at about five feet from the rear wall. Its shining surface held a
French-style telephone, a slip of blue memorandum paper, and at the
edge of the desk facing the rest of the room a half-dozen books between
handsome onyx book-ends. Behind the desk the wall was pierced by a
large dormer-window, draped in heavy red velvet. This window overlooked
Fifth Avenue.
Ellery completed his stationary examination with a frown. He looked
down at Weaver's key-case, which he still held in his hand.
"By the way, Wes," he said suddenly, "is this your own key? Ever lend
it to anybody?"
"That's my own, all right, Ellery," replied Weaver indifferently. "Why?"
"I merely thought that it might be interesting to discover whether the
key has ever been out of your possession."
"Nothing there, I'm afraid," said Weaver. "It's never been off my
person. As a matter of fact, as far as I know, all five keys have been
exclusively in their owner's possession since the apartment was built."
"Hardly," said Ellery in a dry tone. "You forget Mrs. French's."
He eyed the key contemplatively. "Greatly bother you, Westley, if
I appropriate yours for the time? I do believe I shall go into the
business of collecting this particular type of key."
"Help yourself," replied Weaver in a small voice. Ellery detached the
key from the case, which he forthwith returned to Weaver. The key he
put into his vest-pocket.
"By the way," said Ellery, "is this your office too?"
"Oh, no!" replied Weaver. "I have my own office on the fifth floor. I
report there in the mornings before coming up here."
"_Enfin!_" Ellery moved suddenly. "_Aux armes!_ Westley, it is my
earnest desire to peep into the privacy of Mr. French's bedroom. Will
you oblige by leading the way?"
Weaver indicated the brass-studded door on the opposite wall. They
traversed the thick-carpeted distance silently and Weaver swung the
door inward. They emerged into a large squarish bedroom, with windows
overlooking both Fifth Avenue and 39th Street.
The bedroom was, to Ellery's unaccustomed eyes, astonishingly
modernistic in tone and decoration. Twin beds sunk almost to the
floor level, both based on concentric ovals of a highly polished
wood, caught the eye at once. A queerly shaped man's wardrobe and a
daringly designed woman's dressing-table indicated that the room had
been laid out for the use of Mrs. French as well as of her husband.
Two diversions in the quietly toned but cubistic design of the walls
pointed to closets within. Two chairs of unorthodox shape, a small
night-table, a telephone table between the twin beds, a few bright
scatter-rugs--Ellery, unacquainted with the Continental vogue at first
hand, found the French bedroom a most engaging study.
On the wall toward the corridor was a door. It was partly open. Through
it Ellery saw a lavatory in colored tiles as strikingly modern as the
bedroom itself.
"Just what are you looking for, if you're looking for anything specific
at all?" inquired Weaver.
"Lipstick. Should be here.... _And_ key. Let's hope it _isn't_ here."
Ellery smiled and stepped into the center of the room.
He observed that the beds were made up. Everything seemed in perfect
order. He strode over to the wardrobe, looked at its bare top. The
dressing-table caught his eye. He walked toward it as if half afraid of
what he might find. Weaver followed him curiously.
The top surface of the dressing-table held few articles. A small tray
of mother-of-pearl; a powder-jar; a hand-mirror. On the tray were some
feminine accoutrements--tiny scissors, a file, a buffer. Nothing had
the appearance of recent use.
Ellery frowned. He turned his head away, turned it back as if
fascinated by the dressing-table.
"Really," he muttered, "it should be here. Of all places. The logical
one. Of course!"
His fingers had touched the tray. Its shell was slightly curved at the
edges. As the tray moved, something rolled off the table, where it had
nestled under the tray's edge, and fell to the floor.
With a grin of triumph Ellery picked up the article. It was a small,
gold-chased lipstick. Weaver came over in some astonishment to see the
find. Ellery pointed to the three initials on the cap: _W.M.F._
"Why, that's Mrs. French's!" cried Weaver.
"Dear Mrs. French," murmured Ellery under his breath. He lifted the cap
of the stick and twisted. A pinkish blob of paste appeared.
"Seems to jibe," he said aloud. As if struck by a thought, he searched
his coat pocket and pulled out the larger, silver-chased lipstick from
the dead woman's bag in the window.
Weaver suppressed an exclamation. Ellery looked at him pointedly.
"So you recognized it, Wes?" he asked, smiling. "Now tell me--since
we're _tête-à-tête_ and your innocent mind can grope trustingly in my
presence.... To whom does this lipstick marked _C_ belong?"
