Welles looked around nervously and lowered his voice. "By the way,
Queen, while there is not to be the slightest deviation from the
highest considerations of duty, you understand, it might be--ah--wise
to allow French to get home to his physician's care.... As for this
stepdaughter business, I hope"--he paused uncomfortably--"I might say I
have the feeling that this girl has made a complete getaway. You're to
follow her up conscientiously, of course.... Too bad. I--Well! I must
be going."
He turned unceremoniously on his heel, and with something like a
sigh of relief tramped toward the door, followed by his bodyguard of
detectives. He turned in the anteroom and shouted back, "I want a quick
solution, Queen--too many unsolved homicides this past month." And he
disappeared with a final quiver of his fat sides.
There was silence for several seconds after the anteroom door closed.
Then the Inspector shrugged his shoulders lightly and crossed the
room to Ellery's side. Ellery dragged a chair over for his father
and they held a whispered conversation for many minutes. The words
"razor-blade," ... "book-ends," ... "books" ... and "Bernice" ...
recurred at intervals. The old man's face grew longer and longer as
Ellery talked. Finally, he shook his head in despair and rose.
An altercation beyond the anteroom door brought up the heads of all the
men in the library. A woman's passionate voice and the gruff tones of a
man intermingled. Weaver's nostrils quivered and he dashed across the
room and flung open the door.
Marion French was endeavoring frantically to push past the burly figure
of a detective in the anteroom.
"But I must see Inspector Queen!" she cried. "My father--Please don't
touch me!"
Weaver grasped the detective's arm and violently pushed him aside.
"Get your hands off her!" he growled. "I'll teach you to handle a lady
that way...."
He would have attacked the amused detective if Marion had not thrown
her arms around him. By this time the Inspector and Ellery had hurried
up.
"Here! Ritter, stand aside!" said the Inspector. "What's the trouble,
Miss French?" he asked gently.
"My--my father," she gasped. "Oh, it's cruel, inhuman.... Can't you see
he's ill, out of his mind? For God's sake, let us take him home! He's
just fainted!"
They pushed into the hallway. A crowd of people were stooping over
Cyrus French, who had collapsed and lay, white-faced, still, on the
marble floor. The store physician, small and dark, bent over him in
distress.
"Out?" asked the Inspector with some concern.
The physician nodded. "Should be in his bed right now, sir. In a
dangerous state of collapse."
Ellery whispered to his father. The old man clucked worriedly, shook
his head. "Can't take a chance, Ellery. The man is ill." He signed to
two detectives and Cyrus French, arms hanging limply, was carried into
the apartment and laid on one of the beds. He regained consciousness a
moment later, groaning.
John Gray wriggled his way past a policeman and stormed into the
bedroom.
"You can't get away with this sort of thing, Inspector or no
Inspector!" he cried in his high-pitched voice. "I demand that Mr.
French be sent home immediately!"
"Keep your shirt on, Mr. Gray," admonished the Inspector mildly. "He's
going in a moment."
"And I'm going with him," squeaked Gray. "He'll want me, he will. I'll
take this up with the Mayor, sir. I'll--"
"Shut _up_, sir!" roared Queen, his face scarlet. He whirled on
Detective Ritter. "Get a cab."
"Miss French." Marion looked up, startled. The Inspector irritably took
a pinch of snuff. "You may leave with your father and Mr. Gray. But
please remain at home until we call this afternoon. We will want to
look over the premises and perhaps question Mr. French, if he's in a
condition to see us. And--I'm sorry, my dear."
The girl smiled through wet lashes. Weaver moved stealthily to her
side, drew her a little apart.
"Marion dear--I'm awfully sorry I didn't lam that brute for you," he
stammered. "Did he hurt you?"
Marion's eyes widened, softened. "Don't be silly, darling," she
whispered. "And don't be getting mixed up with the police. I'll help
Mr. Gray get father home, and stay there just as Inspector Queen
ordered me to.... You won't be--in any trouble, dear?"
"Who? I?" Weaver laughed. "Now don't be worrying your pretty head about
me.--And as for the store, I'll keep an eye on everything. Tell your
father that when he can understand.... Do you love me?"
There was no one looking. He bent swiftly and kissed her. Her eyes
glowed in answer.
Five minutes later Cyrus French, Marion French and John Gray had left
the building under a police escort.
Velie lumbered over. "Got two of the boys on the trail of this
Carmody girl," he reported. "Didn't want to tell you before with the
Commissioner around--busy and all that."
