gently.
"Just hooey, Inspector," said Crouther with confidence. "Hell! That's
no trick, to plant a pair o' shoes and a hat. No, sir, you can't tell
me Miss Carmody did the job. Don't believe it and won't believe it. I
go on common sense, and that's a fact. Girl shoot her own mother! No,
sir!"
"Well, there's something in that," remarked the Inspector
sententiously. "What do you make of Miss Marion French's scarf, while
you're analyzing the crime, Crouther? Think she's mixed up in it
anywhere?"
"Who? That little girl?" Crouther expanded, snorted. "Say, that's
another plant. Or else she left it here by mistake. Kind o' like the
plant idea, though, myself. Fact!"
"You would say, then," interpolated Ellery, "while you're on the
Holmesian track, that this is a case of--what?"
"Don't get you entirely, sir," said Crouther stoutly, "but it looks
darned near like a case of murder and kidnapping. Can't see any other
way to explain it."
"Murder and kidnapping?" Ellery smiled. "Not a bad idea at that. Good
recitation, Crouther."
The detective beamed. Weaver, who had resolutely refrained from
commenting, heaved a sigh of relief when a knock on the outer door
interrupted the conversation.
The policeman stationed outside opened the door to admit a weazened
little man, completely bald, carrying a bulging brief-case.
"Afternoon, Jimmy!" said the Inspector cheerfully. "Got anything for us
in that bag of yours?"
"Sure have, Inspector," squeaked the little old man. "Got down here as
fast as I could.--Hello, Mr. Queen."
"Glad to see you, Jimmy," said Ellery, and the expression on his face
was one of intense expectancy. At this moment the photographers and
fingerprint investigators trooped into the library, hats and coats on,
their apparatus stowed away. "Jimmy" greeted them all by name.
"Through here, Inspector," announced one of the photographers. "Any
orders?"
"Not at the moment." Queen turned to the fingerprint men. "Anybody find
anything?"
"Got a lot of prints," reported one of them, "but practically all came
from this room. Not a one in the cardroom and none in the bedroom,
except for a few stray prints of Mr. Queen's, here."
"Anything in the prints from this room?"
"Hard to say. If the room's been used all morning by this Board of
Directors, chances are they're all legitimate. We'll have to get hold
of these people and check their prints. Okay, Inspector?"
"Go ahead. But be nice about it, boys." He waved them toward the door.
"So long, Crouther. See you later."
"Good enough," said Crouther cheerfully, and departed behind the police
workers.
The Inspector, Weaver, the man called "Jimmy," and Ellery were left
standing in the center of the room. The detectives personally attached
to Queen lounged about in the anteroom, conversing in low tones. The
old man carefully closed the anteroom door and hurried back toward the
group, rubbing his hands briskly together.
"Now, Mr. Weaver--" he began.
"Perfectly all right, dad," said Ellery mildly. "No secrets from Wes.
Jimmy, if you've anything to tell, tell it rapidly, graphically, and
above all rapidly. Talk, James!"
"Okay," responded "Jimmy," scratching his bald pate dubiously. "What
would you like to know?" His hand dived into the bag he carried and
reappeared with an article painstakingly wrapped in soft tissue paper.
He carefully unwrapped the package, and one of the onyx book-ends
emerged. The second book-end, similarly sheathed in tissue, he placed
by the side of the first on the glass top of French's desk.
"The book-ends, eh?" muttered Queen, bending forward curiously to
examine the barely visible glue-lines where felt and stone met.
"In the onyx itself," ventured Ellery. "Jimmy, what were those whitish
grains I sent you in the glassine envelope?"
"Ordinary fingerprint powder," replied "Jimmy," at once. "The white
variety. And how it got there, maybe you can answer--I can't, Mr.
Queen."
"Not at the moment," smiled Ellery. "Fingerprint powder, eh? Did you
find any more in the glue?"
"You got nearly all of them," said the little bald-headed man. "Did
find a few, though. Found a bit of foreign matter, of course--some dust
chiefly. But the grains are what I've told you. There's not a print on
either of them, except your own, Mr. Queen."
Inspector Queen stared from "Jimmy" to Weaver to Ellery, a strange
light dawning on his face. His hand fumbled nervously for his snuff-box.
"Fingerprint powder!" he said in a stunned voice. "Is it possible
that--?"
"No, I've checked on what you're thinking, dad," said Ellery soberly.
