French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen Page B

undercover—grasp the idea?”
    “It’s not half bad at that,” said the Inspector. “My gosh! He’s liable to walk in here any minute now, El! I never thought of that! By this time he has a telephoned report and—Yes! What is it?”
    A bluecoat tramped in with a message and left.
    The Inspector groaned. “Word’s just come that Welles is on his way here—now we’ll have arrests, interviews, grillings, reporters running over the place, and merry—”
    Ellery’s air of raillery vanished. He grasped his father’s arm and guided him swiftly to an angle in the wall.
    “If that’s the case, dad, let me tell you what is in my mind—quickly.” He looked around; they were fairly unobserved. He lowered his voice. “Have you reached any definite conclusions yet? I’d like to have your reactions before I tell you mine.”
    “Well—” the old man peered about him cautiously, then cupped his mouth in his small hands—“between you and me, son, there’s something queer about the whole business. As far as details are concerned, I’m a little hazy—if you’re clearer than I, it’s probably because you have had something of the advantage of an observer. But as to the crime itself—the possible motive—the story behind it—I have the inescapable feeling that the murder of Mrs. French is not half so important to us as what may have necessitated the murder. …” Ellery nodded thoughtful. “I have no doubt that this is a carefully planned murder. Despite the weirdness of the place, the apparent sloppiness of the crime, there is amazingly little to go on.”
    “What about Marion French’s scarf?” asked Ellery.
    “Fiddlesticks!” said the Inspector contemptuously. “Can’t see that it means anything intelligible. In all probability she left it somewhere about and Mrs. French picked it up. … But I’ll bet a cookie that the Commissioner grabs it.”
    “I think you’re wrong there,” commented Ellery. “He’ll be afraid to tackle French. Don’t lose sight of French’s power as head of the Anti-Vice Society. … No, dad, for the present Welles will keep his hands off Marion French.”
    “Well, what have you concluded, Ellery?”
    Ellery produced his small volume and turned to the flyleaf on which he had scribbled a few moments before. He looked up. “I hadn’t thought about the remote nuances of the crime, dad,” he said. “Although, now that you’ve brought it up, it seems to me that you are probably correct about the far-reaching significance of the motive as opposed to the crime itself. … No, I’ve been chiefly occupied until now with more direct affairs. I have four interesting little puzzlers to elucidate. Listen carefully.
    “First, and probably most important,” he began, referring to his notes, “there is the puzzle of Mrs. French’s key. We have a fair sequence of incident. The nightwatchman, O’Flaherty, observes the victim at about eleven-fifty last night with the gold-disked apartment key in her possession. She is lost sight of until twelve-fifteen to-day, when she is found dead—still in the store, but with the key missing from the scene of the crime. The question arises, then: Why is the key missing? It seems on the face of it a pure matter of discovery, doesn’t it? Yet—regard the possibilities. It is plausible enough at this time to suspect that the key’s disappearance is connected with the crime, more directly with the murderer. A murderer disappears, a key disappears. It is not difficult to imagine that they disappeared together. Now, if this is so—and for the present let us assume that it is so—why did the murderer take the key? Obviously, we can’t answer that question—yet. But—we now know that the murderer has in his possession a key to a certain apartment—French’s private apartment on the sixth floor.”
    “That’s so,” muttered the Inspector. “I’m glad you suggested sending one of the boys to watch that apartment this morning.”
    “I