33

ALIBIS: CARMODY

Vincent Carmody was the next caller. His reticence was as marked as usual. He folded his astonishing length and sat down quite noiseless in the inquisitorial chair. And sat waiting.

"Ah—Mr. Carmody," began the Inspector uneasily. The antique-dealer disdained to reply to what was obviously a question of fact. "Ah—Mr. Carmody, I've called you in for a little consultation. We are checking up on the movements of everybody connected directly or indirectly with Mrs. French. Purely as a matter of form, you understand...."

"Ummm," said Carmody, his fingers in his straggly beard.

The Inspector dipped hastily into his old brown snuff-box. "Now, I should be happy, sir, to hear an account of your movements on Monday night—the night of the murder."

"The murder." Carmody said it negligently. "Not interested in that, Inspector. What about my daughter?"

The Inspector stared with growing irritation at Carmody's expressionless lean face. "Your daughter's search is being conducted by the proper authorities. We haven't found her yet, but we have new information which is likely to produce results. Please answer my question."

"Results!" Carmody said it with surprising bitterness. "I know what that word means in the police vocabulary. You're stumped and you know it. I'll put my own detective on the case."

"Will you please answer my question?" grated the Inspector.

"Keep cool," said Carmody. "Don't see what my movements on Monday night have to do with the case. I certainly didn't kidnap my own daughter. But if you must have it, here it is.

"Late Monday I received a telegram from one of my scouts. He reported the discovery of practically a house full of early American pieces in the wilds of Connecticut. I invariably investigate finds of that nature personally. I took the train at Grand Central—the 9:14. Changed at Stamford and didn't get to my destination until nearly midnight. It's far off the beaten path. Had the address and immediately called on the people who owned the furniture. Nobody home, and I still don't know what went wrong. Had no place to stay—no hotel there—and had to return to the city. Couldn't make a decent connection and didn't get back to my apartment until four in the morning. That's all."

"Not quite, Mr. Carmody." The Inspector mused. "Did any one see you when you returned to the city—at your apartment, perhaps?"

"No. It was too late. Nobody up. And I live alone. I had my breakfast at the apartment dining-room at ten o'clock. The head-waiter will identify me."

"No doubt," said the Inspector disagreeably. "Meet any one on your trip who might remember you?"

"No. Unless the conductor of the train."

"Well!" Queen slammed his hands behind his back and regarded Carmody with open distaste. "Please make a note of all your movements and mail it to me at Headquarters. One question more. Do you know that your daughter Bernice is a drug addict?"

Carmody leaped out of his chair snarling. In an instant he had been transformed from bored reticence to contorted fury. Ellery half-rose from his chair in the corner; it appeared for a moment as if the antique-dealer might strike the Inspector. But the old man stood very still, examining Carmody coolly. Carmody, fists clenched, subsided in his chair.

"How did you find that out?" he muttered in a strangled voice. The muscles rippled under the skin of his dark triangular jaw. "I didn't think any one knew—except Winifred and me."

"Ah, so Mrs. French knew it too?" queried the Inspector instantly. "Had she known it long?"

"So it's out," growled Carmody. "Good God!" He raised a haggard face to Queen. "I've known it for about a year. Winifred—" his face hardened—"Winifred didn't know it at all. Eyes of the mother, and all that," he added bitterly. "Rot! She thought chiefly of herself.... So I told her—two weeks ago. She didn't believe it. We quarreled. But at the end she knew—I saw it in her eyes. I had talked to Bernice countless times about it. She was shameless. She would not divulge the source of her drug supply. In desperation I turned to Winifred. I thought Winifred might succeed where I had failed. I don't know any more...." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I was going to take Bernice away—somewhere—anywhere—cure her.... And then Winifred was murdered and Bernice—gone...." His voice died away. Huge welts stood out under his eyes. The man was suffering—how deeply, by what perverse psychology only Ellery, sitting quietly in his corner, realized.

And then, without another sound, without so much as a word of explanation, Carmody sprang to his feet, snatched his hat, and dashed from the Queen apartment. The Inspector, at the window, saw him running wildly down the street, hat still clutched in his hand.