IN WHICH THE QUEENS MEET MR. FIELD’S VERY BEST FRIEND
The Queens’ apartment on West 87th Street was a man’s domicile from
the pipe-rack over the hearth to the shining sabres on the wall. They
lived on the top floor of a three-family brownstone house, a relic of
late Victorian times. You walked up the heavily-carpeted stairs through
seemingly endless halls of dismal rectitude. When you were quite
convinced that only mummified souls could inhabit such a dreary place,
you came upon the huge oaken door marked, “The Queens”—a motto lettered
neatly and framed. Then Djuna grinned at you from behind a crack and
you entered a new world.
More than one individual, exalted in his own little niche, had
willingly climbed the uninviting staircases to find sanctuary in this
haven. More than one card bearing a famous name had been blithely
carried by Djuna through the foyer into the living-room.
The foyer was Ellery’s inspiration, if the truth were told. It was so
small and so narrow that its walls appeared unnaturally towering. With
a humorous severity one wall had been completely covered by a tapestry
depicting the chase—a most appropriate appurtenance to this medieval
chamber. Both Queens detested it heartily, preserving it only because
it had been presented to them with regal gratitude by the Duke of
——, that impulsive gentleman whose son Richard Queen had saved from
a noisome scandal, the details of which have never been made public.
Beneath the tapestry stood a heavy mission table, displaying a
parchment lamp and a pair of bronze book-ends bounding a three-volume
set of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment.
Two mission chairs and a small rug completed the foyer.
When you walked through this oppressive place, always gloomy and
almost always hideous, you were ready for anything except the perfect
cheeriness of the large room beyond. This study in contrast was
Ellery’s private jest, for if it were not for him the old man would
long since have thrown the foyer and its furnishings into some dark
limbo.
The living-room was lined on three sides with a bristling and
leathern-reeking series of bookcases, rising tier upon tier to the
high ceiling. On the fourth wall was a huge natural fireplace, with a
solid oak beam as a mantel and gleaming iron-work spacing the grate.
Above the fireplace were the famous crossed sabres, a gift from the
old fencing-master of Nuremburg with whom Richard had lived in his
younger days during his studies in Germany. Lamps winked and gleamed
all over the great sprawling room; easy-chairs, armchairs, low divans,
foot-stools, bright-colored leather cushions, were everywhere. In a
word, it was the most comfortable room two intellectual gentlemen of
luxurious tastes could devise for their living-quarters. And where such
a place might after a time have become stale through sheer variety, the
bustling person of Djuna, man-of-all-work, general factotum, errand
boy, valet and mascot prevented such a dénouement.
Djuna had been picked up by Richard Queen during the period of Ellery’s
studies at college, when the old man was very much alone. This cheerful
young man, nineteen years old, an orphan for as long as he could
remember, ecstatically unaware of the necessity for a surname—slim and
small, nervous and joyous, bubbling over with spirit and yet as quiet
as a mouse when the occasion demanded—this Djuna, then, worshiped
old Richard in much the same fashion as the ancient Alaskans bowed down
to their totem-poles. Between him and Ellery, too, there was a shy
kinship which rarely found expression except in the boy’s passionate
service. He slept in a small room beyond the bedrooms used by father
and son and, according to Richard’s own chuckling expression, “could
hear a flea singing to its mate in the middle of the night.”
On the morning after the eventful night of Monte Field’s murder, Djuna
was laying the cloth for breakfast when the telephone bell rang. The
boy, accustomed to early morning calls, lifted the receiver:
“This is Inspector Queen’s man Djuna talking. Who is calling, please?”
“Oh, it is, is it?” growled a bass voice over the wire. “Well, you son
of a Gypsy policeman, wake the Inspector for me and be quick about it!”
“Inspector Queen may not be disturbed, sir, unless his man Djuna knows
who’s calling.” Djuna, who knew Sergeant Velie’s voice especially well,
grinned and stuck his tongue in his cheek.
