floor and towered above Marchbanks, saying nothing, his arms hanging
loosely by his sides. Marchbanks, large and corpulent, shrank before
the huge detective. He flushed, muttered beneath his breath, stepped
back.
"Now," said the Inspector equably, "Miss French, may I trouble you to
answer a few questions?"
"Oh, I say, Inspector," protested Weaver, despite Ellery's warning
flick of the finger, "do you think it absolutely necessary to--"
"I'm quite ready, sir," came the quiet voice of the girl, and she rose
to her feet, her eyes a trifle red, but clearly composed. Her father
had slumped back in his chair. He had forgotten her already. She smiled
wanly at Weaver, who sent her an ardent glance across the room. But she
kept her head averted from the sheeted corpse in the corner by the bed.
"Miss French," snapped the Inspector, flicking the gauzy scarf from the
dead woman's clothes before her eyes, "is this your scarf?"
She whitened. "Yes. How does it come here?"
"That," said the Inspector dispassionately, "is what _I_ should like to
know. Can you explain its presence?"
The girl's eyes flashed, but she spoke calmly enough. "No, sir, I
cannot."
"Miss French," went on the Inspector after a stifling pause, "your
scarf was found around Mrs. French's neck under her coat-collar. Does
that convey anything to you--perhaps suggest an explanation?"
"She was wearing it?" Marion gasped. "I--I can't understand it.
She--she never did that before." She glanced helplessly at Weaver,
shifted her gaze and met Ellery's eyes.
They looked at each other for a startled moment. Ellery saw a
slender girl with smoky hair and deep grey eyes. There was an
unaccented cleanliness about the lines of her young body that made
him feel pleased for Weaver's sake. She gave the impression of
straightforwardness and strength of will--honest eyes, firm lips, small
strong hands, a pleasingly cleft chin and a good straight nose. Ellery
smiled.
Marion saw a tall athletic man with a suggestion of nascent vigor,
startlingly intellectual about the forehead and lips, cool and quiet
and composed. He looked thirty, but was younger. There was a hint of
Bond Street about his clothes. His long thin fingers clasped a little
book and he regarded her out of pince-nez eyeglasses.... Then she
blushed slightly and her eyes wavered away toward the Inspector.
"When did you last see this scarf, Miss French?" went on the old man.
"Oh, I--" Her tone changed; she took command of herself. "I seem to
remember wearing it yesterday," she said slowly.
"Yesterday? Very interesting, Miss French. Do you recall just where--?"
"I left the house directly after luncheon," she said, "wearing the
scarf under this coat. I met a friend at Carnegie Hall and we spent
the afternoon at a recital--Pasternak the pianist. We parted after the
recital and I took a 'bus down to the store. I do seem to remember
wearing the scarf all day...." Her brow wrinkled prettily. "I don't
remember having it, however, when I returned home."
"You say you came to the store, Miss French?" interrupted the Inspector
politely. "For any special reason?"
"Why--not particularly. I did think I might still catch father. I knew
he was leaving for Great Neck, but I didn't know exactly when, and--"
The Inspector held up a ridiculously tiny white hand. "Just a moment,
Miss French. You say your father went to Great Neck yesterday?"
"Why, yes. I understood he was to go out there for business.
There's--there's nothing wrong--about that, is there, sir?" She bit her
lip.
"No, no--positively no!" said the Inspector, smiling. He turned to
Weaver. "Why didn't you tell me that Mr. French took a little trip
yesterday, Mr. Weaver?"
"You didn't ask me," retorted Weaver.
The Inspector started, then chuckled. "One on me," he said. "It's true
enough. When did he return and why did he go?"
Weaver looked compassionately at the limp, oblivious figure of his
employer. "He went early yesterday afternoon to confer with Farnham
Whitney on Whitney's estate. A matter of merger, Inspector--the meeting
this morning discussed just that. Mr. French told me that he was driven
into the city early this morning by Whitney's chauffeur--arrived at the
store at nine o'clock. Anything else?"
"Not just now." Queen turned to Marion. "Your pardon, my dear, for the
interruption.... Now where specifically did you go when you came to the
store?"
"To my father's apartment on the sixth floor."
"Indeed?" muttered the Inspector. "And why, may I ask, did you go to
your father's apartment?"
"I usually go there when I'm at the store, which isn't often,"
explained Marion. "Besides, I was told that Mr. Weaver was there,
working, and I thought--it might be nice to pay him a little visit...."
