Mostly always shut. So, as I was sayin'--"
Ellery lifted a slender hand. "One moment, O'Flaherty. You say, 'Mostly
always shut.' Just what do you mean by that?"
"Well," replied O'Flaherty, scratching his poll, "it's shut down
tighter'n a drum all night exceptin' between eleven o'clock and
eleven-thirty. So it don't hardly count."
"That's _your_ point of view," said Ellery argumentatively. "I thought
there must be a good reason for having a special night-watchman at the
spot all night. Who is he?"
"That's Bloom over here," said O'Flaherty. "Bloom, step out, man, and
let the gentlemen look ye over."
Bloom, a sturdy middle-aged man with reddish, graying hair, stepped
uncertainly forward. "That's me," he said. "Nothin' wrong in my freight
department last night, if that's what you wanna know...."
"No?" Ellery eyed him keenly. "Exactly why is the freight-entrance
opened between eleven and eleven-thirty?"
"Fer the delivery of groceries an' meats an' such," answered Bloom.
"Big turn-over every day in the store restaurant, and then there's the
Employees' Restaurant too. Get supplies fresh every night."
"Who is the trucker?" interrupted the Inspector.
"Buckley & Green. Same driver an' unloader every night, sir."
"I see," said the Inspector. "Get it down, Hagstrom, and make a note to
question the men on the truck.... Anything else, Ellery?"
"Yes." Ellery turned once more to the red-haired night-watchman.
"Tell us just what happens every night when the Buckley & Green truck
arrives."
"Well, I go on duty at ten," said Bloom. "At eleven every night the
truck rolls up and Johnny Salvatore, the driver, rings the night bell
outside the freight-door...."
"Is the freight-door kept locked after five-thirty?"
MacKenzie, the store manager, interrupted. "Yes, sir. It's
automatically locked at closing-time. Never opened till the truck comes
up at eleven."
"Go on, Bloom."
"When Johnny rings, I unlock the door--it's sheet iron--and roll 'er
up. Then the truck drives inside, an' Marino, the unloader, unpacks the
stuff and stores it, while Johnny and myself check it over in my booth
near the door. That's all. When they're through, they take the truck
out, I unroll the door, and lock it, and just stay there all night."
Ellery pondered. "Does the door remain open while the truck is being
unloaded?"
"Sure," said Bloom. "It's only for a half an hour, and besides, nobody
could hardly get in without one of us seeing 'em."
"You're sure of that?" asked Ellery sharply. "Positive? Swear to it,
man?"
Bloom hesitated. "Well, I don't hardly see how anybody _could_," he
said lamely. "Marino's out there unloading, and Johnny and me in the
booth right by the door...."
"How many electric lights are there in this freight room?" demanded
Ellery.
Bloom looked bewildered. "Why, there's one big light right over where
the truck is, and then there's a small one in my booth. Johnny keeps
his headlights on, too."
"How big is this freight room?"
"Oh, about seventy-five foot deep by fifty wide. Store emergency trucks
are parked there for the night, too."
"How far from your booth does the truck unload?"
"Oh, 'way in, near the back, where there's a chute from the kitchen."
"And one light in all that black expanse," murmured Ellery. "The booth
is enclosed, I suppose?"
"Just a glass window facing the inside of the room."
Ellery played with his pince-nez. "Bloom, if I told you to swear that
nobody could get into that freight room, past the entrance, without
your seeing him, would you do it?"
Bloom smiled in a sickly fashion. "Well, sir," he said, "I don't know
as I would."
"Did you see anybody get in last night while the door was open and you
and Salvatore were in the booth checking over the goods?"
"No, sir!"
"But somebody might have got in?"
"I--I guess so...."
"One question more," said Ellery genially. "These deliveries are made
_every night_, without fail, and at exactly the same hour?"
"Yes, sir. Been that way as long as I can remember."
"Another, if you'll pardon me. Did you lock that freight-door last
night promptly at eleven-thirty?"
"To the dot."
"Were you at that door all night?"
"Yes, sir. On my chair, right by the door."
"No disturbance? Didn't hear or see anything suspicious?"
"No, sir."
"If--any one--tried--to--get--out--of--the--building--by--that--door,"
said Ellery with startling emphasis, "you would have heard and seen
him?"
"Sure thing, sir," said Bloom weakly, glancing with despair at
MacKenzie.
"Very well, then," drawled Ellery, waving his arm negligently toward
Bloom, "the inquisition may proceed, Inspector." And he stepped back,
making furious notes in his book.
