STALEMATE
At Friday noon, while Inspector Queen, Ellery and Timothy Cronin were
deep in their search of Monte Field’s rooms, Sergeant Velie, sombre and
unmoved as usual, walked slowly up 87th Street from Broadway, mounted
the brownstone steps of the house in which the Queens lived and rang
the bell. Djuna’s cheery voice bade him ascend, which the good Sergeant
did with gravity.
“Inspector’s not home!” announced Djuna pertly, his slim body
completely hidden behind an enormous housewife’s apron. Odorous traces
of an onion-covered steak pervaded the air.
“Get on with you, you imp!” growled Velie. He took from his inner
breast pocket a bulky envelope, sealed, and handed it to Djuna. “Give
this to the Inspector when he comes home. Forget, and I’ll dip you into
the East River.”
“You and who else?” breathed Djuna, with a remarkable twitching of his
lips. Then he added decorously, “Yes, sir.”
“All right, then.” Velie deliberately turned about and descended to the
street, where his broad back was visible in formidable proportions to
the grinning Djuna from the fourth-story window.
When, at a little before six, the two Queens trudged wearily into
their rooms, the alert eyes of the Inspector pounced upon the official
envelope where it lay on his plate.
He tore off a corner of the envelope and pulled out a number of
typewritten sheets on the stationery of the Detective Bureau.
“Well, well!” he muttered to Ellery, who was lazily pulling off his
topcoat. “The clans are gathering....”
Sinking into an armchair, his hat forgotten on his head, his coat still
buttoned, he set about reading the reports aloud.
The first slip read:
Report of Release
28 September 192—
John Cazzanelli, alias Parson Johnny, alias John the Wop, alias Peter
Dominick, released from custody today on parole.
Under-cover investigation of J. C.’s complicity in the robbery of the
Bonomo Silk Mills (June 2, 192—) not successful. We are searching for
“Dinky” Morehouse, police informer, who has disappeared from usual
haunts, for further information.
Release effected under advice of District Attorney Sampson. J. C. under
surveillance and is available at any time.
T. V.
The second report which the Inspector picked up, laying aside the
advices concerning Parson Johnny with a frown, read as follows:
Report on William Pusak
September 28, 192—
Investigation of the history of William Pusak reveals the following:
32 years old; born in Brooklyn, N. Y., of naturalized parents;
unmarried; regular habits; socially inclined; has “dates” three or four
nights a week; religious. Is bookkeeper at Stein & Rauch, clothing
merchants, 1076 Broadway. Does not gamble or drink. No evil companions.
Only vice seems fondness for girls.
Activities since Monday night normal. No letters sent, no money
withdrawn from bank, hours fairly regular. No suspicious movements of
any kind.
Girl, Esther Jablow, seems Pusak’s “steadiest.” Has seen E. J.
twice since Monday—Tuesday at lunch, Wednesday evening. Went to movies
and Chinese restaurant Wednesday evening.
Operative No. 4.
(OK’d: T. V.)
The Inspector grunted as he threw the sheet aside. The third report was
headed:
Report on Madge O’Connell
To Friday, Sept. 28, ’2—
O’Connell, lives at 1436—10th Avenue. Tenement, 4th floor. No father.
Idle since Monday night, due to shutting down of Roman Theatre. Left
theatre Monday night at general release of public. Went home, but
stopped in drugstore corner 8th Avenue and 48th Street to telephone.
Unable to trace call. Overheard reference to Parson Johnny in ’phone
conversation. Seemed excited.
Tuesday did not leave house until 1 o’clock. No attempt get in touch
with Parson Johnny at Tombs. Went around theatre employment agencies
looking for usherette position after finding out Roman Theatre was
closed indefinitely.
Nothing new Wednesday all day or Thursday. Returned to work at Roman
Thursday night after call from manager. No attempt see or communicate
with Parson Johnny. No incoming calls, no visitors, no mail. Seemed
suspicious—think she is “wise” to tailing.
Operative No. 11
OK’d: T. V.
“Hmph!” muttered the Inspector as he picked up the next sheet of paper.
“Let’s see what this one says....”
Report on Frances Ives-Pope
September 28, 192-
F. I.-P. left Roman Theatre Monday night directly after release from
Manager’s Office by Inspector Queen. Examined with other departing
members of audience at main door. Left in company of Eve Ellis, Stephen
Barry, Hilda Orange, of the cast.
Took taxi to Ives-Pope house on Riverside Drive. Taken out in
half-unconscious condition. Three actors left house soon after.
Tuesday she did not leave house. Learned from a gardener she was laid
up in bed all day. Learned she received many calls during day.
Did not appear formally until Wednesday morning at interview in house
with Inspector Queen. After interview, left house in company of
Stephen Barry, Eve Ellis, James Peale, her brother Stanford. Ives-Pope
limousine drove party out into Westchester. Outing revived F. Evening
stayed at home with Stephen Barry. Bridge-party on.
Thursday went shopping on Fifth Avenue. Met Stephen Barry for luncheon.
