Hugo Salisbury--and that's _Saturday_, May seventh.... And the last
one is _An Outline of Paleontology_, by John Morrison--_Monday_, of
course.... Ellery, this is really amazing! In every case the _day_
coincides with the first two letters of the author's last name!"
"And that's one of the major results of my all-night session,"
smiled Ellery. "Pretty, isn't it? _We_djowski--Wednesday.
_Th_rockmorton--Thursday. _Fr_eyberg--Friday. _Sa_lisbury--Saturday.
And _Mo_rrison--Monday, with Sunday obligingly omitted. Coincidence?
Hardly, hardly, dad!"
"There's dirty work at the crossroads, all right, my son," said the
Inspector with a sudden grin. "This doesn't make any impression on
me as far as the murder is concerned, but it's mighty interesting
nevertheless. Code, by George!"
"If the murder is worrying you," retorted Ellery, "harken to my point
number five.... We have five dates so far. April thirteenth, April
twenty-first, April twenty-ninth, May seventh, and May sixteenth. Let
us suppose, for the sake of blessed argument, that there is a sixth
book somewhere in limbo. Then, by all the laws of probability, that
sixth book, if it exists, should bear a date eight days from Monday the
sixteenth of May, which is--"
The Inspector leaped to his feet. "Why, this is extraordinary, Ellery,"
he cried. "Tuesday, May twenty-fourth--the day of...." His voice fell
flatly in a curious disappointment. "No, that's not the day of the
murder; it's the day _after_ the murder."
"Now, dad," laughed Ellery, "don't go moping so soon because of a
little thing like that. It _is_ extraordinary, as you say. If a sixth
book is extant, then it bears the date of May twenty-fourth. If we can
do nothing else at this time, we can certainly suppose the existence of
that sixth book. The continuity is too compelling. Things don't merely
happen that way.... This problematical sixth book gives us our first
definite link between the books and the crime.... Dad, has it occurred
to you that our criminal had to _do_ something on Tuesday morning, the
twenty-fourth of May?"
The Inspector stared at him. "You think the book--"
"Oh, I think so many things," said Ellery ruefully, rising and
stretching his lean figure. "But it does seem to me that we have every
reason to believe in the existence of a sixth book. And there is only
one possible clue to that sixth book...."
"It's author's name begins with _Tu_," said the Inspector quickly.
"Exactly." Ellery gathered up the tell-tale volumes and stowed them
carefully away in a drawer of a large desk. He returned to the table
and looked thoughtfully down at his father's grey head with its tiny
pink bald spot.
"All night," he said, "I have felt that one person alone can furnish
me--willingly--with the missing information.... Dad, there is a story
behind these codified books, and the story is undoubtedly tied up with
the crime. I am so positive of that that I'll bet you a dinner at
Pietro's."
"I don't bet," growled the Inspector, twinkling, "at least with you,
you dunderhead. And who's this know-it-all?"
"Westley Weaver," replied Ellery. "And he doesn't know it all. I
believe that he is withholding some information which to him is
meaningless, but which to us may mean a solution of the mystery. I
believe that if for any reason he is deliberately withholding this
information, that reason concerns Marion French. Poor Wes thinks
Marion is up to her knees in the muck of this thing. And perhaps he's
right--who knows? At any rate, if there's one person in this whole
investigation whom I trust implicitly it's Westley. He's a little dense
at times, but he's the real thing.... I do believe I'll have a little
chat with Westley. It may do us all good to have him down here for a
round-table discussion."
He took up the telephone and gave the number of the French store. The
Inspector watched him dubiously as he waited.
"Wes? This is Ellery Queen.... Can you jump into a cab, Westley, and
come down to my place for a half-hour or so? It's quite important....
Yes, drop everything and come over."
26
THE TRAIL TO BERNICE
The Inspector prowled about the apartment in a fever of restlessness.
Ellery completed his toilet in the bedroom and listened calmly to his
father's occasional outbursts of invective against fate, crime and
police commissioners. Djuna, silent as ever, removed the breakfast
things from the living-room table and retired to his kitchenette.
"Of course," said the Inspector in a more lucid moment, "Prouty did say
that he and Knowles were pretty sure Mrs. French was sitting down when
the second shot was fired. That corroborates part of your analysis,
anyway."
