IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS MR. MICHAELS APPEARS
The intruder rose awkwardly to his feet. He was a tall, ponderous man
with solemn features and blank eyes. There was nothing distinguished
in either his appearance or his manner. If anything unusual could be
said of him at all, it was that both his appearance and manner were
so unremarkable. It seemed as if, whoever he was or whatever his
occupation, he had made a deliberate effort to efface all marks of
personality.
“Just what’s the idea of the strong-arm stuff?” he said in a bass
voice. But even his tones were flat and colorless.
Queen turned to Piggott. “What happened?” he demanded, with a pretense
of severity.
“I stood behind the door, Inspector,” gasped Piggott, still winded,
“and when this wildcat stepped in I touched him on the arm. He jumped
me like a trainload o’ tigers, he did. Pushed me in the face—he’s got a
wallop, Inspector.... Tried to get out the door again.”
Queen nodded judicially. The newcomer said mildly, “That’s a lie, sir.
He jumped me and I fought back.”
“Here, here!” murmured Queen. “This will never do....”
The door swung open suddenly and Detective Johnson stood on the
threshold. He took the Inspector to one side. “Velie sent me down the
last minute on the chance you might need me, Inspector.... And as I
was coming up I saw that chap there. Didn’t know but what he might be
snooping around, so I followed him up.” Queen nodded vigorously. “Glad
you came—I can use you,” he muttered and, motioning to the others,
he led the way into the living-room.
“Now, my man,” he said curtly to the big intruder, “the show is over.
Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“My name is Charles Michaels—sir. I am Mr. Monte Field’s valet.”
The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. The man’s entire demeanor had in
some intangible manner changed. His face was blank, as before, and
his attitude seemed in no way different. Yet the old man sensed a
metamorphosis; he glanced quickly at Ellery and saw a confirmation of
his own thought in his son’s eyes.
“Is that so?” inquired the Inspector steadily. “Valet, eh? And where
are you going at this hour of the morning with that traveling-bag?”
He jerked his hand toward the suit-case, a cheap black affair, which
Piggott had picked up in the foyer and carried into the living-room.
Ellery suddenly strolled away in the direction of the foyer. He bent
over to pick up something.
“Sir?” Michaels seemed upset by the question. “That’s mine, sir,” he
confided. “I was just going away this morning on my vacation and I’d
arranged with Mr. Field to come here for my salary-check before I left.”
The old man’s eyes sparkled. He had it! Michaels’s expression and
general bearing had remained unchanged; but his voice and enunciation
were markedly different.
“So you arranged to get your check from Mr. Field this morning?”
murmured the Inspector. “That’s mighty funny now, come to think of it.”
Michaels permitted a fleeting amazement to scud across his features.
“Why—why, where is Mr. Field?” he asked.
“‘Massa’s in de cold, cold ground,’” chuckled Ellery, from the foyer.
He stepped back into the living-room, flourishing the newspaper which
Michaels had dropped during the fracas with Piggott. “Really, now, old
chap, that’s a bit thick, you know. Here is the morning paper you
brought in with you. And the first thing I see as I pick it up is the
nice black headline describing Mr. Field’s little accident. Smeared
over the entire front-page. And—er, you failed to see the story?”
Michaels stared stonily at Ellery and the paper. But his eyes fell as
he mumbled, “I didn’t get the opportunity of reading the paper this
morning, sir. What has happened to Mr. Field?”
The Inspector snorted. “Field’s been killed, Michaels, and you knew it
all the time.”
“But I didn’t, I tell you, sir,” objected the valet respectfully.
“Stop lying!” rapped Queen. “Tell us why you’re here or you’ll get
plenty of opportunity to talk behind bars!”
Michaels regarded the old man patiently. “I’ve told you the truth,
sir,” he said. “Mr. Field told me yesterday that I was to come here
this morning for my check. That’s all I know.”
“You were to meet him here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why did you forget to ring the bell? Used a key as if you didn’t
expect to find any one here, my man,” said Queen.
