THE FRENCH POWDER MYSTERY
_A Problem in Deduction_
By ELLERY QUEEN
_Author of "The Roman Hat Mystery"_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
NEW YORK
MCMXXX
COPYRIGHT, 1930, BY FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
_All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced
without the written permission of the publishers._
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
THE FIRST EPISODE
1. "THE QUEENS WERE IN THE PARLOR"
2. "THE KINGS WERE IN THE COUNTING-HOUSE"
3. "HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL"
4. "ALL THE KING'S HORSES"
5. "AND ALL THE KING'S MEN"
6. TESTIMONY
7. THE CORPSE
8. THE WATCHER
9. THE WATCHERS
10. MARION
11. LOOSE ENDS
12. OUT THE WINDOW
THE SECOND EPISODE
13. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Bedroom_
14. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Lavatory_
15. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Cardroom_
16. AT THE APARTMENT: _Again the Bedroom_
17. AT THE APARTMENT: _The Library_
18. SCRAMBLED SIGNS
19. OPINIONS AND REPORTS
THE THIRD EPISODE
20. TOBACCO
21. KEYS AGAIN
22. BOOKS AGAIN
23. CONFIRMATION
24. THE QUEENS TAKE STOCK
THE FOURTH EPISODE
25. ELLERIUS BIBLIOPHILUS
26. THE TRAIL TO BERNICE
27. THE SIXTH BOOK
28. UNRAVELING THREADS
29. RAID!
30. REQUIEM
31. ALIBIS: MARION-ZORN
32. ALIBIS: MARCHBANKS
33. ALIBIS: CARMODY
34. ALIBIS: TRASK
35. ALIBIS: GRAY
36. "THE TIME HAS COME...."
THE LAST EPISODE
37. MAKE READY!
38. THE END OF ALL THINGS
SOME PERSONS OF IMPORTANCE ENCOUNTERED IN
THE COURSE OF THE FRENCH INVESTIGATION[1]
[Footnote 1: The success of this device in his recent novel (_The Roman
Hat Mystery_) has encouraged Mr. Queen to repeat it here. It was found
useful by many of Mr. Queen's readers in keeping the _dramatis personæ_
compactly before them.--THE EDITOR.]
NOTE: A list of the personalities involved in _The French
Powder Mystery_ is here set at the disposition of the reader. He
is urged indeed to con the list painstakingly before attacking the
story proper, so that each name will be vigorously impressed upon
his consciousness; moreover, to refer often to this page during his
perusal of the story.... Bear in mind that the most piercing enjoyment
deriving from indulgence in detectival fiction arises from the battle
of wits between author and reader. Scrupulous attention to the cast of
characters is frequently a means to this eminently desirable end.
ELLERY QUEEN.
WINIFRED MARCHBANKS FRENCH, _Requiescat in pace_. What cesspool of
evil lies beneath her murder?
BERNICE CARMODY, a child of ill-fortune.
CYRUS FRENCH, a common American avatar--merchant prince and Puritan.
MARION FRENCH, a silken Cinderella?
WESTLEY WEAVER, amanuensis and lover--and friend to the author.
VINCENT CARMODY, _l'homme sombre et malheureux_. A dealer in
antiquities.
JOHN GRAY, director. A donor of book-ends.
HUBERT MARCHBANKS, director. Ursine brother to the late Mrs. French.
A. MELVILLE TRASK, director. Sycophantic blot on a fair 'scutcheon.
CORNELIUS ZORN, director. An Antwerpian nabob, potbelly,
inhibitions and all.
MRS. CORNELIUS ZORN, Zorn's Medusa-wife.
PAUL LAVERY, the impeccable _français_. Pioneer in modern
art-decoration. Author of technical studies in the field of fine
arts, notably _L'Art de Faïence, publi par Monserat, Paris, 1913_.
ARNOLD MACKENZIE, General Manager of French's, a Scot.
WILLIAM CROUTHER, chief guardian of the law employed by French's.
DIANA JOHNSON, a study in normal ebon.
JAMES SPRINGER, Manager of the Book Department; a mysterioso.
PETER O'FLAHERTY, lead head night-watchman of the French
establishment.
HERMANN RALSKA, GEORGE POWERS, BERT BLOOM, nightwatchmen.
HORTENSE UNDERHILL, genus _housekeeper tyranna_.
DORIS KEATON, a maidenly minion.
THE HON. SCOTT WELLES, just a Commissioner of Police.
DR. SAMUEL PROUTY, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County.
HENRY SAMPSON, District Attorney of New York County.
TIMOTHY CRONIN, Assistant District Attorney of New York County.
THOMAS VELIE, Detective-Sergeant under the wing of Inspector Queen.
HAGSTROM, HESSE, FLINT, RITTER, JOHNSON, PIGGOTT, sleuths attached
to the command of Inspector Queen.
SALVATORE FIORELLI, Head of the Narcotic Squad.
"JIMMY," Headquarters fingerprint expert who has ever remained
last-nameless.
DJUNA, The Queens' beloved scull, who appears far too little.
Detectives, policemen, clerks, a physician, a nurse, a Negro
caretaker, a freight watchman, etc., etc., etc., etc.
and
INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN
who, being not himself, is sorely beset in this adventure
_and_
ELLERY QUEEN
who is so fortunate as to resolve it.
