THE QUEENS TAKE STOCK
“Let’s see where we stand,” continued Ellery without pausing. “Let’s
consider this thing in its most elementary light.
“These, roughly, are the facts: A man of shady character, Monte Field,
probable head of a vast criminal organization, with undoubtedly a
host of enemies, is found murdered in the Roman Theatre ten minutes
before the end of the second act, at precisely 9:55 o’clock. He is
discovered by a man named William Pusak, a clerk of an inferior type of
intelligence, who is sitting five seats away in the same row. This man,
attempting to leave, pushes his way past the victim who before he dies
mutters, ‘Murder! Been murdered!’ or words to that effect.
“A policeman is called and to make sure the man is dead, secures the
services of a doctor in the audience, who definitely pronounces the
victim killed by some form of alcoholic poisoning. Subsequently Dr.
Prouty, the Assistant Medical Examiner, confirms this statement,
adding that there is only one disturbing factor—that a man would not
die so soon from lethal alcohol. The question of the cause of death,
therefore, we must leave for the moment, since only an autopsy can
definitely determine it.
“With a large audience to attend to, the policeman calls for help,
officers of the vicinity come in to take charge and subsequently the
headquarters men arrive to conduct the immediate investigation. The
first important issue that arises is the question of whether the
murderer had the opportunity to leave the scene of the crime between
the time it was committed and the time it was discovered. Doyle,
the policeman who was first on the scene, immediately ordered the
manager to station guards at all exits and both alleys.
“When I arrived, I thought of this point the very first thing and
conducted a little investigation of my own. I Went around to all the
exits and questioned the guards. I discovered that there was a guard
at every door of the auditorium during the entire second act, with two
exceptions which I shall mention shortly. Now, it had been determined
from the testimony of the orangeade boy, Jess Lynch, that the victim
was alive not only during the intermission between Act I and Act
II—when he saw and talked to Field in the alleyway—but that Field was
also in apparently good health ten minutes after the raising of the
curtain for Act II. This was when the boy delivered a bottle of ginger
ale to Field at the seat in which he was later found dead. Inside the
theatre, an usher stationed at the foot of the stairs leading to the
balcony swore that no one had either gone up or come down during the
second act. This eliminates the possibility that the murderer had
access to the balcony.
“The two exceptions I noted a moment ago are the two doors on the
extreme left aisle, which should have been guarded but were not because
the usherette, Madge O’Connell, was sitting in the audience next to
her lover. This presented to my mind the possibility that the murderer
might have left by one of these two doors, which were conveniently
placed for an escape should the murderer have been so inclined.
However, even this possibility was eliminated by the statement of the
O’Connell girl, whom I hunted up after she was questioned by dad.”
“You talked to her on the sly, did you, you scalawag?” roared Queen,
glaring at Ellery.
“I certainly did,” chuckled Ellery, “and I discovered the one
important fact that seems pertinent to this phase of the investigation.
O’Connell swore that before she left the doors to sit down next to
Parson Johnny she stepped on the inside floor-lock that latches them
top and bottom. When the commotion began the girl sprang from the
Parson’s side and finding the doors locked as she had left them,
unlatched them while Doyle was attempting to quiet the audience. Unless
she was lying—and I don’t think she was—this proves that the murderer
did not leave by these doors, since at the time the body was found they
were still locked from the inside.”
“Well, I’ll be switched!” growled Queen. “She didn’t tell me a thing
about that part of it, drat her! Wait till I get my hands on her, the
little snip!”
“Please be logical, _M. le Gardien de la Paix_,” laughed Ellery. “The
reason she didn’t tell you about bolting the doors was that you didn’t
ask her. She felt that she was in enough of an uncomfortable position
already.
