Chapter VIII: Part 8

Ellery threw open the door. Westley Weaver, his hair rumpled, a worried look on his face, walked hurriedly into the apartment.

27

THE SIXTH BOOK

Weaver shook hands all round, expressed surprise at the presence of Crouther--who shuffled his feet awkwardly and grinned--rubbed his face with one nervous hand, and then sat down, waiting. He eyed the Inspector apprehensively.

Ellery, noting this, smiled. "No cause for neurosis, Wes," he said gently. "This isn't quite a third degree. Have a cigaret, make yourself comfortable, and listen for a moment."

They drew chairs around the table. Ellery looked at his fingernails thoughtfully.

"We've been muddling over those books I picked up on the desk in French's apartment," he began. "And we've discovered some interesting things there."

"Books?" exclaimed Crouther in a bewildered way.

"Books?" echoed Weaver, but his tone was flat and unconvincing.

"Yes," repeated Ellery, "books. The five volumes that you saw me puzzling over. Westley," and he looked full into the young man's eyes, "I have an idea that somewhere at the back of your mind is a lump of information that we can use. Information about these volumes. To be perfectly frank, I noticed a queer hesitancy on your part when I first got my hooks into them. Just what are your scruples--if you have any--about this story I've laid to you--if there is a story?"

Weaver flushed violently, began to stammer. "Why, Ellery, I never--"

"Look here, Wes." Ellery leaned forward. "There's something on your mind. If it's Marion, let me tell you here and now that none of us has the slightest suspicion of the girl. There may be something behind her nervous attitude, but whatever it is, it isn't criminal, and probably has little to do directly with the murder of Mrs. French.... Does that sweep away any scruples in your mind?"

Weaver stared at his friend for a long time. The Inspector and Crouther sat quietly. Then the young man spoke--in a different voice this time, a voice colored with a new confidence. "Yes, it does," he said slowly. "Marion _has_ been on my mind, and her possible connection with the affair has made me not quite so frank as I might have been. And I do know something about those books."

Ellery smiled with satisfaction. They waited in silence for Weaver to collect his thoughts.

"You've had occasion," said Weaver at last, lapsing into a clear narrative tone, "to mention a man by the name of Springer. I believe his name arose when you were looking over the night-watchman's chart, Inspector. You remember that on Monday evening Springer didn't leave the building until seven o'clock, and that I followed him out directly after. These facts were recorded on O'Flaherty's chart."

"Springer?" Ellery frowned. The Inspector nodded.

Weaver looked hesitantly at Crouther and then turned to the Inspector. "Is it all right--?" he began in some embarrassment.

Ellery replied at once for his father. "Perfectly, Wes. Crouther has been in on the case from the beginning, and I imagine he may be of help in the future as well. Go ahead."

"Very well, then," said Weaver. Crouther sank back into his chair complacently. "About two months ago--I forget the exact date--the Accounting Department brought to the attention of Mr. French certain suspicious irregularities in the Book Department. Springer, of course, is head of the department. The irregularities were of a financial nature, and it was thought that receipts were not commensurate with the volume of business. It was a confidential matter, and the Old Man was quite upset about it. There was nothing definite in the Accounting Department's suspicions, and because the whole business was vague, the accountants were ordered to forget all about it temporarily, and the Old Man asked me to conduct a little private investigation of my own."

"Springer, hey?" scowled Crouther. "Funny I didn't hear about it, Mr. Weaver."

"Mr. French didn't believe," explained Weaver, "that too many people should know about it. The suspicions were just nebulous enough to call for secrecy. And because I handle most of the matters connected with the Old Man personally, he turned to me rather than to any one else.... I couldn't, of course," continued Weaver wearily, "do any scouting around during the working day. Springer himself was always there. So I was compelled to do my investigating after hours. I had been checking up sales slips and records for about three or four days in the Book Department, after everybody had left the building, as I thought, when one evening I got wind of something queer. I might say that my few nights' snooping hadn't got me anywhere--everything seemed all right."

The Queens and Crouther were listening now with strained attention.

"The night I've referred to," went on Weaver, "I was about to enter the Book Department when I noticed an unusual brightness--a number of lamps were lit up. My first thought was that somebody was working overtime, and when I looked in cautiously the thought seemed corroborated. It was Springer, alone, pottering about in the aisles of the Department. I don't know exactly what made me keep out of sight--perhaps it was the fact that I was already suspicious of him--but I did, and watched curiously to see what he was doing.

"I saw him go over to one of the wall-shelves, after looking around with a furtive air, and swiftly take down a book. He took a long patent pencil from his pocket and, opening the book somewhere at the back, he made a rapid notation with the pencil. He snapped the book shut, made some sort of mark on the back-board, and immediately placed the book on a different shelf. I noted that he seemed quite anxious about _how_ he placed the book; he fussed with it for several moments before he seemed satisfied. And that was all. He entered his private office in the rear and reappeared shortly after wearing his hat and coat. He then walked out of the Department, almost brushing by me as I stood huddled in a little alcove in the shadow. A few moments later the lights, except for one or two bulbs kept lit all night, snapped out. I found out later that he had checked out the regular way, informing the night-watchman that he was through for the night, and that O'Flaherty should have the switch for the book section turned off."

"That doesn't seem so flukey to me," said Crouther. "Probably just part of his job."

"When you're looking for suspicious activity," said the Inspector vaguely, "you can generally find it."

