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

outside when we all rushed out to see what was the matter down here.”
    “Very good!” beamed the old man. “A store detective you say? Reliable?”
    “Absolutely, Inspector,” said Crouther, from his corner. “Sergeant Velie knows him, too. Jones is his name—an ex-policeman—used to be on a beat with Velie.” The Inspector looked at the Sergeant inquiringly; he nodded in confirmation.
    “Thomas,” said Queen with one hand digging into his side pocket for a pinch of snuff, “see to it, will you? See if this Jones fellow is still there, if he’s been there all the time, if he’s seen anything, if any one tried to get into the apartment since Mr. French, Mr. Weaver and the other gentlemen left. And take one of the boys along to relieve him—to relieve him, you understand?”
    Velie grunted stonily and tramped out of the windowroom. As he left, a policeman entered, saluted Inspector Queen and reported, “There’s a ’phone call out there in the leather-goods department for a Mr. Westley Weaver, Inspector.”
    “What’s that? Call?” The Inspector turned on Weaver, who stood miserably in a corner.
    Weaver straightened. “Probably from Krafft of the Comptroller’s office,” he said. “I was to give him a report this morning, and the meeting and everything that happened afterward drove it out of my mind. … May I leave?”
    Queen hesitated, his glance flickering toward Ellery, who was absently fingering his pince-nez. Ellery gave a slight nod.
    “Go head,” the Inspector growled to Weaver. “But come right back.”
    Weaver followed the policeman to the leather-goods counter directly facing the door of the window-room. A clerk eagerly handed the telephone to him.
    “Hello—Krafft? This is Weaver speaking. I’m sorry about that report—Who? Oh.”
    A curious change came over his face as he heard Marion French’s voice over the wire. He lowered his voice immediately and bent over the instrument. The policeman, lounging behind him, surreptitiously shuffled closer, trying to catch the conversation.
    “Why, what’s the matter, dear?” asked Marion, a note of anxiety in her voice. “Is anything wrong? I tried to get you at the apartment, but there was no answer. The operator had to search for you. … I thought father had a directors’ meeting this morning.”
    “Marion!” Weaver’s voice was insistent. “I really can’t stop to explain now. Something’s happened, dearest—something so …” He stopped, seemed to be wrestling mentally with some problem. His lips tightened. “Sweetheart, will you do something for me?”
    “But, Wes dear,” came the girl’s anxious voice, “whatever is the matter? Has anything happened to father?”
    “No—no.” Weaver hunched desperately over the telephone. “Be my own honey and don’t ask questions now. … Where are you now?”
    “Why, at home, dear. But, Wes, what is the trouble?” There was a frightened catch in her voice. “Has it anything to do with Winifred or Bernice? They’re not at home, Wes—haven’t been all night. …” Then she laughed a little. “But there! I shan’t worry you, dearest. I’ll take a cab and be down in fifteen minutes.”
    “I knew you would.” Weaver almost sobbed in a tense relief. “Whatever happens, sweet, I love you, I love you, do you understand?”
    “Westley! You silly boy—you’ve frightened me out of my wits. Good-by now—I’ll be downtown in a jiffy.” There was a tender little sound through the receiver—it might have been a kiss—and Weaver hung up with a sigh.
    The policeman jumped back as Weaver turned—jumped back with a broad grin. Weaver flushed furiously, started to speak, then shook his head.
    “There’s a young lady coming down here, officer,” he said swiftly. “She’ll be here in about a quarter of an hour. Won’t you please let me know the moment she gets here? She’s Miss Marion French. I’ll be in the window.”
    The bluecoat lost his grin. “Well now,” he said