Velie knows him, too. Jones is his name--an ex-policeman--used to be on
a beat with Velie." The Inspector looked at the Sergeant inquiringly;
he nodded in confirmation.
"Thomas," said Queen with one hand digging into his side-pocket for a
pinch of snuff, "see to it, will you? See if this Jones fellow is still
there, if he's been there all the time, if he's seen anything, if any
one tried to get into the apartment since Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and
the other gentlemen left. And take one of the boys along to relieve
him--to relieve him, you understand?"
Velie grunted stonily and tramped out of the window-room. As he left,
a policeman entered, saluted Inspector Queen and reported, "There's a
'phone call out there in the leather-goods department for a Mr. Westley
Weaver, Inspector."
"What's that? Call?" The Inspector turned on Weaver, who stood
miserably in a corner.
Weaver straightened. "Probably from Krafft of the Comptroller's
office," he said. "I was to give him a report this morning, and the
meeting and everything that happened afterward drove it out of my
mind.... May I leave?"
Queen hesitated, his glance flickering toward Ellery, who was absently
fingering his pince-nez. Ellery gave a slight nod.
"Go ahead," the Inspector growled to Weaver. "But come right back."
Weaver followed the policeman to the leather-goods counter directly
facing the door of the window-room. A clerk eagerly handed the
telephone to him.
"Hello--Krafft? This is Weaver speaking. I'm sorry about that
report--Who? Oh."
A curious change came over his face as he heard Marion French's
voice over the wire. He lowered his voice immediately and bent over
the instrument. The policeman, lounging behind him, surreptitiously
shuffled closer, trying to catch the conversation.
"Why, what's the matter, dear?" asked Marion, a note of anxiety in her
voice. "Is anything wrong? I tried to get you at the apartment, but
there was no answer. The operator had to search for you.... I thought
father had a directors' meeting this morning."
"Marion!" Weaver's voice was insistent. "I really can't stop to explain
now. Something's happened, dearest--something so ..." He stopped,
seemed to be wrestling mentally with some problem. His lips tightened.
"Sweetheart, will you do something for me?"
"But, Wes dear," came the girl's anxious voice, "whatever is the
matter? Has anything happened to father?"
"No--no." Weaver hunched desperately over the telephone. "Be my own
honey and don't ask questions now.... Where are you now?"
"Why, at home, dear. But, Wes, what _is_ the trouble?" There was a
frightened catch in her voice. "Has it anything to do with Winifred or
Bernice? They're not at home, Wes--haven't been all night...." Then she
laughed a little. "But there! I shan't worry you, dearest. I'll take a
cab and be down in fifteen minutes."
"I knew you would." Weaver almost sobbed in a tense relief. "Whatever
happens, sweet, I love you, I love you, do you understand?"
"Westley! You silly boy--you've frightened me out of my wits. Good-by
now--I'll be downtown in a jiffy." There was a tender little sound
through the receiver--it might have been a kiss--and Weaver hung up
with a sigh.
The policeman jumped back as Weaver turned--jumped back with a broad
grin. Weaver flushed furiously, started to speak, then shook his head.
"There's a young lady coming down here, officer," he said swiftly.
"She'll be here in about a quarter of an hour. Won't you please let me
know the moment she gets here? She's Miss Marion French. I'll be in the
window."
The bluecoat lost his grin. "Well now," he said slowly, scraping his
jaw, "I just don't know about that. Guess you'll have to tell the
Inspector about it. _I_ haven't the authority."
He marched Weaver back into the window-room against the young man's
protests at the heavy hand on his arm.
"Inspector," he said respectfully, still grasping Weaver's arm, "this
feller wants me to let him know when a certain young lady by the name
of Miss Marion French gets here."
Queen looked up in surprise, a surprise that deepened rapidly into
brusqueness. "Was that telephone call from your Mr. Krafft?" he asked
Weaver.
Before Weaver could speak, the policeman interposed: "Not by a long
sight, sir. 'Twas a lady, and I think he called her 'Marion.'"
"Look here, Inspector!" said Weaver hotly, shaking off the bluecoat's
hand. "This is asinine. I thought the call was from Mr. Krafft, but
it was Miss French--Mr. French's daughter. A--a semi-business call.
And I took the liberty of asking her to come down here immediately.
That's all. Is that a crime? As for letting me know when she arrives--I
naturally want to spare her the shock of walking into this place and
seeing her stepmother's dead body on the floor."
The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, glancing mildly from Weaver to
Ellery. "I see. I see. I'm sorry, Mr. Weaver.... That's right, isn't
it, officer?" he snapped, whirling on the bluecoat.
