French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen Page A

used this room, sir. I haven’t been very busy,” he added, with an apologetic side-glance at MacKenzie.
    “Thank you.” The clerk left with eager steps.
    “Well!” Ellery sighed. “We seem to be progressing, and yet nothing takes definite shape. …” Shrugging his shoulders, he turned once more to Lavery.
    “Mr. Lavery, are these windows illuminated after dark?”
    “No, Mr. Queen. The shades are drawn after every demonstration, and they are kept drawn until the following day.”
    “Then,” and Ellery emphasized the word, “then I take it that these lighting-fixtures are dummies?”
    Eyes long since dulled by waiting and wretchedness expectantly followed the direction of Ellery’s arm. He was pointing toward the oddly cut, clouded-glass wall lights. The eyes all turned, too, to observe the numerous queerly shaped lamps about the room.
    For answer Lavery strode to the rear wall and, after a moment’s manipulation, removed one of the modernistic fixtures. The socket which should have held an electric bulb was empty.
    “We have no use for lights here,” he said, “so we have not installed them.” With a swift movement he restored the fixture to its place on the wall.
    Ellery took a decisive step forward. But then he shook his head, retreated, turned to the Inspector.
    “Henceforth, or at least for the present, I shall be silent,” he said smiling, “and latinically pass for a philosopher.”

12.
Out the Window …
    A POLICEMAN PUSHED HIS way into the room, looked about as if to catch the eye of authority, was summoned peremptorily by old Queen, mumbled a few words, and departed almost as quickly as he had come.
    The Inspector immediately took John Gray aside and whispered in the little director’s ear. Gray nodded and went to the side of Cyrus French, who was staring blankly into space, muttering to himself. With the aid of Weaver and Zorn, Gray managed to twist French’s chair around so that the old man’s back was to the body. French noticed nothing. The store physician took his pulse professionally. Marion’s hand was at her throat; she stood up quickly and leaned against the back of her father’s chair.
    Then the door opened and two white-garbed men with visored caps entered, bearing a stretcher between them. They saluted the Inspector, who jerked his thumb toward the sheeted corpse.
    Ellery had withdrawn into the far corner of the room beyond the bed to hold communion with his pince-nez. He frowned at it, tapped it on the back of his hand, threw his lightcoat on the bed and sat down, taking his head between his hands. Finally, as if he had come to either an impasse or a conclusion, he produced from the pocket of his coat the volume it contained, and began to scribble hurriedly on the fly-leaf. He paid not the slightest attention to the two police doctors stooped over the dead woman.
    Nor did he protest when he was unceremoniously moved by a silent, nervous man who had entered immediately behind the stretcher bearers, and who was now engaged with the help of an assistant in photographing the dead woman, her position on the floor, the bed, the handbag and other articles connected with the victim. Ellery’s eyes followed the police photographer, but abstractedly.
    Suddenly he snapped his little book back into his pocket and waited thoughtfully until he caught his father’s eye.
    “Lord, son,” said the Inspector, coming over, “I’m tired. And worried. And apprehensive.”
    “Apprehensive? Come, now—don’t fall into that silly frame of mind, dad. Why should you be apprehensive? This case is coming along, coming along. …”
    “Oh, you’ve probably caught the murderer and hidden him in your vest-pocket,” growled the old man. “I’m not worried about the murderer, I’m worried about Welles.”
    “Sorry!” Ellery moved closer. “Don’t let Welles rile you, dad; I don’t think he’s as bad as you’ve painted him. And while he’s merely heckling you, I’ll be working