The Inspector, who had been listening with a gradually clarifying
expression on his face, sighed and said to O'Flaherty, "You were
saying that Mrs. French came into the building at eleven-forty-five,
O'Flaherty. Let's have the rest of it."
The head night-watchman wiped his brow with a slightly shaking hand and
a dubious glance in Ellery's direction. Then he took up the thread of
his story. "Well, I sits at th' night-desk all night--never gets up,
while Ralska and Powers here does the rounds every hour. That's me job,
sor--an' besides I check out all those who put in overtime, like th'
executive people, and such. Yes, sor. I--"
"Easy, O'Flaherty," said the Inspector, with interest. "Tell us just
exactly what happened when Mrs. French arrived. You're sure it was
eleven-forty-five?"
"Yes, sor. I looked at th' time-clock next th' desk, 'cause I gotta put
down all arrivals on me time-sheet...."
"Oh, the time-sheet?" muttered Queen. "Mr. MacKenzie, will you please
see that I get last night's time-sheet at once? Even before the report
on the employees." MacKenzie nodded and left. "All right, O'Flaherty.
Go on."
"Well, sor, through the night-door acrost th' hall I sees a taxi roll
up and Mrs. French she steps out. She pays th' driver and knocks. I
sees who 'tis and opens quick. She gives me a cheery good-evenin',
and asks if Mr. Cyrus French was still in th' buildin', I says no,
ma'am, Mr. Cyrus French'd left early in th' afternoon, as he had, sor,
carryin' a brief-case. She thanks me, stops to think a bit, then she
says she'll go up to Mr. French's private apartment anyway, and starts
to walk out o' th' office toward the private elevator that's only used
to go up to th' apartment. I says to her, I says, Kin I get one o'
the boys to run th' elevator up for her an' open th' apartment door?
She says no thanks, right polite, sor, and rummages in her bag for a
minute, as if to see she's got her key. Yes, she had it--she fishes it
out o' her bag and shows it to me. Then she--"
"Just a moment, O'Flaherty." The Inspector seemed perturbed. "You say
she had a key to the apartment? How is that, do you know?"
"Well, sor, there're only a certain number o' keys to Mr. French's
apartment, sor," answered O'Flaherty, more comfortably. "S'far as
I know, Mr. Cyrus French has one, Mrs. French had one, Miss Marion
has one, Miss Bernice has one--me workin' here for seventeen years,
I knows th' fam'ly right well, sor--Mr. Weaver has one, and there's
one master-key in th' desk in my office all th' time. That's half a
dozen altogether, sor. Th' master-key is in case a key is needed in an
emergency."
"You say Mrs. French showed you her key before she left your office,
O'Flaherty? How do you know it was the key to the apartment?" asked the
Inspector.
"Easy enough, sor. Y'see, each key--they're special Yales, sor--each
key has a little gold dingus on it with th' initials o' the person it
belongs to. Th' key Mrs. French showed me had that on. Besides, I know
th' looks o' that key; it was the right one, all right."
"One second, O'Flaherty." The Inspector turned to Weaver. "Have you
your apartment key on you, Weaver? Let me have it, please?"
Weaver extracted a leather key-case from his vest-pocket and handed it
to Queen. Among a number of different keys was one with a small gold
disc fused into the tiny hole at the top. On this disc were engraved
the initials, _W.W._ The Inspector looked up at O'Flaherty.
"A key like this?"
"Just th' same, sor," said O'Flaherty, "exceptin' th' initials."
"Very well." Queen returned the key-case to Weaver. "Now, O'Flaherty,
before you continue, tell me this--where do you keep your master-key to
the apartment?"
"Right in a special drawer in th' desk, sor. It's there all the time,
day and night."
"Was it in its place last night?"
"Yes, sor. I always looks for it special. It was there--the right key,
no mistake, sor. It's got a tab on it too, with th' word 'Master' on
it."
"O'Flaherty," asked the Inspector quietly, "were you at your desk all
night? Did you leave your office at all?"
"No, sor!" answered the old watchman emphatically. "From th' minute
I got there, at five-thirty, I didn't leave th' office until I was
relieved this mornin' by O'Shane at eight-thirty. I got longer hours
than him 'cause he's got more to do on his shift, with checkin' in
employees and all. And as for leavin' the desk, I brings me own feed
from home, even hot coffee in a thermos bottle. No, sor, I was on th'
watch all night."
"I see." Queen shook his head as if to clear the mists of weariness and
motioned the watchman to continue with his story.
"Well, sor," said O'Flaherty, "when Mrs. French left me office, I got
up out o' me chair, went into the hall, and watched her. She went to
th' elevator, opened th' door, an' went in. That's the last I saw
o' her, sor. When I saw she didn't come down I thought nothin' of
it, 'cause a number o' times Mrs. French has stayed overnight in Mr.
