The French Powder Mystery, page 22
Weaver stared at his friend for a long time. The Inspector and Crouther sat quietly. Then the young man spoke—in a different voice this time, a voice colored with a new confidence. “Yes, it does,” he said slowly. “Marion has been on my mind, and her possible connection with the affair has made me not quite so frank as I might have been. And I do know something about those books.”
Ellery smiled with satisfaction. They waited in silence for Weaver to collect his thoughts.
“You’ve had occasion,” said Weaver at last, lapsing into a clear narrative tone, “to mention a man by the name of Springer. I believe his name arose when you were looking over the nightwatchman’s chart, Inspector. You remember that on Monday evening Springer didn’t leave the building until seven o’clock, and that I followed him out directly after. These facts were recorded on O’Flaherty’s chart.”
“Springer?” Ellery frowned. The Inspector nodded.
Weaver looked hesitantly at Crouther and then turned to the Inspector. “Is it all right—?” he began in some embarrassment.
Ellery replied at once for his father. “Perfectly, Wes. Crouther has been in on the case from the beginning, and I imagine he may be of help in the future as well. Go ahead.”
“Very well, then,” said Weaver. Crouther sank back into his chair complacently. “About two months ago—I forget the exact date—the Accounting Department brought to the attention of Mr. French certain suspicious irregularities in the Book Department. Springer, of course, is head of the department. The irregularities were of a financial nature, and it was thought that receipts were not commensurate with the volume of business. It was a confidential matter, and the Old Man was quite upset about it. There was nothing definite in the Accounting Department’s suspicions, and because the whole business was vague, the accountants were ordered to forget ail about it temporarily, and the Old Man asked me to conduct a little private investigation of my own.”
“Springer, hey?” scowled Crouther. “Funny I didn’t hear about it, Mr. Weaver.”
“Mr. French didn’t believe,” explained Weaver, “that too many people should know about it. The suspicions were just nebulous enough to call for secrecy. And because I handle most of the matters connected with the Old Man personally, he turned to me rather than to any one else . . . . I couldn’t, of course,” continued Weaver wearily, “do any scouting around during the working day. Springer himself was always there. So I was compelled to do my investigating after hours. I had been checking up sales slips and records for about three or four days in the Book Department, after everybody had left the building, as I thought, when one evening I got wind of something queer. I might say that my few nights’ snooping hadn’t got me anywhere—everything seemed all right.”
The Queens and Crouther were listening now with strained attention.
“The night I’ve referred to,” went on Weaver, “I was about to enter the Book Department when I noticed an unusual brightness—a number of lamps were lit up. My first thought was that somebody was working overtime, and when I looked in cautiously the thought seemed corroborated. It was Springer, alone, pottering about in the aisles of the Department. I don’t know exactly what made me keep out of sight—perhaps it was the fact that I was already suspicious of him—-but I did, and watched curiously to see what he was doing.
“I saw him go over to one of the wall-shelves, after looking around with a furtive air, and swiftly take down a book. He took a long patent pencil from his pocket and, opening the book somewhere at the back, he made a rapid notation with the pencil. He snapped the book shut, made some sort of mark on the back-board, and immediately placed the book on a different shelf. I noted that he seemed quite anxious about how he placed the book; he fussed with it for several moments before he seemed satisfied. And that was all. He entered his private office in the rear and reappeared shortly after wearing his hat and coat. He then walked out of the Department, almost brushing by me as I stood huddled in a little alcove in the shadow. A few moments later the lights, except for one or two bulbs kept lit all night, snapped out. I found out later that he had checked out the regular way, informing the nightwatchman that he was through for the night, and that O’Flaherty should have the switch for the book section turned off.”
“That doesn’t seem so fluky to me,” said Crouther. “Probably just part of his job.”
“When you’re looking for suspicious activity,” said the Inspector vaguely, “you can generally find it.”
