Chapter VI: Part 6

The Inspector, Weaver, the man called "Jimmy," and Ellery were left standing in the center of the room. The detectives personally attached to Queen lounged about in the anteroom, conversing in low tones. The old man carefully closed the anteroom door and hurried back toward the group, rubbing his hands briskly together.

"Now, Mr. Weaver--" he began.

"Perfectly all right, dad," said Ellery mildly. "No secrets from Wes. Jimmy, if you've anything to tell, tell it rapidly, graphically, and above all rapidly. Talk, James!"

"Okay," responded "Jimmy," scratching his bald pate dubiously. "What would you like to know?" His hand dived into the bag he carried and reappeared with an article painstakingly wrapped in soft tissue paper. He carefully unwrapped the package, and one of the onyx book-ends emerged. The second book-end, similarly sheathed in tissue, he placed by the side of the first on the glass top of French's desk.

"The book-ends, eh?" muttered Queen, bending forward curiously to examine the barely visible glue-lines where felt and stone met.

"In the onyx itself," ventured Ellery. "Jimmy, what were those whitish grains I sent you in the glassine envelope?"

"Ordinary fingerprint powder," replied "Jimmy," at once. "The white variety. And how it got there, maybe you can answer--I can't, Mr. Queen."

"Not at the moment," smiled Ellery. "Fingerprint powder, eh? Did you find any more in the glue?"

"You got nearly all of them," said the little bald-headed man. "Did find a few, though. Found a bit of foreign matter, of course--some dust chiefly. But the grains are what I've told you. There's not a print on either of them, except your own, Mr. Queen."

Inspector Queen stared from "Jimmy" to Weaver to Ellery, a strange light dawning on his face. His hand fumbled nervously for his snuff-box.

"Fingerprint powder!" he said in a stunned voice. "Is it possible that--?"

"No, I've checked on what you're thinking, dad," said Ellery soberly. "This room was not entered by the police before I myself found the grains in the glue. As a matter of fact, I suspected their identity at once, but of course I wished to be certain.... No, if you're thinking that one of your men sprinkled the powder on these book-ends, you're mistaken. They couldn't have, possibly."

"You realize what this means, of course?" The Inspector's voice grew shrill with excitement. He took a short turn on the rug. "I have had all sorts of experience," he said, "with criminals who use gloves. That's one of the accepted habits of the law-breaking profession, it seems--maybe it's an outgrowth of fiction and newspaper exposés. Gloves, canvas, cheesecloth, felt--they're all used either to prevent leaving fingerprints or to destroy what prints may be left. But this--this is the work of a--"

"A super-criminal?" suggested Weaver timidly.

"Exactly. A super-criminal!" replied the old man. "Sounds dime-novelish, does it, El? Coming from me, too--with comparative butchers like Tony the Wop and Red McCloskey waiting for me down at the Tombs. Most cops scoff at the mere suggestion of super-criminals. But I've known them--rare and precious birds when they do crop out...." He looked at his son defiantly. "Ellery, the man--or woman, for that matter--who committed this crime is not the usual criminal. He--or she--is so careful as to do the job and then, not satisfied with possibly using gloves and letting it go at that, sprinkles the room with the policeman's pet crime-detector, fingerprint powder, to bring out his or her _own_ prints, in order to wipe them out of existence!... There isn't the slightest doubt in my mind--we're dealing with a most unusual character, a habitual criminal who's risen far above the stupidity of his generally dull-witted kind."

"Super-criminal...." Ellery thought for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders lightly. "It does look that way, doesn't it?... Commits the murder in this room, then goes about the enormously ticklish job of cleaning up afterward. Has he left prints? Perhaps. Perhaps the work he had to do was so delicate as to make it impossible for him to use gloves--there's a thought, eh, dad?" He smiled.

"Doesn't make sense, though--that last," muttered Queen. "Can't see what he might possibly have to do that he couldn't do with gloves on."

"I have a little idea about that," remarked Ellery. "But to go on. He hasn't used gloves, let us say, at least for one small but important operation, and he's certain that there are prints of his fingers left on the book-ends--which of necessity, then, are connected with what he had to do. Very well! Does he merely wipe the surface of the onyx carefully, trusting that he's eradicated all the tell-tale marks? He does not! He produces fingerprint powder, whisks it gently over all the surfaces of the onyx, one at a time, and where he sees a convolvular smudge, he immediately destroys it. In this way he's _sure_ there are no fingerprints left. Smart! A little painstaking, of course--but he was gambling with his life, remember, and he took no chances. No--" Ellery said slowly, "he took--no chances."

There was a little silence, broken only by the soft swish of "Jimmy's" hand caressing his bald head.

"At least," said the Inspector impatiently, at last, "there's no sense in looking for prints anywhere about. The criminal who was clever enough to go through a rigmarole like this would be mighty sure he left none. So--let's forget it for the moment and get back to some personalities. Jimmy, wrap those book-ends up again and take them back to Headquarters with you. Better have one of the boys go along with you--let's take no chances on your, well, let's say, losing 'em."

"Right, Inspector." The police laboratory worker deftly rewrapped the book-ends in the tissue paper, stowed them away in his bag, and with a cheery, "So long!" disappeared from the room.

"Now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector, settling himself comfortably in a chair, "have a seat and let's hear some things about the various people we've met in the course of this investigation. Sit down, Ellery, you make me fidgety!"

Ellery smiled and seated himself at the desk, for which he seemed to have developed a curious passion. Weaver relaxed in one of the leather-covered chairs, resignedly.

"Anything you say, Inspector." He looked over at Ellery. Ellery was gazing fixedly at the books on the desk-top.

"Well, for an introduction," began the Inspector briskly, "tell us something about that employer of yours. Mighty queer cuss, isn't he? Anti-vice work made him daffy, perhaps?"

