The French Powder Mystery — 20

Tobacco

    Cyrus French's house fronted the Hudson River, on lower Riverside Drive. It was old and dusky, set well back from the Drive and surrounded by primly kept shrubbery. A low iron fence ran around the property.
    When Inspector Queen, Ellery Queen and Westley Weaver entered the reception room, they found Sergeant Velie already there, engaged in earnest conversation with another detective. This man left immediately on the entrance of the small party, and Velie himself turned a perturbed face to his superior.
    "We've struck oil, Inspector," he said in his calm bass. "Managed to trace the cab that picked up Mrs. French last night almost at once. It was a Yellow that patrols this neighborhood regularly. Got the driver and he remembered his fare without any trouble."
    "And I suppose—" began the Inspector gloomily.
    Velie shrugged. "Nothing to brag about. He picked her up right in front of the house here at about twenty after eleven last night. She told him to take her down Fifth. He followed orders. At 39th Street she told him to pull up, and then she got out. Paid him and he beat it. He did see her cross the street toward the department store. That's all."
    "Not so much," murmured Ellery, "to be sure. Did he stop at all on the trip downtown—did she communicate with any one on the way?"
    "I asked him that. Nothing doing, Mr. Queen. She didn't give him another order until they reached 39th Street. Of course, he did say there was heavy traffic, and he had to stop a number of times. It's possible that somebody might have hopped in and out of the cab during a traffic wait. But the driver says no, he didn't see anything wrong."
    "And if he's alert, he would have, naturally," said the Inspector, sighing.
    A maid took their hats and coats, and immediately afterward Marion French appeared. She squeezed Weaver's hand, smiled wanly at the Queens, and placed herself at their disposal.
    "No, Miss French, there's nothing we can do with you now," said the Inspector. "How is Mr. French?"
    "Loads better." She made a little moué of apology. "I did act frightfully at the apartment, Inspector Queen. I know you'll forgive me—seeing father faint made me lose control of myself."
    "Nothing to forgive, Marion," growled Weaver, "if I do take the words out of the Inspector's mouth. I don't think Inspector Queen quite realized how ill your father really was."
    "Now, now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector mildly. "Miss French, do you think Mr. French will be able to see us in a half-hour or so?"
    "Well.... If the doctor says so, Inspector. But goodness! Won't you sit down? I've been so upset by all this—confusion...." A shadow darkened her face. The men accepted chairs. "You see, Inspector," continued Marion, "there's a nurse with daddy, and the doctor's still here. An old friend. Mr. Gray, too. Shall I see?"
    "If you will, my dear. And would you mind having Miss Hortense Underhill come in for a moment?"
    When Marion had left the room, Weaver excused himself and hurried after her. Her startled "Why, Westley!" could just be heard from the main hall a moment later. There was a sudden silence, then a suspiciously soft sound, and finally retreating footfalls.
    "I think," said Ellery soberly, "that that was a luscious salute to the Venerian goddess.... I wonder why old Cyrus frowns upon Westley as a prospective son-in-law. Wants wealth and position, I suppose."
    "Does he?" asked the Inspector.
    "I gather so."
    "Well, that's neither here nor there." The Inspector delicately took snuff. "Thomas," he said, "what have you done about Bernice Carmody? Any traces?"
    Velie pulled a longer face than usual. "Just one, and it barely helps us to a start. The Carmody girl was seen yesterday afternoon leaving this house by a day watchman—special officer—who's privately employed to patrol the neighborhood. He knows the girl by sight. He saw her walk quickly down towards 72nd Street—straight down the Drive. She didn't meet any one, apparently, and was headed for a definite place, because she seemed in a hell of a hurry. He had no reason to give her more than a casual glance or two, and so couldn't tell me just how far down the Drive she went or whether she turned down a side street."
    "Worse and worse." The Inspector grew thoughtful. "That girl is almighty important, Thomas," he sighed. "Put extra men on her trail if you think it's necessary. We've got to find her. I suppose you've got a complete description, clothes and all?"
    Velie nodded. "Yes, and four men on her already. If there's anything at all, Inspector, we'll find it."
    Hortense Underhill clumped into the room.
    Ellery sprang to his feet. "Dad, this is Miss Underhill, the housekeeper. This is Inspector Queen, Miss Underhill. The Inspector has a few questions to ask you."
    "That's what I'm here for," said the housekeeper.
    "Um," said the Inspector, eyeing her keenly. "My son tells me, Miss Underhill, that Miss Bernice Carmody left this house yesterday afternoon against her mother's wishes—in fact, sneaked out behind her back. Is that correct?"
    "That's correct," snapped the housekeeper, with a malevolent glance toward Ellery, who was smiling. "Though what that has to do with it, I can't see."
    "No doubt," said the old man. "Was that Miss Carmody's usual procedure—to run away from her mother?"
