The French Powder Mystery — 6

Testimony

    The Inspector stepped forward.
    "It will be necessary for every one to wait here," he began sententiously, "while we make some elementary but essential investigations. Let me say at once, to forestall any claims of special privilege that may be made, that this is undoubtedly a case of murder. In cases of murder, the most serious charge that can be brought against an individual, the law is no respecter either of persons or institutions. A woman is dead of violence. Somebody killed her. That somebody may be miles away at this moment, or in this room now. You can understand, gentlemen"—and his tired eyes considered the five directors especially—"that the sooner we get down to business, the better. Too much time has been lost already."
    He went abruptly to the door, opened it, and called in a penetrating voice: "Piggott! Hesse! Hagstrom! Flint! Johnson! Ritter!"
    Six detectives strolled into the room. Ritter, a burly man, closed the door behind him.
    "Hagstrom, your book." The detective whipped out a small notebook and a pencil.
    "Piggott, Hesse, Flint—the room!" He added something in a low tone. The three detectives grinned and dispersed to different portions of the room. They began a slow, methodical search of furniture, floors, walls.
    "Johnson—the bed!" One of the two remaining men went directly to the wall-bed and began to examine its contents.
    "Ritter—stand by." The Inspector slipped his hands into a coat pocket and withdrew his brown old snuff-box. He filled his nostrils with aromatic snuff, inhaled deeply and restored the box to his pocket.
    "Now!" he said, and glared about the room at his thoroughly cowed audience. Ellery met his eye for an instant and smiled slightly. "Now! You, there!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Negress, who was staring at him with wide eyes, her skin greyish-violet with fright.
    "Yassuh," she quavered, tottering to her feet.
    "Your name?" snapped Queen.
    "Di—Diana Johnson, suh," she whispered, gazing at him in scared fascination.
    "Diana Johnson, eh?" The Inspector took a step forward, leveled his finger at her. "Why did you open this bed at twelve-fifteen to-day?"
    "Ah—Ah had to, suh," she faltered. "Dat was—"
    Lavery waved his arm hesitantly at the Inspector. "I can explain that—"
    "Sir!" Lavery colored, then smiled cynically. "Go on, Johnson."
    "Yassuh, yassuh! Dat was de reg'lar time fo' de exhibition, suh. Ah always comes out into dis room at a couple o' minutes befo' twelve an' gets ready fo' de exhibition, suh." The words tumbled out. "An' den, when Ah'd just got through showin' dis contraption hyah"—she indicated the divan, which seemed a combination of sofa, bed and bookcase—"Ah goes to de wall, pushes de button, and den dat—dat dead 'ooman falls out right at mah feet...." She shuddered and drew a deep breath, glancing at the detective Hagstrom, who was busily taking down her words in shorthand.
    "You had no idea the body was inside when you pressed the button, Miss Johnson?" demanded the Inspector.
    The Negress's eyes flew wide open. "Nosuh! Ah wouldn't 'a' teched dat bed fo' a thousan' dolluhs ef Ah'd know dat!" The uniformed nurse giggled nervously. She sobered instantly as the Inspector stared in her direction.
    "Very well. That's all." He turned to Hagstrom. "Got every word?" The detective nodded, maintaining a severe silence as the old man winked fleetingly at him. Inspector Queen turned back to the group. "Nurse, take Diana Johnson to your hospital upstairs and keep her there until I give the word!"
    The Negress stumbled in her eagerness to leave the window-room. The nurse followed somewhat sulkily behind.
    The Inspector had Patrolman Bush summoned. The policeman saluted, answered a few questions about what had occurred on the sidewalk at the moment the body fell, and subsequently inside the window-room, and was commissioned to go back to his post on Fifth Avenue.
    "Crouther!" The store detective was standing by the side of Ellery and Dr. Prouty. He now slouched forward and stared boldly at Queen. "You're the head store detective?"
