Transcriber’s Notes
Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by
♦♠ symbols in the text and are shown immediately below the
paragraph or section in which they appear.
Details and other notes may be found at the end of this text.
THE ROMAN HAT
MYSTERY
_A Problem in Deduction_
_By_
ELLERY QUEEN
[Illustration: Publisher flying-horse logo]
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
NEW YORK MCMXXIX
_Copyright, 1929, by_
Frederick A. Stokes Company
_All Rights Reserved_
Published August 15, 1929
Second Printing (before publication) July 2, 1929
Third Printing (before publication) August 8, 1929
Fourth Printing, September 10, 1929
_Printed in the United States of America_
Grateful Acknowledgment
Is Made to
PROFESSOR ALEXANDER GOETTLER
_Chief Toxicologist of the City of New York_
For His Friendly Offices in the
Preparation of This Tale
CONTENTS
PART ONE
PAGE
Foreword vii
CHAPTER
I. In Which Are Introduced a Theatre-Audience and a Corpse 3
II. In Which One Queen Works and Another Queen Watches 12
III. In Which a “Parson” Comes to Grief 29
IV. In Which Many Are Called and Two Are Chosen 47
V. In Which Inspector Queen Conducts Some Legal Conversations ♦56
VI. In Which the District Attorney Turns Biographer 79
VII. The Queens Take Stock 90
PART TWO
VIII. In Which the Queens Meet Mr. Field’s Very Best Friend 105
IX. In Which the Mysterious Mr. Michaels Appears 123
X. In Which Mr. Field’s Tophats Begin to Assume Proportions 131
XI. In Which the Past Casts a Shadow 145
XII. In Which the Queens Invade Society 158
XIII. Queen to Queen 174
PART THREE
XIV. In Which the Hat Grows 197
XV. In Which an Accusation Is Made 214
XVI. In Which the Queens Go to the Theatre 226
XVII. In Which More Hats Grow 240
XVIII. Stalemate 261
INTERLUDE
In Which the Reader’s Attention Is Respectfully Requested ♠271
PART FOUR
XIX. In Which Inspector Queen Conducts More Legal
Conversations 275
XX. In Which Mr. Michaels Writes a Letter 286
XXI. In Which Inspector Queen Makes a Capture— 290
XXII. —And Explains 295
♦ “57” replaced with “56”
♠ “270” replaced with “271”
FORWARD
I have been asked by both publisher and author to write a cursory
preface to the story of Monte Field’s murder. Let me say at once that
I am neither a writer nor a criminologist. To make authoritative
remarks, therefore, anent the techniques of crime and crime-fiction is
obviously beyond my capacity. Nevertheless, I have one legitimate claim
to the privilege of introducing this remarkable story, based as it is
upon perhaps the most mystifying crime of the past decade.... If it
were not for me, “The Roman Hat Mystery” would never have reached the
fiction-reading public. I am responsible for its having been brought to
light; and there my pallid connection with it ends.
During the past winter I shook off the dust of New York and went
a-traveling in Europe. In the course of a capricious roving about the
corners of the Continent (a roving induced by that boredom which comes
to every Conrad in quest of his youth)—I found myself one August day in
a tiny Italian mountain-village. How I got there, its location and its
name do not matter; a promise is a promise, even when it is made by a
stockbroker. Dimly I remembered that this toy hamlet perched on the lip
of a sierra harbored two old friends whom I had not seen for two years.
They had come from the seething sidewalks of New York to bask in the
brilliant peace of an Italian countryside—well, perhaps it was as much
curiosity about their regrets as anything else, that prompted me
to intrude upon their solitude.
My reception at the hands of old Richard Queen, keener and grayer than
ever, and of his son Ellery was cordial enough. We had been more than
friends in the old days; perhaps, too, the vinous air of Italy was too
heady a cure for their dust-choked Manhattan memories. In any case,
they seemed profoundly glad to see me. Mrs. Ellery Queen—Ellery was
now the husband of a glorious creature and the startled father of an
infant who resembled his grandfather to an extraordinary degree—was as
gracious as the name she bore. Even Djuna, no longer the scapegrace I
had known, greeted me with every sign of nostalgia.
Despite Ellery’s desperate efforts to make me forget New York and
appreciate the lofty beauties of his local scenery, I had not been in
their tiny villa for many days before a devilish notion took possession
of me and I began to pester poor Ellery to death. I have something of a
reputation for persistence, if no other virtue; so that before I left,
Ellery in despair agreed to compromise. He took me into his library,
locked the door and attacked an old steel filing-cabinet. After a slow
search he managed to bring out what I suspect was under his fingers all
the time. It was a faded manuscript bound Ellery-like in blue legal
paper.
The argument raged. I wished to leave his beloved Italian shores with
the manuscript in my trunk, whereas he insisted that the sheaf of
contention remain hidden in the cabinet. Old Richard was wrenched away
from his desk, where he was writing a treatise for a German magazine on
“American Crime and Methods of Detection,” to settle the affair. Mrs.
Queen held her husband’s arm as he was about to close the incident
with a workmanlike fist; Djuna clucked gravely; and even Ellery, Jr.,
extracted his pudgy hand from his mouth long enough to make a comment
in the gurgle-language of his kind.
The upshot of it all was that “The Roman Hat Mystery” went back to the
States in my luggage. Not unconditionally, however—Ellery is a peculiar
man. I was forced solemnly and by all I held dear to swear that the
identities of my friends and of the important characters concerned
in the story be veiled by pseudonyms; and that, on pain of instant
annihilation, their names be permanently withheld from the reading
public.
Consequently “Richard Queen” and “Ellery Queen” are not the true names
of those gentlemen. Ellery himself made the selections; and I might
add at once that his choices were deliberately contrived to baffle the
reader who might endeavor to ferret the truth from some apparent clue
of anagram.
“The Roman Hat Mystery” is based on records actually to be found in
the police archives of New York City. Ellery and his father, as usual,
worked hand-in-hand on the case. During this period in his career
Ellery was a detective-story writer of no mean reputation. Adhering
to the aphorism that truth is often stranger than fiction, it was his
custom to make notes of interesting investigations for possible use in
his murder tales. The affair of the Hat so fascinated him that he kept
unusually exhaustive notes, at his leisure coordinating the whole into
fiction form, intending to publish it. Immediately after, however, he
was plunged into another investigation which left him scant opportunity
for business; and when this last case was successfully closed, Ellery’s
father, the Inspector, consummated a lifelong ambition by retiring and
moving to Italy, bag and baggage. Ellery, who had in this affair[1]
found the lady of his heart, was animated by a painful desire to do
something “big” in letters; Italy sounded idyllic to him; he married
with his father’s blessing and the three of them, accompanied by
Djuna, went off to their new European home. The manuscript was utterly
forgotten until I rescued it.