"This room was not entered by the police before I myself found the
grains in the glue. As a matter of fact, I suspected their identity at
once, but of course I wished to be certain.... No, if you're thinking
that one of your men sprinkled the powder on these book-ends, you're
mistaken. They couldn't have, possibly."
"You realize what this means, of course?" The Inspector's voice grew
shrill with excitement. He took a short turn on the rug. "I have had
all sorts of experience," he said, "with criminals who use gloves.
That's one of the accepted habits of the law-breaking profession,
it seems--maybe it's an outgrowth of fiction and newspaper exposés.
Gloves, canvas, cheesecloth, felt--they're all used either to prevent
leaving fingerprints or to destroy what prints may be left. But
this--this is the work of a--"
"A super-criminal?" suggested Weaver timidly.
"Exactly. A super-criminal!" replied the old man. "Sounds
dime-novelish, does it, El? Coming from me, too--with comparative
butchers like Tony the Wop and Red McCloskey waiting for me down at the
Tombs. Most cops scoff at the mere suggestion of super-criminals. But
I've known them--rare and precious birds when they do crop out...."
He looked at his son defiantly. "Ellery, the man--or woman, for that
matter--who committed this crime is not the usual criminal. He--or
she--is so careful as to do the job and then, not satisfied with
possibly using gloves and letting it go at that, sprinkles the room
with the policeman's pet crime-detector, fingerprint powder, to bring
out his or her _own_ prints, in order to wipe them out of existence!...
There isn't the slightest doubt in my mind--we're dealing with a most
unusual character, a habitual criminal who's risen far above the
stupidity of his generally dull-witted kind."
"Super-criminal...." Ellery thought for a moment, then shrugged his
shoulders lightly. "It does look that way, doesn't it?... Commits the
murder in this room, then goes about the enormously ticklish job of
cleaning up afterward. Has he left prints? Perhaps. Perhaps the work
he had to do was so delicate as to make it impossible for him to use
gloves--there's a thought, eh, dad?" He smiled.
"Doesn't make sense, though--that last," muttered Queen. "Can't see
what he might possibly have to do that he couldn't do with gloves on."
"I have a little idea about that," remarked Ellery. "But to go on. He
hasn't used gloves, let us say, at least for one small but important
operation, and he's certain that there are prints of his fingers left
on the book-ends--which of necessity, then, are connected with what
he had to do. Very well! Does he merely wipe the surface of the onyx
carefully, trusting that he's eradicated all the tell-tale marks? He
does not! He produces fingerprint powder, whisks it gently over all the
surfaces of the onyx, one at a time, and where he sees a convolvular
smudge, he immediately destroys it. In this way he's _sure_ there are
no fingerprints left. Smart! A little painstaking, of course--but he
was gambling with his life, remember, and he took no chances. No--"
Ellery said slowly, "he took--no chances."
There was a little silence, broken only by the soft swish of "Jimmy's"
hand caressing his bald head.
"At least," said the Inspector impatiently, at last, "there's no sense
in looking for prints anywhere about. The criminal who was clever
enough to go through a rigmarole like this would be mighty sure he
left none. So--let's forget it for the moment and get back to some
personalities. Jimmy, wrap those book-ends up again and take them back
to Headquarters with you. Better have one of the boys go along with
you--let's take no chances on your, well, let's say, losing 'em."
"Right, Inspector." The police laboratory worker deftly rewrapped the
book-ends in the tissue paper, stowed them away in his bag, and with a
cheery, "So long!" disappeared from the room.
"Now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector, settling himself comfortably
in a chair, "have a seat and let's hear some things about the various
people we've met in the course of this investigation. Sit down, Ellery,
you make me fidgety!"
Ellery smiled and seated himself at the desk, for which he seemed
to have developed a curious passion. Weaver relaxed in one of the
leather-covered chairs, resignedly.
"Anything you say, Inspector." He looked over at Ellery. Ellery was
gazing fixedly at the books on the desk-top.
"Well, for an introduction," began the Inspector briskly, "tell us
something about that employer of yours. Mighty queer cuss, isn't he?
Anti-vice work made him daffy, perhaps?"
"I think you've judged the Old Man a trifle inaccurately," said Weaver
tiredly. "He's the best and most generous soul in the world. If you can
conceive a strange combination of Arthurian purity of nature with a
definite narrowness of outlook, you'll hit close to understanding him.
