her. Her startled "Why, Westley!" could just be heard from the main
hall a moment later. There was a sudden silence, then a suspiciously
soft sound, and finally retreating footfalls.
"I think," said Ellery soberly, "that that was a luscious salute to the
Venerian goddess.... I wonder why old Cyrus frowns upon Westley as a
prospective son-in-law. Wants wealth and position, I suppose."
"Does he?" asked the Inspector.
"I gather so."
"Well, that's neither here nor there." The Inspector delicately took
snuff. "Thomas," he said, "what have you done about Bernice Carmody?
Any traces?"
Velie pulled a longer face than usual. "Just one, and it barely helps
us to a start. The Carmody girl was seen yesterday afternoon leaving
this house by a day watchman--special officer--who's privately employed
to patrol the neighborhood. He knows the girl by sight. He saw her walk
quickly down towards 72nd Street--straight down the Drive. She didn't
meet any one, apparently, and was headed for a definite place, because
she seemed in a hell of a hurry. He had no reason to give her more than
a casual glance or two, and so couldn't tell me just how far down the
Drive she went or whether she turned down a side street."
"Worse and worse." The Inspector grew thoughtful. "That girl is
almighty important, Thomas," he sighed. "Put extra men on her trail if
you think it's necessary. We've got to find her. I suppose you've got a
complete description, clothes and all?"
Velie nodded. "Yes, and four men on her already. If there's anything at
all, Inspector, we'll find it."
Hortense Underhill clumped into the room.
Ellery sprang to his feet. "Dad, this is Miss Underhill, the
housekeeper. This is Inspector Queen, Miss Underhill. The Inspector has
a few questions to ask you."
"That's what I'm here for," said the housekeeper.
"Um," said the Inspector, eyeing her keenly. "My son tells me, Miss
Underhill, that Miss Bernice Carmody left this house yesterday
afternoon against her mother's wishes--in fact, sneaked out behind her
back. Is that correct?"
"That's correct," snapped the housekeeper, with a malevolent glance
toward Ellery, who was smiling. "Though what _that_ has to do with it,
_I_ can't see."
"No doubt," said the old man. "Was that Miss Carmody's usual
procedure--to run away from her mother?"
"I haven't the faintest notion of what you're driving at, Mr.
Inspector," said the housekeeper coldly. "But if you're aiming to
implicate that girl.... Well! Yes, she did that a few times a month.
Slipped out of the house without a word and was gone usually about
three hours. There was always a scene with Mrs. French when she
returned."
"I don't suppose you know," asked Ellery slowly, "where she went at
such times? Or what Mrs. French said to her when she returned?"
Hortense Underhill clicked her teeth disagreeably. "No. Neither did her
mother. That's why they had a scene. And Bernice would never tell. Just
sit calmly and let her mother rave.... Except, of course, last week.
Then they _did_ have a scene."
"Oh, something extraordinary a week ago, eh?" said Ellery. "And I
gather that Mrs. French _did_ know then?"
The housekeeper permitted an expression of surprise to flick across
her hard features. "Yes, I think she did," she said more quietly than
before. She favored Ellery with a suddenly interested glance. "But what
it was I don't know. I think she found out where Bernice was going, and
they quarreled about it."
"Just when was this, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.
"A week ago Monday."
Ellery whistled softly to himself. He and the Inspector exchanged
glances.
The Inspector leaned forward. "Tell me, Miss Underhill--these days on
which Miss Carmody generally disappeared--do you recall whether they
were all the same, or different days?"
Hortense Underhill looked from father to son, began to speak, thought
for an instant, looked up again. "Now that I think of it," she
said slowly, "they weren't always Mondays. I remember a Tuesday, a
Wednesday, and a Thursday.... I do believe she went every week on
consecutive days! Now, what could that mean?"
"More, Miss Underhill," replied Ellery, frowning, "than you can
guess--or I, for that matter.... Have the bedrooms of Mrs. French and
Miss Carmody been disturbed since this morning?"
"No. When I heard about the murder at the store I locked up both
bedrooms. I didn't know but that--"
"That it might have been important, Miss Underhill?" said Ellery. "That
was clever of you.... Will you please lead the way upstairs?"
The housekeeper rose without a word and walked out into the main hall
and up the broad central staircase, the three men following. She
stopped on the second floor and opened a door with a key from a bunch
in her black silk apron-pocket.
"This is Bernice's room," she announced, and stepped aside.