"I had something of the same thought," replied Weaver. "It was a trifle peculiar to find Springer working overtime in the first place--the practice is rather discouraged by Mr. French. But then the incident itself might be perfectly innocent. I did go over to that shelf after Springer had gone and inquisitively I took down the book he had just placed there. I turned to the back and on an inside leaf I found in pencil a date and a street-and-number address."

"An address?" Both Ellery and the Inspector exclaimed simultaneously. "What was it?" demanded the Inspector.

"I forget just now," said Weaver, "but I have a note of it in my pocket. Would you like--?"

"Never mind the address at the moment," said Ellery with a curious calm. "I'm not quite clear on this matter of the five books I took from French's desk. Are they the actual books Springer marked?"

"No, they're not," replied Weaver. "But perhaps I had better give you my story in something like a sequence of incidents. It's rather complicated.... After noticing the date and address, which I couldn't figure out at all as far as a possible meaning was concerned, I examined the back-board on which I had seen Springer write something. I found it was merely a light pencil-line under the name of the author."

"That back-board fascinated me from the moment you mentioned it," mused Ellery. "Are you sure, Westley, that the mark was under the _entire_ name? Wasn't it perhaps under _the first two letters_?"

Weaver stared. "Why, so it was," he cried. "But how on earth could you know, Ellery?"

"Guess-work," said Ellery negligently. "But it follows. No wonder," he said, turning to his father, "I couldn't get more out of these books, dad. They aren't the originals.... Go on, Wes."

"I had no reason then," continued Weaver, "to take decisive action about that book. I merely noted the address and date and, after slipping the book back into the exact place in which Springer had originally set it, I went about my business of checking up on Springer's records. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the whole thing. It wasn't until the following week--nine days, to be exact--that the incident was recalled to my mind."

"Springer did the same thing, I'll bet!" cried Crouther.

"Bravo, Crouther," murmured Ellery.

Weaver smiled fleetingly and went on. "Yes, under the same circumstances Springer did the same thing, and because I had gone down into the Book Department on my regular nightly check-up, I caught him at it again. This time I was puzzled to note that he repeated his performance of the week before in every detail. And the business still didn't register any meaning in my mind. I merely jotted down the address and date once more--they were different from the previous week's, incidentally--and went about my business. It wasn't until the third week--after eight days had passed--that my suspicions began to function a little more actively."

"Then," said Ellery, "you took a duplicate of the book, and the book was _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by a gentleman named Stani Wedjowski."

"Correct," said Weaver. "On that third occasion, it came to me that the addresses were of vital importance. What that importance was I had no idea. But I realized that the books were there for some purpose, and I decided to try a little experiment. In the case of the Wedjowski book, after Springer had gone I got another copy of the book, marked the date in the back for reference, made a private note of the new address, and took the duplicate book back upstairs with me to study. Perhaps, I thought, there's something _about_ this book that will enlighten me. I left the original exactly where Springer had placed it, naturally.

"I studied that book until I was blue in the face. I couldn't make a thing of it. And I repeated my tactics for the next four weeks--Springer did his mysterious little job every eight days, I noticed--and studied my duplicate books very assiduously. They didn't make sense, and I was getting desperate. I might add that all this time I had been keeping tabs on Springer's records, and I was just beginning to see light. Springer was taking advantage of the one flaw in the departmental system, and was falsifying his accounts in a devilishly clever manner. And then I knew that the books must have some significance--whether connected with my own investigation or not I didn't know. But I had no doubt now that they signified something crooked.

"At any rate, by the sixth week I was quite desperate. This was Monday evening--the night of the murder, although I had no idea of what was going to happen within a few hours. I watched Springer as usual, saw him go through the customary ritual, and leave. But this time I meant to do a daring thing. _I took the original book._"

"Good for you!" cried Ellery. He lit a cigaret with unsteady fingers. "Brilliant, in fact. Go on, Wes; this is tremendously exciting." The Inspector said nothing; Crouther regarded Weaver with a new respect.

"I duplicated the markings in another book exactly and placed it where Springer had left the original, which I took away with me. I had to do these things in a hurry, because I meant to follow Springer that night to see if I could get any clue from his movements. I was in luck, because he had stopped to chat with O'Flaherty. As I dashed out of the building, Springer's latest book under my arm, I was just in time to see him turn the corner on Fifth Avenue."

"Regular detective," remarked Crouther admiringly.

"Well, hardly," laughed Weaver. "At any rate I followed Springer's wandering trail all evening. He had dinner alone in a Broadway restaurant and then went to a movie. I stuck to his trail like the fool I am, I suppose, because he did nothing at all suspicious, telephoned no one, spoke to no one, all evening. Finally, about midnight, he got home--he lives in the Bronx in an apartment house. I watched that house for an hour--even pussyfooted up to the floor on which his apartment is. But Springer stayed in. And so I finally went home, still carrying Springer's book, but no wiser when I left him than when I'd begun to follow."

"Nevertheless," said the Inspector, "you showed good judgment in sticking to him."

"What's the title of that sixth book and where is it? How does it happen that I didn't find it among the five others in French's apartment? You put the five books there, of course?" asked Ellery rapidly.