[1] “The Mimic Murders.” This crime in its fiction form has not yet
reached the public. J. J. McC.
On one point, before I close this painfully unhandsome preface, I
should like to make myself clear.
I have always found it extremely difficult to explain to strangers the
peculiar affinity which bound Richard to Ellery Queen, as I must call
them. For one thing, they are persons of by no means uncomplicated
natures. Richard Queen, sprucely middle-aged after thirty-two years’
service in the city police, earned his Inspector’s chevrons not so
much through diligence as by an extraordinary grasp of the technique
of criminal investigation. It was said, for example, at the time of
his brilliant detectival efforts during the now-ancient Barnaby-Ross
murder-case,[2] that “Richard Queen by this feat firmly establishes his
fame beside such masters of crime-detection as Tamaka Hiero, Brillon
the Frenchman, Kris Oliver, Renaud, and James Redix the Younger.”[3]
[2] Ellery Queen made his bow as his father’s unofficial counsel during
this investigation.
[3] Chicago Press, January 16, 191-.
Queen, with his habitual shyness toward newspaper eulogy, was the first
to scoff at this extravagant statement; although Ellery maintains
that for many years the old man secretly preserved a clipping of the
story. However that may be—and I like to think of Richard Queen in
terms of human personality, despite the efforts of imaginative
journalists to make a legend of him—I cannot emphasize too strongly the
fact that he was heavily dependent upon his son’s wit for success in
many of his professional achievements.
This is not a matter of public knowledge. Some mementoes of their
careers are still reverently preserved by friends: the small bachelor
establishment maintained during their American residence on West 87th
Street, and now a semi-private museum of curios collected during their
productive years; the really excellent portrait of father and son, done
by Thiraud and hanging in the art-gallery of an anonymous millionaire;
Richard’s precious snuff-box, the Florentine antique which he had picked
up at an auction and which he thereafter held dearer than rubies, only
to succumb to the blandishments of a charming old lady whose name he
cleared of slander; Ellery’s enormous collection of books on violence,
perhaps as complete as any in the world, which he regretfully discarded
when the Queens left for Italy; and, of course, the many as yet
unpublished documents containing records of cases solved by the Queens
and now stored away from prying eyes in the City’s police archives.
But the things of the heart—the spiritual bonds between father and
son—have until this time remained secret from all except a few favored
intimates, among whom I was fortunate enough to be numbered. The old
man, perhaps the most famous executive of the Detective Division in the
last half-century, overshadowing in public renown, it is to be feared,
even those gentlemen who sat briefly in the Police Commissioner’s
suite—the old man, let me repeat, owed a respectable portion of his
reputation to his son’s genius.
In matters of pure tenacity, when possibilities lay frankly open
on every hand, Richard Queen was a peerless investigator. He had a
crystal-clear mind for detail; a retentive memory for complexities of
motive and plot; a cool viewpoint when the obstacle seemed insuperable.
Give him a hundred facts, bungled and torn, out of proportion and
sequence, and he had them assembled in short order. He was like a
bloodhound who follows the true scent in the clutter of a hopelessly
tangled trail.
But the intuitive sense, the gift of imagination, belonged to Ellery
Queen, the fiction writer. The two might have been twins possessing
abnormally developed faculties of mind, impotent by themselves but
vigorous when applied one to the other. Richard Queen, far from
resenting the bond which made his success so spectacularly possible—as
a less generous nature might have done—took pains to make it plain
to his friends. The slender, gray old man whose name was anathema
to contemporary lawbreakers, used to utter his “confession,” as he
called it, with a _naïveté_ explicable only on the score of his proud
fatherhood.
One word more. Of all the affairs pursued by the two Queens this, which
Ellery has titled “The Roman Hat Mystery” for reasons shortly to be
made clear, was surely the crowning case of them all. The dilettante
of criminology, the thoughtful reader of detective literature, will
understand as the tale unfolds why Ellery considers the murder of
Monte Field worthy of study. The average murderer’s motives and habits
are fairly accessible to the criminal specialist. Not so, however, in
the case of the Field killer. Here the Queens dealt with a person of
delicate perception and extraordinary finesse. In fact, as Richard
pointed out shortly after the dénouement, the crime planned was
as nearly perfect as human ingenuity could make it. As in so many
“perfect crimes,” however, a small mischance of fate coupled with
Ellery’s acute deductive analyses gave the hunting Queens the single
clue which led ultimately to the destruction of the plotter.
J. J. McC.
New York,
_March 1, 1929._
LEXICON OF PERSONS CONNECTED WITH THE INVESTIGATION
Note: The complete list of individuals, male and female, brought
into the story of Monte Field’s murder and appended below is given
solely for the convenience of the reader. It is intended to simplify
rather than mystify. In the course of perusing mysterio-detective
literature the reader is, like as not, apt to lose sight of a number
of seemingly unimportant characters who eventually prove of primary
significance in the solution of the crime. The writer therefore urges
a frequent study of this chart during the reader’s pilgrimage through
the tale, if toward no other end than to ward off the inevitable cry of
“Unfair!”—the consolation of those who read and do not reason.
E. Q.
Monte Field, an important personage indeed—the victim.
William Pusak, clerk. Cranially a brachycephalic.
Doyle, a _gendarme_ with brains.
Louis Panzer, a Broadway theatre-manager.
James Peale, the Don Juan of “Gunplay.”
Eve Ellis. The quality of friendship is not strained.
Stephen Barry. One can understand the perturbation of the juvenile lead.
Lucille Horton, the “lady of the streets”—in the play.
Hilda Orange, a celebrated English character-actress.
Thomas Velie, Detective-Sergeant who knows a thing or two about crime.
Hesse, Piggott, Flint, Johnson, Hagstrom, Ritter, gentlemen of the
Homicide Squad.
Dr. Samuel Prouty, Assistant to the Chief Medical Examiner.
Madge O’Connell, usherette on the fatal aisle.
Dr. Stuttgard. There is always a doctor in the audience.
Jess Lynch, the obliging orangeade-boy.
John Cazzanelli, _alias_ “Parson Johnny,” naturally takes a
professional interest in “Gunplay.”
Benjamin Morgan. What do you make of him?
Frances Ives-Pope. Enter the society interest.
Stanford Ives-Pope, man-about-town.
Harry Neilson. He revels in the sweet uses of publicity.
Henry Sampson, for once an intelligent District Attorney.
Charles Michaels, the fly—or the spider?
Mrs. Angela Russo, a lady of reputation.
Timothy Cronin, a legal ferret.
Arthur Stoates, another.
Oscar Lewin, the Charon of the dead man’s office.
Franklin Ives-Pope. If wealth meant happiness—
Mrs. Franklin Ives-Pope, a maternal ♦hypochondriac.
Mrs. Phillips. Middle-aged angels have their uses.
Dr. Thaddeus Jones, toxicologist of the City of New York.