A slim hand firmly grasped Djuna’s neck and propelled him half-way
across the room. The Inspector, fully dressed, his nostrils quivering
appreciatively with his morning’s first ration of snuff, said into
the mouthpiece, “Don’t mind Djuna, Thomas. What’s up? This is Queen
talking.”
“Oh, that you, Inspector? I wouldn’t have buzzed you so early in the
morning except that Ritter just phoned from Monte Field’s apartment.
Got an interesting report,” rumbled Velie.
“Well, well!” chuckled the Inspector. “So our friend Ritter’s bagged
someone, eh? Who is it, Thomas?”
“You guessed it, sir,” came Velie’s unmoved voice. “He said he’s got
a lady down there in an embarrassing state of deshabille and if
he stays alone with her much longer his wife will divorce him. Orders,
sir?”
Queen laughed heartily. “Sure enough, Thomas. Send a couple of men down
there right away to chaperon him. I’ll be there myself in two shakes of
a lamb’s tail—which is to say, as soon as I can drag Ellery out of bed.”
He hung up, grinning. “Djuna!” he shouted. The boy’s head popped out
from behind the kitchenette door immediately. “Hurry up with the eggs
and coffee, son!” The Inspector turned toward the bedroom to find
Ellery, collarless but unmistakably on the road to dress, confronting
him with an air of absorption.
“So you’re really up?” grumbled the Inspector, easing himself into an
armchair. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of bed, you sluggard!”
“You may rest easy,” said Ellery absently. “I most certainly am up,
and I am going to stay up. And as soon as Djuna replenishes the inner
man I’ll be off and out of your way.” He lounged into the bedroom,
reappearing a moment later brandishing his collar and tie.
“Here! Where d’ye think you’re going, young man?” roared Queen,
starting up.
“Down to my book-shop, Inspector darling,” replied Ellery judicially.
“You don’t think I’m going to allow that Falconer first-edition to get
away from me? Really—it may still be there, you know.”
“Falconer fiddle-sticks,” said his father grimly. “You started
something and you’re going to help finish it. Here—Djuna—where in time
is that kid?”
Djuna stepped briskly into the room balancing a tray in one hand and a
pitcher of milk in the other. In a twinkling he had the table ready,
the coffee bubbling, the toast browned; and father and son hurried
through their breakfast without a word.
“Now,” remarked Ellery, setting down his empty cup, “now that I’ve
finished this Arcadian repast, tell me where the fire is.”
“Get your hat and coat on and stop asking pointless questions, son of
my grief,” growled Queen. In three minutes they were on the sidewalk
hailing a taxicab.
The cab drew up before a monumental apartment building. Lounging on the
sidewalk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, was Detective Piggott.
The Inspector winked and trotted into the lobby. He and Ellery were
whisked up to the fourth floor where Detective Hagstrom greeted them,
pointing to an apartment door numbered 4-D. Ellery, leaning forward
to catch the inscription on the nameplate, was about to turn on his
father with an amused expostulation when the door swung open at Queen’s
imperious ring and the broad flushed face of Ritter peered out at them.
“Morning, Inspector,” the detective mumbled, holding the door open.
“I’m glad you’ve come, sir.”
Queen and Ellery marched inside. They stood in a small foyer, profusely
furnished. Directly in their line of vision was a living-room, and
beyond that a closed door. A frilled feminine slipper and a slim ankle
were visible at the edge of the door.
The Inspector stepped forward, changed his mind and quickly opening the
hall door called to Hagstrom, who was sauntering about outside. The
detective ran up.
“Come inside here,” said Queen sharply. “Got a job for you.”
With Ellery and the two plainclothes men following at his heels, he
strode into the living-room.
A woman of mature beauty, a trifle worn, the pastiness of a ruined
complexion apparent beneath heavily applied rouge, sprang to her
feet. She was dressed in a flowing flimsy _negligée_ and her hair was
tousled. She nervously crushed a cigarette underfoot.
“Are you the big cheese around here?” she yelled in a strident
fury to Queen. He stood stock still and examined her impersonally.
“Then what the hell do you mean by sending one o’ your flat-foots to
keep me locked up all night, hey?”