"One at a time," pleaded Weaver, smiling. "The book is _Modern Trends in Interior Decoration_, by Lucian Tucker...." Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances at Weaver's mention of the author's name. "You didn't find it among the other five because I didn't leave it there. I took it home with me. You see, I felt all along that the duplicates weren't important. It was evidently the originals that counted. Perhaps I was wrong, but I certainly figured that the sixth, being an original, was more precious than the other five. So I put it in a safe place Monday night when I got home--my own bedroom. As for the five, the reason I kept them at the store was that I was studying them at odd moments and wanted them handy. I didn't want to bother the Old Man about them and the whole business, because he was having his hands full negotiating this merger with Whitney, and he always leaves details to me, anyway. So I merely slipped each book, as I got it, between the book-ends on the Old Man's desk. I also took away one of the Old Man's books to keep the count similar, and merely hid them in the bookcase, behind odd volumes there. In this way, by the end of five weeks the Old Man's five books had entirely disappeared into the bookcase, and the duplicates of Springer's books were between the book-ends. I meant to explain if the Old Man noticed the new volumes on his desk, but he didn't, so I didn't bother. Those 'favorites' of his are mere atmosphere, anyhow; he'd got so accustomed to seeing them there on his desk that he sort of took it for granted they were still there, even though he was up and about that desk every day for weeks. It often happens that way.... As for Springer noticing the strange books on the desk, that was impossible. Springer never had occasion to come to Mr. French's apartment."

"Then I take it," demanded Ellery, with a creeping light of animation in his eyes, "that you put the five books between the book-ends week for week? In other words, that the first book, the Wedjowski thing, was on that desk six weeks ago?"

"Exactly."

"That's _most_ interesting," said Ellery, and subsided in his chair.

The Inspector stirred into action. "Here, Weaver, let's have a look at those addresses. You have them on you, I think you said?"

For answer, Weaver took a small notebook from his breast-pocket and extracted a slip of paper. The Inspector, Ellery and Crouther bent curiously over to read the seven addresses.

"Well, I'll be--" The Inspector's voice was hushed, quietly throbbing. "Ellery, do you know what these are? Here are _two_ addresses that Fiorelli's boys have had under suspicion for weeks as depots for the distribution of dope!"

Ellery dropped back thoughtfully, while Crouther and Weaver stared at each other. "I'm not particularly surprised," said Ellery. "Two, eh? That means all seven are probably dope-distributing headquarters ... changed from week to week ... clever, no doubt about it!" Suddenly he started forward. "Wes!" he almost shouted, "the sixth address! Where is it? Quickly!"

Weaver hastily produced another memorandum. The address was a number on East 98th Street.

"Dad," said Ellery at once, "this is remarkable luck. Do you realize what we've in our hands? _Yesterday's dope depot!_ The date--May twenty-fourth--Tuesday--the trail is so hot it sparks!"

"By the lord Harry," muttered the Inspector, "you're right. If that 98th Street place should still be tenanted--I can't see why not--" He sprang to his feet and reached for the telephone. He gave the number of Police Headquarters and in a moment was speaking to Sergeant Velie. He spoke rapidly, had his call switched to the office of the Narcotic Squad. He spoke tersely to Fiorelli, head of the Squad, and hung up.

"I've just tipped off Fiorelli and they're going to raid that 98th Street address immediately," he said briskly, taking a pinch of snuff with practiced fingers. "They're taking Thomas with them, and they'll stop here to pick us up. I want to be in on this one!" His jaw stiffened grimly.

"Raid, hey?" Crouther rose and tightened his muscles. "Mind if I go along, Inspector? Be a picnic for me--that's a fact!"

"No objection at all, Crouther," said the Inspector absently. "You deserve a bit of the show, anyway.... Fiorelli has raided those two addresses I recognized, but in each case the birds had shut up shop and disappeared. Let's hope they haven't had time in this case!"

Ellery opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped his lips together very firmly. He became thoughtful at once.

Weaver seemed confounded by the bombshell he had caused to explode. He subsided limply in his chair.

28

UNRAVELING THREADS

They all looked at Ellery in sudden disquiet. Crouther, his mouth half-open, shut it and began to scratch his head. Weaver and the Inspector shifted heavily in their chairs at the same instant.

Ellery without a word stepped into the kitchenette. His low voice was heard murmuring to Djuna. Ellery reappeared, fumbled for his pince-nez and began to twirl it idly. "The uneasy thought just struck me--and yet," his face brightened, "it isn't so bad at that!"

He replaced his glasses on his thin nose and rose to his feet, pacing leisurely up and down before the table. Djuna slipped out of the kitchenette and left the apartment.

"While we're waiting for the squad wagon," Ellery said, "we may as well go over some of the ground, in the light of these newest disclosures of Westley's.

"Does anybody doubt now that French's is being used as an important medium for drug distribution?"

He challenged them lightly with his eyes. An angry glare lit up Crouther's heavy features.

"Say, Mr. Queen, that's pretty rough on me," he barked. "I'm not denying this Springer guy is a crook--don't see how it could be otherwise--but how do you figure out a dope ring's been operating right under our noses at the store?"

"Keep your shirt on, Crouther," said Ellery mildly. "They've merely put one over on the French establishment. What an opportunity," he went on, in the tone of one who finds much to admire, "for a drug ring! Using a no doubt simple code, which is already fairly clarified in my mind, transmitting it through innocent books, and setting the whole business in the respectable domain of the head of the Anti-Vice League himself! That's a stroke of genius, that is.... Look here. There can't be an alternative. We find at intervals of eight days--the only exception being one of nine, and this is plausibly accounted for by the intervention of Sunday--the head of the Book Department marking an address in--and this is one of the beautiful elements of the scheme--in little-used, stodgy books.... Did you notice that the date in each book was _not_ the date when Springer prepared it? No, in every case it was for the day _following_. The book marked Wednesday, by the author whose name began with WE, was placed on the _same_ shelf ... it was the same shelf every week, wasn't it, Wes?"

