The French Powder Mystery — 19 (2)

    "Bernice and Mr. French?" Weaver sighed. "About what you would expect under the circumstances. If the Old Man's anything, he's fair. Almost leans over backward in that respect. Of course, Bernice is not his daughter—he couldn't love her as he loves Marion, for instance. But he treats them exactly alike. They get equally as much of his attention, the same allowance for pin-money and clothes—not the slightest difference in their status as far as he is concerned. But—well, one is his daughter, and the other is his stepdaughter."
    "And there," said Ellery with a little chuckle, "is a pointed epigram. Tell us, Wes—how about Mrs. French and Carmody? You've heard what he said—does it all fit?"
    "He told the exact truth," replied Weaver at once. "He's an enigma of a man, is Carmody—cold-blooded as a fish except where Bernice is concerned. I think he'd give his shirt for her. But he treated Mrs. French after their divorce precisely as if she were an unavoidable social necessity."
    "Why were they divorced, by the way?" asked the Inspector.
    "Infidelity on Carmody's part," said Weaver.—"Good night! I feel like a tongue-slapping washerwoman.—Well, Carmody was so injudicious as to be caught in a hotel-room with a lady of the chorus, and though the affair was hushed up, the truth couldn't be kept from trickling out. Mrs. French, who was something of a moral virago in those days, immediately sued for divorce, and got it—and with it, custody of Bernice."
    "Hardly a moral virago, Wes," remarked Ellery. "Not from the Zornian implications. Say rather—she knew what side her bread was buttered on and decided that there were more fish in the sea than a faithless husband...."
    "A complicated figure of speech," said Weaver, with a smile. "But I see what you mean."
    "I'm beginning to get little sidelights into Mrs. French's character," murmured Ellery. "This Marchbanks fellow—her brother, I believe?"
    "And that's about all," said Weaver grimly. "Hated each other like poison. I think Marchbanks had her number. He's no glistening lily himself. Anyway, they never had much use for each other. It made it a little embarrassing for the Old Man, because Marchbanks had been on the Board for many years."
    "Drinks too much, that's plain," said the Inspector. "Marchbanks and French get along all right?"
    "They have very little contact socially," said Weaver. "In business, they seem to jibe nicely. But that's because the Old Man's so darned sensible."
    "There's only one other member of the cast about whom I have any curiosity at the moment," said the Inspector. "And that's the dissipated-looking, fashionable gentleman of the Board named Trask. Has he any contacts with the French family other than business?"
    "More 'other' than 'business,'" replied Weaver. "I may as well go the whole hog while I'm tattling. I'll need a scrubbing-brush after I'm through!—Mr. A. Melville Trask is on the Board purely as a result of tradition. His father was the original member, and it was the elder Trask's dying wish that his son succeed him. It meant loads of red tape, but finally they succeeded in dragging him in, where he's been an ornament ever since. Not a brain in his head. But shrewdness?—plenty! Because Mr. Trask has ever since been gunning for Bernice for over a year now—ever since he was elected to the Board, as a matter of fact."
    "Interesting," murmured Ellery. "What's the idea, Wes—the family fortune?"
    "You've hit it exactly. Old Man Trask lost a lot in the stock market, and his son has been plunging so heavily that the report is he's near the end of his rope financially. So I guess he figured his best bet was a fortuitous marriage. And that's where Bernice comes in. He's been hounding her, courting her, taking her out, flattering her mother for months now. He's wormed his way into the affections of Bernice—who has few enough admirers, poor kid!—so much so that they're virtually engaged. Nothing official, but that's the understanding."
    "Opposition?" demanded the Inspector.
    "Plenty," replied Weaver grimly. "Chiefly from the Old Man. He feels it his duty to protect his stepdaughter from a man of Trask's stamp. Trask is a cad and a rounder of the worst sort. The poor girl would lead a dog's life with him."
    "Wes, what makes him so sure she'll come into money?" asked Ellery suddenly.
    "Well"—Weaver hesitated—"you see, El, Mrs. French had a respectable wad herself. And, of course, it's been an open secret that when she died—"
    "It would go to Bernice," said the Inspector.
    "Interesting," said Ellery, rising to his full length and stretching wearily. "And for no reason at all, I'm reminded that I haven't had a bite to eat since this morning. Let's all go out for a sandwich and a sip of java. Anything more, dad?"
    "Can't think of a thing," said the old man with a return to his glumness. "We'll lock up and go. Hagstrom! Hesse! Get those cigaret stubs and cards into my own bags—and the shoes and hat, too...."
    Ellery picked up the five books from the desk and handed them to Hagstrom.
    "You might pack these, too, Hagstrom," he said. "You're taking these things to Headquarters, dad?"
    "Why, of course!"
    "Then, on reconsideration, Hagstrom, I'll take these books myself." The detective wrapped them carefully in a piece of brown paper he took from one of the police kits and returned them to Ellery. Weaver retrieved his hat and coat from one of the bedroom closets and the Inspector, Ellery and Weaver, preceded by the detectives, walked out of the apartment.
    Ellery was the last one out. As he stood in the corridor, one hand on the knob of the outer door, he looked slowly from the apartment to the brown-papered package in his hand.
    "Thus endeth," he said softly to himself, "the first lesson." His hand dropped and the door snapped shut.
    Two minutes later only a lone bluecoat was left in the corridor, propped up against the door in a nondescript chair he had appropriated somewhere, reading a tabloid newspaper.