"I think you've judged the Old Man a trifle inaccurately," said Weaver tiredly. "He's the best and most generous soul in the world. If you can conceive a strange combination of Arthurian purity of nature with a definite narrowness of outlook, you'll hit close to understanding him. He's not a broad-minded man, in the generally accepted sense of the word. He has a little iron in him, too, or he wouldn't be crusading against vice. He loathes it instinctively, I think, because certainly there's never been the smallest element of scandal or criminality in his family. That's why this thing has hit him so hard. He probably foresees the ravenous way in which the newspapers will pick up the choice morsel--wife of the Anti-Vice League head mysteriously murdered, and all that. And then, too, I think he loved Mrs. French dearly. I don't think she loved him--" he hesitated, but continued loyally, "but she was always good to him in her cold, self-contained way. She was a good bit younger than he, of course."

The Inspector coughed gently. Ellery regarded Weaver with morose eyes, but his thoughts seemed far away. Perhaps on the books, for his fingers played idly with their covers.

"Tell me, Mr. Weaver," said Queen, "have you noticed anything--well, abnormal--in Mr. French's actions lately? Or better still, do you know personally of anything that might have caused him secret worry in recent months?"

Weaver was silent for a long time. "Inspector," he said at last, meeting Queen's eyes frankly, "the truth is that I know a great many things about Mr. French and his family and friends. I'm not a scandal-monger. You must understand that this is an extremely embarrassing position for me. It's hard to betray confidences...."

The Inspector looked pleased. "Spoken like a man, Mr. Weaver. Ellery, answer your friend."

Ellery regarded Weaver compassionately. "Wes, old boy," he said, "a human being has been killed in cold blood. It is our business to punish the murderer who took that life. I can't answer for you--it's difficult for a straight-thinking man to spill a heap of family secrets--but if I were you, I should talk. Because, Wes"--he paused--"you're not with policemen. You're with friends."

"Then I'll talk," said Weaver despairingly, "and hope for the best.--I believe you asked about something abnormal in the Old Man's actions recently, Inspector? You've hit a truth. Mr. French _is_ secretly worried and upset. Because--"

"Because--?"

"Because," said Weaver in a spiritless voice, "a few months ago an unfortunate friendship sprang up between Mrs. French and--Cornelius Zorn."

"Zorn, eh? Love-affair, Weaver?" asked Queen in a soothing voice.

"I'm afraid so," replied Weaver uncomfortably. "Though what she saw in _him_--But now I'm becoming gossipy! The fact is that they were seeing each other much too often, so much so that even the Old Man, the most unsuspicious soul that ever breathed, began to realize that something was wrong."

"Nothing definite, I suppose?"

"I don't think there was anything radically wrong, Inspector. And of course Mr. French never breathed a word of it to his wife. He wouldn't dream of hurting her feelings. But I know it touched him deeply, because once he let slip something in my presence that gave all his transparent broodings away. I'm reasonably certain that he was desperately hoping things would work out for the best."

"I thought Zorn held aloof from French in that window," mused the Inspector.

"Undoubtedly. Zorn makes no bones about his feeling for Mrs. French. She was not an unattractive woman, Inspector. And Zorn is pretty small potatoes. He broke a lifelong friendship when he began to dally with the Old Man's wife. It's that, I think, as much as anything, that made the Old Man feel so badly."

"Is Zorn married?" put in Ellery suddenly.

"Why, yes, El," replied Weaver, facing his friend for the moment. "Sophia Zorn's a queer woman, too. I think she hated Mrs. French--not the slightest feminine sympathy in her make-up. Pretty objectionable character, that woman."

"Does she love Zorn?"

"That's hard to answer. She has an abnormal streak of possessiveness, and that may be why she was so jealous. She showed it at every opportunity and made things quite uncomfortable for all of us at times."

"I suppose," put in the Inspector with a grim smile, "it's common knowledge. Those things always are."

"Much too common," said Weaver bitterly. "It's been a hideous farce, the whole business. My God, there have been times when I was tempted to strangle Mrs. French myself for the ghastly wreck she was making out of the Old Man!"

"Well, don't make that statement when the Commissioner is around, Weaver," smiled the Inspector. "What is French's feeling for his immediate family?"

"Of course he loved Mrs. French--was uncommonly thoughtful in the little things for a man of his age," said Weaver. "As for Marion"--his eyes brightened--"she's always been the apple of his eye. A perfect love between father and daughter.... It's been a little unpleasant--for me," he added in a lower tone.

"So I gathered from the coldness with which you two kids habitually greet each other," remarked the Inspector dryly. Weaver flushed boyishly. "Now, how about Bernice?"

"Bernice and Mr. French?" Weaver sighed. "About what you would expect under the circumstances. If the Old Man's anything, he's fair. Almost leans over backward in that respect. Of course, Bernice is not his daughter--he couldn't love her as he loves Marion, for instance. But he treats them exactly alike. They get equally as much of his attention, the same allowance for pin-money and clothes--not the slightest difference in their status as far as he is concerned. But--well, one is his daughter, and the other is his stepdaughter."

"And there," said Ellery with a little chuckle, "is a pointed epigram. Tell us, Wes--how about Mrs. French and Carmody? You've heard what he said--does it all fit?"

"He told the exact truth," replied Weaver at once. "He's an enigma of a man, is Carmody--cold-blooded as a fish except where Bernice is concerned. I think he'd give his shirt for her. But he treated Mrs. French after their divorce precisely as if she were an unavoidable social necessity."

"Why were they divorced, by the way?" asked the Inspector.

"Infidelity on Carmody's part," said Weaver.--"Good night! I feel like a tongue-slapping washerwoman.--Well, Carmody was so injudicious as to be caught in a hotel-room with a lady of the chorus, and though the affair was hushed up, the truth couldn't be kept from trickling out. Mrs. French, who was something of a moral virago in those days, immediately sued for divorce, and got it--and with it, custody of Bernice."

"Hardly a moral virago, Wes," remarked Ellery. "Not from the Zornian implications. Say rather--she knew what side her bread was buttered on and decided that there were more fish in the sea than a faithless husband...."

"A complicated figure of speech," said Weaver, with a smile. "But I see what you mean."