"Yes."

"The book marked for Wednesday, then, was placed on the same shelf as all the others on Tuesday evening. The Thursday book on Wednesday evening the week following, and soon. What could this possibly mean? Obviously, that Springer didn't allow too much time to elapse between the evening he prepared the book with the address and _the time it was to be picked up_!"

"Picked up?" demanded the Inspector.

"Of course. Everything points to a well-constructed plan of operation in which Springer's main job was to inform some one of an address through the medium of a book. If Springer could inform that problematical person or persons by word of mouth, why the complicated book-code system? No. The probability is that Springer knows the people who come in to pick up his doctored volumes, but that they, being mere pawns, don't know him. But this is really beside the point. The crux of the matter is that Springer would not allow the prepared book to linger on the shelf too long. It might be purchased; the address in it might inadvertently be noticed by a stranger. Dad, if you were in Springer's place, how would you arrange _the time_ when the book should be picked up?"

"Seems clear. If Springer prepared it at night, then he would have it picked up in the morning."

Ellery smiled. "Exactly. What risk then does he run? He writes the address in the book after hours, when the book cannot be removed that night in a legitimate way by an outsider; and the very next morning the appointed messenger takes it from its place on the shelf--a place of course set definitely when the plan was originally concocted. The chances are, in fact, that the messenger arrives as early as possible the next morning--perhaps as soon as the store opens, at nine o'clock. He browses around, goes over to the shelf finally, picks up the book he knows about in advance through a sign which I'll explain in a moment, pays for it in the regular way and walks out with his information under his arm--safe, clean and ridiculously easy.

"Now! There are a few inferences to be drawn. We must suppose that when the messenger arrives in the morning he has no contact with Springer--really, everything points to this complete alienation between Springer and the messenger, with one or both ignorant of the other's identity. Then the only clue the messenger has to the book fixed the night before is a code, or system, arranged beforehand. That's just common sense. But what could the code be? And that is the beautiful part of the plan.

"Why, I asked myself, was it necessary to the plan to have the author's name--at least its first two letters--coincide with the first two letters of the day on which the book was to be picked up by the messenger? The question is answered if we suppose complete ignorance of detail on the part of the messenger. If, when he got his job, his first instructions, he was told the following, then the whole procedure becomes clear: 'Every week you are to call at the French Book Department for a book which will contain an address. The book will be on the top shelf of the fourth tier of book-racks situated in such and such a place in the Department. The book will always be on that shelf.... Now. Every week you are to call on a different day. Eight days apart, to be exact. Except when Sunday intervenes, and then it will be nine days--from the preceding Saturday to the following Monday. Let us say the morning you are due to call for the book is a Wednesday. Then the book you should pick up will be by an author whose last name begins with a _WE_, to correspond to the _WE_ of Wednesday. To make identification absolutely positive, and to get you out of the Book Department as quickly as possible, so that you will not be compelled to rummage through every book on that shelf, a light pencil-mark will appear on the first two letters of the author's name, positively identifying the proper volume. You pick up the book, look at the back inner leaf to make sure the address is there, then buy the book and walk out of the store.'... Does that sound plausible?"

There was a vehement chorus of assents from the three men.

"It's a devilishly ingenious scheme," said Ellery thoughtfully, "if a little complicated. Really, though, the complications iron themselves away with the passage of time. The beauty of the plan is that the messenger needs his instructions _only once_, the first time, and he can carry on indefinitely, for months, without a slip-up.... The next Thursday he has to look for a pencil-mark on a book whose author's last name begins with _TH_; the Friday following, an _FR_; and so on. What the messenger does with the book when he gets it is debatable. From the look of things, this is a highly centralized society of drug distributors, with the pawns in the game knowing as little as possible about the business at hand, probably being kept in complete ignorance of the ringleader or leaders. The question naturally arises--"

"But why," asked Weaver, "that period of _eight_ days? Why not merely every week on the same day?"

"A good question, and it has, I think, a simple answer," replied Ellery. "These people were taking not the slightest chance of a slip-up. If a certain person came into the Book Department at nine o'clock _every Monday_, he might after a time be noticed and remarked on. But coming in on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Wednesday, all a week and a day apart, there was little likelihood that he would be remembered."

"My God, what a racket!" muttered Crouther. "No wonder we never got wind of it!"

"Clever's no name for it," sighed the Inspector. "Then you think, Ellery, that the addresses are all local 'joints' for the selling of the dope?"

"No question about it," said Ellery, lighting another cigaret. "And while we're remarking about cleverness, how does this strike you? The ring never uses the same address twice! That's patent from the different address each week. And it's apparent, too, that their system of distribution makes it a methodical weekly affair. Your Narcotic Squad has a chance to ferret out a drug depot if it's used week after week; people notice suspicious activity, perhaps; the address and the word go around through the grapevine of the underworld. But how can your Squad ever get on the track of a gang which uses a _different_ depot every week? Why, the scheme is amazing. As it is, Fiorelli did get wind of two of the addresses through informers or stool-pigeons; the fact that he didn't get any other shows how holeproof the plot really is. And of course, when he raided the places, he found the ring gone--cleared out. They probably have an afternoon _soirée_ week after week and dismantle the place immediately after the last customer's gone.

"Now consider how safe the ring really is. They must have a regular channel of communication with their customers--and I suspect it's a limited list. Too many would be dangerous by their very numbers. That means, then, that the customers are wealthy, probably society people, who get a weekly tipoff by telephone, we'll say--just an address. They know the rest. And what can the customer do? What does he _want_ to do? We all know the desperate, uncontrollable craving of the addict for his drug. Here he has a safe source of supply, and what's more important, a regular source of supply. No--the customers aren't blabbing. What could be sweeter?"

