The French Powder Mystery — 5

"And All the King's Men"

    The window-door opened quickly and two men stepped in. One, a tall lank individual smoking a blackish cigar, stopped short, peered about him, and then, catching sight of the body, immediately advanced to the farther side of the wall-bed, on the floor by which lay the dead woman. He favored the little physician with a keen glance, nodded and without further ado dropped to his knees. After a moment he looked up.
    "The store doctor, are you?"
    The physician nodded nervously. "Yes. I've made a superficial examination. She's dead. I—"
    "I can see that," said the newcomer. "I'm Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner. Stand by, doctor." Again he bent over the body, opening his bag with one hand.
    The second of the two men who had arrived was an iron-jawed giant. He had stopped at the door, softly prodding it shut behind him. Now his eyes flickered over the frozen faces of Lavery, MacKenzie and the store doctor. His own face was cold and harsh and expressionless.
    It was not until Dr. Prouty began his examination that this man vitalized into action. He took a purposeful step forward toward MacKenzie, but stopped suddenly as the door shivered under a violent pounding.
    "Come in!" he said sharply, standing between the door and the bed, so that the body was hidden from the newcomers.
    The door was flung aside. A small army of men surged forward. The tall man blocked their path.
    "Just a moment," he said lowly. "We can't have so many people in here. Who are you?"
    Cyrus French, flushed and choleric, snapped: "I am the owner of this establishment, and these gentlemen all have a right to be here. They are the Board of Directors—this is Mr. Crouther, our head store detective—stand aside, please."
    The tall man did not move. "Mr. French, eh? Board of Directors?... Hello, Crouther.... Who is this?" He pointed to Westley Weaver, who hovered about the edge of the group, a trifle pale.
    "Mr. Weaver, my secretary," said French impatiently. "Who are you, sir? What's happened here? Let me pass."
    "I see." The tall man reflected a moment, hesitated, then said firmly, "I'm Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad. Sorry, Mr. French, but you'll have to abide by my orders here. Come in, but don't touch anything and let me give the orders." He stepped aside. He seemed to be waiting for something with unwearying patience.
    Lavery ran forward, his eyes distended as he saw Cyrus French stride toward the bed. He intercepted the old man, grasped his lapel.
    "Mr. French—please do not look—just now...."
    French petulantly brushed him aside. "Let me be, Lavery! What is this—a conspiracy? Ordered about in my own store!" He proceeded to the bed, and Lavery fell back, a resigned look on his mobile face. Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he took John Gray aside, speaking in the director's ear. Gray paled, stood transfixed to the spot, then with an indistinct cry he leaped to French's side.
    He was just in time. The store owner had bent curiously over Dr. Prouty's shoulder, taken one look at the woman on the floor, and collapsed without a sound. Gray caught him as he sank. Lavery sprang forward and assisted in carrying the old man's limp body to a chair on the other side of the room.
    A nurse in white cap and gown had slipped into the room and was ministering to the hysterical Negress on the divan. She went quickly over to French, slipped a vial under his nose, and instructed Lavery to chafe his hands. Gray paced nervously up and down, muttering to himself. The store doctor hurried over to help the nurse.
    The directors and the secretary, huddled together in a horror-struck group, moved hesitantly toward the body. Weaver and Marchbanks cried out together at seeing the woman's face. Zorn bit his lip and turned away. Trask averted his face in horror. Then, in the same mechanical motion, they moved slowly backward to a corner, glancing helplessly at each other.
    Velie crooked a huge finger at Crouther. "What have you done?"
    The store detective grinned. "Taken care of all the details, don't you worry. I've got all my men scrambled on the main floor and they've scattered the mob. Got everything well in hand. Trust Bill Crouther for that, Sergeant! Won't be much for you guys to do, that's a fact."
    Velie grunted. "Well, here's something for you to do while we're waiting. Get a big stretch of the main floor roped off right around this section, and keep everybody away. It's a little late now, I suppose, to close the doors. Wouldn't do much good. Whoever did this job is miles away from here by now. Get going, Crouther!"
    The store detective nodded, turned away, turned back. "Say, Sergeant—know just who the woman on the floor is? Might help us right now."
    "Yes?" Velie smiled frostily. "Can't see how. But it doesn't take much to figure it out. It's French's wife. Blast it, this is a great place for a murder!"
    "No!" Crouther's jaw dropped. "French's wife, hey? The big cheese himself.... Well, well!" He stole a glance at the slack figure of French and a moment later his voice resounded through the window as he roared instructions outside.
    Silence in the window-room. The group in the corner had not moved. The Negress and French had both been revived—the black woman's eyes rolling wildly as she clung to the starched skirt of the nurse, French's face a pasty white as he half-lay in the chair listening to Gray's low-voiced words of sympathy. Gray himself seemed drained of his queer vitality.
    Velie beckoned to MacKenzie, who hovered nervously at Prouty's shoulder.
    "You're MacKenzie, the store manager?"
    "Yes, Sergeant."
