The French Powder Mystery — 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."
    "How about this tall blond man, Crouther?" asked Ellery, puffing furiously at his cigaret. "We should be able to get a fairly complete description of him from the taxicab driver."
    Crouther scratched his head. "Never thought of askin' the guy," he confessed. "Here, Inspector—how about your boys taking it up from where I've left off? I got plenty of work at the store, now that things are shot to pieces down there.... Want this driver's name and address?"
    "Certainly." The Inspector wrestled inwardly with a spiritual problem as Crouther wrote out the name and address. When the store detective handed it to him it was evident that virtue had won, for he smiled weakly and stretched out his hand. "Let me congratulate you, Crouther. That was a good night's work!"
    Crouther pumped the Inspector's hand up and down heartily, grinning. "Glad to help, Inspector—that's a fact. Just goes to prove that us boys on the outside do know a thing or two, eh? I always say—"
    The doorbell trilled, relieving the Inspector of the embarrassment of having his hand held. Ellery and the old man looked at each other for a fleeting instant. Then Ellery sprang toward the door.
    "Expecting company, Inspector?" asked Crouther broadly. "Don't want to butt in. I guess I'd better—"
    "No, no, Crouther, stay right where you are! I have an idea you may come in handy," called Ellery rapidly, as he made for the door in the anteroom.
    Crouther beamed and sat down again.
    Ellery threw open the door. Westley Weaver, his hair rumpled, a worried look on his face, walked hurriedly into the apartment.