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:
“Doesn’t make sense, though — that last,” muttered Queen. “Can’t see what he might possibly have to do that he couldn’t do with gloves on.”
“I have a little idea about that,” remarked Ellery. “But to go on. He hasn’t used gloves, let us say, at least for one small but important operation, and he’s certain that there are prints of his fingers left on the book-ends — which of necessity, then, are connected with what he had to do. Very well! Does he merely wipe the surface of the onyx carefully, trusting that he’s eradicated all the tell-tale marks? He does not! He produces fingerprint powder, whisks it gently over all the surfaces of the onyx, one at a time, and where he sees a convolvular smudge, he immediately destroys it. In this way he’s sure there are no fingerprints left. Smart! A little painstaking, of course — but he was gambling with his life, remember, and he took no chances. No—” Ellery said slowly, “he took — no chances.”
There was a little silence, broken only by the soft swish of “Jimmy’s” hand caressing his bald head.
“At least,” said the Inspector impatiently, at last, “there’s no sense in looking for prints anywhere about. The criminal who was clever enough to go through a rigmarole like this would personalities. Jimmy, wrap those book-ends up again and take them back to Headquarters with you. Better have one of the boys go along with you — let’s take no chances on your, well, let’s say, losing em.
“Right, Inspector.” The police laboratory worker deftly rewrapped the book-ends in the tissue paper, stowed them away in his bag, and with a cheery, “So long!” disappeared from the room.
“Now, Mr. Weaver,” said the Inspector, settling himself comfortably in a chair, “have a seat and let’s hear some things about the various people we’ve met in the course of this investigation. Sit down, Ellery, you make me fidgety!”
Ellery smiled and seated himself at the desk, for which he seemed to have developed a curious passion. Weaver relaxed in one of the leather-covered chairs, resignedly.
“Anything you say, Inspector.” He looked over at Ellery. Ellery was gazing fixedly at the books on the desk-top.
“Well, for an introduction,” began the Inspector, briskly, “tell us something about that employer of yours. Mighty queer cuss, isn’t he? Anti-vice work made him daffy, perhaps?”
“I think you’ve judged the Old Man a trifle inaccurately,” said Weaver tiredly. “He’s the best and most generous soul in the world. If you can conceive a strange combination of Arthurian purity of nature with a definite narrowness of outlook, you’ll hit close to understanding him. He’s not a broad-minded man, in the generally accepted sense of the word. He has a little iron in him, too, or he wouldn’t be crusading against vice. He loathes it instinctively, I think, because certainly there’s never been the smallest element of scandal or criminality in his family. That’s why this thing has hit him so hard. He probably foresees the ravenous way in which the newspapers will pick up the choice morsel — wife of the Anti-Vice League head mysteriously murdered, and all that. And then, too, I think he loved Mrs. French dearly. I don’t think she loved him—” he hesitated, but continued loyally, “but she was always good to him in her cold, self-contained way. She was a good bit younger than he, of course.”
The Inspector coughed gently. Ellery regarded Weaver with morose eyes, but his thoughts seemed far away. Perhaps on the books, for his fingers played idly with their covers.
“Tell me, Mr. Weaver,” said Queen, “have you noticed anything — well, abnormal — in Mr. French’s actions lately? Or better still, do you know personally of anything that might have caused him secret worry in recent months?”
Weaver was silent for a long time. “Inspector,” he said at last, meeting Queen’s eyes frankly, “the truth is that I know a great many things about Mr. French and his family and friends. I’m not a scandal-monger. You must understand that this is an extremely embarrassing position for me. It’s hard to betray confidences...”
The Inspector looked pleased. “Spoken like a man, Mr. Weaver. Ellery, answer your friend.”
Ellery regarded Weaver compassionately. “Wes, old boy,” he said, “a human being has been killed in cold blood. It is our business to punish the murderer who took that life. I can’t answer for you — it’s difficult for a straight-thinking man to spill a heap of family secrets — but if I were you, I should talk. Because, Wes” — he paused — “you’re not with policemen. You’re with friends.”
“Then I’ll talk,” said Weaver despairingly, “and hope for the best. — I believe you asked about something abnormal in the Old Man’s actions recently, Inspector? You’ve hit a truth. Mr. French is secretly worried and upset. Because—”
“Because—?”
“Because,” said Weaver in a spiritless voice, “a few months ago an unfortunate friendship sprang up between Mrs. French and — Cornelius Zorn.”
“Zorn, eh? Love-affair, Weaver?” asked Queen in a soothing voice.
“I’m afraid so,” replied Weaver uncomfortably. “Though what she saw in him— But now I’m becoming gossipy! The fact is that they were seeing each other much too often, so much so that even the Old Man, the most unsuspicious soul that ever breathed, began to realize that something was wrong.”
“Nothing definite, I suppose?”
“I don’t think there was anything radically wrong, Inspector. And of course Mr. French never breathed a word of it to his wife. He wouldn’t dream of hurting her feelings. But I know it touched him deeply, because once he let slip something in my presence that gave all his transparent broodings away. I’m reasonably certain that he was desperately hoping things would work out for the best.”
“I thought Zorn held aloof from French in that window,” mused the Inspector.
“Undoubtedly. Zorn makes no bones about his feeling for Mrs. French. She was not an unattractive woman, Inspector. And Zorn is pretty small potatoes. He broke a lifelong friendship when he began to dally with the Old Man’s wife. It’s that, I think, as much as anything, that made the Old Man feel so badly.”
“Is Zorn married?” put in Ellery suddenly.
“Why, yes, El,” replied Weaver, facing his friend for the moment. “Sophia Zorn’s a queer woman, too. I think she hated Mrs. French — not the slightest feminine sympathy in her make-up. Pretty objectionable character, that woman.”
“Does she love Zorn?”
“That’s hard to answer. She has an abnormal streak of possessiveness, and that may be why she was so jealous. She showed it at every opportunity and made things quite uncomfortable for all of us at times.”
“I suppose,” put in the Inspector with grim smile, “it’s common knowledge. Those things always are.”
“Much too common,” said Weaver bitterly. “It’s been a hideous farce, the whole business. My God, there have been times when I was tempted to strangle Mrs. French myself for the ghastly wreck she was making out of the Old Man!”
“Well, don’t make that statement when the Commissioner is around, Weaver,” smiled the Inspector. “What is French’s feeling for his immediate family?”
“Of course he loved Mrs. French — was uncommonly thoughtful in the little things for a man of his age,” said Weaver. “As for Marion” — his eyes brightened — “she’s always been the apple of his eye. A perfect love between father and daughter... It’s been a little unpleasant — for me,” he added in a lower tone.