IN WHICH INSPECTOR QUEEN CONDUCTS SOME LEGAL CONVERSATIONS
Queen made his way across the broad red carpet covering the rear of
the orchestra, his hat pulled down over his eyes. He was searching the
recesses of his pocket for the inevitable snuff-box. The Inspector was
evidently engaged in a weighty mental process, for his hand closed
tightly upon the two blue ticket-stubs and he grimaced, as if he were
not at all satisfied with his thoughts.
Before opening the green-speckled door marked “Manager’s Office,”
he turned to survey the scene behind him. The stir in the audience
was businesslike. A great chattering filled the air; policemen and
detectives circulated among the rows, giving orders, answering
questions, hustling people out of their seats, lining them up in the
main aisles to be searched at the huge outer door. The Inspector
noticed absently that there was little protest from the audience at the
ordeal they were facing. They seemed too tired to resent the indignity
of a search. A long queue of half-angry, half-amused women was lined
up at one side being examined rapidly, one by one, by a motherly woman
dressed in black. Queen glanced briefly at the detectives blocking
the door. Piggott with the experience of long practice was making
rapid passes over the clothing of the men. Velie, at his side, was
studying the reactions of the various people undergoing examination.
Occasionally he searched a man himself. Ellery stood a little apart,
hands in his capacious topcoat pockets, smoking a cigarette and seeming
to be thinking of nothing more important than the first edition he
had missed buying.
Queen sighed, and went in.
The anteroom to the main office was a tiny place, fitted out in bronze
and oak. On one of the chairs against the wall, burrowed into the deep
leather cushions, sat Parson Johnny, puffing at a cigarette with a show
of unconcern. A policeman stood by the chair, one massive hand on the
Parson’s shoulder.
“Trail along, Parson,” said Queen casually, without stopping. The
little gangster lounged to his feet, spun his cigarette butt deftly
into a shining brass cuspidor, and slouched after the Inspector, the
policeman treading on his heels.
Queen opened the door to the main office, glancing quickly about him as
he stood on the threshold. Then he stepped aside, allowing the gangster
and the bluecoat to precede him. The door banged shut behind them.
Louis Panzer had an unusual taste in office appointments. A clear
green light-shade shone brilliantly above a carved desk. Chairs and
smoking-stands; a skillfully wrought clothes-tree; silk-covered
divan—these and other articles were strewn tastefully about the room.
Unlike most managers’ offices, Panzer’s did not exploit photographs of
stars, managers, producers and “angels.” Several delicate prints, a
huge tapestry, and a Constable oil painting hung on the walls.
But Inspector Queen’s scrutiny at the moment was not for the artistic
quality of Mr. Panzer’s private chamber. It was rather for the six
people who faced him. Beside Detective Johnson sat a middle-aged man
inclining to corpulence, with shrewd eyes and a puzzled frown. He
wore faultless evening clothes. In the next chair sat a young girl of
considerable beauty, attired in a simple evening gown and wrap. She was
looking up at a handsome young man in evening clothes, hat in hand, who
was bending over her chair and talking earnestly in an undertone.
Beside them were two other women, both leaning forward and listening
intently.
The stout man held aloof from the others. At Inspector Queen’s entrance
he immediately got to his feet with an inquiring look. The little group
became silent and turned solemn faces on Queen.
With a deprecating cough Parson Johnny, accompanied by his escort,
sidled across the rug and into a corner. He seemed overwhelmed by the
splendor of the company in which he found himself. He shuffled his feet
and cast a despairing look in the direction of the Inspector.
Queen moved over to the desk and faced the group. At a motion of his
hand Johnson came quickly to his side.
“Who are the three extra people, Johnson?” he asked in a tone inaudible
to the others.
“The old fellow there is Morgan,” whispered Johnson, “and the
good-looker sitting near him is the woman you told me to get. When I
went for her in the orchestra I found the young chap and the other two
women with her. The four of ’em were pretty chummy. I gave her your
message, and she seemed nervous. But she stood up and came along like a
major—only the other three came, too. I didn’t know but what you’d like
to see ’em, Inspector....”
Queen nodded. “Hear anything?” he asked in the same low tone.
“Not a peep, Inspector. The old chap doesn’t seem to know any of these
people. The others have just been wondering why you could possibly want
_her_.”
The Inspector waved Johnson to a corner and addressed the waiting group.
“I’ve summoned two of you,” he said pleasantly, “for a little chat. And
since the others are here, too, it will be all right for them to
wait. But for the moment I must ask you all to step into the anteroom
while I conduct a little business with this gentleman.” He inclined his
head toward the gangster, who stiffened indignantly.