“At any rate, that statement of hers would seem to dispose of the two
side-doors near the murdered man’s seat. I will admit that all sorts of
possibilities enter into the problem—for example, Madge O’Connell might
have been an accomplice. I mention this only as a possibility, and not
even as a theory. At any rate, it seems to me that the murderer would
not have run the risk of being seen leaving from side doors. Besides,
a departure in so unusual a manner and at so unusual a time would have
been all the more noticeable especially since few people leave during a
second act. And again—the murderer could have no foreknowledge of the
O’Connell girl’s dereliction in duty—if she were not an accomplice.
As the crime was carefully planned—and we must admit that from all
indications it was—the murderer would have discarded the side-doors as
a means of escape.
“This probe left, I felt, only one other channel of investigation.
That was the main entrance. And here again we received definite
testimony from the ticket-taker and the doorman outside to the effect
that no one _left_ the building during the second act by that route.
Except, of course, the harmless orangeade boy.
“All the exits having been guarded or locked, and the alley having
been under constant surveillance from 9:35 on by Lynch, Elinor, Johnny
Chase—the usher—and after him the police—these being the facts, all
my questioning and checking, gentlemen,” continued Ellery in a grave
tone, “lead to the inevitable conclusion that, from the time the murder
was discovered and all the time thereafter while the investigation was
going on, _the murderer was in the theatre!_”
A silence followed Ellery’s pronouncement. “Incidentally,” he added
calmly, “it occurred to me when I talked to the ushers to ask if they
had seen any one leave his seat after the second act started, and they
can’t recall anyone changing seats!”
Queen idly took another pinch of snuff. “Nice work—and a very pretty
piece of reasoning, my son—but nothing, after all, of a startling or
conclusive nature. Granted that the murderer was in the theatre all
that time—how could we possibly have laid our hands on him?”
“He didn’t say you could,” put in Sampson, smiling. “Don’t be so
sensitive, old boy; nobody’s going to report you for negligence in the
performance of your duty. From all I’ve heard to-night you handled the
affair well.”
Queen grunted. “I’ll admit I’m a little peeved at myself for not
following up that matter of the doors more thoroughly. But even if it
were possible for the murderer to have left directly after the crime,
I nevertheless would have had to pursue the inquiry as I did, on the
chance that he was still in the theatre.”
“But dad—of course!” said Ellery seriously. “You had so many things
to attend to, while all I had to do was stand around and look Socratic.”
“How about the people who have come under the eye of the investigation
so far?” asked Sampson curiously.
“Well, what about them?” challenged Ellery. “We certainly can draw no
definite conclusions from either their conversation or their actions.
We have Parson Johnny, a thug, who was there apparently for no other
reason than to enjoy a play giving some interesting sidelights on
his own profession. Then there is Madge O’Connell, a very doubtful
character about whom we can make no decision at this stage of the
game. She might be an accomplice—she might be innocent—she might be
merely negligent—she might be almost anything. Then there is William
Pusak, who found Field. Did you notice the moronic cast of his head?
And Benjamin Morgan—here we strike fallow ground in the realm of
probability. But what do we know of his actions to-night? True, his
story of the letter and the complimentary ticket sounds queer, since
any one could have written the letter, even Morgan himself. And we
must always remember the public threat against Field; and also the
enmity, reason unknown, which has existed between them for two years.
And, lastly, we have Miss Frances Ives-Pope. I’m exceedingly sorry I
was absent during that interview. The fact remains—and isn’t it an
interesting one?—that her evening bag was found in the dead man’s
pocket. Explain that if you can.
“So you see where we are,” Ellery continued ruefully. “All we have
managed to derive from this evening’s entertainment is a plethora of
suspicions and a poverty of facts.”
“So far, son,” said Queen casually, “you have kept on mighty safe
ground. But you’ve forgotten the important matter of the suspiciously
vacant seats. Also the rather startling fact that Field’s ticket-stub
and the only other stub that could be attributed to the murderer—I
refer to the LL30 Left stub found by Flint—that these two stubs do
not coincide. That is to say, that the torn edges indicate they were
gathered by the ticket-taker at different times!”
“Check,” said Ellery. “But let’s leave that for the moment and get on
to the problem of Field’s tophat.”
“The hat—well, what do you think of it?” asked Queen curiously.
