make a thing of it. And I repeated my tactics for the next four
weeks--Springer did his mysterious little job every eight days, I
noticed--and studied my duplicate books very assiduously. They didn't
make sense, and I was getting desperate. I might add that all this
time I had been keeping tabs on Springer's records, and I was just
beginning to see light. Springer was taking advantage of the one
flaw in the departmental system, and was falsifying his accounts in
a devilishly clever manner. And then I knew that the books must have
some significance--whether connected with my own investigation or not
I didn't know. But I had no doubt now that they signified something
crooked.
"At any rate, by the sixth week I was quite desperate. This was Monday
evening--the night of the murder, although I had no idea of what was
going to happen within a few hours. I watched Springer as usual, saw
him go through the customary ritual, and leave. But this time I meant
to do a daring thing. _I took the original book._"
"Good for you!" cried Ellery. He lit a cigaret with unsteady fingers.
"Brilliant, in fact. Go on, Wes; this is tremendously exciting." The
Inspector said nothing; Crouther regarded Weaver with a new respect.
"I duplicated the markings in another book exactly and placed it where
Springer had left the original, which I took away with me. I had to
do these things in a hurry, because I meant to follow Springer that
night to see if I could get any clue from his movements. I was in luck,
because he had stopped to chat with O'Flaherty. As I dashed out of the
building, Springer's latest book under my arm, I was just in time to
see him turn the corner on Fifth Avenue."
"Regular detective," remarked Crouther admiringly.
"Well, hardly," laughed Weaver. "At any rate I followed Springer's
wandering trail all evening. He had dinner alone in a Broadway
restaurant and then went to a movie. I stuck to his trail like the fool
I am, I suppose, because he did nothing at all suspicious, telephoned
no one, spoke to no one, all evening. Finally, about midnight, he got
home--he lives in the Bronx in an apartment house. I watched that house
for an hour--even pussyfooted up to the floor on which his apartment
is. But Springer stayed in. And so I finally went home, still carrying
Springer's book, but no wiser when I left him than when I'd begun to
follow."
"Nevertheless," said the Inspector, "you showed good judgment in
sticking to him."
"What's the title of that sixth book and where is it? How does it
happen that I didn't find it among the five others in French's
apartment? You put the five books there, of course?" asked Ellery
rapidly.
"One at a time," pleaded Weaver, smiling. "The book is _Modern Trends
in Interior Decoration_, by Lucian Tucker...." Ellery and the Inspector
exchanged glances at Weaver's mention of the author's name. "You didn't
find it among the other five because I didn't leave it there. I took it
home with me. You see, I felt all along that the duplicates weren't
important. It was evidently the originals that counted. Perhaps I was
wrong, but I certainly figured that the sixth, being an original, was
more precious than the other five. So I put it in a safe place Monday
night when I got home--my own bedroom. As for the five, the reason I
kept them at the store was that I was studying them at odd moments and
wanted them handy. I didn't want to bother the Old Man about them and
the whole business, because he was having his hands full negotiating
this merger with Whitney, and he always leaves details to me, anyway.
So I merely slipped each book, as I got it, between the book-ends on
the Old Man's desk. I also took away one of the Old Man's books to keep
the count similar, and merely hid them in the bookcase, behind odd
volumes there. In this way, by the end of five weeks the Old Man's five
books had entirely disappeared into the bookcase, and the duplicates of
Springer's books were between the book-ends. I meant to explain if the
Old Man noticed the new volumes on his desk, but he didn't, so I didn't
bother. Those 'favorites' of his are mere atmosphere, anyhow; he'd got
so accustomed to seeing them there on his desk that he sort of took it
for granted they were still there, even though he was up and about that
desk every day for weeks. It often happens that way.... As for Springer
noticing the strange books on the desk, that was impossible. Springer
never had occasion to come to Mr. French's apartment."
"Then I take it," demanded Ellery, with a creeping light of animation
in his eyes, "that you put the five books between the book-ends week
for week? In other words, that the first book, the Wedjowski thing, was
on that desk six weeks ago?"
"Exactly."
"That's _most_ interesting," said Ellery, and subsided in his chair.
The Inspector stirred into action. "Here, Weaver, let's have a look at
those addresses. You have them on you, I think you said?"