    "It's time to get a move on, Mr. MacKenzie." Velie eyed him coldly. "Get a hold on yourself. Somebody's got to keep his wits about him. This is part of your job." The store manager squared his shoulders. "Now listen. This is important and it's got to be done thoroughly." He lowered his voice. "No employees to leave the building—item number one, and I'm holding you responsible for its execution. Number two, check up on all employees who are not at their posts. Number three, make out a list of all employees absent from the store to-day, with the reasons for their absence. Hop to it!"
    MacKenzie mumbled submissively, shuffled away.
    Velie took Lavery, who stood talking to Weaver, to one side.
    "You seem to have some authority here. May I ask who you are?"
    "My name is Paul Lavery, and I am exhibiting the modern furniture on display upstairs on the fifth floor. This room is a sample of my exhibition."
    "I see. Well, you've kept your head, Mr. Lavery. The dead woman is Mrs. French?"
    Lavery averted his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant. It was quite a shock to all of us, no doubt. How in God's name did she ever get—" He stopped abruptly, worried his lip.
    "Did she ever get here, you meant to say?" finished Velie grimly. "Well now, that's a question, isn't it? I—Just a moment, Mr. Lavery!"
    He turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the door to greet a group of new arrivals.
    "Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Queen! Glad you've come, sir. You'll find things in a rotten mess." He stepped aside and waved a large hand at the room and its assorted occupants. "Pretty, eh, sir? More like a wake than the scene of a crime!" It was a long speech for Velie.
    Inspector Richard Queen—small, pert, like a white-thatched bird—followed the circuit of Velie's hand with his eyes.
    "My goodness!" he exclaimed in annoyance. "How did so many people get into this room? I'm surprised at you, Thomas."
    "Inspector." Queen paused at Velie's deep voice. "I thought it might—" his voice became inaudible as he murmured a few words in the Inspector's ear.
    "Yes, yes, I see, Thomas." The Inspector patted his arm. "Tell me soon. Let's have a peep at the body."
    He trotted across the room and slipped to the far side of the wall-bed. Prouty, his hands busy on the corpse, nodded in greeting.
    "Murder," he said. "No sign of the revolver."
    The Inspector peered intently into the ghastly face of the dead woman, ran his eye over the disarranged clothing.
    "Well, we'll have the boys look a little later. Keep going, Doc." He sighed and returned to Velie at the other side of the room.
    "Now let's have it, Thomas. From the beginning." His little eyes roved judiciously about the men in the room as Velie rapidly outlined in an undertone the events of the past half-hour.... Outside a body of plainclothes men and a scattering of uniformed policemen could be seen. The patrolman, Bush, was among them.
    Ellery Queen shut the door and leaned against it. He was tall and sparely built, with athletic hands, taper-fingered. He wore immaculate grey tweeds and carried a stick and a light coat. On his thin nose perched a pince-nez. Above it rose a forehead of wide proportions, white and untroubled. His hair was smoothly black. From the pocket of the coat protruded a small volume in faded covers.
    He looked curiously at each person in the room—curiously and slowly, as if he enjoyed his scrutiny. The characteristics of each individual as his eyes passed from one to another he seemed to store away in a corner of his brain. His examination was almost visibly digestive. Yet it was not entirely concentrated, for he listened intently to each word of Velie's recital to the Inspector. Suddenly his eyes, in their panoramic course, met those of Westley Weaver, who stood miserably in a corner leaning against the wall.
    Into the eyes of each leaped instant recognition. They started forward simultaneously, hands outstretched.
    "Ellery Queen. Thank God!"
    "By the Seven Virgins of Theophilus—Westley Weaver!" They wrung each other's hands with undisguised pleasure. Inspector Queen glanced their way, quizzically; then he turned back to hear the last of Velie's rumbled comments.
    "It's awfully good seeing your classic features again, Ellery," murmured Weaver. His face dropped back into strained lines. "Are you—is that the Inspector?"
    "In the indefatigable flesh, Westley," said Ellery. "The pater himself, with his nose to the scent.—But tell me things, boy. It's—O Tempes!—isn't it five or six years since we last met?"
    "All of that, Ellery. I'm glad you're here, for more than one reason, El. It's a little comforting," said Weaver in a low voice. "This—this thing...."
    Ellery's smile faded. "The tragedy, eh, Westley? Tell me—how do you figure in it? You didn't kill the lady, by any chance?" His tone was jocular, but behind it was a certain anxiety which his father, ears cocked, found a little strange.
    "Ellery!" Weaver's eyes met his straightforwardly. "That isn't even funny." Then the look of misery crept in again. "It's awful, El. Just awful. You haven't any idea how awful it is...."
    Ellery patted Weaver's arm lightly, removed his pince-nez with an absent motion. "I'll get it all in a moment, Westley. I'll hold tête-à-tête conversation with you later. Hang on, won't you? I see my father signaling me frantically. Chin up, Wes!" He moved away, again smiling. Weaver's eyes held a glimmer of hope as he dropped back against the wall.
    The Inspector murmured to his son for a moment. Ellery made a low-voiced reply. Then Ellery strode over to the farther side of the bed and stood over Prouty, watching the medical examiner as he worked swiftly over the body.
    The Inspector turned to the assembled crowd in the room. "A little quiet now, please," he said.
    A thick curtain of silence dropped over the room.