Chapter IX: Part 9

"Are you insinuating--" Rage leaped into his eyes behind their heavy gold-rimmed spectacles. Mrs. Zorn made the least gesture with a finger. Zorn calmed magically. "I had dinner," he said, as if nothing had happened, "at our apartment with Mrs. Zorn. We stayed in all evening. At ten o'clock or so I left the apartment and went directly to the Penny Club on Fifth Avenue and 32nd Street. I met Gray there and we discussed the Whitney merger for a half-hour or so. I developed a headache and told Gray I thought I'd try to walk it off. We said good-night and I left the Club. I did take a long walk up the Avenue and, in fact, walked all the way home to 74th Street."

"And what time was that, Mr. Zorn?" asked the Inspector.

"I should say about a quarter to twelve."

"Was Mrs. Zorn up--did she see you?"

The large rosy woman chose to reply for her husband. "No, Inspector, no indeed! I had dismissed the servants for the night a little after Mr. Zorn left the apartment, and I'd gone to bed myself. I fell asleep almost immediately, and didn't hear him come in." She smiled, exhibiting huge white teeth.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand how--" began the Inspector courteously.

"Mr. Zorn and I have separate sleeping apartments, Inspector Queen," she said, dimpling.

"Umm." The Inspector turned once more to Zorn, who had sat perfectly still during this colloquy. "Did you meet any one you knew during your walk, Mr. Zorn?"

"Why--no."

"When you entered your apartment house, did any of the house personnel see you?"

Zorn fumbled with his massive red mustache. "I'm afraid not. There's only a night-man at the switchboard after eleven, and when I came in he was absent from his post."

"The elevator, I suppose, is of the self-service type?" asked Queen dryly.

"Yes--that's correct."

The Inspector turned to Mrs. Zorn. "At what time did you see your husband in the morning--Tuesday morning?"

She raised her blond brows archly. "Tuesday morning--let me see.... Oh, yes! It was ten o'clock."

"Fully dressed, Mrs. Zorn?"

"Yes. He was reading his morning paper when I came into our living-room."

The Inspector smiled, quite wearily, and rose to take a short turn about the room. Finally he stopped before Zorn and fixed him with a stern eye. "Why haven't you told me about Miss French's visit to your apartment Monday evening?"

Zorn grew very still. The effect of Marion's name on Mrs. Zorn was startling. The color drained from her face and her pupils dilated tigerishly. It was she who spoke.

"That----!" she said in a low passionate voice. But her body was tense with anger. The mask of politeness fell from her face and revealed an older woman--shrewish, cruel.

The Inspector seemed not to hear. "Mr. Zorn?" he said.

Zorn moistened his lips with a nervous tongue. "That's true--true enough. I didn't see that it had anything to do.... Yes, Miss French visited us. She left about ten o'clock."

The Inspector made an impatient movement. "You talked about your relations with Mrs. French, Mr. Zorn?" he asked.

"Yes, yes. That's it." The words tumbled out, gratefully.

"Mrs. Zorn flew into a rage?"

The woman's eyes darted cold green fire. Zorn mumbled, "Yes."

"Mrs. Zorn." The eyes became veiled. "You went to bed shortly after ten Monday night and did not leave your chamber until ten o'clock the following morning?"

"Right, Inspector Queen."

"In that case," concluded the Inspector, "there is nothing more to be said--now."

When the Zorns had departed, the Inspector saw that Ellery was sitting in his forgotten corner laughing silently to himself.

"I fail to see the joke," said the old man ruefully.

"Oh, dad--the mess and mire of it!" cried Ellery. "_La vie c'est confusée!_ How beautifully events belie each other.... What do you make of your late interview?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," growled the Inspector, "but I know one thing. _Any one_ who can't be accounted for by the visual evidence of witnesses between eleven-thirty o'clock Monday night and a little after nine on Tuesday morning might have done this job. Let's take a hypothetical case. Suppose X is a possibility as the murderer. X is not seen after eleven-thirty Monday night. He says he went home and went to sleep. There is no witness. Suppose he didn't go home. Suppose he slipped into the French store through that freight-entrance. And got out the next morning at nine. Returned home, sneaked into his apartment without any one seeing him, and then reappeared about ten-thirty or so, letting lots of people see him. The presumption is that he slept home all night and therefore couldn't have committed the crime. Yet physically it was possible...."

"Too true, too true," murmured Ellery. "Well, evoke the next victim."

"He should be here any moment now," said the Inspector, and went into the bathroom to bathe his perspiring face.

32

ALIBIS: MARCHBANKS

Marchbanks glowered. He bore himself with the sullenness of a man who nurses a grudge. He snapped at the Inspector and ignored Ellery. He deposited his stick and hat on the table with a bang, rudely refusing to allow Djuna to take them from him. He sat down uninvited and drummed nastily on the arm of the chair.

"Well, sir," thought the Inspector, "we'll have at _you_." He took a pinch of snuff with deliberation, regarding Marchbanks curiously. "Marchbanks," he said in curt tones, "where were you Monday evening and night?"

The dead woman's brother scowled. "What's this--a third degree?"

"If you choose to make it so," retorted the Inspector, in his most unpleasant voice. "I repeat--where were you Monday night?"

"If you must know," said Marchbanks bitingly, "I was out on Long Island."

"Oh, Long _Island_!" The Inspector seemed duly impressed. "When did you go, where did you go, and how long did you stay?"

"You people always insist on a 'story,'" wheezed Marchbanks, setting his feet solidly on the rug. "Very well. I left town at about seven o'clock Monday evening. In my car...."