He's not a broad-minded man, in the generally accepted sense of the
word. He has a little iron in him, too, or he wouldn't be crusading
against vice. He loathes it instinctively, I think, because certainly
there's never been the smallest element of scandal or criminality in
his family. That's why this thing has hit him so hard. He probably
foresees the ravenous way in which the newspapers will pick up the
choice morsel--wife of the Anti-Vice League head mysteriously murdered,
and all that. And then, too, I think he loved Mrs. French dearly. I
don't think she loved him--" he hesitated, but continued loyally, "but
she was always good to him in her cold, self-contained way. She was a
good bit younger than he, of course."
The Inspector coughed gently. Ellery regarded Weaver with morose eyes,
but his thoughts seemed far away. Perhaps on the books, for his fingers
played idly with their covers.
"Tell me, Mr. Weaver," said Queen, "have you noticed anything--well,
abnormal--in Mr. French's actions lately? Or better still, do you know
personally of anything that might have caused him secret worry in
recent months?"
Weaver was silent for a long time. "Inspector," he said at last,
meeting Queen's eyes frankly, "the truth is that I know a great
many things about Mr. French and his family and friends. I'm not
a scandal-monger. You must understand that this is an extremely
embarrassing position for me. It's hard to betray confidences...."
The Inspector looked pleased. "Spoken like a man, Mr. Weaver. Ellery,
answer your friend."
Ellery regarded Weaver compassionately. "Wes, old boy," he said, "a
human being has been killed in cold blood. It is our business to punish
the murderer who took that life. I can't answer for you--it's difficult
for a straight-thinking man to spill a heap of family secrets--but if
I were you, I should talk. Because, Wes"--he paused--"you're not with
policemen. You're with friends."
"Then I'll talk," said Weaver despairingly, "and hope for the best.--I
believe you asked about something abnormal in the Old Man's actions
recently, Inspector? You've hit a truth. Mr. French _is_ secretly
worried and upset. Because--"
"Because--?"
"Because," said Weaver in a spiritless voice, "a few months ago an
unfortunate friendship sprang up between Mrs. French and--Cornelius
Zorn."
"Zorn, eh? Love-affair, Weaver?" asked Queen in a soothing voice.
"I'm afraid so," replied Weaver uncomfortably. "Though what she saw in
_him_--But now I'm becoming gossipy! The fact is that they were seeing
each other much too often, so much so that even the Old Man, the most
unsuspicious soul that ever breathed, began to realize that something
was wrong."
"Nothing definite, I suppose?"
"I don't think there was anything radically wrong, Inspector. And
of course Mr. French never breathed a word of it to his wife. He
wouldn't dream of hurting her feelings. But I know it touched him
deeply, because once he let slip something in my presence that gave
all his transparent broodings away. I'm reasonably certain that he was
desperately hoping things would work out for the best."
"I thought Zorn held aloof from French in that window," mused the
Inspector.
"Undoubtedly. Zorn makes no bones about his feeling for Mrs. French.
She was not an unattractive woman, Inspector. And Zorn is pretty small
potatoes. He broke a lifelong friendship when he began to dally with
the Old Man's wife. It's that, I think, as much as anything, that made
the Old Man feel so badly."
"Is Zorn married?" put in Ellery suddenly.
"Why, yes, El," replied Weaver, facing his friend for the moment.
"Sophia Zorn's a queer woman, too. I think she hated Mrs. French--not
the slightest feminine sympathy in her make-up. Pretty objectionable
character, that woman."
"Does she love Zorn?"
"That's hard to answer. She has an abnormal streak of possessiveness,
and that may be why she was so jealous. She showed it at every
opportunity and made things quite uncomfortable for all of us at times."
"I suppose," put in the Inspector with a grim smile, "it's common
knowledge. Those things always are."
"Much too common," said Weaver bitterly. "It's been a hideous farce,
the whole business. My God, there have been times when I was tempted to
strangle Mrs. French myself for the ghastly wreck she was making out of
the Old Man!"
"Well, don't make that statement when the Commissioner is around,
Weaver," smiled the Inspector. "What is French's feeling for his
immediate family?"
"Of course he loved Mrs. French--was uncommonly thoughtful in the
little things for a man of his age," said Weaver. "As for Marion"--his
eyes brightened--"she's always been the apple of his eye. A perfect
love between father and daughter.... It's been a little unpleasant--for
me," he added in a lower tone.
"So I gathered from the coldness with which you two kids habitually
greet each other," remarked the Inspector dryly. Weaver flushed
boyishly. "Now, how about Bernice?"
