this--a conspiracy? Ordered about in my own store!" He proceeded to
the bed, and Lavery fell back, a resigned look on his mobile face.
Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he took John Gray aside, speaking
in the director's ear. Gray paled, stood transfixed to the spot, then
with an indistinct cry he leaped to French's side.
He was just in time. The store owner had bent curiously over Dr.
Prouty's shoulder, taken one look at the woman on the floor, and
collapsed without a sound. Gray caught him as he sank. Lavery sprang
forward and assisted in carrying the old man's limp body to a chair on
the other side of the room.
A nurse in white cap and gown had slipped into the room and was
ministering to the hysterical Negress on the divan. She went quickly
over to French, slipped a vial under his nose, and instructed Lavery
to chafe his hands. Gray paced nervously up and down, muttering to
himself. The store doctor hurried over to help the nurse.
The directors and the secretary, huddled together in a horror-struck
group, moved hesitantly toward the body. Weaver and Marchbanks cried
out together at seeing the woman's face. Zorn bit his lip and turned
away. Trask averted his face in horror. Then, in the same mechanical
motion, they moved slowly backward to a corner, glancing helplessly at
each other.
Velie crooked a huge finger at Crouther. "What have you done?"
The store detective grinned. "Taken care of all the details, don't you
worry. I've got all my men scrambled on the main floor and they've
scattered the mob. Got everything well in hand. Trust Bill Crouther for
that, Sergeant! Won't be much for you guys to do, that's a fact."
Velie grunted. "Well, here's something for you to do while we're
waiting. Get a big stretch of the main floor roped off right around
this section, and keep everybody away. It's a little late now, I
suppose, to close the doors. Wouldn't do much good. Whoever did this
job is miles away from here by now. Get going, Crouther!"
The store detective nodded, turned away, turned back. "Say,
Sergeant--know just who the woman on the floor is? Might help us right
now."
"Yes?" Velie smiled frostily. "Can't see how. But it doesn't take much
to figure it out. It's French's wife. Blast it, this is a great place
for a murder!"
"No!" Crouther's jaw dropped. "French's wife, hey? The big cheese
himself.... Well, well!" He stole a glance at the slack figure of
French and a moment later his voice resounded through the window as he
roared instructions outside.
Silence in the window-room. The group in the corner had not moved.
The Negress and French had both been revived--the black woman's eyes
rolling wildly as she clung to the starched skirt of the nurse,
French's face a pasty white as he half-lay in the chair listening to
Gray's low-voiced words of sympathy. Gray himself seemed drained of his
queer vitality.
Velie beckoned to MacKenzie, who hovered nervously at Prouty's shoulder.
"You're MacKenzie, the store manager?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"It's time to get a move on, Mr. MacKenzie." Velie eyed him coldly.
"Get a hold on yourself. Somebody's got to keep his wits about him.
This is part of your job." The store manager squared his shoulders.
"Now listen. This is important and it's got to be done thoroughly." He
lowered his voice. "No employees to leave the building--item number
one, and I'm holding you responsible for its execution. Number two,
check up on all employees who are not at their posts. Number three,
make out a list of all employees absent from the store to-day, with the
reasons for their absence. Hop to it!"
MacKenzie mumbled submissively, shuffled away.
Velie took Lavery, who stood talking to Weaver, to one side.
"You seem to have some authority here. May I ask who you are?"
"My name is Paul Lavery, and I am exhibiting the modern furniture
on display upstairs on the fifth floor. This room is a sample of my
exhibition."
"I see. Well, you've kept your head, Mr. Lavery. The dead woman is Mrs.
French?"
Lavery averted his eyes. "Yes, Sergeant. It was quite a shock to all
of us, no doubt. How in God's name did she ever get--" He stopped
abruptly, worried his lip.
"Did she ever get here, you meant to say?" finished Velie grimly. "Well
now, that's a question, isn't it? I--Just a moment, Mr. Lavery!"
He turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the door to greet a group
of new arrivals.
"Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Queen! Glad you've come, sir. You'll
find things in a rotten mess." He stepped aside and waved a large hand
at the room and its assorted occupants. "Pretty, eh, sir? More like a
wake than the scene of a crime!" It was a long speech for Velie.
Inspector Richard Queen--small, pert, like a white-thatched
bird--followed the circuit of Velie's hand with his eyes.
"My goodness!" he exclaimed in annoyance. "How did so many people get
into this room? I'm surprised at you, Thomas."
