The French Powder Mystery — 9 (2)

    "Nothing else all night?"
    "No, sir."
    "All right, that's all for you four men. You may go back home and catch up on your sleep. Be back here to-night for work as usual."
    "Yes, sir; yes, sir." The watchmen backed out of the window-room and disappeared.
    The Inspector, brandishing the time-sheet in his hand, addressed the store manager. "MacKenzie, have you given this sheet any study?"
    The Scotchman replied, "Yes, Inspector—thought you might be interested and looked it over on the way."
    "Fine! MacKenzie, what's the verdict? Was every employee of the store checked out regularly yesterday?" Queen's face was composed, indifferent.
    MacKenzie did not hesitate. "As you can see, we have a simple check-out system—by departments.... I can certainly assert that every employee who was in the store yesterday checked out."
    "Does that include executives and gentlemen like the Board of Directors?"
    "Yes, sir—there are their names in the proper places."
    "Very well—thank you," said the Inspector thoughtfully. "Please don't forget that list of absentees, MacKenzie."
    Velie and Crouther at this point reëntered the room together. Crouther handed the Inspector a key, an exact replica of the one in Weaver's possession, marked "Master" on its gold disk as O'Flaherty had averred. The detective-sergeant relayed a negative report from the burglar-alarm company. Nothing unusual had occurred during the night.
    The Inspector turned again to MacKenzie. "How reliable is this O'Flaherty?"
    "True-blue. Would give his life for Mr. French, Inspector," returned MacKenzie warmly. "He's the oldest employee of the store—knew Mr. French in the old days."
    "That's a fact," echoed Crouther, as if anxious to have his opinion considered as well.
    "It has just occurred to me ..." Inspector Queen faced MacKenzie inquiringly. "Just how private is Mr. French's apartment? Who has access to it besides the French family and Mr. Weaver?"
    MacKenzie scraped his jaw slowly. "Hardly any one else, Inspector," he replied. "Of course, the Board of Directors meet in Mr. French's apartment periodically for conferences and other business matters; but the only keys to it are in the possession of the people O'Flaherty has mentioned. As a matter of fact, it's almost peculiar how little we people know about Mr. French's apartment. In all my association with the store, and it's a matter of ten years or so, I can't recall having been in the apartment more than half a dozen times. I was thinking that only last week, when Mr. French summoned me there for some special instructions regarding the store. As for other employees—well, Mr. French has always been adamant in the matter of his privacy. Aside from O'Flaherty opening the door for the cleaning-woman three times a week, and letting her out just before he goes off duty, there's not an employee of the store who has access or occasion to visit the apartment."
    "I see, I see. The apartment—we seem to be going back to that apartment," muttered the Inspector. "Well! There seems to be very little left here.... Ellery, what do you think?"
    Ellery swung his pince-nez with unaccustomed vigor as he regarded his father. There was a troubled glint in the depths of his eyes.
    "Think? Think?" He smiled fretfully. "My ratiocinative machinery has been chiefly occupied in the last half-hour or so with a stubborn little problem." He bit his lip.
    "Problem? What problem?" growled his father affectionately. "I haven't had a moment to think clearly, and you talk of problems!"
    "The problem," enunciated Ellery distinctly but not loudly enough to be heard by the others, "of why Mrs. French's key to her husband's apartment is missing."