    "Yes, Inspector." He shuffled his feet and grinned, displaying tobacco-stained teeth.
    "Sergeant Velie tells me that he instructed you to scatter your men through the main floor soon after the body was discovered. Have you attended to that?"
    "Yes, sir. Got a squad of a half-dozen store detectives workin' outside, and put every available 'spotter' on the job, too," replied Crouther promptly. "But they haven't turned up anybody suspicious yet."
    "Could hardly expect it." The Inspector took another pinch of snuff. "Tell me just what you found when you came in here."
    "Well, Inspector, the first I knew about the murder was when one of my detectives 'phoned me upstairs in my office that something had happened outside on the sidewalk—riot or something. I came down right away and as I passed this window I heard Mr. Lavery yell for me. I ran in, saw the body layin' here, and the darky fainting on the floor. Bush, the officer on the beat, came in right after me. I told 'em nothing ought to be touched until the Headquarters men got here, and then got right after the mobs outside, and generally kept an eye on everything until Sergeant Velie got here. I followed his orders after that, that's a fact. I—"
    "Here, here, Crouther, that's plenty," said the Inspector. "Don't leave, I may be able to use you later. Short-handed enough as it is, the Lord knows. A department store!" He muttered under his breath and turned to Dr. Prouty.
    "Doc! Ready for me yet?"
    The kneeling police doctor nodded. "Just about, Inspector. Want me to shoot the works right here?" He seemed tacitly to question the wisdom of imparting his information before a group of laymen.
    "Might as well," grunted Queen. "It can't be very enlightening."
    "Don't know about that." Prouty stood up with a groan, took a firmer grip on the black cigar between his teeth.
    "Woman was killed by two bullets," he said deliberately, "both from a Colt .38 revolver. Probably from the same gun—hard to tell exactly without putting them under the microscope." He held up two encarmined blobs of metal, blunted completely out of shape. The Inspector took them, turned them over in his fingers, and in silence handed them to Ellery, who immediately bent over them with a curious eagerness.
    Prouty stared dreamily down at the body, plunging his hands into his pockets. "One bullet," he continued, "entered the body directly in the center of the cardiac region. Nice jagged pericardial wound, Inspector. Smashed the sternum bone, pierced the pericardial septum, which is the membrane separating the pericardium from the main body cavity, then took the logical course through—first the fibrous layer of the pericardium, then the serous inner layer, and finally the anterior tip of the heart, where the great vessels are. Spilled quite a bit of the yellow pericardial fluid, too. Bullet entered the body at an angle and it's left a fearful wound...."
    "Then death was instantaneous?" asked Ellery. "The second bullet was unnecessary?"
    "Quite," said Prouty dryly. "Death would be instantaneous from either wound. As a matter of fact, the second bullet—maybe it's not the second, though, I can't tell of course which hit her first—bullet number two made a better job of it than even bullet number one. Because it penetrated the precordia, which is the region a little below the heart and above the abdomen. This is also a ragged wound, and since the precordial sector takes in muscles and blood-vessels of major importance, it's as vital a spot as the heart itself...." Prouty stopped suddenly. His eyes strayed almost with irritation to the dead woman on the floor.
    "Was the revolver fired close to the body?" put in the Inspector.
    "No powder stains, Inspector," said Prouty, still regarding the corpse with a frown.
    "Were both bullets fired from the same spot?" asked Ellery.
    "Hard to say. The lateral angles are similar, indicating that whoever fired both bullets stood to the right of the woman. But the downward course of the bullets disturbs me. They're too much alike."
    "What do you mean?" demanded Ellery, leaning forward.
    "Well," growled Prouty, biting on his cigar, "if the woman were in exactly the same position when both shots were fired—assuming that both shots were fired almost simultaneously, of course—there should be a greater downward angle to the precordial wound than to the pericardial. Because the precordia is located below the heart, and the gun would have to be aimed lower.... Well, perhaps I shouldn't say these things at all. There are any number of explanations, I suppose, for that difference in angle. Ought to have Ken Knowles look over the bullets and the wounds, though."
