The French Powder Mystery — 18

Scrambled Signs

    Within five minutes the private corridor outside French's sixth floor apartment was crowded with a score of people. Two policemen stood guard at the door. Another stood with his back to the elevator, his eyes on the emergency staircase-door nearby. In the anteroom lounged several detectives smoking cigarets.
    Ellery sat smiling behind French's desk in the library. Commissioner Welles puffed about the room, shouting orders to detectives, opening the doors leading off the library, peering like a myopic owl at things strange to him. Inspector Queen talked with Velie and Crouther near the dormer-window. Weaver stood miserably in a corner, unnoticed. His eyes frequently sought the anteroom door, beyond which he knew was Marion French....
    "You say, Mr. Queen," grunted Welles, out of breath, "that the cigaret stubs and the game of—blast it! what is it again?—banque are the only signs of this Carmody girl's presence here?"
    "Not at all, Commissioner," said Ellery gravely. "You forget the shoes and hat in the closet. I believe I recounted the housekeeper's identification—?"
    "Yes, yes, of course!" grumbled Welles. He frowned. "Here, you fingerprint men!" he shouted, "have you covered that little room off the cardroom?" Without waiting for a reply, he bellowed an unintelligible order to several photographers who were busy over the table holding the cards and cigaret-stubs. Finally, mopping his brow, he beckoned imperiously to Inspector Queen.
    "What do you think, Queen?" he demanded. "Looks like a pretty clear case, eh?"
    The Inspector sent a sidewise glance at his son, and smiled cryptically. "Hardly, Commissioner. We've got to find the girl first, you know.... Work's barely scratched. We haven't had the time to check a single alibi, for example. Despite these clues pointing to Bernice Carmody, we're not at all satisfied that there isn't something deeper...." He shook his head. "At any rate, Commissioner, there's a heap of work waiting for us. Anybody you'd like to question? We have 'em all outside in the corridor waiting."
    The Commissioner looked fierce. "No! Can't say I do at this stage...." He cleared his throat. "What's next on your list? I've got to get down to City Hall for a conference with the Mayor and I can't give this thing the personal attention it deserves. Well?"
    "I want to clear up a few moot points," replied Queen dryly. "Several people out there will stand questioning. French himself—"
    "French. Yes, yes. Too bad. Feel sorry for the man. Quite a blow." Welles looked around nervously and lowered his voice. "By the way, Queen, while there is not to be the slightest deviation from the highest considerations of duty, you understand, it might be—ah—wise to allow French to get home to his physician's care.... As for this stepdaughter business, I hope"—he paused uncomfortably—"I might say I have the feeling that this girl has made a complete getaway. You're to follow her up conscientiously, of course.... Too bad. I—Well! I must be going."
    He turned unceremoniously on his heel, and with something like a sigh of relief tramped toward the door, followed by his bodyguard of detectives. He turned in the anteroom and shouted back, "I want a quick solution, Queen—too many unsolved homicides this past month." And he disappeared with a final quiver of his fat sides.
    There was silence for several seconds after the anteroom door closed. Then the Inspector shrugged his shoulders lightly and crossed the room to Ellery's side. Ellery dragged a chair over for his father and they held a whispered conversation for many minutes. The words "razor-blade," ... "book-ends," ... "books" ... and "Bernice" ... recurred at intervals. The old man's face grew longer and longer as Ellery talked. Finally, he shook his head in despair and rose.
    An altercation beyond the anteroom door brought up the heads of all the men in the library. A woman's passionate voice and the gruff tones of a man intermingled. Weaver's nostrils quivered and he dashed across the room and flung open the door.
    Marion French was endeavoring frantically to push past the burly figure of a detective in the anteroom.
    "But I must see Inspector Queen!" she cried. "My father—Please don't touch me!"
    Weaver grasped the detective's arm and violently pushed him aside.
    "Get your hands off her!" he growled. "I'll teach you to handle a lady that way...."
