French Powder Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

nervously up and down, muttering to himself. The store doctor hurried over to help the nurse.
    The directors and, the secretary, huddled together in a horror-struck group, moved hesitantly toward the body. Weaver and Marchbanks cried out together at seeing the woman’s face. Zorn bit his lip and turned away. Trask averted his face in horror. Then, in the same mechanical motion, they moved slowly backward to a corner, glancing helplessly at each other.
    Velie crooked a huge finger at Crouther. “What have you done?”
    The store detective grinned. “Taken care of all the details, don’t you worry. I’ve got all my men scrambled on the main floor and they’ve scattered the mob. Got everything well in hand. Trust Bill Crouther for that, Sergeant! Won’t be much for you guys to do, that’s a fact.”
    Velie grunted. “Well, here’s something for you to do while we’re waiting. Get a big stretch of the main floor roped off right around this section, and keep everybody away. It’s a little late now, I suppose, to close the doors. Wouldn’t do much good. Whoever did this job is miles away from here by now. Get going, Crouther!”
    The store detective nodded, turned away, turned back. “Say, Sergeant—know just who the woman on the floor is? Might help us right now.”
    “Yes?” Velie smiled frostily. “Can’t see how. But it doesn’t take much to figure it out. It’s French’s wife. Blast it, this is a great place for a murder!”
    “No!” Crouther’s jaw dropped. “French’s wife, hey? The big cheese himself. … Well, well!” He stole a glance at the slack figure of French and a moment later his voice resounded through the window as he roared instructions outside.
    Silence in the window-room. The group in the corner had not moved. The model and French had both been revived—the woman’s eyes rolling wildly as she clung to the starched skirt of the nurse, French’s face a pasty white as he half-lay in the chair listening to Gray’s low-voiced words of sympathy. Gray himself seemed drained of his queer vitality.
    Velie beckoned to MacKenzie, who hovered nervously at Prouty’s shoulder.
    “You’re MacKenzie, the store manager?”
    “Yes, Sergeant.”
    “It’s time to get a move on, Mr. MacKenzie.” Velie eyed him coldly. “Get a hold on yourself. Somebody’s got to keep his wits about him. This is part of your job.” The store manager squared his shoulders. “Now listen. This is important and it’s got to be done thoroughly.” He lowered his voice. “No employees to leave the building—item number one, and I’m holding you responsible for its execution. Number two, check up on all employees who are not at their posts. Number three, make out a list of all employees absent from the store to-day, with the reasons for their absence. Hop to it!”
    MacKenzie mumbled submissively, shuffled away.
    Velie took Lavery, who stood talking to Weaver, to one side.
    “You seem to have some authority here. May I ask who you are?”
    “My name is Paul Lavery, and I am exhibiting the modern furniture on display upstairs on the fifth floor. This room is a sample of my exhibition.”
    “I see. Well, you’ve kept your head, Mr. Lavery. The dead woman is Mrs. French?”
    Lavery averted his eyes. “Yes, Sergeant. It was quite a shock to all of us, no doubt. How in God’s name did she ever get—” He stopped abruptly, worried his lip.
    “Did she ever get here, you meant to say?” finished Velie grimly. “Well now, that’s a question, isn’t it? I—Just a moment, Mr. Lavery!”
    He turned on his heel and walked swiftly to the door to greet a group of new arrivals.
    “Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Queen! Glad you’ve come, sir. You’ll find things in a rotten mess.” He stepped aside and waved a large hand at the room and its assorted occupants “Pretty, eh, sir? More like a wake than the scene of a crime!” It was a long speech for Velie.
    Inspector Richard Queen—small, pert, like a