Edmund Crewe, architectural expert attached to the Detective Bureau.
Djuna, an Admirable Crichton of a new species.
The Problem Is—
Who Killed Monte Field?
Meet the astute gentlemen whose business
it is to discover such things—
Mr. Richard Queen
Mr. Ellery Queen
♦ “hypochrondiac” replaced with “hypochondriac”
Explanation for the
MAP OF THE ROMAN THEATRE
A: Actors’ dressing-rooms.
B: Frances Ives-Pope’s seat.
C: Benjamin Morgan’s seat.
D: Aisle-seats occupied by “Parson Johnny” Cazzanelli and Madge
O’Connell.
E: Dr. Stuttgard’s seat.
F, F: Orangeade boys’ stands (only during intermissions).
G: Area in vicinity of crime. Black square represents seat
occupied by Monte Field. Three white squares to the right and
four white squares directly in front represent vacant seats.
H: Publicity office, occupied by Harry Neilson.
I: Manager Louis Panzer’s private office.
J: Anteroom to manager’s office.
K: Ticket-taker’s box.
L: Only stairway leading to the balcony.
M: Stairway leading downstairs to General Lounge.
N, N: Cashiers’ offices.
O: Property Room.
P: William Pusak’s seat.
Q, Q: Orchestra boxes.
[Illustration: Map of the Roman Theatre Drawn by Ellery Queen]
PART ONE
_“The policeman must oft follow the precept of the ‘bakadori’—those
fool-birds who, though they know disaster awaits them at the hands and
clubs of the beach-combers, brave ignominious death to bury their eggs
in the sandy shore.... So the policeman. All Nippon should not deter
him from hatching the egg of thoroughness.”_
—_From_ A Thousand Leaves,
_By_ Tamaka Hiero.
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH ARE INTRODUCED A THEATRE-AUDIENCE AND A CORPSE
The dramatic season of 192- began in a disconcerting manner. Eugene
O’Neill had neglected to write a new play in time to secure the
financial encouragement of the _intelligentzia_; and as for the
“low-brows,” having attended play after play without enthusiasm, they
had deserted the legitimate theatre for the more ingenuous delights of
the motion picture palaces.
On the evening of Monday, September 24th, therefore, when a misty
rain softened the electric blaze of Broadway’s theatrical district,
it was viewed morosely by house-managers and producers from 37th
Street to Columbus Circle. Several plays were then and there given
their walking-papers by the men higher up, who called upon God and the
weather-bureau to witness their discomfiture. The penetrating rain kept
the play-going public close to its radios and bridge-tables. Broadway
was a bleak sight indeed to those few who had the temerity to patrol
its empty streets.
The sidewalk fronting the Roman Theatre, on 47th Street west of the
“White Way,” however, was jammed with a mid-season, fair-weather crowd.
The title “Gunplay” flared from a gay marquee. Cashiers dextrously
attended the chattering throng lined up at the “To-night’s Performance”
window. The buff-and-blue doorman, impressive with the dignity of
his uniform and the placidity of his years, bowed the evening’s
top-hatted and befurred customers into the orchestra with an air of
satisfaction, as if inclemencies of weather held no terrors for those
implicated in “Gunplay’s” production.
Inside the theatre, one of Broadway’s newest, people bustled to their
seats visibly apprehensive, since the boisterous quality of the play
was public knowledge. In due time the last member of the audience
ceased rustling his program; the last latecomer stumbled over his
neighbor’s feet; the lights dimmed and the curtain rose. A pistol
coughed in the silence, a man screamed ... the play was on.
“Gunplay” was the first drama of the season to utilize the noises
customarily associated with the underworld. Automatics, machine guns,
raids on night-clubs, the lethal sounds of gang vendettas—the entire
stock-in-trade of the romanticized crime society was jammed into
three swift acts. It was an exaggerated reflection of the times—a bit
raw, a bit nasty and altogether satisfying to the theatrical public.
Consequently it played to packed houses in rain and shine. This
evening’s house was proof of its popularity.
The performance proceeded smoothly. The audience was properly thrilled
at the thunderous climax to the first act. The rain having stopped,
people strolled out into the side alleys for a breath of air during
the first ten-minute intermission. With the rising of the curtain on
Act II, the detonations on the stage increased in volume. The second
act hurtled to its big moment as explosive dialogue shot across
the footlights. A slight commotion at the rear of the theatre went
unnoticed, not unnaturally, in the noise and the darkness. No one
seemed aware of anything amiss and the play crashed on. Gradually,
however, the commotion increased in volume. At this point a few
spectators at the rear of the left section squirmed about in their
seats, to assert their rights in angry whispers. The protest was
contagious. In an incredibly short time scores of eyes turned toward
that section of the orchestra.
Suddenly a sharp scream tore through the theatre. The audience, excited
and fascinated by the swift sequence of events on the stage, craned
their necks expectantly in the direction of the cry, eager to witness
what they thought was a new sensation of the play.
Without warning the lights of the theatre snapped on, revealing
puzzled, fearful, already appreciative faces. At the extreme left, near
a closed exit-door, a large policeman stood holding a slight nervous
man by the arm. He fended off a group of inquisitive people with a huge
hand, shouting in stentorian tones, “Everybody stay right where he is!
Don’t move! Don’t get out of your seat, any of you!”
People laughed.
The smiles were soon wiped away. For the audience began to perceive a
curious hesitancy on the part of the actors. Although they continued
to recite their lines behind the footlights they were casting puzzled
glances out into the orchestra. People, noting this, half-rose from
their seats, panicky in the presence of a scented tragedy. The
officer’s jovian voice continued to thunder, “Keep your seats, I say!
Stay where you are!”
The audience suddenly realized that the incident was not play-acting
but reality. Women shrieked and clutched their escorts. Bedlam broke
loose in the balcony, whose occupants were in no position to see
anything below.
The policeman turned savagely to a stocky, foreign-looking man in
evening clothes who was standing by, rubbing his hands together.
“I’ll have to ask you to close every exit this minute and see that
they’re kept closed, Mr. Panzer,” he growled. “Station an usher at all
the doors and tell ’em to hold everybody tryin’ to get in or out. Send
somebody outside to cover the alleys, too, until help comes from the
station. Move fast, Mr. Panzer, before hell pops!”
The swarthy little man hurried away, brushing aside a number of excited
people who had disregarded the officer’s bellowed admonition and had
jumped up to question him.
The bluecoat stood wide-legged at the entrance to the last row of the
left section, concealing with his bulk the crumpled figure of a man
in full evening dress, lying slumped in a queer attitude on the floor
between rows. The policeman looked up, keeping a firm grip on the arm
of the cowering man at his side, and shot a quick glance toward the
rear of the orchestra.
“Hey, Neilson!” he shouted.
A tall tow-headed man hurried out of a small room near the main
entrance and pushed his way through to the officer. He looked sharply
down at the inert figure on the floor.
