The French Powder Mystery — 32 · The French Powder Mystery — 33 · The French Powder Mystery — 34

The French Powder Mystery — 32

Alibis: Marchbanks

    Marchbanks glowered. He bore himself with the sullenness of a man who nurses a grudge. He snapped at the Inspector and ignored Ellery. He deposited his stick and hat on the table with a bang, rudely refusing to allow Djuna to take them from him. He sat down uninvited and drummed nastily on the arm of the chair.
    "Well, sir," thought the Inspector, "we'll have at you." He took a pinch of snuff with deliberation, regarding Marchbanks curiously. "Marchbanks," he said in curt tones, "where were you Monday evening and night?"
    The dead woman's brother scowled. "What's this—a third degree?"
    "If you choose to make it so," retorted the Inspector, in his most unpleasant voice. "I repeat—where were you Monday night?"
    "If you must know," said Marchbanks bitingly, "I was out on Long Island."
    "Oh, Long Island!" The Inspector seemed duly impressed. "When did you go, where did you go, and how long did you stay?"
    "You people always insist on a 'story,'" wheezed Marchbanks, setting his feet solidly on the rug. "Very well. I left town at about seven o'clock Monday evening. In my car...."
    "You drove yourself?"
    "Yes. I—"
    "Anybody with you?"
    "NO!" shouted Marchbanks. "Do you want my story or don't you? I—"
    "Continue," said the Inspector judicially.
    Marchbanks glared. "As I began to say—I left town Monday evening at seven in my car. I was bound for Little Neck—"
    "Little Neck, eh?" interpolated the Inspector exasperatingly.
    "Yes, Little Neck," stormed Marchbanks. "What's wrong in that? I had been invited to a small party at the house of a friend of mine there—"
    "His name?"
    "Patrick Malone," replied Marchbanks resignedly. "When I got there, I found no one at home except Malone's man. He explained that at the last moment Malone had been called away on business and had had to call off the party...."
    "Did you know that such an eventuality might occur?"
    "If you mean did I know that Malone was going to be called away—yes, in a way. He'd mentioned the possibility of it over the 'phone to me earlier in the day. At any rate, I saw no use in staying, so I left at once and proceeded off the main road to my own shack, a few miles farther on. I keep it for occasional jaunts into the Island. I—"
    "Have you any servants there?"
    "No. It's a small place and I prefer solitude when I'm out that way. So I slept there overnight and returned to the City in the morning by car."
    The Inspector smiled sardonically. "I suppose you met no one all night or in the morning who might verify your statements?"
    "I don't know what you mean. What are you driving at—?"
    "Yes or no?"
    "... No."
    "What time did you get to the City?"
    "About ten-thirty. I rose rather late."
    "And what time was it Monday evening when you reached your friend Malone's place and spoke to his valet?"
    "Oh, I should say about eight or eight-thirty. I don't recall exactly."
    The Inspector sent a mutely humorous glance across the room to Ellery. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Marchbanks' florid face darkened and he rose abruptly.
    "If you have nothing more to ask me, Inspector Queen, I must be going." He picked up his hat and stick.
    "Ah! Just one other thing. Sit down, Marchbanks." Marchbanks reluctantly reseated himself. "How do you account for the murder of your sister?"
    Marchbanks sniggered. "I thought you'd ask that. Up a tree, eh? Well, I'm not surprised. The police of this city are—"
    "Answer my question, please."
    "I don't account for it, and I can't account for it!" cried Marchbanks suddenly. "That's your business! All I know is that my sister has been shot to death, and I want her murderer sizzling in the Chair." He stopped, out of breath.
    "Yes, yes, I realize your natural desire for revenge," said the Inspector tiredly. "You may go, Mr. Marchbanks, but keep in town."

