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:
Crouther scraped his hand over his face. “What the hell is holdin’ up the works, Sergeant?” Velie shook his head gloomily. “What’s it all about?”
“Got me.”
Crouther shrugged.
The silence thickened. Every one grew still as stone... The silence grew more embarrassing with each passing moment — a silence that swelled, breathed, became alive...
Then Sergeant Velie did a strange thing. His spatulate forefinger, resting on his knee, tapped three distinct times, in rhythm. Not even Crouther caught the signal, and Crouther was at Velie’s side. But the officer on guard, who had been watching the Sergeant’s hand for minutes, immediately sprang into motion. All eyes flashed instantly upon him, grasping at this sign of life, of happening with a pitiful eagerness... The policeman went to the desk, which was shrouded by a light tarpaulin, and bending far over carefully removed the covering. He stepped back, folded the tarpaulin neatly, retreated to his corner...
But he was already forgotten. As if the sheer rays of a searchlight had been trained upon the desk, every one in the room eyed the objects revealed with a fascination drawn from the deepest crevices of his being.
They were many, and heterogeneous. Ranging in orderly rows along the glass top, each with a small labeled card before it, were the gold lipstick marked W. M. F., which Ellery had found on the bedroom dressing-table; the silver-chased lipstick with the C monogram from the dead woman’s bag in the exhibition-window; five keys with gold discs — the keys to the apartment, four of which bore the initials of Cyrus French, Marion French, Bernice Carmody, Westley Weaver, and the fifth the word Master; the two carved onyx book-ends, lying with a small jar of white powder and a camel’s-hair brush between them; the five strange volumes which Ellery had found on French’s desk; the shaving-set from the lavatory cabinet; two ashtrays filled with cigaret stubs — one set much shorter in length than the others, the gauzy scarf initialed M. F., taken from the neck of the victim; a board on which were tacked the cards from the cardroom table, laid out exactly as they had first appeared to the police; the slip of blue memorandum paper which was checked off at Cyrus French’s typewritten name; the blue hat and the walking shoes from the bedroom closet which Hortense Underhill and Doris Keaton had identified as having been worn by Bernice Carmody the day she disappeared; and a black .38 Colt revolver, with the two now rusty-looking splatters of metal which had been the lethal bullets lying near the muzzle.
Quite by itself, prominently in view of the audience, lay a pair of dull, steely manacles — a symbol and a portent of what was to come...
And there they reposed, the silent clues garnered during the investigation frankly open to the gaze of the uneasy guests of Ellery Queen. Again they stared, whispered.
But this time they had not long to wait. A slight commotion in the corridor outside became plainly audible in the library. Sergeant Velie lumbered to his feet and went quickly to the anteroom door, motioning Patrolman Bush aside. He disappeared, the door swinging shut behind him. Now the door became the focal point of those half-angry, bewildered eyes — that door behind which the deep murmur of several voices kept up a short mysterious litany... And as if it had been cut cleanly by a knife, the voices broke off and an instant of silence fell before the knob of the door was rattled, the door was pushed inward, and eight men stepped into the room.
38
The End of All Things
It had been Ellery Queen’s hand on the knob — a subtly changed young man with drawn features and a sharpened glance that swept the room once and then returned to the anteroom.
“Before me, Commissioner,” he murmured, holding the door wide. Commissioner Scott Welles grunted, pushed his heavy body into view. Three tight-lipped men in plain clothes — his bodyguard — flanked him as he crossed the room toward the desk.
Next to appear in full sight of the assembled company was a strangely altered Inspector Richard Queen, holding himself rigidly erect. He was pale. He followed the police commissioner in silence.
After Queen came District Attorney Henry Sampson and his assistant, the red-haired Timothy Cronin. They were whispering to each other, paying no attention to the occupants of the room.
Velie, making up the rear, carefully closed the anteroom door, flipped Bush back to his post with a curt finger, and dropped into his chair beside Crouther. The store detective looked up at him inquiringly; Velie said nothing and settled his big body. Both men turned to watch the newcomers.
There was a little flurry of conversation as Ellery Queen and his companions stood near the desk at the head of the room. Inspector Queen indicated one of the leather-padded conference chairs immediately to the right and a little behind the desk, as the seat to be occupied by the Commissioner. Welles seemed a sadder and wiser man — he sat down without a word, his eyes on Ellery’s quiet figure before the desk.
The three guards disposed themselves with the other detectives at the side of the room.
Inspector Queen himself sat down in a big chair to the left of the desk, with Cronin at his side. The District Attorney dropped into a chair next to the Commissioner. Desk in the center, its varied articles beckoning attention. On either side two chairs with official occupants. And dominating the scene...
The stage was set.
Ellery Queen cynically examined the room and its occupants once more, expressed himself as satisfied at the Commissioner’s brusque question. Ellery stepped behind the desk and stood with his back to the dormer-windows. His head was lowered, his eyes on the desk-top. His hand strayed to the glass, hovered over the book-ends, played with the jar of white powder... He smiled, straightened, raised his head, removed his pince-nez glasses, looked calmly at his hushed audience, waited... Not until there was absolute silence did he speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Prosy beginning! Yet something vaguely eerie shivered through the air; it was a simultaneous sigh from many breasts.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Sixty hours ago Mrs. Winifred French was shot to death in this building. Forty-eight hours ago her body was found. This morning we have assembled at a private Waterloo to name her murderer.” Ellery had spoken quietly; now he paused for the slightest instant...
But after that sigh en masse even breaths seemed to be drawn with care. No one spoke; no one whispered. They merely sat and waited.
A cutting edge slipped into the tone of Ellery’s voice. “Very well! A few preliminary explanations are required. Commissioner Welles—” he turned slightly toward Welles, “it is with your permission that I conduct this unofficial inquest?”
Welles nodded once.
“Then let me explain,” continued Ellery, turning back to his auditors, “that I am merely taking the place of Inspector Queen, who is unable to take charge because of a minor throat ailment which makes long speaking difficult and painful. Correct, sir?” He bowed very solemnly in the direction of his father. The Inspector grew even paler than before, nodded wordlessly. “Further,” Ellery went on, “if I shall at any time use the personal ‘I’ in my discourse this morning, you are to understand that it is merely for convenience — that in reality I shall be describing the investigatory processes of Inspector Queen himself.”
He halted abruptly, threw a challenging glance about the room, met nothing but wide eyes and ears, and plunged at once into an analysis of the French murder case.