French's apartment upstairs. I thought she'd done th' same this night.
So that's all I know, sor."
Ellery stirred. He lifted the dead woman's handbag from the bed and
dangled it before the watchman's eyes.
"O'Flaherty," he asked in a drawling voice, "have you ever seen this
before?"
The watchman replied, "Yes, sor! That's th' bag Mrs. French was
carryin' last night."
"The bag, then," pursued Ellery softly, "from which she took her
gold-topped key?"
The watchman seemed puzzled. "Why, yes, sor." Ellery seemed satisfied
and dropped back to whisper in his father's ear. The Inspector frowned,
then nodded. He turned to Crouther.
"Crouther, will you please get the master-key in the office on the 39th
Street side." Crouther grunted cheerfully and departed. "Now then." The
Inspector picked up the gauzy scarf initialed _M.F._ which he had found
on the dead body. "O'Flaherty, do you recall Mrs. French's having worn
this last night? Think carefully."
O'Flaherty took the wisp of silk in his horny fat fingers and turned it
over and over, his forehead wrinkled. "Well, sor," he said finally, in
a hesitant tone. "I can't rightly say. Seemed to me for a minute as if
I'd seen Mrs. French wear it, and then again seemed as if I hadn't. No,
I couldn't rightly say. No, sor," and he returned it to the Inspector
with a gesture of helplessness.
"You're not sure?" The Inspector dropped the scarf back on the bed.
"Everything seem all right last night? No alarms?"
"No, sor. O' course you know th' store's wired against burglars. Quiet
as a church last night. S'far as I know, nothin' happened out o' th'
way."
Queen said to Sergeant Velie: "Thomas, call up the alarm central office
and find out if they've a report on last night. Probably not, or we'd
have heard from them by this time." Velie left, silently as usual.
"O'Flaherty, did you see any one else enter the building last night
except Mrs. French? At any time during the night?" continued the
Inspector.
"No, sor, absolutely not. Not a soul." O'Flaherty seemed anxious to
make this point clear, after his defection concerning the scarf.
"Ah there, MacKenzie! Let me have the time-sheet, please." Queen took
from the store manager, who had just returned, a long scroll of ruled
paper. He looked it over hurriedly. Something seemed to catch his eye.
"I see by your sheet, O'Flaherty," he said, "that Mr. Weaver and a Mr.
Springer were the last to leave the store yesterday evening? Did you
make these notations?"
"Yes, sor, Mr. Springer went out about a quarter to seven, and Mr.
Weaver a few minutes after."
"Is that right, Weaver?" demanded the Inspector, turning to the
secretary.
"Yes," replied Weaver in a colorless tone. "I stayed a little later
last night to prepare some papers for Mr. French to-day; I believe I
shaved.... I left a little before seven."
"Who is this Springer?"
"Oh, James Springer is the head of our Book Department, Inspector," put
in mild-mannered MacKenzie. "Often stays late. A very conscientious
man, sir."
"Yes, yes. Now--you men!" The Inspector pointed to the two watchmen who
had not yet spoken. "Anything to say? Anything to add to O'Flaherty's
story? One at a time.... Your name?"
One of the watchmen cleared his throat nervously. "George Powers,
Inspector. No, sir, I got nothin' to say."
"Everything all right when you went your rounds? Do you cover this part
of the store?"
"Yes, sir, everythin' was okay on my rounds. No, sir, I don't cover the
main floor. That's Ralska's job, here."
"Ralska, eh? What's your first name, Ralska?" demanded the Inspector.
The third watchman expelled his breath noisily. "Hermann, sir. Hermann
Ralska. I think--"
"You think, eh?" Queen turned. "Hagstrom, you're taking this down, of
course?"
"Yep, Chief," grinned the detective, his pencil busy in his notebook.
"Now, Ralska, you were about to think something, no doubt very
important," snarled the Inspector. His temper seemed frayed and raw
once more. "What was it?"
Ralska held himself stiffly. "I thought I heard somethin' funny last
night on the main floor."
"Oh, you did! Where, exactly?"
"Right about here--outside this window-room."
"No!" Inspector Queen grew very quiet. "Outside this window-room. Very
good, Ralska. What was it?"
The watchman seemed to take heart at Queen's calmer tone. "It was
just about one o'clock in the morning. Maybe a few minutes earlier.
