The French Powder Mystery - (9)

"No scolding now," he said, reaching for a piece of toast. "Have breakfast yet? No? Waiting for the sluggard? Regale yourself with this Olympian coffee--we can talk as we eat."
    "What time?" repeated the Inspector inexorably, sitting down at the table.
    "To be temporal," said Ellery, his mouth full of coffee, "it was three-twenty A.M."
    The old man's eyes softened. "Shouldn't do that," he mumbled, reaching for the percolator. "It'll fag you."
    "Essential." Ellery drained his cup. "There are things to do, Sire.... Have you heard anything this morning?"
    "Plenty that means nothing," said the Inspector. "I've been at that 'phone since seven.... Got a preliminary autopsy report from Sam Prouty. Nothing to add to what he said yesterday except that there are absolutely no signs of drug poisoning or addiction. The woman was certainly not a 'dope.'"
    "Interesting, and not necessarily uninformative," smiled Ellery. "What else?"
    "Knowles, the firearms man, was vague enough to make it unexciting. He claims that he couldn't place the distance the bullets traveled before they entered the body, exactly to the foot. The angles are easily determined, but from his calculations the murderer might be anywhere from five to six feet in height. Not very illuminating, eh?"
    "Hardly. We'll never convict anybody on that kind of evidence. But I can scarcely blame Knowles. These things are rarely absolute. How about the absentees from the store yesterday?"
    The Inspector scowled. "Had one of the boys checking up with MacKenzie all yesterday evening. Just had MacKenzie on the wire. Everybody accounted for, not a thing suspicious or unexplained. And as for this Carmody girl, poor Thomas had his strings out all night. Combed the neighborhood. Contacted the Missing Persons Bureau. I tipped him off on the drug business, and the Narcotic Squad's been busy checking up on known dives. Nothing doing. Not a trace of her."
    "Just dropped out of existence...." Ellery frowned, poured himself another cup of coffee. "I'll confess the girl has me worried. As I said yesterday, all signs point to her having been done away with. If not done away with, then certainly held very securely in a remote hide-out. If I were the murderer, I think I'd add her to my list of victims.... There's just a bare chance that she may be alive, dad. Velie must redouble his efforts."
    "Don't worry about Thomas," said the Inspector grimly. "If she's alive, he'll find her in time. If she's dead--Well! He's doing all he can."
    The telephone bell rang again. The Inspector answered.
    "Yes, this is Inspector Queen talking...." His tone changed magically. It dripped formality. "Good morning, Commissioner. What can I do for you?... Well, sir, we're getting along very nicely. We've gathered together a heap of threads, and it's not twenty-four hours since we found the body.... Oh, no! Mr. French has been a bit upset about the whole affair. We've gone quite easy on him--nothing to worry about there, sir.... Yes, I know. We're making it as comfortable for him as we can under the circumstances.... No, Commissioner. Lavery has an absolutely unimpeachable reputation. A foreigner, of course.... What's that? Absolutely no!... We have a perfectly natural explanation for that scarf of Miss Marion French's, sir. Well, I'm relieved too, to tell the truth, Commissioner.... Quick solution? Commissioner, it will be quicker than that!... Yes, sir, I know.... Thank you, Commissioner. I'll keep you posted."
    "And that," said the Inspector in a deadly voice, as he hung up the receiver carefully and turned a livid face toward Ellery, "is a sample of the blank-dangest, extra-soft-boiled, unmitigated blatherskite of a mud-hen of a police commissioner that this or any city ever had!"
    Ellery laughed aloud. "You'll be frothing at the mouth if you don't control yourself. Every time I hear you rave about Welles I'm reminded of that sage Germanic dictum: 'Who fills an office must learn to bear reproach and blame.'"
    "On the contrary, I'm getting soft words from Welles," said the Inspector, in a calmer tone. "He's frightened out of his wits about this French affair. French wields a lot of power for a harmless old reformer, and Welles doesn't like the possibilities. Did you hear the absolute nonsense I salved him with over the phone? Sometimes I think I've lost my self-respect."
