a pair of grey kid walking-shoes. They're missing."
"And that," said Ellery with a little bow that made Miss Underhill
stare, "is precisely that. Thank you so much.... Westley, will you
escort Miss Underhill and the timidacious Keaton to the door? Tell the
man outside to see that they're taken down to Sergeant Velie and kept
out of the way of Commissioner Welles at least until everybody troops
up here.... Undoubtedly, Miss Underhill, Marion French will be glad,"
and he bowed again to the housekeeper, "of your maternal and warming
presence. _Good_ afternoon!"
The instant the outer door had closed upon Weaver and the two women,
Ellery ran across the library to the door of the cardroom. He entered
with swift steps and stared down at the card-table with its neatly
heaped piles of pasteboards and its butt-strewn ashtray. He sat down
carefully in one of the chairs and examined the cards. Picking up the
heavy stack of closed cards before him, he spread them out without
disturbing their sequence. He frowned after a while, referred to eleven
piles of cards in the center of the table.... Finally he rose, puzzled,
defeated. He replaced all the stacks exactly as he had found them.
He was staring gloomily at the cigaret-stubs when he heard the outer
door click shut and Weaver reënter the library. Ellery turned at once
and left the cardroom. The red-leather door swished softly to behind
him.
"Ladies taken care of?" he inquired absently. Weaver nodded almost with
sulkiness. Ellery squared his shoulders, eyes twinkling. "Worrying
about Marion, I'll wager," he said. "Don't, Wes. You're acting like
a granny." He looked slowly about the library. His eyes came to rest
after a time on the desk before the dormer-window. "I think," he
announced dictatorially, sauntering toward the desk, "we'll take our
ease, in a manner of speaking, and see what we can see. Rest being the
sweet sauce of labor, as Plutarch so aptly says--sit, Wes!"
17
AT THE APARTMENT: _The Library_
They sat down, Ellery at the comfortable swivel-chair behind the desk,
Weaver in one of the leather-covered chairs at the conference table.
Ellery relaxed, letting his glance shift from wall to wall of the
library, flicker over the table, the litter of business papers, the
pictures on the wall, the glass top of the desk before him.... His
glance fell idly on the slip of blue memorandum paper by the telephone.
With perfect unconcern he picked it up and read it.
It was an official memorandum. On it was neatly typed a message.
Ellery reread the memorandum earnestly. He looked up at the
disconsolate countenance of Weaver.
"Is it conceivable ..." he began. He broke off suddenly. "Tell me,
Wes--when did you type this memorandum?"
"Eh?" Weaver started at the sound of Ellery's voice. "Oh, that! That's
a memo I sent around to the Board of Directors. Typed it yesterday
afternoon, after the Old Man left for Great Neck."
"How many copies did you make?"
"There were seven all told--one for each director, one for myself, and
one for the files. This copy is the Old Man's."
Ellery spoke quickly. "How is it that I find it here on the desk?"
Weaver was surprised at the seeming inconsequentiality of Ellery's
question. "Oh, I say!" he protested. "Just a matter of form. I left it
here so that the Old Man could see in the morning that I'd taken care
of the matter."
"And it was here--on the desk--when you left the apartment last night?"
persisted Ellery.
[Illustration: INTER-OFFICE MEMORANDUM
COPY
To: Mr. French ✓
Mr. Gray
Mr. Marchbanks
Mr. Trask
Mr. Zorn
Mr. Weaver
Monday, May 23, 19--
A special meeting of the Board of Directors is hereby called for the
morning of Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth, at eleven o'clock, in the
Conference Room. _Do_ _not_ _fail_ _to_ _attend_. Details of the
Whitney-French negotiations will be discussed. It is hoped that a final
decision may be reached officially at that time. Your presence is
imperative.
Mr. Weaver is to meet Mr. French in the Conference Room at nine a.m.
promptly to prepare the notes for final directorial discussion.
[Signed] Cyrus French,
[Per] Westley Weaver,
Sec'y.
]
"Well, of course!" said Weaver. "Where should it be? Not only that, but
it was _still_ there when I got in this morning." He grinned feebly.
But Ellery was serious. His eyes glittered. "You're sure of that?..."
He half-rose from the swivel-chair in a strange excitement. He sank
back. "Seems to fit with the rest of the jigsaw," he muttered. "How
beautifully it explains that one unexplained point!"
Thoughtfully he stowed the blue paper, uncreased, in a capacious wallet
which he took from his breast-pocket.
