Ellery swung his pince-nez with unaccustomed vigor as he regarded his father. There was a troubled glint in the depths of his eyes.
“Think? Think?” He smiled fretfully. “My ratiocinative machinery has been chiefly occupied in the last half-hour or so with a stubborn little problem.” He bit his lip.
“Problem? What problem?” growled his father affectionately. “I haven’t had a moment to think clearly, and you talk of problems!”
“The problem,” enunciated Ellery distinctly but not loudly enough to be heard by the others, “of why Mrs. French’s key to her husband’s apartment is missing.”
10
Marion
“Not much of a problem,” said Inspector Queen. “There is no particular reason for expecting to find the key — here. Besides, I can’t see that it’s of much importance.”
“Alors — well let it go at that,” said Ellery, smiling. “I am always worried by omissions.” He dropped back, searching his vest-pocket for a cigaret-case. His father eyed him sharply. Ellery rarely smoked.
A policeman pushed open the window-door at this moment and lumbered over to the Inspector. “Young lady outside giving the name of Marion French. Says she wants Mr. Weaver,” he whispered hoarsely. “Scared to death at the mobs and the cops. One o’ the floorwalkers is with her. What’ll I do, Inspector?”
The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. He shot a glance at Weaver. The secretary seemed to sense the import of the message, although he had not heard the whispered words; for he stepped forward at once.
“I beg your pardon, Inspector,” he said eagerly, “but if that’s Miss French I’d like your permission to go to her at once and—”
“Amazing intuition!” cried the Inspector suddenly, his white face creasing into smiles. “Yes, I think I–Come along, Mr. Weaver. You shall introduce me to Mr. French’s daughter.” He turned sharply to Velie. “Carry on for a moment, Thomas. No one is to leave. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Preceded by a revitalized Weaver, he trotted out of the window-room.
Weaver broke into a run as they stepped out onto the main floor. The center of a little crowd of detectives and policemen, a young girl stood stiffly, her face drained of color, eyes wild with a nameless fear. As she caught sight of Weaver, a tremulous cry escaped her and she swayed forward weakly.
“Westley! What is the matter? These policemen — detectives—” Her arms stretched out. In full sight of the grinning police and the Inspector, Weaver and the girl embraced.
“Sweetheart! You must get hold of yourself...” Weaver whispered desperately into the girl’s ear as she clung to him.
“Wes — tell me. Who is it? Not?” She drew away from him with horror in her eyes. “Not — Winifred?”
She read the answer in his eyes even before he nodded.
The Inspector obtruded his elastic little figure between them. “Mr. Weaver,” he smiled, “may I have the pleasure...?”
“Oh, yes... yes!” Weaver stepped quickly backward, releasing the girl. He seemed astonished at the interruption, as if he had forgotten momentarily the place, the circumstances, the time... “Marion dear, may I present Inspector Richard Queen. Inspector — Miss French.”
Queen took the proffered little hand and bowed. Marion murmured a perfunctory pleasance, while her large grey eyes widened in stricken interest at this tiny middle-aged gentleman with the clean white mustache who bent over her hand.
“You’re investigating — a crime, Inspector Queen?” she faltered, shrinking from him, clutching at Weaver’s hand.
“Unfortunately, Miss French,” said the Inspector. “I’m genuinely grieved that you’ve had such an unpleasant reception — more than I can say...” Weaver glared at him in bewildered wrath. The old Machiavelli! He had known all along what would happen!.. The Inspector proceeded in a gentle tone. “It’s your stepmother, my dear — shockingly murdered. Terrible! Terrible!” He clucked his tongue like a solicitous old hen.
“Murdered!” The girl grew very still. The hand in Weaver’s twitched once, and was limp. For the instant both Weaver and the Inspector thought she would faint, and involuntarily moved forward to her aid. She staggered back. “No — thank you,” she whispered. “My God — Winifred! And she and Bernice were away — all night...”
The Inspector stiffened. Then his hand fumbled for his snuff-box. “Bernice, I believe you said, Miss French?” he said. “The watchman mentioned that name before, too... A sister, perhaps, my dear?” he asked ingratiatingly.
“Oh... what have I— Oh, Wes dear, take me away, take me away!” She buried her face in the folds of Weaver’s coat.
Weaver said, above her head, “A perfectly natural remark, Inspector. The housekeeper, Hortense Underhill, called Mr. French this morning during the conference to report that neither Mrs. French nor Bernice, her daughter, had slept at home... You see, of course, that Marion — Miss French...”
“Yes, yes, naturally.” Queen smiled, touched the girl’s arm. She started convulsively. “If you’ll come this way, Miss French—? Please be brave. There is something I want you — to see.”
He waited. Weaver gave him an outraged glance, but pressed the girl’s arm encouragingly and led her, stumbling, toward the window. The Inspector followed, beckoning to one of the detectives nearby, who immediately took his place outside the window-door after the trio entered the room.
There was a little rustle of excitement as Weaver helped the girl into the room. Even old French, shaking as if with ague, showed a light of reason in his eyes as he spied her.
“Marion, my dear!” he cried in a terrible voice.
She broke away from Weaver and fell on her knees before her father’s chair. No one spoke. The men looked uneasily away. Father and daughter clung to each other...
For the first time since he had come into the chamber of death, Marchbanks, brother of the dead woman, spoke.
“This — is — hellish,” he said, savagely and slowly, glaring out of bloodshot eyes at the trim figure of the Inspector. Ellery, in his corner, crooked his body slightly forward, “I’m — getting — out — of — this.”
The Inspector signaled to Velie. The burly sergeant stumped across the floor and towered above Marchbanks, saying nothing, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. Marchbanks, large and corpulent, shrank before the huge detective. He flushed, muttered beneath his breath, stepped back.
“Now,” said the Inspector equably, “Miss French, may I trouble you to answer a few questions?”
“Oh, I say, Inspector,” protested Weaver, despite Ellery’s warning flick of the finger, “do you think it absolutely necessary to—”
“I’m quite ready, sir,” came the quiet voice of the girl, and she rose to her feet, her eyes a trifle red, but clearly composed. Her father had slumped back in his chair. He had forgotten her already. She smiled wanly at Weaver, who sent her an ardent glance across the room. But she kept her head averted from the sheeted corpse in the corner by the bed.
“Miss French,” snapped the Inspector, flicking the gauzy scarf from the dead woman’s clothes before her eyes, “is this your scarf?”
She whitened. “Yes. How does it come here?”
“That,” said the Inspector dispassionately, “is what I should like to know. Can you explain its presence?”
The girl’s eyes flashed, but she spoke calmly enough. “No, sir, I cannot.”
“Miss French,” went on the Inspector after a stiffing pause, “your scarf was found around Mrs. French’s neck, under her coat-collar. Does that convey anything to you — perhaps suggest an explanation?”