"You drove yourself?"

"Yes. I--"

"Anybody with you?"

"NO!" shouted Marchbanks. "Do you want my story or don't you? I--"

"Continue," said the Inspector judicially.

Marchbanks glared. "As I began to say--I left town Monday evening at seven in my car. I was bound for Little Neck--"

"Little Neck, eh?" interpolated the Inspector exasperatingly.

"Yes, Little Neck," stormed Marchbanks. "What's wrong in that? I had been invited to a small party at the house of a friend of mine there--"

"His name?"

"Patrick Malone," replied Marchbanks resignedly. "When I got there, I found no one at home except Malone's man. He explained that at the last moment Malone had been called away on business and had had to call off the party...."

"Did you know that such an eventuality might occur?"

"If you mean did I know that Malone was going to be called away--yes, in a way. He'd mentioned the possibility of it over the 'phone to me earlier in the day. At any rate, I saw no use in staying, so I left at once and proceeded off the main road to my own shack, a few miles farther on. I keep it for occasional jaunts into the Island. I--"

"Have you any servants there?"

"No. It's a small place and I prefer solitude when I'm out that way. So I slept there overnight and returned to the City in the morning by car."

The Inspector smiled sardonically. "I suppose you met no one all night or in the morning who might verify your statements?"

"I don't know what you mean. What are you driving at--?"

"Yes or no?"

"... No."

"What time did you get to the City?"

"About ten-thirty. I rose rather late."

"And what time was it Monday evening when you reached your friend Malone's place and spoke to his valet?"

"Oh, I should say about eight or eight-thirty. I don't recall exactly."

The Inspector sent a mutely humorous glance across the room to Ellery. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Marchbanks' florid face darkened and he rose abruptly.

"If you have nothing more to ask me, Inspector Queen, I must be going." He picked up his hat and stick.

"Ah! Just one other thing. Sit down, Marchbanks." Marchbanks reluctantly reseated himself. "How do you account for the murder of your sister?"

Marchbanks sniggered. "I thought you'd ask that. Up a tree, eh? Well, I'm not surprised. The police of this city are--"

"Answer my question, please."

"I don't account for it, and I can't account for it!" cried Marchbanks suddenly. "That's your business! All I know is that my sister has been shot to death, and I want her murderer sizzling in the Chair." He stopped, out of breath.

"Yes, yes, I realize your natural desire for revenge," said the Inspector tiredly. "You may go, Mr. Marchbanks, but keep in town."

33

ALIBIS: CARMODY

Vincent Carmody was the next caller. His reticence was as marked as usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiseless in the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.

"Ah--Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector uneasily. The antique-dealer disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. "Ah--Mr. Carmody, I've called you in for a little consultation. We are checking up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand...."

"Ummm," said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.

The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuff-box. "Now, I should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday night--the night of the murder."

"The murder." Carmody said it negligently. "Not interested in that, Inspector. What about my daughter?"

The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody's expressionless lean face. "Your daughter's search is being conducted by the proper authorities. We haven't found her yet, but we have new information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my question."

"Results!" Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. "I know what that word means in the police vocabulary. You're stumped and you know it. I'll put my own detective on the case."

"Will you _please_ answer my question?" grated the Inspector.

"Keep cool," said Carmody. "Don't see what my movements on Monday night have to do with the case. I certainly didn't kidnap my own daughter. But if you must have it, here it is.

"Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central--the 9:14. Changed at Stamford and didn't get to my destination until nearly midnight. It's far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don't know what went wrong. Had no place to stay--no hotel there--and had to return to the city. Couldn't make a decent connection and didn't get back to my apartment until four in the morning. That's all."

"Not quite, Mr. Carmody." The Inspector mused. "Did any one see you when you returned to the city--at your apartment, perhaps?"

"No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast at the apartment dining-room at ten o'clock. The head-waiter will identify me."

"No doubt," said the Inspector disagreeably. "Meet any one on your trip who might remember you?"

"No. Unless the conductor of the train."

"Well!" Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody with open distaste. "Please make a note of all your movements and mail it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your daughter Bernice is a drug addict?"

Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in his chair.

"How did you find that out?" he muttered in a strangled voice. The muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. "I didn't think any one knew--except Winifred and me."

"Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?" queried the Inspector instantly. "Had she known it long?"

"So it's out," growled Carmody. "Good God!" He raised a haggard face to Queen. "I've known it for about a year. Winifred--" his face hardened--"Winifred didn't know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all that," he added bitterly. "Rot! She thought chiefly of herself.... So I told her--two weeks ago. She didn't believe it. We quarreled. But at the end she knew--I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred. I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don't know any more...." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I was going to take Bernice away--somewhere--anywhere--cure her.... And then Winifred was murdered and Bernice--gone...." His voice died away. Huge welts stood out under his eyes. The man was suffering--how deeply, by what perverse psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.

And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.

34

ALIBIS: TRASK

Trask was a half-hour late for his appointment at the Queen apartment. He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the Inspector's questions.

Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town--vaguely, with an idle gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.

Where "about town"? Well, really--can't remember. Some night-club or other at first.

At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.

Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he'd been disappointed by some friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.

What was the name of the night-club? Really, don't recall it.

What did he mean by "not recalling it"? Well--to tell the truth, he had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite--ha, ha! Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn't remember anything except dashing cold water on his face at ten o'clock Tuesday morning in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some fresh clothes. Then the directors' meeting at the French store.

