The French Powder Mystery — 14

At the Apartment: The Lavatory

    "I hardly know what we may expect to find here," said Ellery dubiously, as they stood in the glittering bathroom. "As a matter of fact, the lavatory is the last place to look.... Everything all right, Westley? Anything strike you as being out of place?"
    Weaver answered rapidly enough, "No," but a tinge of uncertainty shaded his voice. Ellery glanced at him sharply, then around at the room.
    It was long and narrow. The tub was sunken. The washbowl was slender and modern-looking. Above it hung a cunningly disguised chest. Ellery pulled open its concealed door. It held on its three glass shelves some bottles of house medicines, hair tonic, ointment, a tube of tooth-paste and one of shaving cream, a safety-razor in an odd-looking wooden case, two combs, and several other articles.
    Ellery slammed the door shut in a little flurry of disgust. "Come on, Wes," he growled. "I'm doddering. There's nothing here." Nevertheless, he stopped to open a door on the side. It was a closet for lavatory linens. He poked his hand into a hamper and pulled out several soiled towels. These he examined carelessly and threw back, looking at Westley....
    "Well, spill it, son!" he said, pleasantly enough. "There is something on your mind. What's rotten in Denmark?"
    "It's queer," said Weaver thoughtfully, pulling at his lip. "I thought it queer at the time, and now that things have happened, well—I'm thinking it's even queerer.... Ellery, there's something missing!"
    "Missing?" Ellery's hand shot out and closed about Weaver's arm in a mighty grip. "My God, and you've kept mum! What is it that's missing, man?"
    "You'll think I'm an idiot ..." said Weaver hesitantly.
    "Westley!"
    "Sorry." Weaver cleared his throat. "Well, there's a razor blade missing, if you must know!" He scanned Ellery's face for a sign of levity.
    But Ellery did not laugh. "A razor-blade? Tell me about it," he urged, leaning against the closet door. He eyed the cabinet above the washbowl speculatively.
    "I got here this morning a bit earlier than usual," began Weaver, with a worried frown. "Had to prepare for the Old Man's arrival, and there were a number of papers to straighten out for the directors' meeting. Usually, you know, the Old Man doesn't get here until ten o'clock; it's only on special occasions—like this one of the conference—that he comes earlier.... So I left the house in something of a hurry, intending to shave up here. I do that quite often, by the way—which is one of the reasons I keep a razor in the apartment.... When I got here—it was about eight-thirty—I dashed for my razor. And there wasn't any blade."
    "That seems not so extraordinary," said Ellery with a smile. "You simply didn't have any in the cabinet."
    "Oh, but I did!" protested Weaver. "The reason I felt something was funny was that last evening, before I left the store, I had shaved up here. I left the blade in the razor."
    "Didn't you have any others?"
    "No. I'd run out of them and intended to get some more. But I forgot to bring some in with me this morning. Consequently, when I wanted to scrape some of the old beard off there wasn't anything to do it with. Blade had vanished! Sounds silly, doesn't it? And I particularly left that blade in the razor yesterday because I've forgotten to restock before, and I found that you can always squeeze another shave out of the old blade."
    "You mean that it had gone, absolutely? You're sure you left it in the razor?"
    "Positive. I cleaned it and slipped it back."
    "You didn't break it, or anything like that?"
    "I tell you no, Ellery," Weaver replied patiently. "That blade was there."
    Ellery's lips curved upward humorously. "A pretty problem at that," he said. "Is that why your face is fuzzed?"
    "Right enough. I haven't had a chance all day to go out for a shave."
    "Seems peculiar," said Ellery thoughtfully. "I mean that you should have had only one blade left in the cabinet. Where are French's blades?"
    "He doesn't shave himself," replied Weaver a trifle stiffly. "He never has. Patronizes the same barber every morning."
    Ellery did not comment further. He opened the cabinet and took down the wooden razor-case. He examined the plain silver razor inside, but could see nothing of interest.
    "You handled the razor this morning?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "Did you take it out of the case?"
    "Oh, no! I didn't at all. When I saw the blade was missing, I didn't even bother."
    "That's very interesting." Ellery lifted the razor handle to the level of his eyes, holding it by the tip, careful not to touch the silver surface with his fingers. He breathed on the metal. It clouded over for an instant.
    "Not the sign of a print," he commented. "Wiped away, undoubtedly." He smiled suddenly. "We begin to find signs of a presence, an apparition, a wraith here last night, old boy. Careful, wasn't he, she, or weren't they?"
    Weaver laughed aloud. "Then you think my stolen blade has something to do with this mess?"
    "To think," said Ellery solemnly, "is to know.... Keep this in mind, Westley. I believe I heard you say downstairs that you left here last night a bit before seven. The blade, then, was taken from this apartment between about seven o'clock last night and eight-thirty this morning.
    "Astounding!" murmured Weaver derisively. "So that's the sort of hocus-pocus one must cultivate in order to be a detective?"
    "Laugh, varlet!" said Ellery sternly.... He stood in a queer attitude of reflection. "I think we'll be going into the next chamber," he said in an altogether different voice. "I begin to see a tiny light. It's far off but—gossamer glimmer, nevertheless! Allons, enfant!"