“What’s happened here, Doyle?”
“Better ask this feller here,” replied the policeman grimly. He shook
the arm of the man he was holding. “There’s a guy dead, and Mr.”—he
bent a ferocious glance upon the shrinking little man—“Pusak, W-William
Pusak,” he stammered—“this Mr. Pusak,” continued Doyle, “says he heard
him whisper he’d been croaked.”
Neilson stared at the dead body, stunned.
The policeman chewed his lip. “I’m in one sweet mess, Harry,” he said
hoarsely. “The only cop in the place, and a pack of yellin’ fools to
take care of.... I want you to do somethin’ for me.”
“Say the word.... This is one hell of a note!”
Doyle wheeled in a rage to shout to a man who had just risen three rows
ahead and was standing on his seat, peering at the proceedings. “Hey
you!” he roared. “Get down offa there! Here—get back there, the whole
bunch o’ you. Back to your seats, now, or I’ll pinch the whole nosey
mob!”
He turned on Neilson. “Beat it to your desk, Harry, and give
headquarters a buzz about the murder,” he whispered. “Tell ’em to bring
down a gang—make it a big one. Tell ’em it’s a theatre—they’ll know
what to do. And here, Harry—take my whistle and toot your head off
outside. I gotta get some help right away.”
As Neilson fought his way back through the crowd, Doyle shouted after
him: “Better ask ’em to send old man Queen down here, Harry!”
The tow-headed man disappeared into the office. A few moments later a
shrill whistle was heard from the sidewalk in front of the theatre.
The swarthy theatre-manager whom Doyle had commanded to place guards
at the exits and alleys came scurrying back through the press. His
dress-shirt was slightly rumpled and he was mopping his forehead with
an air of bewilderment. A woman stopped him as he wriggled his way
forward. She squeaked,
“Why is this policeman keeping us here, Mr. Panzer? I’ve a right to
leave, I should like you to know! I don’t care if an accident _did_
happen—I had nothing to do with it—that’s your affair—please tell him
to stop this silly disciplining of innocent people!”
The little man stammered, trying to escape. “Now, madam, please. I’m
sure the officer knows what he is doing. A man has been killed here—it
is a serious matter. Don’t you see.... As manager of the theatre I must
follow his orders.... Please be calm—have a little patience....”
He wormed his way out of her grasp and was off before she could protest.
Doyle, his arms waving violently, stood on a seat and bellowed: “I
told you to sit down and keep quiet, the pack o’ you! I don’t care
if you’re the Mayor himself, you—yeah, you there, in the monocle—stay
down or I’ll shove you down! Don’t you people realize what’s happened?
Pipe down, I say!” He jumped to the floor, muttering as he wiped the
perspiration from his cap-band.
In the turmoil and excitement, with the orchestra boiling like a huge
kettle, and necks stretched over the railing of the balcony as the
people there strove vainly to discover the cause of the confusion,
the abrupt cessation of activity on the stage was forgotten by the
audience. The actors had stammered their way through lines rendered
meaningless by the drama before the footlights. Now the slow descent
of the curtain put an end to the evening’s entertainment. The actors,
chattering, hurried toward the stage-stairs. Like the audience they
peered toward the nucleus of the trouble in bewilderment.
A buxom old lady, in garish clothes—the very fine imported actress
billed in the character of Madame Murphy, “keeper of the public
house”—her name was Hilda Orange; the slight, graceful figure of “the
street waif, Nanette”—Eve Ellis, leading-lady of the piece; the tall
robust hero of “Gunplay,” James Peale, attired in a rough tweed suit
and cap; the juvenile, smart in evening clothes, portraying the society
lad who had fallen into the clutches of the “gang”—Stephen Barry;
Lucille Horton, whose characterization of the “lady of the streets” had
brought down a shower of adjectives from the dramatic critics, who had
little enough to rant about that unfortunate season; a vandyked old man
whose faultless evening clothes attested to the tailoring genius of M.
Le Brun, costumer extraordinary to the entire cast of “Gunplay”; the
heavy-set villain, whose stage-scowl was dissolved in a foggy docility
as he surveyed the frantic auditorium; in fact, the entire personnel
of the play, bewigged and powdered, rouged and painted—some wielding
towels as they hastily removed their make-up—scampered in a body
under the lowering curtain and trooped down the stage-steps into the
orchestra, where they elbowed their way up the aisle toward the scene
of the commotion.
Another flurry, at the main entrance, caused many people despite
Doyle’s vigorous orders to rise in their seats for a clearer view. A
group of bluecoats were hustling their way inside, their night-sticks
ready. Doyle heaved a gargantuan sigh of relief as he saluted the tall
man in plainclothes at their head.
“What’s up, Doyle?” asked the newcomer, frowning at the pandemonium
raging about them. The bluecoats who had entered with him were herding
the crowd to the rear of the orchestra, behind the seat-sections.
People who had been standing tried to slip back to their seats; they
were apprehended and made to join the angry cluster jammed behind the
last row.
“Looks like this man’s been murdered, Sergeant,” said Doyle.
“Uh-huh.” The plainclothes man looked incuriously down at the one still
figure in the theatre—lying at their feet, a black-sleeved arm flung
over his face, his legs sprawled gawkily under the seats in the row
before.
“What is it—gat?” asked the newcomer of Doyle, his eyes roving.
“No, sir—don’t seem to be,” said the policeman. “Had a doctor from the
audience look him over the very first thing—thinks it’s poison.”
The Sergeant grunted. “Who’s this?” he rapped, indicating the trembling
figure of Pusak by Doyle’s side.
“Chap who found the body,” returned Doyle. “He hasn’t moved from the
spot since.”
“Good enough.” The detective turned toward a compact group huddled a
few feet behind them and asked, generally: “Who’s the manager here?”
Panzer stepped forward.
“I’m Velie, detective-sergeant from headquarters,” said the
plainclothes man abruptly. “Haven’t you done anything to keep this
yelling pack of idiots quiet?”
“I’ve done my best, Sergeant,” mumbled the manager, wringing his hands.
“But they all seem incensed at the way this officer”—he indicated Doyle
apologetically—“has been storming at them. I don’t know how I can
reasonably expect them to keep sitting in their seats as if nothing had
happened.”
“Well, we’ll take care of that,” snapped Velie. He gave a rapid order
to a uniformed man nearby. “Now”—he turned back to Doyle—“how about the
doors, the exits? Done anything yet in that direction?”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” grinned the policeman. “I had Mr. Panzer here
station ushers at every door. They’ve been there all night, anyway. But
I just wanted to make sure.”
“You were right. Nobody try to get out?”
“I think I can vouch for that, Sergeant,” put in Panzer meekly. “The
action of the play necessitates having ushers posted near every exit,
for atmosphere. This is a crook-play, with a good deal of shooting and
screaming and that sort of thing going on, and the presence of guards
around the doors heightens the general effect of mystery. I can very
easily find out for you if....”
