The French Powder Mystery — 10

Marion

    "Not much of a problem," said Inspector Queen. "There is no particular reason for expecting to find the key—here. Besides, I can't see that it's of much importance."
    "Alors—we'll let it go at that," said Ellery, smiling. "I am always worried by omissions." He dropped back, searching his vest-pocket for a cigaret-case. His father eyed him sharply. Ellery rarely smoked.
    A policeman pushed open the window-door at this moment and lumbered over to the Inspector. "Young lady outside giving the name of Marion French. Says she wants Mr. Weaver," he whispered hoarsely. "Scared to death at the mobs and the cops. One o' the floorwalkers is with her. What'll I do, Inspector?"
    The Inspector's eyes narrowed. He shot a glance at Weaver. The secretary seemed to sense the import of the message, although he had not heard the whispered words; for he stepped forward at once.
    "I beg your pardon, Inspector," he said eagerly, "but if that's Miss French I'd like your permission to go to her at once and—"
    "Amazing intuition!" cried the Inspector suddenly, his white face creasing into smiles. "Yes, I think I—Come along, Mr. Weaver. You shall introduce me to Mr. French's daughter." He turned sharply to Velie. "Carry on for a moment, Thomas. No one is to leave. I'll be back in a jiffy."
    Preceded by a revitalized Weaver, he trotted out of the window-room.
    Weaver broke into a run as they stepped out onto the main floor. The center of a little crowd of detectives and policemen, a young girl stood stiffly, her face drained of color, eyes wild with a nameless fear. As she caught sight of Weaver, a tremulous cry escaped her and she swayed forward weakly.
    "Westley! What is the matter? These policemen—detectives—" Her arms stretched out. In full sight of the grinning police and the Inspector, Weaver and the girl embraced.
    "Sweetheart! You must get hold of yourself ..." Weaver whispered desperately into the girl's ear as she clung to him.
    "Wes—tell me. Who is it? Not—" She drew away from him with horror in her eyes. "Not—Winifred?"
    She read the answer in his eyes even before he nodded.
    The Inspector obtruded his elastic little figure between them. "Mr. Weaver," he smiled, "may I have the pleasure...?"
    "Oh, yes—yes!" Weaver stepped quickly backward, releasing the girl. He seemed astonished at the interruption, as if he had forgotten momentarily the place, the circumstances, the time.... "Marion dear, may I present Inspector Richard Queen. Inspector—Miss French."
    Queen took the proffered little hand and bowed. Marion murmured a perfunctory pleasance, while her large grey eyes widened in stricken interest at this tiny middle-aged gentleman with the clean white mustache who bent over her hand.
    "You're investigating—a crime, Inspector Queen?" she faltered, shrinking from him, clutching at Weaver's hand.
    "Unfortunately, Miss French," said the Inspector. "I'm genuinely grieved that you've had such an unpleasant reception—more than I can say...." Weaver glared at him in bewildered wrath. The old Machiavelli! He had known all along what would happen!... The Inspector proceeded in a gentle tone. "It's your stepmother, my dear—shockingly murdered. Terrible! Terrible!" He clucked his tongue like a solicitous old hen.
    "Murdered!" The girl grew very still. The hand in Weaver's twitched once, and was limp. For the instant both Weaver and the Inspector thought she would faint, and involuntarily moved forward to her aid. She staggered back. "No—thank you," she whispered. "My God—Winifred! And she and Bernice were away—all night...."
    The Inspector stiffened. Then his hand fumbled for his snuff-box. "Bernice, I believe you said, Miss French?" he said. "The watchman mentioned that name before, too.... A sister, perhaps, my dear?" he asked ingratiatingly.
    "Oh—what have I—Oh, Wes dear, take me away, take me away!" She buried her face in the folds of Weaver's coat.
    Weaver said, above her head, "A perfectly natural remark, Inspector. The housekeeper, Hortense Underhill, called Mr. French this morning during the conference to report that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice, her daughter, had slept at home.... You see, of course, that Marion—Miss French...."
    "Yes, yes, naturally." Queen smiled, touched the girl's arm. She started convulsively. "If you'll come this way, Miss French—? Please be brave. There is something I want you—to see."
