Read Online French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellery Queen
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guard this morning?”
“Not a soul, Inspector. And after the directors left, there was no one except the chap I told you about, who merely spilled his story and went right down again. I’ve been on duty until five minutes ago, when Sergeant Velie had two of his own men relieve me.”
The Inspector mused. “And you’re certain no one went into the apartment, Jones? It may be quite important.”
“Dead certain, Inspector,” replied Jones clearly. “The reason I stayed on after the directors left was because I didn’t know exactly what to do under the circumstances, and I’ve always found it a safe bet to stand pat when something unusual happens.”
“Good enough, Jones!” said the Inspector. “That’s all.”
Jones saluted, went up to Crouther and asked what he was to do. The head store detective, his chest held high, detailed him to help handle the crowds in the store. And Jones departed.
9.
The Watchers
T HE INSPECTOR WENT QUICKLY to the door and peered over the heads of the seething crowds on the main floor.
“MacKenzie! Is MacKenzie there?” he shouted.
“Right here!” came the faint bellow of the store manager’s voice. “Coming!”
Queen trotted back into the room, fumbling for his snuffbox. He eyed the directors almost roguishly; his good humor seemed for the moment to have returned. The occupants of the room, with the exception of Cyrus French, who was still plunged in a deep lethargy of grief and indifference to what was going on, had by this time shaken off some of their horror and were growing restless. Zorn stole surreptitious glances at his heavy gold watch; Marchbanks was pacing belligerently up and down the room; Trask at regular intervals averted his head and gulped down some whisky from a flash in his pocket; Gray, his face as ashen as his hair, stood in silence behind old French’s chair. Lavery was very quiet, watching with bright inquisitive eyes the least movement of the Inspector and his men. Weaver, his boyish face strained and lined, seemed to be enduring agonies. He frequently sought Ellery with pleading eyes, as if asking for help which he knew, instinctively, could not be forthcoming.
“I must ask you to have patience for a short time longer, gentlemen,” said the Inspector, smoothing his mustache with the back of his small hand. “We have a few things more to do here—and then we’ll see. … Ah! You’re MacKenzie, I take it? Are those the watchmen? Bring ’em in, man!”
The middle-aged Scotchman had entered the window-room, herding before him four oldish men with frightened faces and fidgety hands. Ritter made up the rear.
“Yes, Inspector. By the way, I’m having the employees checked up, as Sergeant Velie instructed me to.” MacKenzie waved the four men forward. They shuffled a step farther into the room, reluctantly.
“Who’s the head nightwatchman among you?” demanded the Inspector.
A corpulent old man with fleshy features and placid eyes stepped forward, touching his forehead.
“I am, sor—Peter O’Flaherty’s me name.”
“Were you on duty last night, O’Flaherty?”
“Yes, sor. That I was.”
“What time did you go on?”
“Me reg’lar hour, sor,” said the watchman, “Ha’past five. It’s O’Shane I relieve at th’ desk in the night-office on th’ 39th Street side. These boys here”—he indicated the two men behind him with a fat and calloused forefinger—“they come on with me. They was with me last night, reg’lar.”
“I see.” The Inspector paused. “O’Flaherty, do you know what has happened?”
“Yes, sor. I’ve been told. And a shame it is, sor,” responded O’Flaherty soberly. He stole a glance at the limp figure of Cyrus French, then jerked his head back toward the Inspector as if he had committed an indiscretion. His cronies followed his gaze, and looked forward again in exactly the same manner.
“Did you know Mrs. French by sight?” asked the Inspector, his keen little eyes studying the old
“Not a soul, Inspector. And after the directors left, there was no one except the chap I told you about, who merely spilled his story and went right down again. I’ve been on duty until five minutes ago, when Sergeant Velie had two of his own men relieve me.”
The Inspector mused. “And you’re certain no one went into the apartment, Jones? It may be quite important.”
“Dead certain, Inspector,” replied Jones clearly. “The reason I stayed on after the directors left was because I didn’t know exactly what to do under the circumstances, and I’ve always found it a safe bet to stand pat when something unusual happens.”
“Good enough, Jones!” said the Inspector. “That’s all.”
Jones saluted, went up to Crouther and asked what he was to do. The head store detective, his chest held high, detailed him to help handle the crowds in the store. And Jones departed.
9.
The Watchers
T HE INSPECTOR WENT QUICKLY to the door and peered over the heads of the seething crowds on the main floor.
“MacKenzie! Is MacKenzie there?” he shouted.
“Right here!” came the faint bellow of the store manager’s voice. “Coming!”
Queen trotted back into the room, fumbling for his snuffbox. He eyed the directors almost roguishly; his good humor seemed for the moment to have returned. The occupants of the room, with the exception of Cyrus French, who was still plunged in a deep lethargy of grief and indifference to what was going on, had by this time shaken off some of their horror and were growing restless. Zorn stole surreptitious glances at his heavy gold watch; Marchbanks was pacing belligerently up and down the room; Trask at regular intervals averted his head and gulped down some whisky from a flash in his pocket; Gray, his face as ashen as his hair, stood in silence behind old French’s chair. Lavery was very quiet, watching with bright inquisitive eyes the least movement of the Inspector and his men. Weaver, his boyish face strained and lined, seemed to be enduring agonies. He frequently sought Ellery with pleading eyes, as if asking for help which he knew, instinctively, could not be forthcoming.
“I must ask you to have patience for a short time longer, gentlemen,” said the Inspector, smoothing his mustache with the back of his small hand. “We have a few things more to do here—and then we’ll see. … Ah! You’re MacKenzie, I take it? Are those the watchmen? Bring ’em in, man!”
The middle-aged Scotchman had entered the window-room, herding before him four oldish men with frightened faces and fidgety hands. Ritter made up the rear.
“Yes, Inspector. By the way, I’m having the employees checked up, as Sergeant Velie instructed me to.” MacKenzie waved the four men forward. They shuffled a step farther into the room, reluctantly.
“Who’s the head nightwatchman among you?” demanded the Inspector.
A corpulent old man with fleshy features and placid eyes stepped forward, touching his forehead.
“I am, sor—Peter O’Flaherty’s me name.”
“Were you on duty last night, O’Flaherty?”
“Yes, sor. That I was.”
“What time did you go on?”
“Me reg’lar hour, sor,” said the watchman, “Ha’past five. It’s O’Shane I relieve at th’ desk in the night-office on th’ 39th Street side. These boys here”—he indicated the two men behind him with a fat and calloused forefinger—“they come on with me. They was with me last night, reg’lar.”
“I see.” The Inspector paused. “O’Flaherty, do you know what has happened?”
“Yes, sor. I’ve been told. And a shame it is, sor,” responded O’Flaherty soberly. He stole a glance at the limp figure of Cyrus French, then jerked his head back toward the Inspector as if he had committed an indiscretion. His cronies followed his gaze, and looked forward again in exactly the same manner.
“Did you know Mrs. French by sight?” asked the Inspector, his keen little eyes studying the old
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