[ Illustration:
A--Elevator shaft
B--Stairway shaft
C, D, E, F, G--French apartment
C--Lavatory F--Anteroom D--Bedroom G--Cardroom E--Library
H--Ground floor door to elevator, facing 39th Street corridor
I--Ground floor door to stairway, facing Fifth Avenue corridor
J--Window containing Lavery Exhibition
K--Door to murder-window
L--O'Flaherty's office, with view of 39th Street entrance
M--Door from freight room
]
FOREWORD
EDITOR'S NOTE: It will be recalled by the readers of Mr. Queen's
last detective novel[2] that a foreword appeared therein written
by a gentleman designating himself as _J. J. McC._ The publishers
did not then, nor do they now, know the identity of this friend of
the two Queens. In deference to the author's wish, however, Mr.
McC. has been kind enough to pen once more a prefatory note to his
friend's new novel, and this note appears below.
[Footnote 2: _The Roman Hat Mystery_, by Ellery Queen; published by
Frederick A. Stokes Company, 1929.]
I have followed the fortunes of the Queens, father and son, with more
than casual interest for many years. Longer perhaps than any other
of their legion friends. Which places me, or so Ellery avers, in the
unfortunate position of Chorus, that quaint herald of the olden drama
who craves the auditor's sympathetic ear and receives at best his
willful impatience.
It is with pleasure nevertheless that I once more enact my rôle of
prologue-master in a modern tale of murder and detection. This pleasure
derives from two causes: the warm reception accorded Mr. Queen's first
novel, for the publication of which I was more or less responsible,
under his _nom de plume_; and the long and sometimes arduous friendship
I have enjoyed with the Queens.
I say "arduous" because the task of a mere mortal in attempting to
keep step with the busy life of a New York detective Inspector and
the intellectual activity of a book-worm and logician can adequately
be described only by that word. Richard Queen, whom I knew intimately
long before he retired, a veteran of thirty-two years' service in the
New York police department, was a dynamic little gray man, a bundle of
energy and industry. He knew his crime, he knew his criminals, and he
knew his law. He brought to these not uncommon attributes, however,
a daring of method that put him far above the average Detective
Inspector. A firm advocate of the more inspirational methods of his
son, he nevertheless was the practical policeman to his fingertips.
Under his long régime the Detective Bureau, except for those stormy
times when his official superiors took it upon themselves by
overhauling the department to satisfy a theory or a press opinion,
garnered a record of solved capital crimes which to this day is unique
in the police history of New York City.
Ellery Queen, as may be imagined, deplored the more unimaginative
aspects of his father's profession. He was the pure logician, with a
generous dash of dreamer and artist thrown in--a lethal combination
to those felons who were so unfortunate as to be dissected by the
keen instruments of his mind, always under those questing pince-nez
eyeglasses. His "life work" before his father's retirement was hardly
visible to the eye, unless his casual custom of writing a detective
story when the spirit moved him may be termed a life work.[3] He
occupied himself chiefly in a student's pursuit of culture and
knowledge, and since he had an independent income from a maternal uncle
which removed him from the class of social parasite, he lived what he
characteristically termed the "ideal intellectual life." It was natural
for him to evince intense interest in crime, due to his environment,
which from childhood had been saturated with tales of murder and
law-breaking; but the artistic element in his nature made him useless
for routine police investigation.
[Footnote 3: It is interesting to note that "Ellery Queen" published
many detective novels during his father's Inspectorship, but under his
real name, which is of course not Queen. These unrevealed stories,
however, should not be confused with the stories published under the
name of Ellery Queen, of which _The French Powder Mystery_ is the
second. These latter are taken practically untouched from actual
investigations undertaken by the author and his father; which accounts
both for the _nom de plume_ and the secrecy shrouding the identity of
the Queens.]
I recall vividly a conversation between father and son one day many
years ago which brought out their wholly opposed viewpoints on the
subject of crime-detection. I relate the conversation here because it
will crystallize the difference between the two men so clearly--a point
quite essential to complete understanding of the Queens.
The Inspector was expounding on his profession for my benefit, while
Ellery lounged in his chair between us.
"Ordinary crime-detection," said the old man, "is almost wholly a
mechanical matter. Most crimes are committed by 'criminals'--that is to
say, by individuals habituated by environment and repetitious conduct
to the pursuit of law-breaking. Such persons in ninety-nine out of a
hundred cases have police records.
"The detective in these ninety-nine hypothetical cases has much to go
on. Bertillon measurements--fingerprint records, intimate photographs,
a complete dossier. Moreover, he has a little file of the criminal's
idiosyncrasies. We have not developed this phase of detective science
so well as the London, Vienna and Berlin police, but we have at least
laid a foundation....
"A burglar who habitually makes use of a certain method of prying
open doors and windows, or blowing safes, for example; a hold-up
man who always wears a crude, home-made mask; a gunman who smokes
and drops a certain brand of cigaret, purely from habit; a gangster
with an inordinate fondness for women; a second-story man who always
works alone, or one who invariably employs a 'look-out'.... These
idiosyncrasies of method are sometimes as definite clues to the
identity of a criminal as his fingerprints.
"It seems peculiar to the layman," went on Inspector Queen, when
he had inhaled deeply from his old snuff-box--a habit inseparable
from the man--"that a criminal should constantly use the same _modus
operandi_--always drop the same cigaret smoked the same way; always
wear the same kind of mask; always indulge in a wild orgy with women
after a 'job.' But they forget that crime is the criminal's business,
and that every business leaves its indelible mark of habit on the
business man."
"Your psychological policeman, by the way," grinned Ellery, "doesn't
scorn the aid of informers, either, McC. Something like the little
tick-bird that sits on the rhino's back and warns of approaching
danger...."
