The French Powder Mystery

He hung up. “Your Bernice has not returned,” he said mildly. “For what reason Fortunatus alone knows.” He looked thoughtfully at the two lipsticks in his hand. “Was Mrs. French a widow, Wes?” he asked after a pause.

“No. She was divorced from Carmody.”

“That’s not Vincent Carmody, the antique dealer by any chance?” asked Ellery, without changing expression.

“That’s the man. Know him?”

“Slightly. I’ve been in his establishment.” Ellery frowned as he regarded the lipsticks. His eyes keened suddenly.

“Now, I wonder...” he said, putting the gold stick aside and turning the silver one over in his fingers. He unscrewed the cap, twisted the body so that the dark red paste emerged. He kept twisting absently until the entire carmine length was visible. He tried to twist it still further. To his surprise, there was a distinct click! and the entire paste in its metal setting fell out of the silver case into his hand.

“What have we here?” he asked in honest astonishment, peering into the cavity. Weaver leaned over for a better view. Ellery tipped the case and shook it.

A little capsule about a half-inch around and perhaps an inch long fell out into his hand. It was filled with a powdery white crystalline substance.

“What is it?” breathed Weaver.

Ellery shook it, held it up to the light. “Well, sir,” he said slowly, a grim smile lifting the corners of his lips, “it looks very much like heroin to me!”

“Heroin? The drug, you mean?” asked Weaver excitedly.

“Precisely.” Ellery restored the capsule to the lipstick case, screwed the paste section into place, and put the lipstick into his pocket. “Nice commercial heroin. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. I’ll have the stuff analyzed for me at Headquarters. Westley,” and he turned squarely to French’s secretary, “tell me the truth. To your knowledge is — or was — any member of the French family a drug addict?”

Weaver replied with unexpected promptitude. “Now that you’ve found this heroin, if that’s what it is, it seems to me that I recall something queer in the conduct and actions of Bernice, especially of late. That’s her lipstick isn’t it? — Ellery, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Bernice is addicted to the stuff. She’s been jumpy, nervous, peaked-looking — alternated fits of gloom with spasms of hilarity...”

“You’re describing the symptoms, all right,” said Ellery. “Bernice, eh? The lady becomes more and more interesting with every passing moment. How about Mrs. French — French himself — Marion?”

“No... not Marion!” almost shouted Weaver. Then he grinned in shame. “Sorry. No, Ellery, you forget that the Old Man is head of the Anti-Vice League — good Lord!”

“Quite a situation, eh?” smiled Ellery. “And Mrs. French was normal in that respect, you think?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Anybody in the family besides yourself suspect that Bernice is a dope fiend?”

“I don’t think so. No, I’m pretty sure no one did. Certainly not the Old Man. Marion has commented at times about Bernice’s conduct and queer actions, but I’m positive she doesn’t suspect — this. As for Mrs. French — well, it’s hard to tell just what she thought. Always was tight-mouthed when it came to her darling Bernice. Though if she did suspect her, she did nothing about it. I’m inclined to believe she was ignorant of the whole business.”

“And yet—” Ellery’s eyes gleamed, “it’s passing strange, Westley, that the evidence should be found on Mrs. French’s body — in her handbag, in fact... now, isn’t it?”

Weaver shrugged his shoulders wearily. “My head’s in a perfect whirl.”

“Westley, old boy,” pursued Ellery, fingering his pince-nez, “what do you think Mr. French would say if he knew there was drug-addiction in his own family?”

Weaver shuddered. “You don’t know what a temper the Old Man has when he’s aroused. And I think that that would arouse him—” He stopped short, looked at Ellery suspiciously. Ellery smiled.

“Time grows apace,” he said with heartiness, but there was a disturbed light in his eye. “On to the lavatory!”