"You'll say nothing of this, of course," he said slowly.... Weaver
nodded and relapsed into apathy. Ellery bent forward, placed his
elbows on the glass top, his head in his hands. He stared before
him.... Something seemed to disturb his revery. His eyes, blank
and preoccupied, focused by degrees on the books between the onyx
book-ends, standing austerely on the desk in his direct line of vision.
After a moment, as if to satisfy a mounting curiosity, he straightened
up and became entirely absorbed in the titles of the books. His long
arm swooped down on one of them, carried it back for closer observation.
"By the wisdom of Bibliophilus!" he murmured at last, looking up at
Weaver. "What a queer collection of volumes! Does your employer make a
habit of reading such heavy stuff as _An Outline of Paleontology_, Wes?
Or is this a text-book hang-over from your undergraduate days? I can't
recall your having a particular flair for science. It's by old John
Morrison, too."
"Oh, that!" Weaver was momentarily embarrassed. "No, that's the--the
Old Man's, I suppose, Ellery. His books entirely. Don't think
I've ever observed the titles, as a matter of fact. What did you
say--paleontology? Didn't know he went in for it."
Ellery regarded him keenly for a brief moment, then replaced the book.
"And what's more--do you know," he said softly, "this _is_ fetching!"
"What?" asked Weaver nervously.
"Well, bend an ear to these titles: _Fourteenth Century Trade and
Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski. There's a rare one for you, although
it is fitting that a department store magnate be interested in the
history of merchanting.... And this one--_A Child's History of
Music_, by Ramon Freyberg. A _child's_ history, mind you. And _New
Developments in Philately_, by Hugo Salisbury. A passion for stamps!
Queer, queer, I tell you.... And--good heavens!--_Nonsense Anthology_,
by that surpassing idiot, A. I. Throckmorton!" Ellery lifted his eyes
to Weaver's troubled ones. "Dear young Dane," he said slowly, "I can
understand a chronic bibliophile having this bizarre collection on his
desk, for some dark purpose of his own, but I'll be immortally damned
if I can make it jibe with my conception of Cyrus French, head of the
Anti-Vice League and merchant prince.... Your employer does not impress
me as having the intellectual potentialities of a paleontological
field worker, who is a stamp-collecting addict, who has a passion for
medieval commerce, who knows so little of music that he must read
a child's history of it, and finally who indulges in the sickening
horseplay of the year's best--or worst--vaudeville jokes!... Wes, old
boy, there is more here than meets the vacillating eye."
"I'm quite at sea," said Weaver, shifting in his chair.
"And you should be, you should be, my child," said Ellery as he rose
and walked over to the bookcase on the wall to his left. He lightly
hummed the thematic air of _Marche Slav_ as he scanned the titles of
the volumes behind the glass partitions. After a moment's scrutiny he
returned to the desk, where he sat down and again fingered the books
between the book-ends in an absent way. Weaver's eyes followed him
uneasily.
"From the books in the case," resumed Ellery, "my suspicions seem to
be borne out. Nothing but works on social welfare and sets of Bret
Harte, O. Henry, and Richard Harding Davis, _et al._ All of which
compress nicely into the obvious intellectual stratum of your nice Old
Man. Yet on the desk...." He mused. "And they show no signs of use,"
he complained, as if disturbed further by this heinous crime against
literature. "In two cases, where the volumes are bound that way, the
leaves are still uncut.... Westley, tell me truthfully, is French
interested in these subjects?" He flipped his finger at the books
before him.
Weaver answered immediately. "Not to my knowledge."
"Marion? Bernice? Mrs. French? The directors?"
"I can answer positively in the case of the French family, Ellery,"
replied Weaver, jumping from his chair and pacing up and down before
the desk. "None of them reads such stuff. As for the directors--well,
you've seen them."
"Gray might be interested in this preposterous mélange," said Ellery
thoughtfully. "He's the type. But that child's history of music....
Well!"
He bestirred himself. On the fly-leaf of the little volume in his coat
pocket he made a careful memorandum of the titles and authors of the
desk volumes. With a sigh he dropped the pencil back into his vest
pocket and once more began to stare blankly at the books. His hand
played idly with one of the book-ends.
"Mustn't forget to ask French about these books," he murmured, more to
himself than to Weaver, who still paced furiously up and down the room.