Queen frowned, then chuckled. "All my boys are turning traitor to the
City," he said. "Thomas, I want you to send somebody out on the trail
of Mrs. French after she left her house last night. She walked out
about eleven-fifteen. Probably took a cab, because she got here at
eleven-forty-five, which would make it about right in the after-theater
traffic. Got it?"
Velie nodded and disappeared.
Ellery sat at the desk again, whistling softly to himself, a faraway
look in his eyes.
The Inspector had MacKenzie, the store manager, brought to the library.
"Have you checked the employees, Mr. MacKenzie?"
"A report came through from my assistant a few moments ago." Ellery
listened avidly. "So far as we have been able to determine," continued
the Scotchman, referring to a paper in his hand, "all employees who
checked in both yesterday and to-day were at their posts. As for
to-day, everything seems perfectly regular in that connection. There
is, of course, a list of absentees, which I have here. If you would
like to follow up on these employees, here's the list."
"We'll have a peep at it," said the Inspector, taking the list from
MacKenzie. He turned it over to a detective with a command. "Now,
MacKenzie, you may start the ball rolling again. Store's routine is
to go on as usual, but be careful that you say nothing at all of this
whole business in your publicity. Have that window on Fifth Avenue
kept closed and guarded until further orders. We'll have to seal it up
anyway for a time. That's all. You're free to go."
"I'd like to ask the remaining directors a question, dad, if you
haven't anything to quiz them about," said Ellery, after MacKenzie had
left.
"I haven't a thought in my head about them--that I could turn to
account," answered Queen. "Hesse, bring in Zorn, Marchbanks and Trask.
Let's have another try at 'em."
The detective returned shortly with the three directors. They looked
peaked and ragged; Marchbanks was chewing savagely at a frayed cigar.
The Inspector waved his hand at Ellery and retreated a step.
Ellery rose. "Just one question, gentlemen, and then I think Inspector
Queen will permit you to go about your business."
"High time," muttered Trask, biting his lip.
"Mr. Zorn," said Ellery, ignoring the attenuated and foppish Trask, "is
there a regular meeting-time for your Board of Directors?"
Zorn juggled his heavy gold watch-chain nervously. "Yes--yes, of
course."
"If I'm not too inquisitive, when is that meeting-time?"
"Every other Friday afternoon."
"This is routine, strictly adhered to?"
"Yes--yes."
"How is it that there was a meeting this morning--on a Tuesday?"
"That was a special meeting. Mr. French calls them as the occasion
demands."
"But the semi-monthly meetings are held regardless of special meetings?"
"Yes."
"I take it, then, that there was a meeting on Friday last?"
"Yes."
Ellery turned to Marchbanks and Trask. "Is Mr. Zorn's testimony
substantially correct, gentlemen?"
Both nodded their heads sullenly. Ellery smiled, thanked them, and sat
down. The Inspector smiled, thanked them, and told them politely that
they were free to leave. He escorted them to the door and whispered to
the policeman on guard an inaudible instruction. Zorn, Marchbanks and
Trask left the private corridor immediately.
"There's an interesting feller outside, El," remarked the Inspector.
"Vincent Carmody, Mrs. French's first husband. Think I'll tackle him
next.--Hesse, bring in Mr. Carmody in about two minutes."
"Did you check up at all on the night freight-entrance on 39th Street
while you were downstairs?" asked Ellery.
"Sure did." The Inspector took a pinch of snuff reflectively. "That's
a funny place, El. With the watchman and the truckman in the little
booth, it would have been pie for somebody to slip into the building,
especially at night. Went over it with particular thoroughness. It
certainly looks like the answer to how the murderer gained entry last
night."
"It may answer the question of how the murderer got in," remarked
Ellery lazily, "but it doesn't answer the question of how he got out.
That exit was closed to him by eleven-thirty. If he left the building
by that door, then, he must have done so before eleven-thirty, eh?"
"But Mrs. French didn't get here until eleven-forty-five, El," objected
the Inspector, "and according to Prouty she was killed about midnight.
So how could he have left by that door before eleven-thirty?"
"The answer to that," said Ellery, "is that he couldn't, and therefore
didn't. Is there a door through which he could have slipped into the
main building from the freight room?"
"Nothing to it," growled the Inspector. "There's a door 'way back in
the shadows of the room. It wasn't locked--never is--because these
fools took it for granted that if the outer door was locked, the inner
door didn't have to be. Anyway, it heads right onto a corridor which is
parallel with the corridor that runs past the night-watchman's office,
but further into the body of the main floor.[6] In the darkness, it
must have been ridiculously easy to slip through the door, sneak down
that corridor, turn the corner, and cover the thirty feet or so to the
elevator and stairs. That's probably the answer."