"I'm beginning to get little sidelights into Mrs. French's character," murmured Ellery. "This Marchbanks fellow--her brother, I believe?"

"And that's about all," said Weaver grimly. "Hated each other like poison. I think Marchbanks had her number. He's no glistening lily himself. Anyway, they never had much use for each other. It made it a little embarrassing for the Old Man, because Marchbanks had been on the Board for many years."

"Drinks too much, that's plain," said the Inspector. "Marchbanks and French get along all right?"

"They have very little contact socially," said Weaver. "In business, they seem to jibe nicely. But that's because the Old Man's so darned sensible."

"There's only one other member of the cast about whom I have any curiosity at the moment," said the Inspector. "And that's the dissipated-looking, fashionable gentleman of the Board named Trask. Has he any contacts with the French family other than business?"

"More 'other' than 'business,'" replied Weaver. "I may as well go the whole hog while I'm tattling. I'll need a scrubbing-brush after I'm through!--Mr. A. Melville Trask is on the Board purely as a result of tradition. His father was the original member, and it was the elder Trask's dying wish that his son succeed him. It meant loads of red tape, but finally they succeeded in dragging him in, where he's been an ornament ever since. Not a brain in his head. But shrewdness?--plenty! Because Mr. Trask has ever since been gunning for Bernice for over a year now--ever since he was elected to the Board, as a matter of fact."

"Interesting," murmured Ellery. "What's the idea, Wes--the family fortune?"

"You've hit it exactly. Old Man Trask lost a lot in the stock market, and his son has been plunging so heavily that the report is he's near the end of his rope financially. So I guess he figured his best bet was a fortuitous marriage. And that's where Bernice comes in. He's been hounding her, courting her, taking her out, flattering her mother for months now. He's wormed his way into the affections of Bernice--who has few enough admirers, poor kid!--so much so that they're virtually engaged. Nothing official, but that's the understanding."

"Opposition?" demanded the Inspector.

"Plenty," replied Weaver grimly. "Chiefly from the Old Man. He feels it his duty to protect his stepdaughter from a man of Trask's stamp. Trask is a cad and a rounder of the worst sort. The poor girl would lead a dog's life with him."

"Wes, what makes him so sure she'll come into money?" asked Ellery suddenly.

"Well"--Weaver hesitated--"you see, El, Mrs. French had a respectable wad herself. And, of course, it's been an open secret that when she died--"

"It would go to Bernice," said the Inspector.

"Interesting," said Ellery, rising to his full length and stretching wearily. "And for no reason at all, I'm reminded that I haven't had a bite to eat since this morning. Let's all go out for a sandwich and a sip of java. Anything more, dad?"

"Can't think of a thing," said the old man with a return to his glumness. "We'll lock up and go. Hagstrom! Hesse! Get those cigaret stubs and cards into my own bags--and the shoes and hat, too...."

Ellery picked up the five books from the desk and handed them to Hagstrom.

"You might pack these, too, Hagstrom," he said. "You're taking these things to Headquarters, dad?"

"Why, of course!"

"Then, on reconsideration, Hagstrom, I'll take these books myself." The detective wrapped them carefully in a piece of brown paper he took from one of the police kits and returned them to Ellery. Weaver retrieved his hat and coat from one of the bedroom closets and the Inspector, Ellery and Weaver, preceded by the detectives, walked out of the apartment.

Ellery was the last one out. As he stood in the corridor, one hand on the knob of the outer door, he looked slowly from the apartment to the brown-papered package in his hand.

"Thus endeth," he said softly to himself, "the first lesson." His hand dropped and the door snapped shut.

Two minutes later only a lone bluecoat was left in the corridor, propped up against the door in a nondescript chair he had appropriated somewhere, reading a tabloid newspaper.

THE THIRD EPISODE

"_Manhunting is by all odds the most thrilling profession in the
world. Its thrills ... are in exact proportion to the temperament
of the manhunter. It reaches its completest fulfillment in the
investigator who ... observing microscopically the phenomena of a
crime and collating them precisely, exercises his God-given gift
of imagination and concocts a theory which embraces_ ALL _the
phenomena and omits none, not the tiniest crumb of a fact....
Penetration, patience, and passion--these rarely combined qualities
make the genius of criminal investigation, just as they make
the genius of any profession, unless the extra-mundane arts be
excepted...._"

--From THERE IS AN UNDER WORLD
_By_ James Redix (the Elder).

20

TOBACCO

Cyrus French's house fronted the Hudson River, on lower Riverside Drive. It was old and dusky, set well back from the Drive and surrounded by primly kept shrubbery. A low iron fence ran around the property.

When Inspector Queen, Ellery Queen and Westley Weaver entered the reception room, they found Sergeant Velie already there, engaged in earnest conversation with another detective. This man left immediately on the entrance of the small party, and Velie himself turned a perturbed face to his superior.

"We've struck oil, Inspector," he said in his calm bass. "Managed to trace the cab that picked up Mrs. French last night almost at once. It was a Yellow that patrols this neighborhood regularly. Got the driver and he remembered his fare without any trouble."

"And I suppose--" began the Inspector gloomily.

Velie shrugged. "Nothing to brag about. He picked her up right in front of the house here at about twenty after eleven last night. She told him to take her down Fifth. He followed orders. At 39th Street she told him to pull up, and then she got out. Paid him and he beat it. He did see her cross the street toward the department store. That's all."

"Not so much," murmured Ellery, "to be sure. Did he stop at all on the trip downtown--did she communicate with any one on the way?"

"I asked him that. Nothing doing, Mr. Queen. She didn't give him another order until they reached 39th Street. Of course, he did say there was heavy traffic, and he had to stop a number of times. It's possible that somebody might have hopped in and out of the cab during a traffic wait. But the driver says no, he didn't see anything wrong."

"And if he's alert, he would have, naturally," said the Inspector, sighing.

A maid took their hats and coats, and immediately afterward Marion French appeared. She squeezed Weaver's hand, smiled wanly at the Queens, and placed herself at their disposal.