"--Sit down, Wes! You disturb my train of thought...." Weaver shrugged,
sat down quiescently. "Nice things, these," Ellery said in a casual
voice, indicating the book-ends. "That's a very curious bit of carving
on the onyx."
"Must have cost Gray a pile of dollars," mumbled Weaver.
"Oh, they were a gift to French?"
"Gray gave them to him on his last birthday--in March. They were
imported, I know--I remember Lavery commenting on their rarity and
beauty a few weeks ago."
"Did you say--March?" asked Ellery suddenly, bringing the black shining
book-end closer to his eyes. "That's only two months ago, and this--"
He quickly picked up the companion piece to the book-end in his hand.
He placed them side by side on the glass top of the desk, all at once
handling them with meticulous delicacy. He beckoned to Weaver.
"Do you see any difference between these?" he asked in some excitement.
Weaver leaned over, put out his hand to lift one of them....
"Don't touch it!" said Ellery sharply. "Well?"
Weaver stood up straight. "No call to shout, Ellery," he said
reproachfully. "As far as I can see, the felt under this one seems
faded a little."
"Don't mind my rude manners, old son," Ellery said. "I thought that
difference in shade wasn't wholly my imagination."
"I can't understand why the green felts should vary in color," remarked
Weaver in a puzzled way, returning to his chair. "Those book-ends
are nearly new. They must have been all right when the Old Man got
them--they were, in fact. I'd have noticed the discoloration had there
been one."
Ellery did not answer at once. He stared down at the two pieces of
carved onyx. They were both cylindrical in shape, with the carving on
the outer sides. On the under sides, where the book-ends were to be
placed against the desk, were pieces of fine green felt. In the strong
clear afternoon sun, streaming through the big window, one exhibited a
marked difference in the shade of green.
"Here's a pretty mystery," muttered Ellery. "And what it means, if it
means anything at all, I can't see at the moment...." He looked up at
Weaver with a glint in his eye. "Have these book-ends ever been out of
this room since Gray presented them to French?"
"No," replied Weaver. "Never. I'm here every day, and I would know if
they'd been moved."
"Have they ever been broken, or repaired, even here?"
"Why, of course not!" said Weaver, puzzled. "That seems sort of silly,
El."
"And yet essential." Ellery sat down and began to twirl his pince-nez,
his eyes riveted on the book-ends before him. "Gray's an intimate of
French, I take it?" he asked suddenly.
"His best friend. They've known each other for over thirty years. They
have good-natured quarrels periodically about the Old Man's obsession
in the matter of white slavery, prostitution and the like, but they've
always been unusually close."
"Which is as it should be, I suppose." Ellery sank into deep and
concentrated thought. He did not take his eyes from the book-ends. "I
wonder, now...." His hand dipped into his coat pocket and emerged with
a small magnifying-glass. Weaver regarded his friend in astonishment,
then burst into laughter.
"Ellery! Upon my word! Just like Sherlock Holmes!" His mirth was
unadulterated, inoffensive, like the man himself.
Ellery grinned sheepishly. "It _does_ seem theatrical," he confessed.
"But I've found it a handy little tool at times." He bent lower,
applied the glass to the book-end with the darker green felt.
"Looking for fingerprints?" chuckled Weaver.
"You can never tell," said Ellery sententiously. "Although a glass
isn't infallible. You need fingerprint powder to make absolutely
sure...." He discarded the book-end and bent the glass on its mate. As
he scanned the lighter green of its felt, his hand shook convulsively.
Disregarding Weaver's cry of "What is it?" he fixed his attention
rigidly on a portion of the material where the felt met the onyx, at an
edge. A thin line, so thin that to the naked eye it was like a hair,
broadened slightly under the magnification of the lens. This line,
which extended all around the bottom of the book-end, was actually
composed of glue--the glue with which the felt was pasted to the onyx.
The second book-end also had the glue-line.
"Here, take the glass, Wes, and focus it at the juncture of felt and
onyx," commanded Ellery, pointing to the under-side of the book-end.
"Tell me what you see--be careful you don't touch the surface of the
onyx!"
Weaver bent over and eagerly looked through the glass. "Why, there's a
sort of dust stuck in the glue--it's dust, isn't it?"
"Unorthodox-looking dust," said Ellery grimly, seizing the lens and
again examining the felt at that portion of the glue-line. In another
moment he had swept the eye of the glass over the other surfaces of the
book-end. He employed the same tactics with the second book-end.