    "He'll get his chance," said the Inspector with a sigh. "Is that all, Doc?"
    Ellery looked up from another scrutiny of the two bullets. "How long has she been dead?"
    Prouty replied promptly: "About twelve hours, I should say. I'll be able to fix the time of death more accurately after the autopsy. But she certainly died no earlier than midnight and probably no later than two in the morning."
    "Through now?" asked Inspector Queen patiently.
    "Yes. But there's one thing that has me a little...." Prouty set his jaw. "There's something queer here, Inspector. From what I know of precordial wounds I can't believe that this one should have bled so little. You've noticed, I suppose, that the clothing above both wounds is stiff with coagulated blood, but not so much of it as you might expect. At least as a medical man might expect."
    "Why?"
    "I've seen plenty of precordial wounds," said Prouty calmly, "and they're messy, Inspector. Bleed like hell. In fact, especially in this case, where the hole is blasted pretty large, due to the angle, there should be pools and pools of it. The pericardial would bleed freely, but not profusely. But the other—I say, there's something queer here, and I thought I'd call it to your attention."
    Ellery shot his father a warning glance as the old man opened his mouth to reply. The Inspector clamped his lips together and dismissed Prouty with a nod. Ellery returned the two bullets to Prouty, who put them carefully into his bag.
    The police doctor unhurriedly covered the body with a sheet from the hanging bed and departed, his last words a promise to hurry the morgue wagon.
    "Is the store physician here?" Queen asked.
    The small dark doctor stepped uncertainly forward from a corner. His teeth gleamed as he said, "Yes, sir?"
    "Have you anything to add to Dr. Prouty's analysis, doctor?" questioned Queen, with disarming gentleness.
    "Not a thing, not a thing, sir," said the store physician, looking uneasily at Prouty's retreating figure. "A precise if somewhat sketchy diagnosis. The bullets entered—"
    "Thank you, doctor." Inspector Queen turned his back on the little physician and beckoned imperiously to the store detective.
    "Crouther," he asked in a low tone, "who's your head night-watchman?"
    "O'Flaherty—Pete O'Flaherty, Inspector."
    "How many watchmen are on duty here at night?"
    "Four. O'Flaherty tends the night-door on the 39th Street side, Ralska and Powers do the rounds, and Bloom is on duty at the 39th Street night freight-entrance."
    "Thanks." The Inspector turned to Detective Ritter. "Get hold of this man MacKenzie, the store manager, find the home addresses of O'Flaherty, Ralska, Powers and Bloom, and get 'em down here as fast as a cab will carry them. Scoot!" Ritter lumbered away.
    Ellery suddenly straightened, adjusted his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and strode over to his father. They held a whispered colloquy for a moment, whereupon Ellery quietly retreated to his vantage-point near the bed and the Inspector crooked his finger at Westley Weaver.
    "Mr. Weaver," he asked, "I take it that you are Mr. French's confidential secretary?"
    "Yes, sir," responded Weaver warily.
    The Inspector glanced sidewise at Cyrus French, huddled exhausted in the chair. John Gray's small white hand was solicitously patting French's arm. "I'd rather not bother Mr. French at this time with questions.—You were with him all morning?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Mr. French was not aware of Mrs. French's presence in the store?"
    "No, sir!" The response was immediate and sharp. Weaver regarded Queen with suspicious eyes.
    "Were you?"
    "I? No, sir!"
    "Hmmm!" The Inspector's chin sank on his chest, and he communed with himself for an instant. Suddenly his finger shot toward the group of directors on the other side of the room. "How about you gentlemen? Any of you know that Mrs. French was here—this morning or last night?"
    There was a chorus of horrified noes. Cornelius Zorn's face grew red. He began to protest angrily.
