we may tell when exactly that lighter felt appeared, there is one
corroboration." Ellery stared thoughtfully at the pavement. "The
book-end with the lighter felt was newly glued. That I would take my
oath on. The glue, while powerful in action and already quite hard,
retained a viscidity and suspicious stickiness that told the story at
once. And the powder grains stuck in the glue-line--no, the evidence is
there. The book-ends were handled last night by the criminal. We might
suspect Mrs. French, perhaps, if not for the fact that the fingerprint
powder was used. That's the work of your 'super-criminal,' dad, not of
an elderly society lady." He smiled.
"Let's try to link book-ends and crime more closely." He squinted ahead
in a little tempest of silence. The old man trudged by his side, eyes
on the changing street vista. "We enter the scene of the crime. We
find many things of a peculiar nature there. The cards, the lipsticks,
the cigarets, the shoes, the hat, the book-ends--all out of tune with
normality. We have linked every element except the book-ends directly
with the crime. Why, in the face of the possibilities--why not the
book-ends too? I can furnish excellent hypotheses commensurate with
known facts. The fingerprint powder grains, for one thing. Accessories
of crime. And a crime was committed. We find the grains stuck in a
newly glued felt, which is also suspiciously different in shade from
its fellow. Certainly it is against all reason to say that the felts
might have been differently colored from the beginning. Not with such
an expensive and unique pair of book-ends. And the difference was
never noticed before.... No, the human probabilities all point to the
conclusion that last night some one removed the original felt from the
first book-end, pasted on a new piece of felt, sprinkled fingerprint
powder to bring out any prints that might be on the book-end, removed
the fingerprints, and inadvertently left some minute grains in the
fresh glue-line of the piece."
"You've proved it to my satisfaction," said the Inspector. "Go on."
"_Alors!_ I examine the book-ends. They are of solid onyx. Furthermore,
the only change in their composition is the removal of the original
felt from one of them. I conclude therefore that the book-end was _not_
repaired in order to hide something inside or because something was
extracted from its interior. There is no interior. Everything is on the
surface.
"With this in mind, I ask myself: What other reason could have caused
the repair of the onyx piece, if it was not to hide traces of a
secretion or a removal? Well, there's the crime itself. Can we tie the
crime and the fixing of the book-ends into one knot?
"Yes, we can! Why should a felt be removed and another substituted?
_Because something happened to that felt which, if the felt were left
as it was, would have betrayed traces of a crime._ Remember that the
murderer's most pressing need was to keep knowledge of the murder
from every one until he had delivered the all-important message during
the morning. And he knew that that library would be tenanted at nine
o'clock in the morning, that if anything were wrong with the book-end
it would be noticed in all probability."
"Blood!" exclaimed the Inspector.
"You've hit on it," replied Ellery. "It could scarcely be anything
else but blood-stains. It would have to be something of a directly
suspicious nature, or the murderer would not have taken all the trouble
he did. The cards, the other things--these in themselves would never
suggest a murder before the body was found or foul play even suspected.
But blood! That's the water-mark of violence.
"So I reasoned that in some way blood soaked the felt, and the murderer
was compelled to change the felt and dispose of the tell-tale bloody
one."
They walked on in silence for a long time. The Inspector was buried in
thought. Then Ellery spoke once more.
"You see," he said, "I was progressing with commendable rapidity in the
reconstruction of the physical elements of the crime. And, when I had
reached the conclusion about the blood-soaked felt, immediately another
isolated fact leaped into my mind.... You remember Prouty's suspicions
in connection with the lack of blood on the corpse? And our instant
deduction that the murder must have been committed somewhere else? Here
was the missing link."
"Good, good," murmured the Inspector, reaching excitedly for his
snuff-box.
"The book-ends," went on Ellery rapidly, "were obviously of no
importance in the crime _until_ they became blood-soaked. After
that, of course, the whole chain of incident was a logical
outgrowth--changing the felt, handling the book-ends, and then
applying the powder to efface prints made necessary by the handling....
"Then, I reasoned, the staining of the book-end was an accident. It was
standing innocently on the glass-topped desk. How could the blood have
got on it? There are two possibilities. The first is that the book-end
was used as a weapon. But this is indefensible, because the wounds were
the result of revolver-shots, and there are no signs of a _striking_
blow with such a bludgeon as the book-end might have made. Then the
only remaining possibility is that the blood got on it inadvertently.
