The French Powder Mystery

They found Marion and Weaver sitting glumly in the drawing-room, hands clasped, and suspiciously silent. The Inspector coughed, Ellery thoughtfully scrubbed away at his pince-nez, Velie screwed up his eyes and blinked at a Renoir on the wall.

The boy and the girl sprang to their feet.

“How... how is daddy?” asked Marion hurriedly, one slim hand to a crimson-dappled cheek.

“Resting quietly now, Miss French,” replied the Inspector in some embarrassment. “Ah — a question or two, young lady, and then we will be on our way... Ellery!”

Ellery came directly to the point.

“Your key to your father’s apartment, Miss French” he demanded — “is it always in your possession?”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Queen. You don’t think—”

“A categorical question, Miss French,” said Ellery blandly. “Your key has not left your possession in, let us say, four weeks?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Queen. It’s my own, and every one else who might have occasion to go into the apartment has a key of his or her own, as well.”

“Lucidly said. May I borrow yours temporarily?”

Marion half-turned toward Weaver with hesitation written in her eyes. Weaver pressed her arm reassuringly.

“Do whatever Ellery asks, Marion,” he said.

Without a word Marion rang for a maid, and in a few moments turned over to Ellery another key whose only distinguishing characteristic from the keys already on his person was the neatly engraved M. F. on the bright disk. Ellery stowed it away with the others and murmured his thanks, retreating a step.

The Inspector promptly stepped forward.

“I must ask you what may prove an awkward question, Miss French,” he said.

“I... we seem to be completely in your hands, Inspector Queen,” said the girl, smiling faintly.

The Inspector stroked his mustache. “Just what has been the relationship between yourself, let us say, and your stepmother and stepsister? Amicable? Strained? Openly antagonistic?”

Marion did not answer at once. Weaver shuffled his feet and turned away. Then the girl’s magnificent eyes met the old man’s honestly.

“I think ‘strained’ expresses it exactly,” she said in her clear sweet voice. “There has never been much love lost on any side of the triangle. Winifred has always preferred Bernice above me — which is of course natural and as for Bernice, we didn’t agree from the beginning. And as time went on, and — and things began to happen, the rift simply widened...”

“‘Things’?” prompted the Inspector suggestively.

Marion bit her lip, flushed. “Well — just little things, you know,” she said evasively. She hurried on. “All of us tried very hard to conceal our dislike for each other — for dad’s sake. I’m afraid we weren’t always successful. Dad is keener than people think.”

“I see.” The Inspector tchk-ed with concern. He straightened with a peculiarly swift movement of his body. “Miss French, do you know anything that might give us a hint to the murderer of your stepmother?”

Weaver gasped, whitened. He seemed about to voice a bitter protest. But Ellery laid a restraining hand on his arm. The girl grew still, but she did not flinch. She passed her fingers wearily across her forehead.

“I... no.” It was a bare whisper.

The Inspector made a deprecating little gesture.

“Oh, please don’t ask me anything more about — about her,” she cried suddenly in an agonized voice. “I can’t go on this way, talking about her, trying to tell the truth, because...” she spoke more quietly, “... because it would be in the poorest taste to calumniate that poor — dead — thing.” She shuddered. Weaver boldly put his arm about her shoulders. She turned to him with a little sigh of relief and buried her face against his breast.

“Miss French.” Ellery’s tone was gentleness itself. “You can help us on one point... Your stepsister — what brand of cigaret does she smoke?”

Marion’s astonishment at the seemingly irrelevant question brought her head up with a start.

“Why... La Duchesse.”

“Exactly. And she smoked La Duchesse exclusively?”

“Yes. At least, for as long as I’ve known her.”

“Has she” — Ellery was casual — “has she any peculiarity in her method of smoking, Miss French? Any perhaps slightly unusual habit?”

The pretty brows drew closer together in a little frown. “If you mean by habit” — she hesitated — “a distinct nervousness — yes.”