IN WHICH MR. FIELD’S TOPHATS BEGIN TO ASSUME PROPORTIONS
It was exactly ten o’clock in the morning when Inspector Queen and his
son opened the frosted glass door marked:
MONTE FIELD
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
The large waiting-room they entered was decorated in just such a
fashion as might have been expected from a man of Field’s taste in
clothes. It was deserted, and with a puzzled glance Inspector Queen
pushed through the door, Ellery strolling behind, and went into the
General Office. This was a long room filled with desks. It resembled
a newspaper “city room” except for its rows of bookcases filled with
ponderous legal tomes.
The office was in a state of violent upheaval. Stenographers chattered
excitedly in small groups. A number of male clerks whispered in a
corner; and in the center of the room stood Detective Hesse, talking
earnestly to a lean saturnine man with greyed temples. It was evident
that the demise of the lawyer had created something of a stir in his
place of business.
At the entrance of the Queens the employees looked at each other in
a startled way and began to slip back to their desks. An embarrassed
silence fell. Hesse hurried forward. His eyes were red and strained.
“Good morning, Hesse,” said the Inspector abruptly. “Where’s Field’s
private office?”
The detective led them across the room to still another door, a
large PRIVATE lettered on its panels. The three men went into a small
office which was overwhelmingly luxurious.
“This chap went in for atmosphere, didn’t he?” Ellery chuckled, sinking
into a red-leather armchair.
“Let’s have it, Hesse,” said the Inspector, following Ellery’s suit.
Hesse began to talk rapidly. “Got here last night and found the door
locked. No sign of a light inside. I listened pretty closely but
couldn’t hear a sound, so I took it for granted that there was no one
inside and camped in the corridor all night. At about a quarter to nine
this morning the office-manager breezed in and I collared him. He was
that tall bird I was talking to when you came in. Name’s Lewin—Oscar
Lewin.”
“Office-manager, eh?” remarked the old man, inhaling snuff.
“Yes, Chief. He’s either dumb or else he knows how to keep his mouth
shut,” continued Hesse. “Of course, he’d already seen the morning
papers and was upset by the news of Field’s murder. I could see he
didn’t like my questions any too well, either.... I didn’t get a thing
out of him. Not a thing. He said he’d gone straight home last night—it
seems Field had left about four o’clock and didn’t come back—and he
didn’t know anything about the murder until he read the papers. We’ve
been sort of sliding along here all morning, waiting for you to come.”
“Get Lewin for me.”
Hesse returned with the lanky office-manager in his wake. Oscar Lewin
was physically unprepossessing. He had shifty black eyes and was
abnormally thin. There was something predatory in his beaked nose and
bony figure. The Inspector looked him over coldly.
“So you’re the office-manager,” he remarked. “Well, what do you
think of this affair, Lewin?”
“It’s terrible—simply terrible,” groaned Lewin. “I can’t imagine how
it happened or why. Good Lord, I was talking to him only four o’clock
yesterday afternoon!” He seemed genuinely distressed.
“Did Mr. Field appear strange or worried when you spoke to him?”
“Not at all, sir,” replied Lewin nervously. “In fact, he was in
unusually good spirits. Cracked a joke about the Giants and said he was
going to see a darned good show last night—‘Gunplay.’ And now I see by
the papers that he was killed there!”
“Oh, he told you about the play, did he?” asked the Inspector. “He
didn’t happen to remark by any chance that he was going with anybody?”
“No, sir.” Lewin shuffled his feet.
“I see.” Queen paused. “Lewin, as manager you must have been closer to
Field than any other of his employees. Just what do you know about him
personally?”
“Not a thing, sir, not a thing,” said Lewin hastily. “Mr. Field was not
a man with whom an employee could become familiar. Occasionally he said
something about himself, but it was always of a general nature and more
jesting than serious. To us outside he was always a considerate and
generous employer—that’s all.”
“What exactly was the calibre of the business he conducted, Lewin? You
must certainly know something about that.”
“Business?” Lewin seemed startled. “Why, it was as fine a practice as
any I’ve encountered in the law profession. I’ve worked for Field only
two years or so, but he had some high-and-mighty clients, Inspector. I
can give you a list of them....”