"Inspector." Queen paused at Velie's deep voice. "I thought it
might--" his voice became inaudible as he murmured a few words in the
Inspector's ear.
"Yes, yes, I see, Thomas." The Inspector patted his arm. "Tell me soon.
Let's have a peep at the body."
He trotted across the room and slipped to the far side of the wall-bed.
Prouty, his hands busy on the corpse, nodded in greeting.
"Murder," he said. "No sign of the revolver."
The Inspector peered intently into the ghastly face of the dead woman,
ran his eye over the disarranged clothing.
"Well, we'll have the boys look a little later. Keep going, Doc." He
sighed and returned to Velie at the other side of the room.
"Now let's have it, Thomas. From the beginning." His little eyes roved
judiciously about the men in the room as Velie rapidly outlined in
an undertone the events of the past half-hour.... Outside a body of
plainclothes men and a scattering of uniformed policemen could be seen.
The patrolman, Bush, was among them.
Ellery Queen shut the door and leaned against it. He was tall and
sparely built, with athletic hands, taper-fingered. He wore immaculate
grey tweeds and carried a stick and a light coat. On his thin nose
perched a pince-nez. Above it rose a forehead of wide proportions,
white and untroubled. His hair was smoothly black. From the pocket of
the coat protruded a small volume in faded covers.
He looked curiously at each person in the room--curiously and slowly,
as if he enjoyed his scrutiny. The characteristics of each individual
as his eyes passed from one to another he seemed to store away in a
corner of his brain. His examination was almost visibly digestive. Yet
it was not entirely concentrated, for he listened intently to each
word of Velie's recital to the Inspector. Suddenly his eyes, in their
panoramic course, met those of Westley Weaver, who stood miserably in a
corner leaning against the wall.
Into the eyes of each leaped instant recognition. They started forward
simultaneously, hands outstretched.
"Ellery Queen. Thank God!"
"By the Seven Virgins of Theophilus--Westley Weaver!" They wrung each
other's hands with undisguised pleasure. Inspector Queen glanced their
way, quizzically; then he turned back to hear the last of Velie's
rumbled comments.
"It's awfully good seeing your classic features again, Ellery,"
murmured Weaver. His face dropped back into strained lines. "Are
you--is that the Inspector?"
"In the indefatigable flesh, Westley," said Ellery. "The pater
himself, with his nose to the scent.--But tell me things, boy. It's--O
Tempes!--isn't it five or six years since we last met?"
"All of that, Ellery. I'm glad you're here, for more than one reason,
El. It's a little comforting," said Weaver in a low voice. "This--this
thing...."
Ellery's smile faded. "The tragedy, eh, Westley? Tell me--how do you
figure in it? You didn't kill the lady, by any chance?" His tone was
jocular, but behind it was a certain anxiety which his father, ears
cocked, found a little strange.
"Ellery!" Weaver's eyes met his straightforwardly. "That isn't even
funny." Then the look of misery crept in again. "It's awful, El. Just
awful. You haven't any idea how awful it is...."
Ellery patted Weaver's arm lightly, removed his pince-nez with an
absent motion. "I'll get it all in a moment, Westley. I'll hold
_tête-à-tête_ conversation with you later. Hang on, won't you? I see
my father signaling me frantically. Chin up, Wes!" He moved away,
again smiling. Weaver's eyes held a glimmer of hope as he dropped back
against the wall.
The Inspector murmured to his son for a moment. Ellery made a
low-voiced reply. Then Ellery strode over to the farther side of the
bed and stood over Prouty, watching the medical examiner as he worked
swiftly over the body.
The Inspector turned to the assembled crowd in the room. "A little
quiet now, please," he said.
A thick curtain of silence dropped over the room.
6
TESTIMONY
The Inspector stepped forward.
"It will be necessary for every one to wait here," he began
sententiously, "while we make some elementary but essential
investigations. Let me say at once, to forestall any claims of special
privilege that may be made, that this is undoubtedly a case of murder.
In cases of murder, the most serious charge that can be brought
against an individual, the law is no respecter either of persons or
institutions. A woman is dead of violence. Somebody killed her. That
somebody may be miles away at this moment, or in this room now. You
can understand, gentlemen"--and his tired eyes considered the five
directors especially--"that the sooner we get down to business, the
better. Too much time has been lost already."
He went abruptly to the door, opened it, and called in a penetrating
voice: "Piggott! Hesse! Hagstrom! Flint! Johnson! Ritter!"
Six detectives strolled into the room. Ritter, a burly man, closed the
door behind him.