"Yes, sir! Heard it all plain as day. He's telling the truth."
"And mighty fortunate for him he is," grumbled the Inspector. "Stand
back, Mr. Weaver. We'll attend to the young lady when she arrives....
Now then!" he cried, rubbing his hands, "Mr. French!"
The old man looked up in bleary bewilderment, his eyes blank and
staring.
"Mr. French, is there anything you would like to say that might clear
up some of this mystery?"
"I--I--I--beg--your--pardon?" stammered French, raising his head with
an effort from the back-cushion of the chair. He seemed stricken by his
wife's death to the point of imbecility.
Queen regarded him with pity, looked into the eyes of John Gray,
whose face was threatening, muttered, "Never mind," and squared his
shoulders. "Ellery, my son, how about a careful look-see at the body?"
He peered at Ellery from beneath overhung brows.
Ellery stirred. "Lookers-on," he said clearly, "see more than players.
And if you think that quotation is inept, dad, you don't know your
son's favorite author, Anonymous. Play on!"
7
THE CORPSE
Inspector Queen moved over to the other side of the room, where
the body lay between the bed and the window. Waving aside the
detective Johnson, who was rummaging among the bedclothes, the old
man knelt on the floor beside the dead woman. He removed the white
sheet. Ellery bent over his father's shoulder, his gaze detached but
characteristically panoramic.
The body lay in an oddly crumpled position, the left arm outstretched,
the right slightly crooked beneath the back. The head was in profile,
a brown toque-style hat pushed pathetically over one eye. Mrs. French
had been a small slender woman, with delicate hands and feet. The eyes
were fixed in a sort of bewildered glare, wide open. The mouth drooled;
a thin trickle of blood, now dark and dry, streaked the chin.
The clothes were simple and severe, but rich in quality, as might be
expected from a woman of Mrs. French's age and position. There was a
light brown cloth coat, trimmed at the collar and cuffs with brown fox;
a dark tan dress of a jersey material, with a breast and waist design
of orange and brown; brown silk stockings and a pair of uncompromising
brown walking-shoes.
The Inspector looked up.
"Notice the mud on her shoes, El?" he asked _sotto voce_.
Ellery nodded. "Doesn't take a heap of perspicacity," he remarked. "It
rained all day yesterday; remember the downpour last night? No wonder
the poor lady wet her patrician feet. As a matter of fact, you can see
traces of the wet even on the trimming of the toque.--Yes, dad, Mrs.
French was out in the rain yesterday. Not very important."
"Why not?" the old man asked, his hands softly moving aside the collar
of the coat.
"Because she probably wet her shoes and hat in crossing the sidewalk to
the store," retorted Ellery. "What of it?"
The Inspector did not reply. His seeking hand plunged suddenly beneath
the coat-collar and reappeared with a filmy, color-clouded scarf.
"Here's something," he said, turning the gauze-like material over in
his hands. "Must have slipped down inside the coat when she tumbled out
of the bed." An exclamation escaped him. On one corner of the scarf was
a silk-embroidered monogram. Ellery leaned farther forward over his
father's shoulder.
"_M.F._," he said. He straightened up, frowning, saying nothing.
The Inspector turned his head toward the group of directors at the
other side of the room. They were huddled together, watching his every
gesture. At his movement they started guiltily and averted their heads.
"What was Mrs. French's first name?" Queen questioned the group; and
as if each one had been addressed individually, there was an instant
chorus of "Winifred!"
"Winifred, eh?" muttered the old man, letting his eyes return
fleetingly to the body. Then he fixed Weaver with his grey eyes.
"Winifred, eh?" he repeated. Weaver bobbed his head mechanically. He
seemed horrified at the wisp of silk in the Inspector's hand. "Winifred
what? Any middle name or initials?"
"Winifred--Winifred Marchbanks French," stammered the secretary.
The Inspector nodded curtly. Rising, he strode over to Cyrus French,
who was watching him with dull, uncomprehending eyes.
"Mr. French--" Queen shook the millionaire's shoulder gently--"Mr.
French, is this your wife's scarf?" He held the scarf up before
French's eyes. "Do you understand me, sir? Is this scarf Mrs. French's?"
"Eh? I--Let me see it!" The old man snatched it in a sort of frenzy
from the Inspector's hand. He bent over it avidly, pulled it smooth,
examined the monogram with feverish fingers--and slumped back in his
chair.
"Is it, Mr. French?" pursued the Inspector, taking the scarf from him.