"I was coming to that," retorted his father equably. "As I said
in the beginning, we have plenty to go on in the case of the
hardened criminal. But most of all, despite my son's jeering
attitude, we have come to depend upon the underworld's 'squealers,'
'stool-pigeons'--they're called less polite names, too--for the
solution of routine crimes. It is an open secret that without the
stool-pigeon a huge percentage of felonies would remain unsolved. They
are as essential to the big city's police as a knowledge of the proper
source-book is to the lawyer. It stands to reason--the underworld by
its amazing grapevine inevitably knows who has pulled a big 'job.' Our
problem is to find a 'stoolie' who will part with the tip for a fair
consideration. It isn't always easy even then, by the way...."
"Child's play," said Ellery in a provocative tone. And he grinned.
"I firmly believe," went on the old Inspector imperturbably, "that
every police department in the world would collapse in six months if
the institution of underworld informing were to come to an end."
Ellery lazily took up the cudgels. "Most of what you say, Sire, is
only too true. Which is why ninety per cent of your investigations hold
not a vestige of glamour for me. But the last ten per cent!
"Where the police detective woefully falls down, J.J.," he said
smiling, turning to me, "is in the case of the crime whose perpetrator
is _not_ a habitual criminal, who has therefore left _no_ handy
fingerprints which will correspond with another set in your files,
about whose idiosyncrasies _nothing_ is known for the ludicrously
simple reason that he has never been a criminal before. Such a person,
generally speaking, is not of the underworld, and you can therefore
pump your stool-pigeon to your heart's delight without eliciting the
slightest morsel of useful information.
"You have nothing to go on, I am happy to say," he continued,
twirling his pince-nez, "except the crime itself, and such clues and
pertinences as that crime reveals upon observation and investigation.
Obviously--and I say this with proper respect for my father's ancient
profession--obviously to nab the criminal in such a case is the more
difficult job by many headaches. Which explains two things--the
hideously high percentage of unsolved crimes in this country, and my
own absorbing avocation."
* * * * *
_The French Powder Mystery_ is one of the older cases from the Queens'
files--an actual case, as I have said, and one in which Ellery
exhibited scintillating proofs of his unique talents. He kept notes of
this case during the French investigation--one of his few practical
habits. Subsequently, with the unmasking of the murderer, he wrote a
book around the real-life plot, developing and embroidering the facts
to fit a literary pattern.
I induced him to polish up the manuscript and have it published as
the second novel under his pen-name--and this at a time when I was
under his sacred roof in the Queens' Italian villa. For it will be
recalled that Ellery, having renounced his old profession utterly, now
that he is married and domesticated, has hidden his old cases in the
depths of a filing-cabinet and nothing less than the detonation of a
presumptuous friend's exhortations has been able to make him consent to
a revivication of the mellowed manuscripts.
It should be borne in mind, in all fairness to Inspector Queen, that
the old sleuth's comparatively small rôle in the French case was due
to the enormous press of official business during that hectic season,
and in no small degree to the heckling he was subjected to by the newly
appointed civilian, Scott Welles, to the post of Commissioner of Police.
In closing, it might be pleasant to point out that the Queens are at
this writing still in their tiny mountain-home in Italy; that Ellery's
son has learned to toddle and say with innocent gravity, "gramps";
that Djuna is in perfect health and has recently undergone the stress
of a cosmic love-affair with a little witch of a country girl; that
the Inspector is still writing monographs for German magazines and
making occasional tours of inspection through the Continental police
departments; that Mrs. Ellery Queen has happily recovered from her
recent illness; and finally that Ellery himself, after his visit last
fall to New York, has returned to that "gem-encrusted" Roman scenery
with gratitude in his heart and, he says, (but I doubt it), no regrets
for the distractions of the West Side.
Which leaves me little else to write but a most sincere hope that you
will enjoy the reading of _The French Powder Mystery_ fully as much as
I did.
J. J. MCC.
NEW YORK
_June, 1930_
THE FIRST EPISODE
"_Parenthetically speaking ... in numerous cases the sole
difference between success and failure in the detection of crime is
a sort of ... osmotic reluctance (on the part of the detective's
mental perceptions) to seep through the cilia of_ WHAT SEEMS TO BE
_and reach the vital stream of_ WHAT ACTUALLY IS."
--From A PRESCRIPTION FOR CRIME,
_By_ Dr. Luigi Pinna
1
"THE QUEENS WERE IN THE PARLOR"
They sat about the old walnut table in the Queen apartment--five oddly
assorted individuals. There was District Attorney Henry Sampson,
a slender man with bright eyes. Beside Sampson glowered Salvatore
Fiorelli, head of the Narcotic Squad, a burly Italian with a long
black scar on his right cheek. Red-haired Timothy Cronin, Sampson's
assistant, was there. And Inspector Richard Queen and Ellery Queen sat
shoulder to shoulder with vastly differing facial expressions. The old
man sulked, bit the end of his mustache. Ellery stared vacantly at
Fiorelli's cicatrix.
The calendar on the desk nearby read Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth,
19--. A mild spring breeze fluttered the window draperies.
The Inspector glared about the board. "What did Welles ever do? I'd
like to know, Henry!"
"Come now, Q, Scott Welles isn't a bad scout."
"Rides to hounds, shoots a 91 on the course, and that makes him
eligible for the police commissionership, doesn't it? Of course, of
course! And the unnecessary work he piles on us...."
"It isn't so bad as that," said Sampson. "He's done some useful things,
in all fairness. Flood Relief Committee, social work.... A man who has
been so active in non-political fields can't be a total loss, Q."