She eyed her father apprehensively, but he was insensible to words.
"You went there directly on entering the store? And left immediately
from the apartment?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible," insinuated the Inspector very gently, "that you may
have dropped your scarf in the apartment, Miss French?"
She did not reply immediately. Weaver tried frantically to catch her
eye, moving his lips, framing the word "No!" She shook her head.
"Quite possible, Inspector," she said quietly.
"I see." The Inspector beamed. "Now, when did you see Mrs. French last?"
"At dinner last night. I had an appointment for the evening and left
almost immediately."
"Did Mrs. French seem herself? Notice anything unusual, abnormal in her
speech or actions?"
"Well.... She did seem worried about Bernice," Marion said slowly.
"Ah!" Queen rubbed his hands together. "Then I infer that
your--stepsister, is it?--was not at home for dinner?"
"No," replied Marion after a hesitating silence. "Winifred--my
stepmother told me that Bernice had gone out and would not be home for
dinner. But she seemed worried nevertheless."
"She gave no indication of a reason for this worry?"
"None whatever."
"What is your step-sister's name? Is it French?"
"No, Inspector. She retains her father's name of Carmody," murmured
Marion.
"I see. I see." The Inspector stood plunged in thought. John Gray
shifted impatiently, whispered a word to Cornelius Zorn, who shook his
head sadly and leaned resignedly against the back of French's chair.
Queen paid no attention to them. He looked up at Marion. Her passive,
tired little figure drooped.
"One question more for the moment, Miss French," he said, "and you may
rest.... Can you suggest, from anything that you know of Mrs. French's
background or affairs, or from anything that transpired recently--last
night, yesterday, perhaps--can you suggest," he repeated, "a possible
explanation for this crime? It's murder, of course," he continued
hastily, before she could reply, "and I know you are naturally chary
of answering. Take your time--think carefully over everything that has
occurred lately...." He stopped. "Now, Miss French, can you tell me
anything I might wish to hear?"
There was naked silence in the room--a raw pulsing quiet that beat
invisibly against the atmosphere. Ellery heard quick breaths
drawn, saw bodies tense, eyes sharpen, hands twitch as, to a man,
the occupants of the room with the exception of Cyrus French leaned
forward, watching Marion French as she stood there, facing them.
But she said, "No," very matter-of-factly, and the Inspector's eyes
flickered. Everybody relaxed. Some one sighed. Ellery noted that it was
Zorn. Trask lit a cigaret nervously and let the fire die. Marchbanks
sat frozen to his chair. Weaver made a little movement of despair....
"Then that will be all, Miss French," returned Inspector Queen, in a
tone as casual as the girl's had been. He seemed pleasantly absorbed in
a contemplation of Lavery's formal cravat. "Please," he added, just as
pleasantly, "do not leave the room.... Mr. Lavery, may I have your ear
for the moment?"
Marion dropped back and Weaver sprang to her side, dragging a chair
with him. She sank into it with a little smile, shading her eyes with
a nerveless hand. The other snuggled secretly into Weaver's eager
grasp.... Ellery watched them for a moment, then turned his sharp eyes
on Lavery.
The Frenchman bowed, waited, fingers riffling his short beard.
11
LOOSE ENDS
"As I understand it, Mr. Lavery, you are responsible for this
exhibition of modernistic house-furnishings?" Inspector Queen's voice
took a fresh note.
"That is correct."
"How long has this exhibition been going on?"
"About a month, I should say."
"Your main exhibition rooms are where?"
"On the fifth floor." Lavery spread his fingers. "You see, this is more
or less of a pioneer project in New York, Inspector. I was invited to
exhibit some of my creations to the American public by Mr. French and
his Board, who are very much in sympathy with the movement. Most of the
purely enterprising details of the present exhibition emanate from Mr.
French, allow me to add."
"Just what do you mean?"
Lavery showed his teeth in a smile. "The matter of these
window-exhibits, for example. That was wholly Mr. French's idea, and I
do suppose it has resulted in much advertising for the establishment.
Certainly the crowds have flocked from the sidewalk outside to the
fifth floor exhibition rooms in such numbers that we have had to call
in special ushers to handle them."
"I see." The Inspector nodded politely. "So these window-exhibits were
Mr. French's idea? Yes, yes--you have just told me that.... How long
has this particular window been dressed so, Mr. Lavery?"