"It helps," said Ellery, struggling with his shoes. "Expert testimony
never hurt any trial, especially when the experts are men like Prouty
and Knowles."
Queen snorted. "You haven't seen as many trials as I have.... But
what gets me is that revolver. Knowles says the bullets are from one
of those black .38 Colts that you can buy for a dime a dozen from any
'fence.' Of course, if Knowles could get hold of the gun, he could
absolutely establish that the bullets were shot from it, because
they still retain enough barrel marks of a unique character to make
identification positive. Incidentally, they're both from the same gun.
But how on earth can we get hold of it?"
"You're riddling," said Ellery. "_I_ don't know."
"And without the gun we're terribly short of vital evidence. It isn't
in the French store--the boys have searched from cellar to roof. Then
the murderer took it away with him. Too much to expect that we'll ever
get our hands on it."
"Well," remarked Ellery, putting on a smoking-jacket, "I shouldn't be
so positive. Criminals do stupid things, dad, as you know better than
I. Although I will admit that--"
The doorbell rang imperiously and Ellery started in astonishment. "Why,
that can't be Westley so soon!"
The Inspector and Ellery went into the library and found a very
dignified little Djuna ushering William Crouther, the French store
detective, into the room. Crouther was flushed and excited; he began to
speak at once.
"Morning, gentlemen, morning!" he cried genially. "Resting up after a
hard day, eh, Inspector? Well, I think I've got something you'll be
interested in--yes, sir, that's a fact."
"Glad to see you, Crouther," lied the Inspector, while Ellery's eyes
narrowed as if in anticipation of the news Crouther had to transmit.
"Sit down, man, and tell us all about it."
"Thank you, thank you, Inspector," said Crouther, sinking into the
Inspector's sacred armchair with an explosive sigh. "I haven't been
exactly sleeping myself," he announced as a preliminary, chuckling.
"Did considerable flat-footing last night and I've been on the go since
six this morning."
"Honest toil requireth no reward before heaven," murmured Ellery.
"Eh?" Crouther seemed puzzled, but a grin spread over his florid face
as he fumbled in his breast-pocket and produced two oily cigars.
"Little joke, eh, Mr. Queen? Smoke, Inspector? You, Mr. Queen?... Don't
mind if I do myself." He lit the cigar and flicked the burnt match
carelessly into the fireplace. A pained spasm passed over the face of
Djuna, who was removing the last traces of the breakfast meal from the
table. Djuna was tyrannical when his household was upset. He cast a
venomous glance at Crouther's broad back and stumped away into the
kitchenette.
"Well, Crouther, what is it?" demanded the Inspector with a crackle of
impatience in his voice. "Spill it, spill it!"
"Right you are, Inspector." Crouther lowered his voice mysteriously,
leaning forward toward the two men and emphasizing his forthcoming
remarks with the butt of his fuming cigar. "What do you think I've been
doing?"
"We haven't the slightest idea," said Ellery, with interest.
"I've--been--on--the--trail--of--Bernice Carmody!" whispered Crouther
in a vibrant bass voice.
"Oh!" The Inspector was patently disappointed. He regarded Crouther
morosely. "Is that all? I've got a squad of my best men on the same
job, Crouther."
"Well," said Crouther, leaning back and flicking ashes on the
carpet, "I didn't exactly expect you to kiss me at that statement,
Inspector--that's a fact.... But," his voice lowered cunningly again,
"I'll bet your men didn't get what I got!"
"Oh, you got something, did you?" asked the Inspector quickly. "Now,
that _is_ news, Crouther. Sorry I was so hasty.... Just what is it
you've dug up?"
Crouther leered triumphantly. "The trail of the girl out of the city!"
Ellery's eyes flickered with sincere surprise. "You got that far, did
you?" He turned to his father with a smile. "That seems to be one on
Velie, dad."
The Inspector looked disgruntled and curious at the same time. "I'll be
hanged for a rascal!" he muttered. "How did you do it and what's the
dope exactly, Crouther?"
"It was this way," said Crouther promptly, crossing his legs and
puffing smoke into the air. He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.
"I've worked all along--with due respect to you and your boys,
Inspector--on the idea that this Bernice Carmody was done away with.