"No, Miss French, there's nothing we can do with you now," said the Inspector. "How is Mr. French?"

"Loads better." She made a little _moué_ of apology. "I did act frightfully at the apartment, Inspector Queen. I know you'll forgive me--seeing father faint made me lose control of myself."

"Nothing to forgive, Marion," growled Weaver, "if I do take the words out of the Inspector's mouth. I don't think Inspector Queen quite realized how ill your father really was."

"Now, now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector mildly. "Miss French, do you think Mr. French will be able to see us in a half-hour or so?"

"Well.... If the doctor says so, Inspector. But goodness! Won't you sit down? I've been so upset by all this--confusion...." A shadow darkened her face. The men accepted chairs. "You see, Inspector," continued Marion, "there's a nurse with daddy, and the doctor's still here. An old friend. Mr. Gray, too. Shall I see?"

"If you will, my dear. And would you mind having Miss Hortense Underhill come in for a moment?"

When Marion had left the room, Weaver excused himself and hurried after her. Her startled "Why, Westley!" could just be heard from the main hall a moment later. There was a sudden silence, then a suspiciously soft sound, and finally retreating footfalls.

"I think," said Ellery soberly, "that that was a luscious salute to the Venerian goddess.... I wonder why old Cyrus frowns upon Westley as a prospective son-in-law. Wants wealth and position, I suppose."

"Does he?" asked the Inspector.

"I gather so."

"Well, that's neither here nor there." The Inspector delicately took snuff. "Thomas," he said, "what have you done about Bernice Carmody? Any traces?"

Velie pulled a longer face than usual. "Just one, and it barely helps us to a start. The Carmody girl was seen yesterday afternoon leaving this house by a day watchman--special officer--who's privately employed to patrol the neighborhood. He knows the girl by sight. He saw her walk quickly down towards 72nd Street--straight down the Drive. She didn't meet any one, apparently, and was headed for a definite place, because she seemed in a hell of a hurry. He had no reason to give her more than a casual glance or two, and so couldn't tell me just how far down the Drive she went or whether she turned down a side street."

"Worse and worse." The Inspector grew thoughtful. "That girl is almighty important, Thomas," he sighed. "Put extra men on her trail if you think it's necessary. We've got to find her. I suppose you've got a complete description, clothes and all?"

Velie nodded. "Yes, and four men on her already. If there's anything at all, Inspector, we'll find it."

Hortense Underhill clumped into the room.

Ellery sprang to his feet. "Dad, this is Miss Underhill, the housekeeper. This is Inspector Queen, Miss Underhill. The Inspector has a few questions to ask you."

"That's what I'm here for," said the housekeeper.

"Um," said the Inspector, eyeing her keenly. "My son tells me, Miss Underhill, that Miss Bernice Carmody left this house yesterday afternoon against her mother's wishes--in fact, sneaked out behind her back. Is that correct?"

"That's correct," snapped the housekeeper, with a malevolent glance toward Ellery, who was smiling. "Though what _that_ has to do with it, _I_ can't see."

"No doubt," said the old man. "Was that Miss Carmody's usual procedure--to run away from her mother?"

"I haven't the faintest notion of what you're driving at, Mr. Inspector," said the housekeeper coldly. "But if you're aiming to implicate that girl.... Well! Yes, she did that a few times a month. Slipped out of the house without a word and was gone usually about three hours. There was always a scene with Mrs. French when she returned."

"I don't suppose you know," asked Ellery slowly, "where she went at such times? Or what Mrs. French said to her when she returned?"

Hortense Underhill clicked her teeth disagreeably. "No. Neither did her mother. That's why they had a scene. And Bernice would never tell. Just sit calmly and let her mother rave.... Except, of course, last week. Then they _did_ have a scene."

"Oh, something extraordinary a week ago, eh?" said Ellery. "And I gather that Mrs. French _did_ know then?"

The housekeeper permitted an expression of surprise to flick across her hard features. "Yes, I think she did," she said more quietly than before. She favored Ellery with a suddenly interested glance. "But what it was I don't know. I think she found out where Bernice was going, and they quarreled about it."

"Just when was this, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.

"A week ago Monday."

Ellery whistled softly to himself. He and the Inspector exchanged glances.

The Inspector leaned forward. "Tell me, Miss Underhill--these days on which Miss Carmody generally disappeared--do you recall whether they were all the same, or different days?"

Hortense Underhill looked from father to son, began to speak, thought for an instant, looked up again. "Now that I think of it," she said slowly, "they weren't always Mondays. I remember a Tuesday, a Wednesday, and a Thursday.... I do believe she went every week on consecutive days! Now, what could that mean?"

"More, Miss Underhill," replied Ellery, frowning, "than you can guess--or I, for that matter.... Have the bedrooms of Mrs. French and Miss Carmody been disturbed since this morning?"

"No. When I heard about the murder at the store I locked up both bedrooms. I didn't know but that--"

"That it might have been important, Miss Underhill?" said Ellery. "That was clever of you.... Will you please lead the way upstairs?"

The housekeeper rose without a word and walked out into the main hall and up the broad central staircase, the three men following. She stopped on the second floor and opened a door with a key from a bunch in her black silk apron-pocket.

"This is Bernice's room," she announced, and stepped aside.

They entered a large green-and-ivory bedroom, ornately furnished with period furniture. A huge canopied bed dominated the room. Despite the mirrors and colors and exotic pieces, the room was unaccountably depressing. It looked cold. The sunbeams that streamed in through the three wide windows, far from lending warmth to the ensemble, in some grotesque way only heightened the general effect of cheerlessness.

Ellery's eyes, as he stepped into the room, were not concerned with its eeriness. They focused immediately on a large, garishly carved table to the side of the bed, on which was an ashtray filled to overflowing with cigaret-stubs. He quickly crossed the room and picked up the tray. Then he put it back on the table with a curious gleam in his eye.