How might this have occurred?
"Easily. The book-end is on the glass-topped desk. The only way blood
could get on the bottom of the book-end, where the blood would show
ineffaceably, would be by its _trickling across the glass_ and soaking
into the material. But you see what this gives us."
"Mrs. French was sitting at the desk when she was shot," announced the
old man gloomily. "She was shot below the heart. She fell into the
chair and got another in the heart itself. The blood from the first
wound gushed out before she fell. The blood from the second wound
trickled out as she lay across the table--and soaked into the felt."
"And that," said Ellery, smiling, "is a perfect recitation. Remember
that Prouty is sure that the _precordial_ type of wound particularly
would bleed profusely. That's probably what happened.... Now we can
further reconstruct the crime. If Mrs. French sat at the desk and was
shot in the heart, then her murderer was in front of her and shot
across the desk. It must have been at a distance of several feet,
because there are no powder marks on the woman's clothes. We can
perhaps compute the approximate height of the murderer by determining
the angle at which the bullets entered the body. But I have little
faith in this, because there is no exact way of judging just how far
the bullets traveled, or in other words how far from Mrs. French the
murderer stood when he fired. And an error of inches would throw off
all our calculations as to his height, considerably. You might get your
firearms expert, Kenneth Knowles, on the job, but I don't think much
will come of it."
"Neither do I," sighed the Inspector. "Nevertheless, it's comforting
to be able to place the crime so precisely. It all hangs together,
Ellery--a nice bit of reasoning. I'll get Knowles to work immediately.
Is there anything else, son?"
Ellery said nothing for an appreciable moment. They turned into West
87th Street. Half-way up the block stood the brownstone old house in
which they lived. They quickened their steps.
"There's a heap more, dad, that I haven't gone into, because of this
and that," Ellery said absently. "The signs were all there, for the
world to see. They needed intelligent assembly, however. You're
probably the only one on the scene who has the mental potentiality for
piecing them together. The others.... And you're exceptionally dulled
by care." He smiled as they reached the brownstone steps of their
dwelling.
"Dad," he said, one foot on the lowest step, "on one phase of this
investigation I am entirely at sea. And that--" he tapped the package
under his arm, "is the five books I plucked from old French's desk.
It seems silly to suppose that they can have anything to do with the
murder, and yet--I have the queerest feeling that they can explain so
much if we worm out their secret."
"You've gone slightly daffy with concentration," growled the Inspector,
laboriously ascending the stairs.
"Nevertheless," remarked Ellery, inserting a key into the lock of the
big carved old-fashioned door, "this night is dedicated to a sedulous
analysis of the books."
THE FOURTH EPISODE
"_Oriental police set far smaller store by the criminal alibi
than do Occidentals.... We know only too well what warped cunning
is capable of ... and prefer to probe emotions and instincts
rather than crack down highly glazed stories. This is undoubtedly
explained by the difference in psychology of the two racial
strains.... The Oriental is notoriously more suspicious than the
Occidental, dealing with fundamentals rather than superficials....
Where the Western world is inclined to shout a lusty_ BANZAI!
_in acclamation of its more successful rogues, we cut off their
ears, or put them in stocks for milder crimes, or behead them
for major ones--but always pointing out by example (with true
Japanese subtlety, perhaps?) the over-whelming ignominy of the
punishment...._"
--From the Preface to the English edition of A THOUSAND LEAVES,
_By_ Tamaka Hiero.
25
ELLERIUS BIBLIOPHILUS
The hearth of the Queen domicile was housed in one of the West 87th
Street's lingering brownstones. That the Queens chose to live among the
unvarnished woods of a generation dead and gone was a commentary upon
the powerful influence of son upon father. For Ellery, whose collection
of well-used books, whose dilettante's knowledge of antiquities, whose
love for the best of the past, over-whelmed his natural leaning toward
the comforts of the modern age, stood firmly against the Inspector's
groaning indictment of "dustiness and mustiness."