"It staggers the imagination," muttered the Inspector. "What a plan! But if we clean them up this time--!"

"I need only refer to the well-known cup and the better-known lip," laughed Ellery. "However, we'll see.

"Some questions arise, as I began to say a few moments ago, more directly applicable to the murder. We may certainly presume that Bernice is--or was--one of the ring's customers. And I do believe that shady, mysterious motive of which we haven't been able to grasp the merest shadow, is beginning to emerge into daylight. Winifred French was not an addict. She carried in her bag a lipstick belonging to Bernice and filled with heroin.... And carried it to her death. A strong line of incident, dad! Very, very strong.... Interesting, isn't it, especially since we haven't been able to discover any other motive for the crime? But motive won't mean much in the unraveling of this case, I'm afraid; the big job is to corral the murderer and also to round up the drug ring. A dual task which presents to my deduction-weary mind a suggestion of difficulty....

"Another question. Is Springer pawn or king in this drug game? My guess is--he's on the inside, knows all the facts, but is not top man. And the question naturally arises, too--did Mr. Springer fire the lethal weapon aimed at Mrs. French's heart? I'd rather not go into that at the moment.

"And finally, doesn't this business of the drug ring indicate that Winifred's murder--and Bernice's disappearance--are integral parts of the same crime, rather than two unrelated crimes? I think it does, but I cannot see how we shall ever get to the truth of the matter unless--a certain eventuality occurs. Deponent being temporarily out of wind, deponent will sit down and think of the case _in toto_."

And Ellery, without another word, seated himself and worried his pince-nez in a thoroughly absent manner.

The Inspector, Weaver and Crouther sighed all at once.

They were sitting that way, silently, looking at each other, when a short siren blast from the street below announced the arrival of Fiorelli, Velie and the raiding party.

29

RAID!

The police van, crammed with detectives and officers, rushed through the West Side, headed uptown. Traffic opened magically before its wailing siren. Hundreds of eyes followed its reckless course wonderingly.

The Inspector shouted to a grim and chagrined Velie, above the roar of the exhaust, Crouther's story of the lone taxicab driver and the mysterious automobile with the Massachusetts license-plate. The Sergeant gloomily promised an immediate check-up on the chauffeur's story and dissemination of the new information to all his operatives on the trail of the vanished girl. Crouther sat chuckling by his side as Velie took from the Inspector's hand the name and address of the cab-driver.

Weaver had been excused, and with the arrival of the van had left to return to the French store.

Fiorelli sat quietly chewing his fingernails. His face was haggard and feverish as he pulled the Inspector to one side.

"Had a bunch of boys beat it up to the 98th Street address beforehand to surround the house," he boomed hoarsely. "Not taking any chances on their doing a fade-away. The boys are keeping under cover, but they won't let a rat slip through the net!"

Ellery sat calmly in the van, watching the crowds jump into view and disappear. His fingers thrummed a rhythmic tattoo on the iron mesh obscuring the view.

The powerful truck turned into 98th Street and dashed eastward. The neighborhood thickened, grew squalid. As the van plunged further toward the East River the on-rushing scene became one of ramshackle buildings and ramshackle humanity....

At last the police car ground to a stop. A man in plain clothes had stepped suddenly from a doorway into the middle of the street, pointing meaningly toward a low, two-story building of rotten wood and peeled paint, leaning crazily over the sidewalk as if the slightest convulsion of nature would topple it, a brittle wreck, into the gutter. The front door was closed. The windows were heavily shaded. The house looked tenantless, lifeless.

With the first grinding of the van's brakes, a dozen men in plain clothes ran into view from odd corners and doorways. Several in the dilapidated backyard of the house drew guns and advanced on the rear of the building. An avalanche of policemen and detectives poured out of the truck, headed by Fiorelli, Velie and the Inspector, Crouther close behind, and ran up the crumbling wooden steps to the front door.

Fiorelli pounded fiercely on the cracked panels. There was not a whisper of audible response. At a sign from Inspector, Queen Velie and Fiorelli put their formidable shoulders to the door and shoved. The wood splintered and the door cracked back, revealing a dim, musty interior, a broken old chandelier, and a flight of uncarpeted steps leading up to a second floor.

The police streamed into the building, investing both floors simultaneously, opening doors, pushing into corners, guns ready.

And Ellery, sauntering leisurely behind, openly amused at the psychology of the gaping mob which had miraculously gathered outside the house, kept back by the clubs of several bluecoats, saw at once that the raid was a failure.

The house was empty, without the least sign of occupancy.

30

REQUIEM

They stood about in one of the dusty, deserted rooms--an old-fashioned parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely proclaiming its fall upon evil days--and talked quietly. Fiorelli was beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was one to be found in the neighborhood.

Ellery said nothing.

The detective returned shortly with a strapping, livid Negro.

"Do you take care of this house?" asked the Inspector brusquely of the Negro.

The Negro removed his rusty derby and shuffled his feet. "'Spects so, yassuh!"

"What are you--janitor, superintendent?"

"Kinda, suh. Ah takes care of a whole passel o' houses on dis block. Rents 'em fo' de ownahs when a tenant comes 'long."

"I see. Was this house occupied yesterday?"

