The French Powder Mystery Read online

  The French Powder Mystery

  Ellery Queen

  Foreword

  EDITOR’S NOTE: A foreword appeared in Mr. Queen’s last detective novel written by a gentleman designating himself as J. J. McC. The publishers did not then, nor do they now, know the identity of this friend of the two Queens. In deference to the author’s wish, however, Mr. McC. has been kind enough to pen once more a prefatory note to his friend’s new novels and this note appears below.

  I have followed the fortunes of the Queens, father and son, with more than casual interest for many years. Longer perhaps than any other of their legion friends. Which places me, or so Ellery avers, in the unfortunate position of Chorus, that quaint herald of the olden drama who craves the auditor’s sympathetic ear and receives at best his willful impatience.

  It is with pleasure nevertheless that I once more enact my role of prologue-master in a modern tale of murder and detection. This pleasure derives from two causes: the warm reception accorded Mr. Queen’s first novel, for the publication of which I was more or less responsible, under his nom de plume; and the long and sometimes arduous friendship I have enjoyed with the Queens.

  I say “arduous” because the task of a mere mortal in attempting to keep step with the busy life of a New York detective Inspector and the intellectual activity of a bookworm and logician can adequately be described only by that word. Richard Queen, whom I knew intimately long before he retired, a veteran of thirty-two years service in the New York police department, was a dynamic little gray man, a bundle of energy and industry. He knew his crime, he knew his criminals, and he knew his law. He brought to these not uncommon attributes, however, a daring of method that put him far above the average detective Inspector. A firm advocate of the more inspirational methods of his son, he nevertheless was the practical policeman to his fingertips. Under his long regime the Detective Bureau, except for those stormy times when his official superiors took it upon themselves by overhauling the department to satisfy a theory or a press opinion, garnered a record of solved capital crimes which to this day is unique in the police history of New York City.

  Ellery Queen, as may be imagined, deplored the more unimaginative aspects of his father’s profession. He was the pure logician, with a generous dash of dreamer and artist thrown in—a lethal combination to those felons who were so unfortunate as to be dissected by the keen instruments of his mind, always under those questing pince-nez eyeglasses. His “life work” before his father’s retirement was hardly visible to the eye, unless his casual custom of writing a detective story when the spirit moved him may be termed a life work. He occupied himself chiefly in a student’s pursuit of culture and knowledge, and since he had an independent income from a maternal uncle which removed him from the class of social parasite, he lived what he characteristically termed the “ideal intellectual life.” It was natural for him to evince intense interest in crime, due to his environment, which from childhood had been saturated with tales of murder and law-breaking; but the artistic element in his nature made him useless for routine police investigation.

  I recall vividly a conversation between father and son one day many years ago which brought out their wholly opposed viewpoints on the subject of crime-detection. I relate the conversation here because it will crystallize the difference between the two men so clearly—a point quite essential to complete understanding of the Queens.

  The Inspector was expounding on his profession for my benefit, while Ellery lounged in his chair between us.

  “Ordinary crime-detection,” said the old man, “is almost wholly a mechanical matter. Most crimes are committed by ‘criminals’—that is to say, by individuals habituated by environment and repetitious conduct to the pursuit of law-breaking. Such persons in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases have police records.

  “The detective in these ninety-nine hypothetical cases has much to go on. Bertillon measurements—fingerprint records, intimate photographs, a complete dossier. Moreover, he has a little file of the criminal’s idiosyncrasies. We have not developed this phase of detective science so well as the London, Vienna and Berlin police, but we have at least laid a foundation . . . .

  “A burglar who habitually makes use of a certain method of prying open doors and windows, or blowing safes, for example; a hold-up man who always wears a crude, homemade mask; a gunman who smokes and drops a certain brand of cigarette, purely from habit; a gangster with an inordinate fondness for women; a second-story man who always works alone, or one who invariably employs a look-out’ . . . these idiosyncrasies of method are sometimes as definite clues to the identity of a criminal as his fingerprints.

  “It seems peculiar to the layman,” went on Inspector Queen, when he had inhaled deeply from his old snuff-box-—a habit inseparable from the man—”that a criminal should constantly use the same modus operandi—always drop the same cigarette smoked the same way; always wear the same kind of mask; always indulge in a wild orgy with women after a ‘job.’ But they forget that crime is the criminal’s business, and that every business leaves its indelible mark of habit on the business man.”

  “Your psychological policeman, by the way,” grinned Ellery, “doesn’t scorn the aid of informers, either, McC. Something like the little tick-bird that sits on the rhino’s back and warns of approaching danger . . . .”