Weaver uttered a short exclamation. "I say, El, mightn't it be the same
stuff you found in Bernice's lipstick? Heroin, I think you called it!"
"Smart guess, Westley," smiled Ellery, his eye fast to the lens. "But
I seriously doubt it.... This will require analysis, and immediately.
Something twitters a warning message in my subconscious."
He dropped the magnifying-glass on the table, thoughtfully regarded the
two book-ends once more, then reached for the telephone.
"Get Sergeant Velie--yes, detective-sergeant--on the wire for me
immediately." He spoke rapidly to Weaver while he waited, receiver to
ear. "If this stuff is what I am beginning to think it is, old boy,
the plot thickens like a purée. However, we'll see. Get me a good wad
of absorbent cotton from the bathroom-closet, will you, Wes? Hello,
hello--Velie?" he said into the telephone, as Weaver disappeared
through the brass-studded door, "this is Ellery Queen speaking. Yes,
from the apartment upstairs.... Velie, send me one of your best men at
once.... Who?... Yes, Piggott or Hesse will do. At once! And mum's the
word in the hearing of Welles.... No, you can't help--yet. Hold in, you
bloodhound!" He chuckled as he hung up.
Weaver returned with a large carton filled with absorbent cotton.
Ellery took it from him.
"Watch me, Wes," he announced with a laugh. "Watch carefully, because
it may be necessary for you in the not remote future to testify on the
witness stand as to precisely what I did here to-day.... Are you ready?"
"I'm all eyes," grinned Weaver.
"_Allay-oop!_" With a prestidigitator's flourish Ellery whipped out of
the large pocket of his sack-coat a curious metal packet. He pressed
a tiny button and the lid flew open, disclosing black leather pads of
thin tough texture, pierced for small bits of waxed thread, each of
which held a shining little instrument.
"This," said Ellery, showing his even white teeth, "is one of my
most prized possessions. Given to me with the benediction of _Herr
Burgomeister_ of Berlin last year for the little aid I gave him in
snaring Don Dickey, the American gem-thief.... Cunnin', isn't it?"
Weaver fell back weakly. "What on earth is it?"
"One of the handiest contraptions ever conceived by the mind of man
for the use of the criminal investigator," replied Ellery, his fingers
busy with the thin leather mats. "This was created especially for
your humble servant through the gratitude of the Berlin mayor and
the co-operator of the German central detective bureau. At my own
specifications, incidentally--I knew what I wanted.... You'll observe
that an almost incredible number of articles are packed in this
amazingly small aluminum container--aluminum for its lightness, by the
way. Everything in it that a first-class detective might conceivably
need during a scientific investigation--on a lilliputian scale, but
strong, compact, and extraordinarily utilitarian."
"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed Weaver. "I didn't know you went in
for this sort of thing so seriously, Ellery."
"Let the contents of my work-chest convince you," smiled Ellery.
"Here we have two accessory lenses--Zeiss, by the way,--for my pocket
magnifier; stronger than usual, you see. Here's a tiny steel tape
measure with the automatic recoil, 96-inch length, reverse side in
centimeters. Red, blue, and black crayons. Undersize drawing-compass
and special pencil. One vial each of black and white fingerprint
powder, with camel's-hair brushes and stamping pad. Packet of glassine
envelopes. Small calipers and smaller tweezers. Collapsible probe,
adjustable to various lengths. Tempered steel pins and needles. Litmus
paper and two tiny test-tubes. Combination knife containing two blades,
corkscrew, screw-driver, awl, file, scraper. Specially designed
field-compass--and don't laugh. Not all investigations are conducted
in the heart of New York.... And that's not the last by any means.
Red, white and green twine of thread-like thinness, but very strong.
Sealing-wax. Small 'lighter'--made specially for me. Scissors. And,
naturally, a stop-watch made by one of the world's best watch-makers--a
Swiss in the employ of the German government.... How do you like my
traveling work-case, Wes?"
Weaver looked incredulous. "Do you mean to tell me all those things are
in that ridiculously small aluminum container?"
"Exactly. The entire contraption is some four inches wide by six
inches long, and weighs slightly less than two pounds. Thickness of a
fair-sized book. Oh, yes! I forgot to mention a crystal mirror embedded
in the wall of one of the aluminum sides.... But I'd better be getting
down to work. Keep your eyes open!"