“Do that, and mail it to me,” said Queen. “So he had a flourishing
and respectable practice, eh? Any personal visitors to your
knowledge—especially recently?”
“No. I can’t remember ever seeing any one up here except his clients.
Of course, he may have known some of them socially.... Oh, yes! Of
course his valet came here at times—tall, brawny fellow by the name of
Michaels.”
“Michaels? I’ll have to remember that name,” said the Inspector
thoughtfully. He looked up at Lewin. “All right, Lewin. That will be
all now. You might dismiss the force for the day. And—just stay around
for a while. I expect one of Mr. Sampson’s men soon, and undoubtedly he
will need your help.” Lewin nodded gravely and retired.
The moment the door closed Queen was on his feet. “Where’s Field’s
private washroom, Hesse?” he demanded. The detective pointed to a door
in a far corner of the room.
Queen opened it, Ellery crowding close behind. They were peering into
a tiny cubicle spaced off in an angle of the wall. It contained a
wash-bowl, a medicine chest and a small clothes-closet. Queen looked
into the medicine chest first. It held a bottle of iodine, a bottle of
peroxide, a tube of shaving-cream, and other shaving articles. “Nothing
there,” said Ellery. “How about the closet?” The old man pulled the
door open curiously. A suit of street-clothes hung there, a half-dozen
neckties and a fedora hat. The Inspector carried the hat back into
the office and examined it. He handed it to Ellery, who disdainfully
returned it at once to its peg in the closet.
“Dang those hats!” exploded the Inspector. There was a knock on the
door and Hesse admitted a bland young man.
“Inspector Queen?” inquired the newcomer politely.
“Right,” snapped the Inspector, “and if you’re a reporter you
can say the police will apprehend the murderer of Monte Field within
twenty-four hours. Because that’s all I’m going to give you right now.”
The young man smiled. “Sorry, Inspector, but I’m not a reporter. I’m
Arthur Stoates, new man at District Attorney Sampson’s office. The
Chief couldn’t reach me until this morning and I was busy on something
else—that’s why I’m a little late. Too bad about Field, isn’t it?” He
grinned as he threw his coat and hat on a chair.
“It’s all in the point of view,” grumbled Queen. “He’s certainly
causing a heap of trouble. Just what were Sampson’s instructions?”
“Well, I’m not as familiar with Field’s career as I might be,
naturally, but I’m pinch-hitting for Tim Cronin, who’s tied up
this morning on something else. I’m to make a start until Tim gets
untangled, which will be some time this afternoon. Cronin, you know,
was the man after Field a couple of years ago. He’s aching to get busy
with these files.”
“Fair enough. From what Sampson told me about Cronin—if there’s
anything incriminating in these records and files, he’ll ferret it
out.—Hesse, take Mr. Stoates outside and introduce him to Lewin.—That’s
the office-manager, Stoates. Keep your eye on him—he looks like a wily
bird. And, Stoates—remember you’re looking not for legitimate business
and clientele in these records, but for something crooked.... See you
later.”
Stoates gave him a cheery smile and followed Hesse out. Ellery and his
father faced each other across the room.
“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked the old man sharply.
“A copy of ‘What Handwriting Tells,’ which I picked up in this
bookcase,” replied Ellery lazily. “Why?”
“Come to think of it now, El,” declared the Inspector slowly, “there’s
something fishy about this handwriting business.” He shook his
head in despair and rose. “Come along, son—there isn’t a blamed thing
here.”
On their way through the main office, now empty except for Hesse, Lewin
and Stoates, Queen beckoned to the detective. “Go home, Hesse,” he said
kindly. “Can’t have you coming down with the grippe.” Hesse grinned and
sped through the door.
In a few minutes Inspector Queen was sitting in his private office at
Center Street. Ellery termed it “the star chamber.” It was small and
cozy and homelike. Ellery draped himself over a chair and began to con
the books on handwriting which he had filched from Field’s apartment
and office. The Inspector pressed a buzzer and the solid figure of
Thomas Velie loomed in the doorway.