She jumped forward as if to come to grips with the old man. Ritter
lumbered swiftly toward her and squeezed her arm. “Here you,” he
growled, “shut up until you’re spoken to.”
She glared at him. Then with a tigerish twist she was out of his grasp
and in a chair, panting, wild-eyed.
Arms akimbo, the Inspector stood looking her up and down with
unconcealed distaste. Ellery had glanced at the woman briefly and begun
to potter about the room, peering at the wall-hangings and Japanese
prints, picking up a book from an end-table, poking his head into dark
corners.
Queen motioned to Hagstrom. “Take this lady into the next room and
keep her company for a while,” he said. The detective unceremoniously
hustled the woman to her feet. She tossed her head defiantly and
marched into the next room, Hagstrom following.
“Now, Ritter, my boy,” sighed the old man, sinking into an easy-chair,
“tell me what happened.”
Ritter answered stiffly. His eyes were strained, bloodshot. “I
followed out your orders last night to the dot. I beat it down here
in a police car, left it on the corner because I didn’t know but what
somebody might be keeping a lookout, and strolled up to this apartment.
Everything was quiet—and I hadn’t noticed any lights either, because
before I went in I beat it down to the court and looked up at the back
windows of the apartment. So I gave ’em a nice short ring on the bell
and waited.
“No answer,” continued Ritter, with a tightening of his big jaw. “I
buzzed again—this time longer and louder. This time I got results. I
heard the latch on the inside rattle and this woman yodels, ‘That
you, honey? Where’s your key?’ Aha—thinks I—Mr. Field’s lady-friend!
So I shoved my foot in the door and grabbed her before she knew what
was what. Well, sir, I got a surprise. Sort of expected,” he grinned
sheepishly, “sort of expected to find the woman dressed, but all I
grabbed was a thin piece o’ silk night-gown. I guess I must have
blushed....”
“Ah, the opportunities of our good minions of the law!” murmured
Ellery, head bent over a small lacquered vase.
“Anyway—” continued the detective, “I got my hands on her and she
yelped—plenty. Hustled her into the living-room here where she’d put
on the light, and took a good look at her. She was scared blue but
she was kind of plucky, too, because she began to cuss me and she
wanted to know who in hell I was, what I was tryin’ to do in a woman’s
apartment at night, and all that sort of stuff. I flashed my badge. And
Inspector, that hefty Sheba—the minute she sees the badge, she shuts up
tight like a bluepoint and won’t answer a question I ask her!”
“Why was that?” The old man’s eyes roved from floor to ceiling as he
looked over the appointments of the room.
“Hard to tell, Inspector,” said Ritter. “First she seemed scared, but
when she saw my badge she bucked up wonderful. And the longer I was
here the more brazen she became.”
“You didn’t tell her about Field, did you?” queried the Inspector, in a
sharp, low tone.
Ritter gave his superior a reproachful glance. “Not a peep out o’ me,
sir,” he said. “Well, when I saw it was no go tryin’ to get anything
out of her—all she’d yell was, ‘Wait till Monte gets home, you bozo!’—I
took a look at the bedroom. Nobody there, so I shoved her inside,
kept the door open and the light on and stayed all night. She climbed
into bed after a while and I guess she went to sleep. At about seven
this morning she popped out and started to yell all over again.
Seemed to think that Field had been grabbed by headquarters. Insisted
on having a newspaper. I told her nothin’ doin’ and then phoned the
office. Not another thing happened since.”
“I say, dad!” exclaimed Ellery suddenly, from a corner of the room.
“What do you think our legal friend reads—you’ll never guess. ‘How to
Tell Character from Handwriting’!”
The Inspector grunted as he rose. “Stop fiddling with those eternal
books,” he said, “and come along.”
He flung open the bedroom door. The woman was sitting cross-legged on
the bed, an ornate affair of a bastard French period-style, canopied
and draped from ceiling to floor with heavy damask curtains. Hagstrom
leaned stolidly against the window.
Queen looked quickly about. He turned to Ritter. “Was that bed mussed
up when you came in here last night—did it look as if it had been slept
in?” he whispered aside.