With a flutter of excited conversation the two men and three women
departed, Johnson closing the door behind them.
Queen whirled on Parson Johnny.
“Bring that rat here!” he snapped to the policeman. He sat down in
Panzer’s chair and drew the tips of his fingers together. The gangster
was jerked to his feet and marched across the carpet, to be pushed
directly in front of the desk.
“Now, Parson,” said Queen menacingly, “I’ve got you where I want you.
We’re going to have a nice little talk with nobody to interrupt. Get
me?”
The Parson was silent, his eyes liquid with distrust.
“So you won’t say anything, eh, Johnny? How long do you think I’ll let
you get away with that?”
“I told you before—I don’t know nothin’ and besides I won’t say nothin’
till I see my lawyer,” the gangster said sullenly.
“Your lawyer? Well, Parson, who _is_ your lawyer?” asked the Inspector
in an innocent tone.
The Parson bit his lip, remaining silent. Queen turned to Johnson.
“Johnson, my boy, you worked on the Babylon stick-up, didn’t you?” he
asked.
“Sure did, Chief,” said the detective.
“That,” explained Queen gently, to the gangster, “was when you were
sent up for a year. Remember, Parson?”
Still silence.
“And Johnson,” continued the Inspector, leaning back in his chair,
“refresh my memory. Who was the lawyer defending our friend here?”
“Field. By—” Johnson exclaimed, staring at the Parson.
“Exactly. The gentleman now lying on one of our unfeeling slabs at the
morgue. Well, Parson, what about it? Cut the comedy! Where do you come
off saying you don’t know Monte Field? You knew his first name, all
right, when I mentioned only his last. Come clean, now!”
The gangster had sagged against the policeman, a furtive despair in his
eyes. He moistened his lips and said, “You got me there, Inspector. I—I
don’t know nothin’ about this, though, honest. I ain’t seen Field in a
month. I didn’t—my Gawd, you’re not tryin’ to tie this croakin’ around
my neck, are you?”
He stared at Queen in anguish. The policeman jerked him straight.
“Parson, Parson,” said Queen, “how you do jump at conclusions. I’m
merely looking for a little information. Of course, if you want to
confess to the murder, I’ll call my men in and we can get your story
all straight and go home to bed. How about it?”
“No!” shouted the gangster, thrashing out suddenly with his arm. The
officer caught it deftly and twisted it behind the squirming back.
“Where do you get that stuff? I ain’t confessin’ nothin’. I don’t know
nothin’. I didn’t see Field to-night an’ I didn’t even know he was
here! Confess.... I got some mighty influential friends, Inspector—you
can’t pull that stuff on me, I’ll tell you!”
“That’s too bad, Johnny,” sighed the Inspector. He took a pinch of
snuff. “All right, then. You didn’t kill Monte Field. What time did you
get here to-night, and where’s your ticket?”
The Parson twisted his hat in his hands. “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’
before, Inspector, because I figured you was tryin’ to railroad me. I
can explain when and how I got here all right. It was about half past
eight, and I got in on a pass, that’s how. Here’s the stub to prove
it.” He searched carefully in his coat pocket and produced a perforated
blue stub. He handed it to Queen, who glanced at it carelessly and put
it in his pocket.
“And where,” he asked, “and where did you get the pass, Johnny?”
“I—my girl give it to me, Inspector,” replied the gangster nervously.
“Ah—the woman enters the case,” said Queen jovially. “And what might
this young Circe’s name be, Johnny?”
“Who?—why, she’s—hey, Inspector, don’t get her in no trouble, will
you?” burst out Parson Johnny. “She’s a reg’lar kid, an’ she don’t know
nothin’ either. Honest, I—”
“Her name?” snapped Queen.
“Madge O’Connell,” whined Johnny. “She’s an usher here.”
Queen’s eyes lit up. A quick glance passed between him and Johnson. The
detective left the room.
“So,” continued the Inspector, leaning back again comfortably, “so my
old friend Parson Johnny doesn’t know a thing about Monte Field. Well,
well, well! We’ll see how your lady-friend’s story backs you up.” As he
talked he looked steadily at the hat in the gangster’s hand. It was a
cheap black fedora, matching the sombre suit which the man was wearing.
“Here, Parson,” he said suddenly. “Hand over that hat of yours.”
He took the head-piece from the gangster’s reluctant hand and examined
it. He pulled down the leather band inside, eyed it critically and
finally handed it back.