  “I was coming to that,” retorted his father equably. “As I said in the beginning, we have plenty to go on in the case of the hardened criminal. But most of all, despite my son’s jeering attitude, we have come to depend upon the underworld’s ‘squealers,’ ‘stool-pigeons’—they’re called less polite names, too—for the solution of routine crimes. It is an open secret that without the stool-pigeon a huge percentage of felonies would remain unsolved. They are as essential to the big city’s police as a knowledge of the proper sourcebook is to the lawyer. It stands to reason—the underworld by its amazing grapevine inevitably knows who has pulled a big ‘job.’ Our problem is to find a ‘stoolie’ who will part with the tip for a fair consideration. It isn’t always easy even then, by the way . . . .”

  “Child’s play,” said Ellery in a provocative tone. And he grinned.

  “I firmly believe,” went on the old Inspector imperturbably, “that every police department in the world would collapse in six months if the institution of underworld informing were to come to an end.”

  Ellery lazily took up the cudgels. “Most of what you say, Sire, is only too true. Which is why ninety per cent of your investigations hold not a vestige of glamour for me. But the last ten per cent!

  “Where the police detective woefully falls down, J.J.,” he said smiling, turning to me, “is in the case of the crime whose perpetrator is not an habitual criminal, who has therefore left no handy fingerprints which will correspond with another set in your files, about whose idiosyncrasies nothing is known for the ludicrously simple reason that he has never been a criminal before. Such a person, generally speaking, is not of the underworld, and you can therefore pump your stool-pigeon to your heart’s delight without eliciting the slightest morsel of useful information.

  “You have nothing to go on, I am happy to say,” he continued, twirling his pince-nez, “except the crime itself, and such clues and pertinences as that crime reveals upon observation and investigation. Obviously—and I say this with proper respect for my father’s ancient profession—obviously to nab the criminal in such a case is the more difficult job by many headaches. Which explains two things—the hideously high percentage of unsolved crimes in this country, and my own absorbing avocation.”

  The French Powder Mystery is one of the older cases from the Queens’ files—an actual case, as I have said, and one in which Ellery exhibited scintillating proofs of his unique talents. He kept notes of this case during the French investigation—one of his few practical habits. Subsequently, with the unmasking of the murderer, he wrote a book around the real-life plot, developing and embroidering the facts to fit a literary pattern.

  I induced him to polish up the manuscript and have it published as the second novel under his pen-name—and this at a time when I was under his sacred roof in the Queens’ Italian villa. For it will be recalled that Ellery, having renounced his old profession utterly, now that he is married and domesticated, has hidden his old cases in the depths of a filing-cabinet and nothing less than the detonation of a presumptuous friend’s exhortations has been able to make him consent to a revivification of the mellowed manuscripts.

  It should be borne in mind, in all fairness to Inspector Queen, that the old sleuth’s comparatively small role in the French case was due to the enormous press of official business during that hectic season, and in no small degree to the heckling he was subjected to by the newly appointed civilian, Scott Welles, to the post of Commissioner of Police.

  In closing, it might be pleasant to point out that the Queens are at this writing still in their tiny mountain-home in Italy; that Ellery’s son has learned to toddle and say with innocent gravity, “gramps”; that Djuna is in perfect health and has recently undergone the stress of a cosmic love-affair with a little witch of a country girl; that the Inspector is still writing monographs for German magazines and making occasional tours of inspection through the Continental police departments; that Mrs. Ellery Queen has happily recovered from her recent illness; and finally that Ellery himself, after his visit last fall to New York, has returned to that “gem-encrusted” Roman scenery with gratitude in his heart and, he says (but I doubt it), no r
egrets for the distractions of the West Side.

  Which leaves me little else to write but a most sincere hope that you will enjoy the reading of The French Powder Mystery fully as much as I did.

  J. J. McC.

  New York

  June, 1930

  SOME PERSONS OF IMPORTANCE encountered in the course of the french investigation note: A list of the personalities involved in The French Powder Mystery is here set at the disposition of the reader. He is urged indeed to con the list painstakingly before attacking the story proper, so that each name will be vigorously impressed upon his consciousness; moreover, to refer often to this page during his perusal of the story . . . . Bear in mind that the most piercing enjoyment deriving from indulgence in detectival fiction arises from the battle of wits between author and reader. Scrupulous attention to the cast of characters is frequently a means to this eminently desirable end.

  Ellery Queen

  Winifred Marchbanks French, Requiescat in pace. What cesspool of evil lies beneath her murder?

  Bernice Carmody, a child of ill-fortune.

  Cyrus French, a common American avatar—merchant prince and Puritan.

  Marion French, a silken Cinderella.

  Westley Weaver, amanuensis and lover-—and friend to the author.

  Vincent Carmody, l’hommc sombre et malheureux. A dealer in antiquities.

  John Gray, director. A donor of book-ends.

  Hubert Marchbanks, director. Ursine brother to the late Mrs. French.

  A. Melville Trask, director. Sycophantic blot on a fair ‘scutcheon.

  Cornelius Zorn, director. An Antwerpian nabob, potbelly, inhibitions and all.

