The French Powder Mystery - (11)

"Why, I asked myself, was it necessary to the plan to have the author's name--at least its first two letters--coincide with the first two letters of the day on which the book was to be picked up by the messenger? The question is answered if we suppose complete ignorance of detail on the part of the messenger. If, when he got his job, his first instructions, he was told the following, then the whole procedure becomes clear: 'Every week you are to call at the French Book Department for a book which will contain an address. The book will be on the top shelf of the fourth tier of book-racks situated in such and such a place in the Department. The book will always be on that shelf.... Now. Every week you are to call on a different day. Eight days apart, to be exact. Except when Sunday intervenes, and then it will be nine days--from the preceding Saturday to the following Monday. Let us say the morning you are due to call for the book is a Wednesday. Then the book you should pick up will be by an author whose last name begins with a WE, to correspond to the WE of Wednesday. To make identification absolutely positive, and to get you out of the Book Department as quickly as possible, so that you will not be compelled to rummage through every book on that shelf, a light pencil-mark will appear on the first two letters of the author's name, positively identifying the proper volume. You pick up the book, look at the back inner leaf to make sure the address is there, then buy the book and walk out of the store.'... Does that sound plausible?"
    There was a vehement chorus of assents from the three men.
    "It's a devilishly ingenious scheme," said Ellery thoughtfully, "if a little complicated. Really, though, the complications iron themselves away with the passage of time. The beauty of the plan is that the messenger needs his instructions only once, the first time, and he can carry on indefinitely, for months, without a slip-up.... The next Thursday he has to look for a pencil-mark on a book whose author's last name begins with TH; the Friday following, an FR; and so on. What the messenger does with the book when he gets it is debatable. From the look of things, this is a highly centralized society of drug distributors, with the pawns in the game knowing as little as possible about the business at hand, probably being kept in complete ignorance of the ringleader or leaders. The question naturally arises--"
    "But why," asked Weaver, "that period of eight days? Why not merely every week on the same day?"
    "A good question, and it has, I think, a simple answer," replied Ellery. "These people were taking not the slightest chance of a slip-up. If a certain person came into the Book Department at nine o'clock every Monday, he might after a time be noticed and remarked on. But coming in on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Wednesday, all a week and a day apart, there was little likelihood that he would be remembered."
    "My God, what a racket!" muttered Crouther. "No wonder we never got wind of it!"
    "Clever's no name for it," sighed the Inspector. "Then you think, Ellery, that the addresses are all local 'joints' for the selling of the dope?"
    "No question about it," said Ellery, lighting another cigaret. "And while we're remarking about cleverness, how does this strike you? The ring never uses the same address twice! That's patent from the different address each week. And it's apparent, too, that their system of distribution makes it a methodical weekly affair. Your Narcotic Squad has a chance to ferret out a drug depot if it's used week after week; people notice suspicious activity, perhaps; the address and the word go around through the grapevine of the underworld. But how can your Squad ever get on the track of a gang which uses a different depot every week? Why, the scheme is amazing. As it is, Fiorelli did get wind of two of the addresses through informers or stool-pigeons; the fact that he didn't get any other shows how holeproof the plot really is. And of course, when he raided the places, he found the ring gone--cleared out. They probably have an afternoon soirée week after week and dismantle the place immediately after the last customer's gone.
    "Now consider how safe the ring really is. They must have a regular channel of communication with their customers--and I suspect it's a limited list. Too many would be dangerous by their very numbers. That means, then, that the customers are wealthy, probably society people, who get a weekly tipoff by telephone, we'll say--just an address. They know the rest. And what can the customer do? What does he want to do? We all know the desperate, uncontrollable craving of the addict for his drug. Here he has a safe source of supply, and what's more important, a regular source of supply. No--the customers aren't blabbing. What could be sweeter?"
    "It staggers the imagination," muttered the Inspector. "What a plan! But if we clean them up this time--!"
    "I need only refer to the well-known cup and the better-known lip," laughed Ellery. "However, we'll see.