The Negro bobbed his head vigorously. "Yassuh! 'Bout fo'-five days ago party comes 'long an' rents de whole house. Da's wha' de agent says when he brung 'm down. Paid de agent cash money fo' a month. Saw it wiv mah own eyes."

"What sort of man was the tenant?"

"Kinda shortish an' had a long black mustache, suh."

"When did he move in?"

"De nex' day--Sunday, Ah don' doubt. Van come moseyin' down wiv some fu'niture."

"Did you see the name of the van company on the truck?"

"Nosuh, sho' didn't. Dey weren't none. One o' dese open trucks wiv de sides covuhed wiv black ta'paulin. No name on de truck a-tall."

"Did you see the man with the black mustache around much?"

The Negro scratched his short woolly thatch. "Nosuh, kain't say Ah did. Don't believe Ah seed him a-tall till yestiddy mo'nin'."

"How was that?"

"Dat's when he moved out agin, suh. Didn't say nuffin' to me, but jes' about eleven o'clock in de mo'nin' de same truck she rolls up to de do' and de two drivuhs dey goes into de house an' purty soon dey stahts pilin' de fu'niture out o' de house an' into de truck. Didn't take 'em long--dey wan't much fu'niture, an' den Ah sees de boss-man come out o' de house, say sumpin' to de drivuhs, an' walk away. De truck went away, too. Yassuh, an' de boss-man jes' flung dat key de agent gave'm right out deah on de stoop o' de house befo' he walked off. Yassuh."

The Inspector spoke in a low voice to Velie for a moment, then turned back to the Negro.

"Did you see anybody go into the house during the four days?" asked the Inspector. "Especially Tuesday afternoon--yesterday?"

"Why--yassuh, yestiddy, but not befo'. Mah old 'ooman, she sets out yonduh gen'ally all day, an' she told me las' night dat dey was a whole raft o' white folks comin' up to dat empty house all yestiddy aftuhnoon. Dey was all kinda put out when dey saw de house was closed. Oh, 'bout a dozen of 'em. Dey all went away quick."

"That'll do," said the Inspector slowly. "Give your name and address and the name of the realty company you're working for to that man over there, and keep your mouth tight about all this. Remember!"

The Negro stiffened, mumbled, stammered the required information to a detective of the Narcotic Squad, and shuffled rapidly from the room.

"Well, that settles it," said Inspector Queen to Velie, Fiorelli, Ellery and Crouther, who were grouped together. "They got wind and beat it. Something made 'em suspicious and they had to clear out--didn't even have time to distribute the dope to their customers. There must be a dozen mighty sick addicts in the city to-day."

Fiorelli made a disgusted gesture. "Aw, let's fade," he growled. "They got a jinx on me, that gang."

"Tough luck," said Crouther. "That must have been fast work."

"I'm going to trace that truck, if I can," said Velie. "Want to help, Crouther?" He smiled sardonically.

"Hey, lay off," said Crouther good-naturedly.

"Don't quarrel, now," sighed the Inspector. "You might try, Thomas, but I have a notion that's a privately owned truck that operates only on the ring's jobs. And I suppose that now the gang is scared off, we'll not pick up their trail again in a hurry. Eh, Ellery?"

"I suggest," said Ellery, speaking for the first time since the raid, "that we go home. We've met our Waterloo for--" he smiled sadly--"to put it mildly, the nonce."

Fiorelli and Velie mustered the squad of officers and took the police van back to Headquarters, leaving a bluecoat on guard outside the 98th Street shack. Crouther, poking Velie slyly in the ribs as the burly Sergeant swung into the truck, departed early for the French store.

"They'll be sendin' out an alarm for me," he grinned. "After all, I got a job."

He hailed a cruising taxicab which headed west and south. The Queens followed suit in another cab.

Ellery took out his thin silver watch in the car and stared at its dial with amused eyes. The Inspector regarded him in a puzzled way.

"I can't see why you want to go home," he grumbled. "I'm a long time overdue at my office now. There must be a pile of work on my desk. I've missed the morning line-up for the first time in months, and I suppose Welles has called again, and--"

Ellery stared fixedly at his watch, a faint smile on his lips. The Inspector subsided, muttering.

Ellery paid the cab-driver when the taxi drew up before their brownstone on 87th Street, herded his father gently upstairs, and did not speak until Djuna had closed the door behind them.

"Ten minutes," he announced with satisfaction, snapping the watchcase shut and returning the watch to his vest-pocket. "That's average time, I should say, from 98th Street and the River to 87th Street on the other side." He grinned and threw off his light coat.

"Have you gone fay?" gasped the Inspector.

"Like a fox," said Ellery. He took up the telephone and called a number. "French's? Connect me with Mr. Springer in the Book Department.... Hello, Book Department? Mr. Springer, please.... What? Who is this speaking?... Oh, I see.... No, it's quite all right. Thank you!"

He hung up.

The Inspector was twisting his mustache in an agony of apprehension. He glared at Ellery. "Do you mean to say that Springer's--" he began in a thunderous voice.

Ellery seemed not perturbed. "I'm so glad," he said with sly simplicity. "Mr. Springer, according to his young lady assistant, was taken suddenly ill not five minutes ago and left in something of a hurry, saying he would not return to-day."

The old man sank into his chair worriedly. "How under heaven could I have anticipated this?" he said. "I surely thought he'd keep until later in the day. Return, he said, did he? We'll never set eyes on him again!"

"Oh, but you shall," said Ellery gently.

And quoth Ellery: "'Preparation is half the battle, and nothing is lost by being on one's guard.' The good Spanish don uttered a homely truth there, padre!"