"Hagstrom, your book." The detective whipped out a small notebook and a
pencil.
"Piggott, Hesse, Flint--the room!" He added something in a low tone.
The three detectives grinned and dispersed to different portions of the
room. They began a slow, methodical search of furniture, floors, walls.
"Johnson--the bed!" One of the two remaining men went directly to the
wall-bed and began to examine its contents.
"Ritter--stand by." The Inspector slipped his hands into a coat pocket
and withdrew his brown old snuff-box. He filled his nostrils with
aromatic snuff, inhaled deeply and restored the box to his pocket.
"Now!" he said, and glared about the room at his thoroughly cowed
audience. Ellery met his eye for an instant and smiled slightly. "Now!
You, there!" He pointed an accusing finger at the Negress, who was
staring at him with wide eyes, her skin greyish-violet with fright.
"Yassuh," she quavered, tottering to her feet.
"Your name?" snapped Queen.
"Di--Diana Johnson, suh," she whispered, gazing at him in scared
fascination.
"Diana Johnson, eh?" The Inspector took a step forward, leveled his
finger at her. "Why did you open this bed at twelve-fifteen to-day?"
"Ah--Ah had to, suh," she faltered. "Dat was--"
Lavery waved his arm hesitantly at the Inspector. "I can explain that--"
"Sir!" Lavery colored, then smiled cynically. "Go on, Johnson."
"Yassuh, yassuh! Dat was de reg'lar time fo' de exhibition, suh. Ah
always comes out into dis room at a couple o' minutes befo' twelve an'
gets ready fo' de exhibition, suh." The words tumbled out. "An' den,
when Ah'd just got through showin' dis contraption hyah"--she indicated
the divan, which seemed a combination of sofa, bed and bookcase--"Ah
goes to de wall, pushes de button, and den dat--dat dead 'ooman falls
out right at mah feet...." She shuddered and drew a deep breath,
glancing at the detective Hagstrom, who was busily taking down her
words in shorthand.
"You had no idea the body was inside when you pressed the button, Miss
Johnson?" demanded the Inspector.
The Negress's eyes flew wide open. "Nosuh! Ah wouldn't 'a' teched dat
bed fo' a thousan' dolluhs ef Ah'd know dat!" The uniformed nurse
giggled nervously. She sobered instantly as the Inspector stared in her
direction.
"Very well. That's all." He turned to Hagstrom. "Got every word?" The
detective nodded, maintaining a severe silence as the old man winked
fleetingly at him. Inspector Queen turned back to the group. "Nurse,
take Diana Johnson to your hospital upstairs and keep her there until I
give the word!"
The Negress stumbled in her eagerness to leave the window-room. The
nurse followed somewhat sulkily behind.
The Inspector had Patrolman Bush summoned. The policeman saluted,
answered a few questions about what had occurred on the sidewalk at the
moment the body fell, and subsequently inside the window-room, and was
commissioned to go back to his post on Fifth Avenue.
"Crouther!" The store detective was standing by the side of Ellery and
Dr. Prouty. He now slouched forward and stared boldly at Queen. "You're
the head store detective?"
"Yes, Inspector." He shuffled his feet and grinned, displaying
tobacco-stained teeth.
"Sergeant Velie tells me that he instructed you to scatter your men
through the main floor soon after the body was discovered. Have you
attended to that?"
"Yes, sir. Got a squad of a half-dozen store detectives workin'
outside, and put every available 'spotter' on the job, too," replied
Crouther promptly. "But they haven't turned up anybody suspicious yet."
"Could hardly expect it." The Inspector took another pinch of snuff.
"Tell me just what you found when you came in here."
"Well, Inspector, the first I knew about the murder was when one of my
detectives 'phoned me upstairs in my office that something had happened
outside on the sidewalk--riot or something. I came down right away and
as I passed this window I heard Mr. Lavery yell for me. I ran in, saw
the body layin' here, and the darky fainting on the floor. Bush, the
officer on the beat, came in right after me. I told 'em nothing ought
to be touched until the Headquarters men got here, and then got right
after the mobs outside, and generally kept an eye on everything until
Sergeant Velie got here. I followed his orders after that, that's a
fact. I--"
"Here, here, Crouther, that's plenty," said the Inspector. "Don't
leave, I may be able to use you later. Short-handed enough as it is,
the Lord knows. A department store!" He muttered under his breath and
turned to Dr. Prouty.
"Doc! Ready for me yet?"