"Bernice and Mr. French?" Weaver sighed. "About what you would expect
under the circumstances. If the Old Man's anything, he's fair. Almost
leans over backward in that respect. Of course, Bernice is not his
daughter--he couldn't love her as he loves Marion, for instance. But he
treats them exactly alike. They get equally as much of his attention,
the same allowance for pin-money and clothes--not the slightest
difference in their status as far as he is concerned. But--well, one is
his daughter, and the other is his stepdaughter."
"And there," said Ellery with a little chuckle, "is a pointed epigram.
Tell us, Wes--how about Mrs. French and Carmody? You've heard what he
said--does it all fit?"
"He told the exact truth," replied Weaver at once. "He's an enigma
of a man, is Carmody--cold-blooded as a fish except where Bernice is
concerned. I think he'd give his shirt for her. But he treated Mrs.
French after their divorce precisely as if she were an unavoidable
social necessity."
"Why were they divorced, by the way?" asked the Inspector.
"Infidelity on Carmody's part," said Weaver.--"Good night! I feel like
a tongue-slapping washerwoman.--Well, Carmody was so injudicious as
to be caught in a hotel-room with a lady of the chorus, and though
the affair was hushed up, the truth couldn't be kept from trickling
out. Mrs. French, who was something of a moral virago in those days,
immediately sued for divorce, and got it--and with it, custody of
Bernice."
"Hardly a moral virago, Wes," remarked Ellery. "Not from the Zornian
implications. Say rather--she knew what side her bread was buttered
on and decided that there were more fish in the sea than a faithless
husband...."
"A complicated figure of speech," said Weaver, with a smile. "But I see
what you mean."
"I'm beginning to get little sidelights into Mrs. French's character,"
murmured Ellery. "This Marchbanks fellow--her brother, I believe?"
"And that's about all," said Weaver grimly. "Hated each other like
poison. I think Marchbanks had her number. He's no glistening lily
himself. Anyway, they never had much use for each other. It made it a
little embarrassing for the Old Man, because Marchbanks had been on the
Board for many years."
"Drinks too much, that's plain," said the Inspector. "Marchbanks and
French get along all right?"
"They have very little contact socially," said Weaver. "In business,
they seem to jibe nicely. But that's because the Old Man's so darned
sensible."
"There's only one other member of the cast about whom I have any
curiosity at the moment," said the Inspector. "And that's the
dissipated-looking, fashionable gentleman of the Board named Trask. Has
he any contacts with the French family other than business?"
"More 'other' than 'business,'" replied Weaver. "I may as well go the
whole hog while I'm tattling. I'll need a scrubbing-brush after I'm
through!--Mr. A. Melville Trask is on the Board purely as a result of
tradition. His father was the original member, and it was the elder
Trask's dying wish that his son succeed him. It meant loads of red
tape, but finally they succeeded in dragging him in, where he's been an
ornament ever since. Not a brain in his head. But shrewdness?--plenty!
Because Mr. Trask has ever since been gunning for Bernice for over a
year now--ever since he was elected to the Board, as a matter of fact."
"Interesting," murmured Ellery. "What's the idea, Wes--the family
fortune?"
"You've hit it exactly. Old Man Trask lost a lot in the stock market,
and his son has been plunging so heavily that the report is he's near
the end of his rope financially. So I guess he figured his best bet was
a fortuitous marriage. And that's where Bernice comes in. He's been
hounding her, courting her, taking her out, flattering her mother for
months now. He's wormed his way into the affections of Bernice--who
has few enough admirers, poor kid!--so much so that they're virtually
engaged. Nothing official, but that's the understanding."
"Opposition?" demanded the Inspector.
"Plenty," replied Weaver grimly. "Chiefly from the Old Man. He feels it
his duty to protect his stepdaughter from a man of Trask's stamp. Trask
is a cad and a rounder of the worst sort. The poor girl would lead a
dog's life with him."
"Wes, what makes him so sure she'll come into money?" asked Ellery
suddenly.
"Well"--Weaver hesitated--"you see, El, Mrs. French had a respectable
wad herself. And, of course, it's been an open secret that when she
died--"
"It would go to Bernice," said the Inspector.
"Interesting," said Ellery, rising to his full length and stretching
wearily. "And for no reason at all, I'm reminded that I haven't had a
bite to eat since this morning. Let's all go out for a sandwich and a
sip of java. Anything more, dad?"