Kidnapped, murdered--I don't know--but somethin' like that. I felt that
she didn't do the job, although the signs do point to her, and that's a
fact.... So I took the liberty of snoopin' around the French house last
night and seeing what I could see about how the girl got out of the
place. Saw this housekeeper up there and she told me what she told you,
I guess. Don't mind, Inspector?... Anyway, I found out too about that
'special' who saw her walkin' down the Drive toward 72nd Street. That
set me going, and before I got stuck I'd traced her a long way. I found
a cruising cab-driver who said he picked up a woman of her description
on West End Avenue and 72nd. Private cab, it is; and I guess I was just
lucky, that's all. This whole business of trailing is part luck and
part perspiration--fact, ain't it, Inspector?"
"Ummh," said the Inspector sourly. "You've certainly put one over on
Tom Velie. What then? Get any more?"
"Sure did!" Crouther relit his cigar. "Driver took the girl to the
Hotel Astor. She told him to wait for her. She went into the lobby and
in about two minutes came out again with a tall blond man dressed kind
of swell, and carrying a suitcase. They piled into the cab. Driver
said the girl seemed kind of scared, but she didn't say anything, and
the tall man told him to take 'em for a drive through Central Park.
In the Park, just about the middle, man tapped on the window and told
the driver to stop--they were goin' to get out. That was what made the
driver kind of leery, anyway--couldn't ever remember anybody payin'
off in the middle of the Park. But he didn't say anything, and the
blond gent paid the fare and told him to drive off. He did, but not
before he'd caught a look at the girl's face. She was pale and sort
of half-shot--looked drunk, he said. So he just moved off slow and
careless, and kept his eyes open. And sure enough, he saw the pair of
'em go over to a parked car not fifty feet away, get in, and right away
the car shot out of the Park goin' uptown!"
"Well," said the Inspector in a hushed voice, "that's quite a
story. We'll have to look over this cab-driver.... Did he catch the
license-number of the car?"
"Too far away," said Crouther, scowling for an instant. Then his face
cleared. "But he wasn't too far away to spot the fact that it had a
Massachusetts license-plate."
"Excellent, Crouther, excellent!" cried Ellery suddenly, springing to
his feet. "Thank goodness some one has kept his head about him! What
kind of car was it--did your man see?"
"Yep," grinned Crouther, expanding under the praise. "Closed
car--sedan--dark blue--and a Buick. How's that?"
"Mighty nice work," said the Inspector grudgingly. "How did the girl
act on the trip over to the other automobile?"
"Well, the driver couldn't see so well," said Crouther, "but he did
tell me that the girl sort of stumbled and the tall man grabbed her arm
and sort of forced her."
"Slick, slick!" muttered the Inspector. "Did he catch a glimpse of the
driver in the closed car?"
"Nope. But there must have been some one in the Buick, because our man
says the couple climbed into the back, and then the car streaked it
right out of the Park."
"How about this tall blond man, Crouther?" asked Ellery, puffing
furiously at his cigaret. "We should be able to get a fairly complete
description of him from the taxicab driver."
Crouther scratched his head. "Never thought of askin' the guy," he
confessed. "Here, Inspector--how about your boys taking it up from
where I've left off? I got plenty of work at the store, now that things
are shot to pieces down there.... Want this driver's name and address?"
"Certainly." The Inspector wrestled inwardly with a spiritual problem
as Crouther wrote out the name and address. When the store detective
handed it to him it was evident that virtue had won, for he smiled
weakly and stretched out his hand. "Let me congratulate you, Crouther.
That was a good night's work!"
Crouther pumped the Inspector's hand up and down heartily, grinning.
"Glad to help, Inspector--that's a fact. Just goes to prove that us
boys on the outside _do_ know a thing or two, eh? I always say--"
The doorbell trilled, relieving the Inspector of the embarrassment of
having his hand held. Ellery and the old man looked at each other for a
fleeting instant. Then Ellery sprang toward the door.
"Expecting company, Inspector?" asked Crouther broadly. "Don't want to
butt in. I guess I'd better--"
"No, no, Crouther, stay right where you are! I have an idea you may
come in handy," called Ellery rapidly, as he made for the door in the
anteroom.
Crouther beamed and sat down again.
Ellery threw open the door. Westley Weaver, his hair rumpled, a worried
look on his face, walked hurriedly into the apartment.
