French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online Page A

man MacKenzie, the store manager, find the home address of O’Flaherty, Ralska, Powers and Bloom, and get ’em down here as fast as a cab will carry them. Scoot!” Ritter lumbered away.
    Ellery suddenly straightened, adjusted his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and strode over to his father. They held a whispered colloquy for a moment, whereupon Ellery quietly retreated to his vantage-point near the bed and the Inspector crooked his finger at Westley Weaver.
    “Mr. Weaver,” he asked, “I take it that you are Mr. French’s confidential secretary?”
    “Yes, sir,” responded Weaver warily.
    The Inspector glanced sidewise at Cyrus French, huddled exhausted in the chair. John Gray’s small white hand was solicitously patting French’s arm. “I’d rather not bother Mr. French at this time with questions.—You were with him all morning?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Mr. French was not aware of Mrs. French’s presence in the store?”
    “No, sir!” The response was immediate and sharp. Weaver regarded Queen with suspicious eyes.
    “Were you?”
    “I? No, sir!”
    “Hmmm!” The Inspector’s chin sank on his chest, and he communed with himself for an instant. Suddenly his finger shot toward the group of directors on the other side of the room. “How about you gentlemen? Any of you know that Mrs. French was here—this morning or last night?”
    There was a chorus of horrified noes. Cornelius Zorn’s face grew red. He began to protest angrily.
    “Please!” The Inspector’s tone flung them back to silence. “Mr. Weaver. How is it that all these gentlemen are present in the store this morning? They’re not here every day, are they?”
    Weaver’s frank face lightened, as if from relief. “All of our directors are active in the management of the store, Inspector. They’re here every day, if only for an hour or so. As for this morning, there was a directors’ meeting in Mr. French’s private apartment upstairs.”
    “Eh?” Queen seemed pleased as well as startled. “A private apartment upstairs, you say? On what floor?”
    “The sixth—that’s the top floor of the store.”
    Ellery stirred into life. Again he crossed the floor, again he whispered to his father, and again the old man nodded.
    “Mr. Weaver,” continued the Inspector, a note of eagerness in his voice, “how long were you and the Board in Mr. French’s private apartment this morning?”
    Weaver seemed surprised at the question. “Why, all morning, Inspector. I arrived at about eight-thirty, Mr. French at about nine, and the other directors at a little past eleven.”
    “I see.” The Inspector mused. “Did you leave the apartment at any time during the morning?”
    “No, sir.” The reply was snapped back at him.
    “And the others—Mr. French, the directors?” pressed the Inspector patiently.
    “No, sir! We were all there until one of the store detectives notified us that an accident had occurred here. And I must say, sir—”
    “Westley, Westley …” murmured Ellery chidingly, and Weaver turned to him with startled eyes. They fell before the meaning glance of Ellery, and Weaver bit his lip nervously. He did not finish what he had begun to say.
    “Now, sir.” The Inspector seemed to be enjoying himself in a tired way—utterly disregarding the bewildered eyes of the many people in the room. “Now, sir! Be very careful. At what time did this notification come?”
    “At twelve-twenty-five,” replied Weaver in a calmer tone.
    “Very well.—Every one then left the apartment?” Weaver nodded. “Did you lock the door?”
    “The door closed after us, Inspector.”
    “And the apartment remained that way, unguarded?”
    “Not at all,” said Weaver promptly. “At the beginning of the conference this morning, at Mr. French’s suggestion, I got one of the store detectives to stand guard outside the apartment door. He is probably still there, because his orders were specific. In fact, I remember seeing him lounging about