"This is the--let me see--the end of the second week of the
living-room-bedroom exhibit," answered Lavery, stroking his short
modish beard again. "The fourteenth day, to be exact. To-morrow we were
to have changed the room's contents, removed them to make way for a
model dining-room."
"Oh, the windows are changed bi-weekly? Then this is the second room
you have exhibited?"
"Quite so. The first was a full bedroom."
Queen mused openly. His eyes drooped with weariness; blackish pouches
stood out beneath. He took a short turn up and down the room, halting
once more before Lavery.
"It seems to me," he said, more to himself than to Lavery, "that this
unfortunate accident and its attendant circumstances dovetail too
fortuitously.... However! Mr. Lavery, is this window-exhibit held at
the same time each day?"
Lavery stared. "Yes--yes, certainly."
"At _exactly_ the same time each day, Mr. Lavery?" pursued the
Inspector.
"Oh, yes!" said Lavery. "The Negress has entered this window at noon of
each day ever since the institution of the exhibit."
"Very good!" The Inspector seemed pleased again. "Now, Mr. Lavery--in
the month that these demonstrations have taken place, has there ever to
your knowledge been one day on which the time-schedule was not adhered
to?"
"No," said Lavery with positiveness. "And I am in a position to know,
sir. It has been my habit to stand on the main floor behind the
window-room during the Negress's demonstration every day. My lecture
upstairs is not scheduled until three-thirty of the afternoon, you see."
The Inspector raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you lecture, too, Mr. Lavery?"
"But of course!" cried Lavery. "I have been told," he added gravely,
"that my description of the work of the Viennese Hoffman has created
something of a stir among the _monde artistique_."
"Indeed!" smiled the Inspector. "One question more, Mr. Lavery, and
then I think we will have finished with you for the present.--This
exhibition as a whole is not entirely a spontaneous thing? I mean," he
added, "steps have been taken to make the public aware both of your
window-demonstrations and of your lectures upstairs?"
"Assuredly. The publicity and advertising have been planned most
carefully," rejoined Lavery. "We have circularized all the art-schools
and allied organizations. The charge-accounts, I understand, have
likewise been covered by personal letters from the management. The
bulk of the public attention, however, has been secured by means of
newspaper advertisements. Of course you have seen those?"
"Well, I rarely read department store ads," the Inspector replied
hastily. "And I suppose you have received all sorts of publicity?"
"Yes--yes, indeed," and Lavery again flashed his white teeth. "If you
would condescend to examine my scrap-books--"
"Hardly necessary, Mr. Lavery, and thank you for your patience. That's
all."
"A moment, please.--May I?" Ellery had stepped forward, smiling. The
Inspector glanced at him, waved his hand briefly, as if to say, "Your
witness!" and retreated to the bed, where he sat down with a sigh.
Lavery had turned in his tracks and now stood stroking his beard, his
eyes politely questioning.
Ellery did not speak for a moment. He twirled his pince-nez, looked up
suddenly. "I am quite interested in your work, Mr. Lavery," he said
with a disarming grimace. "Although I fear my esthetic studies have not
exhausted the field of modern interior decoration. As a matter of fact,
I was much interested the other day in your lecture on Bruno Paul...."
"So you attended my impromptu classes upstairs, sir?" exclaimed Lavery,
flushing with pleasure. "Perhaps I was a trifle enthusiastic about
Paul--I know him quite well, you see...."
"Indeed!" Ellery looked at the floor. "I take it that you have been
in America before, Mr. Lavery--your English is quite untouched by
Gallicism."
"Well, I have traveled more or less extensively," admitted Lavery.
"This is my fifth visit to the States--Mr. Queen, is it?"
"I'm sorry!" said Ellery. "I am Inspector Queen's unruly scion.... Mr.
Lavery, how many demonstrations a day are given in this window?"
"Just one." Lavery raised his black brows.
"How long does each demonstration take?"
"Thirty-two minutes exactly."
"Interesting," murmured Ellery. "By the way, is this room kept open at
all times?"
"Not at all. There are some very valuable pieces in this room. It is
kept locked except when it is being used for demonstration purposes."
"Of course! That was stupid of me," smiled Ellery. "You have a key,
naturally?"
"A number of keys exist, Mr. Queen," answered Lavery. "The idea of the
lock is more to prevent transient trespassing during the day than to
keep out possible night-prowlers. It is presumed that after hours, in
an establishment as well guarded as this--provided with modern burglar
alarms, guards, and so on--the room would be safe enough against
burglary."
