The French Powder Mystery

The Queens and Crouther were listening now with strained attention.

“The night I’ve referred to,” went on Weaver, “I was about to enter the Book Department when I noticed an unusual brightness — a number of lamps were lit up. My first thought was that somebody was working overtime, and when I looked in cautiously the thought seemed corroborated. It was Springer, alone, pottering about in the aisles of the Department. I don’t know exactly what made me keep out of sight — perhaps it was the fact that I was already suspicious of him — but I did, and watched curiously to see what he was doing.

“I saw him go over to one of the wall-shelves, after looking around with a furtive air, and swiftly take down a book. He took a long patent pencil from his pocket and, opening the book somewhere at the back, he made a rapid notation with the pencil. He snapped the book shut, made some sort of mark on the back-board, and immediately placed the book on a different shelf. I noted that he seemed quite anxious about how he placed the book; he fussed with it for several moments before he seemed satisfied. And that was all. He entered his private office in the rear and reappeared shortly after wearing his hat and coat. He then walked out of the Department, almost brushing by me as I stood huddled in a little alcove in the shadow. A few moments later the lights, except for one or two bulbs kept lit all night, snapped out. I found out later that he had checked out the regular way, informing the nightwatchman that he was through for the night, and that O’Flaherty should have the switch for the book section turned off.”

“That doesn’t seem so fluky to me,” said Crouther. “Probably just part of his job.”

“When you’re looking for suspicious activity,” said the Inspector vaguely, “you can generally find it.”

“I had something of the same thought,” replied Weaver. “It was a trifle peculiar to find Springer working overtime in the first place — the practice is rather discouraged by Mr. French. But then the incident itself might be perfectly innocent. I did go over to that shelf after Springer had gone and inquisitively I took down the book he had just placed there. I turned to the back and on an inside leaf I found in pencil a date and a street-and-number address.”

“An address?” Both Ellery and the Inspector exclaimed simultaneously. “What was it?” demanded the Inspector.

“I forget just now,” said Weaver, “but I have a note of it in my pocket. Would you like—?”

“Never mind the address at the moment,” said Ellery with a curious calm. “I’m not quite clear on this matter of the five books I took from French’s desk. Are they the actual books Springer marked?”

“No, they’re not,” replied Weaver. “But perhaps I had better give you my story in something like a sequence of incidents. It’s rather complicated... After noticing the date and address, which I couldn’t figure out at all as far as a possible meaning was concerned, I examined the back-board on which I had seen Springer write something. I found it was merely a light pencil-line under the name of the author.”

“That back-board fascinated me from the moment you mentioned it,” mused Ellery. “Are you sure, Westley, that the mark was under the entire name? Wasn’t it perhaps under the first two letters?”

Weaver stared. “Why, so it was,” he cried. “But how on earth could you know, Ellery?”

“Guess-work,” said Ellery negligently. “But it follows. No wonder,” he said, turning to his father, “I couldn’t get more out of these books, dad. They aren’t the originals... Go on, Wes.”

“I had no reason then,” continued Weaver, “to take decisive action about that book. I merely noted the address and date and, after slipping the book back into the exact place in which Springer had originally set it, I went about my business of checking up on Springer’s records. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the whole thing. It wasn’t until the following week — eight days, to be exact — that the incident was recalled — to my mind.”

“Springer did the same thing, I’ll bet!” cried Crouther.

“Bravo, Crouther,” murmured Ellery.

Weaver smiled fleetingly and went on. “Yes, under the same circumstances Springer did the same thing, and because I had gone down into the Book Department on my regular nightly check-up, I caught him at it again. This time I was puzzled to note that he repeated his performance of the week before in every detail. And the business still didn’t register any meaning in my mind. I merely jotted down the address and date once more — they were different from the previous week’s, incidentally — and went about my business. It wasn’t until the third week — after eight days had passed — that my suspicions began to function a little more actively.”