The Inspector snorted. "How long has he been in office? No, don't tell
me--let me guess. Two days.... Well, here's what he's done to us in two
days. Get your teeth into this.
"Number one--reorganized the Missing Persons Bureau. And why poor
Parsons got the gate _I_ don't know.... Number two--scrambled seven
precinct captains so thoroughly that they need road maps to get back
to familiar territory. Why? You tell me.... Number three--shifted the
make-up of Traffic B, C, and D. Number four--reduced a square two dozen
second-grade detectives to pounding beats. Any reason? Certainly!
Somebody whose grand-uncle's niece knows the Governor's fourth
secretary is out for blood.... Number five--raked over the Police
School and changed the rules. And I know he has his eagle eye on my pet
Homicide Squad...."
"You'll burst a blood-vessel," said Cronin.
"You haven't heard anything yet," said the Inspector grimly. "Every
first-grade detective must now make out a daily report--in line of
duty, mind you--a daily personal report direct to the Commissioner's
office!"
"Well," grinned Cronin, "he's welcome to read 'em all. Half those
babies can't _spell_ homicide."
"Read them nothing, Tim. Do you think he'd waste _his_ time? Not by
your Aunt Martha. No, sir! He sends them into _my_ office by his shiny
little secretary, Theodore B. B. St. Johns, with a polite message:
'The Commissioner's respects to Inspector Richard Queen, and the
Commissioner would be obliged for an opinion within the hour on the
veracity of the attached reports.' And there I am, sweating marbles to
keep my head clear for this narcotic investigation--there I am putting
my mark on a flock of flatfoot reports." The Inspector dug viciously
into his snuff-box.
"You ain't spilled half of it, Queen," growled Fiorelli. "What's
this wall-eyed walrus, this pussy-footing specimen of a 'civvie' do
but sneak in on my department, sniff around among the boys, hook
a can of opium on the sly, and send it down to Jimmy for--guess
what--fingerprints! Fingerprints, by God! As if Jimmy could find the
print of a dope-peddler after a dozen of the gang had had their paws on
the can. Besides, we had the prints already! But no, he didn't stop for
explanations. And then Stern searched high and low for the can and came
runnin' to me with some crazy story that the guy we're lookin' for'd
walked himself straight into Headquarters and snitched a pot of opium!"
Fiorelli spread his huge hands mutely, stuck a stunted black cheroot
into his mouth.
It was at this moment that Ellery picked up a little volume with torn
covers from the table and began to read.
Sampson's grin faded. "All joking aside, though, if we don't gain
ground soon on the drug ring we'll all be in a mess. Welles shouldn't
have forced our hand and stirred up the White test case now. Looks as
if this gang--" He shook his head dubiously.
"That's what riles me," complained the Inspector. "Here I am, just
getting the feel of Pete Slavin's mob, and I have to spend a whole day
down in Court testifying."
There was silence, broken after a moment by Cronin. "How did you come
out on O'Shaughnessy in the Kingsley Arms murder?" he asked curiously.
"Has he come clean?"
"Last night," said the Inspector. "We had to sweat him a little, but he
saw we had the goods on him and came through." The harsh lines around
his mouth softened. "Nice piece of work Ellery did there. When you stop
to think that we were on the case a whole day without a glimmer of
proof that O'Shaughnessy killed Herrin, although we were sure he'd done
it--along comes my son, spends ten minutes on the scene, and comes out
with enough proof to burn the murderer."
"Another miracle, eh?" chuckled Sampson. "What's the inside story,
Q?" They glanced toward Ellery, but he was hunched in his chair,
assiduously reading.
"As simple as rolling off a log," said Queen proudly. "It generally is
when he explains it.--Djuna, more coffee, will you, son?"
An agile little figure popped out of the kitchenette, grinned, bobbed
his dark head, and disappeared. Djuna was Inspector Queen's valet,
man-of-all-work, cook, chambermaid, and unofficially the mascot of the
Detective Bureau.[4] He emerged with a percolator and refilled the cups
on the table. Ellery grasped his with a questioning hand and began to
sip, his eyes riveted on the book.
[Footnote 4: See "_The Roman Hat Mystery_."]
"Simple's hardly the word," resumed the Inspector. "Jimmy had sprinkled
that whole room with fingerprint powder and found nothing but Herrin's
own prints--and Herrin was deader than a mackerel. The boys all took
a whack at suggesting different places to sprinkle--it was quite a
game while it lasted...." He slapped the table. "Then Ellery marched
in. I reviewed the case for him and showed him what we'd found. You
remember we spotted Herrin's footprints in the crumbled plaster on the
dining-room floor. We were mighty puzzled about that, because from the
circumstances of the crime it was impossible for Herrin to have been
in that dining-room. And that's where superior mentality, I suppose
you'd call it, turned the trick. Ellery said: 'Are you certain those
are Herrin's footprints?' I told him they were, beyond a doubt. When I
told him why, he agreed--yet it was impossible for Herrin to have been
in that room. And there lay the prints, giving us the lie. 'Very well,'
says this precious son o' mine, 'maybe he wasn't in the room, after
all.' 'But Ellery--the prints!' I objected. 'I have a notion,' he says,
and goes into the bedroom.
"Well," sighed the Inspector, "he certainly did have a notion. In
the bedroom he looked over the shoes on Herrin's dead feet, took them
off, got some of the print powder from Jimmy, called for the copy of
O'Shaughnessy's fingerprints, sprinkled the shoes--and sure enough,
there was a beautiful thumb impression! He matched it with the file
print, and it proved to be O'Shaughnessy's.... You see, we'd looked in
every place in that apartment for fingerprints except the one place
where they were--on the dead body itself. Who'd ever think of looking
for the murderer's sign on his victim's shoes?"
