French Powder Mystery (32 page)

“Ummm,” said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.

The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuffbox. “Now, I should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday night—the night of the murder.”

“The murder.” Carmody said it negligently. “Not interested in that, Inspector. What about my daughter?”

The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody’s expressionless lean face. “Your daughter’s search is being conducted by the proper authorities. We haven’t found her yet, but we have new information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my question.”

“Results!” Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. “I know what that word means in the police vocabulary. You’re stumped and you know it. I’ll put my own detective on the case.”

“Will you
please
answer my question?” grated the Inspector.

“Keep cool,” said Carmody. “Don’t see what my movements on Monday night have to do with the case. I certainly didn’t kidnap my own daughter. But if you must have it, here it is.

“Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central—the 9:14. Changed at Stamford and didn’t get to my destination until nearly midnight. It’s far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don’t know what went wrong. Had no place to stay—no hotel there—and had to return to the city. Couldn’t make a decent connection and didn’t get back to my apartment until four in the morning. That’s all.”

“Not quite, Mr. Carmody.” The Inspector mused. “Did anyone see you when you returned to the city—at your apartment, perhaps?”

“No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast at the apartment dining-room at ten o’clock. The head-waiter will identify me.”

“No doubt,” said the Inspector disagreeably. “Meet anyone on your trip who might remember you?”

“No. Unless the conductor of the train.”

“Well!” Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody with open distaste. “Please make a note of all your movements and mail it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your daughter Bernice is a drug addict?”

Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in his chair.

“How did you find that out?” he muttered in a strangled voice. The muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. “I didn’t think any one knew—except Winifred and me.”

“Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?” queried the Inspector instantly. “Had she known it long?”

“So it’s out,” growled Carmody. “Good God!” He raised a haggard face to Queen. “I’ve known it for about a year. Winifred—” his face hardened—“Winifred didn’t know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all that,” he added bitterly. “Rot! She thought chiefly of herself. … So I told her—two weeks ago. She didn’t believe it. We quarreled. But at the end she knew—I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred. I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don’t know any more …” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was going to take Bernice away—somewhere—anywhere—cure her. … And then Winifred was murdered and Bernice—gone. …” His voice died away. Huge welts stood out under his eyes. The man was suffering—how deeply, by what perverse psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.

And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.

T
RASK WAS A HALF-HOUR
late for his appointment at the Queen apartment. He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the Inspector’s questions.

Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town—vaguely, with an idle gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.

Where “about town”? Well, really—can’t remember. Some night-club or other at first.

At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.

Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he’d been disappointed by some friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.

What was the name of the night-club? Really, don’t recall it.

What did he mean by “not recalling it”? Well—to tell the truth, he had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite—ha, ha! Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn’t remember anything except dashing cold water on his face at ten o’clock Tuesday morning in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some fresh clothes. Then the directors’ meeting at the French store.

“Beautiful!” muttered the Inspector, eyeing Trask as if he were an obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in the general direction of a tray.

“Trask!” The whip in Queen’s voice brought the tall, dissipated director’s body up with a start. “Are you sure you can’t remember what night-club you were in?”

“I say now,” drawled Trask, sinking back, “you scared me that time, Inspector. I’ve told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don’t recall a thing.”

“Well, that’s just too bad,” grunted the Inspector. “If I’m not disturbing you, Trask—do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual drug-user?”

“Not really!” Trask sat up straight. “Then I was right!”

“Oh, you suspected it?”

“A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the symptoms. I’ve seen plenty of ’em.” He brushed a speck of ash from his gardenia with languid distaste.

The Inspector smiled. “Which didn’t daunt you from going ahead with your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?”

Trask looked virtuous. “Oh, no—really! I’d intended to cure her after we were married. Without her family’s knowledge, and all that. Too bad—too bad,” he sighed. He sighed again.

“What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?” demanded the Inspector impatiently.

“Oh, that!” Trask brightened. “Absolutely of the best, Inspector. You—er—you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future father-in-law. Haw-haw!”

“Get out of here,” said the Inspector distinctly.

J
OHN GRAY FOLDED HIS
gloves neatly, deposited them in his rich black derby, and handed them with a cheerful smile to Djuna. Then he shook hands decorously with the Inspector, nodded to Ellery with just the proper note of heartiness, and obediently seated himself at the Inspector’s request.

“Well!” he chuckled, smoothing his white mustache. “Very charming household, I see. Very! And how is the investigation proceeding, Inspector? Tchk, tchk!” He chattered like a spry old parrot, his twinkling eyes never still.

The Inspector cleared his throat. “A little matter of checkup, Mr. Gray. Routine. I haven’t inconvenienced you by this summons?”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Gray amiably. “I’ve just come from a visit to Cyrus—Cyrus French, I should say—and he’s much better, by the way, much better.”

“That’s nice,” said the Inspector. “Now, Mr. Gray, just to make it legal—can you account for your movements on Monday night?”

Gray looked blank. Then he smiled slowly. Then he burst into an infectious chuckle. “I see, I see! Clever, Inspector, quite clever. You want to be sure of everything. Very interesting! I suppose every one is coming in for a similar quiz?”

“Oh, yes!” said the Inspector reassuringly. “We’ve had a number of your colleagues on the carpet today already.” They both laughed. Gray became politely serious.