[Footnote 6: See diagram at frontispiece.]
"How about the master-key in that office downstairs?" asked Ellery.
"Did the day-man say anything about it?"
"Nothing there," replied the Inspector disconsolately. "O'Shane is his
name, and he swears the key never left the locked drawer during his
shift."
The door opened and Hesse escorted a preternaturally tall man with
penetrating eyes and a straggly grey beard into the room. He was
handsome in a sophisticated way, and striking. Ellery noted with
interest the triangular lean jaw. The man was dressed carelessly, but
in clothes of quality. He bowed stiffly to the Inspector and stood
waiting. His eyes shifted luminously from man to man in the room.
"I had barely a chance of talking to you downstairs, Mr. Carmody," said
the Inspector pleasantly. "There are a few things I want to ask you.
Won't you sit down?"
Carmody dropped into a chair. He nodded curtly to Weaver as he caught
the secretary's eye, but said nothing.
"Now, Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector, striding up and down before
the desk at which Ellery sat quietly, "a few unimportant but necessary
questions. Hagstrom, you're ready?" He cocked an eye at the detective,
who nodded, notebook in hand. The Inspector resumed his march on the
rug. Suddenly he looked up. Carmody's eyes burned deeply into thin air.
"Mr. Carmody," said the Inspector abruptly, "I understand that you are
the sole owner of the Holbein Studios, dealing in antiques?"
"That is precisely correct," said Carmody. His voice was startling--low
and vibrant and deliberate.
"You were married to Mrs. French, and divorced some seven years ago?"
"That is also correct." There was a finality in his tones that impinged
unpleasantly on the ear. He emanated an aura of complete self-control.
"Have you seen Mrs. French since your divorce?"
"Yes. Many times."
"Socially? There was no particular unpleasantness in your relations?"
"None whatever. Yes, I met Mrs. French socially."
The Inspector was slightly nettled. This witness answered exactly what
he was asked, and no more.
"How often, Mr. Carmody?"
"As often as twice a week during the social season."
"And you last saw her--"
"A week ago Monday evening, at a dinner given by Mrs. Standish Prince
at Mrs. Prince's home."
"You spoke to her?"
"Yes." Carmody stirred. "Mrs. French was very much interested in
antiques, an interest cultivated perhaps during our marriage." The man
seemed made of steel. He showed not the faintest trace of emotion. "We
conversed for a time about a Chippendale chair she was particularly
anxious to have."
"Anything else, Mr. Carmody?"
"Yes. About our daughter."
"Ah!" The Inspector pursed his lips, pulled at his mustache. "Miss
Bernice Carmody was placed in the custody of your wife after your
divorce?"
"Yes."
"You have seen your daughter periodically, perhaps?"
"Yes. Although Mrs. French secured custody of my daughter, our informal
arrangement at the time of our divorce was that I might see the child
at any time." A warm color floated into his voice. The Inspector
regarded him quickly, looked away. He plunged into a new line of
questioning.
"Mr. Carmody, can you suggest any possible explanation to account for
this crime?"
"No, I cannot." Carmody grew colder at once. For no apparent reason his
eyes shifted to Ellery, and held there intently for an instant.
"Had Mrs. French any enemies, to your knowledge?"
"No. She was singularly free from the profundity of character which so
often breeds animosity in others." Carmody might have been talking of
an utter stranger; his tone, his bearing were wholly impersonal.
"Not even yourself, Mr. Carmody?" asked the Inspector softly.
"Not even myself, Inspector," said Carmody in the same frozen tones.
"If it is any concern of yours, my love for my wife dwindled during our
wedded life and when it had entirely disappeared, I secured a divorce.
I felt no bitterness toward her then, nor do I now. You will, of
course," he added without a change in inflection, "have to take my word
for that."
"Did Mrs. French seem nervous the last few times you saw her? Did
anything seem to be troubling her? Did she give you any clue to a
possible secret worry?"
"Our conversations, Inspector, were hardly of so intimate a nature. I
noticed nothing unusual about her. Mrs. French was an extraordinarily
prosaic person. Not at all the worrying kind, I can assure you."
The Inspector paused, Carmody sat quietly. Then he spoke, without
warning, without passion. He merely opened his mouth and began to
speak, but it was so unexpected that the Inspector started violently
and took a hasty pinch of snuff to conceal his agitation.