“Morning, Thomas,” said Queen. “What is this remarkable news you have
for me from Browne Bros.?”
“I don’t know how remarkable it is, Inspector,” said Velie coolly,
seating himself in one of the straight-backed chairs which lined the
wall, “but it sounded like the real thing to me. You told me last night
to find out about Field’s tophat. Well, I’ve an exact duplicate of it
on my desk. Like to see it?”
“Don’t be silly, Thomas,” said Queen. “On the run!” Velie departed
and was back in a moment carrying a hatbox. He tore the string and
uncovered a shining tophat, of such fine quality that Queen blinked.
The Inspector picked it up curiously. On the inside was marked the
size: 7⅛.
“I spoke to the clerk, an old-timer, down at Browne’s. Been waiting
on Field for years,” resumed Velie. “It seems that Field bought every
stitch of his clothing there—for a long time. And it happens that he
preferred one clerk. Naturally the old buzzard knows quite a bit about
Field’s tastes and purchases.
“He says, for one thing, that Field was a fussy dresser. His
clothes were always made to order by Browne’s special tailoring
department. He went in for fancy suits and cuts and the latest in
underclothes and neckwear....”
“What about his taste in hats?” interposed Ellery, without looking up
from the book he was reading.
“I was coming to that, sir,” continued Velie. “This clerk made a
particular point of the hat business. For instance, when I questioned
him about the tophat, he said: ‘Mr. Field was almost a fanatic on the
subject. Why, in the last six months he has bought no less than _three_
of them!’ I caught that up, of course—made him check back with the
sales-records. Sure enough, Field bought three silk-toppers in the last
half-year!”
Ellery and his father found themselves staring at each other, the same
question on their lips.
“Three—” began the old man.
“Now ... isn’t that an extraordinary circumstance?” asked Ellery
slowly, reaching for his pince-nez.
“Where in heaven’s name are the other two?” continued Queen, in a
bewildered manner.
Ellery was silent.
Queen turned impatiently toward Velie. “What else did you find out,
Thomas?”
“Nothing much of value, except for this point”—answered Velie—“that
Field was an absolute fiend when it came to clothes. So much so that
last year he bought fifteen suits and no less than a dozen hats,
including the toppers!”
“Hats, hats, hats!” groaned the Inspector. “The man must have been
a lunatic. Look here—did you find out whether Field ever bought
walking-sticks at Browne’s?”
A look of consternation spread over Velie’s face. “Why—why, Inspector,”
he said ruefully, “I guess I slipped up there. I never even thought of
asking, and you hadn’t told me last night—”
“Heck! We’re none of us perfect,” growled Queen. “Get that clerk on the
wire for me, Thomas.”
Velie picked up one of the telephones on the desk and a few moments
later handed the instrument to his superior.
“This is Inspector Queen speaking,” said the old man rapidly. “I
understand that you served Monte Field for a good many years?... Well,
I want to check up on a little detail. Did Field ever purchase canes
or walking-sticks from you people?... What? Oh, I see.... Yes. Now,
another thing. Did he ever give special orders about the manufacture of
his clothes—extra pockets, or things like that?... You don’t think so.
All right.... What? Oh, I see. Thank you very much.”
He hung up the receiver and turned about.
“Our lamented friend,” he said disgustedly, “seems to have had as
great an aversion to sticks as he had a love for hats. This clerk said
he tried many times to interest Field in canes, and Field invariably
refused to buy. Didn’t like ’em, he said. And the clerk just confirmed
his own impression about the special pockets—nothing doing. So that
leaves us up a blank alley.”
“On the contrary,” said Ellery coolly, “it does nothing of the kind.
It proves fairly conclusively that _the only article of apparel_ taken
away by the murderer last night was the hat. It seems to me that
simplifies matters.”
“I must have a moron’s intelligence,” grunted his father. “It doesn’t
mean a thing to me.”
“By the way, Inspector,” put in Velie, scowling, “Jimmy reported about
the fingerprints on Field’s flask. There are a few, but there’s no
question, he says, that they’re all Field’s. Jimmy got a print from the
Morgue, of course, to check up.”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “maybe the flask has nothing to do with the
crime at all. We’ll have to wait, anyway, for Prouty’s report on its
contents.”