Ritter nodded. “All right, then, Ritter,” said Queen in a genial tone.
“Go home and get some rest. You deserve it. And send up Piggott on your
way out.” The detective touched his hat and departed.
Queen turned on the woman. He walked to the bed and sat down beside
her, studying her half-averted face. She lit a cigarette defiantly.
“I am Inspector Queen of the police, my dear,” announced the old man
mildly. “I warn you that any attempt to keep a stubborn silence or lie
to me will only get you into a heap of trouble. But there! Of course
you understand.”
She jerked away. “I’m not answering any questions, Mr. Inspector, until
I know what right you have to ask ’em. I haven’t done anything wrong
and my slate’s clean. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it!”
The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, as if the woman’s reference
to the vile weed had reminded him of his favorite vice. He said:
“That’s fair enough,” in dulcet tones. “Here you are, a lonely woman
suddenly tumbled out of bed in the middle of the night—you _were_ in
bed, weren’t you—?”
“Sure I was,” she flashed instantly, then bit her lip.
“—And confronted by a policeman.... I don’t wonder you were frightened,
my dear.”
“I was not!” she said shrilly.
“We’ll not argue about it,” rejoined the old man benevolently. “But
certainly you have no objection to telling me your name?”
“I don’t know why I should, but I can’t see any harm in it,” retorted
the woman. “My name is Angela Russo—Mrs. Angela Russo—and I’m, well,
I’m engaged to Mr. Field.”
“I see,” said Queen gravely. “Mrs. Angela Russo and you are engaged
to Mr. Field. Very good! And what were you doing in these rooms last
night, Mrs. Angela Russo?”
“None of your business!” she said coolly. “You’d better let me go now—I
haven’t done a thing out of the way. You’ve got no right to jabber at
me, old boy!”
Ellery, in a corner peering out of the window, smiled. The Inspector
leaned over and took the woman’s hand gently.
“My dear Mrs. Russo,” he said, “believe me—there is every reason in the
world why we should be anxious to know what you were doing here last
night. Come now—tell me.”
“I won’t open my mouth till I know what you’ve done with Monte!” she
cried, shaking off his hand. “If you’ve got him, why are you pestering
me? I don’t know anything.”
“Mr. Field is in a very safe place at the moment,” snapped the
Inspector, rising. “I’ve given you plenty of rope, madam. Monte Field
is dead.”
“Monte—Field—is—” The woman’s lips moved mechanically. She leaped to
her feet, clutching the _negligée_ to her plump figure, staring at
Queen’s impassive face.
She laughed shortly and threw herself back on the bed. “Go on—you’re
taking me for a ride,” she jeered.
“I’m not accustomed to joking about death,” returned the old man with
a little smile. “I assure you that you may take my word for it—Monte
Field is dead.” She was staring up at him, her lips moving soundlessly.
“And what is more, Mrs. Russo, he has been murdered. Perhaps now you’ll
deign to answer my questions. Where were you at a quarter to ten last
night?” he whispered in her ear, his face close to hers.
Mrs. Russo relaxed limply on the bed, a dawning fright in her large
eyes. She gaped at the Inspector, found little comfort in his face and
with a cry whirled to sob into the rumpled pillow. Queen stepped back
and spoke in a low tone to Piggott, who had come into the room a moment
before. The woman’s heaving sobs subsided suddenly. She sat up, dabbing
her face with a lace handkerchief. Her eyes were strangely bright.
“I get you now,” she said in a quiet voice. “I was right here in this
apartment at a quarter to ten last night.”
“Can you prove that, Mrs. Russo?” asked Queen, fingering his snuff-box.
“I can’t prove anything and I don’t have to,” she returned dully. “But
if you’re looking for an alibi, the doorman downstairs must have seen
me come into the building at about nine-thirty.”
“We can easily check that up,” admitted Queen. “Tell me—why did you
come here last night at all?”