From one of the leather mats Ellery extracted the tweezers. Adjusting
one of the more powerful lenses in his pocket-glass, he carefully
placed the first book-end in a fixed position on the desk, held
the magnifier to his eye with his left hand, and with his right
painstakingly maneuvered the tweezers into the hardened glue which
contained the suspicious-looking particles. He instructed Weaver to
hold in readiness one of the glassine envelopes and, uprooting the
almost invisible grains, placed them carefully in the envelope.
He laid down the glass and the tweezers, and sealed the envelope
instantly.
"I think I've bagged them all," he said with satisfaction. "And the
ones I've missed Jimmy will get.... Come!"
It was Detective Piggott. He closed the outer door softly and entered
the library with ill-concealed curiosity.
"Sergeant said you wanted me, Mr. Queen," and his eyes were on Weaver.
"Righto. Just a sec, Piggott, and I'll tell you what to do." Ellery
scribbled an inky note on the reverse side of the envelope. It read:
"DEAR JIMMY: Analyze powder grains in envelope. Extract any
additional particles in glue-line of book-end marked _A_, also
analyze. Check on book-end marked _B_ for similar grains. After
analyzing the grains, _and not until then_, check both book-ends
for fingerprints other than my own. Could bring out a print myself,
but if you find any, have it 'shot' in the lab and a photoprint
immediately made. 'Phone all information to me, _personally_,
as soon as you've done. I'm at French apartment in French store.
Piggott will tell you.
"E. Q."
Marking the book-ends _A_ and _B_ with his red crayon, he swathed both
in absorbent cotton, wrapped them in some paper Weaver found for him in
the desk, and handed package and envelope to the detective.
"Take these down to Jimmy at the headquarters laboratory as fast as
you can get there, Piggott," he said insistently. "Don't let anything
stop you. If Velie or my father corners you on the way out, say it's on
business for me. On no account let the Commissioner get wind of what
you're carrying off the premises. Now scoot!"
Piggott left without a word. He was too well trained in the methods of
the Queens to ask questions.
And as he slipped out of the door, he saw the shadow of a rising
elevator through the frosted glass wall. He turned and sped down the
emergency stairs just as the door slid open and Commissioner Welles,
Inspector Queen and a small cohort of detectives and policemen stepped
out.
18
SCRAMBLED SIGNS
Within five minutes the private corridor outside French's sixth floor
apartment was crowded with a score of people. Two policemen stood guard
at the door. Another stood with his back to the elevator, his eyes on
the emergency staircase-door nearby. In the anteroom lounged several
detectives smoking cigarets.
Ellery sat smiling behind French's desk in the library. Commissioner
Welles puffed about the room, shouting orders to detectives, opening
the doors leading off the library, peering like a myopic owl at things
strange to him. Inspector Queen talked with Velie and Crouther near
the dormer-window. Weaver stood miserably in a corner, unnoticed. His
eyes frequently sought the anteroom door, beyond which he knew was
Marion French....
"You say, Mr. Queen," grunted Welles, out of breath, "that the cigaret
stubs and the game of--blast it! what is it again?--banque are the only
signs of this Carmody girl's presence here?"
"Not at all, Commissioner," said Ellery gravely. "You forget the
shoes and hat in the closet. I believe I recounted the housekeeper's
identification--?"
"Yes, yes, of course!" grumbled Welles. He frowned. "Here, you
fingerprint men!" he shouted, "have you covered that little room
off the cardroom?" Without waiting for a reply, he bellowed an
unintelligible order to several photographers who were busy over the
table holding the cards and cigaret-stubs. Finally, mopping his brow,
he beckoned imperiously to Inspector Queen.
"What do you think, Queen?" he demanded. "Looks like a pretty clear
case, eh?"
The Inspector sent a sidewise glance at his son, and smiled
cryptically. "Hardly, Commissioner. We've got to find the girl first,
you know.... Work's barely scratched. We haven't had the time to
check a single alibi, for example. Despite these clues pointing to
Bernice Carmody, we're not at all satisfied that there isn't something
deeper...." He shook his head. "At any rate, Commissioner, there's a
heap of work waiting for us. Anybody you'd like to question? We have
'em all outside in the corridor waiting."
The Commissioner looked fierce. "No! Can't say I do at this stage...."
He cleared his throat. "What's next on your list? I've got to get down
to City Hall for a conference with the Mayor and I can't give this
thing the personal attention it deserves. Well?"
"I want to clear up a few moot points," replied Queen dryly. "Several
people out there will stand questioning. French himself--"