The French Powder Mystery

They sat about the old walnut table in the Queen apartment—five oddly assorted individuals. There was District Attorney Henry Sampson, a slender man with bright eyes. Beside Sampson glowered Salvatore Fiorelli, head of the Narcotic Squad, a burly Italian with a long black scar on his right cheek. Red-haired Timothy Cronin, Sampson's assistant, was there. And Inspector Richard Queen and Ellery Queen sat shoulder to shoulder with vastly differing facial expressions. The old man sulked, bit the end of his mustache. Ellery stared vacantly at Fiorelli's cicatrix.

The calendar on the desk nearby read Tuesday, May the twenty-fourth, 19—. A mild spring breeze fluttered the window draperies.

The Inspector glared about the board. "What did Welles ever do? I'd like to know, Henry!"

"Come now, Q, Scott Welles isn't a bad scout."

"Rides to hounds, shoots a 91 on the course, and that makes him eligible for the police commissionership, doesn't it? Of course, of course! And the unnecessary work he piles on us...."

"It isn't so bad as that," said Sampson. "He's done some useful things, in all fairness. Flood Relief Committee, social work.... A man who has been so active in non-political fields can't be a total loss, Q."

The Inspector snorted. "How long has he been in office? No, don't tell me—let me guess. Two days.... Well, here's what he's done to us in two days. Get your teeth into this.

The lighting fixtures in the ceiling and on the side walls were all of the "concealed" variety rapidly gaining vogue on the Continent.

At the stroke of noon the Negress, who had remained motionless since her entrance into the room, stirred into activity. By this time a viscid mass of people had gathered outside the window on the sidewalk, awaiting the Negress's demonstration with hungry eyes and restless shoulders.

Setting down a metal rack on which were hung a number of simply lettered placards, the Negress picked up a long ivory wand and, pointing to the legend on the first placard, proceeded solemnly to one of the pieces on the east wall and began a pantomimic demonstration of its construction and properties.

The fifth placard—by this time the crowd had doubled in size and overflowed from the sidewalk—bore the words:

Wall-Bed This Article of Furniture Is Concealed in the West Wall and Is Operated Electrically by a Push-Button. It is of Special Design, Created by M. Paul Lavery, and Is the Only One of Its Kind in This Country.

Pointing to the words once more, for emphasis, the Negress sedately walked to the west wall, indicated with a flourish a small ivory button set in a nacreous panel, and touched the button with one long black finger.

Before pressing it, she looked out once more on the jostling, expectant crowd before the window. Necks craned eagerly to see the marvel about to be revealed.

What they saw was a marvel indeed—so unexpected, so horrible, so grotesque that at the instant of its occurrence faces froze into masks of stunned incredulity. It was like a moment snatched out of an unbelievable nightmare....

"Lipstick. Should be here.... And key. Let's hope it isn't here." Ellery smiled and stepped into the center of the room.

He observed that the beds were made up. Everything seemed in perfect order. He strode over to the wardrobe, looked at its bare top. The dressing-table caught his eye. He walked toward it as if half afraid of what he might find. Weaver followed him curiously.

The top surface of the dressing-table held few articles. A small tray of mother-of-pearl; a powder-jar; a hand-mirror. On the tray were some feminine accoutrements—tiny scissors, a file, a buffer. Nothing had the appearance of recent use.

Ellery frowned. He turned his head away, turned it back as if fascinated by the dressing-table.

"Really," he muttered, "it should be here. Of all places. The logical one. Of course!"

His fingers had touched the tray. Its shell was slightly curved at the edges. As the tray moved, something rolled off the table, where it had nestled under the tray's edge, and fell to the floor.

With a grin of triumph Ellery picked up the article. It was a small, gold-chased lipstick. Weaver came over in some astonishment to see the find. Ellery pointed to the three initials on the cap: W.M.F.

"Why, that's Mrs. French's!" cried Weaver.

"Dear Mrs. French," murmured Ellery under his breath. He lifted the cap of the stick and twisted. A pinkish blob of paste appeared.

"Seems to jibe," he said aloud. As if struck by a thought, he searched his coat pocket and pulled out the larger, silver-chased lipstick from the dead woman's bag in the window.

He walked briskly toward the cardroom door and pushed it open, Weaver at his heels. And Weaver cried out in sheer astonishment from behind Ellery's broad shoulders....

The cardroom was smaller than both the library and the bedroom. It was paneled in walnut. Cheerful drapes hung over the single large window overlooking Fifth Avenue. A thick rug covered the floor.

But Ellery, following the line of Weaver's gaze, saw that he was staring in horror at a hexagonal, baize-covered card-table in the center of the room. A small bronze ashtray and some playing-cards, peculiarly arranged, were on the table. Two heavy folding-chairs were pushed away from the table.

"What's the trouble, Wes?" asked Ellery sharply.

"Why, that—that table wasn't there last night!" stammered Weaver. "I was in here looking for my pipe just before I left, and I'm sure...."

"Not really!" murmured Ellery. "You mean the table was folded up, put away, out of sight?"

"Of course! The room was cleaned up yesterday morning by the charwoman. And those cigarets in the ashtray.... Ellery, some one was in here after I left last night!"

But she didn't seem interested and hung up immediately."

There was a little silence. Then Ellery looked up with a great light of interest in his eyes.

"Can you remember, Miss Underhill," he asked, "just what it was that Miss Carmody began to say in the middle of the conversation, and then appeared to reconsider?"

"It's hard to be exact about it, Mr. Queen," replied the housekeeper. "But somehow I got the impression that Bernice was going to ask me to get one of the other keys to the apartment for her. Perhaps I'm wrong."

"Perhaps you are," said Ellery whimsically, "but I'd not give even the most preposterous of odds that you aren't...."

"You know," added Hortense Underhill, as an afterthought, "I also got the impression, when she began to say that and stopped, that—"

"That somebody was talking to her, Miss Underhill?" asked Ellery.

"Exactly, Mr. Queen."

The Inspector turned a startled face toward his son. Velie moved his huge bulk lightly forward and whispered in the Inspector's ear. The old man grinned.

"Keen, keen, Thomas," he chuckled. "That's just what I was thinking, too...."

Ellery flicked his finger warningly.

"Miss Underhill, I can't expect you to exhibit miracles of acuteness," he said in a serious, admiring tone. "But I should like to ask—if you're entirely certain that it was Miss Carmody talking to you over the wire?"

"That's it!" cried the Inspector. Velie smiled grimly.

The housekeeper regarded the three men with strangely limpid eyes. Something electric shot through all four.

"I don't—believe—it—was," she whispered....