Weaver winced, raised his eyes to Ellery's cool ones. "To Bernice," he
said slowly.
"Bernice? Bernice Carmody? The missing lady," drawled Ellery. "I
suppose Mrs. French was her real mother?"
"Mrs. French was the Old Man's second wife. His daughter by his first
wife is Marion. First wife died about seven years ago. Bernice came
along with Mrs. French when the Old Man remarried."
"And this is Bernice's lipstick?"
"Yes. I recognized it immediately."
"Evidently," chuckled Ellery, "from the way you jumped.... Just what do
you know, Wes, about this Bernice's disappearance? From Marion French's
demeanor, I gather that she knows something.... Now, now, Wes--be
patient with me! I'm not a lover, you know."
"Oh, but I'm sure Marion's not keeping anything back!" protested
Weaver. "When the Inspector and I went out a while ago to meet her near
the entrance, she told him that Bernice and Mrs. French had not slept
at home...."
"Not really!" Ellery was genuinely startled. "How is that, Wes? The
facts, old boy, the facts!"
"This morning, just before the conference," explained Weaver, "the Old
Man asked me to call his home and let Mrs. French know that he had
returned from Great Neck safely. I talked to Hortense Underhill, the
housekeeper--really more than a housekeeper; she's been with the Old
Man for a dozen years. Hortense said that the only one up and about was
Marion. This was a little after eleven. French spoke to Marion, told
her the usual thing.
"At a quarter to twelve Hortense called up in something of a panic.
She'd been worried over the silence of Mrs. French and Bernice, and on
going to their bedrooms had found both empty, and the beds not slept
in. Which meant, of course, that both women had not been home all
night...."
"And what did French say to that?"
"He seemed annoyed rather than worried," replied Weaver. "Seemed to
think that they had probably stayed overnight with friends. We went on
with the conference, which broke up when we received the news about
the--you know."
"Why on earth dad hasn't followed up that disappearance ..." muttered
Ellery with a singular facial contortion. He sprang to the telephone
and ordered the store operator to summon Sergeant Velie. When Velie's
voice boomed over the wire, Ellery rapidly acquainted him with the
facts, advised him to let the Inspector know that he considered it
imperative that Bernice be searched for immediately; and added that
Commissioner Welles be kept downstairs as long as it was in Inspector
Queen's power to do so. Velie grunted complete understanding and hung
up.
Ellery instantly demanded the French house telephone number from
Weaver, and transmitted it to the operator.
"Hello!" An indistinguishable murmur in the depths of the instrument.
"Hello. This is a police officer talking. Miss Hortense Underhill?...
Never mind that now, Miss Underhill.... Has Bernice Carmody returned
yet?... I see.... Please! Take a cab immediately and come straight
to the French store. Yes, yes, immediately!... By the way, has Miss
Carmody a maid?... Very well. Bring her with you.... Yes, to Mr.
French's private apartment on the sixth floor. Ask for Sergeant Velie
when you get downstairs."
He hung up. "Your Bernice has not returned," he said mildly. "For what
reason Fortunatus alone knows." He looked thoughtfully at the two
lipsticks in his hand. "Was Mrs. French a widow, Wes?" he asked after a
pause.
"No. She was divorced from Carmody."
"That's not Vincent Carmody, the antique-dealer, by any chance?" asked
Ellery, without changing expression.
"That's the man. Know him?"
"Slightly. I've been in his establishment." Ellery frowned as he
regarded the lipsticks. His eyes keened suddenly.
"Now, I wonder ..." he said, putting the gold stick aside and turning
the silver one over in his fingers. He unscrewed the cap, twisted the
body so that the dark red paste emerged. He kept twisting absently
until the entire carmine length was visible. He tried to twist it still
further. To his surprise, there was a distinct click! and the entire
paste in its metal setting fell out of the silver case into his hand.
"What have we here?" he asked in honest astonishment, peering into the
cavity. Weaver leaned over for a better view. Ellery tipped the case
and shook it.
A little capsule about a half-inch around and perhaps an inch long
fell out into his hand. It was filled with a powdery white crystalline
substance.
"What is it?" breathed Weaver.
Ellery shook it, held it up to the light. "Well, sir," he said slowly,
a grim smile lifting the corners of his lips, "it looks very much like
heroin to me!"
"Heroin? The drug, you mean?" asked Weaver excitedly.