"If you will pardon me for interrupting," came the mild voice of
MacKenzie, the store manager, "I am in a better position to clear up
the question of the keys than Mr. Lavery."
"Delighted to have you," said Ellery quickly, but he began once more
to twirl his pince-nez. The Inspector, seated on the bed, preserved a
watchful silence.
"We have a number of duplicate keys," explained MacKenzie, "to each
of the windows. In this particular instance Mr. Lavery has one, Diana
Johnson the demonstrator has one (which she leaves at the Employees'
Office desk when she leaves for the day), the floorwalker on this
section of the main floor and the store detectives each have one, and
there is a complete set of duplicates kept in the general offices on
the mezzanine floor. I am afraid very many people could have secured a
key."
Ellery did not seem perturbed. He walked suddenly to the door, opened
it, peered out over the main floor for a moment, and returned.
"Mr. MacKenzie, will you please summon that clerk at the leather-goods
counter opposite this window?"
MacKenzie departed, returning shortly with a short, stout, middle-aged
man. He was white-faced and nervous.
"Were you on duty all this morning?" inquired Ellery kindly. The man
jerked his head in the affirmative. "And yesterday afternoon?" Another
jerk. "Did you leave your post at any time this morning or yesterday
afternoon?"
The clerk found his voice. "Oh, no, sir!"
"Very well!" Ellery spoke softly. "Did you at any time during yesterday
afternoon or this morning notice any one entering or leaving this
window-room?"
"No, sir." The man's tone was assured. "I've been on duty all the
time; I couldn't help but notice if any one had used this room, sir. I
haven't been very busy," he added, with an apologetic side-glance at
MacKenzie.
"Thank you." The clerk left with eager steps.
"Well!" Ellery sighed. "We seem to be progressing, and yet nothing
takes definite shape...." Shrugging his shoulders, he turned once more
to Lavery.
"Mr. Lavery, are these windows illuminated after dark?"
"No, Mr. Queen. The shades are drawn after every demonstration, and
they are kept drawn until the following day."
"Then," and Ellery emphasized the word, "then I take it that these
lighting fixtures are dummies?"
Eyes long since dulled by waiting and wretchedness expectantly followed
the direction of Ellery's arm. He was pointing toward the oddly cut,
clouded-glass wall lights. The eyes all turned, too, to observe the
numerous queerly shaped lamps about the room.
For answer Lavery strode to the rear wall and, after a moment's
manipulation, removed one of the modernistic fixtures. The socket
which should have held an electric bulb was empty.
"We have no use for lights here," he said, "so we have not installed
them." With a swift movement he restored the fixture to its place on
the wall.
Ellery took a decisive step forward. But then he shook his head,
retreated, turned to the Inspector.
"Henceforward, or at least for the present, I shall be silent," he
said, smiling, "and latinically pass for a philosopher."
12
OUT THE WINDOW....
A policeman pushed his way into the room, looked about as if to catch
the eye of authority, was summoned peremptorily by old Queen, mumbled a
few words, and departed almost as quickly as he had come.
The Inspector immediately took John Gray aside and whispered in the
little director's ear. Gray nodded and went to the side of Cyrus
French, who was staring blankly into space, muttering to himself. With
the aid of Weaver and Zorn, Gray managed to twist French's chair around
so that the old man's back was to the body. French noticed nothing.
The store physician took his pulse professionally. Marion's hand was
at her throat; she stood up quickly and leaned against the back of her
father's chair.
Then the door opened and two white-garbed men with visored caps
entered, bearing a stretcher between them. They saluted the Inspector,
who jerked his thumb toward the sheeted corpse.
Ellery had withdrawn into the far corner of the room beyond the bed to
hold communion with his pince-nez. He frowned at it, tapped it on the
back of his hand, threw his lightcoat on the bed and sat down, taking
his head between his hands. Finally, as if he had come to either an
impasse or a conclusion, he produced from the pocket of his coat the
volume it contained, and began to scribble hurriedly on the fly-leaf.
He paid not the slightest attention to the two police doctors stooped
over the dead woman.
Nor did he protest when he was unceremoniously moved by a silent,
nervous man who had entered immediately behind the stretcher bearers,
and who was now engaged with the help of an assistant in photographing
the dead woman, her position on the floor, the bed, the handbag and
other articles connected with the victim. Ellery's eyes followed the
police photographer, but abstractedly.