They entered a large green-and-ivory bedroom, ornately furnished with
period furniture. A huge canopied bed dominated the room. Despite
the mirrors and colors and exotic pieces, the room was unaccountably
depressing. It looked cold. The sunbeams that streamed in through the
three wide windows, far from lending warmth to the ensemble, in some
grotesque way only heightened the general effect of cheerlessness.
Ellery's eyes, as he stepped into the room, were not concerned with its
eeriness. They focused immediately on a large, garishly carved table to
the side of the bed, on which was an ashtray filled to overflowing with
cigaret-stubs. He quickly crossed the room and picked up the tray. Then
he put it back on the table with a curious gleam in his eye.
"Was this tray with its cigaret-stubs here this morning when you locked
up, Miss Underhill?" he asked sharply.
"Yes. I didn't touch anything."
"Then this room hasn't been tidied since Sunday?"
The housekeeper flushed. "The room was attended to on Monday morning,
after Bernice awoke," she snarled. "I will _not_ hear any imputations
against my household, Mr. Queen! I--"
"But why not Monday afternoon?" interposed Ellery, smiling.
"Because Bernice chased the maid out of the room after the bed was
made, that's why!" snapped the housekeeper. "The girl didn't have time
to empty the ashtray. I hope that satisfies you!"
"It does," murmured Ellery. "Dad--Velie--come here a moment."
Ellery silently pointed down to the cigaret-stubs. There were at least
thirty on the tray. Without exception the cigarets, of a flat Turkish
variety, had been smoked only one-quarter of their length, and crushed
out against the tray. The Inspector picked one up, and peered at a word
of gilt lettering near the tip.
"Well, what's surprising about that?" he demanded. "They're the same
brand as the ones on the card-table in the apartment. Girl must be
frightfully nervous, though."
"But the length, dad, the length," said Ellery softly. "However,
no matter.... Miss Underhill, has Miss Carmody always smoked _La
Duchesse_?"
"Yes, _sir_," said the housekeeper unpleasantly. "And too many for her
health, too. She gets them from some Greek person with an outlandish
name--Xanthos, I think it is--who makes them up on special order for
young ladies of the better classes. Perfumed, they are!"
"A standing order, I suppose?"
"You suppose correctly. When Bernice's supply ran out, she merely
repeated her order, which was for a box of five hundred always....
That's one thing about Bernice, although you mustn't take it as
anything against the poor child, because too many young ladies have the
same pernicious habit--but she smokes altogether too much for propriety
and health, too. Her mother never smoked, nor do Marion and Mr. French."
"Yes, yes, we are aware of those facts, Miss Underhill, thank you."
Ellery took a glassine envelope from his compact pocket-kit and calmly
poured into it the dusty contents of the ashtray. The envelope he
handed to Velie.
"You had better keep this with whatever mementoes of the case will be
filed at Headquarters," he said in a sprightly tone. "I think it will
prove of interest in the final summation.... Now, Miss Underhill, if
you will please spare us just another slice of your precious time...."
21
KEYS AGAIN
Ellery looked quickly about the garish room and strode over to a large
door on the side wall. He opened it and uttered a low exclamation
of satisfaction. It was a clothes-closet, packed with feminine
garments--gowns, coats, shoes, hats in profusion.
He turned once more to Hortense Underhill, who was regarding him with
peculiar disquiet. Her lips compressed as she saw his hand absently
ruffle through the mass of gowns hanging from the racks.
"Miss Underhill, I believe you said that Miss Carmody was at the
apartment some months ago, and hasn't been there since?"
She nodded stiffly.
"Do you recall what she wore when she was there last?"
"Really, Mr. Queen," she said in frigid tones, "I haven't such a memory
as you evidently give me credit for. How _could_ I remember that?"
Ellery grinned. "Very well. Where is Miss Carmody's apartment key?"
"Oh!" The housekeeper was genuinely startled. "That's a funny thing,
now, Mr. Queen--I mean your asking that. Because only yesterday morning
Bernice told me that she thought she'd lost her key and asked me to get
one of the others' keys and duplicate it for her."
"Lost, eh?" Ellery seemed disappointed. "Are you certain, Miss
Underhill?"
"I've just told you."
"Well, there's no harm in looking," said Ellery cheerfully. "Here,
Velie, lend a hand with these duds. You don't mind, dad?" And in a
moment he and the sergeant had attacked the closet with a furious
determination, to the accompaniment of the Inspector's chuckle and
Hortense Underhill's outraged gasp.