I was in the part of the store near the Fift' Avenue and 39t' Street
side. This here window faces Fift' Avenue, past the night-office, so
it's a good distance away. I heard a queer kind o' noise. Can't make
up my mind what it was. Might 'a' been some one movin' around, might
'a' been a footstep, might 'a' been a door closin'--just don't know.
Anyway, I wasn't suspicious or anything--you get so you hear noises
that never happened on a night job like this.... But I went over in
that direction and couldn't see anything wrong, so I thought it must be
my imagination. Even tried a couple of the window doors. But they were
all locked. Tried this one, too. So I stopped in to have a word with
O'Flaherty here, and went on ahead, with my rounds. That's all."
"Oh!" Inspector Queen seemed disappointed. "So you're not certain of
where the noise came from--if there was a noise?"
"Well," responded Ralska carefully, "if it was anythin' at all it came
from this section o' the floor near these big street-window displays."
"Nothing else all night?"
"No, sir."
"All right, that's all for you four men. You may go back home and catch
up on your sleep. Be back here to-night for work as usual."
"Yes, sir; yes, sir." The watchmen backed out of the window-room and
disappeared.
The Inspector, brandishing the time-sheet in his hand, addressed the
store manager. "MacKenzie, have you given this sheet any study?"
The Scotchman replied, "Yes, Inspector--thought you might be interested
and looked it over on the way."
"Fine! MacKenzie, what's the verdict? Was every employee of the
store checked out regularly yesterday?" Queen's face was composed,
indifferent.
MacKenzie did not hesitate. "As you can see, we have a simple check-out
system--by departments.... I can certainly assert that every _employee_
who was _in the store_ yesterday checked out."
"Does that include executives and gentlemen like the Board of
Directors?"
"Yes, sir--there are their names in the proper places."
"Very well--thank you," said the Inspector thoughtfully. "Please don't
forget that list of absentees, MacKenzie."
Velie and Crouther at this point reëntered the room together. Crouther
handed the Inspector a key, an exact replica of the one in Weaver's
possession, marked "Master" on its gold disk as O'Flaherty had averred.
The detective-sergeant relayed a negative report from the burglar-alarm
company. Nothing unusual had occurred during the night.
The Inspector turned again to MacKenzie. "How reliable is this
O'Flaherty?"
"True-blue. Would give his life for Mr. French, Inspector," returned
MacKenzie warmly. "He's the oldest employee of the store--knew Mr.
French in the old days."
"That's a fact," echoed Crouther, as if anxious to have his opinion
considered as well.
"It has just occurred to me ..." Inspector Queen faced MacKenzie
inquiringly. "Just how private is Mr. French's apartment? Who has
access to it besides the French family and Mr. Weaver?"
MacKenzie scraped his jaw slowly. "Hardly any one else, Inspector,"
he replied. "Of course, the Board of Directors meet in Mr. French's
apartment periodically for conferences and other business matters; but
the only keys to it are in the possession of the people O'Flaherty has
mentioned. As a matter of fact, it's almost peculiar how little we
people know about Mr. French's apartment. In all my association with
the store, and it's a matter of ten years or so, I can't recall having
been in the apartment more than half a dozen times. I was thinking that
only last week, when Mr. French summoned me there for some special
instructions regarding the store. As for other employees--well, Mr.
French has always been adamant in the matter of his privacy. Aside
from O'Flaherty opening the door for the cleaning-woman three times
a week, and letting her out just before he goes off duty, there's
not an employee of the store who has access or occasion to visit the
apartment."
"I see, I see. The apartment--we seem to be going back to that
apartment," muttered the Inspector. "Well! There seems to be very
little left here.... Ellery, what do you think?"
Ellery swung his pince-nez with unaccustomed vigor as he regarded his
father. There was a troubled glint in the depths of his eyes.
"Think? Think?" He smiled fretfully. "My ratiocinative machinery has
been chiefly occupied in the last half-hour or so with a stubborn
little problem." He bit his lip.
"Problem? What problem?" growled his father affectionately. "I haven't
had a moment to think clearly, and you talk of problems!"
"The problem," enunciated Ellery distinctly but not loudly enough to
be heard by the others, "of why Mrs. French's key to her husband's
apartment is missing."
10
MARION
"Not much of a problem," said Inspector Queen. "There is no particular
reason for expecting to find the key--here. Besides, I can't see that
it's of much importance."
"_Alors_--we'll let it go at that," said Ellery, smiling. "I am always
worried by omissions." He dropped back, searching his vest-pocket for a
cigaret-case. His father eyed him sharply. Ellery rarely smoked.
A policeman pushed open the window-door at this moment and lumbered
over to the Inspector. "Young lady outside giving the name of Marion
French. Says she wants Mr. Weaver," he whispered hoarsely. "Scared to
death at the mobs and the cops. One o' the floorwalkers is with her.