    But Ellery was suddenly plunged in thought. His eyes had spied the five books from French's desk, which now lay on an end-table nearby. With an indistinct murmur of sympathy, he rose and sauntered over to the table, fingering the books affectionately. The old man's eyes narrowed.
    "Out with it!" he said. "You've discovered something in those books!" He hopped out of his chair suspiciously.
    "Yes, I think I have," replied Ellery slowly. He picked up the five books and carried them to the breakfast-table. "Sit down, dad. My work last night wasn't entirely wasted."
    They sat down. The Inspector's eyes were bright and curious as he chose one of the books at random and riffled its pages aimlessly. Ellery watched him.
    "Suppose, dad," said Ellery, "you take up these five books and go through them. Here's the situation. You have five volumes, the only fact to go on being that they're queer books for a certain person to possess. You're looking for a reason to explain why those five books are where they are. Go to it."
    He lit a cigaret thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke at the paneled ceiling. The Inspector seized on the volumes and attacked them singly. When he had finished with one, he took up the next, and so on until he had examined all five. The wrinkles on his forehead deepened. He looked up at Ellery out of very puzzled eyes.
    "Danged if I can see anything remarkable in these books, Ellery. There doesn't seem to be a point of similarity among them."
    Ellery smiled, drew his body forward abruptly. He tapped the books with a long forefinger for emphasis. "That's exactly why they are remarkable," he said. "There doesn't seem to be a point of similarity. And in fact, except for one little link, they haven't any points of similarity."
    "You're talking Greek," said the Inspector. "Elucidate."
    For answer Ellery rose and disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared in a moment with a long slip of paper on which were copiously inscribed in a weird series of scrawled characters a body of notes.
    "This," he announced, reseating himself at the table, "is the result of last night's séance with the ghosts of five authors' brain-children.... Lend ear, Father Queen.
    "The books, by title and author, are as follows--just to make the analysis entirely clear: New Developments in Philately, by Hugo Salisbury. Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce, by Stani Wedjowski. A Child's History of Music, by Ramon Freyberg. An Outline of Paleontology, by John Morrison. And finally, Nonsense Anthology, by A. I. Throckmorton.
    "Let's analyze these five books.
    "Number one. The titles have not the slightest connection with each other. Because of this fact, we can discard any thought that the subject matter of the books is relevant to our investigation.
    "Number two. The dissimilarity is further heightened by a number of small points. For example, all the covers are of different colors. True, there are two blues, but they are of distinct hues. The sizes are different: three of the books are oversize, and all of these oversizes have differing dimensions: one of the books is a pocket edition; the last book is of average size. The bindings are different: three of them are of cloth, but of different grain; one of them is a de luxe leather binding; one of them is bound in linen. The inner format is different. In two cases the paper is light India in shade; in the other three white is used. Of the white different weights are apparent. The type-style, on examination, although I know little enough about such technical matters, is in each instance different. The number of pages differs also--and their actual enumeration elicits no intelligible message. They mean nothing.... Even in price they show dissimilarity. The leather-covered is three-fifty, and the pocket edition is a dollar and a half. The publishers are different. The dates of issue and number of editions are different...."
    "But Ellery--of course--they're more or less obvious ..." objected the Inspector. "Where does this lead you?"
    "In an analysis," returned Ellery, "nothing is too trivial to be overlooked. They may mean nothing and they may mean a heap. In any case, they are definite facts about these five books. And if they point to nothing else, they certainly indicate that physically the books differ in practically every respect.
    "Number three--and this is the first exciting development--the right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--let me repeat that: the right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--has the notation in hard pencil of a date!"
    "A date?" The Inspector snatched one of the books from the table and turned to the back inside leaf. There, in the upper right-hand corner, was a tiny penciled date. He examined the other four books and they exhibited in exactly the same places similar penciled dates.
    "If," continued Ellery calmly, "you arrange these dates arbitrarily in their chronological order this is the result:
    4/13/19-- 4/21/19-- 4/29/19-- 5/7 /19-- 5/16/19--
    "By consulting the calendar I discovered that these dates represent, progressively as I have given them: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Monday."
    "That's interesting," muttered the Inspector. "Why is Sunday omitted?"
