Free French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen Page B

So that’s all I know, sor.”
    Ellery stirred. He lifted the dead woman’s handbag from the bed and dangled it before the watchman’s eyes.
    “O’Flaherty,” he asked in a drawling voice, “have you ever seen this before?”
    The watchman replied, “Yes, sor! That’s th’ bag Mrs. French was carryin’ last night.”
    “The bag, then,” pursued Ellery softly, “from which she took her gold-topped key?”
    The watchman seemed puzzled. “Why, yes, sor.” Ellery seemed satisfied and dropped back to whisper in his father’s ear. The Inspector frowned, then nodded. He turned to Crouther.
    “Crouther, will you please get the master-key in the office on the 39th Street side.” Crouther grunted cheerfully and departed. “Now then.” The Inspector picked up the gauzy scarf initialed M. F. which he had found on the dead body. “O’Flaherty, do you recall Mrs. French’s having worn this last night? Think carefully.”
    O’Flaherty took the wisp of silk in his horny fat fingers and turned it over and over, his forehead wrinkled. “Well, sor,” he said finally, in a hesitant tone, “I can’t rightly say. Seemed to me for a minute as if I’d seen Mrs. French wear it, and then again seemed as if I hadn’t. No, I couldn’t rightly say. No, sor,” and he returned it to the Inspector with a gesture of helplessness.
    “You’re not sure?” The Inspector dropped the scarf back on the bed. “Everything seem all right last night? No alarms?”
    “No, sor. O’ course you know th’ store’s wired against burglars. Quiet as a church last night. S’far as I know, nothin’ happened out o’ th’ way.”
    Queen said to Sergeant Velie: “Thomas, call up the alarm central office and find out if they’ve a report on last night. Probably not, or we’d have heard from them by this time.” Velie left, silently as usual.
    “O’Flaherty, did you see any one else enter the building last night except Mrs. French? At any time during the night?” continued the Inspector.
    “No, sor, absolutely not. Not a soul.” O’Flaherty seemed anxious to make this point clear, after his defection concerning the scarf.
    “Ah there, MacKenzie! Let me have the time-sheet, please.” Queen took from the store manager, who had just returned, a long scroll of ruled paper. He looked it over hurriedly. Something seemed to catch his eye.
    “I see by your sheet, O’Flaherty,” he said, “that Mr. Weaver and a Mr. Springer were the last to leave the store yesterday evening? Did you make these notations?”
    “Yes, sor. Mr. Springer went out about a quarter to seven, and Mr. Weaver a few minutes after.”
    “Is that right, Weaver?” demanded the Inspector, turning to the secretary.
    “Yes,” replied Weaver in a colorless tone. “I stayed a little later last night to prepare some papers for Mr. French to-day; I believe I shaved. … I left a little before seven.”
    “Who is this Springer?”
    “Oh, James Springer is the head of our Book Department, Inspector,” put in mild-mannered MacKenzie. “Often stays late. A very conscientious man, sir.”
    “Yes, yes, Now—you men!” The Inspector pointed to the two watchmen who had not yet spoken. “Anything to say? Anything to add to O’Flaherty’s story? One at a time. … Your name?”
    One of the watchmen cleared his throat nervously. “George Powers, Inspector. No, sir, I got nothin’ to say.”
    “Everything all right when you went your rounds? Do you cover this part of the store?”
    “Yes, sir, everythin’ was okay on my rounds. No, sir, I don’t cover the main floor. That’s Ralska’s job, here.”
    “Ralska, eh? What’s your first name, Ralska?” demanded the Inspector.
    The third watchman expelled his breath noisily. “Hermann, sir. Hermann Ralska. I think—”
    “You think, eh?” Queen turned. “Hagstrom, you’re taking this down, of course?”
    “Yep, Chief,” grinned the detective, his pencil busy in his notebook.
    “Now, Ralska, you were