The French Powder Mystery
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #2
- Год: 1930
- Язык: английский
- Год: Frederick A. Stokes
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The French Powder Mystery». Краткое содержание книги:
“Mr. Lavery, are these windows illuminated after dark?”
“No, Mr. Queen. The shades are drawn after every demonstration, and they are kept drawn until the following day.”
“Then,” and Ellery emphasized the word, “then I take it that these lighting-fixtures are dummies?”
Eyes long since dulled by waiting and wretchedness expectantly followed the direction of Ellery’s arm. He was pointing toward the oddly cut, clouded-glass wall lights. The eyes all turned, too, to observe the numerous queerly shaped lamps about the room.
For answer Lavery strode to the rear wall and, after a moment’s manipulation, removed one of the modernistic fixtures. The socket which should have held an electric bulb was empty.
“We have no use for lights here,” he said, “so we have not installed them.” With a swift movement he restored the fixture to its place on the wall.
Ellery took a decisive step forward. But then he shook his head, retreated, turned to the Inspector.
“Henceforth, or at least for the present, I shall be silent,” he said smiling, “and latinically pass for a philosopher.”
12
Out the Window...
A policeman pushed his way into the room, looked about as if to catch the eye of authority, was summoned peremptorily by old Queen, mumbled a few words, and departed almost as quickly as he had come.
The Inspector immediately took John Gray aside and whispered in the little director’s ear. Gray nodded and went to the side of Cyrus French, who was staring blankly into space, muttering to himself. With the aid of Weaver and Zorn, Gray managed to twist French’s chair around so that the old man’s back was to the body. French noticed nothing. The store physician took his pulse professionally. Marion’s hand was at her throat; she stood up quickly and leaned against the back of her father’s chair.
Then the door opened and two white-garbed men with visored caps entered, bearing a stretcher between them. They saluted the Inspector, who jerked his thumb toward the sheeted corpse.
Ellery had withdrawn into the far corner of the room beyond the bed to hold communion with his pince-nez. He frowned at it, tapped it on the back of his hand, threw his lightcoat on the bed and sat down, taking his head between his hands. Finally, as if he had come to either an impasse or a conclusion, he produced from the pocket of his coat the volume it contained, and began to scribble hurriedly on the fly-leaf. He paid not the slightest attention to the two police doctors stooped over the dead woman.
Nor did he protest when he was unceremoniously moved by a silent, nervous man who had entered immediately behind the stretcher bearers, and who was now engaged with the help of an assistant in photographing the dead woman, her position on the floor, the bed, the handbag and other articles connected with the victim. Ellery’s eyes followed the police photographer, but abstractedly.
Suddenly he snapped his little book back into his pocket and waited thoughtfully until he caught his father’s eye.
“Lord, son,” said the Inspector, coming over, “I’m tired. And worried. And apprehensive.”
“Apprehensive? Come, now — don’t fall into that silly frame of mind, dad. Why should you be apprehensive? This case is coming along, coming along...”
“Oh, you’ve probably caught the murderer and hidden him in your vest-pocket,” growled the old man. “I’m not worried about the murderer, I’m worried about Welles.”
“Sorry!” Ellery moved closer. “Don’t let Welles rile you, dad; I don’t think he’s as bad as you’ve painted him. And while he’s merely heckling you, I’ll be working undercover — grasp the idea?”
“It’s not half bad at that,” said the Inspector. “My gosh! He’s liable to walk in here any minute now, El! I never thought of that! By this time he has a telephoned report and — Yes! What is it?”
A bluecoat tramped in with a message and left.
The Inspector groaned. “Word’s just come that Welles is on his way here — now we’ll have arrests, interviews, grillings, reporters running over the place, and merry—”
Ellery’s air of raillery vanished. He grasped his father’s arm and guided him swiftly to an angle in the wall.
“If that’s the case, dad, let me tell you what is in my mind — quickly.” He looked around; they were fairly unobserved. He lowered his voice. “Have you reached any definite conclusions yet? I’d like to have your reactions before I tell you mine.”
“Well—” the old man peered about him cautiously, then cupped his mouth in his small hands — “between you and me, son, there’s something queer about the whole business. As far as details are concerned, I’m a little hazy — if you’re clearer than I, it’s probably because you have had something of the advantage of an observer. But as to the crime itself — the possible motive — the story behind it — I have the inescapable feeling that the murder of Mrs. French is not half so important to us as what may have necessitated the murder...” Ellery nodded thoughtful. “I have no doubt that this is a carefully planned murder. Despite the weirdness of the place, the apparent sloppiness of the crime, there is amazingly little to go on.”
“What about Marion French’s scarf?” asked Ellery.
“Fiddlesticks!” said the Inspector contemptuously. “Can’t see that it means anything intelligible. In all probability she left it somewhere about and Mrs. French picked it up... But I’ll bet a cookie that the Commissioner grabs it.”
“I think you’re wrong there,” commented Ellery. “He’ll be afraid to tackle French. Don’t lose sight of French’s power as head of the Anti-Vice Society... No, dad, for the present Welles will keep his hands off Marion French.”
“Well, what have you concluded, Ellery?”
Ellery produced his small volume and turned to the flyleaf on which he had scribbled a few moments before. He looked up. “I hadn’t thought about the remote nuances of the crime, dad,” he said. “Although, now that you’ve brought it up, it seems to me that you are probably correct about the far-reaching significance of the motive as opposed to the crime itself... No, I’ve been chiefly occupied until now with more direct affairs. I have four interesting little puzzlers to elucidate. Listen carefully.
“First, and probably most important,” he began, referring to his notes, “there is the puzzle of Mrs. French’s key. We have a fair sequence of incident. The nightwatchman, O’Flaherty, observes the victim at about eleven-fifty last night with the gold-disked apartment key in her possession. She is lost sight of until twelve-fifteen to-day, when she is found dead — still in the store, but with the key missing from the scene of the crime. The question arises, then: Why is the key missing? It seems on the face of it a pure matter of discovery, doesn’t it? Yet — regard the possibilities. It is plausible enough at this time to suspect that the key’s disappearance is connected with the crime, more directly with the murderer. A murderer disappears, a key disappears. It is not difficult to imagine that they disappeared together. Now, if this is so — and for the present let us assume that it is so — why did the murderer take the key? Obviously, we can’t answer that question — yet. But... we now know that the murderer has in his possession a key to a certain apartment — French’s private apartment on the sixth floor.”
“That’s so,” muttered the Inspector. “I’m glad you suggested sending one of the boys to watch that apartment this morning.”
“I had that thought,” said Ellery. “But something else disturbs me. I can’t help asking myself: Doesn’t the absence of the key perhaps indicate that the body was brought to this window from some other place?”