    "Please!" The Inspector's tone flung them back in silence. "Mr. Weaver. How is it that all these gentlemen are present in the store this morning? They're not here every day, are they?"
    Weaver's frank face lightened, as if from relief. "All of our directors are active in the management of the store, Inspector. They're here every day, if only for an hour or so. As for this morning, there was a directors' meeting in Mr. French's private apartment upstairs."
    "Eh?" Queen seemed pleased as well as startled. "A private apartment upstairs, you say? On what floor?"
    "The sixth—that's the top floor of the store."
    Ellery stirred into life. Again he crossed the floor, again he whispered to his father, and again the old man nodded.
    "Mr. Weaver," continued the Inspector, a note of eagerness in his voice, "how long were you and the Board in Mr. French's private apartment this morning?"
    Weaver seemed surprised at the question. "Why, all morning, Inspector. I arrived at about eight-thirty, Mr. French at about nine, and the other directors at a little past eleven."
    "I see." The Inspector mused. "Did you leave the apartment at any time during the morning?"
    "No, sir." The reply was snapped back at him.
    "And the others—Mr. French, the directors?" pressed the Inspector patiently.
    "No, sir! We were all there until one of the store detectives notified us that an accident had occurred here. And I must say, sir—"
    "Westley, Westley ..." murmured Ellery chidingly, and Weaver turned to him with startled eyes. They fell before the meaning glance of Ellery, and Weaver bit his lip nervously. He did not finish what he had begun to say.
    "Now, sir." The Inspector seemed to be enjoying himself in a tired way—utterly disregarding the bewildered eyes of the many people in the room. "Now, sir! Be very careful. At what time did this notification come?"
    "At twelve-twenty-five," replied Weaver in a calmer tone.
    "Very well.—Every one then left the apartment?" Weaver nodded. "Did you lock the door?"
    "The door closed after us, Inspector."
    "And the apartment remained that way, unguarded?"
    "Not at all," said Weaver promptly. "At the beginning of the conference this morning, at Mr. French's suggestion, I got one of the store detectives to stand guard outside the apartment door. He is probably still there, because his orders were specific. In fact, I remember seeing him lounging about outside when we all rushed out to see what was the matter down here."
    "Very good!" beamed the old man. "A store detective, you say? Reliable?"
    "Absolutely, Inspector," said Crouther, from his corner. "Sergeant Velie knows him, too. Jones is his name—an ex-policeman—used to be on a beat with Velie." The Inspector looked at the Sergeant inquiringly; he nodded in confirmation.
    "Thomas," said Queen with one hand digging into his side-pocket for a pinch of snuff, "see to it, will you? See if this Jones fellow is still there, if he's been there all the time, if he's seen anything, if any one tried to get into the apartment since Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and the other gentlemen left. And take one of the boys along to relieve him—to relieve him, you understand?"
    Velie grunted stonily and tramped out of the window-room. As he left, a policeman entered, saluted Inspector Queen and reported, "There's a 'phone call out there in the leather-goods department for a Mr. Westley Weaver, Inspector."
    "What's that? Call?" The Inspector turned on Weaver, who stood miserably in a corner.
    Weaver straightened. "Probably from Krafft of the Comptroller's office," he said. "I was to give him a report this morning, and the meeting and everything that happened afterward drove it out of my mind.... May I leave?"
    Queen hesitated, his glance flickering toward Ellery, who was absently fingering his pince-nez. Ellery gave a slight nod.
    "Go ahead," the Inspector growled to Weaver. "But come right back."
    Weaver followed the policeman to the leather-goods counter directly facing the door of the window-room. A clerk eagerly handed the telephone to him.
    "Hello—Krafft? This is Weaver speaking. I'm sorry about that report—Who? Oh."
    A curious change came over his face as he heard Marion French's voice over the wire. He lowered his voice immediately and bent over the instrument. The policeman, lounging behind him, surreptitiously shuffled closer, trying to catch the conversation.