You might expect, therefore, that the Queens lived on the top floor
of this sprawling old mansion, and that the door was of time-softened
oak (on which appeared their only concession to expediency--a placard
labeled "The Queens"), and that when you were admitted by gypsy-blooded
Djuna, an odor redolent of old leather and masculinity would assail the
nostrils.
There was an anteroom hung with a vast tapestry (the gift of the Duke
of ---- in return for the Inspector's services in a matter preserved
in silence). The anteroom was opulently Gothic, and it was Ellery's
will again which prevented the Inspector from consigning it, period
furniture and all, to the auction rooms.
And there was the living-room and library. Dotted with books, massed
with books. Oak-ribbed ceiling--huge natural fireplace with a broad oak
mantel and curious old ironwork--the Nuremberg swords crossed martially
above--old lamps, brasswork, massive furniture. Chairs, divans,
footstools, leather cushions, ashstands--a veritable fairyland of easy
bachelordom.
Off the living-room was the bedroom, a chaste and comfortable
rest-place.
The whole was presided over by small, volatile Djuna, the orphan boy
adopted by Inspector Queen during his lonely years when Ellery was
attending the University. Djuna's world was limited to his beloved
patron and their common dwelling-place. Valet, cook, housekeeper and on
occasion confidant....
At nine o'clock of the morning of Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of
May--the day after the discovery of Mrs. Winifred French's lifeless
body in the French establishment--Djuna was setting the table in the
living-room for a late breakfast. Ellery was conspicuous by his absence
from the room. The Inspector sat grumpily in his favorite armchair,
staring at Djuna's twinkling brown hands.
The telephone bell rang. Djuna grasped the instrument.
"For you, Dad Queen," he announced pompously. "It's the District
Attorney."
The old man plodded across the room to the telephone.
"Hello! Hello, Henry.... We-e-ell, a little progress. Something tells
me Ellery is on the scent. In fact, he told me so himself.... What?...
Yes, as far as I'm concerned it's a devil's brew. Can't make head
or tail of it.... Oh, go on with your blarney, Henry! I'm talking
straight.... The situation is briefly this."
The Inspector spoke for a long time in a voice fluctuating between
despair and excitement. District Attorney Henry Sampson listened
carefully.
"And that," concluded the Inspector, "is where it stands at this
moment. Something tells me Ellery is up to one of his familiar tricks.
He was up half the night poring over those infernal books.... Yes,
certainly, I'll keep you posted. May need you soon at that, Henry.
Ellery performs miracles at times, although I'd wager my next year's
pay that--Oh, go on back to your work, you ferret!"
He hung up the receiver in time to greet a prodigiously yawning Ellery
who fumbled with his necktie and endeavored to keep the folds of his
dressing-gown together simultaneously.
"So!" growled the Inspector, plumping into his chair. "What time did
you get to bed, young man?"
Ellery finished the delicately dual operation and reached for a chair,
digging Djuna surreptitiously in the ribs.
"No scolding now," he said, reaching for a piece of toast. "Have
breakfast yet? No? Waiting for the sluggard? Regale yourself with this
Olympian coffee--we can talk as we eat."
"What time?" repeated the Inspector inexorably, sitting down at the
table.
"To be temporal," said Ellery, his mouth full of coffee, "it was
three-twenty A.M."
The old man's eyes softened. "Shouldn't do that," he mumbled, reaching
for the percolator. "It'll fag you."
"Essential." Ellery drained his cup. "There are things to do, Sire....
Have you heard anything this morning?"
"Plenty that means nothing," said the Inspector. "I've been at that
'phone since seven.... Got a preliminary autopsy report from Sam
Prouty. Nothing to add to what he said yesterday except that there
are absolutely no signs of drug poisoning or addiction. The woman was
certainly not a 'dope.'"
"Interesting, and not necessarily uninformative," smiled Ellery. "What
else?"
"Knowles, the firearms man, was vague enough to make it unexciting. He
claims that he couldn't place the distance the bullets traveled before
they entered the body, exactly to the foot. The angles are easily
determined, but from his calculations the murderer might be anywhere
from five to six feet in height. Not very illuminating, eh?"
"Hardly. We'll never convict anybody on that kind of evidence. But I
can scarcely blame Knowles. These things are rarely absolute. How about
the absentees from the store yesterday?"