"You see ..." said Ellery from clenched teeth, as he swiftly passed
his hands through coats and gowns, "people don't generally lose
things. They merely think they do. In this case, Miss Carmody perhaps
searched for it in a few obvious places and gave it up as hopeless....
She probably didn't look in the right garments.... Ah, there, Velie!
Splendid!"
The tall sergeant held up a heavy fur coat. In his left hand gleamed a
gold-disked key.
"In an inside pocket, Mr. Queen. The fur coat would make it heavy
weather when Miss Carmody last used the key."
"Fair and subtle enough," said Ellery, taking the key. It was an exact
duplicate of Weaver's key, which he now took from his pocket and
compared with the latest discovery--a twin except for the initials
_B.C._ engraved on the disk.
"Why do you want all the keys, El?" demanded the Inspector. "I can't
see any good reason for it."
"You have enormous powers of perspicacity," said Ellery gravely. "Now
how did you know I wanted _all_ the keys? But you're perfectly right--I
do, and I shall take up a collection very shortly. The reason is surely
as plain as the nose on your face, as Crouther would say.... Don't want
anybody getting into that apartment for a while, very simply."
He deposited both keys in his pocket and turned to the unpleasant
housekeeper.
"Did you carry out Miss Carmody's orders about duplicating this 'lost'
key?" he asked curtly.
The housekeeper sniffed. "I did not," she said. "Because now that I
think of it, I don't really know whether or not Bernice was jesting
with me when she said she had lost the key. And something happened
yesterday afternoon that made me undecided about it, and I thought I'd
wait until I saw Bernice again to ask her."
"And what was that, Miss Underhill?" inquired the Inspector, with a
slow gentleness.
"Something queer, to tell the truth," she replied thoughtfully. Her
eyes flashed suddenly, and her expression became remarkably more human.
"I _do_ want to help," she said softly. "And I am beginning to think
more and more that what happened _will_ help...."
"You have us simply petrified with excitement, Miss Underhill,"
murmured Ellery, without changing expression. "Please proceed."
"Yesterday afternoon, at about four o'clock--no, I think it must have
been closer to half-past three--I received a telephone call from
Bernice. That was after she had left the house so mysteriously--you
know."
The three men stiffened into strained attention. Velie muttered an
indistinguishable curse beneath his breath, but quieted under a
flashing glance from the Inspector. Ellery leaned forward.
"Yes, Miss Underhill?" he urged.
"It was most puzzling," continued the housekeeper. "Bernice had spoken
to me casually about losing the key just before lunch. Yet when she
called in the afternoon, the first thing she said was that she wanted
her key to the apartment, and would send around for it by messenger at
once!"
"Is it possible," muttered the Inspector, "that she thought you had
already had a duplicate key made for her?"
"No, Inspector," said the housekeeper incisively. "It didn't sound as
if she thought that at all. In fact, it seemed as if she'd utterly
forgotten about having lost the key. So much so that I immediately
reminded her that she'd told me about losing the key, in the morning,
and having another made for her. She seemed quite distressed and said,
'Oh, yes, Hortense! Isn't it stupid of me to forget that way,' and
began to say something else, when she stopped suddenly and then said,
'Don't bother, Hortense, after all, it isn't particularly important.
I thought I might want to drop in at the apartment this evening.'
I reminded her that she could get the use of the master-key at the
night-watchman's desk if she wanted to go to the apartment so badly.
But she didn't seem interested and hung up immediately."
There was a little silence. Then Ellery looked up with a great light of
interest in his eyes.
"Can you remember, Miss Underhill," he asked, "just what it was that
Miss Carmody began to say in the middle of the conversation, and then
appeared to reconsider?"
"It's hard to be exact about it, Mr. Queen," replied the housekeeper.
"But somehow I got the impression that Bernice was going to ask me to
get one of the other keys to the apartment for her. Perhaps I'm wrong."
"Perhaps you are," said Ellery whimsically, "but I'd not give even the
most preposterous of odds that you aren't...."
"You know," added Hortense Underhill, as an afterthought, "I also got
the impression, when she began to say that and stopped, that--"
"_That somebody was talking to her, Miss Underhill?_" asked Ellery.
"Exactly, Mr. Queen."
The Inspector turned a startled face toward his son. Velie moved his
huge bulk lightly forward and whispered in the Inspector's ear. The old
man grinned.
"Keen, keen, Thomas," he chuckled. "That's just what I was thinking,
too...."
Ellery flicked his finger warningly.
"Miss Underhill, I can't expect you to exhibit miracles of acuteness,"
he said in a serious, admiring tone. "But I should like to ask--if
you're entirely certain that it was Miss Carmody talking to you over
the wire?"