"Beautiful!" muttered the Inspector, eying Trask as if he were an obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in the general direction of a tray.

"Trask!" The whip in Queen's voice brought the tall, dissipated director's body up with a start. "Are you sure you can't remember what night-club you were in?"

"I say now," drawled Trask, sinking back, "you scared me that time, Inspector. I've told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don't recall a thing."

"Well, that's just too bad," grunted the Inspector. "If I'm not disturbing you, Trask--do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual drug-user?"

"Not really!" Trask sat up straight. "Then I _was_ right!"

"Oh, you suspected it?"

"A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the symptoms. I've seen plenty of 'em." He brushed a speck of ash from his gardenia with languid distaste.

The Inspector smiled. "Which didn't daunt you from going ahead with your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?"

Trask looked virtuous. "Oh, no--really! I'd intended to cure her after we were married. Without her family's knowledge, and all that. Too bad--too bad," he sighed. He sighed again.

"What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?" demanded the Inspector impatiently.

"Oh, that!" Trask brightened. "Absolutely of the best, Inspector. You--er--you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future father-in-law. Haw-haw!"

"Get out of here," said the Inspector distinctly.

35

ALIBIS: GRAY

John Gray folded his gloves neatly, deposited them in his rich black derby, and handed them with a cheerful smile to Djuna. Then he shook hands decorously with the Inspector, nodded to Ellery with just the proper note of heartiness, and obediently seated himself at the Inspector's request.

"Well!" he chuckled, smoothing his white mustache. "Very charming household, I see. Very! And how is the investigation proceeding, Inspector? Tchk, tchk!" He chattered like a spry old parrot, his twinkling eyes never still.

The Inspector cleared his throat. "A little matter of check-up, Mr. Gray. Routine. I haven't inconvenienced you by this summons?"

"Not at all, not at all," said Gray amiably. "I've just come from a visit to Cyrus--Cyrus French, I should say--and he's much better, by the way, much better."

"That's nice," said the Inspector. "Now, Mr. Gray, just to make it legal--can you account for your movements on Monday night?"

Gray looked blank. Then he smiled slowly. Then he burst into an infectious chuckle. "I see, I see! Clever, Inspector, quite clever. You want to be sure of everything. Very interesting! I suppose every one is coming in for a similar quiz?"

"Oh, yes!" said the Inspector reassuringly. "We've had a number of your colleagues on the carpet to-day already." They both laughed. Gray became politely serious.

"Monday night? Let me see." He plucked his mustache thoughtfully. "Of course! Monday night I spent the entire evening at my Club. The Penny Club, you know. Had dinner there with some of my cronies, played billiards--the usual thing. At about ten o'clock, I believe, or perhaps a little after ten, Zorn--you remember Zorn, of course, one of my fellow-directors--Zorn dropped in for a chat. We discussed the coming merger, the details of which we were to work out in conference the next morning with French and the rest, and about a half-hour later Zorn left, complaining of headache."

"Well, that tallies nicely," said Queen, with a grin. "Because Mr. Zorn was here not long ago and told us about your meeting at the Penny Club."

"Really?" Gray smiled. "Then I gather there is little left to be said, Inspector."

"Not quite, Mr. Gray." The Inspector clucked cheerfully. "You see, just to keep the record straight--how did you spend the rest of the evening?"

"Oh! In a commonplace manner, sir. I left the Club at about eleven and walked home--I live not far from there, on Madison Avenue. Simply went home and to bed."

"You live alone, Mr. Gray?"

Gray grimaced. "Unfortunately, being a misogynist, I have no family, Inspector. An old servant keeps house for me--I live in an apartment hotel, you know."

"Then your housekeeper was up when you returned from the Club, Mr. Gray?"

Gray spread his hands briefly. "No. Hilda had left on Saturday evening to visit a sick brother in Jersey City, and did not get back until Tuesday afternoon."

"I see." The Inspector took snuff. "But surely _some one_ saw you get home, Mr. Gray?"

Gray looked startled, then he smiled again one of his twinkling smiles. "Oh, you want me to establish my--alibi, is it, Inspector?"

"That's what it's called, sir."

"Then there's nothing more to be said," replied Gray happily. "Because Jackson, the night-clerk, saw me when I entered the building. I asked for mail and stood chatting with him for several minutes. Then I took the elevator to my suite."

The Inspector's face brightened. "Then really," he said, "there _is_ nothing more to be said. Except--" his face lengthened momentarily--"what time was it when you stopped talking with this night-clerk and went upstairs?"

"Just eleven-forty. I remember glancing at the clock above Jackson's desk to compare it with my own watch."

"And where is your hotel, Mr. Gray?"

"Madison and 37th, Inspector. The _Burton_."

"Then I think--Unless, Ellery, you would like to ask Mr. Gray a question or two?"

The aged little director turned quickly, in open surprise. He had forgotten the presence of Ellery, who was sitting quietly in his corner listening to the conversation. Gray looked expectant as Ellery smiled.

"Thank you, dad--I _have_ something to ask Mr. Gray, if we're not keeping him too long?" He looked questioningly at their visitor.

Gray expostulated. "Not at all, Mr. Queen. Anything I can do to help you--"

"Very well, then." Ellery hoisted his lean length from the chair and stretched his muscles. "Mr. Gray, I'm going to ask you a peculiar question. I rely upon your discretion to preserve silence, for one thing, and upon your undoubted loyalty to Mr. French and your concern in his bereavement to answer frankly."

"I'm entirely at your service."

"Let me present a hypothetical case," continued Ellery rapidly. "Let us suppose that Bernice Carmody was a drug addict...."