For answer, Weaver took a small notebook from his breast-pocket and
extracted a slip of paper. The Inspector, Ellery and Crouther bent
curiously over to read the seven addresses.
"Well, I'll be--" The Inspector's voice was hushed, quietly throbbing.
"Ellery, do you know what these are? Here are _two_ addresses that
Fiorelli's boys have had under suspicion for weeks as depots for the
distribution of dope!"
Ellery dropped back thoughtfully, while Crouther and Weaver stared at
each other. "I'm not particularly surprised," said Ellery. "Two, eh?
That means all seven are probably dope-distributing headquarters ...
changed from week to week ... clever, no doubt about it!" Suddenly he
started forward. "Wes!" he almost shouted, "the sixth address! Where is
it? Quickly!"
Weaver hastily produced another memorandum. The address was a number on
East 98th Street.
"Dad," said Ellery at once, "this is remarkable luck. Do you realize
what we've in our hands? _Yesterday's dope depot!_ The date--May
twenty-fourth--Tuesday--the trail is so hot it sparks!"
"By the lord Harry," muttered the Inspector, "you're right. If that
98th Street place should still be tenanted--I can't see why not--" He
sprang to his feet and reached for the telephone. He gave the number
of Police Headquarters and in a moment was speaking to Sergeant Velie.
He spoke rapidly, had his call switched to the office of the Narcotic
Squad. He spoke tersely to Fiorelli, head of the Squad, and hung up.
"I've just tipped off Fiorelli and they're going to raid that 98th
Street address immediately," he said briskly, taking a pinch of
snuff with practiced fingers. "They're taking Thomas with them, and
they'll stop here to pick us up. I want to be in on this one!" His jaw
stiffened grimly.
"Raid, hey?" Crouther rose and tightened his muscles. "Mind if I go
along, Inspector? Be a picnic for me--that's a fact!"
"No objection at all, Crouther," said the Inspector absently. "You
deserve a bit of the show, anyway.... Fiorelli has raided those two
addresses I recognized, but in each case the birds had shut up shop and
disappeared. Let's hope they haven't had time in this case!"
Ellery opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped his lips together
very firmly. He became thoughtful at once.
Weaver seemed confounded by the bombshell he had caused to explode. He
subsided limply in his chair.
28
UNRAVELING THREADS
They all looked at Ellery in sudden disquiet. Crouther, his mouth
half-open, shut it and began to scratch his head. Weaver and the
Inspector shifted heavily in their chairs at the same instant.
Ellery without a word stepped into the kitchenette. His low voice was
heard murmuring to Djuna. Ellery reappeared, fumbled for his pince-nez
and began to twirl it idly. "The uneasy thought just struck me--and
yet," his face brightened, "it isn't so bad at that!"
He replaced his glasses on his thin nose and rose to his feet, pacing
leisurely up and down before the table. Djuna slipped out of the
kitchenette and left the apartment.
"While we're waiting for the squad wagon," Ellery said, "we may as well
go over some of the ground, in the light of these newest disclosures of
Westley's.
"Does anybody doubt now that French's is being used as an important
medium for drug distribution?"
He challenged them lightly with his eyes. An angry glare lit up
Crouther's heavy features.
"Say, Mr. Queen, that's pretty rough on me," he barked. "I'm not
denying this Springer guy is a crook--don't see how it could be
otherwise--but how do you figure out a dope ring's been operating right
under our noses at the store?"
"Keep your shirt on, Crouther," said Ellery mildly. "They've merely
put one over on the French establishment. What an opportunity," he
went on, in the tone of one who finds much to admire, "for a drug
ring! Using a no doubt simple code, which is already fairly clarified
in my mind, transmitting it through innocent books, and setting the
whole business in the respectable domain of the head of the Anti-Vice
League himself! That's a stroke of genius, that is.... Look here. There
can't be an alternative. We find at intervals of eight days--the only
exception being one of nine, and this is plausibly accounted for by
the intervention of Sunday--the head of the Book Department marking an
address in--and this is one of the beautiful elements of the scheme--in
little-used, stodgy books.... Did you notice that the date in each book
was _not_ the date when Springer prepared it? No, in every case it was
for the day _following_. The book marked Wednesday, by the author whose
name began with WE, was placed on the _same_ shelf ... it was the same
shelf every week, wasn't it, Wes?"