“We’ll attend to that ourselves,” said Velie. “Doyle, who’d you send
for?”
“Inspector Queen,” answered Doyle. “I had the publicity man, Neilson,
’phone him at headquarters.”
Velie allowed a smile to crease his wintry face. “Thought of
everything, didn’t you? Now how about the body? Has it been touched at
all since this fellow found it?”
The cowering man held in Doyle’s hard grasp broke out, half-crying.
“I—I only found him, officer—honest to God, I—”
“All right, all right,” said Velie coldly. “You’ll keep, won’t you?
What are you blubbering about? Well, Doyle?”
“Not a finger was laid on the body since I came over,” replied Doyle,
with a trace of pride in his voice. “Except, of course, for a Dr.
Stuttgard. I got him out of the audience to make sure the man was dead.
He was, and nobody else came near.”
“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Doyle? I’ll see you won’t suffer by
it,” said Velie. He wheeled on Panzer, who shrank back. “Better trot up
to the stage and make an announcement, Mr. Manager. The whole crew of
’em are to stay right where they are until Inspector Queen lets them go
home—understand? Tell them it won’t do any good to kick—and the more
they kick the longer they’ll be here. Make it plain, too, that they’re
to stick to their seats, and any suspicious move on anybody’s part is
going to make trouble.”
“Yes. Yes. Good Lord, what a catastrophe!” groaned Panzer as he made
his way down the aisle toward the stage.
At the same moment a little knot of people pushed open the big door at
the rear of the theatre and stepped across the carpet in a body.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH ONE QUEEN WORKS AND ANOTHER QUEEN WATCHES
There was nothing remarkable in either the physique or the manner
of Inspector Richard Queen. He was a small, withered, rather
mild-appearing old gentleman. He walked with a little stoop and an air
of deliberation that somehow accorded perfectly with his thick grey
hair and mustaches, veiled grey eyes and slender hands.
As he crossed the carpet with short, quick steps Inspector Queen was
far from impressive to the milling eyes that observed his approach
from every side. And yet, so unusual was the gentle dignity of his
appearance, so harmless and benevolent the smile that illumined his
lined old face, that an audible rustle swept over the auditorium,
preceding him in a strangely fitting manner.
In his own men the change was appreciable. Doyle retreated into a
corner near the left exits. Detective-Sergeant Velie, poised over the
body—sardonic, cold, untouched by the near-hysteria about him—relaxed
a trifle, as if he were satisfied to relinquish his place in the sun.
The bluecoats guarding the aisles saluted with alacrity. The nervous,
muttering, angry audience sank back with an unreasoning relief.
Inspector Queen stepped forward and shook hands with Velie.
“Too bad, Thomas, my boy. I hear you were going home when this
happened,” he murmured. To Doyle he smiled in a fatherly fashion. Then,
in a mild pity, he peered down at the man on the floor. “Thomas,” he
asked, “are all the exits covered?” Velie nodded.
The old man turned back and let his eyes travel interestedly about
the scene. He asked a low-voiced question of Velie, who nodded his head
in assent; then he crooked his finger at Doyle.
“Doyle, where are the people who were sitting in these seats?” He
pointed to three chairs adjoining the dead man’s and four directly to
the front of them in the preceding row.
The policeman appeared puzzled. “Didn’t see anybody there,
Inspector....”
Queen stood silent for a moment, then waved Doyle back with the low
remark to Velie, “In a crowded house, too.... Remember that.” Velie
raised his eyebrows gravely. “I’m cold on this whole business,”
continued the Inspector genially. “All I can see right now are a dead
man and a lot of perspiring people making noise. Have Hesse and Piggott
direct traffic for a while, eh, son?”
Velie spoke sharply to two of the plainclothes men who had entered the
theatre with the Inspector. They wriggled their way toward the rear and
the people who had been crowding around found themselves pushed aside.
Policemen joined the two detectives. The group of actors and actresses
were ordered to move back. A section was roped off behind the central
tier of seats and some fifty men and women packed into the small space.
Quiet men circulated among them, instructing them to show their tickets
and return to their seats one by one. Within five minutes not a member
of the audience was left standing. The actors were cautioned to remain
within the roped enclosure for the time being.
In the extreme left aisle Inspector Queen reached into his topcoat
pocket, carefully extracted a brown carved snuff-box and took a pinch
with every evidence of enjoyment.
“That’s more like it, Thomas,” he chuckled. “You know how fussy I
am about noises.... Who is the poor chap on the floor—do you know?”
Velie shook his head. “I haven’t even touched the body, Inspector,” he
said. “I got here just a few minutes before you did. A man on the 47th
Street beat called me up from his box and reported Doyle’s whistle.
Doyle seems to have been doing things, sir.... His lieutenant reports
favorably on his record.”
“Ah,” said the Inspector, “ah, yes. Doyle. Come here, Doyle.”
The policeman stepped forward and saluted.
“Just what,” went on the little grey man, leaning comfortably against a
seat-back, “just what happened here, Doyle?”
“All I know about it, Inspector,” began Doyle, “is that a couple of
minutes before the end of the second act this man”—he pointed to Pusak,
who stood wretchedly in a corner—“came running up to me where I was
standin’ in the back, watchin’ the show, and he says, ‘A man’s been
murdered, officer!... A man’s murdered!’ He was blubberin’ like a baby
and I thought he was pie-eyed. But I stepped mighty quick and came over
here—the place was dark and there was a lot of shootin’ and screamin’
on the stage—and I took a look at the feller on the floor. I didn’t
move him, but I felt his heart and there wasn’t anything to feel. To
make sure he was croaked I asked for a doctor and a gent by the name of
Stuttgard answered my call....”
Inspector Queen stood pertly, his head cocked on a side like a
parrot’s. “That’s excellent,” he said. “Excellent, Doyle. I’ll question
Dr. Stuttgard later. Then what happened?” he went on.
“Then,” continued the policeman, “then I got the usherette on this
aisle to beat it back to the manager’s office for Panzer. Louis
Panzer—that’s the manager right over there....”
Queen regarded Panzer, who was standing a few feet to the rear talking
to Neilson, and nodded. “That’s Panzer, you say. All right, all
right.... Ellery! You got my message?”
He darted forward, brushing aside Panzer, who fell back apologetically,
and clapped the shoulder of a tall young man who had slipped through
the main door and was slowly looking about the scene. The old man
passed his arm through the younger man’s.
“Haven’t inconvenienced you any, son? What bookstore did you haunt
to-night? Ellery, I’m mighty glad you’re here!”
He dipped into his pocket, again extracted the snuff-box, sniffed
deeply—so deeply that he sneezed—and looked up into his son’s face.