"Inspector, you are evidently questioning me with the secret hope that
I may have something to do with the crime, or that I may be in the
possession of vital information. Inspector, you are wasting your time."
Carmody leaned forward, his eyes strangely blazing. "Believe me when
I say that I haven't the slightest interest either in the live Mrs.
French--or the dead Mrs. French. Or the whole damned French tribe put
together. My own concern is with my daughter. I understand that she
is missing. If she is, there has been foul play. If you have any idea
in your head that my daughter is a matricide, the more fool you....
You will be perpetrating a crime against an innocent girl if you do
not immediately seek to discover Bernice's present whereabouts and the
reason for her disappearance. And in that connection, you are welcome
to my unstinting co-operation. If you do not look for her immediately,
I shall set private detectives on her trail. I think that is all."
Carmody rose to his astonishing height and stood immovably waiting.
The Inspector stirred. "I should advise a slight softening of tone in
the future, Mr. Carmody," he said dryly. "You may go."
Without another word the antique-dealer turned and left the apartment.
"Well, what do you think of Mr. Carmody?" asked Queen quizzically.
"I've never known an antiquarian who wasn't queer in some way," laughed
Ellery. "Cool customer, however.... Dad, I should very much like to see
Monsieur Lavery again."
The Frenchman was pale and nervous when he was conducted into the
library. He seemed excessively tired and sank into a chair at once,
stretching his long legs with a sigh.
"You might have provided chairs outside in the corridor," he said
reproachfully to the Inspector. "My good fortune to be the last called!
_C'est la vie, hein?_" He shrugged his shoulders humorously. "May I
smoke, Inspector?"
He lit a cigaret without waiting for a reply.
Ellery rose and shook himself vigorously. He looked at Lavery, and
Lavery looked at him, and both smiled for no apparent reason.
"I shall be brutally frank, Mr. Lavery," drawled Ellery. "You are a
man of the world. You will not be constrained by a false sense of
discretion.... Mr. Lavery, have you ever suspected during your stay
with the Frenches, that Bernice Carmody is a drug addict?"
Lavery started, regarded Ellery with alert eyes. "You have discovered
that already? And without seeing the girl? My felicitations, Mr.
Queen.... To your question, let me reply without hesitation--yes."
"Oh, I say!" protested Weaver suddenly, from his corner. "How could you
know, Lavery? On such a short acquaintance?"
"I know the symptoms, Weaver," said Lavery mildly. "The sallow,
almost saffron complexion; the slightly protruding eyeballs; the bad
teeth; the unnatural nervousness and excitability; a certain air of
furtiveness constantly maintained; the sudden hysteria and the more
sudden recovery; the excessive thinness, growing more patent with every
passing day--no, it was not difficult to diagnose the young lady's
ailment." He turned to Ellery with a quick gesture of his thin fingers.
"Let me make it perfectly clear that my opinion is just an opinion,
little more. I have no definite evidence of any kind. But, short of
medical advices to the contrary, I should be ready as a layman to swear
that the girl is a drug fiend in an advanced stage!"
Weaver groaned. "The Old Man--"
"Of course, we're all terribly sorry about that," put in the Inspector
quickly. "You suspected her of being an addict at once, Mr. Lavery?"
"From the moment I laid eyes on her," said the Frenchman emphatically.
"It was a source of constant astonishment to me that more people did
not observe what was so perfectly plain to me."
"Perhaps they did--perhaps they did," muttered Ellery, brows drawn
taut. He brushed a vagrant thought away and addressed Lavery once more.
"Have you ever been in this room before, Mr. Lavery?" he asked, à
propos of nothing.
"In Mr. French's apartment?" cried Lavery. "Why, every day, sir. Mr.
French has been more than kind, and I have used this room incessantly
since my arrival in New York."
"Then there is nothing more to be said," Ellery smiled. "You may now
retire to your lecture-room, if it isn't too late, and carry on the
grand work of continentalizing America. Good day, sir!"
Lavery bowed, showed his white teeth all around, and left the apartment
with long strides.
Ellery sat down at the desk and wrote earnestly on the fly-leaf of his
sadly abused little book.
19
OPINIONS AND REPORTS
Inspector Queen stood Napoleonically in the center of the library,
staring vindictively at the anteroom door. He muttered to himself,
turning his head slowly from side to side like a terrier.