The French Powder Mystery — 33

Alibis: Carmody

    Vincent Carmody was the next caller. His reticence was as marked as usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiseless in the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.
    "Ah—Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector uneasily. The antique-dealer disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. "Ah—Mr. Carmody, I've called you in for a little consultation. We are checking up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand...."
    "Ummm," said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.
    The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuff-box. "Now, I should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday night—the night of the murder."
    "The murder." Carmody said it negligently. "Not interested in that, Inspector. What about my daughter?"
    The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody's expressionless lean face. "Your daughter's search is being conducted by the proper authorities. We haven't found her yet, but we have new information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my question."
    "Results!" Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. "I know what that word means in the police vocabulary. You're stumped and you know it. I'll put my own detective on the case."
    "Will you please answer my question?" grated the Inspector.
    "Keep cool," said Carmody. "Don't see what my movements on Monday night have to do with the case. I certainly didn't kidnap my own daughter. But if you must have it, here it is.
    "Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central—the 9:14. Changed at Stamford and didn't get to my destination until nearly midnight. It's far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don't know what went wrong. Had no place to stay—no hotel there—and had to return to the city. Couldn't make a decent connection and didn't get back to my apartment until four in the morning. That's all."
    "Not quite, Mr. Carmody." The Inspector mused. "Did any one see you when you returned to the city—at your apartment, perhaps?"
    "No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast at the apartment dining-room at ten o'clock. The head-waiter will identify me."
    "No doubt," said the Inspector disagreeably. "Meet any one on your trip who might remember you?"
    "No. Unless the conductor of the train."
    "Well!" Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody with open distaste. "Please make a note of all your movements and mail it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your daughter Bernice is a drug addict?"
    Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in his chair.
    "How did you find that out?" he muttered in a strangled voice. The muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. "I didn't think any one knew—except Winifred and me."
    "Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?" queried the Inspector instantly. "Had she known it long?"
    "So it's out," growled Carmody. "Good God!" He raised a haggard face to Queen. "I've known it for about a year. Winifred—" his face hardened—"Winifred didn't know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all that," he added bitterly. "Rot! She thought chiefly of herself.... So I told her—two weeks ago. She didn't believe it. We quarreled. But at the end she knew—I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred. I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don't know any more...." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I was going to take Bernice away—somewhere—anywhere—cure her.... And then Winifred was murdered and Bernice—gone...." His voice died away. Huge welts stood out under his eyes. The man was suffering—how deeply, by what perverse psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.
    And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.

The French Powder Mystery — 34

Alibis: Trask

    Trask was a half-hour late for his appointment at the Queen apartment. He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the Inspector's questions.
    Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town—vaguely, with an idle gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.
    Where "about town"? Well, really—can't remember. Some night-club or other at first.
    At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.
    Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he'd been disappointed by some friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.
    What was the name of the night-club? Really, don't recall it.
    What did he mean by "not recalling it"? Well—to tell the truth, he had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite—ha, ha! Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn't remember anything except dashing cold water on his face at ten o'clock Tuesday morning in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some fresh clothes. Then the directors' meeting at the French store.
    "Beautiful!" muttered the Inspector, eying Trask as if he were an obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in the general direction of a tray.
    "Trask!" The whip in Queen's voice brought the tall, dissipated director's body up with a start. "Are you sure you can't remember what night-club you were in?"
    "I say now," drawled Trask, sinking back, "you scared me that time, Inspector. I've told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don't recall a thing."
    "Well, that's just too bad," grunted the Inspector. "If I'm not disturbing you, Trask—do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual drug-user?"
    "Not really!" Trask sat up straight. "Then I was right!"
    "Oh, you suspected it?"
    "A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the symptoms. I've seen plenty of 'em." He brushed a speck of ash from his gardenia with languid distaste.
    The Inspector smiled. "Which didn't daunt you from going ahead with your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?"
    Trask looked virtuous. "Oh, no—really! I'd intended to cure her after we were married. Without her family's knowledge, and all that. Too bad—too bad," he sighed. He sighed again.
    "What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?" demanded the Inspector impatiently.
    "Oh, that!" Trask brightened. "Absolutely of the best, Inspector. You—er—you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future father-in-law. Haw-haw!"
    "Get out of here," said the Inspector distinctly.