Gray frowned. "A drug addict?"

"Exactly. And let us suppose further that neither her mother nor her stepfather suspected her malady and condition. Then let us suppose that Mrs. French suddenly discovered the truth...."

"I see, I see," murmured Gray.

"The hypothetical question arising from this hypothetical case is: What do you think Mrs. French would do?" Ellery lit a cigaret.

Gray grew thoughtful. Then he looked into Ellery's eyes. "The first thing that occurs to me, Mr. Queen," he said simply, "is that Mrs. French would _not_ confide in Cyrus."

"That's interesting. You know them both so well...."

"Yes." Gray set his small wrinkled jaw. "Cyrus has been a lifelong friend. I know--or knew--Mrs. French perhaps as well as any one acquainted with the French family. And I am certain, familiar as I am with Cyrus's character and Mrs. French's knowledge of his character, that she would not dare to tell him such a thing. She would keep it strictly to herself. She might possibly inform Carmody, her first husband...."

"We needn't go into that, Mr. Gray," said Ellery. "But why would she keep it a secret from French?"

"Because," said Gray frankly, "Cyrus is hypersensitive on the subject of vice, particularly drug addiction. You must remember that most of his latter years have been devoted to wiping out as much of this sort of vice in the City as possible. To find it in his own family would, I firmly believe, unbalance him.... But, of course," he added quickly, "he doesn't know; I'm positive Mrs. French would keep a thing like that to herself. She might try to cure the girl secretly, perhaps...."

Ellery said clearly: "One of the major reasons for Mrs. French's silence in a case like this would be, I suppose, that she was aiming to secure for her daughter a generous slice of her husband's fortune?"

Gray started uncomfortably. "Well.... I don't.... Yes, if you must have the truth, I think that is so. Mrs. French was a calculating--not necessarily unscrupulous, mind you--but a calculating and very practical woman. I believe that, motherlike, she was determined that Bernice come in for a good share of Cyrus's estate when Cyrus should pass on.... Is there anything else, Mr. Queen?"

"That is," said Ellery, smiling, "quite sufficient. Thank you immeasurably, Mr. Gray."

"Then," said the Inspector, "that will be all."

Gray looked relieved, accepted his coat, hat and gloves from Djuna, murmured polite adieux, and left.

The Inspector and Ellery heard his light quick step on the staircase as he descended to the street.

36

"THE TIME HAS COME ..."

The Queens had dinner in silence. Djuna served in silence, and in silence cleared the table afterward. The Inspector dipped into the browned interior of his snuff-box and Ellery held communion with first a cigaret, then a pipe, then a cigaret again. In all this time no word was spoken. It was a silence of sympathy, not infrequent in the Queen household.

Finally Ellery sighed and stared into the fireplace. But it was the Inspector who spoke first.

"As far as I am concerned," he said with a grim disappointment, "this day has been entirely wasted."

Ellery raised his eyebrows. "Dad, dad, you grow more irascible with every passing day.... If I didn't know how upset and overworked you've been of late, I'd be annoyed with you."

"At my obtuseness?" demanded the Inspector, twinkling.

"No, at the lapse of your usual mental vigor." Ellery twisted his head and grinned at his father. "Do you mean to say that to-day's incidents have meant nothing to you?"

"The raid flat, Springer skipped, nothing tangible from the alibis of these people--I can't see any cause for celebration," retorted the Inspector.

"Well, well!" Ellery frowned. "Perhaps I'm over-sanguine.... But the whole thing is so clear!"

He sprang to his feet and began to rummage in his desk. He produced his voluminous sheets of notes and thumbed rapidly through them under the Inspector's wearied and bewildered eyes. Then he slapped them back into their receptacle.

"It's all over," he announced, "all over but the shouting and--the proof. I have all the threads--or rather, all the threads which lead inexorably to the murderer of Mrs. French. They don't make solid proof, such as is demanded by our venerable courts of law and our prosecuting system. What would you do in a case like that, dad?"

The Inspector wrinkled his nose in self-disgust. "I take it that what's been a hopeless maze to me has been a clear thoroughfare to you. That rankles, son! I have raised up a Frankenstein to haunt my old age ..." Then he chuckled and laid a slightly infirm hand on Ellery's knee.

"Good lad," he said. "I don't know _what_ I'd do without you."

"Shucks." Ellery blushed. "You've gone sentimental, too, dad ..." Their fingers met covertly. "Now, look here, Inspector! You've got to help me to a decision!"

"Yes, yes ..." Queen dropped back, embarrassed. "You've got a case, an explanation and no proof. What to do.... Bluff, my son. Bluff as if you'd raised the pot before the draw on a pair of fours and then found real opposition staring at you. Raise again!"

Ellery looked thoughtful. "I've been tottering on the edge.... Christmas!" His eyes brightened with a sudden thought. "How stupid I've been!" he cried at once. "I've a beautiful card up my sleeve and I've forgotten all about it! Bluff? We'll just about sweep our slippery friend off our slippery friend's feet!"

He yanked the telephone toward him, hesitated, then turned it over to the Inspector, who was regarding him with gloomy fondness.

"Here's a list," he said, scribbling on a piece of paper, "of some people of importance. Will you blow the conch, dad, while I begin a memorization of these pesky notes?"

"The time is--" asked the Inspector submissively.

"To-morrow morning at nine-thirty," replied Ellery. "And you might call the D.A. and tell him to close in on our friend Springer."

"Springer!" cried the Inspector.