    He would have attacked the amused detective if Marion had not thrown her arms around him. By this time the Inspector and Ellery had hurried up.
    "Here! Ritter, stand aside!" said the Inspector. "What's the trouble, Miss French?" he asked gently.
    "My—my father," she gasped. "Oh, it's cruel, inhuman.... Can't you see he's ill, out of his mind? For God's sake, let us take him home! He's just fainted!"
    They pushed into the hallway. A crowd of people were stooping over Cyrus French, who had collapsed and lay, white-faced, still, on the marble floor. The store physician, small and dark, bent over him in distress.
    "Out?" asked the Inspector with some concern.
    The physician nodded. "Should be in his bed right now, sir. In a dangerous state of collapse."
    Ellery whispered to his father. The old man clucked worriedly, shook his head. "Can't take a chance, Ellery. The man is ill." He signed to two detectives and Cyrus French, arms hanging limply, was carried into the apartment and laid on one of the beds. He regained consciousness a moment later, groaning.
    John Gray wriggled his way past a policeman and stormed into the bedroom.
    "You can't get away with this sort of thing, Inspector or no Inspector!" he cried in his high-pitched voice. "I demand that Mr. French be sent home immediately!"
    "Keep your shirt on, Mr. Gray," admonished the Inspector mildly. "He's going in a moment."
    "And I'm going with him," squeaked Gray. "He'll want me, he will. I'll take this up with the Mayor, sir. I'll—"
    "Shut up, sir!" roared Queen, his face scarlet. He whirled on Detective Ritter. "Get a cab."
    "Miss French." Marion looked up, startled. The Inspector irritably took a pinch of snuff. "You may leave with your father and Mr. Gray. But please remain at home until we call this afternoon. We will want to look over the premises and perhaps question Mr. French, if he's in a condition to see us. And—I'm sorry, my dear."
    The girl smiled through wet lashes. Weaver moved stealthily to her side, drew her a little apart.
    "Marion dear—I'm awfully sorry I didn't lam that brute for you," he stammered. "Did he hurt you?"
    Marion's eyes widened, softened. "Don't be silly, darling," she whispered. "And don't be getting mixed up with the police. I'll help Mr. Gray get father home, and stay there just as Inspector Queen ordered me to.... You won't be—in any trouble, dear?"
    "Who? I?" Weaver laughed. "Now don't be worrying your pretty head about me.—And as for the store, I'll keep an eye on everything. Tell your father that when he can understand.... Do you love me?"
    There was no one looking. He bent swiftly and kissed her. Her eyes glowed in answer.
    Five minutes later Cyrus French, Marion French and John Gray had left the building under a police escort.
    Velie lumbered over. "Got two of the boys on the trail of this Carmody girl," he reported. "Didn't want to tell you before with the Commissioner around—busy and all that."
    Queen frowned, then chuckled. "All my boys are turning traitor to the City," he said. "Thomas, I want you to send somebody out on the trail of Mrs. French after she left her house last night. She walked out about eleven-fifteen. Probably took a cab, because she got here at eleven-forty-five, which would make it about right in the after-theater traffic. Got it?"
    Velie nodded and disappeared.
    Ellery sat at the desk again, whistling softly to himself, a faraway look in his eyes.
    The Inspector had MacKenzie, the store manager, brought to the library.
    "Have you checked the employees, Mr. MacKenzie?"
    "A report came through from my assistant a few moments ago." Ellery listened avidly. "So far as we have been able to determine," continued the Scotchman, referring to a paper in his hand, "all employees who checked in both yesterday and to-day were at their posts. As for to-day, everything seems perfectly regular in that connection. There is, of course, a list of absentees, which I have here. If you would like to follow up on these employees, here's the list."
    "We'll have a peep at it," said the Inspector, taking the list from MacKenzie. He turned it over to a detective with a command. "Now, MacKenzie, you may start the ball rolling again. Store's routine is to go on as usual, but be careful that you say nothing at all of this whole business in your publicity. Have that window on Fifth Avenue kept closed and guarded until further orders. We'll have to seal it up anyway for a time. That's all. You're free to go."