“We forgot something, Parson,” he said. “Officer, suppose you frisk Mr.
Cazzanelli’s person, eh?”
The Parson submitted to the search with an ill grace, but he was
quiescent enough. “No gat,” said the policeman briefly, and continued.
He put his hand into the man’s hip-pocket, extracting a fat wallet.
“Want this, Inspector?”
Queen took it, counted the money briskly, and handed it back to the
policeman, who returned it to the pocket.
“One hundred and twenty-two smackers, Johnny,” the old man murmured.
“Seems to me I can smell Bonomo silk in these bills. However!” He
laughed and said to the bluecoat, “No flask?” The policeman shook his
head. “Anything under his vest or shirt?” Again a negative. Queen was
silent until the search was completed. Parson Johnny relaxed with a
sigh.
“Well, Johnny, mighty lucky night this is for you—Come in!” Queen
said at a knock on the door. It opened to disclose the slender girl
in usherette’s uniform whom he had questioned earlier in the evening.
Johnson came in after her and closed the door.
Madge O’Connell stood on the rug and stared with tragic eyes at her
lover, who was thoughtfully studying the floor. She flashed a glance at
Queen. Then her mouth hardened and she snapped at the gangster, “Well?
So they got you after all, you sap! I told you not to try to make a
break for it!” She turned her back contemptuously on the Parson and
began to ply a powder-puff with vigor.
“Why didn’t you tell me before, my girl,” said Queen softly, “that you
got a pass for your friend John Cazzanelli?”
“I ain’t telling everything, Mr. Cop,” she answered pertly. “Why should
I? Johnny didn’t have anything to do with this business.”
“We won’t discuss that,” said the Inspector, toying with his snuff-box.
“What I want you to tell me now, Madge, is whether your memory has
improved any since I spoke to you.”
“What d’ya mean?” she demanded.
“I mean this. You told me that you were at your regular station
just before the show started—that you conducted a lot of people to
their seats—that you didn’t remember whether you ushered Monte Field,
the dead man, to his row or not—and that you were standing up at the
head of the left aisle all during the performance. _All_ during the
performance, Madge. Is that correct?”
“Sure it is, Inspector. Who says I wasn’t?” The girl was growing
excited, but Queen glanced at her fluttering fingers and they became
still.
“Aw, cut it out, Madge,” snapped the Parson unexpectedly. “Don’t make
it no worse than it is. Sooner or later he’ll find out we were together
anyways, and then he’d have something on you. You don’t know this bird.
Come clean, Madge!”
“So!” said the Inspector, looking pleasantly from the gangster to the
girl. “Parson, you’re getting sensible in your old age. Did I hear you
say you two were together? When, and why, and for how long?”
Madge O’Connell’s face had gone red and white by turns. She favored her
lover with a venomous glance, then turned back to Queen.
“I guess I might as well spill it,” she said disgustedly, “after this
half-wit shows a yellow streak. Here’s all I know, Inspector—and Gawd
help you if you tell that little mutt of a manager about it!” Queen’s
eyebrows went up, but he did not interrupt her. “I got the pass for
Johnny, all right,” she continued defiantly, “because—well, Johnny
kind of likes blood-and-thunder stuff, and it was his off-night. So I
got him the pass. It was for two—all the passes are—so that the seat
next to Johnny was empty all the time. It was an aisle seat on the
left—best I could get for that loud-mouthed shrimp! During the first
act I was pretty busy and couldn’t sit with him. But after the first
intermission, when the curtain went up on Act II, things got slack
and it was a good chance to sit next to him. Sure, I admit it—I was
sittin’ next to him nearly the whole act! Why not—don’t I deserve a
rest once in a while?”
“I see.” Queen bent his brows. “You would have saved me a lot of time
and trouble, young lady, if you’d told me this before. Didn’t you get
up at all during the second act?”
“Well, I did a couple of times, I guess,” she said guardedly. “But
everything was okay, and the manager wasn’t around, so I went back.”
“Did you notice this man Field as you passed?”
“No—no, sir.”
“Did you notice if somebody was sitting next to him?”
“No, sir. I didn’t even know he was there. Wasn’t—wasn’t looking that
way, I guess.”
“I suppose, then,” continued Queen coldly, “you don’t remember ushering
somebody into the last row, next to the last seat, during the second
act?”
“No, sir.... Aw, I know I shouldn’t have done it, maybe, but I didn’t
see a thing wrong all night.” She was growing more nervous at each
question. She furtively glanced at the Parson, but he was staring at
the floor.
