Explore "The French Powder Mystery" by Ellery Queen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
They stood about in one of the dusty, deserted rooms -- an old-fashioned parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely proclaiming its fall upon evil days -- and talked quietly. Fiorelli was beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was one to be found in the neighborhood.
Ellery said nothing.