    "I'd like to ask the remaining directors a question, dad, if you haven't anything to quiz them about," said Ellery, after MacKenzie had left.
    "I haven't a thought in my head about them—that I could turn to account," answered Queen. "Hesse, bring in Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask. Let's have another try at 'em."
    The detective returned shortly with the three directors. They looked peaked and ragged; Marchbanks was chewing savagely at a frayed cigar. The Inspector waved his hand at Ellery and retreated a step.
    Ellery rose. "Just one question, gentlemen, and then I think Inspector Queen will permit you to go about your business."
    "High time," muttered Trask, biting his lip.
    "Mr. Zorn," said Ellery, ignoring the attenuated and foppish Trask, "is there a regular meeting-time for your Board of Directors?"
    Zorn juggled his heavy gold watch-chain nervously. "Yes—yes, of course."
    "If I'm not too inquisitive, when is that meeting-time?"
    "Every other Friday afternoon."
    "This is routine, strictly adhered to?"
    "Yes—yes."
    "How is it that there was a meeting this morning—on a Tuesday?"
    "That was a special meeting. Mr. French calls them as the occasion demands."
    "But the semi-monthly meetings are held regardless of special meetings?"
    "Yes."
    "I take it, then, that there was a meeting on Friday last?"
    "Yes."
    Ellery turned to Marchbanks and Trask. "Is Mr. Zorn's testimony substantially correct, gentlemen?"
    Both nodded their heads sullenly. Ellery smiled, thanked them, and sat down. The Inspector smiled, thanked them, and told them politely that they were free to leave. He escorted them to the door and whispered to the policeman on guard an inaudible instruction. Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask left the private corridor immediately.
    "There's an interesting feller outside, El," remarked the Inspector. "Vincent Carmody, Mrs. French's first husband. Think I'll tackle him next.—Hesse, bring in Mr. Carmody in about two minutes."
    "Did you check up at all on the night freight-entrance on 39th Street while you were downstairs?" asked Ellery.
    "Sure did." The Inspector took a pinch of snuff reflectively. "That's a funny place, El. With the watchman and the truckman in the little booth, it would have been pie for somebody to slip into the building, especially at night. Went over it with particular thoroughness. It certainly looks like the answer to how the murderer gained entry last night."
    "It may answer the question of how the murderer got in," remarked Ellery lazily, "but it doesn't answer the question of how he got out. That exit was closed to him by eleven-thirty. If he left the building by that door, then, he must have done so before eleven-thirty, eh?"
    "But Mrs. French didn't get here until eleven-forty-five, El," objected the Inspector, "and according to Prouty she was killed about midnight. So how could he have left by that door before eleven-thirty?"
    "The answer to that," said Ellery, "is that he couldn't, and therefore didn't. Is there a door through which he could have slipped into the main building from the freight room?"
    "Nothing to it," growled the Inspector. "There's a door 'way back in the shadows of the room. It wasn't locked—never is—because these fools took it for granted that if the outer door was locked, the inner door didn't have to be. Anyway, it heads right onto a corridor which is parallel with the corridor that runs past the night-watchman's office, but further into the body of the main floor. In the darkness, it must have been ridiculously easy to slip through the door, sneak down that corridor, turn the corner, and cover the thirty feet or so to the elevator and stairs. That's probably the answer."
    "How about the master-key in that office downstairs?" asked Ellery. "Did the day-man say anything about it?"
    "Nothing there," replied the Inspector disconsolately. "O'Shane is his name, and he swears the key never left the locked drawer during his shift."
    The door opened and Hesse escorted a preternaturally tall man with penetrating eyes and a straggly grey beard into the room. He was handsome in a sophisticated way, and striking. Ellery noted with interest the triangular lean jaw. The man was dressed carelessly, but in clothes of quality. He bowed stiffly to the Inspector and stood waiting. His eyes shifted luminously from man to man in the room.