“I had something of the same thought,” replied Weaver. “It was a trifle peculiar to find Springer working overtime in the first place—the practice is rather discouraged by Mr. French. But then the incident itself might be perfectly innocent. I did go over to that shelf after Springer had gone and inquisitively I took down the book he had just placed there. I turned to the back and on an inside leaf I found in pencil a date and a street-and-number address.”
“An address?” Both Ellery and the Inspector exclaimed simultaneously. “What was it?” demanded the Inspector.
“I forget just now,” said Weaver, “but I have a note of it in my pocket. Would you like—?”
“Never mind the address at the moment,” said Ellery with a curious calm. “I’m not quite clear on this matter of the five books I took from French’s desk. Are they the actual books Springer marked?”
“No, they’re not,” replied Weaver. “But perhaps I had better give you my story in something like a sequence of incidents. It’s rather complicated . . . . After noticing the date and address, which I couldn’t figure out at all as far as a possible meaning was concerned, I examined the back-board on which I had seen Springer write something. I found it was merely a light pencil-line under the name of the author.”
“That back-board fascinated me from the moment you mentioned it,” mused Ellery. “Are you sure, Westley, that the mark was under the entire name? Wasn’t it perhaps under the first two letters?”
Weaver stared. “Why, so it was,” he cried. “But how on earth could you know, Ellery?”
“Guess-work,” said Ellery negligently. “But it follows. No wonder,” he said, turning to his father, “I couldn’t get more out of these books, dad. They aren’t the originals . . . . Go on, Wes.”
“I had no reason then,” continued Weaver, “to take decisive action about that book. I merely noted the address and date and, after slipping the book back into the exact place in which Sprjnger had originally set it, I went about my business of checking up on Springer’s records. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the whole thing. It wasn’t until the following week—eight days, to be exact—that the incident was recalled to my mind.”
“Springer did the same thing, I’ll bet!” cried Crouther.
“Bravo, Crouther,” murmured Ellery.
Weaver smiled fleetingly and went on. “Yes, under the same circumstances Springer did the same thing, and because I had gone down into the Book Department on my regular nightly check-up, I caught him at it again. This time I was puzzled to note that he repeated his performance of the week before in every detail. And the business still didn’t register any meaning in my mind. I merely jotted down the address and date once more—they were different from the previous week’s, incidentally—and went about my business. It wasn’t until the third week—after eight days had passed—that my suspicions began to function a little more actively.”
“Then,” said Ellery, “you took a duplicate of the book and the book was Fourteenth Century Trade and Commerce, by a gentleman named Stani Wedjowski.”
“Correct,” said Weaver. “On that third occasion, it came to me that the addresses were of vital importance. What that importance was I had no idea. But I realized that the books were there for some purpose, and I decided to try a little experiment. In the case of the Wediowski book, after Springer had gone I got another copy of the book, marked the date in the back for reference, made a private note of the new address, and took the duplicate book back upstairs with me to study. Perhaps, I thought, there’s something about this book that will enlighten me. I left the original exactly where Springer had placed it, naturally.
“I studied that book until I was blue in the face. I couldn’t make a thing of it. And I repeated my tactics for the next four weeks—Springer did his mysterious little job every eight days, I noticed—and studied my duplicate books very assiduously. They didn’t make sense, and I was getting desperate. I might add that all this time I had been keeping tabs on Springer’s records, and I was just beginning to see light. Springer was taking advantage of the one flaw in the departmental system, and was falsifying his accounts in a devilishly clever manner. And then I knew that the books must have some significance—whether connected with my own investigation or not I didn’t know. But I had no doubt now that they signified something crooked.
“At any rate, by the sixth week I was quite desperate. This was Monday evening—the night of the murder, although I had no idea of what was going to happen within a few hours.
I watched Springer as usual, saw him go through the customary ritual, and leave. But this time I meant to do a daring thing. I took the original book.”