"Can't think of a thing," said the old man with a return to his
glumness. "We'll lock up and go. Hagstrom! Hesse! Get those cigaret
stubs and cards into my own bags--and the shoes and hat, too...."
Ellery picked up the five books from the desk and handed them to
Hagstrom.
"You might pack these, too, Hagstrom," he said. "You're taking these
things to Headquarters, dad?"
"Why, of course!"
"Then, on reconsideration, Hagstrom, I'll take these books myself." The
detective wrapped them carefully in a piece of brown paper he took from
one of the police kits and returned them to Ellery. Weaver retrieved
his hat and coat from one of the bedroom closets and the Inspector,
Ellery and Weaver, preceded by the detectives, walked out of the
apartment.
Ellery was the last one out. As he stood in the corridor, one hand on
the knob of the outer door, he looked slowly from the apartment to the
brown-papered package in his hand.
"Thus endeth," he said softly to himself, "the first lesson." His hand
dropped and the door snapped shut.
Two minutes later only a lone bluecoat was left in the corridor,
propped up against the door in a nondescript chair he had appropriated
somewhere, reading a tabloid newspaper.
THE THIRD EPISODE
"_Manhunting is by all odds the most thrilling profession in the
world. Its thrills ... are in exact proportion to the temperament
of the manhunter. It reaches its completest fulfillment in the
investigator who ... observing microscopically the phenomena of a
crime and collating them precisely, exercises his God-given gift
of imagination and concocts a theory which embraces_ ALL _the
phenomena and omits none, not the tiniest crumb of a fact....
Penetration, patience, and passion--these rarely combined qualities
make the genius of criminal investigation, just as they make
the genius of any profession, unless the extra-mundane arts be
excepted...._"
--From THERE IS AN UNDER WORLD
_By_ James Redix (the Elder).
20
TOBACCO
Cyrus French's house fronted the Hudson River, on lower Riverside
Drive. It was old and dusky, set well back from the Drive and
surrounded by primly kept shrubbery. A low iron fence ran around the
property.
When Inspector Queen, Ellery Queen and Westley Weaver entered the
reception room, they found Sergeant Velie already there, engaged in
earnest conversation with another detective. This man left immediately
on the entrance of the small party, and Velie himself turned a
perturbed face to his superior.
"We've struck oil, Inspector," he said in his calm bass. "Managed to
trace the cab that picked up Mrs. French last night almost at once. It
was a Yellow that patrols this neighborhood regularly. Got the driver
and he remembered his fare without any trouble."
"And I suppose--" began the Inspector gloomily.
Velie shrugged. "Nothing to brag about. He picked her up right in front
of the house here at about twenty after eleven last night. She told him
to take her down Fifth. He followed orders. At 39th Street she told him
to pull up, and then she got out. Paid him and he beat it. He did see
her cross the street toward the department store. That's all."
"Not so much," murmured Ellery, "to be sure. Did he stop at all on the
trip downtown--did she communicate with any one on the way?"
"I asked him that. Nothing doing, Mr. Queen. She didn't give him
another order until they reached 39th Street. Of course, he did say
there was heavy traffic, and he had to stop a number of times. It's
possible that somebody might have hopped in and out of the cab during a
traffic wait. But the driver says no, he didn't see anything wrong."
"And if he's alert, he would have, naturally," said the Inspector,
sighing.
A maid took their hats and coats, and immediately afterward Marion
French appeared. She squeezed Weaver's hand, smiled wanly at the
Queens, and placed herself at their disposal.
"No, Miss French, there's nothing we can do with you now," said the
Inspector. "How is Mr. French?"
"Loads better." She made a little _moué_ of apology. "I did act
frightfully at the apartment, Inspector Queen. I know you'll forgive
me--seeing father faint made me lose control of myself."
"Nothing to forgive, Marion," growled Weaver, "if I do take the words
out of the Inspector's mouth. I don't think Inspector Queen quite
realized how ill your father really was."
"Now, now, Mr. Weaver," said the Inspector mildly. "Miss French, do you
think Mr. French will be able to see us in a half-hour or so?"
"Well.... If the doctor says so, Inspector. But goodness! Won't you sit
down? I've been so upset by all this--confusion...." A shadow darkened
her face. The men accepted chairs. "You see, Inspector," continued
Marion, "there's a nurse with daddy, and the doctor's still here. An
old friend. Mr. Gray, too. Shall I see?"
"If you will, my dear. And would you mind having Miss Hortense
Underhill come in for a moment?"