The Inspector scowled. "Had one of the boys checking up with MacKenzie
all yesterday evening. Just had MacKenzie on the wire. Everybody
accounted for, not a thing suspicious or unexplained. And as for this
Carmody girl, poor Thomas had his strings out all night. Combed the
neighborhood. Contacted the Missing Persons Bureau. I tipped him off on
the drug business, and the Narcotic Squad's been busy checking up on
known dives. Nothing doing. Not a trace of her."
"Just dropped out of existence...." Ellery frowned, poured himself
another cup of coffee. "I'll confess the girl has me worried. As I said
yesterday, all signs point to her having been done away with. If not
done away with, then certainly held very securely in a remote hide-out.
If I were the murderer, I think I'd add her to my list of victims....
There's just a bare chance that she may be alive, dad. Velie must
redouble his efforts."
"Don't worry about Thomas," said the Inspector grimly. "If she's alive,
he'll find her in time. If she's dead--Well! He's doing all he can."
The telephone bell rang again. The Inspector answered.
"Yes, this is Inspector Queen talking...." His tone changed magically.
It dripped formality. "Good morning, Commissioner. What can I do for
you?... Well, sir, we're getting along very nicely. We've gathered
together a heap of threads, and it's not twenty-four hours since we
found the body.... Oh, no! Mr. French has been a bit upset about the
whole affair. We've gone quite easy on him--nothing to worry about
there, sir.... Yes, I know. We're making it as comfortable for him
as we can under the circumstances.... No, Commissioner. Lavery has an
absolutely unimpeachable reputation. A foreigner, of course.... What's
that? Absolutely no!... We have a perfectly natural explanation for
that scarf of Miss Marion French's, sir. Well, I'm relieved too, to
tell the truth, Commissioner.... Quick solution? Commissioner, it will
be quicker than that!... Yes, sir, I know.... Thank you, Commissioner.
I'll keep you posted."
"And that," said the Inspector in a deadly voice, as he hung up the
receiver carefully and turned a livid face toward Ellery, "is a sample
of the blank-dangest, extra-soft-boiled, unmitigated blatherskite of a
mud-hen of a police commissioner that this or any city ever had!"
Ellery laughed aloud. "You'll be frothing at the mouth if you don't
control yourself. Every time I hear you rave about Welles I'm reminded
of that sage Germanic dictum: 'Who fills an office must learn to bear
reproach and blame.'"
"On the contrary, I'm getting soft words from Welles," said the
Inspector, in a calmer tone. "He's frightened out of his wits about
this French affair. French wields a lot of power for a harmless old
reformer, and Welles doesn't like the possibilities. Did you hear the
absolute nonsense I salved him with over the phone? Sometimes I think
I've lost my self-respect."
But Ellery was suddenly plunged in thought. His eyes had spied the five
books from French's desk, which now lay on an end-table nearby. With an
indistinct murmur of sympathy, he rose and sauntered over to the table,
fingering the books affectionately. The old man's eyes narrowed.
"Out with it!" he said. "You've discovered something in those books!"
He hopped out of his chair suspiciously.
"Yes, I think I have," replied Ellery slowly. He picked up the five
books and carried them to the breakfast-table. "Sit down, dad. My work
last night wasn't entirely wasted."
They sat down. The Inspector's eyes were bright and curious as he chose
one of the books at random and riffled its pages aimlessly. Ellery
watched him.
"Suppose, dad," said Ellery, "you take up these five books and go
through them. Here's the situation. You have five volumes, the only
fact to go on being that they're queer books for a certain person to
possess. You're looking for a reason to explain why those five books
are where they are. Go to it."
He lit a cigaret thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair, blowing
smoke at the paneled ceiling. The Inspector seized on the volumes and
attacked them singly. When he had finished with one, he took up the
next, and so on until he had examined all five. The wrinkles on his
forehead deepened. He looked up at Ellery out of very puzzled eyes.
"Danged if I can see anything remarkable in these books, Ellery. There
doesn't seem to be a point of similarity among them."
Ellery smiled, drew his body forward abruptly. He tapped the books
with a long forefinger for emphasis. "That's exactly why they _are_
remarkable," he said. "There doesn't seem to be a point of similarity.
And in fact, except for one little link, they _haven't_ any points of
similarity."