"Springer," replied Ellery. And thereafter there was silence, broken periodically by the voice of the Inspector on the telephone.

PARENTHESIS AND CHALLENGE

I have often found it a stimulating exercise in my own reading of
murder fiction to pause at that point in the story immediately
preceding the solution, and to try by a logical analysis to
determine for myself the identity of the criminal.... Because
I believe that numerous gourmets of this species of fictional
delicacy are as interested in the reasoning as in the reading,
I submit in the proper spirit of sportsmanship an amiable
challenge to the reader.... Without reading the concluding pages,
Reader--Who killed Mrs. French?... There is a great tendency among
detective-story lovers to endeavor to "guess" the criminal by
submitting to the play of a blind instinct. A certain amount of
this is inevitable, I will admit, but the application of logic and
common sense is the important thing, the source of the greater
enjoyment.... Whereupon I state without reservation that the reader
is at this stage in the recounting of _The French Powder Mystery_
fully cognizant of all the facts pertinent to the discovery of the
criminal; and that a sufficiently diligent study of what has gone
before should educe a clear understanding of what is to come. _A
rivederci!_

E. Q.

THE LAST EPISODE

"_Forty years in the service of the_ SÛRETÉ, _one might hazard,
would dull the edge of one's zest for the hunt. Thank the good
Lord, this is not so! at least in my own case, which has been
as full of interest, I dare say, as the next.... There was the
admirable Henri Tencqueville, who cut his throat before my very
eyes when we cornered him in his Montmartre hideaway ... and Petit
Charlot, who shot two of my faithful lads to death and bit off a
piece of the good Sergeant Mousson's nose in the_ mêlée _before he
was subdued.... Ah, well! I grow tender in reminiscence, but ... I
would make the point that even to-day, old and enfeebled as I am,
I would not give up the thrill of that final_ coup de main, _that
last stage of the chase when the quarry, panting and desperate, has
his back to the wall--no, not for all the everlasting delights of
the Turkish heaven!..._"

--From THE MEMOIRS OF A PREFECT,
_By_ Auguste Brillon.

37

MAKE READY!

They came in one by one--furtive, curious, impassive, bored, reluctant, openly nervous. Quietly they came in, conscious of the tight police cordon, of a quivering strain in the atmosphere, of shrewd eyes that noted and calculated their least movement--conscious most of all of grim over-hanging disaster, to whom and with what dire effects they did not know and could only guess.

It was nine-thirty of the fateful Thursday morning. The door through which they shuffled in silence was the door marked PRIVATE: CYRUS FRENCH.... They passed inside through the bare lofty anteroom, into the heavy quiet of the library, sat down in incredible camp-chairs set up martially facing the dormer-windows.

They crowded the room. In the front row sat old Cyrus French himself, a white and trembling figure. His fingers were desperately entwined in the fingers of Marion French by his side. Westley Weaver, harried face gaunted by sleeplessness, occupied the seat next to Marion's. To French's left was Dr. Stuart, the old man's physician, watching his patient with a professional pantherishness. By Stuart's side sat John Gray, dapper and bird-like, occasionally leaning over the doctor's bulky abdomen to talk into the sick man's ear.

In the row behind were Hortense Underhill, the housekeeper, and Doris Keaton, the maid. Both sat rigidly, whispering to each other out of the corners of their mouths, peering about with frightened eyes.

In serried ranks.... Wheezing Marchbanks; the portly Zorn fingering his watch-chain; a befurred and aromatic Mrs. Zorn dispensing smiles to the grave Frenchman, Paul Lavery, who stroked his short beard; Trask, a flower in his lapel, but utterly pale, with enormous leaden rings under his eyes; the antique-dealer Vincent Carmody, a saturnine figure, uncompromising, somber, even in his chair towering above the heads of the company; mild-mannered Arnold MacKenzie, the general manager of the store; Diana Johnson, the Negress who had discovered Mrs. French's dead body; the four watchmen--O'Flaherty, Bloom, Ralska, Powers....

There was little conversation. Each time the anteroom door opened people twisted about in their seats, craned, jerked their eyes back to the window again with guilty side-glances toward each other.

The conference table had been pushed against the wall. In a row of chairs before the table sat Sergeant Thomas Velie and William Crouther, chief of the store's detective force, talking in undertones; scowling Salvatore Fiorelli, of the Narcotic Squad, bright black eyes snapping at some inexpressible thought, his scar pulsing slowly beneath the swarthy skin; "Jimmy," the little bald-headed operative of the Headquarters fingerprint department. At the anteroom door stood Patrolman Bush, relegated to the important post of guardian of the door. A cloud of detectives, among them Inspector Queen's favorite operatives--Hagstrom, Flint, Ritter, Johnson, and Piggott--massed along the wall directly opposite the conference table. At each corner of the room stood a silent officer in blue, cap in hand.

Neither Inspector Queen nor Ellery Queen had yet put in his appearance. People whispered this information to each other. They looked sidelong at the anteroom door, against which Bush's broad back was set.

Gradually, tangibly, another silence came over the scene. Whispers trembled, wavered, ceased. Glances became more furtive, chair-twistings more frequent. Cyrus French coughed violently; he doubled up in agony. Dr. Stuart's eyes flickered with a vague anxiety. Weaver bent far to the side when the old man's paroxysm had passed; Marion looked startled; soon their heads were close together, touching....

Crouther scraped his hand over his face. "What the hell is holdin' up the works, Sergeant?" Velie shook his head gloomily. "What's it all about?"

"Got me."

Crouther shrugged.