  Mrs. Cornelius Zorn, Zorn’s Medusa-wife.

  Paul Lavery, the impeccable français. Pioneer in modern art-decoration. Author of technical studies in the field of fine arts, notably L’Art de la Faïence, publié par Mon-serat, Paris, 1913.

  Arnold Mackenzie, General Manager of French’s, a Scot.

  William Crouther, chief guardian of the law employed by French’s.

  Diana Johnson, a model of fear.

  James Springer, Manager of the Book Department, a mysterioso.

  Peter O’Flaherty, leal head nightwatchman of the French establishment.

  Hermann Ralska, George Powers, Bert Bloom, night-watchmen.

  Hortense Underhill, genus housekeeper tyranna.

  Doris Keaton, a maidenly minion.

  The Hon. Scott Welles, just a Commissioner of Police.

  Dr. Samuel Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County.

  Henry Sampson, District Attorney of New York County.

  Timothy Cronin, Assistant District Attorney of New York County.

  Thomas Velie, Detective-Sergeant under the wing of Inspector Queen.

  Hagstrom, Hesse, Flint, Ritter, Johnson, Piggott, sleuths attached to the command of Inspector Queen.

  Salvatore Fiorelli, Head of the Narcotic Squad.

  “Jimmy,” Headquarters fingerprint expert who has ever remained last-nameless.

  Djuna, The Queens’ beloved scull, who appears far too little.

  Detectives, policemen, clerks, a physician, a nurse, a Negro caretaker, a freight watchman, etc., etc., etc., etc,

  and

  Inspector Richard Queen

  who, being not himself, is sorely beset in this adventure

  and

  Ellery Queen

  who is so fortunate as to resolve it.

  The First Episode

  “Parenthetically speaking . . . in numerous cases the sole difference between success and failure in the detection of crime is a sort of . . . osmotic reluctance (on the part of the detective’s mental perceptions) to seep through the cilia of WHAT SEEMS TO BE and reach the vital stream of WHAT ACTUALLY IS.”

  FROM A PRESCRIPTION FOR CRIME, BY DR. LUIGI PINNA

  Chapter 1.

  “The Queens Were in the Parlor”

  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.

  “Number one—reorganized the Missing Persons Bureau. And why poor Parsons got the gate I don’t know . . . . Number two—scrambled seven precinct-captains so thoroughly that they need road maps to get back to familiar territory. Why? You tell me . . . . Number three—shifted the make-up of Traffic B, C, and D. Number four—reduced a square two dozen second-grade detectives to pounding beats. Any reason? Certainly! Somebody whose grand-uncle’s niece knows the Governor’s fourth secretary is out for blood . . . . Number five—raked over the Police School and changed the rules. And I know he has his eagle eye on my pet Homicide Squad . . .

  “You’ll burst a blood-vessel,” said Cronin.

  “You haven’t heard anything yet,” said the Inspector grimly. “Every first-grade detective must now make out a daily report—in line of duty, mind you—a daily personal report direct to the Commissioner’s office!”

  “Well,” grinned Cronin, “he’s welcome to read ‘em all. Half those babies can’t spell homicide.”

  “Read them nothing, Tim. Do you think he’d waste his time? Not by your Aunt Martha. No, sir! He sends them into my office by his shiny little secretary, Theodore B. B. St. Johns, with a polite message: “The Commissioner’s respects to Inspector Richard Queen, and the Commissioner would be obliged for an opinion within the hour on the veracity of the attached reports.’ And there I am, sweating marbles to keep my head clear for this narcotic investigation—there I am putting my mark on a flock of flatfoot reports.” The Inspector dug viciously into his snuff-box.

  “You ain’t spilled half of it, Queen,” growled FiorellL “What’s this wall-eyed walrus, this pussy-footing specimen of a sciwies do but sneak in on my department, sniff around among the boys, hook a can of opium on the sly, and send it down to Jimmy for—guess what—fingerprints! Fingerprints, by God! As if Jimmy could find the print of a dope-peddler after a dozen of the gang had had their paws on the can. Besides, we had the prints already! But no, he didn’t stop for explanations. And then Stern searched high and low for the can and came runnin’ to me with some crazy story that the guy we’re lookin’ for’d walked himself straight into Headquarters and snitched a pot of opium!” Fiorelli spread his huge hands mutely, stuck a stunted black cheroot into his mouth.

  It was at this moment that Ellery picked up a little volume with torn covers from the table and began to read.

  Sampson’s grin faded. “All joking aside, though, if we don’t gain ground soon on the drug ring we’ll all be in a mess, Welles shouldn’t have forced our hand and stirred up the White test case now. Looks as if this gang—” He shook his head dubiously.

  “That’s what riles me,” complained the Inspector. “Here I am, just getting the feel of Pete Slavin’s mob, and I have to spend a whole day down in Court testifying.”