Эллери Куин - French Powder Mystery

Lavery ran forward, his eyes distended as he saw Cyrus French stride toward the bed. He intercepted the old man, grasped his lapel.

“Mr. French — please do not look — just now...”

French petulantly brushed him aside. “Let me be, Lavery! What is this — a conspiracy? Ordered about in my own store!” He proceeded to the bed, and Lavery fell back, a resigned look on his mobile face. Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he took John Gray aside, speaking in the director’s ear. Gray paled, stood transfixed to the spot, then with an indistinct cry he leaped to French’s side.

He was just in time. The store owner had bent curiously over Dr. Prouty’s shoulder, taken one look at the woman on the floor, and collapsed without a sound. Gray caught him as he sank. Lavery sprang forward and assisted in carrying the old man’s limp body to a chair on the other side of the room.

A nurse in white cap and gown had slipped into the room and was ministering to the hysterical model on the divan. She went quickly over to French, slipped a vial under his nose, and instructed Lavery to chafe his hands. Gray paced nervously up and down, muttering to himself. The store doctor hurried over to help the nurse.

The directors and, the secretary, huddled together in a horror-struck group, moved hesitantly toward the body. Weaver and Marchbanks cried out together at seeing the woman’s face. Zorn bit his lip and turned away. Trask averted his face in horror. Then, in the same mechanical motion, they moved slowly backward to a corner, glancing helplessly at each other.

Velie crooked a huge finger at Crouther. “What have you done?”

The store detective grinned. “Taken care of all the details, don’t you worry. I’ve got all my men scrambled on the main floor and they’ve scattered the mob. Got everything well in hand. Trust Bill Crouther for that, Sergeant! Won’t be much for you guys to do, that’s a fact.”

Velie grunted. “Well, here’s something for you to do while we’re waiting. Get a big stretch of the main floor roped off right around this section, and keep everybody away. It’s a little late now, I suppose, to close the doors. Wouldn’t do much good. Whoever did this job is miles away from here by now. Get going, Crouther!”

The store detective nodded, turned away, turned back. “Say, Sergeant — know just who the woman on the floor is? Might help us right now.”

“Yes?” Velie smiled frostily. “Can’t see how. But it doesn’t take much to figure it out. It’s French’s wife. Blast it, this is a great place for a murder!”

“No!” Crouther’s jaw dropped. “French’s wife, hey? The big cheese himself... Well, well!” He stole a glance at the slack figure of French and a moment later his voice resounded through the window as he roared instructions outside.

Silence in the window-room. The group in the corner had not moved. The model and French had both been revived — the woman’s eyes rolling wildly as she clung to the starched skirt of the nurse, French’s face a pasty white as he half-lay in the chair listening to Gray’s low-voiced words of sympathy. Gray himself seemed drained of his queer vitality.

Velie beckoned to MacKenzie, who hovered nervously at Prouty’s shoulder.

“You’re MacKenzie, the store manager?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“It’s time to get a move on, Mr. MacKenzie.” Velie eyed him coldly. “Get a hold on yourself. Somebody’s got to keep his wits about him. This is part of your job.” The store manager squared his shoulders. “Now listen. This is important and it’s got to be done thoroughly.” He lowered his voice. “No employees to leave the building — item number one, and I’m holding you responsible for its execution. Number two, check up on all employees who are not at their posts. Number three, make out a list of all employees absent from the store to-day, with the reasons for their absence. Hop to it!”

MacKenzie mumbled submissively, shuffled away.

Velie took Lavery, who stood talking to Weaver, to one side.

“You seem to have some authority here. May I ask who you are?”

“My name is Paul Lavery, and I am exhibiting the modern furniture on display upstairs on the fifth floor. This room is a sample of my exhibition.”

“I see. Well, you’ve kept your head, Mr. Lavery. The dead woman is Mrs. French?”

Lavery averted his eyes. “Yes, Sergeant. It was quite a shock to all of us, no doubt. How in God’s name did she ever get—” He stopped abruptly, worried his lip.

“Did she ever get here, you meant to say?” finished Velie grimly. “Well now, that’s a question, isn’t it? I— Just a moment, Mr. Lavery!”

He turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the door to greet a group of new arrivals.

“Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Queen! Glad you’ve come, sir. You’ll find things in a rotten mess.” He stepped aside and waved a large hand at the room and its assorted occupants “Pretty, eh, sir? More like a wake than the scene of a crime!” It was a long speech for Velie.

Inspector Richard Queen — small, pert, like a white-thatched bird — followed the circuit of Velie’s hand with his eyes.

“My goodness!” he exclaimed in annoyance. “How did so many people get into this room? I’m surprised at you Thomas.”

“Inspector.” Queen paused at Velie’s deep voice. “I thought it might—” his voice became inaudible as he murmured a few words in the Inspector’s ear.

“Yes, yes, I see, Thomas.” The Inspector patted his arm. “Tell me soon. Let’s have a peep at the body.”

He trotted across the room and slipped to the far side of the wall-bed. Prouty, his hands busy on the corpse, nodded in greeting.

“Murder,” he said. “No sign of the revolver.”

The Inspector peered intently into the ghastly face of the dead woman, ran his eye over the disarranged clothing.

“Well, well have the boys look a little later. Keep going, Doc.” He sighed and returned to Velie at the other side of the room.

“Now let’s have it, Thomas. From the beginning.” His little eyes roved judiciously about the men in the room as Velie rapidly outlined in an undertone the events of the past half-hour... Outside a body of plainclothes men and a scattering of uniformed policemen could be seen. The patrolman, Bush, was among them.

Ellery Queen shut the door and leaned against it. He was tall and sparely built, with athletic hands, taper-fingered. He wore immaculate grey tweeds and carried a stick and a light coat. On his thin nose perched a pince-nez. Above it rose a forehead of wide proportions, white and untroubled. His hair was smoothly black. From the pocket of the coat protruded a small volume in faded covers.

He looked curiously at each person in the room — curiously and slowly, as if he enjoyed his scrutiny. The characteristics of each individual as his eyes passed from one to another he seemed to store away in a corner of his brain. His examination was almost visibly digestive. Yet it was not entirely concentrated, for he listened intently to each word of Velie’s recital to the Inspector. Suddenly his eyes, in their panoramic course, met those of Westley Weaver, who stood miserably in a corner leaning against the wall.

Into the eyes of each leaped instant recognition. They started forward simultaneously, hands outstretched.

“Ellery Queen. Thank God!”

“By the Seven Virgins of Theophilus — Westley Weaver!” They wrung each other’s hands with undisguised pleasure. Inspector Queen glanced their way, quizzically; then he turned back to hear the last of Velie’s rumbled comments.

“It’s awfully good seeing your classic features again, Ellery,” murmured Weaver. His face dropped back into strained lines. “Are you — is that the Inspector?”