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:
“Not quite, Mr. Carmody.” The Inspector mused. “Did anyone see you when you returned to the city — at your apartment, perhaps?”
“No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast at the apartment dining-room at ten o’clock. The head-waiter will identify me.”
“No doubt,” said the Inspector disagreeably. “Meet anyone on your trip who might remember you?”
“No. Unless the conductor of the train.”
“Well!” Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody with open distaste. “Please make a note of all your movements and mail it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your daughter Bernice is a drug addict?”
Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in his chair.
“How did you find that out?” he muttered in a strangled voice. The muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. “I didn’t think any one knew — except Winifred and me.”
“Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?” queried the Inspector instantly. “Had she known it long?”
“So it’s out,” growled Carmody. “Good God!” He raised a haggard face to Queen. “I’ve known it for about a year. Winifred—” his face hardened — “Winifred didn’t know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all that,” he added bitterly. “Rot! She thought chiefly of herself... So I told her — two weeks ago. She didn’t believe it. We quarreled. But at the end she knew — I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred. I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don’t know any more...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was going to take Bernice away — somewhere — anywhere — cure her... And then Winifred was murdered and Bernice — gone...” His voice died away. Huge welts stood out under his eyes. The man was suffering — how deeply, by what perverse psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.
And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.
34
Alibis: Trask
Trask was a half-hour late for his appointment at the Queen apartment. He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the Inspector’s questions.
Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town — vaguely, with an idle gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.
Where “about town”? Well, really — can’t remember. Some night-club or other at first.
At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.
Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he’d been disappointed by some friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.
What was the name of the night-club? Really, don’t recall it.
What did he mean by “not recalling it”? Well — to tell the truth, he had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite — ha, ha! Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn’t remember anything except dashing cold water on his face at ten o’clock Tuesday morning in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some fresh clothes. Then the directors’ meeting at the French store.
“Beautiful!” muttered the Inspector, eyeing Trask as if he were an obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in the general direction of a tray.
“Trask!” The whip in Queen’s voice brought the tall, dissipated director’s body up with a start. “Are you sure you can’t remember what night-club you were in?”
“I say now,” drawled Trask, sinking back, “you scared me that time, Inspector. I’ve told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don’t recall a thing.”
“Well, that’s just too bad,” grunted the Inspector. “If I’m not disturbing you, Trask — do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual drug-user?”
“Not really!” Trask sat up straight. “Then I was right!”
“Oh, you suspected it?”
“A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the symptoms. I’ve seen plenty of ’em.” He brushed a speck of ash from his gardenia with languid distaste.
The Inspector smiled. “Which didn’t daunt you from going ahead with your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?”
Trask looked virtuous. “Oh, no — really! I’d intended to cure her after we were married. Without her family’s knowledge, and all that. Too bad — too bad,” he sighed. He sighed again.
“What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?” demanded the Inspector impatiently.
“Oh, that!” Trask brightened. “Absolutely of the best, Inspector. You — er — you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future father-in-law. Haw-haw!”
“Get out of here,” said the Inspector distinctly.
35
Alibis: Gray
John Gray folded his gloves neatly, deposited them in his rich black derby, and handed them with a cheerful smile to Djuna. Then he shook hands decorously with the Inspector, nodded to Ellery with just the proper note of heartiness, and obediently seated himself at the Inspector’s request.
“Well!” he chuckled, smoothing his white mustache. “Very charming household, I see. Very! And how is the investigation proceeding, Inspector? Tchk, tchk!” He chattered like a spry old parrot, his twinkling eyes never still.
The Inspector cleared his throat. “A little matter of checkup, Mr. Gray. Routine. I haven’t inconvenienced you by this summons?”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Gray amiably. “I’ve just come from a visit to Cyrus — Cyrus French, I should say — and he’s much better, by the way, much better.”
“That’s nice,” said the Inspector. “Now, Mr. Gray, just to make it legal — can you account for your movements on Monday night?”
Gray looked blank. Then he smiled slowly. Then he burst into an infectious chuckle. “I see, I see! Clever, Inspector, quite clever. You want to be sure of everything. Very interesting! I suppose every one is coming in for a similar quiz?”
“Oh, yes!” said the Inspector reassuringly. “We’ve had a number of your colleagues on the carpet today already.” They both laughed. Gray became politely serious.
“Monday night? Let me see.” He plucked his mustache thoughtfully. “Of course! Monday night I spent the entire evening at my club. The Penny Club, you know. Had dinner there with some of my cronies, played billiards — the usual thing. At about ten o’clock, I believe, or perhaps a little after ten, Zorn — you remember Zorn, of course, one of my fellow-directors — Zorn dropped in for a chat. We discussed the coming merger, the details of which we were to work out in conference the next morning with French and the rest, and about a half-hour later Zorn left, complaining of a headache.”