“Good for you!” cried Ellery. He lit a cigaret with unsteady fingers. “Brilliant, in fact. Go on, Wes; this is tremendously exciting.” The Inspector said nothing; Crouther regarded Weaver with a new respect.
“I duplicated the markings in another book exactly and placed it where Springer had left the original, which I took away with me. I had to do these things in a hurry, because I meant to follow Springer that night to see if I could get any clue from his movements. I was in luck, because he had stopped to chat with O’Flaherty. As I dashed out of the building, Springer’s latest book under my arm, I was just in time to see him turn the corner on Fifth Avenue.”
“Regular detective,” remarked Crouther admiringly.
“Well, hardly,” laughed Weaver. “At any rate I followed Springer’s wandering trail all evening. He had dinner alone in a Broadway restaurant and then went to a movie. I stuck to his trail like the fool I am, I suppose, because he did nothing at all suspicious, telephoned no one, spoke to no one, all evening. Finally, about midnight, he got home—he lives in the Bronx in an apartment house. I watched that house for an hour—even pussyfooted up to the floor on which his apartment is. But Springer stayed in. And so I finally went home, still carrying Springer’s book, but no wiser when I left him than when I’d begun to follow.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Inspector, “you showed good judgment in sticking to him.”
“What’s the title of that sixth book and where is it? How does it, happen that I didn’t find it among the five others in French’s apartment? You put the five books there, of course?” asked Ellery rapidly.
“One at a time,” pleaded Weaver, smiling. “The book is Modern Trends in Interior Decoration, by Lucian Tucker . . . .” Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances at Weaver’s mention of the author’s name. “You didn’t find it among the other five because I didn’t leave it there. I took it home with me. You see, I felt all along that the duplicates weren’t important. It was evidently the originals that counted. Perhaps I was wrong, but I certainly figured that the sixth, being an original, was more precious than the other five. So I put it in a safe place Monday night when I got home—my own bedroom. As for the five, the reason I kept them at the store was that I was studying them at odd moments and wanted them handy. I didn’t want to bother the Old Man about them and the whole business, because he was having his hands full negotiating this new merger with Whitney, and he always leaves details to me anyway. So I merely slipped each book, as I got it, between the book ends on the Old Man’s desk. I also took away one of the Old Man’s books to keep the count similar, and merely hid them in the bookcase, behind odd volumes there. In this way, by the end of five weeks the Old Man’s five books had entirely disappeared into the bookcase, and the duplicates of Springer’s books were between the book-ends. I meant to explain if the Old Man noticed the new volumes on his desk, but he didn’t, so I didn’t bother. Those ‘favorites’ of his are mere atmosphere, anyway; he’d got so accustomed to seeing them there on his desk that he sort of took it for granted they were still there, even though he was up and about that desk every day for weeks. It often happens that way . . . . As for Springer noticing the strange books on the desk, that was impossible. Springer never had occasion to come to Mr. French’s apartment.”
“Then I take it,” demanded Ellery, with a creeping light of animation in his eyes, “that you put the five books between the book-ends week for week? In other words, that the first book, the Wedjowski thing, was on that desk six weeks ago?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s most interesting,” said Ellery, and subsided in his chair.
The Inspector stirred into action. “Here, Weaver, let’s have a look at those addresses. You have them on you, I think you said?”
For answer, Weaver took a small notebook from his breastpocket and extracted a slip of paper. The Inspector, Ellery and Crouther bent curiously over to read the seven addresses.
“Well, I’ll be—” The Inspector’s voice was hushed, quietly throbbing. “Ellery, do you know what these are? Here are two addresses that Fiorelli’s boys have had under suspicion for weeks as depots for the distribution of dope!”
Ellery dropped back thoughtfully, while Crouther and Weaver stared at each other. “I’m not particularly surprised,” said Ellery. “Two, eh? That means all seven are probably dope-distributing headquarters . . . changed from week to week . . . clever, no doubt about it!” Suddenly he started forward. “Wes!” he almost shouted, “the sixth address! Where is it? Quickly!”