    "Some questions arise, as I began to say a few moments ago, more directly applicable to the murder. We may certainly presume that Bernice is--or was--one of the ring's customers. And I do believe that shady, mysterious motive of which we haven't been able to grasp the merest shadow, is beginning to emerge into daylight. Winifred French was not an addict. She carried in her bag a lipstick belonging to Bernice and filled with heroin.... And carried it to her death. A strong line of incident, dad! Very, very strong.... Interesting, isn't it, especially since we haven't been able to discover any other motive for the crime? But motive won't mean much in the unraveling of this case, I'm afraid; the big job is to corral the murderer and also to round up the drug ring. A dual task which presents to my deduction-weary mind a suggestion of difficulty....
    "Another question. Is Springer pawn or king in this drug game? My guess is--he's on the inside, knows all the facts, but is not top man. And the question naturally arises, too--did Mr. Springer fire the lethal weapon aimed at Mrs. French's heart? I'd rather not go into that at the moment.
    "And finally, doesn't this business of the drug ring indicate that Winifred's murder--and Bernice's disappearance--are integral parts of the same crime, rather than two unrelated crimes? I think it does, but I cannot see how we shall ever get to the truth of the matter unless--a certain eventuality occurs. Deponent being temporarily out of wind, deponent will sit down and think of the case in toto."
    And Ellery, without another word, seated himself and worried his pince-nez in a thoroughly absent manner.
    The Inspector, Weaver and Crouther sighed all at once.
    They were sitting that way, silently, looking at each other, when a short siren blast from the street below announced the arrival of Fiorelli, Velie and the raiding party.
    29
    RAID!
    The police van, crammed with detectives and officers, rushed through the West Side, headed uptown. Traffic opened magically before its wailing siren. Hundreds of eyes followed its reckless course wonderingly.
    The Inspector shouted to a grim and chagrined Velie, above the roar of the exhaust, Crouther's story of the lone taxicab driver and the mysterious automobile with the Massachusetts license-plate. The Sergeant gloomily promised an immediate check-up on the chauffeur's story and dissemination of the new information to all his operatives on the trail of the vanished girl. Crouther sat chuckling by his side as Velie took from the Inspector's hand the name and address of the cab-driver.
    Weaver had been excused, and with the arrival of the van had left to return to the French store.
    Fiorelli sat quietly chewing his fingernails. His face was haggard and feverish as he pulled the Inspector to one side.
    "Had a bunch of boys beat it up to the 98th Street address beforehand to surround the house," he boomed hoarsely. "Not taking any chances on their doing a fade-away. The boys are keeping under cover, but they won't let a rat slip through the net!"
    Ellery sat calmly in the van, watching the crowds jump into view and disappear. His fingers thrummed a rhythmic tattoo on the iron mesh obscuring the view.
    The powerful truck turned into 98th Street and dashed eastward. The neighborhood thickened, grew squalid. As the van plunged further toward the East River the on-rushing scene became one of ramshackle buildings and ramshackle humanity....
    At last the police car ground to a stop. A man in plain clothes had stepped suddenly from a doorway into the middle of the street, pointing meaningly toward a low, two-story building of rotten wood and peeled paint, leaning crazily over the sidewalk as if the slightest convulsion of nature would topple it, a brittle wreck, into the gutter. The front door was closed. The windows were heavily shaded. The house looked tenantless, lifeless.
    With the first grinding of the van's brakes, a dozen men in plain clothes ran into view from odd corners and doorways. Several in the dilapidated backyard of the house drew guns and advanced on the rear of the building. An avalanche of policemen and detectives poured out of the truck, headed by Fiorelli, Velie and the Inspector, Crouther close behind, and ran up the crumbling wooden steps to the front door.
    Fiorelli pounded fiercely on the cracked panels. There was not a whisper of audible response. At a sign from Inspector, Queen Velie and Fiorelli put their formidable shoulders to the door and shoved. The wood splintered and the door cracked back, revealing a dim, musty interior, a broken old chandelier, and a flight of uncarpeted steps leading up to a second floor.
    The police streamed into the building, investing both floors simultaneously, opening doors, pushing into corners, guns ready.
    And Ellery, sauntering leisurely behind, openly amused at the psychology of the gaping mob which had miraculously gathered outside the house, kept back by the clubs of several bluecoats, saw at once that the raid was a failure.
    The house was empty, without the least sign of occupancy.
    30
    REQUIEM
    They stood about in one of the dusty, deserted rooms--an old-fashioned parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely proclaiming its fall upon evil days--and talked quietly. Fiorelli was beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was one to be found in the neighborhood.
    Ellery said nothing.