    "A valuable little point," said Ellery. "In four cases we have consecutive days of the week, one week apart. In one case a day--Sunday--is skipped. That this is an oversight on the part of the dater is not likely; that a book is missing is impossible, because the number of days between the first four dates is eight, and the fifth is increased only to nine. Plainly, then, Sunday was omitted for the reason that Sunday is generally omitted--it is a non-working day. What the work is I haven't at the moment an answer for. But we may take the irregularity in the case of the Sunday omission as a logical irregularity which you will find in any part of the business world."
    "Follows," commented the Inspector.
    "Very well. We now come to point number four. And this is of considerable interest. Dad, take up the five books and read the titles in the chronological order of their dates."
    The old man obeyed. "Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce, by Stani Wedjowski. The--"
    "One moment," interrupted Ellery. "What's the date on the back inside leaf?"
    "April thirteenth."
    "What day is April thirteenth?"
    "Wednesday."
    Ellery's face lit up triumphantly. "Well?" he cried. "Don't you see the connection?"
    The Inspector looked slightly nettled. "Darned if I do.... The second one is Nonsense Anthology, by A. I. Throckmorton."
    "Date and day?"
    "Thursday, April twenty-first.... The next is A Child's History of Music, by Ramon Freyberg--Friday, April twenty--By jinks, Ellery! Friday, April twenty-ninth!"
    "Yes, go on," said Ellery approvingly.
    The Inspector concluded rapidly. "New Developments in Philately, by Hugo Salisbury--and that's Saturday, May seventh.... And the last one is An Outline of Paleontology, by John Morrison--Monday, of course.... Ellery, this is really amazing! In every case the day coincides with the first two letters of the author's last name!"
    "And that's one of the major results of my all-night session," smiled Ellery. "Pretty, isn't it? _We_djowski--Wednesday. _Th_rockmorton--Thursday. _Fr_eyberg--Friday. _Sa_lisbury--Saturday. And _Mo_rrison--Monday, with Sunday obligingly omitted. Coincidence? Hardly, hardly, dad!"
    "There's dirty work at the crossroads, all right, my son," said the Inspector with a sudden grin. "This doesn't make any impression on me as far as the murder is concerned, but it's mighty interesting nevertheless. Code, by George!"
    "If the murder is worrying you," retorted Ellery, "harken to my point number five.... We have five dates so far. April thirteenth, April twenty-first, April twenty-ninth, May seventh, and May sixteenth. Let us suppose, for the sake of blessed argument, that there is a sixth book somewhere in limbo. Then, by all the laws of probability, that sixth book, if it exists, should bear a date eight days from Monday the sixteenth of May, which is--"
    The Inspector leaped to his feet. "Why, this is extraordinary, Ellery," he cried. "Tuesday, May twenty-fourth--the day of...." His voice fell flatly in a curious disappointment. "No, that's not the day of the murder; it's the day after the murder."
    "Now, dad," laughed Ellery, "don't go moping so soon because of a little thing like that. It is extraordinary, as you say. If a sixth book is extant, then it bears the date of May twenty-fourth. If we can do nothing else at this time, we can certainly suppose the existence of that sixth book. The continuity is too compelling. Things don't merely happen that way.... This problematical sixth book gives us our first definite link between the books and the crime.... Dad, has it occurred to you that our criminal had to do something on Tuesday morning, the twenty-fourth of May?"
    The Inspector stared at him. "You think the book--"
    "Oh, I think so many things," said Ellery ruefully, rising and stretching his lean figure. "But it does seem to me that we have every reason to believe in the existence of a sixth book. And there is only one possible clue to that sixth book...."
    "It's author's name begins with Tu," said the Inspector quickly.
    "Exactly." Ellery gathered up the tell-tale volumes and stowed them carefully away in a drawer of a large desk. He returned to the table and looked thoughtfully down at his father's grey head with its tiny pink bald spot.
    "All night," he said, "I have felt that one person alone can furnish me--willingly--with the missing information.... Dad, there is a story behind these codified books, and the story is undoubtedly tied up with the crime. I am so positive of that that I'll bet you a dinner at Pietro's."
    "I don't bet," growled the Inspector, twinkling, "at least with you, you dunderhead. And who's this know-it-all?"