"Yes."
"The book marked for Wednesday, then, was placed on the same shelf
as all the others on Tuesday evening. The Thursday book on Wednesday
evening the week following, and soon. What could this possibly mean?
Obviously, that Springer didn't allow too much time to elapse between
the evening he prepared the book with the address and _the time it was
to be picked up_!"
"Picked up?" demanded the Inspector.
"Of course. Everything points to a well-constructed plan of
operation in which Springer's main job was to inform some one of an
address through the medium of a book. If Springer could inform that
problematical person or persons by word of mouth, why the complicated
book-code system? No. The probability is that Springer knows the people
who come in to pick up his doctored volumes, but that they, being mere
pawns, don't know him. But this is really beside the point. The crux of
the matter is that Springer would not allow the prepared book to linger
on the shelf too long. It might be purchased; the address in it might
inadvertently be noticed by a stranger. Dad, if you were in Springer's
place, how would you arrange _the time_ when the book should be picked
up?"
"Seems clear. If Springer prepared it at night, then he would have it
picked up in the morning."
Ellery smiled. "Exactly. What risk then does he run? He writes the
address in the book after hours, when the book cannot be removed that
night in a legitimate way by an outsider; and the very next morning
the appointed messenger takes it from its place on the shelf--a place
of course set definitely when the plan was originally concocted. The
chances are, in fact, that the messenger arrives as early as possible
the next morning--perhaps as soon as the store opens, at nine o'clock.
He browses around, goes over to the shelf finally, picks up the book he
knows about in advance through a sign which I'll explain in a moment,
pays for it in the regular way and walks out with his information under
his arm--safe, clean and ridiculously easy.
"Now! There are a few inferences to be drawn. We must suppose that
when the messenger arrives in the morning he has no contact with
Springer--really, everything points to this complete alienation
between Springer and the messenger, with one or both ignorant of the
other's identity. Then the only clue the messenger has to the book
fixed the night before is a code, or system, arranged beforehand.
That's just common sense. But what could the code be? And that is the
beautiful part of the plan.
"Why, I asked myself, was it necessary to the plan to have the
author's name--at least its first two letters--coincide with the first
two letters of the day on which the book was to be picked up by the
messenger? The question is answered if we suppose complete ignorance
of detail on the part of the messenger. If, when he got his job,
his first instructions, he was told the following, then the whole
procedure becomes clear: 'Every week you are to call at the French Book
Department for a book which will contain an address. The book will be
on the top shelf of the fourth tier of book-racks situated in such
and such a place in the Department. The book will always be on that
shelf.... Now. Every week you are to call on a different day. Eight
days apart, to be exact. Except when Sunday intervenes, and then it
will be nine days--from the preceding Saturday to the following Monday.
Let us say the morning you are due to call for the book is a Wednesday.
Then the book you should pick up will be by an author whose last name
begins with a _WE_, to correspond to the _WE_ of Wednesday. To make
identification absolutely positive, and to get you out of the Book
Department as quickly as possible, so that you will not be compelled
to rummage through every book on that shelf, a light pencil-mark will
appear on the first two letters of the author's name, positively
identifying the proper volume. You pick up the book, look at the back
inner leaf to make sure the address is there, then buy the book and
walk out of the store.'... Does that sound plausible?"
There was a vehement chorus of assents from the three men.
"It's a devilishly ingenious scheme," said Ellery thoughtfully, "if a
little complicated. Really, though, the complications iron themselves
away with the passage of time. The beauty of the plan is that the
messenger needs his instructions _only once_, the first time, and he
can carry on indefinitely, for months, without a slip-up.... The next
Thursday he has to look for a pencil-mark on a book whose author's
last name begins with _TH_; the Friday following, an _FR_; and so on.
What the messenger does with the book when he gets it is debatable.
From the look of things, this is a highly centralized society of drug
distributors, with the pawns in the game knowing as little as possible
about the business at hand, probably being kept in complete ignorance
of the ringleader or leaders. The question naturally arises--"
"But why," asked Weaver, "that period of _eight_ days? Why not merely
every week on the same day?"