31

ALIBIS: MARION-ZORN

Muttering imprecations upon the elusive head of James Springer, the Inspector departed for a flying visit to Headquarters, leaving Ellery hunched comfortably before the open dormer-window, smoking and thinking. Djuna, in his uncanny simian way, sat motionless on the floor at his feet, unblinking in the soft glare of sunlight streaming into the room.... When the Inspector returned two hours later Ellery, still smoking, was seated at the desk reading over a batch of notes.

"Still at it?" asked Queen with quick concern, hurling his hat and coat toward a chair. Djuna noiselessly picked them up and hung them in a closet.

"Still at it," rejoined Ellery. But there was a deep wrinkle between his brows. He rose, looked reflectively at his notes, then with a sigh replaced them in the desk and shrugged his shoulders. The wrinkle disappeared, dissolved smoothly into small fine lines of humor as he caught sight of his father's worried mustache and high color.

"Nothing new downtown?" he asked sympathetically. He sat down at the window again.

Queen paced nervously up and down the rug. "Little enough. Thomas has looked up that cab-driver of Crouther's--and we've driven up another blind alley, it seems. The man gave us a pretty clear description of this tall blond abductor, and of course we've flashed wires through the entire East. Particularly Massachusetts. With a description of the car and Bernice Carmody. Now I suppose we'll have to wait...."

"Umm." Ellery flicked the ashes from his cigaret. "Waiting won't bring Bernice Carmody back from the grave," he said in sudden earnestness. "And there's still a chance she may be alive.... I shouldn't confine my search to the northeast, dad. This gang is clever. They may have pulled the old license-plate trick. They may actually have headed south, changed cars--any one of a dozen things. In fact, if you found Bernice Carmody, dead or alive, right here in New York City, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. After all, the trail ended in Central Park...."

"Thomas has his eyes open and his beaters out," said the Inspector disconsolately. "And he's up to the tricks as well as you, my son. If there's the faintest spoor, he'll follow it--and get not only the girl but the man too."

"_Cherchez la femme_," said Ellery lightly.... He sat musing. The Inspector placed his hands behind his small back and strode up and down, eying Ellery in a puzzled manner meanwhile.

"Marion French called me at Headquarters," he stated suddenly.

Ellery's head lifted slowly. "Yes?"

The old man chuckled. "I thought that would get you!... Yes, the girl called several times this morning while I was here, and when I finally got to the office she seemed quite feverish with--well, not excitement exactly, but anticipation. So, being thoughtful of you, my son--which is more than you can say about yourself, incidentally--I asked her to meet me here."

Ellery merely smiled.

"I suppose Weaver's been talking to her," continued the Inspector grumpily.

"Dad!" Ellery laughed outright. "Occasionally you positively startle me with your insight...."

The doorbell rang, and Djuna ran to answer it. Marion French, dressed in a severe black suit and a pert little black hat, her chin set at a charmingly defiant angle, stood outside.

Ellery sprang to his feet, his fingers straying to his tie. The Inspector stepped forward quickly and opened wide the anteroom door.

"Come in, come in, Miss French!" He was all smiles and fatherliness. Marion smiled bewilderingly at Djuna and greeted the Inspector in a grave undertone as she walked into the living-room. She blushed at Ellery's warm words of welcome. And sat down in the Inspector's own armchair at his magnanimous command, perched on the edge of the leather seat, hands tightly clasped, chiseled lips firm.

Ellery stood by the window. The Inspector drew up a chair and sat close to the girl, facing her.

"Now, what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my dear?" he asked in a conversational tone.

Marion's glance flew timidly to Ellery and returned. "I--It's about--"

"About your visit to Mr. Zorn's place Monday evening, Miss French?" inquired Ellery, smiling.

She gasped. "Why--why, you knew!"

Ellery made a deprecatory gesture. "It is hardly knowledge. Some call it guessing."

The Inspector's eyes bored into hers. But his voice was gentle now. "Has Mr. Zorn a hold over you--or is it a matter more directly concerned with your father, my dear?"

She stared from one to the other as if she could not believe her ears. "To think--" She laughed a trifle hysterically. "And I thought all the while that it was a deep, dark secret...." A shadow seemed to lift from her face all at once. "I suppose you want a coherent story. You have heard, Westley tells me--" she bit her lip and crimsoned--"I shouldn't have said that--he told me _particularly_ not to say we'd discussed this...." Both the Inspector and Ellery laughed aloud at her _naïveté_. "At any rate," she went on, smiling faintly, "I gather that you've heard about--about my stepmother and Mr. Zorn.... Really, it was more gossip than anything else!" she cried. She calmed immediately. "But I wasn't sure. And we all tried--so hard--to keep the nasty rumors from father. I'm afraid we weren't entirely successful." Fear suddenly flamed in her eyes. She stopped short and looked down at the floor.

Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. "Go on, Miss French," said the Inspector in the same soothing tone.

"Then"--she spoke more rapidly now--"I overheard, quite by accident, something that confirmed part of the rumors. Nothing--it hadn't gone far, their affair, but it was getting dangerous. Even I could see that.... That's the way things were on Monday."

"You told your father?" asked Queen.

She shivered. "Oh, no! But I had to save daddy's health, his reputation, his--his peace of mind. I didn't even take Westley into my confidence. He would have forbidden me to do--what I did. I called on Mr. Zorn--and his wife."

"Go on."