"Unlikely place," grunted the Italian. "How'd it figure?"
"Ellery reasoned that if Herrin wasn't in that room and his shoes were,
it simply meant that somebody else wore or planted Herrin's shoes
there. Infantile, isn't it? But it had to be thought of." The old
man bore down on Ellery's bowed head with unconvincing irritability.
"Ellery, what on earth are you reading? You're hardly an attentive
host, son."
"That's one time a layman's familiarity with fingerprints came in
handy," grinned Sampson.
"Ellery!"
Ellery looked up excitedly. He waved his book in triumph, and began to
recite to the amazed group at the table: "'If they went to sleep with
the sandals on, the thong worked into the feet and the sandals were
frozen fast to them. This was partly due to the fact that, since their
old sandals had failed, they wore untanned brogans made of newly flayed
ox-hides.'[5] Do you know, dad, that gives me a splendid idea?" His
face beamed as he reached for a pencil.
[Footnote 5: I had been brushing up on my Xenophon, and when I ran
across the passage relating to the Retreat of the Ten Thousand through
ancient Armenia, the shoe reference gave me an idea for a short story.
The incident is ridiculous in retrospect, although at the time I was
quite oblivious to its humor.--E. Q.]
Inspector Queen swung to his feet, grumbling. "You can't get anything
out of him when he's in that mood.... Come along, Henry--you going,
Fiorelli?--let's get down to City Hall."
2
"THE KINGS WERE IN THE COUNTING-HOUSE"
It was eleven o'clock when Inspector Queen left his apartment on West
87th Street in the company of Sampson, Cronin and Fiorelli, bound for
the Criminal Courts Building.
At precisely the same moment, some miles to the south, a man stood
quietly at the library dormer-window of a private apartment. The
apartment was situated on the sixth floor of French's, the Fifth
Avenue department store. The man at the window was Cyrus French, chief
stockholder of French's and president of its Board of Directors.
French was watching the swirling traffic at the intersection of Fifth
Avenue and 39th Street with unseeing eyes. He was a dour-visaged man
of sixty-five, stocky, corpulent, iron-grey. He was dressed in a dark
business suit. A white flower gleamed on his lapel.
He said: "I hope you made it clear that the meeting was for this
morning at eleven, Westley," and turned sharply to eye a man seated
beside a glass-topped desk before the window.
Westley Weaver nodded. He was a fresh-faced young man, clean-shaven and
alert, in the early thirties.
"Quite clear," he replied pleasantly. He looked up from a stenographic
notebook in which he had been writing. "As a matter of fact, here is a
carbon copy of the memorandum I typed yesterday afternoon. I left one
copy for each director, besides this one which you found on the desk
this morning." He indicated a slip of blue-tinted paper lying beside
the desk telephone. Except for five books standing between cylindrical
onyx book-ends at the extreme right of the desk, a telephone, and the
memorandum, the glass top was bare. "I followed up the memos to the
directors with telephone calls about a half-hour ago. They all promised
to be here on time."
French grunted and turned again to look down upon the maze of morning
traffic. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to dictate store
business in his slightly grating voice.
They were interrupted five minutes later by a knock on the outer door,
beyond an anteroom. French irritably called, "Come!" and there was the
sound of a hand fumbling with the invisible knob. French said, "Oh,
yes, the door's shut, of course; open it, Westley."
Weaver went quickly through the anteroom and flung open the heavy door.
He admitted a weazened little old man who showed pale gums in a grin,
and with an amazing celerity for a man of his years tripped into the
room.
"Never seem to remember that locked door of yours, Cyrus," he piped,
shaking hands with Westley and French. "Am I the first?"
"That you are, John," said French with a vague smile. "The others
should be here any moment now."
Weaver offered the old man a chair. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Gray?"
Gray's seventy years sat lightly on his thin shoulders. He had
a bird-like head covered with thin white hair. His face was the
indeterminate color of parchment; it was constantly wreathed in smiles
which lifted his white mustache above thin red lips. He wore a wing
collar and an ascot tie.
He accepted the chair and sat down with a preposterously lithe movement.
"How was your trip, Cyrus?" he asked. "Did you find Whitney amenable?"
"Quite, quite!" returned French, resuming his pacing. "In fact, I
should say that if we officially come to a complete agreement this
morning, we can consummate the merger in less than a month."
"Fine! Good stroke of business!" John Gray rubbed his hands in a
curious gesture; they rasped together.
There was a second knock at the door. Weaver again went into the
anteroom.
"Mr. Trask and Mr. Marchbanks," he announced. "And if I'm not mistaken,
there comes Mr. Zorn from the elevator." Two men passed into the room,
and a moment later a third; whereupon Weaver hurried back to his chair
by the desk. The door swung shut with a click.
The newcomers shook hands all around and dropped into chairs at a
long conference table in the middle of the room. They made a peculiar
group. Trask--A. Melville Trask in the Social Register--fell into a
habitually drooping attitude, sprawling in his chair and playing idly
with a pencil on the table before him. His associates paid little
attention to him. Hubert Marchbanks sat down heavily. He was a fleshy
man of forty-five, florid and clumsy-handed. At regular intervals his
loud voice broke in an asthmatic wheeze. Cornelius Zorn regarded his
fellow directors from behind old-fashioned gold-rimmed eyeglasses. His
head was bald and square, his fingers were thick, and he wore a reddish
mustache. His short figure completely filled the chair. He looked
startlingly like a prosperous butcher.