    "Westley Weaver," replied Ellery. "And he doesn't know it all. I believe that he is withholding some information which to him is meaningless, but which to us may mean a solution of the mystery. I believe that if for any reason he is deliberately withholding this information, that reason concerns Marion French. Poor Wes thinks Marion is up to her knees in the muck of this thing. And perhaps he's right--who knows? At any rate, if there's one person in this whole investigation whom I trust implicitly it's Westley. He's a little dense at times, but he's the real thing.... I do believe I'll have a little chat with Westley. It may do us all good to have him down here for a round-table discussion."
    He took up the telephone and gave the number of the French store. The Inspector watched him dubiously as he waited.
    "Wes? This is Ellery Queen.... Can you jump into a cab, Westley, and come down to my place for a half-hour or so? It's quite important.... Yes, drop everything and come over."
    26
    THE TRAIL TO BERNICE
    The Inspector prowled about the apartment in a fever of restlessness. Ellery completed his toilet in the bedroom and listened calmly to his father's occasional outbursts of invective against fate, crime and police commissioners. Djuna, silent as ever, removed the breakfast things from the living-room table and retired to his kitchenette.
    "Of course," said the Inspector in a more lucid moment, "Prouty did say that he and Knowles were pretty sure Mrs. French was sitting down when the second shot was fired. That corroborates part of your analysis, anyway."
    "It helps," said Ellery, struggling with his shoes. "Expert testimony never hurt any trial, especially when the experts are men like Prouty and Knowles."
    Queen snorted. "You haven't seen as many trials as I have.... But what gets me is that revolver. Knowles says the bullets are from one of those black .38 Colts that you can buy for a dime a dozen from any 'fence.' Of course, if Knowles could get hold of the gun, he could absolutely establish that the bullets were shot from it, because they still retain enough barrel marks of a unique character to make identification positive. Incidentally, they're both from the same gun. But how on earth can we get hold of it?"
    "You're riddling," said Ellery. "I don't know."
    "And without the gun we're terribly short of vital evidence. It isn't in the French store--the boys have searched from cellar to roof. Then the murderer took it away with him. Too much to expect that we'll ever get our hands on it."
    "Well," remarked Ellery, putting on a smoking-jacket, "I shouldn't be so positive. Criminals do stupid things, dad, as you know better than I. Although I will admit that--"
    The doorbell rang imperiously and Ellery started in astonishment. "Why, that can't be Westley so soon!"
    The Inspector and Ellery went into the library and found a very dignified little Djuna ushering William Crouther, the French store detective, into the room. Crouther was flushed and excited; he began to speak at once.
    "Morning, gentlemen, morning!" he cried genially. "Resting up after a hard day, eh, Inspector? Well, I think I've got something you'll be interested in--yes, sir, that's a fact."
    "Glad to see you, Crouther," lied the Inspector, while Ellery's eyes narrowed as if in anticipation of the news Crouther had to transmit. "Sit down, man, and tell us all about it."
    "Thank you, thank you, Inspector," said Crouther, sinking into the Inspector's sacred armchair with an explosive sigh. "I haven't been exactly sleeping myself," he announced as a preliminary, chuckling. "Did considerable flat-footing last night and I've been on the go since six this morning."
    "Honest toil requireth no reward before heaven," murmured Ellery.
    "Eh?" Crouther seemed puzzled, but a grin spread over his florid face as he fumbled in his breast-pocket and produced two oily cigars. "Little joke, eh, Mr. Queen? Smoke, Inspector? You, Mr. Queen?... Don't mind if I do myself." He lit the cigar and flicked the burnt match carelessly into the fireplace. A pained spasm passed over the face of Djuna, who was removing the last traces of the breakfast meal from the table. Djuna was tyrannical when his household was upset. He cast a venomous glance at Crouther's broad back and stumped away into the kitchenette.
    "Well, Crouther, what is it?" demanded the Inspector with a crackle of impatience in his voice. "Spill it, spill it!"
    "Right you are, Inspector." Crouther lowered his voice mysteriously, leaning forward toward the two men and emphasizing his forthcoming remarks with the butt of his fuming cigar. "What do you think I've been doing?"