“There’s something else, Inspector,” added Velie. “That junk—the
sweepings of the theatre—that you told Panzer to send over to you this
morning came a couple of minutes ago. Want to see it?”
“Sure thing, Thomas,” said Queen. “And while you’re out bring me the
list you made last night containing the names of the people who had no
stubs. The seat numbers are attached to each name, aren’t they?”
Velie nodded and disappeared. Queen was looking morosely at the top of
his son’s head when the Sergeant returned with an unwieldy package and
a typewritten list.
They spread the contents of the package carefully on the desk. For the
most part the collected material consisted of crumpled programs, stray
scraps of paper, chiefly from candy-boxes, and many ticket-stubs—those
which had not been found by Flint and his searchers. Two women’s gloves
of different design; a small brown button, probably from a man’s coat;
the cap of a fountain pen; a woman’s handkerchief and a few other
scattered articles of the kind usually lost or thrown away in theatres
came to light.
“Doesn’t look as if there’s much here, does it?” commented the
Inspector. “Well, at least we’ll be able to check up on the ticket-stub
business.”
Velie heaped the lost stubs in a small pile and began to read off their
numbers and letters to Queen, who checked them off on the list Velie
had brought him. There were not many of these and the checking-off
process was completed in a few moments.
“That all, Thomas?” inquired the Inspector, looking up.
“That’s all, Chief.”
“Well, there are about fifty people still unaccounted for according to
this list.—Where’s Flint?”
“He’s in the building somewhere, Inspector.”
Queen picked up his telephone and gave a rapid order. Flint
appeared almost at once.
“What did you find last night?” asked Queen abruptly.
“Well, Inspector,” answered Flint sheepishly, “we practically
dry-cleaned that place. We found quite a bit of stuff, but most of
it was programs and things like that, and we left those for the
cleaning-women, who were working along with us. But we did pick up a
raft of ticket-stubs, especially out in the alleys.” He brought forth
from his pocket a package of pasteboards neatly bound with a rubber
band. Velie took them and continued the process of reading off numbers
and letters. When he was finished Queen slapped the typewritten list
down on the desk before him.
“No fruit in the loom?” murmured Ellery, looking up from the book.
“Ding it, every one of those people who had no stubs is accounted for!”
growled the Inspector. “There isn’t a stub or a name left unchecked....
Well, there’s one thing I can do.” He searched through the pile of
stubs, referring to the lists, until he found the stub which had
belonged to Frances Ives-Pope. He fished from his pocket the four stubs
he had collected Monday night and carefully tested the girl’s stub with
the one for Field’s seat. The torn edges did not coincide.
“There’s one consolation,” the Inspector continued, stuffing the five
tickets into his vest pocket, “we haven’t found a trace of the six
tickets for the seats next to and in front of Field’s seat!”
“I didn’t think you would,” remarked Ellery. He put the book down and
regarded his father with unwonted seriousness. “Have you ever stopped
to consider, dad, that we don’t know definitely _why_ Field was in the
theatre last night?”
Queen knit his grey brows. “That particular problem has been
puzzling me, of course. We know from Mrs. Russo and Michaels that Field
did not care for the theatre—”
“You can never tell what vagary will seize a man,” said Ellery
decisively. “Many things might make a non-theatre-going man decide
suddenly to go in for that sort of entertainment. The fact remains—he
was there. But what I want to know is _why_ he was there.”
The old man shook his head gravely. “Was it a business appointment?
Remember what Mrs. Russo said—that Field had promised to be back at 10
o’clock.”
“I fancy the business appointment idea,” applauded Ellery. “But
consider how many probabilities there are—the Russo woman might be
lying and Field said nothing of the sort; or if he did, he might have
had no intention of keeping the appointment with her at 10 o’clock.”
“I’ve quite made up my mind, Ellery,” said the Inspector, “whatever the
probabilities, that he didn’t go to the Roman Theatre last night to see
the show. He went there with his eyes open—for business.”