"Precisely." Ellery restored the capsule to the lipstick case, screwed
the paste section into place, and put the lipstick into his pocket.
"Nice commercial heroin. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. I'll have the
stuff analyzed for me at Headquarters. Westley," and he turned squarely
to French's secretary, "tell me the truth. To your knowledge is--or
was--any member of the French family a drug addict?"
Weaver replied with unexpected promptitude. "Now that you've found this
heroin, if that's what it is, it seems to me that I recall something
queer in the conduct and actions of Bernice, especially of late. That's
her lipstick, isn't it?--Ellery, I shouldn't be at all surprised
if Bernice is addicted to the stuff. She's been jumpy, nervous,
peaked-looking--alternated fits of gloom with spasms of hilarity...."
"You're describing the symptoms, all right," said Ellery. "Bernice, eh?
The lady becomes more and more interesting with every passing moment.
How about Mrs. French--French himself--Marion?"
"No--not Marion!" almost shouted Weaver. Then he grinned in shame.
"Sorry. No, Ellery, you forget that the Old Man is head of the
Anti-Vice League--good Lord!"
"Quite a situation, eh?" smiled Ellery. "And Mrs. French was normal in
that respect, you think?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"Anybody in the family besides yourself suspect that Bernice is a dope
fiend?"
"I don't think so. No, I'm pretty sure no one did. Certainly not the
Old Man. Marion has commented at times about Bernice's conduct and
queer actions, but I'm positive she doesn't suspect--this. As for Mrs.
French--well, it's hard to tell just what she thought. Always was
tight-mouthed when it came to her darling Bernice. Though if she did
suspect, she did nothing about it. I'm inclined to believe she was
ignorant of the whole business."
"And yet--" Ellery's eyes gleamed, "it's passing strange, Westley, that
the evidence should be found on Mrs. French's body--in her handbag, in
fact ... now, isn't it?"
Weaver shrugged his shoulders wearily. "My head's in a perfect whirl."
"Westley, old boy," pursued Ellery, fingering his pince-nez, "what do
you think Mr. French would say if he knew there was drug-addiction in
his own family?"
Weaver shuddered. "You don't know what a temper the Old Man has when
he's aroused. And I think that that would arouse him--" He stopped
short, looked at Ellery suspiciously. Ellery smiled.
"Time grows apace," he said with heartiness, but there was a disturbed
light in his eye. "On to the lavatory!"
14
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Lavatory_
"I hardly know what we may expect to find here," said Ellery dubiously,
as they stood in the glittering bathroom. "As a matter of fact, the
lavatory is the last place to look.... Everything all right, Westley?
Anything strike you as being out of place?"
Weaver answered rapidly enough, "No," but a tinge of uncertainty shaded
his voice. Ellery glanced at him sharply, then around at the room.
It was long and narrow. The tub was sunken. The washbowl was slender
and modern-looking. Above it hung a cunningly disguised chest. Ellery
pulled open its concealed door. It held on its three glass shelves some
bottles of house medicines, hair tonic, ointment, a tube of tooth-paste
and one of shaving cream, a safety-razor in an odd-looking wooden case,
two combs, and several other articles.
Ellery slammed the door shut in a little flurry of disgust. "Come on,
Wes," he growled. "I'm doddering. There's nothing here." Nevertheless,
he stopped to open a door on the side. It was a closet for lavatory
linens. He poked his hand into a hamper and pulled out several soiled
towels. These he examined carelessly and threw back, looking at
Westley....
"Well, spill it, son!" he said, pleasantly enough. "There is something
on your mind. What's rotten in Denmark?"
"It's queer," said Weaver thoughtfully, pulling at his lip. "I thought
it queer at the time, and now that things have happened, well--I'm
thinking it's even queerer.... Ellery, there's something missing!"
"Missing?" Ellery's hand shot out and closed about Weaver's arm in a
mighty grip. "My God, and you've kept mum! What is it that's missing,
man?"
"You'll think I'm an idiot ..." said Weaver hesitantly.
"Westley!"
"Sorry." Weaver cleared his throat. "Well, there's a razor blade
missing, if you must know!" He scanned Ellery's face for a sign of
levity.
But Ellery did not laugh. "A razor-blade? Tell me about it," he urged,
leaning against the closet door. He eyed the cabinet above the washbowl
speculatively.
"I got here this morning a bit earlier than usual," began Weaver, with
a worried frown. "Had to prepare for the Old Man's arrival, and there
were a number of papers to straighten out for the directors' meeting.