The kneeling police doctor nodded. "Just about, Inspector. Want me to
shoot the works right here?" He seemed tacitly to question the wisdom
of imparting his information before a group of laymen.
"Might as well," grunted Queen. "It can't be very enlightening."
"Don't know about that." Prouty stood up with a groan, took a firmer
grip on the black cigar between his teeth.
"Woman was killed by two bullets," he said deliberately, "both from a
Colt .38 revolver. Probably from the same gun--hard to tell exactly
without putting them under the microscope." He held up two encarmined
blobs of metal, blunted completely out of shape. The Inspector took
them, turned them over in his fingers, and in silence handed them to
Ellery, who immediately bent over them with a curious eagerness.
Prouty stared dreamily down at the body, plunging his hands into his
pockets. "One bullet," he continued, "entered the body directly in
the center of the cardiac region. Nice jagged _pericardial_ wound,
Inspector. Smashed the _sternum_ bone, pierced the _pericardial
septum_, which is the membrane separating the _pericardium_ from the
main body cavity, then took the logical course through--first the
fibrous layer of the _pericardium_, then the serous inner layer, and
finally the anterior tip of the heart, where the great vessels are.
Spilled quite a bit of the yellow _pericardial_ fluid, too. Bullet
entered the body at an angle and it's left a fearful wound...."
"Then death was instantaneous?" asked Ellery. "The second bullet was
unnecessary?"
"Quite," said Prouty dryly. "Death would be instantaneous from either
wound. As a matter of fact, the second bullet--maybe it's not the
second, though, I can't tell of course which hit her first--bullet
number two made a better job of it than even bullet number one. Because
it penetrated the _precordia_, which is the region a little below the
heart and above the abdomen. This is also a ragged wound, and since
the _precordial_ sector takes in muscles and blood-vessels of major
importance, it's as vital a spot as the heart itself...." Prouty
stopped suddenly. His eyes strayed almost with irritation to the dead
woman on the floor.
"Was the revolver fired close to the body?" put in the Inspector.
"No powder stains, Inspector," said Prouty, still regarding the corpse
with a frown.
"Were both bullets fired from the same spot?" asked Ellery.
"Hard to say. The lateral angles are similar, indicating that whoever
fired both bullets stood to the right of the woman. But the downward
course of the bullets disturbs me. They're too much alike."
"What do you mean?" demanded Ellery, leaning forward.
"Well," growled Prouty, biting on his cigar, "if the woman were in
exactly the same position when both shots were fired--assuming that
both shots were fired almost simultaneously, of course--there should
be a greater _downward_ angle to the _precordial_ wound than to the
_pericardial_. Because the _precordia_ is located below the heart, and
the gun would have to be aimed lower.... Well, perhaps I shouldn't say
these things at all. There are any number of explanations, I suppose,
for that difference in angle. Ought to have Ken Knowles look over the
bullets and the wounds, though."
"He'll get his chance," said the Inspector with a sigh. "Is that all,
Doc?"
Ellery looked up from another scrutiny of the two bullets. "How long
has she been dead?"
Prouty replied promptly: "About twelve hours, I should say. I'll be
able to fix the time of death more accurately after the autopsy. But
she certainly died no earlier than midnight and probably no later than
two in the morning."
"Through now?" asked Inspector Queen patiently.
"Yes. But there's one thing that has me a little...." Prouty set his
jaw. "There's something queer here, Inspector. From what I know of
_precordial_ wounds I can't believe that this one should have bled so
little. You've noticed, I suppose, that the clothing above both wounds
is stiff with coagulated blood, but not so much of it as you might
expect. At least as a medical man might expect."
"Why?"
"I've seen plenty of _precordial_ wounds," said Prouty calmly, "and
they're messy, Inspector. Bleed like hell. In fact, especially in this
case, where the hole is blasted pretty large, due to the angle, there
should be pools and pools of it. The _pericardial_ would bleed freely,
but not profusely. But the other--I say, there's something queer here,
and I thought I'd call it to your attention."
Ellery shot his father a warning glance as the old man opened his
mouth to reply. The Inspector clamped his lips together and dismissed
Prouty with a nod. Ellery returned the two bullets to Prouty, who put
them carefully into his bag.
The police doctor unhurriedly covered the body with a sheet from the
hanging bed and departed, his last words a promise to hurry the morgue
wagon.
"Is the store physician here?" Queen asked.
The small dark doctor stepped uncertainly forward from a corner. His
teeth gleamed as he said, "Yes, sir?"