"That's it!" cried the Inspector. Velie smiled grimly.
The housekeeper regarded the three men with strangely limpid eyes.
Something electric shot through all four.
"I don't--believe--it--was," she whispered....
After a while they left the missing girl's bedroom and entered an
adjoining room. It was severer in tone and immaculately clean.
"This is Mrs. French's room," said the housekeeper in a low voice.
Her acid nature seemed sweetened by a sudden realization of complex
tragedy. Her eyes followed Ellery with grave respect.
"Is everything in perfect order, Miss Underhill?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes, sir."
Ellery walked over to a wardrobe and scanned its neat racks
thoughtfully.
"Miss Underhill, will you please look through this rack and tell us if
any of Miss Marion French's clothes are here?"
The housekeeper went through the racks while the three men looked
on. She proceeded carefully, then shook her head in an unhesitating
negative.
"Then Mrs. French was not in the habit of wearing Miss French's things?"
"Oh, no, sir!"
Ellery smiled with satisfaction and at once wrote a line of
hieroglyphics in his makeshift notebook.
22
BOOKS AGAIN
The three men stood uncomfortably in old Cyrus French's bedroom. The
nurse fluttered about in the hall, a solid door separating her from
her charge. Marion and Weaver had been ordered downstairs to the
drawing-room. French's physician, Dr. Stuart, a large impressive man,
with a professional irascibility glared at the Queens from his post at
French's bedside.
"Five minutes--no longer," he snapped. "Mr. French is hardly in a
conversational condition!"
The Inspector clucked placatingly, and stared at the sick man. French
lay lumpily in his great bed, nervous eyes darting from one to another
of his inquisitors. One flabby white hand plucked at the silk coverlet.
His face was entirely drained of color, pasty, shockingly unwholesome
in appearance. His grey hair straggled over a furrowed forehead.
The Inspector stepped nearer to the bed. He bent forward and said in a
low voice, "This is Inspector Queen of the police, Mr. French. Can you
hear me? Do you think you are strong enough to answer a few perfunctory
questions about Mrs. French's--accident?"
The quicksilver eyes ceased rolling and concentrated on the gentle grey
face of the Inspector. They blinked suddenly with intelligence.
"Yes ... yes ..." French whispered, moistening his thin pale lips
with a bright tongue. "Anything ... to clear up this ... ghastly
business...."
"Thank you, Mr. French." The Inspector leaned closer. "Is there any
explanation in your mind that might account for the death of Mrs.
French?"
The liquid eyes blinked, closed. When they opened, there was an
expression of utter bewilderment within their reddish depths.
"No ... none," French breathed painfully. "None ... whatsoever....
She--she had ... so many friends ... no enemies.... I--it is ...
unbelievable that any one ... should be so ... fiendish as to ...
murder her."
"I see." The Inspector tugged at his mustache with nimble fingers.
"Then you know of no one who might have had a _motive_ for killing her,
Mr. French?"
"No...." The hoarse feeble voice gathered strength suddenly. "The
shame--the notoriety.... It will be the death of me.... With all my ...
unsparing efforts to put an end to vice ... that this should happen to
me!... Hideous, hideous!"
His voice grew more and more violent. The Inspector motioned in alarm
to Dr. Stuart, who leaned quickly over the sick man and felt his pulse.
Then, in an extraordinarily gentle voice, the physician soothed his
patient until the throaty rumblings faded off and the hand on the
coverlet unflexed and lay still.
"Have you much more?" asked the doctor in a gruff undertone. "You must
be quick, Inspector!"
"Mr. French," said Queen quietly, "is your personal key to the store
apartment always in your possession?"
The eyes rolled sleepily. "Eh? Key? Yes ... yes, always."
"It has certainly not left your person in the past fortnight or so?"
"No ... positively not...."
"Where is it, Mr. French?" continued the Inspector in an urgent soft
voice. "Surely you will not mind letting us have it for a few days,
will you, sir? In the interests of justice, of course.... Where? Oh,
yes! Dr. Stuart, Mr. French asks that you get the key from the key-ring
in his trousers' hip-pocket. In the wardrobe, sir, the wardrobe!"
In silence the burly physician went to a wardrobe, rummaged about in
the first pair of trousers that met his eye, and returned in a moment
with a leather key-case. The Inspector examined the gold-disked key
marked _C.F._, unhooked it, and returned the case to the doctor, who
promptly replaced it in the trousers. French lay quietly, eyes veiled
by puffy lids.