What'll I do, Inspector?"
The Inspector's eyes narrowed. He shot a glance at Weaver. The
secretary seemed to sense the import of the message, although he had
not heard the whispered words; for he stepped forward at once.
"I beg your pardon, Inspector," he said eagerly, "but if that's Miss
French I'd like your permission to go to her at once and--"
"Amazing intuition!" cried the Inspector suddenly, his white face
creasing into smiles. "Yes, I think I--Come along, Mr. Weaver. You
shall introduce me to Mr. French's daughter." He turned sharply to
Velie. "Carry on for a moment, Thomas. No one is to leave. I'll be back
in a jiffy."
Preceded by a revitalized Weaver, he trotted out of the window-room.
Weaver broke into a run as they stepped out onto the main floor. The
center of a little crowd of detectives and policemen, a young girl
stood stiffly, her face drained of color, eyes wild with a nameless
fear. As she caught sight of Weaver, a tremulous cry escaped her and
she swayed forward weakly.
"Westley! What is the matter? These policemen--detectives--" Her arms
stretched out. In full sight of the grinning police and the Inspector,
Weaver and the girl embraced.
"Sweetheart! You must get hold of yourself ..." Weaver whispered
desperately into the girl's ear as she clung to him.
"Wes--tell me. Who is it? Not--" She drew away from him with horror in
her eyes. "Not--Winifred?"
She read the answer in his eyes even before he nodded.
The Inspector obtruded his elastic little figure between them. "Mr.
Weaver," he smiled, "may I have the pleasure...?"
"Oh, yes--yes!" Weaver stepped quickly backward, releasing the girl.
He seemed astonished at the interruption, as if he had forgotten
momentarily the place, the circumstances, the time.... "Marion dear,
may I present Inspector Richard Queen. Inspector--Miss French."
Queen took the proffered little hand and bowed. Marion murmured a
perfunctory pleasance, while her large grey eyes widened in stricken
interest at this tiny middle-aged gentleman with the clean white
mustache who bent over her hand.
"You're investigating--a crime, Inspector Queen?" she faltered,
shrinking from him, clutching at Weaver's hand.
"Unfortunately, Miss French," said the Inspector. "I'm genuinely
grieved that you've had such an unpleasant reception--more than I can
say...." Weaver glared at him in bewildered wrath. The old Machiavelli!
He had known all along what would happen!... The Inspector proceeded
in a gentle tone. "It's your stepmother, my dear--shockingly murdered.
Terrible! Terrible!" He clucked his tongue like a solicitous old hen.
"Murdered!" The girl grew very still. The hand in Weaver's twitched
once, and was limp. For the instant both Weaver and the Inspector
thought she would faint, and involuntarily moved forward to her aid.
She staggered back. "No--thank you," she whispered. "My God--Winifred!
And she and Bernice were away--all night...."
The Inspector stiffened. Then his hand fumbled for his snuff-box.
"Bernice, I believe you said, Miss French?" he said. "The watchman
mentioned that name before, too.... A sister, perhaps, my dear?" he
asked ingratiatingly.
"Oh--what have I--Oh, Wes dear, take me away, take me away!" She buried
her face in the folds of Weaver's coat.
Weaver said, above her head, "A perfectly natural remark, Inspector.
The housekeeper, Hortense Underhill, called Mr. French this morning
during the conference to report that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice,
her daughter, had slept at home.... You see, of course, that
Marion--Miss French...."
"Yes, yes, naturally." Queen smiled, touched the girl's arm. She
started convulsively. "If you'll come this way, Miss French--? Please
be brave. There is something I want you--to see."
He waited. Weaver gave him an outraged glance, but pressed the girl's
arm encouragingly and led her, stumbling, toward the window. The
Inspector followed, beckoning to one of the detectives nearby, who
immediately took his place outside the window-door after the trio
entered the room.
There was a little rustle of excitement as Weaver helped the girl into
the room. Even old French, shaking as if with ague, showed a light of
reason in his eyes as he spied her.
"Marion my dear!" he cried in a terrible voice.
She broke away from Weaver and fell on her knees before her father's
chair. No one spoke. The men looked uneasily away. Father and daughter
clung to each other....
For the first time since he had come into the chamber of death,
Marchbanks, brother of the dead woman, spoke.
"This--is--hellish," he said, savagely and slowly, glaring
out of bloodshot eyes at the trim figure of the Inspector.
Ellery, in his corner, crooked his body slightly forward.
"I'm--getting--out--of--this."