"A good question, and it has, I think, a simple answer," replied
Ellery. "These people were taking not the slightest chance of a
slip-up. If a certain person came into the Book Department at nine
o'clock _every Monday_, he might after a time be noticed and remarked
on. But coming in on a Monday, then a Tuesday, then a Wednesday, all
a week and a day apart, there was little likelihood that he would be
remembered."
"My God, what a racket!" muttered Crouther. "No wonder we never got
wind of it!"
"Clever's no name for it," sighed the Inspector. "Then you think,
Ellery, that the addresses are all local 'joints' for the selling of
the dope?"
"No question about it," said Ellery, lighting another cigaret. "And
while we're remarking about cleverness, how does this strike you?
The ring never uses the same address twice! That's patent from the
different address each week. And it's apparent, too, that their system
of distribution makes it a methodical weekly affair. Your Narcotic
Squad has a chance to ferret out a drug depot if it's used week after
week; people notice suspicious activity, perhaps; the address and the
word go around through the grapevine of the underworld. But how can
your Squad ever get on the track of a gang which uses a _different_
depot every week? Why, the scheme is amazing. As it is, Fiorelli did
get wind of two of the addresses through informers or stool-pigeons;
the fact that he didn't get any other shows how holeproof the plot
really is. And of course, when he raided the places, he found the ring
gone--cleared out. They probably have an afternoon _soirée_ week after
week and dismantle the place immediately after the last customer's gone.
"Now consider how safe the ring really is. They must have a regular
channel of communication with their customers--and I suspect it's a
limited list. Too many would be dangerous by their very numbers. That
means, then, that the customers are wealthy, probably society people,
who get a weekly tipoff by telephone, we'll say--just an address. They
know the rest. And what can the customer do? What does he _want_ to do?
We all know the desperate, uncontrollable craving of the addict for his
drug. Here he has a safe source of supply, and what's more important, a
regular source of supply. No--the customers aren't blabbing. What could
be sweeter?"
"It staggers the imagination," muttered the Inspector. "What a plan!
But if we clean them up this time--!"
"I need only refer to the well-known cup and the better-known lip,"
laughed Ellery. "However, we'll see.
"Some questions arise, as I began to say a few moments ago, more
directly applicable to the murder. We may certainly presume that
Bernice is--or was--one of the ring's customers. And I do believe
that shady, mysterious motive of which we haven't been able to grasp
the merest shadow, is beginning to emerge into daylight. Winifred
French was not an addict. She carried in her bag a lipstick belonging
to Bernice and filled with heroin.... And carried it to her death.
A strong line of incident, dad! Very, very strong.... Interesting,
isn't it, especially since we haven't been able to discover any other
motive for the crime? But motive won't mean much in the unraveling
of this case, I'm afraid; the big job is to corral the murderer and
also to round up the drug ring. A dual task which presents to my
deduction-weary mind a suggestion of difficulty....
"Another question. Is Springer pawn or king in this drug game? My guess
is--he's on the inside, knows all the facts, but is not top man. And
the question naturally arises, too--did Mr. Springer fire the lethal
weapon aimed at Mrs. French's heart? I'd rather not go into that at the
moment.
"And finally, doesn't this business of the drug ring indicate that
Winifred's murder--and Bernice's disappearance--are integral parts of
the same crime, rather than two unrelated crimes? I think it does, but
I cannot see how we shall ever get to the truth of the matter unless--a
certain eventuality occurs. Deponent being temporarily out of wind,
deponent will sit down and think of the case _in toto_."
And Ellery, without another word, seated himself and worried his
pince-nez in a thoroughly absent manner.
The Inspector, Weaver and Crouther sighed all at once.
They were sitting that way, silently, looking at each other, when
a short siren blast from the street below announced the arrival of
Fiorelli, Velie and the raiding party.
29
RAID!
The police van, crammed with detectives and officers, rushed through
the West Side, headed uptown. Traffic opened magically before
its wailing siren. Hundreds of eyes followed its reckless course
wonderingly.