“As a matter of fact,” said Ellery Queen, his eyes restlessly roving,
“I can’t return the compliment. You just lured me away from a perfect
book-lover’s paradise. I was at the point of getting the dealer to
let me have a priceless Falconer first-edition, intending to borrow
the money from you at headquarters. I telephoned—and here I am. A
Falconer—Oh, well. To-morrow will do, I suppose.”
The Inspector chuckled. “Now if you told me you were picking up an old
snuff-box I might be interested. As it is—trot along. Looks as if we
have some work to-night.”
They walked toward the little knot of men on the left, the old man’s
hand grasping his son’s coat-sleeve. Ellery Queen towered six inches
above his father’s head. There was a square cut to his shoulders and
an agreeable swing to his body as he walked. He was dressed in oxford
grey and carried a light stick. On his nose perched what seemed an
incongruous note in so athletic a man—a rimless pince-nez. But the brow
above, the long delicate lines of the face, the bright eyes were those
of a man of thought rather than action.
They joined the group at the body. Ellery was greeted respectfully by
Velie. He bent over the seat, glanced earnestly at the dead man, and
stepped back.
“Go on, Doyle,” said the Inspector briskly. “You looked at the body,
detained the man who found it, got the manager.... Then what?”
“Panzer at my orders closed all the doors at once and saw that no one
either came in or went out,” answered Doyle. “There was a lot of fuss
here with the audience, but nothing else happened.”
“Right, right!” said the Inspector, feeling for his snuff-box. “You did
a mighty good job. Now—That gentleman there.”
He gestured in the direction of the trembling little man in the corner,
who stepped forward hesitantly, licked his lips, looked about him with
a helpless expression, and then stood silent.
“What’s your name?” asked the Inspector, in a kindly tone.
“Pusak—William Pusak,” said the man. “I’m a bookkeeper, sir. I was
just—”
“One at a time, Pusak. Where were you sitting?”
Pusak pointed eagerly to the sixth seat from the aisle, in the last
row. A frightened young girl in the fifth seat sat staring in their
direction.
“I see,” said the Inspector. “Is that young lady with you?”
“Yes, sir—yes, sir. That’s my fiancée, sir. Her name is Esther—Esther
Jablow....”
A little to the rear a detective was scribbling in a notebook. Ellery
stood behind his father, glancing from one exit to another. He
began to draw a diagram on the fly-leaf of a small book he had taken
from his topcoat pocket.
The Inspector scrutinized the girl, who immediately averted her eyes.
“Now, Pusak, I want you to tell me just what happened.”
“I—I didn’t do a thing out of the way, sir.”
Inspector Queen patted his arm. “Nobody is accusing you of anything,
Pusak. All I want is your story of what happened. Take your time—tell
it your own way....”
Pusak gave him a curious glance. Then he moistened his lips and began.
“Well, I was sitting there in that seat with my—with Miss Jablow—and
we were enjoying the show pretty much. The second act was kind of
exciting—there was a lot of shooting and yelling on the stage—and then
I got up and started to go out the row to the aisle. This aisle—here.”
He pointed nervously to the spot of carpet on which he was standing.
Queen nodded, his face benign.
“I had to push past my—Miss Jablow, and there wasn’t anybody except one
man between her and the aisle. That’s why I went that way. I didn’t
sort of like to”—he hesitated apologetically—“to bother people going
out that way in the middle of the most exciting part....”
“That was very decent of you, Pusak,” said the Inspector, smiling.
“Yes, sir. So I walked down the row, feeling my way, because it was
pretty dark in the theatre, and then I came to—to this man.” He
shuddered, and continued more rapidly. “He was sitting in a funny way,
I thought. His knees were touching the seat in front of him and I
couldn’t get past. I said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and tried again, but his knees
hadn’t moved an inch. I didn’t know what to do, sir—I’m not nervy, like
some fellows, and I was going to turn around and go back when all of
a sudden I felt the man’s body slip to the floor—I was still pressed
up close to him. Of course, I got kind of scared—it was only
natural....”
“I should say,” said the Inspector, with concern. “It must have given
you quite a turn. Then what happened?”
“Well, sir.... Then, before I realized what was happening, he fell
clean out of his seat and his head bumped against my legs. I didn’t
know what to do. I couldn’t call for help—I don’t know why, but I
couldn’t, somehow—and I just naturally bent over him, thinking he was
drunk or sick or something, and meant to lift him up. I hadn’t figured
on what I’d do after that....”
“I know just how you felt, Pusak. Go on.”
“Then it happened—the thing I told this policeman about. I’d just got
hold of his head when I felt his hand come up and grab mine, just like
he was trying awfully hard to get a grip on something, and he moaned.
It was so low I could hardly hear it, but—but sort of horrible. I can’t
quite describe it exactly....”
“Now we’re getting on,” said the Inspector. “And?”
“And then he talked. It wasn’t really talking—it was more like a
gurgle, as if he was choking. He said a few words that I didn’t
catch at all, but I realized that this was something different from
just being sick or drunk, so I bent even lower and listened hard. I
heard him gasp, ‘It’s murder.... Been murdered ...’ or something like
that....”
“So he said, ‘It’s murder,’ eh?” The Inspector regarded Pusak with
severity. “Well, now. That must have given you a shock, Pusak.” He
snapped suddenly, “Are you certain this man said ‘murder’?”
“That’s what I heard, sir. I’ve got good hearing,” said Pusak doggedly.
“Well!” Queen relaxed, smiling again. “Of course. I just wanted to make
sure. Then what did you do?”
“Then I felt him squirm a little and all of a sudden go limp in my
arms. I was afraid he’d died and I don’t know how—but next thing I knew
I was in the back telling it all to the policeman—this policeman here.”
He pointed to Doyle, who rocked on his heels impersonally.
“And that’s all?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. That’s all I know about it,” said Pusak, with a
sigh of relief.
Queen grasped him by the coat front and barked, “That isn’t all, Pusak.
You forgot to tell us why you left your seat in the first place!” He
glared into the little man’s eyes.
Pusak coughed, teetered back and forth a moment, as if uncertain of
his next words, then leaned forward and whispered into the Inspector’s
astonished ear.
“Oh!” Queen’s lips twitched in the suspicion of a smile, but he said
gravely, “I see, Pusak. Thank you very much for your help. Everything
is all right now—you may go back to your seat and leave with the others
later on.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Pusak, with a
sickly glance at the dead man on the floor, crept around the rear wall
of the last row and reappeared by the girl’s side. She immediately
engaged him in a whispered but animated conversation.
As the Inspector with a little smile turned to Velie, Ellery made a
slight movement of impatience, opened his mouth to speak, appeared to
reconsider, and finally moved quietly backwards, disappearing from view.
“Well, Thomas,” sighed the Inspector, “let’s have a look at this chap.”