French took a seat at the head of the table and regarded the others
solemnly.
"Gentlemen--this is a meeting which will go down in the history of
department store merchandising." He paused, cleared his throat.
"Westley, will you see that a man is posted at the door so that we may
continue absolutely undisturbed?"
"Yes, sir." Weaver picked up the telephone on the desk and said,
"Mr. Crouther's office, please." A moment later he said, "Crouther?
Who? Oh, yes.... Never mind looking for him; you can take care of
it. Send one of the store detectives up to the door of Mr. French's
private apartment. He is to see that no one disturbs Mr. French while
the Board meeting is going on.... He is not to interrupt us--merely
station himself at the door.... Whom will you send?... Oh! Jones? Good
enough. Tell Crouther about it when he comes in.... Oh, he's been in
since nine? Well, tell him for me when you see him; I'm very busy just
now." He hung up and returned quickly to a chair at French's right. He
snatched his pencil and poised it over his notebook.
The five directors were poring over a sheaf of papers. French sat
staring at the blue May sky outside while they familiarized themselves
with the details of the documents, his heavy hands restless on the
table top.
Suddenly he turned to Weaver and said in an undertone, "I'd almost
forgotten, Westley. Get the house on the wire. Let's see--it's
eleven-fifteen. They should be up by this time. Mrs. French may be
anxious about me--I haven't communicated with her since I left for
Great Neck yesterday."
Weaver gave the number of the French house to the operator, and a
moment later spoke incisively into the mouthpiece.
"Hortense? Is Mrs. French up yet?... Well, is Marion there, then? Or
Bernice?... Very well, let me speak with Marion...."
He shifted his body away from French, who was talking in a low tone to
old John Gray. Weaver's eyes were bright and his face suddenly flushed.
"Hello, hello! Marion?" he breathed into the telephone. "This is Wes.
I'm sorry--you know--I'm calling from the apartment--your father would
like to speak to you...."
A woman's low voice answered. "Westley dear! I understand.... Oh, I'm
so sorry, darling, but if father's there we can't talk very long. You
love me? Say it!"
"Oh, but I _can't_," whispered Weaver fiercely, his back rigid and
formal. But his face, turned away from French, was eloquent.
"I know you can't, silly boy." The girl laughed. "I just said it to
make you wriggle. But you do, don't you?" She laughed again.
"Yes. Yes. Oh, YES!"
"Then let me talk to father, darling."
Weaver cleared his throat hastily and turned to French.
"Here's Marion at last, sir," he said, handing the instrument to the
old man. "Hortense Underhill says that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice
has come down yet."
French hurriedly took the telephone from Weaver's hands. "Marion, this
is father. I've just arrived from Great Neck and I'm feeling fine.
Everything all right?... What's the matter? You seem a little tired....
All right, dear. I merely wanted to let you know that I'm back safely.
You might tell Mother for me--I'll be too busy to call again this
morning. Good-by, dear."
He returned to his chair, looked gravely around at the Board, and said,
"Now gentlemen, since you've had a few moments to become familiar
with the figures I thrashed out with Whitney, let's get to work." He
brandished a forefinger.
* * * * *
At eleven forty-five the telephone bell jangled, interrupting a heated
discussion between French and Zorn. Weaver's hand leaped to the
instrument.
"Hello, hello! Mr. French is very busy just now.... Is that you,
Hortense? What is it?... Just a moment." He turned to French. "Pardon
me, sir--Hortense Underhill is on the wire and she seems disturbed
about something. Will you talk to her or call back?"
French glared at Zorn, who was fiercely dabbing away the perspiration
on his thick neck, and snatched the telephone from Weaver.
"Well, what is it?"
A quavering feminine voice answered. "Mr. French, something dreadful's
happened. I can't find Mrs. French or Miss Bernice!"
"Eh? What's that you say? What's the matter? Where are they?"
"I don't know, sir. They hadn't rung for the maids all morning, and I
went up to see if anything was wrong a few minutes ago. You'll--you'll
never believe it, sir--I can't understand--"
"Well!"
"Their beds aren't touched. I don't think they slept home last night."
French's voice rose in anger. "You silly woman--is that why you're
interrupting my Board meeting? It was raining last night and they
probably stayed overnight somewhere with friends."
"But Mr. French--they would have called, or--"
"Please, Hortense! Go back to your housework. I'll look into this
later." He slammed the receiver on the hook.
"Foolishness ..." he muttered. Then he shrugged his shoulders. He
turned to Zorn again, palms on the table. "Now what's that? Do you mean
to tell me that you'd stand in the way of this merger just because of a
paltry few thousands? Let me tell you something, Zorn...."
3
"HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL"
French's occupied a square block in the heart of the mid-town section
of New York, on Fifth Avenue. On the borderline between the more
fashionable upper avenue and the office-building district farther
downtown, it catered to a mixed patronage of wealth and penury. At the
noon hour its broad aisles and six floors were crowded with shop girls
and stenographers; in mid-afternoon the tone of its clientele improved
perceptibly. It boasted at once therefore the lowest prices, the most
modern models, the widest assortment of saleable articles, in New York.
As a result of this compromise between attractive prices and exclusive
merchandise it was the most popular department store in the city. From
nine o'clock in the morning until five-thirty in the evening French's
was thronged with shoppers, the sidewalks surrounding the marble
structure and its many wings almost impassable.