“The bell?” The valet opened his eyes wide. “I always use my key, sir.
Never disturb Mr. Field if I can help it.”
“Why didn’t Field give you a check yesterday?” barked the Inspector.
“He didn’t have his check-book handy, I think, sir.”
Queen’s lip curled. “You haven’t even a fertile imagination, Michaels.
At what time did you last see him yesterday?”
“At about seven o’clock, sir,” said Michaels promptly. “I don’t live
here at the apartment. It’s too small and Mr. Field likes—liked
privacy. I generally come early in the morning to make breakfast
for him and prepare his bath and lay out his clothes. Then when he’s
gone to the office I clean up a bit and the rest of the day is my own
until dinner-time. I return about five, prepare dinner unless I’ve
heard from Mr. Field during the day that he is dining out, and get his
dinner or evening clothes ready. Then I am through for the night....
Yesterday after I laid out his things he told me about the check.”
“Not an especially fatiguing itinerary,” murmured Ellery. “And what
things did you lay out last evening, Michaels?”
The man faced Ellery respectfully. “There was his underwear, sir, and
his socks, his evening shoes, stiff shirt, studs, collar, white tie,
full evening dress, cape, hat—”
“Ah, yes—his hat,” interrupted Queen. “And what kind of hat was it,
Michaels?”
“His regular tophat, sir,” answered Michaels. “He had only one, and
a very expensive one it was, too,” he added warmly. “Browne Bros., I
think.”
Queen drummed lazily on the arm of his chair. “Tell me, Michaels,” he
said, “what did you do last night after you left here—that is, after
seven o’clock?”
“I went home, sir. I had my bag to pack and I was rather fatigued. I
went right to sleep after I’d had a bite to eat—it must have been near
nine-thirty when I climbed into bed, sir,” he added innocently.
“Where do you live?” Michaels gave a number on East 146th Street, in
the Bronx section. “I see.... Did Field have any regular visitors
here?” went on the Inspector.
Michaels frowned politely. “That’s hard for me to say, sir. Mr. Field
wasn’t what you would call a friendly person. But then I wasn’t here
evenings, so I can’t say who came after I left. But—”
“Yes?”
“There was a lady, sir....” Michaels hesitated primly. “I dislike
mentioning names under the circumstances—”
“Her name?” said Queen wearily.
“Well, sir—it isn’t sort of right—Russo. Mrs. Angela Russo, her name
is,” answered Michaels.
“How long did Mr. Field know this Mrs. Russo?”
“Several months, sir. I think he met her at a party in Greenwich
Village somewhere.”
“I see. And they were engaged, perhaps?”
Michaels seemed embarrassed. “You might call it that, sir, although it
was a little less formal....”
Silence. “How long have you been in Monte Field’s employ, Michaels?”
pursued the Inspector.
“Three years next month.”
Queen switched to a new line of questioning. He asked Michaels about
Field’s addiction to theatre-going, his financial condition and his
drinking habits. In these particulars Michaels corroborated Mrs.
Russo’s statements. Nothing of a fresh nature was disclosed.
“A few moments ago you said you have been working for Field a matter of
three years,” continued Queen, settling back in his chair. “How did you
get the job?”
Michaels did not answer immediately. “I followed up an ad in the
papers, sir.”
“Quite so.... If you have been in Field’s service for three years,
Michaels, you should know Benjamin Morgan.”
Michaels permitted a proper smile to cross his lips. “Certainly I know
Mr. Benjamin Morgan,” he said heartily. “And a very fine gentleman
he is, too, sir. He was Mr. Field’s partner, you know, in their law
business. But then they separated about two years ago and I haven’t
seen much of Mr. Morgan since.”
“Did you see him often before the split?”
“No, sir,” returned the burly valet, in a tone which implied regret.
“Mr. Field was not Mr. Morgan’s—ah—type, and they didn’t mix socially.