He beckoned to Crouther, the head store detective, who was assisting
one of the photographers at the door of the cardroom.
"Look here, Crouther, you ought to be in a good position to know about
this." The Inspector filled his nostrils with snuff. The burly store
detective scraped his jaw expectantly. "Seeing that door there reminded
me. What in heaven's name was French's idea in having a special spring
lock put on the corridor door? Seems to me that for an apartment only
occasionally used this is pretty well guarded."
Crouther grinned deprecatingly. "Now don't go bothering your head about
that, Inspector. The old boy's just a bug on privacy, that's all. Hates
to be interrupted--that's a fact."
"But a burglar-proof lock in a burglar-proof building!"
"Well," said Crouther, "you either have to take him that way or go
nuts. Matter of fact, Inspector," he lowered his voice, "he's always
been a little queer on some subjects. I can remember like to-day the
morning I got a written order from the boss, with signatures and a
lot of that bunk, requisitioning a specially made lock. That was when
they were remodeling the apartment, about two years ago. Sol followed
my orders and had an expert locksmith manufacture the dingus on that
outside door. Boss liked it pretty much, too--was happy as an Irish
cop."
"How about this business of setting a man at the door?" demanded the
Inspector. "Certainly that lock would keep out anybody who wasn't
wanted."
"We-ell," said Crouther hesitantly, "the boss is such a bug on this
privacy business that he didn't even want knocks on the door. Guess
that's why he asked me for a man to stand guard every once in a while.
Always kept the boys in the corridor, too--they hate the job, the whole
crew of 'em. Couldn't even come into the anteroom and sit down."
The Inspector scowled down at his regulation policeman's boots for a
moment and crooked his finger at Weaver.
"Come here, my boy." Weaver trudged wearily across the rug. "Just
what's behind French's craze for privacy? From what Crouther tells me,
this place _is_ like a fortress most times. Who in heaven's name is
allowed in here besides his family?"
"It's just an idiosyncrasy of the Old Man's, Inspector," said Weaver.
"Don't take it too seriously. He's a good deal of an eccentric. Very
few people see the inside of this apartment. Apart from myself, the
immediate family, the Board of Directors, and during the last month
Mr. Lavery, practically no one in the store organization is allowed
in here. No, that's not quite true. MacKenzie, the store manager, is
called in occasionally to get direct orders from the Old Man--was in
last week, in fact. But aside from MacKenzie, this place is a complete
mystery to the store forces."
"You tell 'em, Mr. Weaver," put in Crouther jocularly.
"And that's how it is, Inspector," continued Weaver. "Not even Crouther
has been here in the past few years."
"Last time I saw this place before this morning," amended Crouther,
"was two years ago when they were redecorating and refurnishing it." He
grew red in the face at the thought of some secret injury. "That's a
heck of a way to treat a head store detective, believe me."
"You ought to work for the City, Crouther," said the Inspector grimly.
"Shut up and be satisfied with a soft job!"
"I should explain, if I haven't done so before," added Weaver, "that
the taboo is more or less limited to employees. A great many people
come here, but most of the visits are strictly by appointment with the
Old Man, and his visitors come on Anti-Vice League business. Clergymen,
most of them. A few politicians, not many."
"That's a fact," put in Crouther.
"Well!" The Inspector shot a keen glance toward the two men before him.
"It looks mighty bad for this Carmody girl, eh? What do you think?"
Weaver looked pained and half-turned away.
"Well, I don't know about that, Inspector," said Crouther with heavy
importance. "My own ideas about this case--"
"Eh? Your own ideas?" The Inspector looked startled, then suppressed
a smile. "What _are_ your own ideas, Crouther? Might be of some
value--never can tell."
Ellery, who had been sitting abstractedly at the desk, listening to the
conversation with half-cocked ears, jammed his little volume into his
pocket, rose, and sauntered idly over to the group.
"What's this? A post-mortem?" he demanded, smiling. "And what do I
hear, Crouther, about an idea of yours on the case?"
Crouther looked embarrassed for a moment and shuffled his feet. But
then he squared his thick shoulders and lashed out into speech, openly
enjoying his rôle of orator.
"I think," he began--
"Ah!" said the Inspector.
"I think," Crouther repeated, unabashed, "that Miss Carmody is a
victim. Yes, sir, victim of a frame-up!"
"No!" murmured Ellery.
"Go on," said the Inspector curiously.
"It's as plain as the nose--beg pardon, Inspector--on your face. Who
ever heard of a girl bumping her own mother off? It ain't natural."