Suddenly he snapped his little book back into his pocket and waited
thoughtfully until he caught his father's eye.
"Lord, son," said the Inspector, coming over, "I'm tired. And worried.
_And_ apprehensive."
"Apprehensive? Come, now--don't fall into that silly frame of mind,
dad. Why should you be apprehensive? This case is coming along, coming
along...."
"Oh, you've probably caught the murderer and hidden him in your
vest-pocket," growled the old man. "I'm not worried about the murderer,
I'm worried about Welles."
"Sorry!" Ellery moved closer. "Don't let Welles rile you, dad; I don't
think he's as bad as you've painted him. And while he's merely heckling
you, I'll be working under-cover--grasp the idea?"
"It's not half bad at that," said the Inspector. "My gosh! He's liable
to walk in here any minute now, El! I never thought of that! By this
time he has a telephoned report and--Yes! What is it?"
A bluecoat tramped in with a message and left.
The Inspector groaned. "Word's just come that Welles is on his way
here--now we'll have arrests, interviews, grillings, reporters running
over the place, and merry--"
Ellery's air of raillery vanished. He grasped his father's arm and
guided him swiftly to an angle in the wall.
"If that's the case, dad, let me tell you what is in my mind--quickly."
He looked around; they were fairly unobserved. He lowered his voice.
"Have you reached any definite conclusions yet? I'd like to have your
reactions before I tell you mine."
"Well--" the old man peered about him cautiously, then cupped his
mouth in his small hands--"between you and me, son, there's something
queer about the whole business. As far as details are concerned, I'm
a little hazy--if you're clearer than I, it's probably because you
have had something of the advantage of an observer. But as to the
crime itself--the possible motive--the story behind it--I have the
inescapable feeling that the murder of Mrs. French is not half so
important to us as what may have necessitated the murder...." Ellery
nodded thoughtfully. "I have no doubt that this is a carefully planned
murder. Despite the weirdness of the place, the apparent sloppiness of
the crime, there is amazingly little to go on."
"What about Marion French's scarf?" asked Ellery.
"Fiddlesticks!" said the Inspector contemptuously. "Can't see that it
means anything intelligible. In all probability she left it somewhere
about and Mrs. French picked it up.... But I'll bet a cookie that the
Commissioner grabs it."
"I think you're wrong there," commented Ellery. "He'll be afraid to
tackle French. Don't lose sight of French's power as head of the
Anti-Vice Society.... No, dad, for the present Welles will keep his
hands off Marion French."
"Well, what have you concluded, Ellery?"
Ellery produced his small volume and turned to the fly-leaf on which
he had scribbled a few moments before. He looked up. "I hadn't thought
about the remote nuances of the crime, dad," he said. "Although,
now that you've brought it up, it seems to me that you are probably
correct about the far-reaching significance of the motive as opposed
to the crime itself.... No, I've been chiefly occupied until now
with more direct affairs. I have four interesting little puzzlers to
elucidate. Listen carefully.
"First, and probably most important," he began, referring to his notes,
"there is the puzzle of Mrs. French's key. We have a fair sequence of
incident. The night-watchman, O'Flaherty, observes the victim at about
eleven-fifty last night with the gold-disked apartment key in her
possession. She is lost sight of until twelve-fifteen to-day, when she
is found dead--still in the store, but with the key missing from the
scene of the crime. The question arises, then: Why is the key missing?
It seems on the face of it a pure matter of discovery, doesn't it?
Yet--regard the possibilities. It is plausible enough at this time to
suspect that the key's disappearance is connected with the crime, more
directly with the murderer. A murderer disappears, a key disappears.
It is not difficult to imagine that they disappeared together. Now,
if this is so--and for the present let us assume that it _is_ so--why
did the murderer take the key? Obviously, we can't answer that
question--yet. But--we now know that the murderer has in his possession
a key to a certain apartment--French's private apartment on the sixth
floor."
"That's so," muttered the Inspector. "I'm glad you suggested sending
one of the boys to watch that apartment this morning."
"I had that thought," said Ellery. "But something else disturbs me.
I can't help asking myself: Doesn't the absence of the key perhaps
indicate that the body was brought to this window from some other
place?"
"I can't see that at all," objected the Inspector. "Can't see that it
has anything to do with it."