    The detective returned shortly with a strapping, livid Negro.
    "Do you take care of this house?" asked the Inspector brusquely of the Negro.
    The Negro removed his rusty derby and shuffled his feet. "'Spects so, yassuh!"
    "What are you--janitor, superintendent?"
    "Kinda, suh. Ah takes care of a whole passel o' houses on dis block. Rents 'em fo' de ownahs when a tenant comes 'long."
    "I see. Was this house occupied yesterday?"
    The Negro bobbed his head vigorously. "Yassuh! 'Bout fo'-five days ago party comes 'long an' rents de whole house. Da's wha' de agent says when he brung 'm down. Paid de agent cash money fo' a month. Saw it wiv mah own eyes."
    "What sort of man was the tenant?"
    "Kinda shortish an' had a long black mustache, suh."
    "When did he move in?"
    "De nex' day--Sunday, Ah don' doubt. Van come moseyin' down wiv some fu'niture."
    "Did you see the name of the van company on the truck?"
    "Nosuh, sho' didn't. Dey weren't none. One o' dese open trucks wiv de sides covuhed wiv black ta'paulin. No name on de truck a-tall."
    "Did you see the man with the black mustache around much?"
    The Negro scratched his short woolly thatch. "Nosuh, kain't say Ah did. Don't believe Ah seed him a-tall till yestiddy mo'nin'."
    "How was that?"
    "Dat's when he moved out agin, suh. Didn't say nuffin' to me, but jes' about eleven o'clock in de mo'nin' de same truck she rolls up to de do' and de two drivuhs dey goes into de house an' purty soon dey stahts pilin' de fu'niture out o' de house an' into de truck. Didn't take 'em long--dey wan't much fu'niture, an' den Ah sees de boss-man come out o' de house, say sumpin' to de drivuhs, an' walk away. De truck went away, too. Yassuh, an' de boss-man jes' flung dat key de agent gave'm right out deah on de stoop o' de house befo' he walked off. Yassuh."
    The Inspector spoke in a low voice to Velie for a moment, then turned back to the Negro.
    "Did you see anybody go into the house during the four days?" asked the Inspector. "Especially Tuesday afternoon--yesterday?"
    "Why--yassuh, yestiddy, but not befo'. Mah old 'ooman, she sets out yonduh gen'ally all day, an' she told me las' night dat dey was a whole raft o' white folks comin' up to dat empty house all yestiddy aftuhnoon. Dey was all kinda put out when dey saw de house was closed. Oh, 'bout a dozen of 'em. Dey all went away quick."
    "That'll do," said the Inspector slowly. "Give your name and address and the name of the realty company you're working for to that man over there, and keep your mouth tight about all this. Remember!"
    The Negro stiffened, mumbled, stammered the required information to a detective of the Narcotic Squad, and shuffled rapidly from the room.
    "Well, that settles it," said Inspector Queen to Velie, Fiorelli, Ellery and Crouther, who were grouped together. "They got wind and beat it. Something made 'em suspicious and they had to clear out--didn't even have time to distribute the dope to their customers. There must be a dozen mighty sick addicts in the city to-day."
    Fiorelli made a disgusted gesture. "Aw, let's fade," he growled. "They got a jinx on me, that gang."
    "Tough luck," said Crouther. "That must have been fast work."
    "I'm going to trace that truck, if I can," said Velie. "Want to help, Crouther?" He smiled sardonically.
    "Hey, lay off," said Crouther good-naturedly.
    "Don't quarrel, now," sighed the Inspector. "You might try, Thomas, but I have a notion that's a privately owned truck that operates only on the ring's jobs. And I suppose that now the gang is scared off, we'll not pick up their trail again in a hurry. Eh, Ellery?"
    "I suggest," said Ellery, speaking for the first time since the raid, "that we go home. We've met our Waterloo for--" he smiled sadly--"to put it mildly, the nonce."
    Fiorelli and Velie mustered the squad of officers and took the police van back to Headquarters, leaving a bluecoat on guard outside the 98th Street shack. Crouther, poking Velie slyly in the ribs as the burly Sergeant swung into the truck, departed early for the French store.
    "They'll be sendin' out an alarm for me," he grinned. "After all, I got a job."
    He hailed a cruising taxicab which headed west and south. The Queens followed suit in another cab.