“Monday night? Let me see.” He plucked his mustache thoughtfully. “Of course! Monday night I spent the entire evening at my club. The Penny Club, you know. Had dinner there with some of my cronies, played billiards—the usual thing. At about ten o’clock, I believe, or perhaps a little after ten, Zorn—you remember Zorn, of course, one of my fellow-directors—Zorn dropped in for a chat. We discussed the coming merger, the details of which we were to work out in conference the next morning with French and the rest, and about a half-hour later Zorn left, complaining of a headache.”

“Well, that tallies nicely,” said Queen, with a grin. “Because Mr. Zorn was here not long ago and told us about your meeting at the Penny Club.”

“Really?” Gray smiled. “Then I gather there is little left to be said, Inspector.”

“Not quite, Mr. Gray.” The Inspector clucked cheerfully. “You see, just to keep the record straight—how did you spend the rest of the evening?”

“Oh! In a commonplace manner, sir. I left the club at about eleven and walked home—I live not far from there, on Madison Avenue. Simply went home and to bed.”

“You live alone, Mr. Gray?”

Gray grimaced. “Unfortunately, being a misogynist, I have no family, Inspector. An old servant keeps house for me—I live in an apartment hotel, you know.”

“Then your housekeeper was up when you returned from the club, Mr. Gray?”

Gray spread his hands briefly. “No. Hilda had left on Saturday evening to visit a sick brother in Jersey City, and did not get back until Tuesday afternoon.”

“I see.” The Inspector took snuff. “But surely
someone
saw you get home, Mr. Gray?”

Gray looked startled, then he smiled again one of his twinkling smiles. “Oh, you want me to establish my—alibi, is it, Inspector?”

“That’s what it’s called, sir.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said,” replied Gray happily. “Because Jackson, the night-clerk, saw me when I entered the building. I asked for mail and stood chatting with him for several minutes. Then I took the elevator to my suite.”

The Inspector’s face brightened. “Then really,” he said, “there
is
nothing more to be said. Except—” his face lengthened momentarily—“what time was it when you stopped talking with this night-clerk and went upstairs?”

“Just eleven-forty. I remember glancing at the clock above Jackson’s desk to compare it with my own watch.”

“And where is your hotel, Mr. Gray?”

“Madison and 37th, Inspector. The
Burton.”

“Then I think—Unless, Ellery, you would like to ask Mr. Gray a question or two?”

The aged little director turned quickly, in open surprise. He had forgotten the presence of Ellery, who was sitting quietly in his corner listening to the conversation. Gray looked expectant as Ellery smiled.

“Thank you, dad—I
have
something to ask Mr. Gray, if we’re not keeping him too long?” He looked questioningly at their visitor.

Gray expostulated. “Not at all, Mr. Queen. Anything I can do to help you—”

“Very well, then.” Ellery hoisted his lean length from the chair and stretched his muscles. “Mr. Gray, I’m going to ask you a peculiar question. I rely upon your discretion to preserve silence, for one thing, and upon your undoubted loyalty to Mr. French and your concern in his bereavement to answer frankly.”

“I’m entirely at your service.”

“Let me present a hypothetical case,” continued Ellery rapidly. “Let us suppose that Bernice Carmody was a drug addict. …”

Gray frowned. “A drug addict?”

“Exactly. And let us suppose further that neither her mother nor her stepfather suspected her malady and condition. Then let us suppose that Mrs. French suddenly discovered the truth. …”

“I see, I see,” murmured Gray.

“The hypothetical question arising from this hypothetical case is: What do you think Mrs. French would do?” Ellery lit a cigaret.

Gray grew thoughtful. Then he looked into Ellery’s eyes. “The first thing that occurs to me, Mr. Queen,” he said simply, “is that Mrs. French would
not
confide in Cyrus.”

“That’s interesting. You know them both so well. …”

“Yes.” Gray set his small wrinkled jaw. “Cyrus has been a lifelong friend. I know—or knew—Mrs. French perhaps as well as anyone acquainted with the French family. And I am certain, familiar as I am with Cyrus’s character and Mrs. French’s knowledge of his character, that she would not dare to tell him such a thing. She would keep it strictly to herself. She might possibly inform Carmody, her first husband. …”

“We needn’t go into that, Mr. Gray,” said Ellery. “But why would she keep it a secret from French?”

“Because,” said Gray frankly, “Cyrus is hypersensitive on the subject of vice, particularly drug addiction. You must remember that most of his latter years have been devoted to wiping out as much of this sort of vice in the city as possible. To find it in his own family would, I firmly believe, unbalance him. … But, of course,” he added quickly, “he doesn’t know; I’m positive Mrs. French would keep a thing like that to herself. She might try to cure the girl secretly, perhaps. …”

Ellery said clearly: “One of the major reasons for Mrs. French’s silence in a case like this would be, I suppose, that she was aiming to secure for her daughter a generous slice of her husband’s fortune?”

Gray started uncomfortably. “Well … I don’t … Yes, if you must have the truth, I think that is so. Mrs. French was a calculating—not necessarily unscrupulous, mind you—but a calculating and very practical woman. I believe that, motherlike, she was determined that Bernice come in for a good share of Cyrus’s estate when Cyrus should pass on. … Is there anything else, Mr. Queen?”

“That is,” said Ellery, smiling, “quite sufficient. Thank you immeasurably, Mr. Gray.”