“You’re not sure?” The Inspector dropped the scarf back on the bed. “Everything seem all right last night? No alarms?”
“No, sor. O’ course you know th’ store’s wired against burglars. Quiet as a church last night. S’far as I know, nothin’ happened out o’ th’ way.”
Queen said to Sergeant Velie: “Thomas, call up the alarm central office and find out if they’ve a report on last night. Probably not, or we’d have heard from them by this time.” Velie left, silently as usual.
“O’Flaherty, did you see any one else enter the building last night except Mrs. French? At any time during the night?” continued the Inspector.
“No, sor, absolutely not. Not a soul.” O’Flaherty seemed anxious to make this point clear, after his defection concerning the scarf.
“Ah there, MacKenzie! Let me have the time-sheet, please.” Queen took from the store manager, who had just returned, a long scroll of ruled paper. He looked it over hurriedly. Something seemed to catch his eye.
“I see by your sheet, O’Flaherty,” he said, “that Mr. Weaver and a Mr. Springer were the last to leave the store yesterday evening? Did you make these notations?”
“Yes, sor. Mr. Springer went out about a quarter to seven, and Mr. Weaver a few minutes after.”
“Is that right, Weaver?” demanded the Inspector, turning to the secretary.
“Yes,” replied Weaver in a colorless tone. “I stayed a little later last night to prepare some papers for Mr. French to-day; I believe I shaved... I left a little before seven.”
“Who is this Springer?”
“Oh, James Springer is the head of our Book Department, Inspector,” put in mild-mannered MacKenzie. “Often stays late. A very conscientious man, sir.”
“Yes, yes, Now — you men!” The Inspector pointed to the two watchmen who had not yet spoken. “Anything to say? Anything to add to O’Flaherty’s story? One at a time... Your name?”
One of the watchmen cleared his throat nervously. “George Powers, Inspector. No, sir, I got nothin’ to say.”
“Everything all right when you went your rounds? Do you cover this part of the store?”
“Yes, sir, everythin’ was okay on my rounds. No, sir, I don’t cover the main floor. That’s Ralska’s job, here.”
“Ralska, eh? What’s your first name, Ralska?” demanded the Inspector.
The third watchman expelled his breath noisily. “Hermann, sir. Hermann Ralska. I think—”
“You think, eh?” Queen turned. “Hagstrom, you’re taking this down, of course?”
“Yep, Chief,” grinned the detective, his pencil busy in his notebook.
“Now, Ralska, you were about to think something, no doubt very important,” snarled the Inspector. His temper seemed frayed and raw once more. “What was it?”
Ralska held himself stiffly. “I thought I heard somethin’ funny last night on the main floor.”
“Oh, you did! Where, exactly?”
“Right about here — outside this window-room.”
“No!” Inspector Queen grew very quiet. “Outside this window-room. Very good, Ralska. What was it?”
The watchman seemed to take heart at Queen’s calmer tone. “It was just about one o’clock in the morning. Maybe a few minutes earlier. I was in the part of the store near the Fift’ Avenue and 39t’ Street side. This here window faces Fift’ Avenue, past the night-office, so it’s a good distance away. I heard a queer kind o’ noise. Can’t make up my mind what it was. Might ‘a’ been some one movin’ around, might ‘a’ been a footstep, might ‘a’ been a door closin’ — just don’t know. Anyway, I wasn’t suspicious or anything — you get so you hear noises that never happened on a night job like this... But I went over in that direction and couldn’t see anything wrong, so I thought it must be my imagination. Even tried a couple of the window doors. But they were all locked. Tried this one, too. So I stopped in to have a word with Flaherty here, and went on ahead, with my rounds. That’s all.”
“Oh!” Inspector Queen seemed disappointed. “So you’re not certain of where the noise came from — if there was a noise?”
“Well,” responded Ralska carefully, “if it was anythin’ at all it came from this section o’ the floor near these big street-window displays.”
“Nothing else all night?”
“No, sir.”
“All right, that’s all for you four men. You may go back home and catch up on your sleep. Be back here tonight for work as usual.”
“Yes, sir: yes, sir,” The watchmen backed out of the window-room and disappeared.
The Inspector, brandishing the time-sheet in his hand, addressed the store manager. “MacKenzie, have you given this sheet any study?”
The Scotchman replied, “Yes, Inspector — thought you might be interested and looked it over on the way.”
“Fine! MacKenzie, what’s the verdict? Was every employee of the store checked out regularly yesterday?” Queen’s face was composed, indifferent.
MacKenzie did not hesitate. “As you can see, we have a simple check-out system — by departments... I can certainly assert that every employee who was in the store yesterday checked out.”
“Does that include executives and gentlemen like the Board of Directors?”
“Yes, sir — there are their names in the proper places.”
“Very well — thank you,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “Please don’t forget that list of absentees, MacKenzie.”
Velie and Crouther at this point reentered the room together. Crouther handed the Inspector a key, an exact replica of the one in Weaver’s possession, marked “Master” on its gold disk as O’Flaherty had averred. The detective-sergeant relayed a negative report from the burglar-alarm company. Nothing unusual had occurred during the night.
The Inspector turned again to MacKenzie. “How reliable is this O’Flaherty?”
“True-blue. Would give his life for Mr. French, Inspector,” returned MacKenzie warmly. “He’s the oldest employee of the store — knew Mr. French in the old days.”
“That’s a fact,” echoed Crouther, as if anxious to have his opinion considered as well.
“It has just occurred to me...” Inspector Queen faced MacKenzie inquiringly. “Just how private is Mr. French’s apartment? Who has access to it besides the French family and Mr. Weaver?”
Mackenzie scraped his jaw slowly. “Hardly any one else, Inspector,” he replied. “Of course, the Board of Directors meet in Mr. French’s apartment periodically for conferences and other business matters; but the only keys to it are in the possession of the people O’Flaherty has mentioned. As a matter of fact, it’s almost peculiar how little we people know about Mr. French’s apartment. In all my association with the store, and it’s a matter of ten years or so, I can’t recall having been in the apartment more than half a dozen times. I was thinking that only last week, when Mr. French summoned me there for some special instructions regarding the store. As for other employees — well, Mr. French has always been adamant in the matter of his privacy. Aside from O’Flaherty opening the door for the cleaning-woman three times a week, and letting her out just before he goes off duty, there’s not an employee of the store who has access or occasion to visit the apartment.”
“I see, I see. The apartment — we seem to be going back to that apartment,” muttered the Inspector. “Well! There seems to be very little left here... Ellery, what do you think?”