    Ellery took out his thin silver watch in the car and stared at its dial with amused eyes. The Inspector regarded him in a puzzled way.
    "I can't see why you want to go home," he grumbled. "I'm a long time overdue at my office now. There must be a pile of work on my desk. I've missed the morning line-up for the first time in months, and I suppose Welles has called again, and--"
    Ellery stared fixedly at his watch, a faint smile on his lips. The Inspector subsided, muttering.
    Ellery paid the cab-driver when the taxi drew up before their brownstone on 87th Street, herded his father gently upstairs, and did not speak until Djuna had closed the door behind them.
    "Ten minutes," he announced with satisfaction, snapping the watchcase shut and returning the watch to his vest-pocket. "That's average time, I should say, from 98th Street and the River to 87th Street on the other side." He grinned and threw off his light coat.
    "Have you gone fay?" gasped the Inspector.
    "Like a fox," said Ellery. He took up the telephone and called a number. "French's? Connect me with Mr. Springer in the Book Department.... Hello, Book Department? Mr. Springer, please.... What? Who is this speaking?... Oh, I see.... No, it's quite all right. Thank you!"
    He hung up.
    The Inspector was twisting his mustache in an agony of apprehension. He glared at Ellery. "Do you mean to say that Springer's--" he began in a thunderous voice.
    Ellery seemed not perturbed. "I'm so glad," he said with sly simplicity. "Mr. Springer, according to his young lady assistant, was taken suddenly ill not five minutes ago and left in something of a hurry, saying he would not return to-day."
    The old man sank into his chair worriedly. "How under heaven could I have anticipated this?" he said. "I surely thought he'd keep until later in the day. Return, he said, did he? We'll never set eyes on him again!"
    "Oh, but you shall," said Ellery gently.
    And quoth Ellery: "'Preparation is half the battle, and nothing is lost by being on one's guard.' The good Spanish don uttered a homely truth there, padre!"
    31
    ALIBIS: MARION-ZORN
    Muttering imprecations upon the elusive head of James Springer, the Inspector departed for a flying visit to Headquarters, leaving Ellery hunched comfortably before the open dormer-window, smoking and thinking. Djuna, in his uncanny simian way, sat motionless on the floor at his feet, unblinking in the soft glare of sunlight streaming into the room.... When the Inspector returned two hours later Ellery, still smoking, was seated at the desk reading over a batch of notes.
    "Still at it?" asked Queen with quick concern, hurling his hat and coat toward a chair. Djuna noiselessly picked them up and hung them in a closet.
    "Still at it," rejoined Ellery. But there was a deep wrinkle between his brows. He rose, looked reflectively at his notes, then with a sigh replaced them in the desk and shrugged his shoulders. The wrinkle disappeared, dissolved smoothly into small fine lines of humor as he caught sight of his father's worried mustache and high color.
    "Nothing new downtown?" he asked sympathetically. He sat down at the window again.
    Queen paced nervously up and down the rug. "Little enough. Thomas has looked up that cab-driver of Crouther's--and we've driven up another blind alley, it seems. The man gave us a pretty clear description of this tall blond abductor, and of course we've flashed wires through the entire East. Particularly Massachusetts. With a description of the car and Bernice Carmody. Now I suppose we'll have to wait...."
    "Umm." Ellery flicked the ashes from his cigaret. "Waiting won't bring Bernice Carmody back from the grave," he said in sudden earnestness. "And there's still a chance she may be alive.... I shouldn't confine my search to the northeast, dad. This gang is clever. They may have pulled the old license-plate trick. They may actually have headed south, changed cars--any one of a dozen things. In fact, if you found Bernice Carmody, dead or alive, right here in New York City, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. After all, the trail ended in Central Park...."
    "Thomas has his eyes open and his beaters out," said the Inspector disconsolately. "And he's up to the tricks as well as you, my son. If there's the faintest spoor, he'll follow it--and get not only the girl but the man too."
    "Cherchez la femme," said Ellery lightly.... He sat musing. The Inspector placed his hands behind his small back and strode up and down, eying Ellery in a puzzled manner meanwhile.
    "Marion French called me at Headquarters," he stated suddenly.
    Ellery's head lifted slowly. "Yes?"
    The old man chuckled. "I thought that would get you!... Yes, the girl called several times this morning while I was here, and when I finally got to the office she seemed quite feverish with--well, not excitement exactly, but anticipation. So, being thoughtful of you, my son--which is more than you can say about yourself, incidentally--I asked her to meet me here."