    He waited. Weaver gave him an outraged glance, but pressed the girl's arm encouragingly and led her, stumbling, toward the window. The Inspector followed, beckoning to one of the detectives nearby, who immediately took his place outside the window-door after the trio entered the room.
    There was a little rustle of excitement as Weaver helped the girl into the room. Even old French, shaking as if with ague, showed a light of reason in his eyes as he spied her.
    "Marion my dear!" he cried in a terrible voice.
    She broke away from Weaver and fell on her knees before her father's chair. No one spoke. The men looked uneasily away. Father and daughter clung to each other....
    For the first time since he had come into the chamber of death, Marchbanks, brother of the dead woman, spoke.
    "This—is—hellish," he said, savagely and slowly, glaring out of bloodshot eyes at the trim figure of the Inspector. Ellery, in his corner, crooked his body slightly forward. "I'm—getting—out—of—this."
    The Inspector signaled to Velie. The burly Sergeant stumped across the floor and towered above Marchbanks, saying nothing, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Marchbanks, large and corpulent, shrank before the huge detective. He flushed, muttered beneath his breath, stepped back.
    "Now," said the Inspector equably, "Miss French, may I trouble you to answer a few questions?"
    "Oh, I say, Inspector," protested Weaver, despite Ellery's warning flick of the finger, "do you think it absolutely necessary to—"
    "I'm quite ready, sir," came the quiet voice of the girl, and she rose to her feet, her eyes a trifle red, but clearly composed. Her father had slumped back in his chair. He had forgotten her already. She smiled wanly at Weaver, who sent her an ardent glance across the room. But she kept her head averted from the sheeted corpse in the corner by the bed.
    "Miss French," snapped the Inspector, flicking the gauzy scarf from the dead woman's clothes before her eyes, "is this your scarf?"
    She whitened. "Yes. How does it come here?"
    "That," said the Inspector dispassionately, "is what I should like to know. Can you explain its presence?"
    The girl's eyes flashed, but she spoke calmly enough. "No, sir, I cannot."
    "Miss French," went on the Inspector after a stifling pause, "your scarf was found around Mrs. French's neck under her coat-collar. Does that convey anything to you—perhaps suggest an explanation?"
    "She was wearing it?" Marion gasped. "I—I can't understand it. She—she never did that before." She glanced helplessly at Weaver, shifted her gaze and met Ellery's eyes.
    They looked at each other for a startled moment. Ellery saw a slender girl with smoky hair and deep grey eyes. There was an unaccented cleanliness about the lines of her young body that made him feel pleased for Weaver's sake. She gave the impression of straightforwardness and strength of will—honest eyes, firm lips, small strong hands, a pleasingly cleft chin and a good straight nose. Ellery smiled.
    Marion saw a tall athletic man with a suggestion of nascent vigor, startlingly intellectual about the forehead and lips, cool and quiet and composed. He looked thirty, but was younger. There was a hint of Bond Street about his clothes. His long thin fingers clasped a little book and he regarded her out of pince-nez eyeglasses.... Then she blushed slightly and her eyes wavered away toward the Inspector.
    "When did you last see this scarf, Miss French?" went on the old man.
    "Oh, I—" Her tone changed; she took command of herself. "I seem to remember wearing it yesterday," she said slowly.
    "Yesterday? Very interesting, Miss French. Do you recall just where—?"
    "I left the house directly after luncheon," she said, "wearing the scarf under this coat. I met a friend at Carnegie Hall and we spent the afternoon at a recital—Pasternak the pianist. We parted after the recital and I took a 'bus down to the store. I do seem to remember wearing the scarf all day...." Her brow wrinkled prettily. "I don't remember having it, however, when I returned home."
    "You say you came to the store, Miss French?" interrupted the Inspector politely. "For any special reason?"
    "Why—not particularly. I did think I might still catch father. I knew he was leaving for Great Neck, but I didn't know exactly when, and—"
    The Inspector held up a ridiculously tiny white hand. "Just a moment, Miss French. You say your father went to Great Neck yesterday?"
    "Why, yes. I understood he was to go out there for business. There's—there's nothing wrong—about that, is there, sir?" She bit her lip.