“I had an appointment with Monte,” she explained lifelessly. “He
called me up at my own place yesterday afternoon and we made a date for
last night. He told me he’d be out on business until about ten o’clock,
and I was to wait here for him. I come up”—she paused and continued
brazenly—“I come up quite often like that. We generally have a little
‘time’ and spend the evening together. Being engaged—you know.”
“Ummm. I see, I see.” The Inspector cleared his throat in some
embarrassment. “And then, when he didn’t come on time—?”
“I thought he might’ve been detained longer than he’d figured. So
I—well, I felt tired and took a little nap.”
“Very good,” said Queen quickly. “Did he tell you where he was going,
or the nature of his business?”
“No.”
“I should be greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Russo,” said the Inspector
carefully, “if you would tell me what Mr. Field’s attitude was toward
theatre-going.”
The woman looked at him curiously. She seemed to be recovering her
spirits. “Didn’t go very often,” she snapped. “Why?”
The Inspector beamed. “Now, that’s a question, isn’t it?” he asked. He
motioned to Hagstrom, who pulled a notebook out of his pocket.
“Could you give me a list of Mr. Field’s personal friends?” resumed
Queen. “And any business acquaintances you might know of?”
Mrs. Russo put her hands behind her head, coquettishly. “To tell the
truth,” she said sweetly, “I don’t know any. I met Monte about six
months ago at a masque-ball in the Village. We’ve kept our engagement
sort of quiet, you see. In fact, I’ve never met his friends at all....
I don’t think,” she confided, “I don’t think Monte had many friends.
And of course I don’t know a thing about his business associates.”
“What was Field’s financial condition, Mrs. Russo?”
“Trust a woman to know those things!” she retorted, completely restored
to her flippant manner. “Monte was always a good spender. Never seemed
to run out of cash. He’s spent five hundred a night on me many a time.
That was Monte—a damned good sport. Tough luck for him!—poor darling.”
She wiped a tear from her eye, sniffing hastily.
“But—his bank account?” pursued the Inspector firmly.
Mrs. Russo smiled. She seemed to possess an inexhaustible fund of
shifting emotions. “Never got nosey,” she said. “As long as Monte was
treating me square it wasn’t any of my business. At least,” she added,
“he wouldn’t tell me, so what did I care?”
“Where were you, Mrs. Russo,” came Ellery’s indifferent tones,
“_before_ nine-thirty last night?”
She turned in surprise at the new voice. They measured each other
carefully, and something like warmth crept into her eyes. “I don’t
know who you are, mister, but if you want to find out ask the lovers
in Central Park. I was taking a little stroll in the Park—all by my
lonesome—from about half-past seven until the time I reached here.”
“How fortunate!” murmured Ellery. The Inspector hastily went to the
door, crooking his finger at the other three men. “We’ll leave you now
to dress, Mrs. Russo. That will be all for the present.” She watched
quizzically as they filed out. Queen, last, shut the door after a
fatherly glance at her face.
In the living-room the four men proceeded to make a hurried but
thorough search. At the Inspector’s command Hagstrom and Piggott
went through the drawers of a carved desk in one corner of the room.
Ellery was interestedly riffling the pages of the book on character
through handwriting. Queen prowled restlessly about, poking his head
into a clothes-closet just inside the room, off the foyer. This
was a commodious storage compartment for clothes—assorted topcoats,
overcoats, capes and the like hung from a rack. The Inspector rifled
the pockets. A few miscellaneous articles—handkerchiefs, keys, old
personal letters, wallets—came to light. These he put to one side. A
top shelf held several hats.
“Ellery—hats,” he grunted.
Ellery quickly crossed the room, stuffing into his pocket the book he
had been reading. His father pointed out the hats meaningly; together
they reached up to examine them. There were four—a discolored Panama,
two fedoras, one gray and one brown, and a derby. All bore the imprint
of Browne Bros.
The two men turned the hats over in their hands. Both noticed
immediately that three of them had no linings—the Panama and the two
fedoras. The fourth hat, an excellent derby, Queen examined critically.
He felt the lining, turned down the leather sweat-band, then shook his
head.