He took her to Central Park; spent afternoon in open. S.B. escorted her
home before five. S.B. stayed to dinner, leaving after dinner for work
at Roman Theatre on call from stage manager. F. I.-P. spent evening at
home with family.
No report Friday morning. No suspicious actions all week. At no time
accosted by strange persons. No communication from or to Benjamin
Morgan.
Operative No. 39
OK’d: T. V.
“And that’s that,” murmured the Inspector. The next report he selected
was extremely short.
Report on Oscar Lewin
September 28, 192-
Lewin spent all day Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning at
office of Monte Field working with Messrs. Stoates and Cronin. Three
men lunched together on each day.
Lewin married, lives in Bronx, 211 E. 156th Street. Spent every evening
at home. No suspicious mail, no suspicious calls. No evil habits. Leads
sober, modest life. Has good reputation.
Operative No. 16
Note: Full details of Oscar Lewin’s history, habits, etc., available on
request through Timothy Cronin, Assistant District Attorney.
T. V.
The Inspector sighed as he deposited the five sheets of paper
on his plate, rose, doffed his hat and coat, flung them into Djuna’s
waiting arms and sat down again. Then he picked up the last report from
the contents of the envelope—a larger sheet to which was pinned a small
slip marked: MEMORANDUM TO R.Q.
This slip read:
Dr. Prouty left the attached report with me this morning for
transmission to you. He is sorry he could not report in person, but the
Burbridge poison-case is taking all his time.
It was signed with Velie’s familiar scrawling initials.
The attached sheet was a hastily typewritten message on the letterhead
of the Chief Medical Examiner’s office.
Dear Q [the message ran]: Here’s the dope on the tetra ethyl lead.
Jones and I have been superintending an exhaustive probe of all
possible sources of dissemination. No success, and I think you can
resign yourself to your fate in this respect. You’ll never trace the
poison that killed Monte Field. This is the opinion not merely of your
humble servant but of the Chief and of Jones. We all agree that the
most logical explanation is the gasoline theory. Try to trace _that_,
Sherlocko!
A postscript in Dr. Prouty’s handwriting ran:
“Of course, if anything turns up, I’ll let you know immediately. Keep
sober.”
“Fat lot of good _that_ is!” mumbled the Inspector, as Ellery without a
word attacked the aromatic and tempting meal that the priceless Djuna
had prepared. The Inspector dug viciously into the fruit salad. He
looked far from happy. He grumbled beneath his breath, cast baleful
glances at the sheaf of reports by his plate, peered up at Ellery’s
tired face and heartily munching jaws and finally threw down his spoon
altogether.
“Of all the useless, exasperating, empty bunch of reports I ever
saw—!” he growled.
Ellery smiled. “You remember Periander, of course.... Eh? You might be
polite, sir.... Periander of Corinth, who said in a moment of sobriety,
‘To industry nothing is impossible!’”
* * * * *
With the fire roaring, Djuna curled up on the floor in a corner, his
favorite attitude. Ellery smoked a cigarette and stared comfortably
into the flames while old Queen crammed his nose vengefully with the
contents of his snuff-box. The two Queens settled down to a serious
discussion. To be more exact—Inspector Queen settled down and lent
the tone of seriousness to the conversation, since Ellery seemed in a
sublimely dreamy mood far removed from the sordid details of crime and
punishment.
The old man brought his hand down on the arm of his chair with a sharp
slap. “Ellery, did you ever in your born days see a case so positively
nerve-racking?”
“On the contrary,” commented Ellery, staring with half-closed eyes
into the fire. “You are developing a natural case of nerves. You allow
little things like apprehending a murderer to upset you unduly. Pardon
the hedonistic philosophy.... If you will recall, in my story entitled
‘The Affair of the Black Window,’ my good sleuths had no difficulty at
all in laying their hands on the criminal. And why? Because they kept
their heads. Conclusion: Always keep your head.... I’m thinking of
to-morrow. Glorious vacation!”
“For an educated man, my son,” growled the Inspector petulantly, “you
show a surprising lack of coherence. You say things that mean nothing
and mean things when you say nothing. No—I’m all mixed up—”
Ellery burst into laughter. “The Maine woods—the russet—the good
Chauvin’s cabin by the lake—a rod—air—Oh Lord, won’t to-morrow ever
come?”
Inspector Queen regarded his son with a pitiful eagerness. “I—I sort of
wish.... Well, never mind.” He sighed. “All I do say, El, is that if my
little burglar fails—it’s all up with us.”
“To the blessed Gehenna with burglars!” cried Ellery. “What has Pan to
do with human tribulation? My next book is as good as written, dad.”
“Stealing another idea from real life, you rascal,” muttered the
old man. “If you’re borrowing the Field case for your plot, I’d be
extremely interested to read your last few chapters!”
“Poor dad!” chuckled Ellery. “Don’t take life so seriously. If you
fail, you fail. Monte Field wasn’t worth a hill of legumes, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” said the old man. “I hate to admit defeat....