“Just this. In the first place, we have fairly established the fact
that the hat is not missing through accident. The murdered man was
seen by Jess Lynch with the hat in his lap ten minutes after Act II
began. Since it is now missing, the only reasonable theory that would
explain its absence is that the murderer took it away with him. Now—for
the moment, let’s forget the problem of where the hat is now. The
immediate conclusion to draw is that the hat was taken away for one of
two reasons: first, that it was in some way incriminating in itself, so
that if it were left behind it would point to the murderer’s identity.
What the nature of this incriminating indication is we cannot even
guess at the moment. Second, the hat may have contained something which
the murderer wanted. You will say: Why couldn’t he take this mysterious
object and leave the hat? Probably, if this supposition is true,
because he either had not sufficient time to extract it, or else did
not know _how_ to extract it and therefore took the hat away with him
to examine it at his leisure. Do you agree with me so far?”
The District Attorney nodded slowly. Queen sat still, his eyes vaguely
troubled.
“Let us for a moment consider what the hat could possibly have
contained,” resumed Ellery, as he vigorously polished his glasses.
“Due to its size, shape and cubic content our field of speculation is
not a broad one. What could be hidden in a tophat? The only things
that present themselves to my mind are: papers of some sort, jewelry,
banknotes, or any other small object of value which could not easily
be detected in such a place. Obviously, this problematical object
would not be carried merely in the crown of the hat since it would
fall out whenever the wearer uncovered his head. We are led to believe
therefore that, whatever the object was, it was concealed in the lining
of the hat. This immediately narrows our list of possibilities. Solid
objects of bulk must be eliminated. A jewel might have been concealed;
banknotes or papers might have been concealed. We can, I think, discard
the jewel, from what we know of Monte Field. If he was carrying
anything of value, it would probably be connected in some way with his
profession.
“One point remains to be considered in this preliminary analysis of
the missing tophat. And, gentlemen, it may very well become a pivotal
consideration before we are through.—It is of paramount importance
for us to know whether the murderer knew in advance of his crime that
it would be necessary for him to take away Monte Field’s tophat.
In other words, did the murderer have _foreknowledge_ of the hat’s
significance, whatever it may prove to be? I maintain that the facts
prove deductively, as logically as facts _can_ prove deductively, that
the murderer had no foreknowledge.
“Follow me closely.... Since Monte Field’s tophat is missing, and
since no other tophat has been found in its place, it is an undeniable
indication that it was essential that it be taken away. You must agree
that, as I pointed out before, the murderer is most plausibly the
remover of the hat. Now! Regardless of _why_ it had to be taken away,
we are faced with two alternatives: one, that the murderer knew in
advance that it had to be taken away; or two, that he did _not_ know in
advance. Let us exhaust the possibilities in the former case. If he
knew in advance, it may be sanely and logically assumed that he would
have brought with him to the theatre a hat to replace Field’s, rather
than leave an obvious clue by the provocative absence of the murdered
man’s hat. To bring a replacement hat would have been the safe thing to
do. The murderer would have had no difficulty in securing a replacement
hat, since knowing its importance in advance, he could certainly have
armed himself with a further knowledge of Field’s head-size, style of
tophat, and other minor details. _But there is no replacement hat._ We
have every right to expect a replacement hat in a crime so carefully
concocted as this one. There being none, our only conclusion can be
that the murderer did not know beforehand the importance of Field’s
hat; otherwise he would assuredly have taken the intelligent precaution
of leaving another hat behind. In this way the police would never know
that Field’s hat had any significance at all.
“Another point in corroboration. Even if the murderer didn’t desire,
for some dark reason of his own, to leave a replacement hat, he
certainly would have arranged to secure what was in the hat by cutting
it out. All he had to do was to provide himself in advance with a sharp
instrument—a pocket-knife, for example. The _empty_ hat, though cut,
would not have presented the problem of disposal that the _missing_ hat
would. Surely the murderer would have preferred this procedure, had he
foreknowledge of the hat’s contents. But he did not do even this. This,
it seems to me, is strong corroborative evidence that he did not know
before he came to the Roman Theatre that he would have to take away a
hat or its contents. _Quod erat demonstrandum._”
The District Attorney gazed at Ellery with puckered lips. Inspector
Queen seemed sunk in a lethargy. His hand hovered midway between his
snuff-box and his nose.