"No." It was a flat, colorless, indifferent negative.
The Inspector turned toward the silent group. "Can any one here
identify this scarf?" He held it high. There was no answer. The
Inspector repeated his question, glaring at each one individually. Of
them all, only Westley Weaver averted his glance.
"So! Weaver, eh? No nonsense, now, young man!" snapped Queen, grasping
the secretary by the arm. "What do the letters _M.F._ stand for--Marion
French?"
The young man gulped, sent an agonized glance toward Ellery, who
returned the glance commiseratingly, looked at old Cyrus French, who
was mumbling to himself....
"You can't believe she had anything to do--to do with it!" cried
Weaver, shaking his arm free. "It's absurd--crazy!... You _can't_
believe she had anything to do with this, Inspector. She's too fine,
too young, too--"
"Marion French." The Inspector turned toward John Gray. "Mr. French's
daughter, I believe Mr. Weaver said before?"
Gray nodded sullenly. Cyrus French suddenly attempted to leap from his
chair. He uttered a hoarse cry. "My God, no! Not Marion! Not Marion!"
His eyes blazed as Gray and Marchbanks, the directors nearest the old
man, jumped to support his quivering body. The spasm lasted for a brief
moment; he collapsed into his chair.
Inspector Queen returned without a word to his examination of the dead
woman. Ellery had been a silent witness of the little drama, his sharp
eyes flitting from face to face as it unfolded. Now he sent a glance
of reassurance at Weaver, who was leaning abjectly against a table,
and then stooped to pick up an object from the floor which was almost
hidden by the dead woman's tumbled skirt.
It was a small handbag of dark brown suède, monogrammed with the
initials _W.M.F._ Ellery sat down on the edge of the bed and turned
the bag over in his hands. Curiously he lifted the flap and began
to spread the contents of the bag on the mattress. He removed a
small change-purse, a gold vanity-case, a lace handkerchief, a gold
card-case, all monogrammed _W.M.F._, and finally a silver-chased
lipstick.
The Inspector looked up. "What's that you have there?" he asked sharply.
"Bag of the deceased," murmured Ellery. "Would you care to examine it?"
"Would I--" The Inspector glared at his son in mock heat. "Ellery,
sometimes you try me beyond patience!"
Ellery handed it over with a smile. The old man examined the bag
minutely. He pawed over the articles on the bed and gave up in disgust.
"Nothing there that I can see," he snorted. "And I'm--"
"No?" Ellery's tone was provocative.
"What do you mean?" asked his father with a change of tone, looking
back at the contents of the bag. "Purse, vanity, hanky, card-case,
lipstick--what's interesting there?"
Ellery faced about squarely so that his back hid the articles on the
bed from the observation of the others. He picked up the lipstick with
care and offered it to his father. The old man took it cautiously,
suspiciously. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him.
"Exactly--_C_," murmured Ellery. "What do you make of it?"
The lipstick was large and deep. On the cap was a chastely engraved
initial, _C_. The Inspector peered at it in some astonishment and made
as if to question the men in the room. But Ellery halted him with a
warning gesture and took the lipstick from his father's fingers. He
unscrewed the initialed cap and twisted the body of the stick until a
half-inch of red paste was visible above the orifice. His eyes shifted
toward the dead woman's face. They brightened at what they saw.
He knelt quickly by his father's side, their bodies still shielding
their movements from the eyes of the onlookers.
"Have a peep at this, dad," he said in an undertone, offering the
lipstick. The old man looked at it in a puzzled way.
"Poisoned?" he asked. "But that's impossible--how could you tell
without an analysis?"
"No, no!" exclaimed Ellery in the same low tone. "The color, dad--the
color!"
The Inspector's face lightened. He looked from the stick in Ellery's
hand to the dead woman's lips. The fact was self-evident--the coloring
on the lips had not come from the stick in Ellery's possession. The
lips were painted a light shade of red, almost pink, whereas the stick
itself was a dark carmine in shade.
"Here, El--let me have that!" said the Inspector. He took the open
stick and swiftly made a red mark on the dead woman's face.
"Different, all right," he muttered. He wiped off the smudge with a
corner of the sheet. "But I don't see--"
"There really should be another lipstick, eh?" remarked Ellery lightly,
standing up.
The old man snatched at the woman's handbag and went through it once
more, hurriedly. No, there was no sign of another lipstick. He motioned
to the detective Johnson.
"Find anything in the bed or the closet here, Johnson?"
"Not a thing, Chief."
"Sure? No sign of a lipstick?"
"Nope."
