The French Powder Mystery

“And the friends of the family?”

“Well,” said Weaver slowly, “the Old Man has never been so narrow as to forbid card-playing altogether in his home. That’s why this apartment, by the way, is fitted out with a cardroom. It’s for the convenience of the directors — sometimes they play here between sessions. But in the house itself I have had plenty of opportunity to observe visitors and friends. I’ve never seen any one play banque except Mrs. French and Bernice.”

“Beautiful... beautiful,” said Ellery. “So symmetrically conclusive! That’s the way I like things...” But his brow was wrinkled with thought. “And the cigarets, old boy — tell me why you’ve been trying for five minutes not to look at the cigarets in the ashtray?”

Weaver flushed guiltily. “Oh!” He was silent. “I hate to say it, Ellery — I’m in the most hellish position imaginable...”

“The cigarets, of course, are Bernice’s brand... You may as well come out with it,” said Ellery wearily.

“How did you know?” cried Weaver. “But... I suppose it was clear enough to an alert... Yes, they’re Bernice’s. Her own brand. She has — had them made up for her especially.”

Ellery picked up one of the stubs. It was silver-tipped, and just below the tip was printed in script the brand-name: La Duchesse. Ellery poked his finger among the remaining litter of stubs. His look sharpened as he noted that all, without exception, had been smoked to approximately the same length — to about a half-inch of the tip.

“Pretty thoroughly smoked out, all of them,” he commented. He sniffed at the cigaret between his fingers, looked at Weaver inquiringly.

“Yes, scented. Violet, I think,” Weaver said promptly. “The manufacturer provides the scent according to the specifications of his customers. I remember hearing Bernice place an order not long ago when I was over at the French’s — placed it over the telephone.”

“And La Duchesse is rare enough to have weight in an inquiry... Good fortune, was it?” He talked to himself rather than to his friend.

“What do you mean?”

“No matter... And, of course, Mrs. French did not smoke?”

“Why — how did you know?” demanded Weaver in surprise.

“How nicely things fit together,” murmured Ellery. “So very, very nicely. And Marion — does she smoke?”

“Thank God... no!”

Ellery regarded him quizzically. “Well!” he said all at once. “Let’s see what’s behind this door.”

He crossed the room to the wall opposite the window. A small plain door opened into a little, simply furnished bedroom. Beyond it was a tiny bathroom.

“A servant’s room,” explained Weaver. “Originally planned for a valet, but it’s never been used to my knowledge. The Old Man isn’t fussy and he’d rather have his man at the Fifth Avenue house.”

Ellery made a swift examination of the two little rooms. He emerged in a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

“Nothing there, and there wouldn’t be...” He paused, twirling his pince-nez in the air. “We have a rather remarkable situation here, Wes. Consider: We are now in possession of three direct indications of Miss Bernice Carmody’s presence in this apartment last night. Or rather two direct indications, and one — the first — of a circumstantial nature. That is — the lipstick marked C from Mrs. French’s handbag. This is the least damaging of the three, of course, since it does not prove presence and might have been brought here by Mrs. French. But it must be kept in mind. Second, the game of banque, which any number of reputable witnesses, I gather, would testify, as strongly as you, was indulged in by Mrs. French and Bernice practically to the exclusion of the rest of the family and friends of the family. You noticed, didn’t you, that the game has the appearance of having been interrupted at a critical stage? The way the cards are lying there — they give the distinct impression that just when the game became hotly competitive, it was stopped... And third, the most critical indication of the three — the La Duchesse cigarets. These are so obviously Bernice’s that they would be acceptable in court as admissible evidence, I’m sure, if supported by strong circumstantial evidence of a confirmatory nature.”

“But what? I don’t see—” cried Weaver.

“The suspicious fact that Miss Bernice Carmody has vanished,” replied Ellery gravely. “Flight?” He flung the word at Weaver.

“I can’t — I won’t believe it,” said Weaver weakly, but there was a curious relief in his voice.

“Matricide is an unnatural crime, to be sure,” Ellery mused, “but it is not unknown... It is possible—” His reflections were disturbed by a rapid knock at the apartment door. It was surprisingly loud, coming as it did through the three walls of the cardroom, the library, the anteroom.