"Was this tray with its cigaret-stubs here this morning when you locked up, Miss Underhill?" he asked sharply.

"Yes. I didn't touch anything."

"Then this room hasn't been tidied since Sunday?"

The housekeeper flushed. "The room was attended to on Monday morning, after Bernice awoke," she snarled. "I will _not_ hear any imputations against my household, Mr. Queen! I--"

"But why not Monday afternoon?" interposed Ellery, smiling.

"Because Bernice chased the maid out of the room after the bed was made, that's why!" snapped the housekeeper. "The girl didn't have time to empty the ashtray. I hope that satisfies you!"

"It does," murmured Ellery. "Dad--Velie--come here a moment."

Ellery silently pointed down to the cigaret-stubs. There were at least thirty on the tray. Without exception the cigarets, of a flat Turkish variety, had been smoked only one-quarter of their length, and crushed out against the tray. The Inspector picked one up, and peered at a word of gilt lettering near the tip.

"Well, what's surprising about that?" he demanded. "They're the same brand as the ones on the card-table in the apartment. Girl must be frightfully nervous, though."

"But the length, dad, the length," said Ellery softly. "However, no matter.... Miss Underhill, has Miss Carmody always smoked _La Duchesse_?"

"Yes, _sir_," said the housekeeper unpleasantly. "And too many for her health, too. She gets them from some Greek person with an outlandish name--Xanthos, I think it is--who makes them up on special order for young ladies of the better classes. Perfumed, they are!"

"A standing order, I suppose?"

"You suppose correctly. When Bernice's supply ran out, she merely repeated her order, which was for a box of five hundred always.... That's one thing about Bernice, although you mustn't take it as anything against the poor child, because too many young ladies have the same pernicious habit--but she smokes altogether too much for propriety and health, too. Her mother never smoked, nor do Marion and Mr. French."

"Yes, yes, we are aware of those facts, Miss Underhill, thank you." Ellery took a glassine envelope from his compact pocket-kit and calmly poured into it the dusty contents of the ashtray. The envelope he handed to Velie.

"You had better keep this with whatever mementoes of the case will be filed at Headquarters," he said in a sprightly tone. "I think it will prove of interest in the final summation.... Now, Miss Underhill, if you will please spare us just another slice of your precious time...."

21

KEYS AGAIN

Ellery looked quickly about the garish room and strode over to a large door on the side wall. He opened it and uttered a low exclamation of satisfaction. It was a clothes-closet, packed with feminine garments--gowns, coats, shoes, hats in profusion.

He turned once more to Hortense Underhill, who was regarding him with peculiar disquiet. Her lips compressed as she saw his hand absently ruffle through the mass of gowns hanging from the racks.

"Miss Underhill, I believe you said that Miss Carmody was at the apartment some months ago, and hasn't been there since?"

She nodded stiffly.

"Do you recall what she wore when she was there last?"

"Really, Mr. Queen," she said in frigid tones, "I haven't such a memory as you evidently give me credit for. How _could_ I remember that?"

Ellery grinned. "Very well. Where is Miss Carmody's apartment key?"

"Oh!" The housekeeper was genuinely startled. "That's a funny thing, now, Mr. Queen--I mean your asking that. Because only yesterday morning Bernice told me that she thought she'd lost her key and asked me to get one of the others' keys and duplicate it for her."

"Lost, eh?" Ellery seemed disappointed. "Are you certain, Miss Underhill?"

"I've just told you."

"Well, there's no harm in looking," said Ellery cheerfully. "Here, Velie, lend a hand with these duds. You don't mind, dad?" And in a moment he and the sergeant had attacked the closet with a furious determination, to the accompaniment of the Inspector's chuckle and Hortense Underhill's outraged gasp.

"You see ..." said Ellery from clenched teeth, as he swiftly passed his hands through coats and gowns, "people don't generally lose things. They merely think they do. In this case, Miss Carmody perhaps searched for it in a few obvious places and gave it up as hopeless.... She probably didn't look in the right garments.... Ah, there, Velie! Splendid!"

The tall sergeant held up a heavy fur coat. In his left hand gleamed a gold-disked key.

"In an inside pocket, Mr. Queen. The fur coat would make it heavy weather when Miss Carmody last used the key."

"Fair and subtle enough," said Ellery, taking the key. It was an exact duplicate of Weaver's key, which he now took from his pocket and compared with the latest discovery--a twin except for the initials _B.C._ engraved on the disk.

"Why do you want all the keys, El?" demanded the Inspector. "I can't see any good reason for it."

"You have enormous powers of perspicacity," said Ellery gravely. "Now how did you know I wanted _all_ the keys? But you're perfectly right--I do, and I shall take up a collection very shortly. The reason is surely as plain as the nose on your face, as Crouther would say.... Don't want anybody getting into that apartment for a while, very simply."

He deposited both keys in his pocket and turned to the unpleasant housekeeper.

"Did you carry out Miss Carmody's orders about duplicating this 'lost' key?" he asked curtly.

The housekeeper sniffed. "I did not," she said. "Because now that I think of it, I don't really know whether or not Bernice was jesting with me when she said she had lost the key. And something happened yesterday afternoon that made me undecided about it, and I thought I'd wait until I saw Bernice again to ask her."

"And what was that, Miss Underhill?" inquired the Inspector, with a slow gentleness.

"Something queer, to tell the truth," she replied thoughtfully. Her eyes flashed suddenly, and her expression became remarkably more human. "I _do_ want to help," she said softly. "And I am beginning to think more and more that what happened _will_ help...."

"You have us simply petrified with excitement, Miss Underhill," murmured Ellery, without changing expression. "Please proceed."

"Yesterday afternoon, at about four o'clock--no, I think it must have been closer to half-past three--I received a telephone call from Bernice. That was after she had left the house so mysteriously--you know."

The three men stiffened into strained attention. Velie muttered an indistinguishable curse beneath his breath, but quieted under a flashing glance from the Inspector. Ellery leaned forward.

"Yes, Miss Underhill?" he urged.