Cyrus French, pioneer department store owner, assisted by his associate
Board, exerted the full financial strength of his powerful organization
to make French's--an institution of two generations of French
ownership--the show place of the city. In those days, long before the
artistic movement had been communicated in the United States to the
more practical articles of use and wear, French's had already made
contact with its European representatives and held public exhibitions
of art objects, art furniture, and kindred modernistic ware. These
exhibits attracted huge crowds to the store. One of its main windows
fronting Fifth Avenue was devoted to exhibits of periodically imported
articles. This window became the focal point for the eyes of all New
York. Curious throngs constantly besieged its sheathing of plate glass.
On the morning of Tuesday the twenty-fourth of May, at three minutes
of the noon hour, the heavy unpaneled door to this window opened and
a Negress in black dress, white apron and white cap entered. She
sauntered about the window, seemed to appraise its contents, and then
stood stiffly at attention, as if awaiting a predetermined moment to
begin her mysterious work.
The contents of the window were arranged to illustrate a combination
living-room and bedroom, of an ultra-modern design created by Paul
Lavery, of Paris, according to a placard in a corner. This card
acknowledged Lavery's authorship of the articles on exhibition, and
called attention to "lectures on the fifth floor by M. Lavery." The
rear wall, into which the one door opened by which the Negress had
entered, was unrelieved by ornament and tinted a pastelle green. On
this wall hung a huge Venetian mirror, unframed, its edges cut in
an irregular design. Against the wall stood a long narrow table,
exhibiting an unpainted grain highly waxed. On the table stood a
squat prismatic lamp, made of a clouded glass procurable at that
period only from a unique modern art-objects factory in Austria. Odd
pieces--chairs, end-tables, bookcases, a divan, all of unorthodox
construction, peculiar and daring in conception--stood about the
gleaming floor of the window-room. The side walls served as background
for several pieces of miscellaneous utility.
The lighting fixtures in the ceiling and on the side walls were all of
the "concealed" variety rapidly gaining vogue on the Continent.
At the stroke of noon the Negress, who had remained motionless since
her entrance into the room, stirred into activity. By this time a
viscid mass of people had gathered outside the window on the sidewalk,
awaiting the Negress's demonstration with hungry eyes and restless
shoulders.
Setting down a metal rack on which were hung a number of simply
lettered placards, the Negress picked up a long ivory wand and,
pointing to the legend on the first placard, proceeded solemnly to one
of the pieces on the east wall and began a pantomimic demonstration of
its construction and properties.
The fifth placard--by this time the crowd had doubled in size and
overflowed from the sidewalk--bore the words:
WALL-BED
This Article of Furniture
Is Concealed in the West
Wall and Is Operated Electrically
by a Push-Button.
It is of Special Design,
Created by M. Paul Lavery,
and Is the Only One of Its
Kind in This Country.
Pointing to the words once more, for emphasis, the Negress sedately
walked to the west wall, indicated with a flourish a small ivory button
set in a nacreous panel, and touched the button with one long black
finger.
Before pressing it, she looked out once more on the jostling, expectant
crowd before the window. Necks craned eagerly to see the marvel about
to be revealed.
What they saw was a marvel indeed--so unexpected, so horrible, so
grotesque that at the instant of its occurrence faces froze into
masks of stunned incredulity. It was like a moment snatched out of an
unbelievable nightmare.... For, as the Negress pushed the ivory button,
a section of the wall slid outward and downward with a swift noiseless
movement, two small wooden legs unfolded and shot out of the forepart
of the bedstead, the bed settled to a horizontal position--and the body
of a woman, pale-faced, crumpled, distorted, her clothes bloody in two
places, fell from the silken sheet to the floor at the Negress's feet.
It was twelve-fifteen exactly.
4
"ALL THE KING'S HORSES"
The Negress uttered one horrified shriek, so piercing that it was
distinctly audible through the heavy glass window, rolled her eyes
wildly, and fell fainting at the side of the body.
The spectators outside still presented a tableau--they were stricken
into silence, petrified with fright. Then a woman on the sidewalk,
her face pressed immovably to the glass, screamed. Immobility became
frenzy, silence a dull unpunctuated roar. The crowd surged away from
the window, pushing madly backward, stampeding in terror. A child fell
and was trampled in the crush. A police whistle blew, and a bluecoat
ran shouting through the crowd, using his club freely. He seemed
bewildered by the uproar--he had not yet seen the two still figures in
the exhibition-window.
Suddenly the door in the window burst open and a lean man wearing a
short pointed beard and a monocle ran into the room. His staring eyes
took in the two motionless figures on the shining floor, traveled
jerkily to the milling crowd outside and the policeman swinging his
club, and returned with dazed disbelief to the floor. With a soundless
oath he sprang forward, grasped a heavy silk cord in a corner near the
plate-glass window, and pulled. A translucent curtain fell immediately,
shutting off the view of the frantic people in the street.
The bearded man knelt at the side of the Negress, felt her pulse,
hesitantly touched the skin of the other woman, rose and ran back to
the door. A growing crowd of sales-girls and shoppers was collecting on
the main floor of the department store, just outside the window. Three
men--floorwalkers--rushed through as if to enter.
The man in the window spoke sharply: "You--get the head store detective
at once--no, never mind--here he comes--Mr. Crouther! _Mr. Crouther!_
This way! Here!"
A heavy-set, broad-shouldered man with a mottled complexion shoved
his way, cursing, through the crowd. He had just reached the entrance
of the window when the policeman who had dispersed the crowd on the
sidewalk ran up and dashed after him into the window. The three men
disappeared, the bluecoat slamming the door shut behind them.