“You’re a great help, young lady,” said Queen, rising suddenly. “Beat
it.”
As she turned to go, the gangster with an innocent leer slid across the
rug to follow her. Queen made a sign to the policeman. The Parson found
himself yanked back to his former position.
“Not so fast, Johnny,” said Queen icily. “O’Connell!” The girl turned,
trying to appear unconcerned. “For the time being I shan’t say anything
about this to Mr. Panzer. But I’d advise you to watch your step and
learn to keep your mouth clean when you talk to your superiors. Get
out now, and if I ever hear of another break on your part God help
_you_!”
She started to laugh, wavered and fled from the room.
Queen whirled on the policeman. “Put the nippers on him, officer,” he
snapped, jerking his finger toward the gangster, “and run him down to
the station!”
The policeman saluted. There was a flash of steel, a dull click, and
the Parson stared stupidly at the handcuffs on his wrists. Before he
could open his mouth he was hustled out of the room.
Queen made a disgusted motion of his hand, threw himself into the
leather-covered chair, took a pinch of snuff, and said to Johnson in an
entirely different tone, “I’ll trouble you, Johnson my boy, to ask Mr.
Morgan to step in here.”
* * * * *
Benjamin Morgan entered Queen’s temporary sanctum with a firm step that
did not succeed entirely in concealing a certain bewildered agitation.
He said in a cheerful, hearty baritone, “Well, sir, here I am,” and
sank into a chair with much the same air of satisfaction that a man
exhales when he seats himself in his club-room after a hard day. Queen
was not taken in. He favored Morgan with a long, earnest stare, which
made the paunchy grizzled man squirm.
“My name is Queen, Mr. Morgan,” he said in a friendly voice, “Inspector
Richard Queen.”
“I suspected as much,” said Morgan, rising to shake hands. “I think you
know who I am, Inspector. I was under your eye more than once in the
Criminal Court years ago. There was a case—do you remember it?—I was
defending Mary Doolittle when she was being tried for murder....”
“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed the Inspector heartily. “I wondered where I’d
seen you before. You got her off, too, if I’m not mistaken. That
was a mighty nice piece of work, Morgan—very, very nice. So _you’re_
the fellow! Well, well!”
Morgan laughed. “Was pretty nice, at that,” he admitted. “But those
days are over, I’m afraid, Inspector. You know—I’m not in the criminal
end of it any more.”
“No?” Queen took a pinch of snuff. “I didn’t know that. Anything”—he
sneezed—“anything go wrong?” he asked sympathetically.
Morgan was silent. After a moment he crossed his legs and said, “Quite
a bit went wrong. May I smoke?” he asked abruptly. On Queen’s assent he
lit a fat cigar and became absorbed in its curling haze.
Neither man spoke for a long time. Morgan seemed to sense that he
was under a rigid inspection, for he crossed and uncrossed his
legs repeatedly, avoiding Queen’s eyes. The old man appeared to be
ruminating, his head sunk on his breast.
The silence became electric, embarrassing. There was not a sound in the
room, except the ticking of a floor-clock in a corner. From somewhere
in the theatre came a sudden burst of conversation. Voices were raised
to a high pitch of indignation or protest. Then even this was cut off.
“Come, now, Inspector....” Morgan coughed. He was enveloped in a thick
rolling smoke from his cigar, and his voice was harsh and strained.
“What is this—a refined third degree?”
Queen looked up, startled. “Eh? I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan. My
thoughts went wool-gathering, I guess. Been rubbing it in, have I? Dear
me! I must be getting old.” He rose and took a short turn about the
room, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Morgan’s eyes followed
him.
“Mr. Morgan”—the Inspector pounced on him with one of his habitual
conversational leaps—“do you know why I’ve asked you to stay and talk
to me?”
“Why—I can’t say I do, Inspector. I suppose, naturally, that it has to
do with the accident here to-night. But what connection it can possibly
have with me, I’ll confess I don’t know.” Morgan puffed violently at
his weed.
“Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, you will know in a moment,” said Queen, leaning
back against the desk. “The man murdered here to-night—it wasn’t any
accident, I can assure you of that—was a certain Monte Field.”
The announcement was placid enough but the effect upon Morgan was
astounding. He fairly leaped from his chair, eyes popping, hands
trembling, breath hoarse and heavy. His cigar dropped to the floor.
Queen regarded him with morose eyes.
“Monte—Field!” Morgan’s cry was terrible in its intensity. He stared at
the Inspector’s face. Then he collapsed in the chair, his whole body
sagging.