    "I had barely a chance of talking to you downstairs, Mr. Carmody," said the Inspector pleasantly. "There are a few things I want to ask you. Won't you sit down?"
    Carmody dropped into a chair. He nodded curtly to Weaver as he caught the secretary's eye, but said nothing.
    "Now, Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector, striding up and down before the desk at which Ellery sat quietly, "a few unimportant but necessary questions. Hagstrom, you're ready?" He cocked an eye at the detective, who nodded, notebook in hand. The Inspector resumed his march on the rug. Suddenly he looked up. Carmody's eyes burned deeply into thin air.
    "Mr. Carmody," said the Inspector abruptly, "I understand that you are the sole owner of the Holbein Studios, dealing in antiques?"
    "That is precisely correct," said Carmody. His voice was startling—low and vibrant and deliberate.
    "You were married to Mrs. French, and divorced some seven years ago?"
    "That is also correct." There was a finality in his tones that impinged unpleasantly on the ear. He emanated an aura of complete self-control.
    "Have you seen Mrs. French since your divorce?"
    "Yes. Many times."
    "Socially? There was no particular unpleasantness in your relations?"
    "None whatever. Yes, I met Mrs. French socially."
    The Inspector was slightly nettled. This witness answered exactly what he was asked, and no more.
    "How often, Mr. Carmody?"
    "As often as twice a week during the social season."
    "And you last saw her—"
    "A week ago Monday evening, at a dinner given by Mrs. Standish Prince at Mrs. Prince's home."
    "You spoke to her?"
    "Yes." Carmody stirred. "Mrs. French was very much interested in antiques, an interest cultivated perhaps during our marriage." The man seemed made of steel. He showed not the faintest trace of emotion. "We conversed for a time about a Chippendale chair she was particularly anxious to have."
    "Anything else, Mr. Carmody?"
    "Yes. About our daughter."
    "Ah!" The Inspector pursed his lips, pulled at his mustache. "Miss Bernice Carmody was placed in the custody of your wife after your divorce?"
    "Yes."
    "You have seen your daughter periodically, perhaps?"
    "Yes. Although Mrs. French secured custody of my daughter, our informal arrangement at the time of our divorce was that I might see the child at any time." A warm color floated into his voice. The Inspector regarded him quickly, looked away. He plunged into a new line of questioning.
    "Mr. Carmody, can you suggest any possible explanation to account for this crime?"
    "No, I cannot." Carmody grew colder at once. For no apparent reason his eyes shifted to Ellery, and held there intently for an instant.
    "Had Mrs. French any enemies, to your knowledge?"
    "No. She was singularly free from the profundity of character which so often breeds animosity in others." Carmody might have been talking of an utter stranger; his tone, his bearing were wholly impersonal.
    "Not even yourself, Mr. Carmody?" asked the Inspector softly.
    "Not even myself, Inspector," said Carmody in the same frozen tones. "If it is any concern of yours, my love for my wife dwindled during our wedded life and when it had entirely disappeared, I secured a divorce. I felt no bitterness toward her then, nor do I now. You will, of course," he added without a change in inflection, "have to take my word for that."
    "Did Mrs. French seem nervous the last few times you saw her? Did anything seem to be troubling her? Did she give you any clue to a possible secret worry?"
    "Our conversations, Inspector, were hardly of so intimate a nature. I noticed nothing unusual about her. Mrs. French was an extraordinarily prosaic person. Not at all the worrying kind, I can assure you."
    The Inspector paused, Carmody sat quietly. Then he spoke, without warning, without passion. He merely opened his mouth and began to speak, but it was so unexpected that the Inspector started violently and took a hasty pinch of snuff to conceal his agitation.