He bent nimbly over the dead man, on his knees in the space between the
last row and the row directly before it. Despite the brilliant sparkle
of light from the fixtures overhead, the cramped space near the floor
was dark. Velie produced a flashlight and stooped over the Inspector,
keeping its bright beam on the corpse, shifting it as the Inspector’s
hands roved about. Queen silently pointed to an ugly ragged brown
stain on the otherwise immaculate shirt-front.
“Blood?” grunted Velie.
The Inspector sniffed the shirt cautiously. “Nothing more dangerous
than whisky,” he retorted.
He ran his hands swiftly over the body, feeling over the heart and at
the neck, where the collar was loosened. He looked up at Velie.
“Looks like a poisoning case, all right, Thomas. Get hold of this Dr.
Stuttgard for me, will you? I’d like to have his professional opinion
before Prouty gets here.”
Velie snapped an order and a moment later a medium-sized man in evening
clothes, olive-skinned and wearing a thin black mustache, came up
behind a detective.
“Here he is, Inspector,” said Velie.
“Ah, yes.” Queen looked up from his examination. “How do you do,
Doctor? I am informed that you examined the body almost immediately
after it was discovered. I see no obvious sign of death—what is your
opinion?”
“My examination was necessarily a cursory one,” said Dr. Stuttgard
carefully, his fingers brushing a phantom speck from his satin lapel.
“In the semi-dark and under these conditions I could not at first
discern any abnormal sign of death. From the constriction of the facial
muscles I thought that it was a simple case of heart failure, but on
closer examination I noticed that blueness of the face—it’s quite clear
in this light, isn’t it? That combined with the alcoholic odor from the
mouth seems to point to some form of alcoholic poisoning. Of one thing
I can assure you—this man did not die of a gunshot wound or a stab. I
naturally made sure of that at once. I even examined his neck—you see I
loosened the collar—to make sure it was not strangulation.”
“I see.” The Inspector smiled. “Thank you very much, Doctor. Oh,
by the way,” he added, as Dr. Stuttgard with a muttered word turned
aside, “do you think this man might have died from the effects of wood
alcohol?”
Dr. Stuttgard answered promptly. “Impossible,” he said. “It was
something much more powerful and quick-acting.”
“Could you put a name to the exact poison which killed this man?”
The olive-skinned physician hesitated. Then he said stiffly, “I am very
sorry, Inspector; you cannot reasonably expect me to be more precise.
Under the circumstances....” His voice trailed off, and he backed away.
Queen chuckled as he bent again to his grim task.
The dead man sprawled on the floor was not a pleasant sight. The
Inspector gently lifted the clenched hand and stared hard at the
contorted face. Then he looked under the seat. There was nothing there.
However, a black silk-lined cape hung carelessly over the back of the
chair. He emptied all of the pockets of both dress-suit and cape, his
hands diving in and out of the clothing. He extracted a few letters and
papers from the inside breast pocket, delved into the vest pockets and
trouser-pockets, heaping his discoveries in two piles—one containing
papers and letters, the other coins, keys, and miscellaneous material.
A silver flask initialed “M. F.” he found in one of the hip-pockets. He
handled the flask gingerly, holding it by the neck, and scanning the
gleaming surface as if for fingerprints. Shaking his head, he wrapped
the flask with infinite care in a clean handkerchief, and placed it
aside.
A ticket stub colored blue and bearing the inscription “LL32 Left,” he
secreted in his own vest pocket.
Without pausing to examine any of the other objects individually, he
ran his hands over the lining of the vest and coat, and made a rapid
pass over the trouser-legs. Then, as he fingered the coat-tail
pocket, he exclaimed in a low tone, “Well, well, Thomas—here’s a pretty
find!” as he extracted a woman’s evening bag, small, compact and
glittering with rhinestones.
He turned it over in his hands reflectively, then snapped it open,
glanced through it and took out a number of feminine accessories.
In a small compartment, nestling beside a lipstick, he found a tiny
card-case. After a moment, he replaced all the contents and put the bag
in his own pocket.
The Inspector picked up the papers from the floor and swiftly glanced
through them. He frowned as he came to the last one—a letterhead.
“Ever hear of Monte Field, Thomas?” he asked, looking up.
Velie tightened his lips. “I’ll say I have. One of the crookedest
lawyers in town.”
The Inspector looked grave. “Well, Thomas, this is Mr. Monte
Field—what’s left of him.” Velie grunted.
“Where the average police system falls down,” came Ellery’s voice over
his father’s shoulder, “is in its ruthless tracking down of gentlemen
who dispose of such fungus as Mr. Monte Field.”
The Inspector straightened, dusted his knees carefully, took a pinch
of snuff, and said, “Ellery, my boy, you’ll never make a policeman. I
didn’t know you knew Field.”
“I wasn’t exactly on terms of intimacy with the gentleman,” said
Ellery. “But I remember having met him at the Pantheon Club, and from
what I heard at the time I don’t wonder somebody has removed him from
our midst.”
“Let’s discuss the demerits of Mr. Field at a more propitious time,”
said the Inspector gravely. “I happen to know quite a bit about him,
and none of it is pleasant.”
He wheeled and was about to walk away when Ellery, gazing curiously
at the dead body and the seat, drawled, “Has anything been removed,
dad—anything at all?”
Inspector Queen turned his head. “And why do you ask that bright
question, young man?”
“Because,” returned Ellery, with a grimace, “unless my eyesight fails
me, the chap’s tophat is not under the seat, on the floor beside him,
or anywhere in the general vicinity.”
“So you noticed that too, did you, Ellery?” said the Inspector grimly.
“It’s the first thing I saw when I bent down to examine him—or rather
the first thing I didn’t see.” The Inspector seemed to lose his
geniality as he spoke. His brow wrinkled and his grey mustache bristled
fiercely. He shrugged his shoulders. “And no hat-check in his clothes,
either.... Flint!”
A husky young man in plain clothes hurried forward.
“Flint, suppose you exercise those young muscles of yours by getting
down on your hands and knees and hunting for a tophat. It ought to be
somewhere around here.”
“Right, Inspector,” said Flint cheerfully, and he began a methodical
search of the indicated area.
“Velie,” said Queen, in a businesslike tone, “suppose you find Ritter
and Hesse and—no, those two will do—for me, will you?” Velie walked
away.
“Hagstrom!” shouted the Inspector to another detective standing by.
“Yes, Chief.”
“Get busy with this stuff”—he pointed to the two small piles of
articles he had taken from Field’s pockets and which lay on the
floor—“and be sure to put them safely away in my own bags.”
As Hagstrom knelt by the body, Ellery quietly bent over and opened the
coat. He immediately jotted a memorandum on the fly-leaf of the book in
which he had drawn a diagram some time before. He muttered to himself,
patting the volume, “And it’s a Stendhause private edition, too!”