    "Why, what's the matter, dear?" asked Marion, a note of anxiety in her voice. "Is anything wrong? I tried to get you at the apartment, but there was no answer. The operator had to search for you.... I thought father had a directors' meeting this morning."
    "Marion!" Weaver's voice was insistent. "I really can't stop to explain now. Something's happened, dearest—something so ..." He stopped, seemed to be wrestling mentally with some problem. His lips tightened. "Sweetheart, will you do something for me?"
    "But, Wes dear," came the girl's anxious voice, "whatever is the matter? Has anything happened to father?"
    "No—no." Weaver hunched desperately over the telephone. "Be my own honey and don't ask questions now.... Where are you now?"
    "Why, at home, dear. But, Wes, what is the trouble?" There was a frightened catch in her voice. "Has it anything to do with Winifred or Bernice? They're not at home, Wes—haven't been all night...." Then she laughed a little. "But there! I shan't worry you, dearest. I'll take a cab and be down in fifteen minutes."
    "I knew you would." Weaver almost sobbed in a tense relief. "Whatever happens, sweet, I love you, I love you, do you understand?"
    "Westley! You silly boy—you've frightened me out of my wits. Good-by now—I'll be downtown in a jiffy." There was a tender little sound through the receiver—it might have been a kiss—and Weaver hung up with a sigh.
    The policeman jumped back as Weaver turned—jumped back with a broad grin. Weaver flushed furiously, started to speak, then shook his head.
    "There's a young lady coming down here, officer," he said swiftly. "She'll be here in about a quarter of an hour. Won't you please let me know the moment she gets here? She's Miss Marion French. I'll be in the window."
    The bluecoat lost his grin. "Well now," he said slowly, scraping his jaw, "I just don't know about that. Guess you'll have to tell the Inspector about it. I haven't the authority."
    He marched Weaver back into the window-room against the young man's protests at the heavy hand on his arm.
    "Inspector," he said respectfully, still grasping Weaver's arm, "this feller wants me to let him know when a certain young lady by the name of Miss Marion French gets here."
    Queen looked up in surprise, a surprise that deepened rapidly into brusqueness. "Was that telephone call from your Mr. Krafft?" he asked Weaver.
    Before Weaver could speak, the policeman interposed: "Not by a long sight, sir. 'Twas a lady, and I think he called her 'Marion.'"
    "Look here, Inspector!" said Weaver hotly, shaking off the bluecoat's hand. "This is asinine. I thought the call was from Mr. Krafft, but it was Miss French—Mr. French's daughter. A—a semi-business call. And I took the liberty of asking her to come down here immediately. That's all. Is that a crime? As for letting me know when she arrives—I naturally want to spare her the shock of walking into this place and seeing her stepmother's dead body on the floor."
    The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, glancing mildly from Weaver to Ellery. "I see. I see. I'm sorry, Mr. Weaver.... That's right, isn't it, officer?" he snapped, whirling on the bluecoat.
    "Yes, sir! Heard it all plain as day. He's telling the truth."
    "And mighty fortunate for him he is," grumbled the Inspector. "Stand back, Mr. Weaver. We'll attend to the young lady when she arrives.... Now then!" he cried, rubbing his hands, "Mr. French!"
    The old man looked up in bleary bewilderment, his eyes blank and staring.
    "Mr. French, is there anything you would like to say that might clear up some of this mystery?"
    "I—I—I—beg—your—pardon?" stammered French, raising his head with an effort from the back-cushion of the chair. He seemed stricken by his wife's death to the point of imbecility.
    Queen regarded him with pity, looked into the eyes of John Gray, whose face was threatening, muttered, "Never mind," and squared his shoulders. "Ellery, my son, how about a careful look-see at the body?" He peered at Ellery from beneath overhung brows.
    Ellery stirred. "Lookers-on," he said clearly, "see more than players. And if you think that quotation is inept, dad, you don't know your son's favorite author, Anonymous. Play on!"