"You're talking Greek," said the Inspector. "Elucidate."
For answer Ellery rose and disappeared into the bedroom. He reappeared
in a moment with a long slip of paper on which were copiously inscribed
in a weird series of scrawled characters a body of notes.
"This," he announced, reseating himself at the table, "is the
result of last night's séance with the ghosts of five authors'
brain-children.... Lend ear, Father Queen.
"The books, by title and author, are as follows--just to make the
analysis entirely clear: _New Developments in Philately_, by Hugo
Salisbury. _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani Wedjowski.
_A Child's History of Music_, by Ramon Freyberg. _An Outline of
Paleontology_, by John Morrison. And finally, _Nonsense Anthology_, by
A. I. Throckmorton.
"Let's analyze these five books.
"Number one. The titles have not the slightest connection with each
other. Because of this fact, we can discard any thought that the
_subject matter_ of the books is relevant to our investigation.
"Number two. The dissimilarity is further heightened by a number of
small points. For example, all the covers are of different colors.
True, there are two blues, but they are of distinct hues. The sizes are
different: three of the books are oversize, and all of these oversizes
have differing dimensions: one of the books is a pocket edition; the
last book is of average size. The bindings are different: three of
them are of cloth, but of different grain; one of them is a de luxe
leather binding; one of them is bound in linen. The inner format is
different. In two cases the paper is light India in shade; in the other
three white is used. Of the white different weights are apparent. The
type-style, on examination, although I know little enough about such
technical matters, is in each instance different. The number of pages
differs also--and their actual enumeration elicits no intelligible
message. They mean nothing.... Even in price they show dissimilarity.
The leather-covered is three-fifty, and the pocket edition is a dollar
and a half. The publishers are different. The dates of issue and number
of editions are different...."
"But Ellery--of course--they're more or less obvious ..." objected the
Inspector. "Where does this lead you?"
"In an analysis," returned Ellery, "nothing is too trivial to be
overlooked. They may mean nothing and they may mean a heap. In any
case, they are definite facts about these five books. And if they point
to nothing else, they certainly indicate that physically the books
differ in practically every respect.
"Number three--and this is the first exciting development--the
right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--let me repeat that: the
right-hand top corner of the back inside leaf--has the notation in hard
pencil of a date!"
"A date?" The Inspector snatched one of the books from the table and
turned to the back inside leaf. There, in the upper right-hand corner,
was a tiny penciled date. He examined the other four books and they
exhibited in exactly the same places similar penciled dates.
"If," continued Ellery calmly, "you arrange these dates arbitrarily in
their chronological order this is the result:
4/13/19--
4/21/19--
4/29/19--
5/7 /19--
5/16/19--
"By consulting the calendar I discovered that these dates represent,
progressively as I have given them: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, and Monday."
"That's interesting," muttered the Inspector. "Why is Sunday omitted?"
"A valuable little point," said Ellery. "In four cases we have
consecutive days of the week, one week apart. In one case a
day--Sunday--is skipped. That this is an oversight on the part of the
dater is not likely; that a book is missing is impossible, because the
number of days between the first four dates is eight, and the fifth
is increased only to nine. Plainly, then, Sunday was omitted for the
reason that Sunday is generally omitted--it is a non-working day.
What the work is I haven't at the moment an answer for. But we may
take the irregularity in the case of the Sunday omission as a logical
irregularity which you will find in any part of the business world."
"Follows," commented the Inspector.
"Very well. We now come to point number four. And this is of
considerable interest. Dad, take up the five books and read the titles
in the chronological order of their dates."
The old man obeyed. "_Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by Stani
Wedjowski. The--"
"One moment," interrupted Ellery. "What's the date on the back inside
leaf?"
"April thirteenth."
"What day is April thirteenth?"
"Wednesday."
Ellery's face lit up triumphantly. "Well?" he cried. "Don't you see the
connection?"
The Inspector looked slightly nettled. "Darned if I do.... The second
one is _Nonsense Anthology_, by A. I. Throckmorton."
"Date and day?"
"Thursday, April twenty-first.... The next is _A Child's History of
Music_, by Ramon Freyberg--Friday, April twenty--By jinks, Ellery!
Friday, April twenty-ninth!"
"Yes, go on," said Ellery approvingly.