"It was most puzzling," continued the housekeeper. "Bernice had spoken to me casually about losing the key just before lunch. Yet when she called in the afternoon, the first thing she said was that she wanted her key to the apartment, and would send around for it by messenger at once!"

"Is it possible," muttered the Inspector, "that she thought you had already had a duplicate key made for her?"

"No, Inspector," said the housekeeper incisively. "It didn't sound as if she thought that at all. In fact, it seemed as if she'd utterly forgotten about having lost the key. So much so that I immediately reminded her that she'd told me about losing the key, in the morning, and having another made for her. She seemed quite distressed and said, 'Oh, yes, Hortense! Isn't it stupid of me to forget that way,' and began to say something else, when she stopped suddenly and then said, 'Don't bother, Hortense, after all, it isn't particularly important. I thought I might want to drop in at the apartment this evening.' I reminded her that she could get the use of the master-key at the night-watchman's desk if she wanted to go to the apartment so badly. But she didn't seem interested and hung up immediately."

There was a little silence. Then Ellery looked up with a great light of interest in his eyes.

"Can you remember, Miss Underhill," he asked, "just what it was that Miss Carmody began to say in the middle of the conversation, and then appeared to reconsider?"

"It's hard to be exact about it, Mr. Queen," replied the housekeeper. "But somehow I got the impression that Bernice was going to ask me to get one of the other keys to the apartment for her. Perhaps I'm wrong."

"Perhaps you are," said Ellery whimsically, "but I'd not give even the most preposterous of odds that you aren't...."

"You know," added Hortense Underhill, as an afterthought, "I also got the impression, when she began to say that and stopped, that--"

"_That somebody was talking to her, Miss Underhill?_" asked Ellery.

"Exactly, Mr. Queen."

The Inspector turned a startled face toward his son. Velie moved his huge bulk lightly forward and whispered in the Inspector's ear. The old man grinned.

"Keen, keen, Thomas," he chuckled. "That's just what I was thinking, too...."

Ellery flicked his finger warningly.

"Miss Underhill, I can't expect you to exhibit miracles of acuteness," he said in a serious, admiring tone. "But I should like to ask--if you're entirely certain that it was Miss Carmody talking to you over the wire?"

"That's it!" cried the Inspector. Velie smiled grimly.

The housekeeper regarded the three men with strangely limpid eyes. Something electric shot through all four.

"I don't--believe--it--was," she whispered....

After a while they left the missing girl's bedroom and entered an adjoining room. It was severer in tone and immaculately clean.

"This is Mrs. French's room," said the housekeeper in a low voice. Her acid nature seemed sweetened by a sudden realization of complex tragedy. Her eyes followed Ellery with grave respect.

"Is everything in perfect order, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.

"Yes, sir."

Ellery walked over to a wardrobe and scanned its neat racks thoughtfully.

"Miss Underhill, will you please look through this rack and tell us if any of Miss Marion French's clothes are here?"

The housekeeper went through the racks while the three men looked on. She proceeded carefully, then shook her head in an unhesitating negative.

"Then Mrs. French was not in the habit of wearing Miss French's things?"

"Oh, no, sir!"

Ellery smiled with satisfaction and at once wrote a line of hieroglyphics in his makeshift notebook.

22

BOOKS AGAIN

The three men stood uncomfortably in old Cyrus French's bedroom. The nurse fluttered about in the hall, a solid door separating her from her charge. Marion and Weaver had been ordered downstairs to the drawing-room. French's physician, Dr. Stuart, a large impressive man, with a professional irascibility glared at the Queens from his post at French's bedside.

"Five minutes--no longer," he snapped. "Mr. French is hardly in a conversational condition!"

The Inspector clucked placatingly, and stared at the sick man. French lay lumpily in his great bed, nervous eyes darting from one to another of his inquisitors. One flabby white hand plucked at the silk coverlet. His face was entirely drained of color, pasty, shockingly unwholesome in appearance. His grey hair straggled over a furrowed forehead.

The Inspector stepped nearer to the bed. He bent forward and said in a low voice, "This is Inspector Queen of the police, Mr. French. Can you hear me? Do you think you are strong enough to answer a few perfunctory questions about Mrs. French's--accident?"

The quicksilver eyes ceased rolling and concentrated on the gentle grey face of the Inspector. They blinked suddenly with intelligence.

"Yes ... yes ..." French whispered, moistening his thin pale lips with a bright tongue. "Anything ... to clear up this ... ghastly business...."

"Thank you, Mr. French." The Inspector leaned closer. "Is there any explanation in your mind that might account for the death of Mrs. French?"

The liquid eyes blinked, closed. When they opened, there was an expression of utter bewilderment within their reddish depths.

"No ... none," French breathed painfully. "None ... whatsoever.... She--she had ... so many friends ... no enemies.... I--it is ... unbelievable that any one ... should be so ... fiendish as to ... murder her."

"I see." The Inspector tugged at his mustache with nimble fingers. "Then you know of no one who might have had a _motive_ for killing her, Mr. French?"

"No...." The hoarse feeble voice gathered strength suddenly. "The shame--the notoriety.... It will be the death of me.... With all my ... unsparing efforts to put an end to vice ... that this should happen to me!... Hideous, hideous!"

His voice grew more and more violent. The Inspector motioned in alarm to Dr. Stuart, who leaned quickly over the sick man and felt his pulse. Then, in an extraordinarily gentle voice, the physician soothed his patient until the throaty rumblings faded off and the hand on the coverlet unflexed and lay still.

"Have you much more?" asked the doctor in a gruff undertone. "You must be quick, Inspector!"

"Mr. French," said Queen quietly, "is your personal key to the store apartment always in your possession?"

The eyes rolled sleepily. "Eh? Key? Yes ... yes, always."

"It has certainly not left your person in the past fortnight or so?"

"No ... positively not...."