Usually, you know, the Old Man doesn't get here until ten o'clock;
it's only on special occasions--like this one of the conference--that
he comes earlier.... So I left the house in something of a hurry,
intending to shave up here. I do that quite often, by the way--which
is one of the reasons I keep a razor in the apartment.... When I got
here--it was about eight-thirty--I dashed for my razor. And there
wasn't any blade."
"That seems not so extraordinary," said Ellery with a smile. "You
simply didn't have any in the cabinet."
"Oh, but I did!" protested Weaver. "The reason I felt something was
funny was that last evening, before I left the store, I had shaved up
here. I left the blade in the razor."
"Didn't you have any others?"
"No. I'd run out of them and intended to get some more. But I forgot
to bring some in with me this morning. Consequently, when I wanted to
scrape some of the old beard off there wasn't anything to do it with.
Blade had vanished! Sounds silly, doesn't it? And I particularly left
that blade in the razor yesterday because I've forgotten to restock
before, and I found that you can always squeeze another shave out of
the old blade."
"You mean that it had gone, absolutely? You're sure you left it in the
razor?"
"Positive. I cleaned it and slipped it back."
"You didn't break it, or anything like that?"
"I tell you no, Ellery," Weaver replied patiently. "That blade was
there."
Ellery's lips curved upward humorously. "A pretty problem at that," he
said. "Is that why your face is fuzzed?"
"Right enough. I haven't had a chance all day to go out for a shave."
"Seems peculiar," said Ellery thoughtfully. "I mean that you should
have had only one blade left in the cabinet. Where are French's blades?"
"He doesn't shave himself," replied Weaver a trifle stiffly. "He never
has. Patronizes the same barber every morning."
Ellery did not comment further. He opened the cabinet and took down the
wooden razor-case. He examined the plain silver razor inside, but could
see nothing of interest.
"You handled the razor this morning?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you take it out of the case?"
"Oh, no! I didn't at all. When I saw the blade was missing, I didn't
even bother."
"That's _very_ interesting." Ellery lifted the razor handle to the
level of his eyes, holding it by the tip, careful not to touch the
silver surface with his fingers. He breathed on the metal. It clouded
over for an instant.
"Not the sign of a print," he commented. "Wiped away, undoubtedly." He
smiled suddenly. "We begin to find signs of a presence, an apparition,
a wraith here last night, old boy. Careful, wasn't he, she, or weren't
they?"
Weaver laughed aloud. "Then you think my stolen blade has something to
do with this mess?"
"To think," said Ellery solemnly, "is to know.... Keep this in mind,
Westley. I believe I heard you say downstairs that you left here
last night a bit before seven. The blade, then, was taken from this
apartment between about seven o'clock last night and eight-thirty this
morning.
"Astounding!" murmured Weaver derisively. "So that's the sort of
hocus-pocus one must cultivate in order to be a detective?"
"Laugh, varlet!" said Ellery sternly.... He stood in a queer attitude
of reflection. "I think we'll be going into the next chamber," he said
in an altogether different voice. "I begin to see a tiny light. It's
far off but--gossamer glimmer, nevertheless! _Allons, enfant!_"
15
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Cardroom_
He strode purposefully from the lavatory, marched through the bedroom,
entered the library once more. Weaver followed, his face betraying an
objective interest startlingly in variance with his nervousness of the
past hour. He seemed to have forgotten something.
"What's past that door?" demanded Ellery abruptly, pointing to the
second red-leather, brass-studded door on the opposite side of the room.
"That's the cardroom," replied Weaver interestedly. "Think there's
something to look for, El? By George, you're getting me positively
excited!" Then he stopped, his face lengthened, and he stood soberly
surveying his friend.
"Cardroom, eh?" Ellery's eyes were bright. "Tell me, Wes--you were the
first in the apartment this morning and you're in the best position
to know--did any one who was in the library to-day go into any of the
other rooms?"
Weaver pondered for a moment. "Except that the Old Man went into the
bedroom when he got in this morning, and put his coat and hat away,
nobody left the library."
"Didn't French visit the bathroom to wash up?"
"No. He was in a confounded hurry to dictate some store business and
get ready for the conference."
"You were with him when he visited the bedroom?"
"Yes."
"And you're positive that none of the others--Zorn, Trask, Gray,
Marchbanks--left _this room_ all morning?" He took a short turn about
the room. "By the way, you were here every minute of the time, I
suppose?"