The Inspector shouted to a grim and chagrined Velie, above the roar
of the exhaust, Crouther's story of the lone taxicab driver and the
mysterious automobile with the Massachusetts license-plate. The
Sergeant gloomily promised an immediate check-up on the chauffeur's
story and dissemination of the new information to all his operatives
on the trail of the vanished girl. Crouther sat chuckling by his side
as Velie took from the Inspector's hand the name and address of the
cab-driver.
Weaver had been excused, and with the arrival of the van had left to
return to the French store.
Fiorelli sat quietly chewing his fingernails. His face was haggard and
feverish as he pulled the Inspector to one side.
"Had a bunch of boys beat it up to the 98th Street address beforehand
to surround the house," he boomed hoarsely. "Not taking any chances on
their doing a fade-away. The boys are keeping under cover, but they
won't let a rat slip through the net!"
Ellery sat calmly in the van, watching the crowds jump into view and
disappear. His fingers thrummed a rhythmic tattoo on the iron mesh
obscuring the view.
The powerful truck turned into 98th Street and dashed eastward. The
neighborhood thickened, grew squalid. As the van plunged further toward
the East River the on-rushing scene became one of ramshackle buildings
and ramshackle humanity....
At last the police car ground to a stop. A man in plain clothes had
stepped suddenly from a doorway into the middle of the street,
pointing meaningly toward a low, two-story building of rotten wood and
peeled paint, leaning crazily over the sidewalk as if the slightest
convulsion of nature would topple it, a brittle wreck, into the gutter.
The front door was closed. The windows were heavily shaded. The house
looked tenantless, lifeless.
With the first grinding of the van's brakes, a dozen men in plain
clothes ran into view from odd corners and doorways. Several in the
dilapidated backyard of the house drew guns and advanced on the rear of
the building. An avalanche of policemen and detectives poured out of
the truck, headed by Fiorelli, Velie and the Inspector, Crouther close
behind, and ran up the crumbling wooden steps to the front door.
Fiorelli pounded fiercely on the cracked panels. There was not a
whisper of audible response. At a sign from Inspector, Queen Velie
and Fiorelli put their formidable shoulders to the door and shoved.
The wood splintered and the door cracked back, revealing a dim, musty
interior, a broken old chandelier, and a flight of uncarpeted steps
leading up to a second floor.
The police streamed into the building, investing both floors
simultaneously, opening doors, pushing into corners, guns ready.
And Ellery, sauntering leisurely behind, openly amused at the
psychology of the gaping mob which had miraculously gathered outside
the house, kept back by the clubs of several bluecoats, saw at once
that the raid was a failure.
The house was empty, without the least sign of occupancy.
30
REQUIEM
They stood about in one of the dusty, deserted rooms--an old-fashioned
parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely
proclaiming its fall upon evil days--and talked quietly. Fiorelli was
beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of
slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked
glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of
the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the
detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was
one to be found in the neighborhood.
Ellery said nothing.
The detective returned shortly with a strapping, livid Negro.
"Do you take care of this house?" asked the Inspector brusquely of the
Negro.
The Negro removed his rusty derby and shuffled his feet. "'Spects so,
yassuh!"
"What are you--janitor, superintendent?"
"Kinda, suh. Ah takes care of a whole passel o' houses on dis block.
Rents 'em fo' de ownahs when a tenant comes 'long."
"I see. Was this house occupied yesterday?"
The Negro bobbed his head vigorously. "Yassuh! 'Bout fo'-five days ago
party comes 'long an' rents de whole house. Da's wha' de agent says
when he brung 'm down. Paid de agent cash money fo' a month. Saw it wiv
mah own eyes."
"What sort of man was the tenant?"
"Kinda shortish an' had a long black mustache, suh."
"When did he move in?"
"De nex' day--Sunday, Ah don' doubt. Van come moseyin' down wiv some
fu'niture."
"Did you see the name of the van company on the truck?"
"Nosuh, sho' didn't. Dey weren't none. One o' dese open trucks wiv de
sides covuhed wiv black ta'paulin. No name on de truck a-tall."
"Did you see the man with the black mustache around much?"
The Negro scratched his short woolly thatch. "Nosuh, kain't say Ah did.
Don't believe Ah seed him a-tall till yestiddy mo'nin'."
"How was that?"