“Just what’s the point, Ellery?” inquired Sampson. “Why is it
important for you to know that the murderer had no foreknowledge of the
hat’s significance?”
Ellery smiled. “Merely this. The crime was committed after the
beginning of the second act. I want to be sure in my own mind that the
murderer, by not knowing in advance of the hat’s significance, could
not have used the first intermission in any manner whatsoever as an
essential element of his plan.... Of course, Field’s hat may turn up
somewhere on the premises, and its discovery would invalidate all these
speculations. But—I don’t think it will....”
“That analysis of yours might be elementary, boy, but it sounds quite
logical to me,” said Sampson approvingly. “You should have been a
lawyer.”
“You can’t beat the Queen brains,” chuckled the old man suddenly, his
face wreathed in a wide smile. “But I’m going to get busy on another
tack that ought to jibe somewhere with this puzzle of the hat. You
noticed, Ellery, the name of the clothier sewed into Field’s coat?”
“No sooner said than done,” grinned Ellery. Producing one of the small
volumes which he carried in his topcoat pocket, he opened it and
pointed to a notation on the fly-leaf. “Browne Bros., gentlemen—no less.”
“That’s right; and I’ll have Velie down there in the morning to
check up,” said the Inspector. “You must have realized that Field’s
clothing is of exceptional quality. That evening-suit cost three
hundred dollars, if it cost a penny. And Browne Bros. are the artists
to charge such fashionable prices. But there’s another point in this
connection: every stitch of clothing on the dead man’s body had the
same manufacturer’s mark. That’s not uncommon with wealthy men; and
Browne’s made a specialty of outfitting their customers from head to
foot. What more probable to assume—”
“Than that Field bought his hats there, too!” exclaimed Sampson,
with an air of discovery.
“Exactly, Tacitus,” said Queen, grinning. “Velie’s job is to check up
on this clothing business and if possible secure an exact duplicate of
the hat Field wore to-night. I’m mighty anxious to look it over.”
Sampson rose with a cough. “I suppose I really ought to get back to
bed,” he said. “The only reason I came down here was to see that you
didn’t arrest the Mayor. Boy, that friend of mine was sore! I’ll never
hear the end of it!”
Queen looked up at him with a quizzical smile. “Before you go, Henry,
suppose you tell me just where I stand on this thing. I know that I
used a pretty high hand to-night, but you must realize how necessary it
was. Are you going to put one of your own men on the case?”
Sampson glared at him. “When did you get the idea I wasn’t satisfied
with your conduct of the investigation, you old canary bird!” he
growled. “I’ve never checked you up yet, and I’m not going to start
now. If you can’t bring this thing to a successful conclusion, I
certainly don’t think any of my men can. My dear Q, go ahead and detain
half of New York if you think it’s necessary. I’ll back you up.”
“Thanks, Henry,” said Queen. “I just wanted to be sure. And now, since
you’re so nice about it, watch my smoke!”
He ambled across the room into the anteroom, stuck his head past the
doorway into the theatre, and shouted, “Mr. Panzer, will you come here
a moment?”
He came back smiling grimly to himself, the swarthy theatre-manager
close on his heels.
“Mr. Panzer, meet District Attorney Sampson,” said Queen. The two men
shook hands. “Now, Mr. Panzer, you’ve got one more job and you can go
home and go to sleep. I want this theatre shut down so tight a
mouse couldn’t get into it!”
Panzer grew pale. Sampson shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate
that he washed his hands of the entire affair. Ellery nodded sagely in
approval.
“But—but Inspector, just when we’re playing to capacity!” groaned the
little manager. “Is it absolutely necessary?”