“To tell the truth, Ellery,” he said slowly, “I’ll be switched if I
know why I should expect to find clues in these hats. We know that
Field wore a tophat last night and obviously it would be impossible for
that hat to be in these rooms. According to our findings the murderer
was still in the theatre when we arrived. Ritter was down here by
eleven o’clock. The hat therefore _couldn’t_ have been brought to this
place. For that matter, what earthly reason would the murderer have for
such an action, even if it were physically possible for him to do it?
He must have realized that we would search Field’s apartment at once.
No, I guess I’m feeling a little off-color, Ellery. There’s nothing to
be squeezed out of these hats.” He threw the derby back onto the shelf
disgustedly.
Ellery stood thoughtful and unsmiling. “You’re right enough, dad; these
hats mean nothing. But I have the strangest feeling.... By the
way!” He straightened up and took off his pince-nez. “Did it occur to
you last night that something else belonging to Field might have been
missing besides the hat?”
“I wish they were all as easy to answer as that,” said Queen grimly.
“Certainly—a walking-stick. But what could I do about that? Working on
the premise that Field brought one with him—it would have been simple
enough for some one who had entered the theatre without a walking-stick
to leave the theatre with Field’s. And how could we stop him or
identify the stick? So I didn’t even bother thinking about it. And if
it’s still on the Roman premises, Ellery, it will keep—no fear about
that.”
Ellery chuckled. “I should be able to quote Shelley or Wordsworth
at this point,” he said, “in proof of my admiration for your mental
prowess. But I can’t think of a more poetical phrase than ‘You’ve put
one over on me.’ Because I didn’t think of it until just now. But
here’s the point: there is no cane of any kind in the closet. A man
like Field, had he possessed a swanky halberd to go with evening dress,
would most certainly have owned other sticks to match other costumes.
That fact—unless we find sticks in the bedroom closet, which I doubt,
since all the overclothes seem to be here—that fact, therefore,
eliminates the possibility that Field had a stick with him last night.
_Ergo_—we may forget all about it.”
“Good enough, El,” returned the Inspector absently. “I hadn’t thought
of that. Well—let’s see how the boys are getting on.”
They walked across the room to where Hagstrom and Piggott were rifling
the desk. A small pile of papers and notes had accumulated on the lid.
“Find anything interesting?” asked Queen.
“Not a thing of value that I can see, Inspector,” answered Piggott.
“Just the usual stuff—some letters, chiefly from this Russo woman,
and pretty hot too!—a lot of bills and receipts and things like that.
Don’t think you’ll find anything here.”
Queen went through the papers. “No, nothing much,” he admitted.
“Well, let’s get on.” They restored the papers to the desk. Piggott
and Hagstrom rapidly searched the room. They tapped furniture, poked
beneath cushions, picked up the rug—a thorough, workmanlike job. As
Queen and Ellery stood silently watching, the bedroom door opened. Mrs.
Russo appeared, saucily appareled in a brown walking-suit and toque.
She paused at the door, surveying the scene with wide, innocent eyes.
The two detectives proceeded with their search without looking up.
“What are they doing, Inspector?” she inquired in a languid tone.
“Looking for pretty-pretties?” But her eyes were keen and interested.
“That was remarkably rapid dressing for a female, Mrs. Russo,” said the
Inspector admiringly. “Going home?”
Her glance darted at him. “Sure thing,” she answered, looking away.
“And you live at—?”
She gave an address on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village.
“Thank you,” said Queen courteously, making a note. She began to walk
across the room. “Oh, Mrs. Russo!” She turned. “Before you go—perhaps
you could tell us something about Mr. Field’s convivial habits. Was he,
now, what you would call a heavy drinker?”
She laughed merrily. “Is that all?” she said. “Yes and no. I’ve seen
Monte drink half a night and be sober as a—as a parson. And then I’ve
seen him at other times when he was pickled silly on a couple of tots.
It all depended—don’t you know?” She laughed again.
“Well, many of us are that way,” murmured the Inspector. “I don’t want
you to abuse any confidences, Mrs. Russo—but perhaps you know the
source of his liquor supply?”
