a cab, Westley, and come down to my place for a half-hour or so? It's quite important.... Yes, drop everything and come over."

26

THE TRAIL TO BERNICE

The Inspector prowled about the apartment in a fever of restlessness. Ellery completed his toilet in the bedroom and listened calmly to his father's occasional outbursts of invective against fate, crime and police commissioners. Djuna, silent as ever, removed the breakfast things from the living-room table and retired to his kitchenette.

"Of course," said the Inspector in a more lucid moment, "Prouty did say that he and Knowles were pretty sure Mrs. French was sitting down when the second shot was fired. That corroborates part of your analysis, anyway."

"It helps," said Ellery, struggling with his shoes. "Expert testimony never hurt any trial, especially when the experts are men like Prouty and Knowles."

Queen snorted. "You haven't seen as many trials as I have.... But what gets me is that revolver. Knowles says the bullets are from one of those black .38 Colts that you can buy for a dime a dozen from any 'fence.' Of course, if Knowles could get hold of the gun, he could absolutely establish that the bullets were shot from it, because they still retain enough barrel marks of a unique character to make identification positive. Incidentally, they're both from the same gun. But how on earth can we get hold of it?"

"You're riddling," said Ellery. "_I_ don't know."

"And without the gun we're terribly short of vital evidence. It isn't in the French store--the boys have searched from cellar to roof. Then the murderer took it away with him. Too much to expect that we'll ever get our hands on it."

"Well," remarked Ellery, putting on a smoking-jacket, "I shouldn't be so positive. Criminals do stupid things, dad, as you know better than I. Although I will admit that--"

The doorbell rang imperiously and Ellery started in astonishment. "Why, that can't be Westley so soon!"

The Inspector and Ellery went into the library and found a very dignified little Djuna ushering William Crouther, the French store detective, into the room. Crouther was flushed and excited; he began to speak at once.

"Morning, gentlemen, morning!" he cried genially. "Resting up after a hard day, eh, Inspector? Well, I think I've got something you'll be interested in--yes, sir, that's a fact."

"Glad to see you, Crouther," lied the Inspector, while Ellery's eyes narrowed as if in anticipation of the news Crouther had to transmit. "Sit down, man, and tell us all about it."

"Thank you, thank you, Inspector," said Crouther, sinking into the Inspector's sacred armchair with an explosive sigh. "I haven't been exactly sleeping myself," he announced as a preliminary, chuckling. "Did considerable flat-footing last night and I've been on the go since six this morning."

"Honest toil requireth no reward before heaven," murmured Ellery.

"Eh?" Crouther seemed puzzled, but a grin spread over his florid face as he fumbled in his breast-pocket and produced two oily cigars. "Little joke, eh, Mr. Queen? Smoke, Inspector? You, Mr. Queen?... Don't mind if I do myself." He lit the cigar and flicked the burnt match carelessly into the fireplace. A pained spasm passed over the face of Djuna, who was removing the last traces of the breakfast meal from the table. Djuna was tyrannical when his household was upset. He cast a venomous glance at Crouther's broad back and stumped away into the kitchenette.

"Well, Crouther, what is it?" demanded the Inspector with a crackle of impatience in his voice. "Spill it, spill it!"

"Right you are, Inspector." Crouther lowered his voice mysteriously, leaning forward toward the two men and emphasizing his forthcoming remarks with the butt of his fuming cigar. "What do you think I've been doing?"

"We haven't the slightest idea," said Ellery, with interest.

"I've--been--on--the--trail--of--Bernice Carmody!" whispered Crouther in a vibrant bass voice.

"Oh!" The Inspector was patently disappointed. He regarded Crouther morosely. "Is that all? I've got a squad of my best men on the same job, Crouther."

"Well," said Crouther, leaning back and flicking ashes on the carpet, "I didn't exactly expect you to kiss me at that statement, Inspector--that's a fact.... But," his voice lowered cunningly again, "I'll bet your men didn't get what I got!"

"Oh, you got something, did you?" asked the Inspector quickly. "Now, that _is_ news, Crouther. Sorry I was so hasty.... Just what is it you've dug up?"

Crouther leered triumphantly. "The trail of the girl out of the city!"

Ellery's eyes flickered with sincere surprise. "You got that far, did you?" He turned to his father with a smile. "That seems to be one on Velie, dad."

