The French Powder Mystery

“There’s only one other member of the case about whom I have any curiosity at the moment,” said the Inspector. “And that’s the dissipated-looking, fashionable gentleman of the Board named Trask. Has he any contacts with the French family other than business?”

“More ‘other’ than ‘business,’” replied Weaver. “I may as well go the whole hog while I’m tattling. I’ll need a scrubbing-brush after I’m through! — Mr. A. Melville Trask is on the Board purely as a result of tradition. His father was the original member, and it was the elder Trask’s dying wish that his son succeed him. It meant loads of red tape, but finally they succeeded in dragging him in, where he’s been an ornament ever since. Not a brain in his head. But shrewdness? — plenty! Because Mr. Trask has been gunning for Bernice for over a year now — ever since he was elected to the Board, as a matter of fact.”

“Interesting,” murmured Ellery. “What’s the idea, Wes — the family fortune?”

“You’ve hit it exactly. Old Man Trask lost a lot in the stock market, and his son has been plunging so heavily that the report is he’s near the end of his rope financially. So I guess he figured his best bet was a fortuitous marriage. And that’s where Bernice comes in. He’s been hounding her, courting her, taking her out, flattering her mother for months now. He’s wormed his way into the affections of Bernice — who has few enough admirers, poor kid! — so much so that they’re virtually engaged. Nothing official, but that’s the understanding.”

“Opposition?” demanded the Inspector.

“Plenty,” replied Weaver grimly. “Chiefly from the Old Man. He feels it his duty to protect his stepdaughter from a man of Trask’s stamp. Trask is a cad and a rounder of the worst sort. The poor girl would lead a dog’s life with him.”

“Wes, what makes him so sure she’ll come into money?” asked Ellery suddenly.

“Well” — Weaver hesitated — “you see, El, Mrs. French had a respectable wad herself. And, of course, it’s been an open secret that when she died—”

“It would go to Bernice,” said the Inspector.

“Interesting,” said Ellery, rising to his full length and stretching wearily. “And for no reason at all, I’m reminded that I haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning. Let’s all go out for a sandwich and a sip of java. Anything more, dad?”

“Can’t think of a thing,” said the old man with a return to his glumness. “Well lock up and go. Hagstrom! Hesse! Get those cigaret stubs and cards into my own bags — and the shoes and hat, too...”

Ellery picked up the five books from the desk and handed them to Hagstrom.

“You might pack these, too, Hagstrom,” he said. “You’re taking these things to Headquarters, dad?”

“Why, of course!”

“Then, on reconsideration, Hagstrom, I’ll take these books myself.” The detective wrapped them carefully in a piece of brown paper he took from one of the police kits and returned them to Ellery. Weaver retrieved his hat and coat from one of the bedroom closets and the Inspector, Ellery and Weaver, preceded by the detectives, walked out of the apartment.

Ellery was the last one out. As he stood in the corridor, one hand on the knob of the outer door, he looked slowly from the apartment to the brown-papered package in his hand.

“Thus endeth,” he said softly to himself, “the first lesson.” His hand dropped and the door snapped shut.

Two minutes later only a lone bluecoat was left in the corridor, propped up against the door in a nondescript chair he had appropriated somewhere, reading a tabloid newspaper.