The French Powder Mystery — 15

At the Apartment: The Cardroom

    He strode purposefully from the lavatory, marched through the bedroom, entered the library once more. Weaver followed, his face betraying an objective interest startlingly in variance with his nervousness of the past hour. He seemed to have forgotten something.
    "What's past that door?" demanded Ellery abruptly, pointing to the second red-leather, brass-studded door on the opposite side of the room.
    "That's the cardroom," replied Weaver interestedly. "Think there's something to look for, El? By George, you're getting me positively excited!" Then he stopped, his face lengthened, and he stood soberly surveying his friend.
    "Cardroom, eh?" Ellery's eyes were bright. "Tell me, Wes—you were the first in the apartment this morning and you're in the best position to know—did any one who was in the library to-day go into any of the other rooms?"
    Weaver pondered for a moment. "Except that the Old Man went into the bedroom when he got in this morning, and put his coat and hat away, nobody left the library."
    "Didn't French visit the bathroom to wash up?"
    "No. He was in a confounded hurry to dictate some store business and get ready for the conference."
    "You were with him when he visited the bedroom?"
    "Yes."
    "And you're positive that none of the others—Zorn, Trask, Gray, Marchbanks—left this room all morning?" He took a short turn about the room. "By the way, you were here every minute of the time, I suppose?"
    Weaver smiled. "I seem to be in an affirmative mood this afternoon.—Yes to both questions."
    Ellery rubbed his hands together in a little spasm of glee. "The apartment, then, with the one exception of the library, is in exactly the same condition as when you arrived at eight-thirty. Excellent, most excellent, my omniscient and exceedingly helpful Westley!"
    He walked briskly toward the cardroom door and pushed it open, Weaver at his heels. And Weaver cried out in sheer astonishment from behind Ellery's broad shoulders....
    The cardroom was smaller than both the library and the bedroom. It was paneled in walnut. Cheerful drapes hung over the single large window overlooking Fifth Avenue. A thick rug covered the floor.
    But Ellery, following the line of Weaver's gaze, saw that he was staring in horror at a hexagonal, baize-covered card-table in the center of the room. A small bronze ashtray and some playing-cards, peculiarly arranged, were on the table. Two heavy folding-chairs were pushed away from the table.
    "What's the trouble, Wes?" asked Ellery sharply.
    "Why, that—that table wasn't there last night!" stammered Weaver. "I was in here looking for my pipe just before I left, and I'm sure...."
    "Not really!" murmured Ellery. "You mean the table was folded up, put away, out of sight?"
    "Of course! The room was cleaned up yesterday morning by the charwoman. And those cigarets in the ashtray.... Ellery, some one was in here after I left last night!"
    "Obviously. And in the bathroom, too, if we're to believe the story of the missing razor-blade. The important thing is—why was some one in here? Just a moment." He went swiftly to the table and looked down curiously at the cards.
    On both sides of the table were two small piles of cards—one stack with the faces up, the other closed. In the center of the baize were two rows of four stacks, open, with the pasteboards in descending order, as Ellery verified by investigating carefully. Between the two rows were three smaller piles.
    "Banque," muttered Ellery. "Peculiar!" He looked at Weaver. "You know the game, of course?"
    "No, I don't," said Weaver. "I recognized the layout of the cards as that of banque, because I've seen it played at the French house. But I don't understand the game very well; it gives me a headache. But then most card-games do. I never was much good at it."
    "So I remember," laughed Ellery, "especially that night at Bloombury's when I had to sit in for you to recoup a hundred dollar I.O.U. at stud.... You say you've seen the game played at French's—and that's most interesting. Calls for questions, I do believe. Not many people know how to play Russian banque."
    Weaver regarded Ellery strangely. His eyes went furtively to the stubs of four cigarets lying in the ashtray. He looked back at once. "Just two people in the French household," he said in a strangled voice, "played banque."
    "And they are—or were, if I must follow your past tense?" asked Ellery in a cool voice.
    "Mrs. French and—Bernice."
    "Oho!" Ellery whistled softly. "The elusive Bernice.... Nobody else play?"
    "The Old Man abhors all forms of gambling," said Weaver, worrying his lips with a forefinger. "Won't play cards for anything. Doesn't know an ace from a deuce. Marion plays bridge, but only because it's something of a social necessity. She dislikes cards, and I never heard of banque before I entered French's employ.... But Mrs. French and Bernice were violently addicted to it. Whenever they had the opportunity they played it. None of us could quite understand it. A form of the glamorous gambling fever, I don't doubt."