27
THE SIXTH BOOK
Weaver shook hands all round, expressed surprise at the presence of
Crouther--who shuffled his feet awkwardly and grinned--rubbed his
face with one nervous hand, and then sat down, waiting. He eyed the
Inspector apprehensively.
Ellery, noting this, smiled. "No cause for neurosis, Wes," he said
gently. "This isn't quite a third degree. Have a cigaret, make
yourself comfortable, and listen for a moment."
They drew chairs around the table. Ellery looked at his fingernails
thoughtfully.
"We've been muddling over those books I picked up on the desk in
French's apartment," he began. "And we've discovered some interesting
things there."
"Books?" exclaimed Crouther in a bewildered way.
"Books?" echoed Weaver, but his tone was flat and unconvincing.
"Yes," repeated Ellery, "books. The five volumes that you saw me
puzzling over. Westley," and he looked full into the young man's eyes,
"I have an idea that somewhere at the back of your mind is a lump
of information that we can use. Information about these volumes. To
be perfectly frank, I noticed a queer hesitancy on your part when I
first got my hooks into them. Just what are your scruples--if you have
any--about this story I've laid to you--if there is a story?"
Weaver flushed violently, began to stammer. "Why, Ellery, I never--"
"Look here, Wes." Ellery leaned forward. "There's something on your
mind. If it's Marion, let me tell you here and now that none of us has
the slightest suspicion of the girl. There may be something behind her
nervous attitude, but whatever it is, it isn't criminal, and probably
has little to do directly with the murder of Mrs. French.... Does that
sweep away any scruples in your mind?"
Weaver stared at his friend for a long time. The Inspector and Crouther
sat quietly. Then the young man spoke--in a different voice this time,
a voice colored with a new confidence. "Yes, it does," he said slowly.
"Marion _has_ been on my mind, and her possible connection with the
affair has made me not quite so frank as I might have been. And I do
know something about those books."
Ellery smiled with satisfaction. They waited in silence for Weaver to
collect his thoughts.
"You've had occasion," said Weaver at last, lapsing into a clear
narrative tone, "to mention a man by the name of Springer. I believe
his name arose when you were looking over the night-watchman's chart,
Inspector. You remember that on Monday evening Springer didn't leave
the building until seven o'clock, and that I followed him out directly
after. These facts were recorded on O'Flaherty's chart."
"Springer?" Ellery frowned. The Inspector nodded.
Weaver looked hesitantly at Crouther and then turned to the Inspector.
"Is it all right--?" he began in some embarrassment.
Ellery replied at once for his father. "Perfectly, Wes. Crouther has
been in on the case from the beginning, and I imagine he may be of help
in the future as well. Go ahead."
"Very well, then," said Weaver. Crouther sank back into his chair
complacently. "About two months ago--I forget the exact date--the
Accounting Department brought to the attention of Mr. French certain
suspicious irregularities in the Book Department. Springer, of course,
is head of the department. The irregularities were of a financial
nature, and it was thought that receipts were not commensurate with
the volume of business. It was a confidential matter, and the Old Man
was quite upset about it. There was nothing definite in the Accounting
Department's suspicions, and because the whole business was vague, the
accountants were ordered to forget all about it temporarily, and the
Old Man asked me to conduct a little private investigation of my own."
"Springer, hey?" scowled Crouther. "Funny I didn't hear about it, Mr.
Weaver."
"Mr. French didn't believe," explained Weaver, "that too many people
should know about it. The suspicions were just nebulous enough to call
for secrecy. And because I handle most of the matters connected with
the Old Man personally, he turned to me rather than to any one else....
I couldn't, of course," continued Weaver wearily, "do any scouting
around during the working day. Springer himself was always there. So I
was compelled to do my investigating after hours. I had been checking
up sales slips and records for about three or four days in the Book
Department, after everybody had left the building, as I thought, when
one evening I got wind of something queer. I might say that my few
nights' snooping hadn't got me anywhere--everything seemed all right."
The Queens and Crouther were listening now with strained attention.
"The night I've referred to," went on Weaver, "I was about to enter the
Book Department when I noticed an unusual brightness--a number of lamps
were lit up. My first thought was that somebody was working overtime,
and when I looked in cautiously the thought seemed corroborated. It
was Springer, alone, pottering about in the aisles of the Department.
