French Powder Mystery by Ellery Queen

slowly, scraping his jaw, “I just don’t know about that. Guess you’ll have to tell the Inspector about it. I haven’t the authority.”
    He marched Weaver back into the window-room against the young man’s protests at the heavy hand on his arm.
    “Inspector,” he said respectfully, still grasping Weaver’s arm, “this feller wants me to let him know when a certain young lady by the name of Miss Marion French gets here.”
    Queen looked up in surprise, a surprise that deepened rapidly into brusqueness. “Was that telephone call from your Mr. Krafft?” he asked Weaver.
    Before Weaver could speak, the policeman interposed: “Not by a long sight, sir. ’Twas a lady, and I think he called her ‘Marion.’”
    “Look here, Inspector!” said Weaver hotly, shaking off the bluecoat’s hand. “This is asinine. I thought the call was from Mr. Krafft, but it was Miss French—Mr. French’s daughter. A—a semi-business call. And I took the liberty of asking her to come down here immediately. That’s all. Is that a crime? As for letting me know when she arrives—I naturally want to spare her the shock of walking into this place and seeing her step-mother’s dead body on the floor.”
    The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, glancing mildly from Weaver to Ellery. “I see. I see. I’m sorry, Mr. Weaver. … That’s right, isn’t it, officer?” he snapped, whirling on the bluecoat.
    “Yes, sir! Heard it all plain as day. He’s telling the truth.”
    “And mighty fortunate for him he is,” grumbled the Inspector. “Stand back, Mr. Weaver. We’ll attend to the young lady when she arrives. … Now then!” he cried, rubbing his hands, “Mr. French!”
    The old man looked up in bleary bewilderment, his eyes blank and staring.
    “Mr. French, is there anything you would like to say that might clear up some of this mystery?”
    “I—I—I—beg—your—pardon?” stammered French, raising his head with an effort from the back-cushion of the chair. He seemed stricken by his wife’s death to the point of imbecility.
    Queen regarded him with pity, looked into the eyes of John Gray, whose face was threatening, muttered, “Never mind,” and squared his shoulders. “Ellery, my son, how about a careful look-see at the body?” He peered at Ellery from beneath overhung brows.
    Ellery stirred. “Lookers-on,” he said clearly, “see more than players. And if you think that quotation is inept, dad, you don’t know your son’s favorite author, Anonymous. Play on!”

7.
The Corpse
    I NSPECTOR QUEEN MOVED OVER to the other side of the room, where the body lay between the bed and the window. Waving aside the detective Johnson, who was rummaging among the bedclothes, the old man knelt on the floor beside the dead woman. He removed the white sheet. Ellery bent over his father’s shoulder, his gaze detached but characteristically panoramic.
    The body lay in an oddly crumpled position, the left arm outstretched, the right slightly crooked beneath the back. The head was in profile, a brown toque-style hat pushed pathetically over one eye. Mrs. French had been a small slender woman, with delicate hands and feet. The eyes were fixed in a sort of bewildered glare, wide open. The mouth drooled; a thin trickle of blood, now dark and dry, streaked the chin.
    The clothes were simple and severe, but rich in quality, as might be expected from a woman of Mrs. French’s age and position. There was a light brown cloth coat, trimmed at the collar and cuffs with brown fox; a dark tan dress of a jersey material, with a breast and waist design of orange and brown; brown silk stockings and a pair of uncompromising brown walking shoes.
    The Inspector looked up.
    “Notice the mud on her shoes, El?” he asked sotto voce.
    Ellery nodded. “Doesn’t take a heap of perspicacity,” he remarked. “It rained all day yesterday; remember the downpour last night? No wonder the poor lady wet her patrician feet. As a matter of fact, you can see