"Piggott! Hesse! Flint!" The three detectives stopped short in their
search of the room and crossed to the Inspector's side. The old man
repeated his questions.... Nothing. The detectives had found no alien
articles in the room.
"Is Crouther here? Crouther!" The store detective hurried over.
"Been out seeing that things were moving in the store," he announced
unasked. "Everything's shipshape--boys've been hustling, that's a
fact.--What can I do for you, Inspector?"
"Did you see a lipstick around here when you found the body?"
"Lipstick? No, sir! Wouldn't have touched it if I'd seen it anyway.
Told everybody to leave things alone. I know that much, Inspector!"
"Mr. Lavery!" The Frenchman sauntered up. No, he had seen no sign of a
lipstick. Perhaps the Negress--?
"Hardly! Piggott, send some one up to the infirmary and find out if
this Johnson girl saw it."
The Inspector turned back to Ellery with a frowning brow. "Now, that's
funny, isn't it, Ellery? Could some one here have appropriated the
darned thing?"
Ellery smiled. "'Honest labor,' as old Tom Dekker had it, 'bears a
lovely face,' but I'm very much afraid, dad.... No, your efforts in the
direction of finding a lipstick thief are wasted. I could almost make a
nice conjecture...."
"What _do_ you mean, Ellery?" groaned the Inspector. "Where is it,
then, if no one took it?"
"We'll come to that in the course of inexorable time," said Ellery
imperturbably. "But examine the face of our poor clay again,
dad--particularly the labial portion. See anything interesting aside
from the color of the lipstick?"
"Eh?" The Inspector turned startled eyes to the corpse. He felt
for his snuff-box and nervously took a generous pinch. "No, I
can't say that I--By jiminy!" He muttered beneath his breath. "The
lips--unfinished...."
"Precisely." Ellery twirled his pince-nez about his finger. "Observed
the phenomenon the moment I looked at the body. What amazing
juxtaposition of circumstances could have caused a handsome woman still
in her prime to leave her lips only half painted?" He pursed his mouth,
fell into deep thought. His eyes did not leave the dead woman's lips,
which showed the pinkish color of the lipstick on both the upper and
lower lip, on the upper two dabs of unsmeared color and on the lower
one a dab exactly in the center. Where the lipstick had not yet been
smeared, the lips were a sickly purple--the color of unadorned death.
The Inspector passed his hand wearily across his brow just as Piggott
returned.
"Well?"
"The colored girl fainted," reported the detective, "just as the body
fell out of the wall-bed. Never saw anything, much less a lipstick."
Inspector Queen draped the sheet over the body in baffled silence.
8
THE WATCHER
The door opened and Sergeant Velie entered, accompanied by a
steady-eyed man dressed in black. This newcomer saluted the Inspector
respectfully and stood waiting.
"This is Robert Jones, Inspector," said Velie in his deep clipped
tones. "Attached to the store force, and I'll vouch for him personally.
Jones was the man called by Mr. Weaver this morning to stand outside
the apartment door during the directors' meeting."
"How about it, Jones?" asked Inspector Queen.
"I was ordered to Mr. French's apartment this morning at eleven,"
replied the store detective. "I was told to stand guard outside and see
that no one disturbed the meeting. According to my instructions...."
"And where did your instructions come from?"
"I understood that Mr. Weaver had 'phoned, sir," replied Jones. The
Inspector looked at Weaver, who nodded, and then motioned the man to
continue.
"According to my instructions," said Jones, "I strolled about outside
the apartment without interrupting the meeting. I was in the sixth
floor corridor near the apartment until about twelve-fifteen. At that
time the door opened and Mr. French, the other directors and Mr. Weaver
ran out and took the elevator, going downstairs. They all seemed
excited...."
"Did you know why Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and the others ran out of the
apartment that way?"
"No, sir. As I said, they seemed excited and paid no attention to me. I
didn't hear about Mrs. French being dead until one of the boys dropped
by about a half-hour later with the news."
"Did the directors close the door when they left the apartment?"
"The door closed by itself--swung shut."
"So you didn't enter the apartment?"
"No, sir!"
"Did any one come up to the apartment while you stood guard this
morning?"
"Not a soul, Inspector. And after the directors left, there was no one
except the chap I told you about, who merely spilled his story and
went right down again. I've been on duty until five minutes ago, when
Sergeant Velie had two of his own men relieve me."
The Inspector mused. "And you're certain no one went into the
apartment, Jones? It may be quite important."