"I went to their apartment. I was frankly desperate. It was just after dinner and I knew they'd both be at home. And I wanted Mrs. Zorn to be there, because she knew--and she was as jealous as a witch. She'd even threatened--"

"Threatened, Miss French?" demanded the Inspector.

"Oh, it was nothing, Inspector," said Marion hurriedly, "but it told me that she knew what was going on. And it was as much her fault that Mr. Zorn fell in love with--with Winifred as anything. Mrs. Zorn is--oh, quite awful...." She smiled wanly. "You'll think me a scandalous gossip.... But before both of them I accused Mr. Zorn, and--and told him it must stop. Mrs. Zorn flew into a terrible rage and began to swear. All her spite turned against Winifred. She threatened dire things. Mr. Zorn tried to argue with me, but--I suppose the weight of two women railing at him just sapped his strength. He left his apartment in a huff--left me with that awful woman. She looked almost insane...." Marion shuddered. "So I became a little frightened and--well, I suppose it _was_ a good deal like running. I could hear her screaming even in the corridor.... And--and that's all, Inspector Queen, that's all," she faltered. "When I left the Zorns' apartment it was a little after ten. I felt weak and sick. I really did walk in the Park, as I told you yesterday at the store. I walked and walked until I thought I'd drop from exhaustion, and then I went home. It was just about midnight."

There was a little silence. Ellery, watching the girl impassively, turned his head away. The Inspector cleared his throat.

"You went directly to bed, Miss French?" he asked.

The girl stared at him. "Why, what do you mean?... I--" Fright gleamed again in her eyes. But she said courageously, "Yes, Inspector, I did."

"Did any one see you come into the house?"

"No--no."

"You saw no one, spoke to no one?"

"No."

The Inspector frowned. "Well! At any rate, Miss French, you did the right thing--the only thing--in telling us about it."

"I didn't want to," she said in a small voice. "But Westley, when I told him to-day, said I must. And so--"

"Why didn't you want to?" asked Ellery. It was the first time he had spoken since Marion had begun her story.

The girl did not speak for a long moment. Finally, with a determined expression, she said: "I'd rather not answer that, Mr. Queen," and rose.

The Inspector was on his feet instantly. He escorted her to the door in an animate silence.

When he returned, Ellery was chuckling. "As transparent as any angel," he said. "Don't frown so, dad. Have you checked up on our good friend Cyrus French?"

"Oh, that!" The Inspector looked unhappy. "Yes, I had Johnson working on it last night. Got his report this morning. He was at Whitney's in Great Neck, all right. I understand he had a slight attack of indigestion about nine o'clock Monday night. Retired immediately."

"Coincidence?" Ellery grinned.

"Eh?" Queen scowled. "At any rate, that accounts for him."

"Oh, yes?" Ellery sat down and crossed his long legs. "Purely as an intellectual exercise," he said mischievously, "it does nothing of the kind. You see, old Cyrus retires at nine. Let us assume that he wishes to return to New York without the knowledge of his host. Suddenly. That night. He slips out of the house and goes trudging down the road.... Hold! Did any one see him leave so early in the morning in Whitney's car?"

The Inspector stared. "The chauffeur, of course--man who drove him into the city. Johnson told me French left long before any one else was up. But the chauffeur!"

Ellery chuckled. "Better and better," he said. "Chauffeurs can be hushed. It has been done.... Our worthy anti-vicious magnate, then, slips out of the house; perhaps his accomplice, the chauffeur, even drives him down to the station secretly. There's a train about that hour. I know, because I took one three weeks ago Monday night when I returned from Boomer's. And it's only a half-hour or so into Penn Station. In time to slip through the freight-door...."

"But he'd have to stay all night!" groaned the Inspector.

"Granted. But then there's a sagacious chauffeur to alibi one.... You see how simple it is?"

"Oh, tosh!" exploded the Inspector.

"I didn't say it wasn't," said Ellery, eyes twinkling. "But it's something to bear in mind."

"Fairy-tales!" growled the Inspector, and then they laughed together. "I've arranged to get those alibis, by the way. I called Zorn from the office and told him to come down here. I want to see how his story checks up with Marion French's. And what he did after ten last night."

Ellery lost his bantering air. He looked dissatisfied, rubbed his forehead wearily. "It might be wise," he said, "to get all those alibis clear, at that. Mightn't be a bad idea to get Mrs. Zorn down here, too. And I'll emulate the Stoics meanwhile."

The Inspector made a number of telephone calls, while Djuna went rapidly through telephone directories, and Ellery slumped into an easy-chair and closed his eyes....

A half-hour later Mr. and Mrs. Zorn sat in the Queen living-room side by side, facing Inspector Queen. Ellery was far off in a corner, almost hidden by a jutting bookcase.

Mrs. Zorn was a large-boned woman, well fleshed and rosy. Her too-golden hair was cut in a severe, startling bob. She had cold green eyes and a large mouth. She looked, at first glance, under thirty; on closer observation, faint crinkles around her chin and eyes added ten years to her appearance. She was dressed in the height of fashion and carried herself with an air of arrogance.

Despite Marion's story, Mr. and Mrs. Zorn seemed on the most amicable of terms. Mrs. Zorn acknowledged her husband's introduction of the Inspector with regal graciousness; she punctuated each remark to Zorn with a sweet "My dear...."

The Inspector examined her shrewdly with his eyes, and decided not to mince words.

He turned first to Zorn. "I have called you, as a logical step in this inquiry, to explain your movements on the night of Monday past, Mr. Zorn."

The director's hand strayed to his bald pate. "Monday night? The night--of the murder, Inspector?"

"Exactly."