What a queer mess of motives and schemes this case is, Ellery. This is
the first time in my entire experience that I have had such a hard nut
to crack. It’s enough to give a man apoplexy! I know WHO committed the
murder—I know WHY the murder was committed—I even know HOW the murder
was committed! And where am I?...” He paused and savagely took a pinch
of snuff. “A million miles from nowhere, _that’s_ where!” he growled,
and subsided.
“Certainly a most unusual situation,” murmured Ellery. “Yet—more
difficult things have been accomplished.... Heigh-ho! I can’t wait to
bathe myself in that Arcadian stream!”
“And get pneumonia, probably,” said the Inspector anxiously. “You
promise me now, young man, that you don’t do any back-to-Nature stunts
out there. I don’t want a funeral on my hands—I....”
Ellery grew silent suddenly. He looked over at his father. The
Inspector seemed strangely old in the flickering light of the fire. An
expression of pain humanized the deeply sculptured lines of his face.
His hand, brushing back his thick grey hair, looked alarmingly fragile.
Ellery rose, hesitated, colored, then bent swiftly forward and patted
his father on the shoulder.
“Brace up, dad,” he said in a low voice. “If it weren’t for my
arrangements with Chauvin.... Everything will be all right—take my word
for it. If there were the slightest way in which I could help you by
remaining.... But there isn’t. It’s your job now, dad—and there’s no
man in the world who can handle it better than you....” The old man
stared up at him with a strange affection. Ellery turned abruptly away.
“Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll have to pack now if I expect to make the
7:45 out of Grand Central to-morrow morning.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. Djuna, who had been sitting
Turkish-wise in his corner, got quietly to his feet and crossed the
room to the Inspector’s chair. He slipped to the floor, his head
resting against the old man’s knees. The silence was punctuated by the
snapping of wood in the fireplace and the muffled sounds of Ellery
moving about in the next room.
Inspector Queen was very tired. His face, worn, thin, white, lined, was
like a cameo in the dull red light. His hand caressed Djuna’s curly
head.
“Djuna, lad,” he muttered, “never be a policeman when you grow up.”
Djuna twisted his neck and stared gravely at the old man. “I’m going to
be just what you are,” he announced....
The old man leaped to his feet as the telephone bell rang. He snatched
the instrument from its table, his face livid, and said in a choked
voice: “Queen speaking. Well?”
After a time he put down the ’phone and trudged across the room
toward the bedroom. He leaned against the lintel heavily. Ellery
straightened up from his suitcase—and jumped forward.
“Dad!” he cried. “What’s the matter?”
The Inspector essayed a feeble smile. “Just—a—little tired, son, I
guess,” he grunted. “I just heard from our housebreaker....”
“And—?”
“He found absolutely nothing.”
Ellery gripped his father’s arm and led him to the chair by the bed.
The old man slumped into it, his eyes ineffably weary. “Ellery, old
son,” he said, “the last shred of evidence is gone. It’s maddening! Not
a morsel of physical, tangible evidence that would convict the murderer
in court. What have we? A series of perfectly sound deductions—and
that’s all. A good lawyer would make Swiss cheese out of our case....
Well! The last word hasn’t been spoken yet,” he added with a sudden
grimness as he rose from the chair. He pounded Ellery’s broad back in
returning vigor.
“Get to bed, son,” he said. “You’ve got to get up early to-morrow
morning. I’m going to sit up and think.”
INTERLUDE
IN WHICH THE READER’S ATTENTION IS RESPECTFULLY REQUESTED
The current vogue in detective literature is all for the practice of
placing the reader in the position of chief sleuth. I have prevailed
upon Mr. Ellery Queen to permit at this point in The Roman Hat Mystery
the interpolation of a challenge to the reader.... “Who killed Monte
Field?” “How was the murder accomplished?” ... Mr. Queen agrees with
me that the alert student of mystery tales, now being in possession of
all the pertinent facts, should at this stage of the story have reached
definite conclusions on the questions propounded. The solution—or
enough of it to point unerringly to the guilty character—may be reached
by a series of logical deductions and psychological observations....
In closing my last personal appearance in the tale let me admonish the
reader with a variation of the phrase _Caveat Emptor_: “Let the reader
beware!”
J. J. McC.
PART FOUR
_“The perfect criminal is a superman. He must be meticulous in his
technique: unseen, unseeable, a Lone Wolf. He must have neither friends
nor dependents. He must be careful to a fault, quick, of brain, hand
and foot.... But these are nothing. There have been such men.... On
the other hand, he must be a favored child of Fate—for circumstances
over which he cannot have the remotest control must never contrive his
downfall. This, I think, is more difficult to achieve.... But the last
is most difficult of all. He must never repeat his crime, his weapon
or his motive! ... In all my twoscore years as an official of the
American police I have not once encountered the perfect criminal nor
investigated the perfect crime.”_
—_From_ American Crime and Methods of Detection,
_By_ Richard Queen.