"Dead certain, Inspector," replied Jones clearly. "The reason I stayed
on after the directors left was because I didn't know exactly what to
do under the circumstances, and I've always found it a safe bet to
stand pat when something unusual happens."
"Good enough, Jones!" said the Inspector. "That's all."
Jones saluted, went up to Crouther and asked what he was to do. The
head store detective, his chest held high, detailed him to help handle
the crowds in the store. And Jones departed.
9
THE WATCHERS
The Inspector went quickly to the door and peered over the heads of the
seething crowds on the main floor.
"MacKenzie! Is MacKenzie there?" he shouted.
"Right here!" came the faint bellow of the store manager's voice.
"Coming!"
Queen trotted back into the room, fumbling for his snuff-box. He eyed
the directors almost roguishly; his good humor seemed for the moment
to have returned. The occupants of the room, with the exception of
Cyrus French, who was still plunged in a deep lethargy of grief and
indifference to what was going on, had by this time shaken off some
of their horror and were growing restless. Zorn stole surreptitious
glances at his heavy gold watch; Marchbanks was pacing belligerently
up and down the room; Trask at regular intervals averted his head and
gulped down some whisky from a flask in his pocket; Gray, his face
as ashen as his hair, stood in silence behind old French's chair.
Lavery was very quiet, watching with bright inquisitive eyes the least
movement of the Inspector and his men. Weaver, his boyish face strained
and lined, seemed to be enduring agonies. He frequently sought Ellery
with pleading eyes, as if asking for help which he knew, instinctively,
could not be forthcoming.
"I must ask you to have patience for a short time longer, gentlemen,"
said the Inspector, smoothing his mustache with the back of his small
hand. "We have a few things more to do here--and then we'll see.... Ah!
You're MacKenzie, I take it? Are those the watchmen? Bring 'em in, man!"
The middle-aged Scotchman had entered the window-room, herding before
him four oldish men with frightened faces and fidgety hands. Ritter
made up the rear.
"Yes, Inspector. By the way, I'm having the employees checked up, as
Sergeant Velie instructed me to." MacKenzie waved the four men forward.
They shuffled a step farther into the room, reluctantly.
"Who's the head night-watchman among you?" demanded the Inspector.
A corpulent old man with fleshy features and placid eyes stepped
forward, touching his forehead.
"I am, sor--Peter O'Flaherty's me name."
"Were you on duty last night, O'Flaherty?"
"Yes, sor. That I was."
"What time did you go on?"
"Me reg'lar hour, sor," said the watchman. "Ha'past five. It's O'Shane
I relieve at th' desk in the night-office on th' 39th Street side.
These boys here"--he indicated the three men behind him with a fat and
calloused forefinger--"they come on with me. They was with me last
night, reg'lar."
"I see." The Inspector paused. "O'Flaherty, do you know what has
happened?"
"Yes, sor. I've been told. And a shame it is, sor," responded
O'Flaherty soberly. He stole a glance at the limp figure of Cyrus
French, then jerked his head back toward the Inspector as if he had
committed an indiscretion. His cronies followed his gaze, and looked
forward again in exactly the same manner.
"Did you know Mrs. French by sight?" asked the Inspector, his keen
little eyes studying the old man.
"I did, sor," replied O'Flaherty. "She used to come to th' store
sometimes after closing when Mr. French was still here."
"Often?"
"No, sor. Not so very. But I knowed her right enough, sor."
"Hmmm." Inspector Queen relaxed. "Now, O'Flaherty, answer
carefully--and truthfully. As truthfully as if you were on the
witness-stand.--Did you see Mrs. French last night?"
Silence had fallen in the room--a silence pregnant with beating hearts
and racing pulses. All eyes were on the broad mottled face of the old
watchman. He licked his lips, seemed to reflect, squared his shoulders.
"Yes, sor," he said, with a little hiss.
"At what time?"
"'Twas just eleven forty-five, sor," replied O'Flaherty. "Y'see, there
ain't but one night-entrance to th' store after hours. All th' other
doors and exits are ironed up. That one door is on 39th Street, th'
Employees' Entrance. There ain't no way but that t'get in or out o' the
buildin'. I--"
Ellery moved suddenly, and everybody turned toward him. He smiled
deprecatingly at O'Flaherty. "Sorry, dad, but I've just thought of
something.... O'Flaherty, do I understand you to say that there is only
one way into the store after hours--the Employees' Entrance?"
O'Flaherty champed his blue old jaws reflectively. "Why, yes, sor," he
said. "And what's wrong about that?"
"Very little," smiled Ellery, "except that I believe there is a night
freight-entrance on the 39th Street side as well...."