“I think that’s correct, myself,” returned Ellery, smiling. “But you
can never be too careful in weighing possibilities. Now, if he went on
business, he went to meet somebody. Was that somebody the murderer?”
“You ask too many questions, Ellery,” said the Inspector.—“Thomas,
let’s have a look at the other stuff in that package.”
Velie carefully handed the Inspector the miscellaneous articles one by
one. The gloves, fountain-pen cap, button, and handkerchief Queen threw
to one side after a quick scrutiny. Nothing remained except the small
bits of candy paper and the crumpled programs. The former yielding no
clues, Queen took up the programs. And suddenly, in the midst of his
examination, he cried delightedly: “See what I’ve found, boys!”
The three men leaned over his shoulder. Queen held a program in
his hand, its wrinkles smoothed out. It showed evidences of having been
crushed and thrown away. On one of the inside pages, bordering the
usual article on men’s wear, was a number of varied marks, some forming
letters, some forming numbers, still others forming cabalistic designs
such as a person scribbles in moments of idle thought.
“Inspector, it looks as if you’ve found Field’s own program!” exclaimed
Flint.
“Yes, sir, it certainly does,” said Queen sharply. “Flint, look through
the papers we found in the dead man’s clothing last night and bring me
a letter showing his signature.” Flint hurried out.
Ellery was studying the scrawls intently. On the top margin of the
paper appeared:
[Illustration: Play program with hand-written notes]
Flint returned with a letter. The Inspector compared the
signatures—they were plainly by the same hand.
“We’ll have them checked by Jimmie down in the laboratory,” muttered
the old man. “But I guess this is pretty authentic. It’s Field’s
program, there can’t be any doubt of that.... What do you make of it,
Thomas?”
Velie grated: “I don’t know what those other numbers refer to, but that
‘50,000’ couldn’t mean anything but dollars, Chief.”
“The old boy must have been figuring his bank account,” said Queen. “He
loved the sight of his own name, didn’t he?”
“That’s not quite fair to Field,” protested Ellery. “When a man is
sitting idle, waiting for something to happen—as he will when he is in
a theatre before the performance begins—one of his most natural actions
is to scribble his initials or his name on the handiest object. In a
theatre the handiest object would be the program.... The writing of
one’s own name is fundamental in psychology. So perhaps Field wasn’t as
egotistical as this seems to make him.”
“It’s a small point,” said the Inspector, studying the scrawls with a
frown.
“Perhaps,” returned Ellery. “But to get back to a more pressing
matter.—I don’t agree with you when you say the ‘50,000’ probably
refers to Field’s bank account. When a man jots down his bank balance
he will not do it in such round numbers.”
“We can prove or disprove that easily enough,” retorted the Inspector,
picking up a telephone. He asked the police operator to get him the
number of Field’s office. When he had spoken to Oscar Lewin for some
time, he turned back to Ellery with a crestfallen air.
“You were right, El,” he said. “Field had an amazingly small personal
account. All his accounts balance to less than six thousand dollars.
And this despite the fact that he frequently made deposits of ten and
fifteen thousand dollars. Lewin himself was surprised. He hadn’t known,
he said, how Field’s personal finances stood until I asked him to
look the matter up.... I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts Field played the
stock market or the horses!”
“I’m not particularly overwhelmed by the news,” remarked Ellery. “It
points to the probable reason for the ‘50,000’ on the program. That
number not only represents dollars, but more than that—it indicates
a business deal in which the stakes were fifty thousand! Not a bad
night’s work, if he had come out of it alive.”
“How about the other two numbers?” asked Queen.
“I’m going to mull over them a bit,” replied Ellery, subsiding in his
chair. “I _would_ like to know what the business deal was that involved
such a large financial consideration,” he added, absently polishing his
pince-nez.
“Whatever the business deal was,” said the Inspector sententiously,
“you may be sure, my son, it was an evil one.”
“An evil one?” inquired Ellery in a serious tone.
“Money’s the root of all evil,” retorted the Inspector with a grin.
Ellery’s tone did not change. “Not only the root, dad—but the fruit,
too.”
“Another quotation?” mocked the old man.
“Fielding,” said Ellery imperturbably.