“Pick up your cigar, Mr. Morgan,” said Queen. “I shouldn’t like to
abuse Mr. Panzer’s hospitality.” The lawyer stooped mechanically and
retrieved the cigar.
“My friend,” thought Queen to himself, “either you are one of the
world’s greatest actors or you just got the shock of your life!” He
straightened up. “Come now, Mr. Morgan—pull yourself together. Why
should the death of Field affect you in this way?”
“But—but, man! Monte Field.... Oh, my God!” And he threw back his head
and laughed—a wild humor that made Queen sit up alertly. The spasm
continued, Morgan’s body rocking to and fro in hysteria. The Inspector
knew the symptoms. He slapped the lawyer in the face, pulling him to
his feet by his coat-collar.
“Don’t forget yourself, Morgan!” commanded Queen. The rough tone had
its effect. Morgan stopped laughing, regarded Queen with a blank
expression, and dropped heavily into the chair—still shaken, but
himself.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, dabbing his face with a
handkerchief. “It was—quite a surprise.”
“Evidently,” said Queen dryly. “You couldn’t have acted more surprised
if the earth had opened under your feet. Now, Morgan, what’s this all
about?”
The lawyer continued to wipe the perspiration from his face. He was
shaking like a leaf, his jowls red. He gnawed at his lip in indecision.
“All right, Inspector,” he said at last. “What do you want to know?”
“That’s better,” said Queen approvingly. “Suppose you tell me when you
last saw Monte Field.”
The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Why—why, I haven’t seen
him for ages,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose you know that we
were partners once—we had a successful legal practice. Then something
happened and we broke up. I—I haven’t seen him since.”
“And that was how long ago?”
“A little over two years.”
“Very good.” Queen leaned forward. “I’m anxious to know, too, just why
the two of you broke up your partnership.”
The lawyer looked down at the rug, fingering his cigar. “I—well, I
guess you know Field’s reputation as well as I. We didn’t agree on
ethics, had a little argument and decided to dissolve.”
“You parted amicably?”
“Well—under the circumstances, yes.”
Queen drummed on the desk. Morgan shifted uneasily. He was evidently
still laboring under the effects of his astonishment.
“What time did you get to the theatre to-night, Morgan?” asked the
Inspector.
Morgan seemed surprised at the question. “Why—about a quarter after
eight,” he replied.
“Let me see your ticket-stub, please,” said Queen.
The lawyer handed it over after fumbling for it in several pockets.
Queen took it, extracted from his own pocket the three stubs he had
secreted there, and lowered his hands below the level of the desk. He
looked up in a moment, his eyes expressionless as he returned the four
bits of pasteboard to his own pocket.
“So you were sitting in M2, Center, were you? Pretty good seat,
Morgan,” he remarked. “Just what made you come to see ‘Gunplay’
to-night, anyway?”
“Why, it _is_ a rum sort of show, isn’t it, Inspector?” Morgan appeared
embarrassed. “I don’t know that I would ever have thought of coming—I’m
not a theatre-going man, you know—except that the Roman management
was kind enough to send me a complimentary ticket for this evening’s
performance.”
“Is that a fact?” exclaimed Queen ingenuously. “Quite nice of them, I’d
say. When did you receive the ticket?”
“Why, I got the ticket and the letter Saturday morning, Inspector, at
my office.”
“Oh, you got a letter, too, eh? You don’t happen to have it around you,
do you?”
“I’m—pretty—sure I—have,” grunted Morgan, as he began to search his
pockets. “Yes! Here it is.”
He offered the Inspector a small, rectangular sheet of white paper,
deckle-edged and of crushed bond stock. Queen handled it gingerly as
he held it up to the light. Through the few typewritten lines on it a
watermark was distinctly visible. His lips puckered, and he laid the
sheet cautiously on the desk-blotter. As Morgan watched, he opened the
top drawer of Panzer’s desk and rummaged about until he found a piece
of note-paper. It was large, square, and heavily glazed with an
ornate theatre-insignia engraved on an upper quarter. Queen put the two
pieces of paper side by side, thought a moment, then sighed and picked
up the sheet which Morgan had handed him. He read it through slowly.
The Management of the Roman Theatre cordially invites the attendance
of Mr. Benjamin Morgan at the Monday evening, September twenty-fourth
performance of Gunplay. As a leading figure of the New York bar,
Mr. Morgan’s opinion of the play as a social and legal document is
earnestly solicited. This, however, is by no means obligatory; and the
Management wishes further to assure Mr. Morgan that the acceptance of
its invitation entails no obligation whatsoever.