“So necessary, my dear man,” answered the Inspector coolly, “that I’m
going to have two men here patrolling the premises all the time.”
Panzer wrung his hands, looking furtively at Sampson. But the District
Attorney was standing with his back to them, examining a print on the
wall.
“This is terrible, Inspector!” wailed Panzer. “I’ll never hear the end
of it from Gordon Davis, the producer.... But of course—if you say so,
it will be done.”
“Heck, man, don’t look so blue,” said Queen, more kindly. “You’ll be
getting so much publicity out of this that when the show reopens you’ll
have to enlarge the theatre. I don’t expect to have the theatre shut
down more than a few days, anyway. I’ll give the necessary orders to
my own men outside. After you’ve transacted your routine business here
to-night, just tip off the men I’ve left and go home. I’ll let you know
in a few days when you can reopen.”
Panzer waggled his head sadly, shook hands all around and left. Sampson
immediately whirled on Queen and said, “By the Lord Harry, Q, that’s
going some! Why do you want the theatre closed? You’ve milked it dry,
haven’t you?”
“Well, Henry,” said Queen slowly, “the hat hasn’t been found. All those
people filed out of the theatre and were searched—and each one had just
one hat. Doesn’t that indicate that the hat we’re looking for is still
here somewhere? And if it’s still here, I’m not giving anybody a
chance to come in and take it away. If there’s any taking to be done,
I’ll do it.”
Sampson nodded. Ellery was still wearing a worried frown as the three
men walked out of the office into the almost deserted orchestra.
Here and there a busy figure was stooping over a seat, examining the
floor. A few men could be seen darting in and out of the boxes up
front. Sergeant Velie stood by the main door, talking in low tones
to Piggott and Hagstrom. Detective Flint, superintending a squad of
men, was working far to the front of the orchestra. A small group of
cleaning-women operated vacuum cleaners tiredly here and there. In one
corner, to the rear, a buxom police matron was talking with an elderly
woman—the woman Panzer had called Mrs. Phillips.
The three men walked to the main door. While Ellery and Sampson were
silently surveying the always depressing scene of an untenanted
auditorium, Queen spoke rapidly to Velie, giving orders in an
undertone. Finally he turned and said, “Well, gentlemen, that’s all for
to-night. Let’s be going.”
On the sidewalk a number of policemen had roped off a large space,
behind which a straggling crowd of curiosity-seekers was gaping.
“Even at two o’clock in the morning these night-birds patrol Broadway,”
grunted Sampson. With a wave of the hand he entered his automobile
after the Queens politely refused his offer of a “lift.” A crowd of
businesslike reporters pushed through the lines and surrounded the two
Queens.
“Here, here! What’s this, gentlemen?” asked the old man, frowning.
“How about the low-down on to-night’s job, Inspector?” asked one of
them urgently.
“You’ll get all the information you want, boys, from
Detective-Sergeant Velie—inside.” He smiled as they charged in a body
through the glass doors.
Ellery and Richard Queen stood silently on the curb, watching the
policemen herd back the crowd. Then the old man said with a sudden wave
of weariness, “Come on, son, let’s walk part of the way home.”
PART TWO
_“....To illustrate: Once young Jean C—— came to me after a month of
diligent investigation on a difficult assignment. He wore a forlorn
expression. Without a word he handed me a slip of official paper. I
read it in surprise. It was his resignation._
_“‘Here, Jean!’ I cried. ‘What is the meaning of this?’_
_“‘I have failed, M. Brillon,’ he muttered. ‘A month’s work, gone to
the devil. I have been on the wrong track. It is a disgrace.’_
_“‘Jean, my friend,’ said I solemnly, ‘this for your resignation.’
Wherewith I tore it to hits before his astonished eyes. ‘Go now,’ I
admonished him, ‘and begin from the beginning. For remember always the
maxim: He who would know right must first know wrong!’”_
—_From_ Reminiscences of a Prefect,
_By_ Auguste Brillon.