Velie returned with Ritter and Hesse at his heels. The Inspector said
sharply, “Ritter, go to this man’s apartment. His name is Monte Field,
he was an attorney, and he lived at 113 West 75th Street. Stick around
until you’re relieved. If any one shows up, nab him.”
Ritter, touching his hat, mumbled, “Yes, Inspector,” and turned away.
“Now, Hesse, my lad,” continued the Inspector to the other detective,
“hurry down to 51 Chambers Street, this man’s office, and wait there
until you hear from me. Get inside if you can, otherwise park outside
the door all night.”
“Right, Inspector.” Hesse disappeared.
Queen turned about and chuckled as he saw Ellery, broad shoulders bent
over, examining the dead man.
“Don’t trust your father, eh, Ellery?” the Inspector chided. “What are
you snooping for?”
Ellery smiled, straightening up. “I’m merely curious, that’s all,”
he said. “There are certain things about this unsavory corpse that
interest me hugely. For example, have you taken the man’s head
measurement?” He held up a piece of string, which he had slipped from
a wrapped book in his coat pocket, and offered it for his father’s
inspection.
The Inspector took it, scowled and summoned a policeman from the rear
of the theatre. He issued a low-voiced order, the string exchanged
hands and the policeman departed.
“Inspector.”
Queen looked up. Hagstrom stood by his elbow, eyes gleaming.
“I found this pushed way back under Field’s seat when I picked up the
papers. It was against the back wall.”
He held up a dark-green bottle, of the kind used by ginger-ale
manufacturers. A gaudy label read, “Paley’s Extra Dry Ginger Ale.” The
bottle was half-empty.
“Well, Hagstrom, you’ve got something up your sleeve. Out with it!” the
Inspector said curtly.
“Yes, sir! When I found this bottle under the dead man’s seat, I knew
that he had probably used it to-night. There was no matinee to-day
and the cleaning-women go over the place every twenty-four hours. It
wouldn’t have been there unless this man, or somebody connected with
him, had used it and put it there to-night. I thought, ‘Maybe this
is a clue,’ so I dug up the refreshment boy who had this section of
the theatre and I asked him to sell me a bottle of ginger ale. He
said”—Hagstrom smiled—“he said they don’t sell ginger ale in this
theatre!”
“You used your head that time, Hagstrom,” said the Inspector
approvingly. “Get hold of the boy and bring him here.”
As Hagstrom left, a stout little man in slightly disarranged evening
clothes bustled up, a policeman doggedly holding his arm. The Inspector
sighed.
“Are you in charge of this affair, sir?” stormed the little man,
drawing himself up to five feet two inches of perspiring flesh.
“I am,” said Queen gravely.
“Then I want you to know,” burst out the newcomer—“here, you, let go of
my arm, do you hear?—I want you to know, sir....”
“Detach yourself from the gentleman’s arm, officer,” said the
Inspector, with deepening gravity.
“... that I consider this entire affair the most vicious outrage! I
have been sitting here with my wife and daughter since the interruption
to the play for almost an hour, and your officers refuse to allow
us even to stand up. It’s a damnable outrage, sir! Do you think you
can keep this entire audience waiting at your leisure? I’ve been
watching you—don’t think I haven’t. You’ve been dawdling around while
we sat and suffered. I want you to know, sir—I want you to know!—that
unless you permit my party to leave at once, I shall get in touch with
my very good friend District Attorney Sampson and lodge a personal
complaint against you!”
Inspector Queen gazed distastefully into the empurpled face of the
stout little man. He sighed and said with a note of sternness, “My
dear man, has it occurred to you that at this moment, while you stand
beefing about a little thing like being detained an hour or so, a
person who has committed murder may be in this very audience—perhaps
sitting next to your wife and daughter? He is just as anxious as you
are to get away. If you wish to make a complaint to the District
Attorney, your very good friend, you may do so after you leave this
theatre. Meanwhile, I’ll trouble you to return to your seat and be
patient until you are permitted to go.... I hope I make myself clear.”
A titter arose from some spectators nearby, who seemed to be enjoying
the little man’s discomfiture. He flounced away, with the policeman
stolidly following. The Inspector, muttering, “Jackass!” turned to
Velie.
“Take Panzer with you to the box-office and see if you can find
complete tickets for these numbers.” He bent over the last row and the
row before it, scribbling the numbers LL30 Left, LL28 Left, LL26 Left,
KK32 Left, KK30 Left, KK28 Left, and KK26 Left on the back of an old
envelope. He handed the memorandum to Velie, who went away.
Ellery, who had been leaning idly against the rear wall of the last
row, watching his father, the audience, and occasionally restudying the
geography of the theatre, murmured in the Inspector’s ear: “I was just
reflecting on the unusual fact that with such a popular bit of dramatic
trash as ‘Gunplay,’ seven seats in the direct vicinity of the
murdered man’s seat should remain empty during the performance.”
“When did you begin to wonder, my son?” said Queen, and while Ellery
absently tapped the floor with his stick, barked, “Piggott!”
The detective stepped forward.
“Get the usherette who was on this aisle and the outside doorman—that
middle-aged fellow on the sidewalk—and bring ’em here.”
As Piggott walked off, a disheveled young man appeared by Queen’s side,
wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“Well, Flint?” asked Queen instantly.
“I’ve been over this floor like a scrub-woman, Inspector. If you’re
looking for a hat in this section of the theatre, it’s mighty well
hidden.”
“All right, Flint, stand by.”
The detective trudged off. Ellery said slowly, “Didn’t really think
your young Diogenes would find the tophat, did you, dad?”
The Inspector grunted. He walked down the aisle and proceeded to lean
over person after person, questioning each in low tones. All heads
turned in his direction as he went from row to row, interrogating the
occupants of the two aisle-seats successively. As he walked back in
Ellery’s direction, his face expressionless, the policeman whom he had
sent out with the piece of string, saluted him.
“What size, officer?” asked the Inspector.
“The clerk in the hat store said it was exactly 7⅛,” answered the
bluecoat. Inspector Queen nodded, dismissing him.
Velie strode up, with Panzer trailing worriedly behind. Ellery leaned
forward with an air of keen absorption to catch Velie’s words. Queen
grew tense, the light of a great interest on his face.
“Well, Thomas,” he said, “what did you find in the box-office?”
“Just this, Inspector,” reported Velie unemotionally. “The seven
tickets for which you gave me the numbers are not in the ticket-rack.
They were sold from the box-office window, at what date Mr. Panzer has
no way of knowing.”
“The tickets might have been turned over to an agency, you know,
Velie,” remarked Ellery.
“I verified that, Mr. Queen,” answered Velie. “Those tickets were not
assigned to any agency. There are definite records to prove it.”
Inspector Queen stood very still, his grey eyes gleaming. Then he said,
“In other words, gentlemen, it would seem that at a drama which has
been playing to capacity business ever since its opening, seven tickets
in a group were bought—and then the purchasers conveniently forgot to
attend the performance!”