The French Powder Mystery - (5)

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.
    19
    OPINIONS AND REPORTS
    Inspector Queen stood Napoleonically in the center of the library, staring vindictively at the anteroom door. He muttered to himself, turning his head slowly from side to side like a terrier.
    He beckoned to Crouther, the head store detective, who was assisting one of the photographers at the door of the cardroom.
    "Look here, Crouther, you ought to be in a good position to know about this." The Inspector filled his nostrils with snuff. The burly store detective scraped his jaw expectantly. "Seeing that door there reminded me. What in heaven's name was French's idea in having a special spring lock put on the corridor door? Seems to me that for an apartment only occasionally used this is pretty well guarded."
    Crouther grinned deprecatingly. "Now don't go bothering your head about that, Inspector. The old boy's just a bug on privacy, that's all. Hates to be interrupted--that's a fact."
    "But a burglar-proof lock in a burglar-proof building!"
    "Well," said Crouther, "you either have to take him that way or go nuts. Matter of fact, Inspector," he lowered his voice, "he's always been a little queer on some subjects. I can remember like to-day the morning I got a written order from the boss, with signatures and a lot of that bunk, requisitioning a specially made lock. That was when they were remodeling the apartment, about two years ago. Sol followed my orders and had an expert locksmith manufacture the dingus on that outside door. Boss liked it pretty much, too--was happy as an Irish cop."
    "How about this business of setting a man at the door?" demanded the Inspector. "Certainly that lock would keep out anybody who wasn't wanted."
    "We-ell," said Crouther hesitantly, "the boss is such a bug on this privacy business that he didn't even want knocks on the door. Guess that's why he asked me for a man to stand guard every once in a while. Always kept the boys in the corridor, too--they hate the job, the whole crew of 'em. Couldn't even come into the anteroom and sit down."
    The Inspector scowled down at his regulation policeman's boots for a moment and crooked his finger at Weaver.
    "Come here, my boy." Weaver trudged wearily across the rug. "Just what's behind French's craze for privacy? From what Crouther tells me, this place is like a fortress most times. Who in heaven's name is allowed in here besides his family?"
    "It's just an idiosyncrasy of the Old Man's, Inspector," said Weaver. "Don't take it too seriously. He's a good deal of an eccentric. Very few people see the inside of this apartment. Apart from myself, the immediate family, the Board of Directors, and during the last month Mr. Lavery, practically no one in the store organization is allowed in here. No, that's not quite true. MacKenzie, the store manager, is called in occasionally to get direct orders from the Old Man--was in last week, in fact. But aside from MacKenzie, this place is a complete mystery to the store forces."
    "You tell 'em, Mr. Weaver," put in Crouther jocularly.
    "And that's how it is, Inspector," continued Weaver. "Not even Crouther has been here in the past few years."
    "Last time I saw this place before this morning," amended Crouther, "was two years ago when they were redecorating and refurnishing it." He grew red in the face at the thought of some secret injury. "That's a heck of a way to treat a head store detective, believe me."
    "You ought to work for the City, Crouther," said the Inspector grimly. "Shut up and be satisfied with a soft job!"
    "I should explain, if I haven't done so before," added Weaver, "that the taboo is more or less limited to employees. A great many people come here, but most of the visits are strictly by appointment with the Old Man, and his visitors come on Anti-Vice League business. Clergymen, most of them. A few politicians, not many."
    "That's a fact," put in Crouther.
    "Well!" The Inspector shot a keen glance toward the two men before him. "It looks mighty bad for this Carmody girl, eh? What do you think?"
    Weaver looked pained and half-turned away.
    "Well, I don't know about that, Inspector," said Crouther with heavy importance. "My own ideas about this case--"
    "Eh? Your own ideas?" The Inspector looked startled, then suppressed a smile. "What are your own ideas, Crouther? Might be of some value--never can tell."
    Ellery, who had been sitting abstractedly at the desk, listening to the conversation with half-cocked ears, jammed his little volume into his pocket, rose, and sauntered idly over to the group.
    "What's this? A post-mortem?" he demanded, smiling. "And what do I hear, Crouther, about an idea of yours on the case?"
    Crouther looked embarrassed for a moment and shuffled his feet. But then he squared his thick shoulders and lashed out into speech, openly enjoying his rôle of orator.
    "I think," he began--
    "Ah!" said the Inspector.
    "I think," Crouther repeated, unabashed, "that Miss Carmody is a victim. Yes, sir, victim of a frame-up!"
    "No!" murmured Ellery.
    "Go on," said the Inspector curiously.
    "It's as plain as the nose--beg pardon, Inspector--on your face. Who ever heard of a girl bumping her own mother off? It ain't natural."
    "But the cards, Crouther--the shoes, the hat," said the Inspector gently.
    "Just hooey, Inspector," said Crouther with confidence. "Hell! That's no trick, to plant a pair o' shoes and a hat. No, sir, you can't tell me Miss Carmody did the job. Don't believe it and won't believe it. I go on common sense, and that's a fact. Girl shoot her own mother! No, sir!"
    "Well, there's something in that," remarked the Inspector sententiously. "What do you make of Miss Marion French's scarf, while you're analyzing the crime, Crouther? Think she's mixed up in it anywhere?"
    "Who? That little girl?" Crouther expanded, snorted. "Say, that's another plant. Or else she left it here by mistake. Kind o' like the plant idea, though, myself. Fact!"
    "You would say, then," interpolated Ellery, "while you're on the Holmesian track, that this is a case of--what?"
    "Don't get you entirely, sir," said Crouther stoutly, "but it looks darned near like a case of murder and kidnapping. Can't see any other way to explain it."
    "Murder and kidnapping?" Ellery smiled. "Not a bad idea at that. Good recitation, Crouther."
    The detective beamed. Weaver, who had resolutely refrained from commenting, heaved a sigh of relief when a knock on the outer door interrupted the conversation.
    The policeman stationed outside opened the door to admit a weazened little man, completely bald, carrying a bulging brief-case.
    "Afternoon, Jimmy!" said the Inspector cheerfully. "Got anything for us in that bag of yours?"
    "Sure have, Inspector," squeaked the little old man. "Got down here as fast as I could.--Hello, Mr. Queen."
    "Glad to see you, Jimmy," said Ellery, and the expression on his face was one of intense expectancy. At this moment the photographers and fingerprint investigators trooped into the library, hats and coats on, their apparatus stowed away. "Jimmy" greeted them all by name.
    "Through here, Inspector," announced one of the photographers. "Any orders?"
    "Not at the moment." Queen turned to the fingerprint men. "Anybody find anything?"
    "Got a lot of prints," reported one of them, "but practically all came from this room. Not a one in the cardroom and none in the bedroom, except for a few stray prints of Mr. Queen's, here."
    "Anything in the prints from this room?"
    "Hard to say. If the room's been used all morning by this Board of Directors, chances are they're all legitimate. We'll have to get hold of these people and check their prints. Okay, Inspector?"
    "Go ahead. But be nice about it, boys." He waved them toward the door. "So long, Crouther. See you later."
    "Good enough," said Crouther cheerfully, and departed behind the police workers.
    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."