    "And the friends of the family?"
    "Well," said Weaver slowly, "the Old Man has never been so narrow as to forbid card-playing altogether in his home. That's why this apartment, by the way, is fitted out with a cardroom. It's for the convenience of the directors—sometimes they play here between sessions. But in the house itself I have had plenty of opportunity to observe visitors and friends. I've never seen any one play banque except Mrs. French and Bernice."
    "Beautiful—beautiful," said Ellery. "So symmetrically conclusive! That's the way I like things...." But his brow was wrinkled with thought. "And the cigarets, old boy—tell me why you've been trying for five minutes not to look at the cigarets in the ashtray?"
    Weaver flushed guiltily. "Oh!" He was silent. "I hate to say it, Ellery—I'm in the most hellish position imaginable...."
    "The cigarets, of course, are Bernice's brand.... You may as well come out with it," said Ellery wearily.
    "How did you know?" cried Weaver. "But—I suppose it was clear enough to an alert.... Yes, they're Bernice's. Her own brand. She has—had them made up for her especially."
    Ellery picked up one of the stubs. It was silver-tipped, and just below the tip was printed in script the brand-name: La Duchesse. Ellery poked his finger among the remaining litter of stubs. His look sharpened as he noted that all, without exception, had been smoked to approximately the same length—to about a half-inch of the tip.
    "Pretty thoroughly smoked out, all of them," he commented. He sniffed at the cigaret between his fingers, looked at Weaver inquiringly.
    "Yes, scented. Violet, I think," Weaver said promptly. "The manufacturer provides the scent according to the specifications of his customers. I remember hearing Bernice place an order not long ago when I was over at the French's—placed it over the telephone."
    "And La Duchesse is rare enough to have weight in an inquiry.... Good fortune, was it?" He talked to himself rather than to his friend.
    "What do you mean?"
    "No matter.... And, of course, Mrs. French did not smoke?"
    "Why—how did you know?" demanded Weaver in surprise.
    "How nicely things fit together," murmured Ellery. "So very, very nicely. And Marion—does she smoke?"
    "Thank God—no!"
    Ellery regarded him quizzically. "Well!" he said all at once. "Let's see what's behind this door."
    He crossed the room to the wall opposite the window. A small plain door opened into a little, simply furnished bedroom. Beyond it was a tiny bathroom.
    "A servant's room," explained Weaver. "Originally planned for a valet, but it's never been used to my knowledge. The Old Man isn't fussy and he'd rather have his man at the Fifth Avenue house."
    Ellery made a swift examination of the two little rooms. He emerged in a moment, shrugging his shoulders.
    "Nothing there, and there wouldn't be...." He paused, twirling his pince-nez in the air. "We have a rather remarkable situation here, Wes. Consider: We are now in possession of three direct indications of Miss Bernice Carmody's presence in this apartment last night. Or rather two direct indications, and one—the first—of a circumstantial nature. That is—the lipstick marked C from Mrs. French's handbag. This is the least damaging of the three, of course, since it does not prove presence and might have been brought here by Mrs. French. But it must be kept in mind. Second, the game of banque, which any number of reputable witnesses, I gather, would testify, as strongly as you, was indulged in by Mrs. French and Bernice practically to the exclusion of the rest of the family and friends of the family. You noticed, didn't you, that the game has the appearance of having been interrupted at a critical stage? The way the cards are lying there—they give the distinct impression that just when the game became hotly competitive, it was stopped.... And third, the most critical indication of the three—the La Duchesse cigarets. These are so obviously Bernice's that they would be acceptable in court as admissible evidence, I'm sure, if supported by strong circumstantial evidence of a confirmatory nature."
    "But what? I don't see—" cried Weaver.
    "The suspicious fact that Miss Bernice Carmody has vanished," replied Ellery gravely. "Flight?" He flung the word at Weaver.
    "I can't—I won't believe it," said Weaver weakly, but there was a curious relief in his voice.
    "Matricide is an unnatural crime, to be sure," Ellery mused, "but is not unknown.... Is it possible—" His reflections were disturbed by a rapid knock at the apartment door. It was surprisingly loud, coming as it did through the three walls of the cardroom, the library, the anteroom.
    Weaver looked startled. Ellery straightened with a jerk, swiftly looked around once more, then motioned to Weaver to precede him from the room. He closed the brass-studded door with gentle fingers.
    "That must be your good hussif, Hortense Underhill, and the maid," said Ellery almost gayly. "I wonder if they can be the harbingers of—more evidence against Bernice!"