    Ellery merely smiled.
    "I suppose Weaver's been talking to her," continued the Inspector grumpily.
    "Dad!" Ellery laughed outright. "Occasionally you positively startle me with your insight...."
    The doorbell rang, and Djuna ran to answer it. Marion French, dressed in a severe black suit and a pert little black hat, her chin set at a charmingly defiant angle, stood outside.
    Ellery sprang to his feet, his fingers straying to his tie. The Inspector stepped forward quickly and opened wide the anteroom door.
    "Come in, come in, Miss French!" He was all smiles and fatherliness. Marion smiled bewilderingly at Djuna and greeted the Inspector in a grave undertone as she walked into the living-room. She blushed at Ellery's warm words of welcome. And sat down in the Inspector's own armchair at his magnanimous command, perched on the edge of the leather seat, hands tightly clasped, chiseled lips firm.
    Ellery stood by the window. The Inspector drew up a chair and sat close to the girl, facing her.
    "Now, what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my dear?" he asked in a conversational tone.
    Marion's glance flew timidly to Ellery and returned. "I--It's about--"
    "About your visit to Mr. Zorn's place Monday evening, Miss French?" inquired Ellery, smiling.
    She gasped. "Why--why, you knew!"
    Ellery made a deprecatory gesture. "It is hardly knowledge. Some call it guessing."
    The Inspector's eyes bored into hers. But his voice was gentle now. "Has Mr. Zorn a hold over you--or is it a matter more directly concerned with your father, my dear?"
    She stared from one to the other as if she could not believe her ears. "To think--" She laughed a trifle hysterically. "And I thought all the while that it was a deep, dark secret...." A shadow seemed to lift from her face all at once. "I suppose you want a coherent story. You have heard, Westley tells me--" she bit her lip and crimsoned--"I shouldn't have said that--he told me particularly not to say we'd discussed this...." Both the Inspector and Ellery laughed aloud at her naïveté. "At any rate," she went on, smiling faintly, "I gather that you've heard about--about my stepmother and Mr. Zorn.... Really, it was more gossip than anything else!" she cried. She calmed immediately. "But I wasn't sure. And we all tried--so hard--to keep the nasty rumors from father. I'm afraid we weren't entirely successful." Fear suddenly flamed in her eyes. She stopped short and looked down at the floor.
    Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. "Go on, Miss French," said the Inspector in the same soothing tone.
    "Then"--she spoke more rapidly now--"I overheard, quite by accident, something that confirmed part of the rumors. Nothing--it hadn't gone far, their affair, but it was getting dangerous. Even I could see that.... That's the way things were on Monday."
    "You told your father?" asked Queen.
    She shivered. "Oh, no! But I had to save daddy's health, his reputation, his--his peace of mind. I didn't even take Westley into my confidence. He would have forbidden me to do--what I did. I called on Mr. Zorn--and his wife."
    "Go on."
    "I went to their apartment. I was frankly desperate. It was just after dinner and I knew they'd both be at home. And I wanted Mrs. Zorn to be there, because she knew--and she was as jealous as a witch. She'd even threatened--"
    "Threatened, Miss French?" demanded the Inspector.
    "Oh, it was nothing, Inspector," said Marion hurriedly, "but it told me that she knew what was going on. And it was as much her fault that Mr. Zorn fell in love with--with Winifred as anything. Mrs. Zorn is--oh, quite awful...." She smiled wanly. "You'll think me a scandalous gossip.... But before both of them I accused Mr. Zorn, and--and told him it must stop. Mrs. Zorn flew into a terrible rage and began to swear. All her spite turned against Winifred. She threatened dire things. Mr. Zorn tried to argue with me, but--I suppose the weight of two women railing at him just sapped his strength. He left his apartment in a huff--left me with that awful woman. She looked almost insane...." Marion shuddered. "So I became a little frightened and--well, I suppose it was a good deal like running. I could hear her screaming even in the corridor.... And--and that's all, Inspector Queen, that's all," she faltered. "When I left the Zorns' apartment it was a little after ten. I felt weak and sick. I really did walk in the Park, as I told you yesterday at the store. I walked and walked until I thought I'd drop from exhaustion, and then I went home. It was just about midnight."