"Where is it, Mr. French?" continued the Inspector in an urgent soft voice. "Surely you will not mind letting us have it for a few days, will you, sir? In the interests of justice, of course.... Where? Oh, yes! Dr. Stuart, Mr. French asks that you get the key from the key-ring in his trousers' hip-pocket. In the wardrobe, sir, the wardrobe!"

In silence the burly physician went to a wardrobe, rummaged about in the first pair of trousers that met his eye, and returned in a moment with a leather key-case. The Inspector examined the gold-disked key marked _C.F._, unhooked it, and returned the case to the doctor, who promptly replaced it in the trousers. French lay quietly, eyes veiled by puffy lids.

The Inspector handed Cyrus French's key to Ellery, who deposited it with the other keys in his pocket. Then Ellery stepped forward and leaned over the sick man.

"Easy, Mr. French," he murmured in a soothing tone. "We have just two or three more questions, and then you will be left to your much-needed privacy.... Mr. French, do you recall what books are on your desk in the library of your apartment?"

The old man's eyes flew open. Dr. Stuart growled angrily beneath his breath something about "arrant nonsense ... silly sleuthing." Ellery's body remained in its deferential attitude, his head close to French's slack mouth.

"Books?"

"Yes, Mr. French. The books on your apartment desk. Do you recall their titles?" he urged gently.

"Books." French screwed his mouth up in a desperate effort to concentrate. "Yes, yes.... Of course. My favorites ... Jack London's _Adventure_ ... _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_, by Doyle ... McCutcheon's _Graustark_ ... _Cardigan_, by Robert W. Chambers, and ... let me think ... there was one other ... yes! _Soldiers of Fortune_, by Richard Harding Davis.... That's it--Davis.... Knew Davis.... Wild, but a ... a great fellow...."

Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. The Inspector's face grew crimson with suppressed emotion. He muttered, "What the deuce!"

"You're certain, Mr. French?" persisted Ellery, leaning over the bed once more.

"Yes ... yes. My books ... I should know ..." whispered the old man, annoyance sounding weakly in his voice.

"Of course! We were merely making sure.... Now, sir, have you ever been interested in such subjects as, let us say, paleontology--philately--medieval commerce--folk lore--elementary music?"

The tired eyes widened with puzzled amazement. The head wagged twice from side to side.

"No ... I can't say that I am.... My serious reading is restricted to works on sociology ... my work for the Anti-Vice Society ... you know my position...."

"You are positive that your five books by Davis, Chambers, Doyle and the others are on your apartment desk now, Mr. French?"

"I--suppose so," mumbled French. "Been there ... for ages.... Ought to be.... Never noticed anything wrong...."

"Very well. That is quite excellent, sir. Thank you." Ellery glanced swiftly at Dr. Stuart, who was exhibiting marked signs of impatience. "One question, Mr. French, and we shall leave you. Has Mr. Lavery been in your apartment recently?"

"Lavery? Yes, of course. Every day. My guest."

"Then that will be all." Ellery stepped back and made a hasty note on the fly-leaf of his now overscribbled little volume. French's eyes closed, and he shifted his body slightly, with an unmistakable relaxation that signified complete fatigue.

"Please leave quietly," grunted Dr. Stuart. "You've retarded his recovery sufficiently for one day."

He turned his back truculently upon them.

The three men tiptoed from the room.

But on the staircase leading to the main foyer, the Inspector muttered, "Where in time do those books come in?"

"Ask me not in mournful numbers," said Ellery ruefully. "I wish I knew."

Thenceforth they descended in silence.

23

CONFIRMATION

They found Marion and Weaver sitting glumly in the drawing-room, hands clasped, and suspiciously silent. The Inspector coughed, Ellery thoughtfully scrubbed away at his pince-nez, Velie screwed up his eyes and blinked at a Renoir on the wall.

The boy and the girl sprang to their feet.

"How--how is daddy?" asked Marion hurriedly, one slim hand to a crimson-dappled cheek.

"Resting quietly now, Miss French," replied the Inspector in some embarrassment. "Ah--a question or two, young lady, and then we will be on our way.... Ellery!"

Ellery came directly to the point.

"Your key to your father's apartment, Miss French--" he demanded--"is it always in your possession?"

"Why, certainly, Mr. Queen. You don't think--"

"A categorical question, Miss French," said Ellery blandly. "Your key has not left your possession in, let us say, four weeks?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Queen. It's my own, and every one else who might have occasion to go into the apartment has a key of his or her own, as well."

"Lucidly said. May I borrow yours temporarily?"

Marion half-turned toward Weaver with hesitation written in her eyes. Weaver pressed her arm reassuringly.

"Do whatever Ellery asks, Marion," he said.

Without a word Marion rang for a maid, and in a few moments turned over to Ellery another key whose only distinguishing characteristic from the keys already on his person was the neatly engraved _M.F._ on the bright disc. Ellery stowed it away with the others and murmured his thanks, retreating a step.

The Inspector promptly stepped forward.

"I must ask you what may prove an awkward question, Miss French," he said.

"I--we seem to be completely in your hands, Inspector Queen," said the girl, smiling faintly.

The Inspector stroked his mustache. "Just what has been the relationship between yourself, let us say, and your stepmother and stepsister? Amicable? Strained? Openly antagonistic?"

Marion did not answer at once. Weaver shuffled his feet and turned away. Then the girl's magnificent eyes met the old man's honestly.

"I think 'strained' expresses it exactly," she said in her clear sweet voice. "There has never been much love lost on any side of the triangle. Winifred has always preferred Bernice above me--which is of course natural--and as for Bernice, we didn't agree from the beginning. And as time went on, and--and things began to happen, the rift simply widened...."

"'Things'?" prompted the Inspector suggestively.

Marion bit her lip, flushed. "Well--just little things, you know," she said evasively. She hurried on. "All of us tried very hard to conceal our dislike for each other--for dad's sake. I'm afraid we weren't always successful. Dad is keener than people think."

"I see." The Inspector tchk-ed with concern. He straightened with a peculiarly swift movement of his body. "Miss French, do you know anything that might give us a hint to the murderer of your stepmother?"