(Signed) The Roman Theatre
Per: S.
The “S” was a barely decipherable ink-scrawl.
Queen looked up, smiling. “Mighty nice of the Theatre, Mr. Morgan. I
just wonder now—” Still smiling, he signalled to Johnson, who had been
sitting in a corner chair, silent spectator to the interview.
“Get Mr. Panzer, the manager, for me, Johnson,” said Queen. “And if the
publicity man—chap by the name of Bealson, or Pealson, or something—is
around, have him step in here, too.”
He turned to the lawyer after Johnson left.
“Let me trouble you for your gloves a moment, Mr. Morgan,” he said
lightly.
With a puzzled stare, Morgan dropped them on the desk in front of
Queen, who picked them up curiously. They were of white silk—the
conventional gloves for evening-wear. The Inspector pretended to
be very busy examining them. He turned them inside out, minutely
scrutinized a speck on the tip of one finger, and even went so far as
to try them on his own hands, with a jesting remark to Morgan. His
examination concluded, he gravely handed the gloves back to the lawyer.
“And—oh, yes, Mr. Morgan—that’s a mighty spruce-looking tophat you’ve
got there. May I see it a moment?”
Still silently, the lawyer placed his hat on the desk. Queen picked
it up with a carefree air, whistling in a slightly flat key, “The
Sidewalks of New York.” He turned the hat over in his hand. It was
a glistening affair of extremely fine quality. The lining was of
shimmering white silk, with the name of the maker, “James Chauncey
Co.,” stamped in gold. Two initials, “B.M.,” were similarly inlaid on
the band.
Queen grinned as he placed the hat on his own head. It was a close fit.
He doffed it almost immediately and returned it to Morgan.
“Very kind of you to allow me these liberties, Mr. Morgan,” he said as
he hastily scribbled a note on a pad which he took from his pocket.
The door opened to admit Johnson, Panzer and Harry Neilson. Panzer
stepped forward hesitantly and Neilson dropped into an armchair.
“What can we do for you, Inspector?” quavered Panzer, making a valiant
attempt to disregard the presence of the grizzled aristocrat slumped in
his chair.
“Mr. Panzer,” said Queen slowly, “how many kinds of stationery are used
in the Roman Theatre?”
The manager’s eyes opened wide. “Just one, Inspector. There’s a sheet
of it on the desk in front of you.”
“Ummmm.” Queen handed Panzer the slip of paper which he had received
from Morgan. “I want you to examine that sheet very carefully, Mr.
Panzer. To your knowledge, are there any samples of it in the Roman?”
The manager looked it over with an unfamiliar stare. “No, I don’t
think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. What’s this?” he exclaimed, as his
eye caught the first few typewritten lines. “Neilson!” he cried,
whirling on the publicity man. “What’s this—your latest publicity
stunt?” He waved the sheet in Neilson’s face.
Neilson snatched it from his employer’s hand and read it quickly.
“Well, I’ll be switched!” he said softly. “If that doesn’t beat the
non-stop exploitation record!” He reread it, an admiring look on his
face. Then, with four pairs of eyes trained accusingly on him, he
handed it back to Panzer. “I’m sorry I have to deny any share in this
brilliant idea,” he drawled. “Why the deuce didn’t _I_ think of it?”
And he retreated to his corner, arms folded on his chest.
The manager turned to Queen in bewilderment. “This is very peculiar,
Inspector. To my knowledge the Roman Theatre has never used this
stationery, and I can state positively that I never authorized any such
publicity stunt. And if Neilson denies a part in it—” He shrugged his
shoulders.
Queen placed the paper carefully in his pocket. “That will be all,
gentlemen. Thank you.” He dismissed the two men with a nod.
He looked appraisingly at the lawyer, whose face was suffused with a
fiery color that reached from his neck to the roots of his hair. The
Inspector raised his hand and let it drop with a little bang on the
desk.
“What do you think of _that_, Mr. Morgan?” he asked simply.
Morgan leaped to his feet. “It’s a damned frame-up!” he shouted,
shaking his fist in Queen’s face. “I don’t know any more about it
than—than _you_ do, if you’ll pardon a little impertinence! What’s
more, if you think you can scare me by this hocus-pocus searching of
gloves and hats and—and, by God, you haven’t examined my underwear yet,
Inspector!” He stopped for lack of breath, his face purple.
“But, my dear Morgan,” said the Inspector mildly, “why do you upset
yourself so? One would think I’ve been accusing you of Monte Field’s
murder. Sit down and cool off, man; I asked you a simple question.”