    "No, no—positively no!" said the Inspector, smiling. He turned to Weaver. "Why didn't you tell me that Mr. French took a little trip yesterday, Mr. Weaver?"
    "You didn't ask me," retorted Weaver.
    The Inspector started, then chuckled. "One on me," he said. "It's true enough. When did he return and why did he go?"
    Weaver looked compassionately at the limp, oblivious figure of his employer. "He went early yesterday afternoon to confer with Farnham Whitney on Whitney's estate. A matter of merger, Inspector—the meeting this morning discussed just that. Mr. French told me that he was driven into the city early this morning by Whitney's chauffeur—arrived at the store at nine o'clock. Anything else?"
    "Not just now." Queen turned to Marion. "Your pardon, my dear, for the interruption.... Now where specifically did you go when you came to the store?"
    "To my father's apartment on the sixth floor."
    "Indeed?" muttered the Inspector. "And why, may I ask, did you go to your father's apartment?"
    "I usually go there when I'm at the store, which isn't often," explained Marion. "Besides, I was told that Mr. Weaver was there, working, and I thought—it might be nice to pay him a little visit...." She eyed her father apprehensively, but he was insensible to words.
    "You went there directly on entering the store? And left immediately from the apartment?"
    "Yes."
    "Is it possible," insinuated the Inspector very gently, "that you may have dropped your scarf in the apartment, Miss French?"
    She did not reply immediately. Weaver tried frantically to catch her eye, moving his lips, framing the word "No!" She shook her head.
    "Quite possible, Inspector," she said quietly.
    "I see." The Inspector beamed. "Now, when did you see Mrs. French last?"
    "At dinner last night. I had an appointment for the evening and left almost immediately."
    "Did Mrs. French seem herself? Notice anything unusual, abnormal in her speech or actions?"
    "Well.... She did seem worried about Bernice," Marion said slowly.
    "Ah!" Queen rubbed his hands together. "Then I infer that your—stepsister, is it?—was not at home for dinner?"
    "No," replied Marion after a hesitating silence. "Winifred—my stepmother told me that Bernice had gone out and would not be home for dinner. But she seemed worried nevertheless."
    "She gave no indication of a reason for this worry?"
    "None whatever."
    "What is your step-sister's name? Is it French?"
    "No, Inspector. She retains her father's name of Carmody," murmured Marion.
    "I see. I see." The Inspector stood plunged in thought. John Gray shifted impatiently, whispered a word to Cornelius Zorn, who shook his head sadly and leaned resignedly against the back of French's chair. Queen paid no attention to them. He looked up at Marion. Her passive, tired little figure drooped.
    "One question more for the moment, Miss French," he said, "and you may rest.... Can you suggest, from anything that you know of Mrs. French's background or affairs, or from anything that transpired recently—last night, yesterday, perhaps—can you suggest," he repeated, "a possible explanation for this crime? It's murder, of course," he continued hastily, before she could reply, "and I know you are naturally chary of answering. Take your time—think carefully over everything that has occurred lately...." He stopped. "Now, Miss French, can you tell me anything I might wish to hear?"
    There was naked silence in the room—a raw pulsing quiet that beat invisibly against the atmosphere. Ellery heard quick breaths drawn, saw bodies tense, eyes sharpen, hands twitch as, to a man, the occupants of the room with the exception of Cyrus French leaned forward, watching Marion French as she stood there, facing them.
    But she said, "No," very matter-of-factly, and the Inspector's eyes flickered. Everybody relaxed. Some one sighed. Ellery noted that it was Zorn. Trask lit a cigaret nervously and let the fire die. Marchbanks sat frozen to his chair. Weaver made a little movement of despair....
    "Then that will be all, Miss French," returned Inspector Queen, in a tone as casual as the girl's had been. He seemed pleasantly absorbed in a contemplation of Lavery's formal cravat. "Please," he added, just as pleasantly, "do not leave the room.... Mr. Lavery, may I have your ear for the moment?"
    Marion dropped back and Weaver sprang to her side, dragging a chair with him. She sank into it with a little smile, shading her eyes with a nerveless hand. The other snuggled secretly into Weaver's eager grasp.... Ellery watched them for a moment, then turned his sharp eyes on Lavery.
    The Frenchman bowed, waited, fingers riffling his short beard.