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:
“No.”
The Inspector frowned. “Well! At any rate, Miss French, you did the right thing — the only thing — in telling us about it.”
“I didn’t want to,” she said in a small voice. “But Westley, when I told him to-day, said I must. And so—”
“Why didn’t you want to?” asked Ellery. It was the first time he had spoken since Marion had begun her story.
The girl did not speak for a long moment. Finally, with a determined expression, she said: “I’d rather not answer that, Mr. Queen,” and rose.
The Inspector was on his feet instantly. He escorted her to the door in an animate silence.
When he returned, Ellery was chuckling. “As transparent as any angel,” he said. “Don’t frown so, dad. Have you checked up on our good friend Cyrus French?”
“Oh, that!” The Inspector looked unhappy. “Yes, I had Johnson working on it last night. Got his report this morning. He was at Whitney’s in Great Neck, all right. I understand he had a slight attack of indigestion about nine o’clock Monday night. Retired immediately.”
“Coincidence?” Ellery grinned.
“Eh?” Queen scowled. “At any rate, that accounts for him.”
“Oh, yes?” Ellery sat down and crossed his long legs. “Purely as an intellectual exercise,” he said mischievously, “it does nothing of the kind. You see, old Cyrus retires at nine. Let us assume that he wishes to return to New York without the knowledge of his host. Suddenly. That night. He slips out of the house and goes trudging down the road... Hold! Did any one see him leave so early in the morning in Whitney’s car?”
The Inspector stared. “The chauffeur, of course — man who drove him into the city. Johnson told me French left long before any one else was up. But the chauffeur!”
Ellery chuckled. “Better and better,” he said. “Chauffeurs can be hushed. It has been done... Our worthy anti-vicious magnate, then, slips out of the house; perhaps his accomplice, the chauffeur, even drives him down to the station secretly. There’s a train about that hour. I know, because I took one three weeks ago Monday night when I returned from Boomer’s. And it’s only a half-hour or so into Penn Station. In time to slip through the freight-door...”
“But he’d have to stay all night!” groaned the Inspector.
“Granted. But then there’s a sagacious chauffeur to alibi one... You see how simple it is?”
“Oh, tosh!” exploded the Inspector.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” said Ellery, eyes twinkling. “But it’s something to bear in mind.”
“Fairy-tales!” growled the Inspector, and then they laughed together. “I’ve arranged to get those alibis, by the way. I called Zorn from the office and told him to come down here. I want to see how his story checks up with Marion French’s. And what he did after ten last night.”
Ellery lost his bantering air. He looked dissatisfied, rubbed his forehead wearily. “It might be wise,” he said, “to get all those alibis clear, at that. Mightn’t be a bad idea to get Mrs. Zorn down here, too. And I’ll emulate the Stoics meanwhile.”
The Inspector made a number of telephone calls, while Djuna went rapidly through telephone directories, and Ellery slumped into an easy-chair and closed his eyes...
A half-hour later Mr. and Mrs. Zorn sat in the Queen living-room side by side, facing Inspector Queen. Ellery was far off in a corner, almost hidden by a jutting bookcase.
Mrs. Zorn was a large-boned woman, well fleshed and rosy. Her too-golden hair was cut in a severe, startling bob. She had cold green eyes and a large mouth. She looked, at first glance, under thirty; on closer observation, faint crinkles around her chin and eyes added ten years to her appearance. She was dressed in the height of fashion and carried herself with an air of arrogance.
Despite Marion’s story, Mr. and Mrs. Zorn seemed on the most amicable of terms. Mrs. Zorn acknowledged her husband’s introduction of the Inspector with regal graciousness; she punctuated each remark to Zorn with a sweet “My dear...”
The Inspector examined her shrewdly with his eyes, and decided not to mince words.
He turned first to Zorn. “I have called you, as a logical step in this inquiry, to explain your movements on the night of Monday past, Mr. Zorn.”
The Director’s hand strayed to his bald pate. “Monday night? The night — of the murder, Inspector?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you insinuating—” Rage leaped into his eyes behind their heavy gold-rimmed spectacles. Mrs. Zorn made the least gesture with a finger. Zorn calmed magically. “I had dinner,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “at our apartment with Mrs. Zorn. We stayed in all evening. At ten o’clock or so I left the apartment and went directly to the Penny Club on Fifth Avenue and 32nd Street. I met Gray there and we discussed the Whitney merger for a half-hour or so. I developed a headache and told Gray I thought I’d try to walk it off. We said good night and I left the Club. I did take a long walk up the Avenue and, in fact, walked all the way home to 74th Street.”
“And what time was that, Mr. Zorn?” asked the Inspector.
“I should say about a quarter to twelve.”
“Was Mrs. Zorn up — did she see you?”
The large rosy woman chose to reply for her husband. “No, Inspector, no indeed! I had dismissed the servants for the night a little after Mr. Zorn left the apartment, and I’d gone to bed myself. I fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t hear him come in.” She smiled, exhibiting huge white teeth.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand how—” began the Inspector courteously.
“Mr. Zorn and I have separate sleeping apartments, Inspector Queen,” she said, dimpling.
“Umm.” The Inspector turned once more to Zorn, who had sat perfectly still during this colloquy. “Did you meet any one you knew during your walk, Mr. Zorn?”
“Why — no.”
“When you entered your apartment house, did any of the house personnel see you?”
Zorn fumbled with his massive red mustache. “I’m afraid not. There’s only a night-man at the switchboard after eleven, and when I came in he was absent from his post.”
“The elevator, I suppose, is of the self-service type?” asked Queen dryly.
“Yes — that’s correct.”
The Inspector turned to Mrs. Zorn. “At what time did you see your husband in the morning — Tuesday morning?”
She raised her blond brows archly. “Tuesday morning — let me see... Oh, yes! It was ten o’clock.”
“Fully dressed, Mrs. Zorn?”
“Yes. He was reading his morning paper when I came into our living-room.”
The Inspector smiled, quite wearily, and rose to take a short turn about the room. Finally he stopped before Zorn and fixed him with a stern eye. “Why haven’t you told me about Miss French’s visit to your apartment Monday evening?”
Zorn grew very still. The effect of Marion’s name on Mrs. Zorn was startling. The color drained from her face and her pupils dilated tigerishly. It was she who spoke.
“That—!” she said in a low passionate voice. But her body was tense with anger. The mask of politeness fell from her face and revealed an older woman — shrewish, cruel.
The Inspector seemed not to hear. “Mr. Zorn?” he said.
Zorn moistened his lips with a nervous tongue. “That’s true... true enough. I didn’t see that it had anything to do... Yes, Miss French visited us. She left about ten o’clock.”
The Inspector made an impatient movement. “You talked about your relations with Mrs. French, Mr. Zorn?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. That’s it.” The words tumbled out, gratefully.
“Mrs. Zorn flew into a rage?”
The woman’s eyes darted cold green fire. Zorn mumbled, “Yes.”