The Inspector looked disgruntled and curious at the same time. "I'll be hanged for a rascal!" he muttered. "How did you do it and what's the dope exactly, Crouther?"

"It was this way," said Crouther promptly, crossing his legs and puffing smoke into the air. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. "I've worked all along--with due respect to you and your boys, Inspector--on the idea that this Bernice Carmody was done away with. Kidnapped, murdered--I don't know--but somethin' like that. I felt that she didn't do the job, although the signs do point to her, and that's a fact.... So I took the liberty of snoopin' around the French house last night and seeing what I could see about how the girl got out of the place. Saw this housekeeper up there and she told me what she told you, I guess. Don't mind, Inspector?... Anyway, I found out too about that 'special' who saw her walkin' down the Drive toward 72nd Street. That set me going, and before I got stuck I'd traced her a long way. I found a cruising cab-driver who said he picked up a woman of her description on West End Avenue and 72nd. Private cab, it is; and I guess I was just lucky, that's all. This whole business of trailing is part luck and part perspiration--fact, ain't it, Inspector?"

"Ummh," said the Inspector sourly. "You've certainly put one over on Tom Velie. What then? Get any more?"

"Sure did!" Crouther relit his cigar. "Driver took the girl to the Hotel Astor. She told him to wait for her. She went into the lobby and in about two minutes came out again with a tall blond man dressed kind of swell, and carrying a suitcase. They piled into the cab. Driver said the girl seemed kind of scared, but she didn't say anything, and the tall man told him to take 'em for a drive through Central Park. In the Park, just about the middle, man tapped on the window and told the driver to stop--they were goin' to get out. That was what made the driver kind of leery, anyway--couldn't ever remember anybody payin' off in the middle of the Park. But he didn't say anything, and the blond gent paid the fare and told him to drive off. He did, but not before he'd caught a look at the girl's face. She was pale and sort of half-shot--looked drunk, he said. So he just moved off slow and careless, and kept his eyes open. And sure enough, he saw the pair of 'em go over to a parked car not fifty feet away, get in, and right away the car shot out of the Park goin' uptown!"

"Well," said the Inspector in a hushed voice, "that's quite a story. We'll have to look over this cab-driver.... Did he catch the license-number of the car?"

"Too far away," said Crouther, scowling for an instant. Then his face cleared. "But he wasn't too far away to spot the fact that it had a Massachusetts license-plate."

"Excellent, Crouther, excellent!" cried Ellery suddenly, springing to his feet. "Thank goodness some one has kept his head about him! What kind of car was it--did your man see?"

"Yep," grinned Crouther, expanding under the praise. "Closed car--sedan--dark blue--and a Buick. How's that?"

"Mighty nice work," said the Inspector grudgingly. "How did the girl act on the trip over to the other automobile?"

"Well, the driver couldn't see so well," said Crouther, "but he did tell me that the girl sort of stumbled and the tall man grabbed her arm and sort of forced her."

"Slick, slick!" muttered the Inspector. "Did he catch a glimpse of the driver in the closed car?"

"Nope. But there must have been some one in the Buick, because our man says the couple climbed into the back, and then the car streaked it right out of the Park."

"How about this tall blond man, Crouther?" asked Ellery, puffing furiously at his cigaret. "We should be able to get a fairly complete description of him from the taxicab driver."

Crouther scratched his head. "Never thought of askin' the guy," he confessed. "Here, Inspector--how about your boys taking it up from where I've left off? I got plenty of work at the store, now that things are shot to pieces down there.... Want this driver's name and address?"

"Certainly." The Inspector wrestled inwardly with a spiritual problem as Crouther wrote out the name and address. When the store detective handed it to him it was evident that virtue had won, for he smiled weakly and stretched out his hand. "Let me congratulate you, Crouther. That was a good night's work!"

Crouther pumped the Inspector's hand up and down heartily, grinning. "Glad to help, Inspector--that's a fact. Just goes to prove that us boys on the outside _do_ know a thing or two, eh? I always say--"

The doorbell trilled, relieving the Inspector of the embarrassment of having his hand held. Ellery and the old man looked at each other for a fleeting instant. Then Ellery sprang toward the door.

"Expecting company, Inspector?" asked Crouther broadly. "Don't want to butt in. I guess I'd better--"

"No, no, Crouther, stay right where you are! I have an idea you may come in handy," called Ellery rapidly, as he made for the door in the anteroom.

Crouther beamed and sat down again.