Weaver gasped, whitened. He seemed about to voice a bitter protest. But Ellery laid a restraining hand on his arm. The girl grew still, but she did not flinch. She passed her fingers wearily across her forehead.

"I--no." It was a bare whisper.

The Inspector made a deprecating little gesture.

"Oh, please don't ask me anything more about--about _her_," she cried suddenly in an agonized voice. "I can't go on this way, talking about her, trying to tell the truth, because ..." she spoke more quietly, "... because it would be in the poorest taste to calumniate that poor--dead--thing." She shuddered. Weaver boldly put his arm about her shoulders. She turned to him with a little sigh of relief and buried her face against his breast.

"Miss French." Ellery's tone was gentleness itself. "You can help us on one point.... Your stepsister--what brand of cigaret does she smoke?"

Marion's astonishment at the seemingly irrelevant question brought her head up with a start.

"Why--_La Duchesse_."

"Exactly. And she smoked _La Duchesse_ exclusively?"

"Yes. At least, for as long as I know her."

"Has she"--Ellery was casual--"has she any peculiarity in her method of smoking, Miss French? Any perhaps slightly unusual habit?"

The pretty brows drew closer together in a little frown. "If you mean by habit"--she hesitated--"a distinct nervousness--yes."

"Does this nervousness manifest itself in a noticeable way?"

"She smokes incessantly, Mr. Queen. And she never takes more than five or six puffs at a cigaret. She doesn't seem by nature able to smoke calmly. A few puffs, and she grinds out the long stump of tobacco still remaining almost with--viciousness. The cigarets she leaves are always bent and twisted out of shape."

"Thank you so much." Ellery's firm lips lifted in a smile of satisfaction.

"Miss French--" the Inspector took up the attack--"you left this house last night after dinner. You did not return until midnight. _Where were you during those four hours?_"

Silence. A frightened silence so suddenly fraught with hidden complications of emotion that it seemed almost of physical substance. It was a tableau created for a single moment's duration: the slight Inspector, alert, controlled, leaning forward; the straight body of Ellery, muscles completely inanimate; the vague bulk of Velie, drawn and powerful; a petrified agony on Weaver's mobile features--and the utter misery of Marion French's slender, stricken figure.

It passed in the drawing of a breath. Marion sighed, and the four men relaxed stealthily.

"I was ... walking in ... the Park," she said.

"Oh!" The Inspector smiled, bowed, smoothed his mustache. "Then there is nothing more to be said, Miss French. Good afternoon."

It was simply said, and the Inspector, Ellery and Velie passed from the room, into the reception hall, out of the house without another word spoken.

But it left Marion and Weaver in a dejection and apprehension so profound that they stood in their places, exactly as they had been, eyes turned away from each other, long after the outer door had snicked cleanly shut.

24

THE QUEENS TAKE STOCK

Dusk was descending on the city when Velie took leave of the Queens outside the French mansion to manipulate the official machinery already operating on the shadowy trail of the vanished Bernice Carmody.

After Velie had gone, the Inspector looked at the quiet River, looked at the darkening sky, looked at his son, who was energetically polishing his pince-nez and staring down at the pavement.

The Inspector sighed. "The air will do both of us a lot of good," he said tiredly. "I need something to clear my addled brain, anyway.... Ellery, let's walk home."

Ellery nodded, and side by side they sauntered down the Drive toward the corner. At the corner they turned east and settled down to a slow, thoughtful pace. They walked another block before the silence was broken.

"This is really the first chance," remarked Ellery at last, grasping his father's arm encouragingly at the elbow, "that I've had to mull over the multitude of factors that have arisen so far. Significant factors. Telling factors, dad! There are so many they give me _mal à la tête_."

"Really?" The Inspector was depressed, morose. His shoulders sagged.

Ellery regarded him keenly. He tightened his grip on the old man's arm. "Come, dad! Buck up. I know you're at sea, but it's because of the trouble and worry you've had on your mind recently. My brain has been more than usually free from occupation lately. It's been clear enough to grasp the amazing fundamentals this case has spewed up to-day. Let me think aloud."

"Go ahead, son."

"One of the two most valuable clues this affair has given us is the fact that the corpse was found in the Fifth Avenue exhibition-window."

The Inspector snorted. "I suppose you'll tell me now that you already know who did the job."

"Yes."

The Inspector was so taken aback that he stopped in his tracks and stared at Ellery with an expression of complete dismay and unbelief.

"Ellery! You're joking. How _could_ you?" he finally managed to splutter.

Ellery smiled gravely. "Don't misunderstand me. I say I know who murdered Mrs. French. I should qualify that by saying that certain indications point with incredible consistency at one individual. I have no proof. I don't grasp one-tenth of the implications. I am entirely ignorant of the motive, the undoubtedly sordid story behind the crime.... Consequently, I shall not tell you whom I have in mind."

"You wouldn't," growled the Inspector, as they walked on.

"Now, dad!" Ellery laughed a little. He tightened his hold on the small package of books from French's library table, which he had carried stubbornly from the moment they had left the department store. "I have a good reason. In the first place, it's quite conceivable that I'm being misled by a series of coincidences. In that case, I should merely be making an ass of myself if I accused some one and then had to eat crow.... When I have _proof_--you'll know, dad, the very first one.... There are so many unexplained, seemingly inexplicable things. These books, for example.... Well!"

He said no more for a few moments as they strode through the streets.

"I began," he said at last, "with the suspicious fact that Mrs. French's body was found in the exhibition-window. And it _was_ suspicious, to say the least. For all the reasons that we went over before--the lack of blood, the missing key, the lipstick and the half-painted lips, the lack of illumination, the general preposterousness of the window as the scene of the crime.

"It was quite plain that Mrs. French had not been murdered in that window. Where had she been murdered, then? The watchman's report that she had signified the apartment as her destination; the missing apartment key _which she had_ when O'Flaherty saw her go toward the elevator--these suggested that the apartment should be examined at once. Which I immediately proceeded to do."