Morgan collapsed in his chair. He passed a quivering hand over his
forehead and muttered, “Sorry, Inspector. Lost my temper. But of all
the rotten deals—” He subsided, mumbling to himself.
Queen sat staring quizzically at him. Morgan was making a great to-do
with his handkerchief and cigar. Johnson coughed deprecatingly, looking
up at the ceiling. Again a burst of sound penetrated the walls, only to
be throttled in mid-air.
Queen’s voice cut sharply into the silence. “That’s all, Morgan. You
may go.”
The lawyer lumbered to his feet, opened his mouth as if to speak,
clamped his lips together and, clapping his hat on his head, walked out
of the room. Johnson innocently lounged forward to help him with the
door, on a signal from the Inspector. Both men disappeared.
Queen, left alone in the room, immediately fell into a fierce
preoccupation. He took from his pockets the four stubs, the letter
Morgan had given him and the woman’s rhinestone evening bag which he
had found in the dead man’s pocket. This last article he opened for the
second time that evening and spread its contents on the desk before
him. A few calling cards, with the name “Frances Ives-Pope” neatly
engraved; two dainty lace handkerchiefs; a vanity case filled with
powder, rouge and lipstick; a small change-purse containing twenty
dollars in bills and a few coins; and a house-key. Queen fingered these
articles thoughtfully for a moment, returned them to the handbag and
putting bag, stubs and letter back into his pocket once more, rose and
looked slowly about. He crossed the room to the clothes-tree, picked up
the single hat, a derby, hanging there and examined its interior.
The initials “L.P.” and the head-size, “6¾,” seemed to interest him.
He replaced the hat and opened the door.
The four people sitting in the anteroom jumped to their feet with
expressions of relief. Queen stood smiling on the threshold, his hands
jammed into his coat pockets.
“Here we are at last,” he said. “Won’t you all please step into the
office?”
He politely stood aside to let them pass—the three women and the young
man. They trooped in with a flurry of excitement, the women sitting
down as the young man busied himself setting chairs for them. Four
pairs of eyes gazed earnestly at the old man by the door. He smiled
paternally, took one quick glance into the anteroom, closed the door
and marched in a stately way to the desk, where he sat down, feeling
for his snuff-box.
“Well!” he said genially. “I must apologize for having kept you people
waiting so long—official business, you know.... Now, let’s see. Hmmm.
Yes.... Yes, yes. I must—All right! Now, in the first place, ladies
and gentleman, how do we stand?” He turned his mild gaze on the
most beautiful of the three women. “I believe, miss, that your name
is Frances Ives-Pope, although I haven’t had the pleasure of being
introduced. Am I correct?”
The girl’s eyebrows went up. “That’s quite correct, sir,” she said in a
vibrant musical voice. “Although I don’t quite understand how you know
my name.”
She smiled. It was a magnetic smile, full of charm and a certain strong
womanliness that was extremely attractive. A full-bodied creature in
the bloom of youth, with great brown eyes and a creamy complexion, she
radiated a wholesomeness that the Inspector found refreshing.
He beamed down at her. “Well, Miss Ives-Pope,” he chuckled,
“I suppose it is mysterious to a layman. And the fact that I am a
policeman no doubt heightens the general effect. But it’s quite simple.
You are by no means an unphotographed young lady—I saw your picture in
the paper to-day, as a matter of fact, on the society page.”
The girl laughed, a trifle nervously. “So that’s how it was!” she said.
“I was beginning to be frightened. Just what is it, sir, that you want
of me?”
“Business—always business,” said the Inspector ruefully. “Just when
I’m getting interested in someone, I’m brought bang-up against my
profession.... Before we conduct our inquisition, may I ask who your
friends are?”
An embarrassed coughing arose from the three people on whom Queen bent
his eye. Frances said charmingly, “I’m sorry—Inspector, is it? Allow
me to introduce Miss Hilda Orange and Miss Eve Ellis, my very dear
friends. And this is Mr. Stephen Barry, my fiancé.”
Queen glanced at them in some surprise. “If I’m not mistaken—aren’t you
members of the cast of ‘Gunplay’?”
There was a unanimous nodding of heads.
Queen turned to Frances. “I don’t want to seem too officious, Miss
Ives-Pope, but I want you to explain something.... Why are you
accompanied by your friends?” he asked with a disarming smile. “I know
it sounds impertinent, but I distinctly recall ordering my man to
summon you—alone....”