    "Inspector, you are evidently questioning me with the secret hope that I may have something to do with the crime, or that I may be in the possession of vital information. Inspector, you are wasting your time." Carmody leaned forward, his eyes strangely blazing. "Believe me when I say that I haven't the slightest interest either in the live Mrs. French—or the dead Mrs. French. Or the whole damned French tribe put together. My own concern is with my daughter. I understand that she is missing. If she is, there has been foul play. If you have any idea in your head that my daughter is a matricide, the more fool you.... You will be perpetrating a crime against an innocent girl if you do not immediately seek to discover Bernice's present whereabouts and the reason for her disappearance. And in that connection, you are welcome to my unstinting co-operation. If you do not look for her immediately, I shall set private detectives on her trail. I think that is all."
    Carmody rose to his astonishing height and stood immovably waiting.
    The Inspector stirred. "I should advise a slight softening of tone in the future, Mr. Carmody," he said dryly. "You may go."
    Without another word the antique-dealer turned and left the apartment.
    "Well, what do you think of Mr. Carmody?" asked Queen quizzically.
    "I've never known an antiquarian who wasn't queer in some way," laughed Ellery. "Cool customer, however.... Dad, I should very much like to see Monsieur Lavery again."
    The Frenchman was pale and nervous when he was conducted into the library. He seemed excessively tired and sank into a chair at once, stretching his long legs with a sigh.
    "You might have provided chairs outside in the corridor," he said reproachfully to the Inspector. "My good fortune to be the last called! C'est la vie, hein?" He shrugged his shoulders humorously. "May I smoke, Inspector?"
    He lit a cigaret without waiting for a reply.
    Ellery rose and shook himself vigorously. He looked at Lavery, and Lavery looked at him, and both smiled for no apparent reason.
    "I shall be brutally frank, Mr. Lavery," drawled Ellery. "You are a man of the world. You will not be constrained by a false sense of discretion.... Mr. Lavery, have you ever suspected during your stay with the Frenches, that Bernice Carmody is a drug addict?"
    Lavery started, regarded Ellery with alert eyes. "You have discovered that already? And without seeing the girl? My felicitations, Mr. Queen.... To your question, let me reply without hesitation—yes."
    "Oh, I say!" protested Weaver suddenly, from his corner. "How could you know, Lavery? On such a short acquaintance?"
    "I know the symptoms, Weaver," said Lavery mildly. "The sallow, almost saffron complexion; the slightly protruding eyeballs; the bad teeth; the unnatural nervousness and excitability; a certain air of furtiveness constantly maintained; the sudden hysteria and the more sudden recovery; the excessive thinness, growing more patent with every passing day—no, it was not difficult to diagnose the young lady's ailment." He turned to Ellery with a quick gesture of his thin fingers. "Let me make it perfectly clear that my opinion is just an opinion, little more. I have no definite evidence of any kind. But, short of medical advices to the contrary, I should be ready as a layman to swear that the girl is a drug fiend in an advanced stage!"
    Weaver groaned. "The Old Man—"
    "Of course, we're all terribly sorry about that," put in the Inspector quickly. "You suspected her of being an addict at once, Mr. Lavery?"
    "From the moment I laid eyes on her," said the Frenchman emphatically. "It was a source of constant astonishment to me that more people did not observe what was so perfectly plain to me."
    "Perhaps they did—perhaps they did," muttered Ellery, brows drawn taut. He brushed a vagrant thought away and addressed Lavery once more.
    "Have you ever been in this room before, Mr. Lavery?" he asked, à propos of nothing.
    "In Mr. French's apartment?" cried Lavery. "Why, every day, sir. Mr. French has been more than kind, and I have used this room incessantly since my arrival in New York."
    "Then there is nothing more to be said," Ellery smiled. "You may now retire to your lecture-room, if it isn't too late, and carry on the grand work of continentalizing America. Good day, sir!"
    Lavery bowed, showed his white teeth all around, and left the apartment with long strides.
    Ellery sat down at the desk and wrote earnestly on the fly-leaf of his sadly abused little book.