Oh, I remember seeing Mr. Morgan in this apartment three or four
times, but only when it was a matter of most urgent business. Even then
I couldn’t say much about it since I didn’t stay all evening.... Of
course, he hasn’t been here, so far as I know, since they broke up the
firm.”
Queen smiled for the first time during the conversation. “Thank you
for your frankness, Michaels.... I’m going to be an old gossip—do you
recall any unpleasantness about the time they dissolved?”
“Oh, no, sir!” protested Michaels. “I never heard of a quarrel or
anything like that. In fact, Mr. Field told me immediately after the
dissolution that he and Mr. Morgan would remain friends—very good
friends, he said.”
Michaels turned with his politely blank expression at a touch on his
arm. He found himself face to face with Ellery. “Yes, sir?” he asked
respectfully.
“Michaels, dear man,” said Ellery with severity, “I detest raking up
old coals, by why haven’t you told the Inspector about that time you
were in jail?”
As if he had stepped on an exposed live-wire Michaels’ body stiffened
and grew still. The ruddy color drained out of his face. He stared
open-mouthed, aplomb swept away, into Ellery’s smiling eyes.
“Why—why—how did you find that out?” gasped the valet, his speech less
soft and polished. Queen appraised his son with approval. Piggott and
Johnson moved closer to the trembling man.
Ellery lit a cigarette. “I didn’t know it at all,” he said cheerfully.
“That is, not until you told me. It would pay you to cultivate the
Delphic oracles, Michaels.”
Michaels’ face was the color of dead ashes. He turned, shaking, toward
Queen. “You—you didn’t ask me about that, sir,” he said weakly.
Nevertheless his tone had again become taut and blank. “Besides, a man
doesn’t like to tell things like that to the police....”
“Where did you do time, Michaels?” asked the Inspector in a kindly
voice.
“Elmira Reformatory, sir,” muttered Michaels. “It was my first
offense—I was up against it, starving, stole some money.... I got a
short stretch, sir.”
Queen rose. “Well, Michaels, of course you understand that you are not
exactly a free agent at present. You may go home and look for another
job if you want to, but stay at your present lodgings and be ready for
a call at any time.... Just a moment, before you go.” He strode over to
the black suit-case and snapped it open. A jumbled mass of clothing—a
dark suit, shirts, ties, socks—some clean, some dirty—was revealed.
Queen rummaged swiftly through the bag, closed it and handed it to
Michaels, who was standing to one side with an expression of sorrowful
patience.
“Seems to me you were taking mighty few duds with you, Michaels,”
remarked Queen, smiling. “It’s too bad that you’ve been done out of
your vacation. Well! That’s the way life is!” Michaels murmured a
low good-by, picked up the bag and departed. A moment later Piggott
strolled out of the apartment.
Ellery threw back his head and laughed delightedly. “What a mannerly
beggar! Lying in his teeth, pater.... And what did he want here, do you
think?”
“He came to get something, of course,” mused the Inspector. “And that
means there’s something here of importance that we have apparently
overlooked....”
He grew thoughtful. The telephone bell rang.
“Inspector?” Sergeant Velie’s voice boomed over the wire. “I called
headquarters but you weren’t there, so I guessed you were still at
Field’s place.... I’ve some interesting news for you from Browne Bros.
Do you want me to come up to Field’s?”
“No,” returned Queen. “We’re through here. I’ll be at my office
just as soon as I’ve paid a visit to Field’s on Chambers Street. I’ll
be there if anything important comes up in the interim. Where are you
now?”
“Fifth Avenue—I’ve just come out of Browne’s.”
“Then go back to headquarters and wait for me. And, Thomas—send a
uniformed man up here right away.”
Queen hung up and turned to Johnson.
“Stay here until a cop shows up—it won’t be long,” he grunted. “Have
him keep a watch in the apartment and arrange for a relief. Then report
back to the main office.... Come along, Ellery. This is going to be a
busy day!”
Ellery’s protests were in vain. His father fussily hustled him out of
the building and into the street, where the roar of a taxicab’s exhaust
effectually drowned out his voice.