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:
“Mrs. Zorn.” The eyes became veiled. “You went to bed shortly after ten Monday night and did not leave your chamber until ten o’clock the following morning?”
“Right, Inspector Queen.”
“In that case,” concluded the Inspector, “there is nothing more to be said — now.”
When the Zorns had departed, the Inspector saw that Ellery was sitting in his forgotten corner laughing silently to himself.
“I fail to see the joke,” said the old man ruefully.
“Oh, dad — the mess and mire of it!” cried Ellery. “La vie, c’est confuse! How beautifully events belie each other... What do you make of your late interview?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” growled the Inspector, “but I know one thing. Anyone who can’t be accounted for by the visual evidence of witnesses between eleven-thirty o’clock Monday night and a little after nine on Tuesday morning might have done this job. Let’s take a hypothetical case. Suppose X is a possibility as the murderer. X is not seen after eleven-thirty Monday night. He says he went home and went to sleep. There is no witness. Suppose he didn’t go home. Suppose he slipped into the French store through that freight entrance. And got out the next morning at nine. Returned home, sneaked into his apartment without any one seeing him, and then reappeared about ten-thirty or so, letting lots of people see him. The presumption is that he slept home all night and therefore couldn’t have committed the crime. Yet physically it was possible...”
“Too true, too true,” murmured Ellery. “Well, evoke the next victim.”
“He should be here any moment now,” said the Inspector, and went into the bathroom to bathe his perspiring face.
32
Alibis: Marchbanks
Marchbanks glowered. He bore himself with the sullenness of a man who nurses a grudge. He snapped at the Inspector and ignored Ellery. He deposited his stick and hat on the table with a bang, rudely refusing to allow Djuna to take them from him. He sat down uninvited and drummed nastily on the arm of the chair.
“Well, sir,” thought the Inspector, “we’ll have at you.” He took a pinch of snuff with deliberation, regarding Marchbanks curiously. “Marchbanks,” he said in curt tones, “where were you Monday evening and night?”
The dead woman’s brother scowled. “What’s this — a third degree?”
“If you choose to make it so,” retorted the Inspector, in his most unpleasant voice. “I repeat — where were you Monday night?”
“If you must know,” said Marchbanks bitingly, “I was out on Long Island.”
“Oh, Long Island!” The Inspector seemed duly impressed. “When did you go, where did you go, and how long did you stay?”
“You people always insist on a story,” wheezed Marchbanks, setting his feet solidly on the rug. “Very well. I left town at about seven o’clock Monday evening. In my car...”
“You drove yourself?”
“Yes. I—”
“Anybody with you?”
“NO!” shouted Marchbanks. “Do you want my story or don’t you? I—”
“Continue,” said the Inspector judicially.
Marchbanks glared. “As I began to say — I left town Monday evening at seven in my car. I was bound for Little Neck—”
“Little Neck, eh?” interpolated the Inspector exasperatingly.
“Yes, Little Neck,” stormed Marchbanks. “What’s wrong in that? I had been invited to a small party at the house of a friend of mine there—”
“His name?”
“Patrick Malone,” replied Marchbanks resignedly. “When I got there, I found no one at home except Malone’s man. He explained that at the last moment Malone had been called away on business and had had to call off the party...”
“Did you know that such an eventuality might occur?”
“If you mean did I know that Malone was going to be called away — yes, in a way. He’d mentioned the possibility of it over the ’phone to me earlier in the day. At any rate, I saw no use in staying, so I left at once and proceeded off the main road to my own shack, a few miles farther on. I keep it for occasional jaunts into the Island. I—”
“Have you any servants there?”
“No. It’s a small place and I prefer solitude when I’m out that way. So I slept there overnight and returned to the city in the morning by car.”
The Inspector smiled sardonically. “I suppose you met no one all night or in the morning who might verify your statements?”
“I don’t know what you mean. What are you driving at—?”
“Yes or no?”
“... No.”
“What time did you get to the city?”
“About ten-thirty. I rose rather late.”
“And what time was it Monday evening when you reached your friend Malone’s place and spoke to his valet?”
“Oh, I should say about eight or eight-thirty. I don’t recall exactly.”
The Inspector sent a mutely humorous glance across the room to Ellery. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Marchbanks’ florid face darkened and he rose abruptly.
“If you have nothing more to ask me, Inspector Queen, I must be going.” He picked up his hat and stick.
“Ah! Just one other thing. Sit down, Marchbanks.” Marchbanks reluctantly reseated himself. “How do you account for the murder of your sister?”
Marchbanks sniggered. “I thought you’d ask that. Up a tree, eh? Well, I’m not surprised. The police of this city are—”
“Answer my question, please.”
“I don’t account for it, and I can’t account for it!” cried Marchbanks suddenly. “That’s your business! All I know is that my sister has been shot to death, and I want her murderer sizzling in the chair.” He stopped, out of breath.
“Yes, yes, I realize your natural desire for revenge,” said the Inspector tiredly. “You may go, Mr. Marchbanks, but keep in town.”
33
Alibis: Carmody
Vincent Carmody was the next caller. His reticence was as marked as usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiselessly in the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.
“Ah — Mr. Carmody,” began the Inspector uneasily. The antique dealer disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. “Ah... Mr. Carmody, I’ve called you in for a little consultation. We are checking up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand...”
“Ummm,” said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.
The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuffbox. “Now, I should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday night — the night of the murder.”
“The murder.” Carmody said it negligently. “Not interested in that, Inspector. What about my daughter?”
The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody’s expressionless lean face. “Your daughter’s search is being conducted by the proper authorities. We haven’t found her yet, but we have new information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my question.”
“Results!” Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. “I know what that word means in the police vocabulary. You’re stumped and you know it. I’ll put my own detective on the case.”
“Will you please answer my question?” grated the Inspector.
“Keep cool,” said Carmody. “Don’t see what my movements on Monday night have to do with the case. I certainly didn’t kidnap my own daughter. But if you must have it, here it is.
“Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central — the 9:14. Changed at Stamford and didn’t get to my destination until nearly midnight. It’s far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don’t know what went wrong. Had no place to stay — no hotel there — and had to return to the city. Couldn’t make a decent connection and didn’t get back to my apartment until four in the morning. That’s all.”