The French Powder Mystery — 22

Books Again

    The three men stood uncomfortably in old Cyrus French's bedroom. The nurse fluttered about in the hall, a solid door separating her from her charge. Marion and Weaver had been ordered downstairs to the drawing-room. French's physician, Dr. Stuart, a large impressive man, with a professional irascibility glared at the Queens from his post at French's bedside.
    "Five minutes—no longer," he snapped. "Mr. French is hardly in a conversational condition!"
    The Inspector clucked placatingly, and stared at the sick man. French lay lumpily in his great bed, nervous eyes darting from one to another of his inquisitors. One flabby white hand plucked at the silk coverlet. His face was entirely drained of color, pasty, shockingly unwholesome in appearance. His grey hair straggled over a furrowed forehead.
    The Inspector stepped nearer to the bed. He bent forward and said in a low voice, "This is Inspector Queen of the police, Mr. French. Can you hear me? Do you think you are strong enough to answer a few perfunctory questions about Mrs. French's—accident?"
    The quicksilver eyes ceased rolling and concentrated on the gentle grey face of the Inspector. They blinked suddenly with intelligence.
    "Yes ... yes ..." French whispered, moistening his thin pale lips with a bright tongue. "Anything ... to clear up this ... ghastly business...."
    "Thank you, Mr. French." The Inspector leaned closer. "Is there any explanation in your mind that might account for the death of Mrs. French?"
    The liquid eyes blinked, closed. When they opened, there was an expression of utter bewilderment within their reddish depths.
    "No ... none," French breathed painfully. "None ... whatsoever.... She—she had ... so many friends ... no enemies.... I—it is ... unbelievable that any one ... should be so ... fiendish as to ... murder her."
    "I see." The Inspector tugged at his mustache with nimble fingers. "Then you know of no one who might have had a motive for killing her, Mr. French?"
    "No...." The hoarse feeble voice gathered strength suddenly. "The shame—the notoriety.... It will be the death of me.... With all my ... unsparing efforts to put an end to vice ... that this should happen to me!... Hideous, hideous!"
    His voice grew more and more violent. The Inspector motioned in alarm to Dr. Stuart, who leaned quickly over the sick man and felt his pulse. Then, in an extraordinarily gentle voice, the physician soothed his patient until the throaty rumblings faded off and the hand on the coverlet unflexed and lay still.
    "Have you much more?" asked the doctor in a gruff undertone. "You must be quick, Inspector!"
    "Mr. French," said Queen quietly, "is your personal key to the store apartment always in your possession?"
    The eyes rolled sleepily. "Eh? Key? Yes ... yes, always."
    "It has certainly not left your person in the past fortnight or so?"
    "No ... positively not...."
    "Where is it, Mr. French?" continued the Inspector in an urgent soft voice. "Surely you will not mind letting us have it for a few days, will you, sir? In the interests of justice, of course.... Where? Oh, yes! Dr. Stuart, Mr. French asks that you get the key from the key-ring in his trousers' hip-pocket. In the wardrobe, sir, the wardrobe!"
    In silence the burly physician went to a wardrobe, rummaged about in the first pair of trousers that met his eye, and returned in a moment with a leather key-case. The Inspector examined the gold-disked key marked C.F., unhooked it, and returned the case to the doctor, who promptly replaced it in the trousers. French lay quietly, eyes veiled by puffy lids.
    The Inspector handed Cyrus French's key to Ellery, who deposited it with the other keys in his pocket. Then Ellery stepped forward and leaned over the sick man.
    "Easy, Mr. French," he murmured in a soothing tone. "We have just two or three more questions, and then you will be left to your much-needed privacy.... Mr. French, do you recall what books are on your desk in the library of your apartment?"
    The old man's eyes flew open. Dr. Stuart growled angrily beneath his breath something about "arrant nonsense ... silly sleuthing." Ellery's body remained in its deferential attitude, his head close to French's slack mouth.
    "Books?"
    "Yes, Mr. French. The books on your apartment desk. Do you recall their titles?" he urged gently.
    "Books." French screwed his mouth up in a desperate effort to concentrate. "Yes, yes.... Of course. My favorites ... Jack London's Adventure ... The Return of Sherlock Holmes, by Doyle ... McCutcheon's Graustark ... Cardigan, by Robert W. Chambers, and ... let me think ... there was one other ... yes! Soldiers of Fortune, by Richard Harding Davis.... That's it—Davis.... Knew Davis.... Wild, but a ... a great fellow...."
    Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. The Inspector's face grew crimson with suppressed emotion. He muttered, "What the deuce!"
    "You're certain, Mr. French?" persisted Ellery, leaning over the bed once more.
    "Yes ... yes. My books ... I should know ..." whispered the old man, annoyance sounding weakly in his voice.
    "Of course! We were merely making sure.... Now, sir, have you ever been interested in such subjects as, let us say, paleontology—philately—medieval commerce—folk lore—elementary music?"
    The tired eyes widened with puzzled amazement. The head wagged twice from side to side.
    "No ... I can't say that I am.... My serious reading is restricted to works on sociology ... my work for the Anti-Vice Society ... you know my position...."
    "You are positive that your five books by Davis, Chambers, Doyle and the others are on your apartment desk now, Mr. French?"
    "I—suppose so," mumbled French. "Been there ... for ages.... Ought to be.... Never noticed anything wrong...."
    "Very well. That is quite excellent, sir. Thank you." Ellery glanced swiftly at Dr. Stuart, who was exhibiting marked signs of impatience. "One question, Mr. French, and we shall leave you. Has Mr. Lavery been in your apartment recently?"
    "Lavery? Yes, of course. Every day. My guest."
    "Then that will be all." Ellery stepped back and made a hasty note on the fly-leaf of his now overscribbled little volume. French's eyes closed, and he shifted his body slightly, with an unmistakable relaxation that signified complete fatigue.
    "Please leave quietly," grunted Dr. Stuart. "You've retarded his recovery sufficiently for one day."
    He turned his back truculently upon them.
    The three men tiptoed from the room.
    But on the staircase leading to the main foyer, the Inspector muttered, "Where in time do those books come in?"
    "Ask me not in mournful numbers," said Ellery ruefully. "I wish I knew."
    Thenceforth they descended in silence.