The silence thickened. Every one grew still as stone.... The silence grew more embarrassing with each passing moment--a silence that swelled, breathed, became alive....

Then Sergeant Velie did a strange thing. His spatulate forefinger, resting on his knee, tapped three distinct times, in rhythm. Not even Crouther caught the signal, and Crouther was at Velie's side. But the officer on guard, who had been watching the Sergeant's hand for minutes, immediately sprang into motion. All eyes flashed instantly upon him, grasping at this sign of life, of happening with a pitiful eagerness.... The policeman went to the desk, which was shrouded by a light tarpaulin, and bending far over carefully removed the covering. He stepped back, folded the tarpaulin neatly, retreated to his corner....

But he was already forgotten. As if the sheer rays of a searchlight had been trained upon the desk, every one in the room eyed the objects revealed with a fascination drawn from the deepest crevices of his being.

They were many, and heterogeneous. Ranged in orderly rows along the glass top, each with a small labeled card before it, were the gold lipstick marked _W.M.F._, which Ellery had found on the bedroom dressing-table; the silver-chased lipstick with the _C_ monogram from the dead woman's bag in the exhibition-window; six keys with gold discs--the keys to the apartment, five of which bore the initials of Cyrus French, Winifred Marchbanks French, Marion French, Bernice Carmody, Westley Weaver, and the sixth the word Master; the two carved onyx book-ends, lying with a small jar of white powder and a camel's-hair brush between them; the five strange volumes which Ellery had found on French's desk; the shaving-set from the lavatory cabinet; two ashtrays filled with cigaret-stubs--one set much shorter in length than the other; the gauzy scarf initialed _M.F._, taken from the neck of the victim; a board on which were tacked the cards from the cardroom table, laid out exactly as they had first appeared to the police; the slip of blue memorandum paper which was checked off at Cyrus French's typewritten name; the blue hat and the walking shoes from the bedroom closet which Hortense Underhill and Doris Keaton had identified as having been worn by Bernice Carmody the day she disappeared; and a black .38 Colt revolver, with the two now rusty-looking splatters of metal which had been the lethal bullets lying near the muzzle.

Quite by itself, prominently in view of the audience, lay a pair of dull, steely manacles--a symbol and a portent of what was to come....

And there they reposed, the silent clues garnered during the investigation frankly open to the gaze of the uneasy guests of Ellery Queen. Again they stared, whispered.

But this time they had not long to wait. A slight commotion in the corridor outside became plainly audible in the library. Sergeant Velie lumbered to his feet and went quickly to the anteroom door, motioning Patrolman Bush aside. He disappeared, the door swinging shut behind him.

Now the door became the focal point of those half-angry, bewildered eyes--that door behind which the deep murmur of several voices kept up a short mysterious litany.... And as if it had been cut cleanly by a knife, the voices broke off and an instant of silence fell before the knob of the door was rattled, the door was pushed inward, and eight men stepped into the room.

38

THE END OF ALL THINGS

It had been Ellery Queen's hand on the knob--a subtly changed young man with drawn features and a sharpened glance that swept the room once and then returned to the anteroom.

"Before me, Commissioner," he murmured, holding the door wide. Commissioner Scott Welles grunted, pushed his heavy body into view. Three tight-lipped men in plain clothes--his bodyguard--flanked him as he crossed the room toward the desk.

Next to appear in full sight of the assembled company was a strangely altered Inspector Richard Queen, holding himself rigidly erect. He was pale. He followed the police commissioner in silence.

After Queen came District Attorney Henry Sampson and his assistant, the red-haired Timothy Cronin. They were whispering to each other, paying no attention to the occupants of the room.

Velie, making up the rear, carefully closed the anteroom door, flipped Bush back to his post with a curt finger, and dropped into his chair beside Crouther. The store detective looked up at him inquiringly; Velie said nothing and settled his big body. Both men turned to watch the newcomers.

There was a little flurry of conversation as Ellery Queen and his companions stood near the desk at the head of the room. Inspector Queen indicated one of the leather-padded conference chairs immediately to the right and a little behind the desk, as the seat to be occupied by the Commissioner. Welles seemed a sadder and wiser man--he sat down without a word, his eyes on Ellery's quiet figure before the desk.

The three guards disposed themselves with the other detectives at the side of the room.

Inspector Queen himself sat down in a big chair to the left of the desk, with Cronin at his side. The District Attorney dropped into a chair next to the Commissioner. Desk in the center, its varied articles beckoning attention. On either side two chairs with official occupants. And dominating the scene....

The stage was set.

Ellery Queen, cynically examining the room and its occupants once more, expressed himself as satisfied at the Commissioner's brusque question. Ellery stepped behind the desk and stood with his back to the dormer-windows. His head was lowered, his eyes on the desk-top. His hand strayed to the glass, hovered over the book-ends, played with the jar of white powder.... He smiled, straightened, raised his head, removed his pince-nez glasses, looked calmly at his hushed audience, waited.... Not until there was absolute silence did he speak.

"Ladies and gentleman." Prosy beginning! Yet something vaguely eerie shivered through the air; it was a simultaneous sigh from many breasts.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Sixty hours ago Mrs. Winifred French was shot to death in this building. Forty-eight hours ago her body was found. This morning we have assembled at a private Waterloo to name her murderer." Ellery had spoken quietly; now he paused for the slightest instant....

But after that sigh _en masse_ even breaths seemed to be drawn with care. No one spoke; no one whispered. They merely sat and waited.

