Эллери Куин - French Powder Mystery

The French Powder Mystery is one of the older cases from the Queens’ files — an actual case, as I have said, and one in which Ellery exhibited scintillating proofs of his unique talents. He kept notes of this case during the French investigation — one of his few practical habits. Subsequently, with the unmasking of the murderer, he wrote a book around the real-life plot, developing and embroidering the facts to fit a literary pattern.

I induced him to polish up the manuscript and have it published as the second novel under his pen-name — and this at a time when I was under his sacred roof in the Queens’ Italian villa. For it will be recalled that Ellery, having renounced his old profession utterly, now that he is married and domesticated, has hidden his old cases in the depths of a filing-cabinet and nothing less than the detonation of a presumptuous friend’s exhortations has been able to make him consent to a revivification of the mellowed manuscripts.

It should be borne in mind, in all fairness to Inspector Queen, that the old sleuth’s comparatively small rôle in the French case was due to the enormous press of official business during that hectic season, and in no small degree to the heckling he was subjected to by the newly appointed civilian, Scott Welles, to the post of Commissioner of Police.

In closing, it might be pleasant to point out that the Queens are at this writing still in their tiny mountain-home in Italy; that Ellery’s son has learned to toddle and say with innocent gravity, “gramps”; that Djuna is in perfect health and has recently undergone the stress of a cosmic love-affair with a little witch of a country girl; that the Inspector is still writing monographs for German magazines and making occasional tours of inspection through the Continental police departments; that Mrs. Ellery Queen has happily recovered from her recent illness; and finally that Ellery himself, after his visit last fall to New York, has returned to that “gem-encrusted” Roman scenery with gratitude in his heart and, he says (but I doubt it), no regrets for the distractions of the West Side.

Which leaves me little else to write but a most sincere hope that you will enjoy the reading of The French Powder Mystery fully as much as I did.

J. J. McC.

NEW YORK

June, 1930

NOTE: A list of the personalities involved in The French Powder Mystery is here set at the disposition of the reader. He is urged indeed to con the list painstakingly before attacking the story proper, so that each name will be vigorously impressed upon his consciousness; moreover, to refer often to this page during his perusal of the story... Bear in mind that the most piercing enjoyment deriving from indulgence in detectival fiction arises from the battle of wits between author and reader. Scrupulous attention to the cast of characters is frequently a means to this eminently desirable end.

WINIFRED MARCHBANKS FRENCH, Requiescat in pace. What cesspool of evil lies beneath her murder?

BERNICE CARMODY, a child of ill-fortune.

CYRUS FRENCH, a common American avatar — merchant prince and Puritan.

MARION FRENCH, a silken Cinderella.

WESTLEY WEAVER, amanuensis and lover — and friend to the author.

VINCENT CARMODY, l’homme sombre et malheureux. A dealer in antiquities.

JOHN GRAY, director. A donor of book-ends.

HUBERT MARCHBANKS, director. Ursine brother to the late Mrs. French.

A. MELVILLE TRASK, director. Sycophantic blot on a fair ’scutcheon.

CORNELIUS ZORN, director. An Antwerpian nabob, potbelly, inhibitions and all.

MRS. CORNELIUS ZORN, Zorn’s Medusa-wife.

PAUL LAVERY, the impeccable français. Pioneer in modern art-decoration. Author of technical studies in the field of fine arts, notably L’Art de la Faïence, publié par Monserat, Paris, 1913.

ARNOLD MACKENZIE, General Manager of French’s, a Scot.

WILLIAM CROUTHER, chief guardian of the law employed by French’s.

DIANA JOHNSON, a model of fear.

JAMES SPRINGER, Manager of the Book Department, a mysterioso.

PETER O’FLAHERTY, leal head nightwatchman of the French establishment.

HERMANN RALSKA, GEORGE POWERS, BERT BLOOM, night-watchmen.

HORTENSE UNDERHILL, genus housekeeper tyranna.

DORIS KEATON, a maidenly minion.

THE HON. SCOTT WELLES, just a Commissioner of Police.

DR. SAMUEL PROUTY, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County.

HENRY SAMPSON, District Attorney of New York County.

TIMOTHY CRONIN, Assistant District Attorney of New York County.

THOMAS VELIE, Detective-Sergeant under the wing of Inspector Queen.

HAGSTROM, HESSE, FLINT, RITTER, JOHNSON, PIGGOTT, sleuths attached to the command of Inspector Queen.

SALVATORE FIORELLI, Head of the Narcotic Squad.

“JIMMY,” Headquarters fingerprint expert who has ever remained last-nameless.

DJUNA, The Queens’ beloved scull, who appears far too little.

Detectives, policemen, clerks, a physician, a nurse, a Negro caretaker, a freight watchman, etc., etc., etc., etc.

and

INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN

who, being not himself, is sorely beset in this adventure

and

ELLERY QUEEN

who is so fortunate as to resolve it.

A — Elevator shaft

B — Stairway shaft

C, D, E, F, G — French apartment

C–Lavatory

D — Bedroom

F — Anteroom

E — Library

G — Cardroom

H — Ground floor door to elevator, facing 39th Street corridor

I — Ground floor to stairway, facing Fifth Avenue corridor

J — Window containing Lavery Exhibition

K — Door to murder-window

L — O’Flaherty’s office, with view of 39th Street entrance

M — Door from freight room

They sat about the old walnut table in the Queen apartment — five oddly assorted individuals. There was District Attorney Henry Sampson, a slender man with bright eyes. Beside Sampson glowered Salvatore Fiorelli, head of the Narcotic Squad, a burly Italian with a long black scar on his right cheek. Red-haired Timothy Cronin, Sampson’s assistant, was there. And Inspector Richard Queen and Ellery Queen sat shoulder to shoulder with vastly differing facial expressions. The old man sulked, bit the end of his mustache. Ellery stared vacantly at Fiorelli’s cicatrix.

The calendar on the desk nearby read Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth, 19—. A mild spring breeze fluttered the window draperies.

The Inspector glared about the board. “What did Welles ever do? I’d like to know, Henry!”

“Come now, Q, Scott Welles isn’t a bad scout.”

“Rides to hounds, shoots a 91 on the course, and that makes him eligible for the police commissionership, doesn’t it? Of course, of course! And the unnecessary work he piles on us...”