The three thespians rose stiffly. Frances turned from her companions to
the Inspector with a pleading look.
“I—please forgive me, Inspector,” she said swiftly. “I—I’ve never been
questioned by the police before. I was nervous and—and I asked my
fiancé and these two ladies, who are my most intimate friends, to be
present during the interview. I didn’t realize that I was going against
your wishes....”
“I understand,” returned Queen, smiling. “I understand completely.
But you see—” He made a gesture of finality.
Stephen Barry leaned over the girl’s chair. “I’ll stay with you, dear,
if you give the word.” He glared at the Inspector belligerently.
“But, Stephen, dear—” Frances cried helplessly. Queen’s face was
adamant. “You—you’d better all go. But please wait for me outside. It
won’t take long, will it, Inspector?” she asked, her eyes unhappy.
Queen shook his head. “Not so very long.” His entire attitude had
changed. He seemed to be growing truculent. His audience sensed the
metamorphosis in him and in an intangible manner grew antagonistic.
Hilda Orange, a large buxom woman of forty, with traces of a handsome
youth in her face, now brutally shorn of its make-up in the cold light
of the room, leaned over Frances and glared at the Inspector.
“We’ll be waiting outside for you, my dear,” she said grimly. “And if
you feel faint, or something, just screech a little and you’ll see what
action means.” She flounced out of the room. Eve Ellis patted Frances’
hand. “Don’t worry, Frances,” she said in her soft, clear voice.
“We’re with you.” And taking Barry’s arm, she followed Hilda Orange.
Barry looked back with a mixture of anger and solicitude, shooting a
vitriolic glance at Queen as he slammed the door.
Queen was instantly on his feet, his manner brisk and impersonal. He
gazed fully into Frances’ eyes, his palms pressed against the top
surface of the desk. “Now, Miss Frances Ives-Pope,” he said clearly,
“this is all the business I have to transact with you....” He dipped
into his pocket and produced with something of the stage-magician’s
celerity the rhinestone bag. “I want to return your bag.”
Frances half-rose to her feet, staring from him to the shimmering
purse, the color drained from her face. “Why, that’s—that’s my evening
bag!” she stammered.
“Precisely, Miss Ives-Pope,” said Queen. “It was found in the
theatre—to-night.”
“Of course!” The girl dropped back into her seat with a little nervous
laugh. “How stupid of me! And I didn’t miss it until just now....”
“But, Miss Ives-Pope,” the little Inspector continued deliberately,
“the finding of your purse is not nearly as important as the place in
which it was found.” He paused. “You know that there was a man murdered
here this evening?”
She stared at him open-mouthed, a wild fear gathering in her eyes.
“Yes, I heard so,” she breathed.
“Well, your bag, Miss Ives-Pope,” continued Queen inexorably, “was
found in the murdered man’s pocket!”
Terror gleamed in the girl’s eyes. Then, with a choked scream, she
toppled forward in the chair, her face white and strained.
Queen sprang forward, concern and sympathy instantly apparent on his
face. As he reached the limp form, the door burst open and Stephen
Barry, coat-tails flying, catapulted into the room. Hilda Orange, Eve
Ellis and Johnson, the detective, hurried in behind him.
“What in hell have you done to her, you damned snooper!” the actor
cried, shouldering Queen out of the way. He gathered Frances’ body
tenderly in his arms, pushing aside the wisps of black hair tumbled
over her eyes, crooning desperately in her ear. She sighed and looked
up in bewilderment as she saw the flushed young face close to hers.
“Steve, I—fainted,” she murmured, and dropped back in his arms.
“Get some water, somebody,” the young man growled, chafing her hands.
A tumbler was promptly pushed over his shoulder by Johnson. Barry
forced a few drops down Frances’ throat and she choked, coming back
to consciousness. The two actresses pushed Barry aside and brusquely
ordered the men to leave. Queen meekly followed the protesting actor
and the detective.
“You’re a fine cop, you are!” said Barry scathingly, to the Inspector.
“What did you do to her—hit her over the head with the policeman’s
usual finesse?”
“Now, now, young man,” said Queen mildly, “no harsh words, please. The
young lady simply received a shock.” They stood in a strained silence
until the door opened and the actresses appeared supporting Frances
between them. Barry flew to her side. “Are you all right now, dear?” he
whispered, pressing her hand.
“Please—Steve—take me—home,” she gasped, leaning heavily on his arm.
Inspector Queen stood aside to let them pass. There was a mournful look
in his eyes as he watched them walk slowly to the main door and join
the short line going out.