A cutting edge slipped into the tone of Ellery's voice. "Very well! A few preliminary explanations are required. Commissioner Welles--" he turned slightly toward Welles, "it is with your permission that I conduct this unofficial inquest?"

Welles nodded, once.

"Then let me explain," continued Ellery, turning back to his auditors, "that I am merely taking the place of Inspector Queen, who is unable to take charge because of a minor throat ailment which makes long speaking difficult and painful. Correct, sir?" He bowed very solemnly in the direction of his father. The Inspector grew even paler than before, nodded wordlessly. "Further," Ellery went on, "if I shall at any time use the personal 'I' in my discourse this morning, you are to understand that it is merely for convenience--that in reality I shall be describing the investigatory processes of Inspector Queen himself."

He halted abruptly, threw a challenging glance about the room, met nothing but wide eyes and ears, and plunged at once into an analysis of the French murder case.

"I shall take you through our investigation of this crime, ladies and gentlemen," he began in a sharp decisive tone, "step by step, deduction by deduction, observation by observation, until I arrive at what is an inevitable conclusion. Hagstrom, you are taking this down?"

Eyes followed the direction of Ellery's glance. At the side of the room where the detectives were congregated, Detective Hagstrom was seated, pencil poised above a stenographic notebook. Hagstrom bobbed his head.

"What transpires here this morning," explained Ellery pleasantly, "will become part of the official dossier of the case. Enough of asides!" He cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Winifred Marchbanks French was discovered dead--killed by two bullets, one in the heart and one in the _precordial_ region below the heart--on Tuesday at fifteen minutes or so past noon. When Inspector Queen arrived upon the scene he noted several facts which led him to believe that"--he paused--"the exhibition-window on the main floor was _not_ in effect the place where the crime was committed."

The room was deathly still. Fascination, fear, aversion, grief--the gamut of emotions played upon those intent white faces. Ellery Queen went on, rapidly.

"There were five component elements in this initial investigation," he said, "that pointed to the conclusion that the murder was not committed in the window.

"The first was the fact that, while on Monday night Mrs. French had in her possession her personal key to this apartment, the key was missing from her person and effects Tuesday morning, on the discovery of her dead body. O'Flaherty, the head night-watchman, testified that she had the key at eleven-fifty Monday night when she left his cubbyhole to take the elevator upstairs. Yet it was gone. Search of the store and premises left the key still unfound. What was the inference? That the key and the crime were in some way connected. How? Well, the key appertained to the apartment. If it was missing, wasn't there an indication that the apartment also entered into the crime somewhere? At least there was enough suspicion to be gleaned from the missing key to warrant a belief that the apartment _might have been_ the scene of the crime."

Ellery paused; his lips twitched with fleeting amusement at the frowning faces before him.

"Captious reasoning? I see the disbelief on your faces. Yet bear it in mind. The fact of the key's being missing meant nothing of itself--but when it was added to the four other facts of which I shall speak, it took on significance indeed."

He swung back into his main narrative.

"The second element was a grotesque and even amusing one--you will see, incidentally, that the detection of crime is not built upon weighty salient factors, but upon just such incongruities as I shall have occasion to mention this morning.... I refer to the fact that the crime must have been committed a short time after midnight. This was simply calculated from Dr. Prouty's report--Dr. Prouty is the Assistant Medical Examiner--that Mrs. French had been dead some twelve hours when she was found.

"If Mrs. French had been shot to death in the window-room at a little past midnight, ladies and gentlemen," continued Ellery, with a twinkle in his eye, "her murderer must have committed his crime either in total darkness or by the feeble illumination of a pocket-torch! For there were no lighting fixtures that worked in the room--in fact, no bulbs--and the room was not even wired. Yet we were forced to suppose that the murderer met his victim, talked with her, perhaps quarreled with her, then shot her unerringly in two vital spots, disposed of her body in the wall-bed, cleaned up the blood-stains and what not--all in a room at best illuminated by a flashlight! No, it was not reasonable. Wherefore Inspector Queen, quite logically, I believe, concluded that the crime was not committed in the exhibition-window."

There was a little rustle of excitement. Ellery smiled, continued.

"This, however, was not the only reason for his belief. There was a third point. And that was the lipstick--the long, silver-chased lipstick--monogrammed _C_, found in Mrs. French's handbag by her body. That this lipstick obviously was not Mrs. French's I shall not discuss at this point. The pertinent factor was that it contained lip-rouge of a decidedly darker shade of red than the lip-rouge on the dead woman's lips. But this meant that Mrs. French's own lipstick--with which she daubed the lighter rouge on her lips--should be somewhere about. But it was not! Where could it be? Perhaps the murderer took it? That sounded rather nonsensical. The most plausible explanation seemed to be that the missing lipstick was somewhere else in the building.... Why somewhere else in the building?--why not at Mrs. French's home, or at least outside the store?

"For this very good reason. That Mrs. French's lips--her dead mute lips--which were painted with the lighter shade of red, indicated that she had not completed her application of the rouge! There were two dabs on either side of her upper lip, and another small dab in the center of her lower lip. The rouge had not been smeared--it had patently been applied with a finger and left that way..." Ellery turned toward Marion French. He said gently, "How do you apply your lip-rouge, Miss French?"

The girl whispered: "Just as you described, Mr. Queen. Three pats, one on each side of the upper lip and one in the center of the lower lip."

"Thank you." Ellery smiled. "We had, then, visible evidence of a case where a woman began to paint her lips and did not complete the operation. But this was unnatural, remarkable. There are very few things that will keep a woman from finishing this delicate task. Very, very few! One of them might be a violent interruption of some kind. A violent interruption? But there was murder committed! Was that the interruption?"