"Have you anything to add to Dr. Prouty's analysis, doctor?" questioned
Queen, with disarming gentleness.
"Not a thing, not a thing, sir," said the store physician, looking
uneasily at Prouty's retreating figure. "A precise if somewhat sketchy
diagnosis. The bullets entered--"
"Thank you, doctor." Inspector Queen turned his back on the little
physician and beckoned imperiously to the store detective.
"Crouther," he asked in a low tone, "who's your head night-watchman?"
"O'Flaherty--Pete O'Flaherty, Inspector."
"How many watchmen are on duty here at night?"
"Four. O'Flaherty tends the night-door on the 39th Street side, Ralska
and Powers do the rounds, and Bloom is on duty at the 39th Street night
freight-entrance."
"Thanks." The Inspector turned to Detective Ritter. "Get hold of
this man MacKenzie, the store manager, find the home addresses of
O'Flaherty, Ralska, Powers and Bloom, and get 'em down here as fast as
a cab will carry them. Scoot!" Ritter lumbered away.
Ellery suddenly straightened, adjusted his pince-nez more firmly on his
nose, and strode over to his father. They held a whispered colloquy for
a moment, whereupon Ellery quietly retreated to his vantage-point near
the bed and the Inspector crooked his finger at Westley Weaver.
"Mr. Weaver," he asked, "I take it that you are Mr. French's
confidential secretary?"
"Yes, sir," responded Weaver warily.
The Inspector glanced sidewise at Cyrus French, huddled exhausted
in the chair. John Gray's small white hand was solicitously patting
French's arm. "I'd rather not bother Mr. French at this time with
questions.--You were with him all morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. French was not aware of Mrs. French's presence in the store?"
"No, sir!" The response was immediate and sharp. Weaver regarded Queen
with suspicious eyes.
"Were you?"
"I? No, sir!"
"Hmmm!" The Inspector's chin sank on his chest, and he communed with
himself for an instant. Suddenly his finger shot toward the group of
directors on the other side of the room. "How about you gentlemen? Any
of you know that Mrs. French was here--this morning or last night?"
There was a chorus of horrified noes. Cornelius Zorn's face grew red.
He began to protest angrily.
"Please!" The Inspector's tone flung them back in silence. "Mr. Weaver.
How is it that all these gentlemen are present in the store this
morning? They're not here every day, are they?"
Weaver's frank face lightened, as if from relief. "All of our directors
are active in the management of the store, Inspector. They're here
every day, if only for an hour or so. As for this morning, there was a
directors' meeting in Mr. French's private apartment upstairs."
"Eh?" Queen seemed pleased as well as startled. "A private apartment
upstairs, you say? On what floor?"
"The sixth--that's the top floor of the store."
Ellery stirred into life. Again he crossed the floor, again he
whispered to his father, and again the old man nodded.
"Mr. Weaver," continued the Inspector, a note of eagerness in his
voice, "how long were you and the Board in Mr. French's private
apartment this morning?"
Weaver seemed surprised at the question. "Why, all morning, Inspector.
I arrived at about eight-thirty, Mr. French at about nine, and the
other directors at a little past eleven."
"I see." The Inspector mused. "Did you leave the apartment at any time
during the morning?"
"No, sir." The reply was snapped back at him.
"And the others--Mr. French, the directors?" pressed the Inspector
patiently.
"No, sir! We were all there until one of the store detectives notified
us that an accident had occurred here. And I must say, sir--"
"Westley, Westley ..." murmured Ellery chidingly, and Weaver turned to
him with startled eyes. They fell before the meaning glance of Ellery,
and Weaver bit his lip nervously. He did not finish what he had begun
to say.
"Now, sir." The Inspector seemed to be enjoying himself in a tired
way--utterly disregarding the bewildered eyes of the many people in the
room. "Now, sir! Be very careful. At what time did this notification
come?"
"At twelve-twenty-five," replied Weaver in a calmer tone.
"Very well.--Every one then left the apartment?" Weaver nodded. "Did
you lock the door?"
"The door closed after us, Inspector."
"And the apartment remained that way, unguarded?"
"Not at all," said Weaver promptly. "At the beginning of the
conference this morning, at Mr. French's suggestion, I got one of the
store detectives to stand guard outside the apartment door. He is
probably still there, because his orders were specific. In fact, I
remember seeing him lounging about outside when we all rushed out to
see what was the matter down here."
"_Very_ good!" beamed the old man. "A store detective, you say?
Reliable?"