Free French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen Page A

gives me a cheery good-evenin’, and asks if Mr. Cyrus French was still in th’ buildin’. I says no, ma’am, Mr. Cyrus French’d left just as I came on duty this afternoon, as he had, sor, carryin’ a brief-case. She thanks me, stops to think a bit, then she says she’ll go up to Mr. French’s private apartment anyway, and starts to walk out o’ th’ office toward the private elevator that’s only used to go up to th’ apartment. I says to her, I says, Kin I get one o’ the boys to run th’ elevator up for her an’ open th’ apartment door? She says no thanks, right polite, sor, and rummages in her bag for a minute, as if to see she’s got her key. Yes, she had it—she fishes it out o’ her bag and shows it to me. Then she—”
    “Just a moment, O’Flaherty.” The Inspector seemed perturbed: “You say she had a key to the apartment? How is that, do you know?”
    “Well, sor, there’re only a certain number o’ keys to Mr. French’s apartment, sor,” answered O’Flaherty, more comfortably. “S’far as I know, Mr. Cyrus French has one, Mrs. French had one, Miss Marion has one, Miss Bernice has one—me workin’ here for seventeen years, I knows th’ fam’ly right well, sor—Mr. Weaver has one, and there’s one master-key in th’ desk in my office all th’ time. That’s half a dozen altogether, sor. Th’ master-key is in case a key is needed in an emergency.”
    “You say Mrs. French showed you her key before she left your office, O’Flaherty? How do you know it was the key to the apartment?” asked the Inspector.
    “Easy enough, sor. Y’see, each key—they’re special Yales, sor—each key has a little gold dingus on it with th’ initials o’ the person it belongs to. Th’ key Mrs. French showed me had that on. Besides, I know th’ looks o’ that key: it was the right one, all right.”
    “One second, O’Flaherty.” The Inspector turned to Weaver. “Have you your apartment-key on you, Weaver? Let me have it, please?”
    Weaver extracted a leather key-case from his vest-pocket and handed it to Queen. Among a number of different keys was one with a small gold disk fused into the tiny hole at the top. On this disc were engraved the initials, W. W. The Inspector looked up at O’Flaherty.
    “A key like this?”
    “Just th’ same, sor,” said O’Flaherty, “exceptin’ th’ initials.”
    “Very well.” Queen returned the key-case to Weaver. “Now, O’Flaherty, before you continue, tell me this—where do you keep your master-key to the apartment?”
    “Right in a special drawer in th’ desk, sor. It’s there all the time, day and night.”
    “Was it in its place last night?”
    “Yes, sor. I always looks for it special. It was there—the right key, no mistake, sor. It’s got a tab on it too, with th’ word ‘Master’ on it.”
    “O’Flaherty,” asked the Inspector quietly, “were you at your desk all night? Did you leave your office at all?”
    “No, sor!” answered the old watchman emphatically. “From th’ minute I got there, at five-thirty, I didn’t leave th’ office until I was relieved this mornin’ by O’Shane at eight-thirty. I got longer hours than him ’cause he’s got more to do on his shift, with checkin’ in employees and all. And as for leavin’ the desk, I brings me own feed from homes, even hot coffee in a thermos bottle. No, sor, I was on th’ watch all night.”
    “I see.” Queen shook his head as if to clear the mists of weariness and motioned the watchman to continue with his story.
    “Well, sor,” said O’Flaherty, “when Mrs. French left me office, I got up out o’ me chair, went into the hall, and watched her. She went to th’ elevator, opened th’ door an’ went in. That’s the last I saw o’ her, sor. When I saw she didn’t come down I though nothin’ of it, ’cause a number o’ times Mrs. French has stayed overnight in Mr. French’s apartment upstairs. I thought she’d done th’ same this night.