He changed his tone, forged ahead. "It seemed likely. But in any case, those lips had not been painted in the window-room. Where was the lipstick? That we found it later in the apartment was merely confirmation....

"Point number four was physiological. Dr. Prouty was puzzled by the fact that there was so little blood on the corpse. Both wounds--one particularly--should have bled considerably. The _precordial_ region contains many blood-vessels and muscles which would have been badly torn by the passage of the bullet, which left a ragged wound. Where was the blood? Had the murderer cleaned it up? But in the dark, or semi-darkness, he could not possibly have removed all traces of the copious blood-flow from those wounds. Whereupon we were compelled once more to conclude that that blood had flowed--_somewhere else_. Which meant that Mrs. French had been shot somewhere else than in the window-room.

"And the fifth point was a psychological one which I fear"--he smiled sadly--"would not carry much weight in a court of law. Nevertheless to me it was quite over-whelming in its indication. For the mind rebelled at the thought that the window-room was the scene of the crime. It was preposterous, dangerous, asinine from the point of view of a potential murderer. A meeting and a murder connote secrecy, privacy--any number of exact requirements. The window-room afforded none of these. The room is not fifty feet away from the head night-watchman's office. That area is well-patrolled at periodic intervals. Revolver-shots had to be fired--and none was heard. No! Both Inspector Queen and myself felt--for the five reasons I have given you, no single one of which was conclusive, but which were collectively significant--that the crime was not committed in the window-room."

Ellery paused. His audience was following the story with eager, panting concentration. Commissioner Welles regarded Ellery with a new light in his small eyes. The Inspector was sunk deeply in thought.

"If not the window," continued Ellery, "where then? The key pointed to the apartment--the required privacy, illumination, a logical place for the use of lipstick--certainly the apartment seemed the best possibility. So Inspector Queen, relying upon my discretion and discernment, since he himself could not leave the window-room where the preliminary investigation was still going on, asked me to go to the apartment and see what I could see. Which I did, with interesting results....

"The first thing I found in the apartment was Mrs. French's own lipstick, lying on the bedroom dressing-table." Ellery picked up the gold lipstick from the desk and held it up for a moment. "This lipstick proved at once, of course, that Mrs. French had been in the apartment on Monday night. The fact that it was lying under the curved edge of a mother-of-pearl tray on the dressing-table and was quite hidden, showed that it had probably been overlooked by the murderer. In fact, the murderer had no reason even to look for it, because he did not apparently observe that the lipstick in Mrs. French's bag and the coloring on her lips were not identical." Ellery replaced the glittering metal case on the desk.

"Now, I found the lipstick on the dressing-table. What did this mean? It seemed rather plain that Mrs. French had been using the stick at that dressing-table inside when she was interrupted. But the fact that the lipstick was still there on the table when I found it pointed, it seemed to me, to the fact that Mrs. French was not shot in the bedroom. What was the interruption, then? Obviously, either a knock on the outer door or the noise of the murderer entering the apartment. It was not the latter, for the murderer had no key to the apartment, as I shall soon prove. Then it must have been a knock at the door. Then, too, Mrs. French must have been expecting it, for it so disturbed her, or it was so important to her, that she immediately put down her lipstick, neglecting to complete the daubing of her lips, and hurried through the library and into the anteroom to admit her nocturnal visitor. Presumably she opened the door, the visitor entered, and they went into the library where Mrs. French stood behind the desk and the visitor stood to the right, facing her--that is, Mrs. French stood where I am standing now and the murderer stood about where Detective Hagstrom is sitting at this moment.

"How do I know this?" went on Ellery rapidly. "Very simply. On examining the library, I discovered that these book-ends, which lay on the desk"--he lifted the two onyx book-ends carefully and exhibited them--"had been tampered with. The green felt sheathing of one of them was lighter in shade than its mate. Mr. Weaver volunteered the information that the book-ends were only two months old, having been presented to Mr. French by Mr. Gray on the occasion of Mr. French's last birthday, and that he had observed them at that time in perfect condition, with the felts exactly alike in color. Furthermore, the book-ends had never left the room, or in fact the desk itself. Apparently, then, the change of felt had occurred the night before. And that was proved when, on examining the felt under a powerful glass, I noted some scattered grains of a white powder stuck in the glue-line where felt and onyx met!

"The glue was still a trifle viscid," said Ellery, "showing that it had been very recently applied. The grains, on examination, by myself cursorily and on analysis by the official fingerprint expert, proved to be ordinary fingerprint powder, such as is used by the police. But the use of fingerprint powder predicated a crime. There were no fingerprints on the onyx. That meant the fingerprints had been removed. Why the powder, then? Obviously, first to sprinkle the surface in order to bring out what fingerprints might be there, and second to remove the ones found. So much was evident.

"But the larger question arose--why were these book-ends handled at all?" Ellery smiled. "It was an important question, and its answer told an important story. Well, we now knew that they were handled in order to change the felt on one of them. _But why had that felt been changed?_"

His eyes challenged them mischievously. "There was only one logical answer. _To hide or remove a trace of the crime._ But what could such a trace be--one that would necessitate carefully ripping off a whole felt, running down to some department in the store which stocks felts and baizes (with what risk you may imagine!), bringing back the felt and some glue, and finally pasting the new protector on the book-end? It must be a damaging trace indeed. The most damaging trace of a crime which I can conceive is--blood. And that was the answer.