Weaver smiled. "I seem to be in an affirmative mood this
afternoon.--Yes to both questions."
Ellery rubbed his hands together in a little spasm of glee. "The
apartment, then, with the one exception of the library, is in exactly
the same condition as when you arrived at eight-thirty. Excellent, most
excellent, my omniscient and exceedingly helpful Westley!"
He walked briskly toward the cardroom door and pushed it open, Weaver
at his heels. And Weaver cried out in sheer astonishment from behind
Ellery's broad shoulders....
The cardroom was smaller than both the library and the bedroom. It was
paneled in walnut. Cheerful drapes hung over the single large window
overlooking Fifth Avenue. A thick rug covered the floor.
But Ellery, following the line of Weaver's gaze, saw that he was
staring in horror at a hexagonal, baize-covered card-table in the
center of the room. A small bronze ashtray and some playing-cards,
peculiarly arranged, were on the table. Two heavy folding-chairs were
pushed away from the table.
"What's the trouble, Wes?" asked Ellery sharply.
"Why, that--that table wasn't there last night!" stammered Weaver. "I
was in here looking for my pipe just before I left, and I'm sure...."
"Not really!" murmured Ellery. "You mean the table was folded up, put
away, out of sight?"
"Of course! The room was cleaned up yesterday morning by the charwoman.
And those cigarets in the ashtray.... Ellery, some one was in here
after I left last night!"
"Obviously. And in the bathroom, too, if we're to believe the story
of the missing razor-blade. The important thing is--why was some one
in here? Just a moment." He went swiftly to the table and looked down
curiously at the cards.
On both sides of the table were two small piles of cards--one stack
with the faces up, the other closed. In the center of the baize were
two rows of four stacks, open, with the pasteboards in descending
order, as Ellery verified by investigating carefully. Between the two
rows were three smaller piles.
"Banque," muttered Ellery. "Peculiar!" He looked at Weaver. "You know
the game, of course?"
"No, I don't," said Weaver. "I recognized the layout of the cards as
that of banque, because I've seen it played at the French house. But I
don't understand the game very well; it gives me a headache. But then
most card-games do. I never was much good at it."
"So I remember," laughed Ellery, "especially that night at Bloombury's
when I had to sit in for you to recoup a hundred dollar I.O.U. at
stud.... You say you've seen the game played at French's--and that's
most interesting. Calls for questions, I do believe. Not many people
know how to play Russian banque."
Weaver regarded Ellery strangely. His eyes went furtively to the stubs
of four cigarets lying in the ashtray. He looked back at once. "Just
two people in the French household," he said in a strangled voice,
"played banque."
"And they are--or were, if I must follow your past tense?" asked Ellery
in a cool voice.
"Mrs. French and--Bernice."
"Oho!" Ellery whistled softly. "The elusive Bernice.... Nobody else
play?"
"The Old Man abhors all forms of gambling," said Weaver, worrying his
lips with a forefinger. "Won't play cards for anything. Doesn't know an
ace from a deuce. Marion plays bridge, but only because it's something
of a social necessity. She dislikes cards, and I never heard of banque
before I entered French's employ.... But Mrs. French and Bernice were
violently addicted to it. Whenever they had the opportunity they played
it. None of us could quite understand it. A form of the glamorous
gambling fever, I don't doubt."
"And the friends of the family?"
"Well," said Weaver slowly, "the Old Man has never been so narrow as to
forbid card-playing altogether in his home. That's why this apartment,
by the way, is fitted out with a cardroom. It's for the convenience of
the directors--sometimes they play here between sessions. But in the
house itself I have had plenty of opportunity to observe visitors and
friends. I've never seen any one play banque except Mrs. French and
Bernice."
"Beautiful--beautiful," said Ellery. "So symmetrically conclusive!
That's the way I like things...." But his brow was wrinkled with
thought. "And the cigarets, old boy--tell me why you've been trying for
five minutes not to look at the cigarets in the ashtray?"
Weaver flushed guiltily. "Oh!" He was silent. "I hate to say it,
Ellery--I'm in the most hellish position imaginable...."
"The cigarets, of course, are Bernice's brand.... You may as well come
out with it," said Ellery wearily.
"How did you know?" cried Weaver. "But--I suppose it was clear enough
to an alert.... Yes, they're Bernice's. Her own brand. She has--had
them made up for her especially."