Ellery stirred. “Lookers-on,” he said clearly, “see more than players. And if you think that quotation is inept, dad, you don’t know your son’s favorite author, Anonymous. Play on!”
7
The Corpse
Inspector Queen moved over to the other side of the room, where the body lay between the bed and the window. Waving aside the detective Johnson, who was rummaging among the bedclothes, the old man knelt on the floor beside the dead woman. He removed the white sheet. Ellery bent over his father’s shoulder, his gaze detached but characteristically panoramic.
The body lay in an oddly crumpled position, the left arm outstretched, the right slightly crooked beneath the back. The head was in profile, a brown toque-style hat pushed pathetically over one eye. Mrs. French had been a small slender woman, with delicate hands and feet. The eyes were fixed in a sort of bewildered glare, wide open. The mouth drooled; a thin trickle of blood, now dark and dry, streaked the chin.
The clothes were simple and severe, but rich in quality, as might be expected from a woman of Mrs. French’s age and position. There was a light brown cloth coat, trimmed at the collar and cuffs with brown fox; a dark tan dress of a jersey material, with a breast and waist design of orange and brown; brown silk stockings and a pair of uncompromising brown walking shoes.
The Inspector looked up.
“Notice the mud on her shoes, El?” he asked sotto voce.
Ellery nodded. “Doesn’t take a heap of perspicacity,” he remarked. “It rained all day yesterday; remember the downpour last night? No wonder the poor lady wet her patrician feet. As a matter of fact, you can see traces of the wet even on the trimming of the toque. — Yes, dad, Mrs. French was out in the rain yesterday. Not very important.”
“Why not?” the old man asked, his hands softly moving aside the collar of the coat.
“Because she probably wet her shoes and hat in crossing the sidewalk to the store,” retorted Ellery. “What of it?”
The Inspector did not reply. His seeking hand plunged suddenly beneath the coat-collar and reappeared with a filmy, color-clouded scarf.
“Here’s something,” he said, turning the gauzelike material over in his hands. “Must have slipped down inside the coat when she tumbled out of bed.” An exclamation escaped him. On the corner of the scarf was a silk-embroidered monogram. Ellery leaned farther forward over his father’s shoulder.
“M. F.,” he said. He straightened up, frowning, saying nothing.
The Inspector turned his head toward the group of directors at the other side of the room. They were huddled together, watching his every gesture. At his movement they stared guiltily and averted their heads.
“What was Mrs. French’s first name?” Queen questioned the group; and as if each one had been addressed individually, there was an instant chorus of “Winifred!”
“Winifred, eh?” muttered the old man, letting his eyes return fleetingly to the body. Then he fixed Weaver with his gray eyes.
“Winifred, eh?” he repeated. Weaver bobbed his head mechanically. He seemed horrified at the wisp of silk in the Inspector’s hand. “Winifred what? Any middle name or initials?”
“Winifred — Winifred Marchbanks French,” stammered the secretary.
The Inspector nodded curtly. Rising, he strode over to Cyrus French, who was watching him with dull uncomprehending eyes.
“Mr. French—” Queen shook the millionaire’s shoulder gently — “Mr. French, is this your wife’s scarf?” He held the scarf up before French’s eyes. “Do you understand me, sir? Is this scarf Mrs. French’s?”
“Eh? I–Let me see it!” The old man snatched it in a sort of frenzy from the Inspector’s hand. He bent over it avidly, pulled it smooth, examined the monogram with feverish fingers — and slumped back in his chair.
“Is it, Mr. French?” pursued the Inspector, taking the scarf from him.
“No.” It was a flat, colorless, indifferent negative.
The Inspector turned toward the silent group. “Can any one here identify this scarf?” He held it high. There was no answer. The Inspector repeated his question, glaring at each one individually. Of them all, only Westley Weaver averted his glance.
“So! Weaver, eh? No nonsense, now, young man!” snapped Queen, grasping the secretary by the arm. “What do the letters M. F. stand for — Marion French?”
The young man gulped, sent an agonizing glance toward Ellery, who returned the glance commiseratingly, looked at old Cyrus French, who was mumbling to himself...
“You can’t believe she had anything to do — to do with it!” cried Weaver, shaking his arm free. “It’s absurd — crazy!.. You can’t believe she had anything to do with this, Inspector. She’s too fine, too young, too—”
“Marion French.” The Inspector turned toward John Gray. “Mr. French’s daughter, I believe Mr. Weaver said before?”
Gray nodded sullenly. Cyrus French suddenly attempted to leap from his chair. He uttered a hoarse cry. “My God, no! Not Marion! Not Marion!” His eyes blazed as Gray and Marchbanks, the directors nearest the old man, jumped to support his quivering body. The spasm lasted for a brief moment; he collapsed into his chair.
Inspector Queen returned without a word to his examination of the dead woman. Ellery had been a silent witness of the little drama, his sharp eyes flitting from face to face as it unfolded. Now he sent a glance of reassurance at Weaver, who was leaning abjectly against a table, and then stooped to pick up an object from the floor which was almost hidden by the dead woman’s tumbled skirt.
It was a small handbag of dark brown suède, monogrammed with the initials W. M. F. Ellery sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the bag over in his hands. Curiously he lifted the flap and began to spread the contents of the bag on the mattress. He removed a small change-purse, a gold vanity-case, a lace handkerchief, a gold card-case, all monogrammed W. M. F., and finally a silver-chased lipstick.
The Inspector looked up. “What’s that you have there?” he asked sharply.
“Bag of the deceased,” murmured Ellery. “Would you care to examine it?”
“Would I—” The Inspector glared at his son in mock heat. “Ellery, sometimes you try me beyond patience!”
Ellery handed it over with a smile. The old man examined the bag minutely. He pawed over the articles on the bed and gave up in disgust.
“Nothing there that I can see,” he snorted. “And I’m—”
“No?” Ellery’s tone was provocative.
“What do you mean?” asked his father with a change of tone, looking back at the contents of the bag. “Purse, vanity, hanky, card-case, lipstick — what’s interesting there?”
Ellery faced about squarely so that his back hid the articles on the bed from the observation of the others. He picked up the lipstick with care and offered it to his father. The old man took it cautiously, suspiciously. Suddenly an exclamation escaped him.
“Exactly — C,” murmured Ellery. “What do you make of it?”
The lipstick was large and deep. On the cap was a chastely engraved initial, C. The Inspector peered at it in some astonishment and made as if to question the men in the room. But Ellery halted him with a warning gesture and took the lipstick from his father’s fingers. He unscrewed the initialed cap and twisted the body of the stick until a half-inch of red paste was visible above the orifice. His eyes shifted toward the dead woman’s face. They brightened at what they saw.