I don't know exactly what made me keep out of sight--perhaps it was
the fact that I was already suspicious of him--but I did, and watched
curiously to see what he was doing.
"I saw him go over to one of the wall-shelves, after looking around
with a furtive air, and swiftly take down a book. He took a long patent
pencil from his pocket and, opening the book somewhere at the back, he
made a rapid notation with the pencil. He snapped the book shut, made
some sort of mark on the back-board, and immediately placed the book on
a different shelf. I noted that he seemed quite anxious about _how_ he
placed the book; he fussed with it for several moments before he seemed
satisfied. And that was all. He entered his private office in the rear
and reappeared shortly after wearing his hat and coat. He then walked
out of the Department, almost brushing by me as I stood huddled in a
little alcove in the shadow. A few moments later the lights, except for
one or two bulbs kept lit all night, snapped out. I found out later
that he had checked out the regular way, informing the night-watchman
that he was through for the night, and that O'Flaherty should have the
switch for the book section turned off."
"That doesn't seem so flukey to me," said Crouther. "Probably just part
of his job."
"When you're looking for suspicious activity," said the Inspector
vaguely, "you can generally find it."
"I had something of the same thought," replied Weaver. "It was a trifle
peculiar to find Springer working overtime in the first place--the
practice is rather discouraged by Mr. French. But then the incident
itself might be perfectly innocent. I did go over to that shelf after
Springer had gone and inquisitively I took down the book he had just
placed there. I turned to the back and on an inside leaf I found in
pencil a date and a street-and-number address."
"An address?" Both Ellery and the Inspector exclaimed simultaneously.
"What was it?" demanded the Inspector.
"I forget just now," said Weaver, "but I have a note of it in my
pocket. Would you like--?"
"Never mind the address at the moment," said Ellery with a curious
calm. "I'm not quite clear on this matter of the five books I took from
French's desk. Are they the actual books Springer marked?"
"No, they're not," replied Weaver. "But perhaps I had better give
you my story in something like a sequence of incidents. It's rather
complicated.... After noticing the date and address, which I couldn't
figure out at all as far as a possible meaning was concerned, I
examined the back-board on which I had seen Springer write something.
I found it was merely a light pencil-line under the name of the author."
"That back-board fascinated me from the moment you mentioned it," mused
Ellery. "Are you sure, Westley, that the mark was under the _entire_
name? Wasn't it perhaps under _the first two letters_?"
Weaver stared. "Why, so it was," he cried. "But how on earth could you
know, Ellery?"
"Guess-work," said Ellery negligently. "But it follows. No wonder," he
said, turning to his father, "I couldn't get more out of these books,
dad. They aren't the originals.... Go on, Wes."
"I had no reason then," continued Weaver, "to take decisive action
about that book. I merely noted the address and date and, after
slipping the book back into the exact place in which Springer had
originally set it, I went about my business of checking up on
Springer's records. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the whole
thing. It wasn't until the following week--nine days, to be exact--that
the incident was recalled to my mind."
"Springer did the same thing, I'll bet!" cried Crouther.
"Bravo, Crouther," murmured Ellery.
Weaver smiled fleetingly and went on. "Yes, under the same
circumstances Springer did the same thing, and because I had gone down
into the Book Department on my regular nightly check-up, I caught
him at it again. This time I was puzzled to note that he repeated
his performance of the week before in every detail. And the business
still didn't register any meaning in my mind. I merely jotted down
the address and date once more--they were different from the previous
week's, incidentally--and went about my business. It wasn't until the
third week--after eight days had passed--that my suspicions began to
function a little more actively."
"Then," said Ellery, "you took a duplicate of the book, and the book
was _Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce_, by a gentleman named Stani
Wedjowski."
"Correct," said Weaver. "On that third occasion, it came to me that the
addresses were of vital importance. What that importance was I had no
idea. But I realized that the books were there for some purpose, and I
decided to try a little experiment. In the case of the Wedjowski book,
after Springer had gone I got another copy of the book, marked the date
in the back for reference, made a private note of the new address, and
took the duplicate book back upstairs with me to study. Perhaps, I
thought, there's something _about_ this book that will enlighten me. I
left the original exactly where Springer had placed it, naturally.