    "I haven't the faintest notion of what you're driving at, Mr. Inspector," said the housekeeper coldly. "But if you're aiming to implicate that girl.... Well! Yes, she did that a few times a month. Slipped out of the house without a word and was gone usually about three hours. There was always a scene with Mrs. French when she returned."
    "I don't suppose you know," asked Ellery slowly, "where she went at such times? Or what Mrs. French said to her when she returned?"
    Hortense Underhill clicked her teeth disagreeably. "No. Neither did her mother. That's why they had a scene. And Bernice would never tell. Just sit calmly and let her mother rave.... Except, of course, last week. Then they did have a scene."
    "Oh, something extraordinary a week ago, eh?" said Ellery. "And I gather that Mrs. French did know then?"
    The housekeeper permitted an expression of surprise to flick across her hard features. "Yes, I think she did," she said more quietly than before. She favored Ellery with a suddenly interested glance. "But what it was I don't know. I think she found out where Bernice was going, and they quarreled about it."
    "Just when was this, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.
    "A week ago Monday."
    Ellery whistled softly to himself. He and the Inspector exchanged glances.
    The Inspector leaned forward. "Tell me, Miss Underhill—these days on which Miss Carmody generally disappeared—do you recall whether they were all the same, or different days?"
    Hortense Underhill looked from father to son, began to speak, thought for an instant, looked up again. "Now that I think of it," she said slowly, "they weren't always Mondays. I remember a Tuesday, a Wednesday, and a Thursday.... I do believe she went every week on consecutive days! Now, what could that mean?"
    "More, Miss Underhill," replied Ellery, frowning, "than you can guess—or I, for that matter.... Have the bedrooms of Mrs. French and Miss Carmody been disturbed since this morning?"
    "No. When I heard about the murder at the store I locked up both bedrooms. I didn't know but that—"
    "That it might have been important, Miss Underhill?" said Ellery. "That was clever of you.... Will you please lead the way upstairs?"
    The housekeeper rose without a word and walked out into the main hall and up the broad central staircase, the three men following. She stopped on the second floor and opened a door with a key from a bunch in her black silk apron-pocket.
    "This is Bernice's room," she announced, and stepped aside.
    They entered a large green-and-ivory bedroom, ornately furnished with period furniture. A huge canopied bed dominated the room. Despite the mirrors and colors and exotic pieces, the room was unaccountably depressing. It looked cold. The sunbeams that streamed in through the three wide windows, far from lending warmth to the ensemble, in some grotesque way only heightened the general effect of cheerlessness.
    Ellery's eyes, as he stepped into the room, were not concerned with its eeriness. They focused immediately on a large, garishly carved table to the side of the bed, on which was an ashtray filled to overflowing with cigaret-stubs. He quickly crossed the room and picked up the tray. Then he put it back on the table with a curious gleam in his eye.
    "Was this tray with its cigaret-stubs here this morning when you locked up, Miss Underhill?" he asked sharply.
    "Yes. I didn't touch anything."
    "Then this room hasn't been tidied since Sunday?"
    The housekeeper flushed. "The room was attended to on Monday morning, after Bernice awoke," she snarled. "I will not hear any imputations against my household, Mr. Queen! I—"
    "But why not Monday afternoon?" interposed Ellery, smiling.
    "Because Bernice chased the maid out of the room after the bed was made, that's why!" snapped the housekeeper. "The girl didn't have time to empty the ashtray. I hope that satisfies you!"
    "It does," murmured Ellery. "Dad—Velie—come here a moment."
    Ellery silently pointed down to the cigaret-stubs. There were at least thirty on the tray. Without exception the cigarets, of a flat Turkish variety, had been smoked only one-quarter of their length, and crushed out against the tray. The Inspector picked one up, and peered at a word of gilt lettering near the tip.
    "Well, what's surprising about that?" he demanded. "They're the same brand as the ones on the card-table in the apartment. Girl must be frightfully nervous, though."
    "But the length, dad, the length," said Ellery softly. "However, no matter.... Miss Underhill, has Miss Carmody always smoked La Duchesse?"
    "Yes, sir," said the housekeeper unpleasantly. "And too many for her health, too. She gets them from some Greek person with an outlandish name—Xanthos, I think it is—who makes them up on special order for young ladies of the better classes. Perfumed, they are!"
    "A standing order, I suppose?"
    "You suppose correctly. When Bernice's supply ran out, she merely repeated her order, which was for a box of five hundred always.... That's one thing about Bernice, although you mustn't take it as anything against the poor child, because too many young ladies have the same pernicious habit—but she smokes altogether too much for propriety and health, too. Her mother never smoked, nor do Marion and Mr. French."
    "Yes, yes, we are aware of those facts, Miss Underhill, thank you." Ellery took a glassine envelope from his compact pocket-kit and calmly poured into it the dusty contents of the ashtray. The envelope he handed to Velie.
    "You had better keep this with whatever mementoes of the case will be filed at Headquarters," he said in a sprightly tone. "I think it will prove of interest in the final summation.... Now, Miss Underhill, if you will please spare us just another slice of your precious time...."