The bearded man stood aside. "There's been a terrible accident,
Crouther.... Glad you're here, officer.... My God, what an affair!"
The head store detective pounded across the room and glared down at the
two women. "What happened to the coon, Mr. Lav-ery?" he bellowed at the
bearded man.
"Fainted, I suppose!"
"Here, Crouther, let me take a look," said the policeman,
unceremoniously pushing Lavery aside. He bent over the body of the
woman who had tumbled from the bed.
Crouther cleared his throat importantly. "Listen here, Bush. This is
no time to make an examination. We oughtn't to touch a thing until
Headquarters is notified. Mr. Lav-ery and me--we'll stand guard here
while you use the 'phone. Go ahead now, Bush, don't be an egg!"
The policeman stood undecidedly for a moment, scratched his head, and
finally left the room with hurried steps.
"This is one sweet mess," growled Crouther. "What happened here, Mr.
Lav-ery? Who in hell is _this_ woman?"
Lavery started nervously and plucked at his beard with long thin
fingers. "Why, don't you know? But of course not.... Good Heavens,
Crouther, what are we to do?"
Crouther frowned. "Now don't go getting yourself all excited, Mr.
Lav-ery. This is a police job, pure and simple. Lucky I was on the
scene so quick. We gotta wait for the detail from Headquarters. Just
take it easy now--"
Lavery regarded the store detective coldly. "I'm perfectly all right,
Mr. Crouther," he said. "I suggest--" he weighted the word with
authority--"that you immediately marshal your store forces to keep
order on the main floor. Make it appear as if nothing out of the way
has happened. Call Mr. MacKenzie. Send somebody to notify Mr. French
and the Board of Directors. I understand they're having a meeting
upstairs. This is--an affair of a grave nature--graver than you know.
Go now!"
Crouther looked at Lavery rebelliously, shook his head, and made for
the door. As he opened it a small dark man with a physician's bag
stepped into the room. He glanced quickly around and without a word
crossed to the side of the two bodies.
He favored the Negress with a scant glance and a feeling of the pulse.
He spoke without looking up.
"Here--Mr. Lavery, is it?--you'll have to help--get one of the men
outside to give you a hand--the Negress has merely fainted--get her a
glass of water and put her on that divan there--send somebody for one
of the nurses from the infirmary...."
Lavery nodded. He went to the door and looked out over the whispering
crowd on the floor.
"Mr. MacKenzie! Here, please!"
A middle-aged man with a pleasant Scotch face hurried up and into the
room. "Help me, please," said Lavery.
The doctor busied himself over the body of the other woman. His
movements concealed her face. Lavery and MacKenzie picked up the
reviving form of the Negress and carried her to the divan. A
floorwalker outside was dispatched for a glass of water and reappeared
in a twinkling. The Negress gulped, groaned.
The doctor looked up gravely. "This woman is dead," he announced. "Has
been for quite a while. What's more, she's been shot. Got it in the
heart. Looks like murder, Mr. Lavery!"
"_Nom du chien!_" muttered Lavery. His face was sickly white.
MacKenzie scurried across the room to look down at the huddled corpse.
He fell back with a cry.
"Good God! _It's Mrs. French!_"
5
"AND ALL THE KING'S MEN"
The window-door opened quickly and two men stepped in. One, a tall
lank individual smoking a blackish cigar, stopped short, peered about
him, and then, catching sight of the body, immediately advanced to the
farther side of the wall-bed, on the floor by which lay the dead woman.
He favored the little physician with a keen glance, nodded and without
further ado dropped to his knees. After a moment he looked up.
"The store doctor, are you?"
The physician nodded nervously. "Yes. I've made a superficial
examination. She's dead. I--"
"I can see that," said the newcomer. "I'm Prouty, Assistant Medical
Examiner. Stand by, doctor." Again he bent over the body, opening his
bag with one hand.
The second of the two men who had arrived was an iron-jawed giant. He
had stopped at the door, softly prodding it shut behind him. Now his
eyes flickered over the frozen faces of Lavery, MacKenzie and the store
doctor. His own face was cold and harsh and expressionless.
It was not until Dr. Prouty began his examination that this man
vitalized into action. He took a purposeful step forward toward
MacKenzie, but stopped suddenly as the door shivered under a violent
pounding.
"Come in!" he said sharply, standing between the door and the bed, so
that the body was hidden from the newcomers.
The door was flung aside. A small army of men surged forward. The tall
man blocked their path.
"Just a moment," he said lowly. "We can't have so many people in here.
Who are you?"
Cyrus French, flushed and choleric, snapped: "I am the owner of this
establishment, and these gentlemen all have a right to be here. They
are the Board of Directors--this is Mr. Crouther, our head store
detective--stand aside, please."
The tall man did not move. "Mr. French, eh? Board of Directors?...
Hello, Crouther.... Who is this?" He pointed to Westley Weaver, who
hovered about the edge of the group, a trifle pale.
"Mr. Weaver, my secretary," said French impatiently. "Who are you, sir?
What's happened here? Let me pass."
"I see." The tall man reflected a moment, hesitated, then said firmly,
"I'm Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad. Sorry, Mr. French, but
you'll have to abide by my orders here. Come in, but don't touch
anything and let me give the orders." He stepped aside. He seemed to be
waiting for something with unwearying patience.
Lavery ran forward, his eyes distended as he saw Cyrus French stride
toward the bed. He intercepted the old man, grasped his lapel.
"Mr. French--please do not look--just now...."