The Inspector handed Cyrus French's key to Ellery, who deposited it
with the other keys in his pocket. Then Ellery stepped forward and
leaned over the sick man.
"Easy, Mr. French," he murmured in a soothing tone. "We have just two
or three more questions, and then you will be left to your much-needed
privacy.... Mr. French, do you recall what books are on your desk in
the library of your apartment?"
The old man's eyes flew open. Dr. Stuart growled angrily beneath his
breath something about "arrant nonsense ... silly sleuthing." Ellery's
body remained in its deferential attitude, his head close to French's
slack mouth.
"Books?"
"Yes, Mr. French. The books on your apartment desk. Do you recall their
titles?" he urged gently.
"Books." French screwed his mouth up in a desperate effort to
concentrate. "Yes, yes.... Of course. My favorites ... Jack London's
_Adventure_ ... _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_, by Doyle ...
McCutcheon's _Graustark_ ... _Cardigan_, by Robert W. Chambers, and ...
let me think ... there was one other ... yes! _Soldiers of Fortune_, by
Richard Harding Davis.... That's it--Davis.... Knew Davis.... Wild, but
a ... a great fellow...."
Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances. The Inspector's face grew
crimson with suppressed emotion. He muttered, "What the deuce!"
"You're certain, Mr. French?" persisted Ellery, leaning over the bed
once more.
"Yes ... yes. My books ... I should know ..." whispered the old man,
annoyance sounding weakly in his voice.
"Of course! We were merely making sure.... Now, sir, have
you ever been interested in such subjects as, let us say,
paleontology--philately--medieval commerce--folk lore--elementary
music?"
The tired eyes widened with puzzled amazement. The head wagged twice
from side to side.
"No ... I can't say that I am.... My serious reading is restricted to
works on sociology ... my work for the Anti-Vice Society ... you know
my position...."
"You are positive that your five books by Davis, Chambers, Doyle and
the others are on your apartment desk now, Mr. French?"
"I--suppose so," mumbled French. "Been there ... for ages.... Ought to
be.... Never noticed anything wrong...."
"Very well. That is quite excellent, sir. Thank you." Ellery glanced
swiftly at Dr. Stuart, who was exhibiting marked signs of impatience.
"One question, Mr. French, and we shall leave you. Has Mr. Lavery been
in your apartment recently?"
"Lavery? Yes, of course. Every day. My guest."
"Then that will be all." Ellery stepped back and made a hasty note
on the fly-leaf of his now overscribbled little volume. French's
eyes closed, and he shifted his body slightly, with an unmistakable
relaxation that signified complete fatigue.
"Please leave quietly," grunted Dr. Stuart. "You've retarded his
recovery sufficiently for one day."
He turned his back truculently upon them.
The three men tiptoed from the room.
But on the staircase leading to the main foyer, the Inspector muttered,
"Where in time do those books come in?"
"Ask me not in mournful numbers," said Ellery ruefully. "I wish I knew."
Thenceforth they descended in silence.
23
CONFIRMATION
They found Marion and Weaver sitting glumly in the drawing-room,
hands clasped, and suspiciously silent. The Inspector coughed, Ellery
thoughtfully scrubbed away at his pince-nez, Velie screwed up his eyes
and blinked at a Renoir on the wall.
The boy and the girl sprang to their feet.
"How--how is daddy?" asked Marion hurriedly, one slim hand to a
crimson-dappled cheek.
"Resting quietly now, Miss French," replied the Inspector in some
embarrassment. "Ah--a question or two, young lady, and then we will be
on our way.... Ellery!"
Ellery came directly to the point.
"Your key to your father's apartment, Miss French--" he demanded--"is
it always in your possession?"
"Why, certainly, Mr. Queen. You don't think--"
"A categorical question, Miss French," said Ellery blandly. "Your key
has not left your possession in, let us say, four weeks?"
"Certainly not, Mr. Queen. It's my own, and every one else who might
have occasion to go into the apartment has a key of his or her own, as
well."
"Lucidly said. May I borrow yours temporarily?"
Marion half-turned toward Weaver with hesitation written in her eyes.
Weaver pressed her arm reassuringly.
"Do whatever Ellery asks, Marion," he said.
Without a word Marion rang for a maid, and in a few moments turned over
to Ellery another key whose only distinguishing characteristic from the
keys already on his person was the neatly engraved _M.F._ on the bright
disc. Ellery stowed it away with the others and murmured his thanks,
retreating a step.