She stopped laughing instantly, her face reflecting an innocent
indignation. “What do you think I am, anyway?” she demanded. “I don’t
know, but even if I did I wouldn’t tell. There’s many a hard-working
bootlegger who’s head and shoulders above the guys who try to run ’em
in, believe me!”
“The way of all flesh, Mrs. Russo,” said Queen soothingly.
“Nevertheless, my dear,” he continued softly, “I’m sure that if I need
that information eventually, you will enlighten me. Eh?” There was a
silence. “I think that will be all, then, Mrs. Russo. Just stay in
town, won’t you? We may require your testimony soon.”
“Well—so long,” she said, tossing her head. She marched out of the room
to the foyer.
“Mrs. Russo!” called Queen suddenly, in a sharp tone. She turned
with her gloved hand on the front-door knob, the smile dying from
her lips. “What’s Ben Morgan been doing since he and Field dissolved
partnership—do you know?”
Her reply came after a split-second of hesitation. “Who’s he?” she
asked, her forehead wrinkled into a frown.
Queen stood squarely on the rug. He said sadly, “Never mind. Good day,”
and turned his back on her. The door slammed. A moment later Hagstrom
strolled out, leaving Piggott, Queen and Ellery in the apartment.
The three men, as if inspired by a single thought, ran into the
bedroom. It was apparently as they had left it. The bed was disordered
and Mrs. Russo’s nightgown and _negligée_ were lying on the floor.
Queen opened the door of the bedroom clothes-closet. “Whew!” said
Ellery. “This chap had a quiet taste in clothes, didn’t he? Sort of
Mulberry Street Beau Brummell.” They ransacked the closet with no
result. Ellery craned his neck at the shelf above. “No hats—no
canes; that settles _that_!” he murmured with an air of satisfaction.
Piggott, who had disappeared into a small kitchen, returned staggering
under the burden of a half-empty case of liquor-bottles.
Ellery and his father bent over the case. The Inspector removed a cork
gingerly, sniffed the contents, then handed the bottle to Piggott, who
followed his superior’s example critically.
“Looks and smells okay,” said the detective. “But I’d hate to take a
chance tasting this stuff—after last night.”
“You’re perfectly justified in your caution,” chuckled Ellery. “But if
you should change your mind and decide to invoke the spirit of Bacchus,
Piggott, let me suggest this prayer: O wine, if thou hast no name to be
known by, let us call thee Death.”[4]
[4] Ellery Queen was here probably paraphrasing the Shakespearian
quotation: “O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be
known by, let us call thee devil.”
“I’ll have the firewater analyzed,” growled Queen. “Scotch and rye
mixed, and the labels look like the real thing. But then you never can
tell....” Ellery suddenly grasped his father’s arm, leaning forward
tensely. The three men stiffened.
A barely audible scratching came to their ears, proceeding from the
foyer.
“Sounds as if somebody is using a key on the door,” whispered Queen.
“Duck out, Piggott—jump whoever it is as soon as he gets inside!”
Piggott darted through the living-room into the foyer. Queen and Ellery
waited in the bedroom, concealed from view.
There was utter silence now except for the scraping on the outer door.
The newcomer seemed to be having difficulty with the key. Suddenly the
rasp of the lock-tumblers falling back was heard and an instant later
the door swung open. It slammed shut almost immediately.
A muffled cry, a hoarse bull-like voice, Piggott’s half-strangled
oath, the frenzied shuffling of feet—and Ellery and his father were
speeding across the living-room to the foyer.
Piggott was struggling in the arms of a burly, powerful man dressed
in black. A suit-case lay on the floor to one side, as if it had been
thrown there during the tussle. A newspaper was fluttering through the
air, settling on the parquet just as Ellery reached the cursing men.
It took the combined efforts of the three to subdue their visitor.
Finally, panting heavily, he lay on the floor, Piggott’s arm jammed
tightly across his chest.
The Inspector bent down, gazed curiously into the man’s red, angry
features and said softly, “And who are you, mister?”