    "We haven't the slightest idea," said Ellery, with interest.
    "I've--been--on--the--trail--of--Bernice Carmody!" whispered Crouther in a vibrant bass voice.
    "Oh!" The Inspector was patently disappointed. He regarded Crouther morosely. "Is that all? I've got a squad of my best men on the same job, Crouther."
    "Well," said Crouther, leaning back and flicking ashes on the carpet, "I didn't exactly expect you to kiss me at that statement, Inspector--that's a fact.... But," his voice lowered cunningly again, "I'll bet your men didn't get what I got!"
    "Oh, you got something, did you?" asked the Inspector quickly. "Now, that is news, Crouther. Sorry I was so hasty.... Just what is it you've dug up?"
    Crouther leered triumphantly. "The trail of the girl out of the city!"
    Ellery's eyes flickered with sincere surprise. "You got that far, did you?" He turned to his father with a smile. "That seems to be one on Velie, dad."
    The Inspector looked disgruntled and curious at the same time. "I'll be hanged for a rascal!" he muttered. "How did you do it and what's the dope exactly, Crouther?"
    "It was this way," said Crouther promptly, crossing his legs and puffing smoke into the air. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. "I've worked all along--with due respect to you and your boys, Inspector--on the idea that this Bernice Carmody was done away with. Kidnapped, murdered--I don't know--but somethin' like that. I felt that she didn't do the job, although the signs do point to her, and that's a fact.... So I took the liberty of snoopin' around the French house last night and seeing what I could see about how the girl got out of the place. Saw this housekeeper up there and she told me what she told you, I guess. Don't mind, Inspector?... Anyway, I found out too about that 'special' who saw her walkin' down the Drive toward 72nd Street. That set me going, and before I got stuck I'd traced her a long way. I found a cruising cab-driver who said he picked up a woman of her description on West End Avenue and 72nd. Private cab, it is; and I guess I was just lucky, that's all. This whole business of trailing is part luck and part perspiration--fact, ain't it, Inspector?"
    "Ummh," said the Inspector sourly. "You've certainly put one over on Tom Velie. What then? Get any more?"
    "Sure did!" Crouther relit his cigar. "Driver took the girl to the Hotel Astor. She told him to wait for her. She went into the lobby and in about two minutes came out again with a tall blond man dressed kind of swell, and carrying a suitcase. They piled into the cab. Driver said the girl seemed kind of scared, but she didn't say anything, and the tall man told him to take 'em for a drive through Central Park. In the Park, just about the middle, man tapped on the window and told the driver to stop--they were goin' to get out. That was what made the driver kind of leery, anyway--couldn't ever remember anybody payin' off in the middle of the Park. But he didn't say anything, and the blond gent paid the fare and told him to drive off. He did, but not before he'd caught a look at the girl's face. She was pale and sort of half-shot--looked drunk, he said. So he just moved off slow and careless, and kept his eyes open. And sure enough, he saw the pair of 'em go over to a parked car not fifty feet away, get in, and right away the car shot out of the Park goin' uptown!"
    "Well," said the Inspector in a hushed voice, "that's quite a story. We'll have to look over this cab-driver.... Did he catch the license-number of the car?"
    "Too far away," said Crouther, scowling for an instant. Then his face cleared. "But he wasn't too far away to spot the fact that it had a Massachusetts license-plate."
    "Excellent, Crouther, excellent!" cried Ellery suddenly, springing to his feet. "Thank goodness some one has kept his head about him! What kind of car was it--did your man see?"
    "Yep," grinned Crouther, expanding under the praise. "Closed car--sedan--dark blue--and a Buick. How's that?"
    "Mighty nice work," said the Inspector grudgingly. "How did the girl act on the trip over to the other automobile?"
    "Well, the driver couldn't see so well," said Crouther, "but he did tell me that the girl sort of stumbled and the tall man grabbed her arm and sort of forced her."
    "Slick, slick!" muttered the Inspector. "Did he catch a glimpse of the driver in the closed car?"
    "Nope. But there must have been some one in the Buick, because our man says the couple climbed into the back, and then the car streaked it right out of the Park."