Weaver hastily produced another memorandum. The address was a number on East 98th Street.
“Dad,” said Ellery at once, “this is remarkable luck. Do you realize what we’ve in our hands? Yesterday’s dope depot! The date—May twenty-fourth—Tuesday—the trail is so hot it sparks!”
“By the lord Harry,” muttered the Inspector, “you’re right. If that 98th Street place should still be tenanted—I can’t see why not—” He sprang to his feet and reached for the telephone. He gave the number of Police Headquarters and in a moment was speaking to Sergeant Velie. He spoke rapidly, had his call switched to the office of the Narcotic Squad. He spoke tersely to Fiorelli, head of the Squad, and hung up.
“I’ve just tipped off Fiorelli and they’re going to raid that 98th Street address immediately,” he said briskly, taking a pinch of snuff with practiced fingers. “They’re taking Thomas with them, and they’ll stop here to pick us up. I want to be in on this one!” His jaw stiffened grimly.
“Raid, hey?” Crouther rose and tightened his muscles. “Mind if I go along, Inspector? Be a picnic for me—that’s a fact!”
“No objection at all, Crouther,” said the Inspector absently. “You deserve a bit of the show, anyway . . . . Fiorelli has raided those two addresses I recognized, but in each case the birds had shut up shop and disappeared. Let’s hope they haven’t had time in this case!”
Ellery opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped his lips together very firmly. He became thoughtful at once.
Weaver seemed confounded by the bombshell he had caused to explode. He subsided limply in his chair.
Chapter 28.
Unraveling Threads
They all looked at Ellery in sudden disquiet. Crouther, his mouth half-open, shut it and began to scratch his head. Weaver and the Inspector shifted heavily in their chairs at the same instant.
Ellery without a word stepped into the kitchenette. His low voice was heard murmuring to Djuna. Ellery reappeared, fumbled for his pince-nez and began to twirl it idly. “The uneasy thought just struck me—and yet,” his face brightened, “it isn’t so bad at that!”
He replaced his glasses on his thin nose and rose to his feet, pacing leisurely up and down before the table. Djuna slipped out of the kitchenette and left the apartment.
“While we’re waiting for the squad wagon,” Ellery said, “we may as well go over some of the ground, in the light of these newest disclosures of Westley’s.
“Does anybody doubt now that French’s is being used as an important medium for drug distribution?”
He challenged them lightly with his eyes. An angry glare lit up Crouther’s heavy features.
“Say, Mr. Queen, that’s pretty rough on me,” he barked. “I’m not denying this Springer guy is a crook—don’t see how it could be otherwise—but how do you figure out a dope ring’s been operating right under our noses at the store?”
“Keep your shirt on, Crouther,” said Ellery mildly. “They’ve merely put one over on the French establishment. What an opportunity,” he went on, in the tone of one who finds much to admire, “for a drug ring! Using a no doubt simple code, which is already fairly clarified in my mind, transmitting it through innocent books, and setting the whole business in the respectable domain of the head of the Anti-Vice League himself! That’s a stroke of genius, that is . . . . Look here. There can’t be an alternative. We find at intervals of eight days—the only exception being one of nine, and this is plausibly accounted for by the intervention of Sunday—the head of the Book Department marking an address in—and this is one of the beautiful elements of the scheme—in little-used, stodgy books . . . . Did you notice that the date in each book was not the date when Springer prepared it? No, in every case it was for the day following. The book marked Wednesday, by the author whose name began with WE, was placed on the same shelf . . . it was the same shelf every week, wasn’t it, Wes?”
“Yes.”
“The book marked for Wednesday, then, was placed on the same shelf as all the others on Tuesday evening. The Thursday book on Wednesday evening the week following, and so on. What could this possibly mean? Obviously, that Springer didn’t allow too much time to elapse between the evening he prepared the book with the address and the time it was to be picked up!”
