The Roman Hat Mystery

8 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 sabers 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—, the 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 bookends 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 ironwork spacing the grate. Above the fireplace were the famous crossed sabers, a gift from the old fencing master of Nuremberg 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, footstools, 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-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, worshipped 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 bedroom 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 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 halfway 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 bookshop, 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 fiddlesticks,” 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 plainclothesmen 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 flatfoots 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 glanced at the woman briefly and began to putter 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 nightgown. 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 negligee 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 snuffbox.

“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, sniffling 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 rifling 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, 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 sweatband, 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 someone 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 prowess. But I can’t think of a more poetical phrase than ‘You’ve got 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 negligee 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 results. 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.”[1]

“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 suitcase 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?”

9 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 distinguishing 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 suitcase, 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’ 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!” rasped 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 anyone 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 checkbook 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 dinnertime. 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 of 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. Mogan’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 of 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, but why haven’t you told the Inspector about the 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 suitcase 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.

10 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:

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 grayed 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 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 caliber 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 washbowl, 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’s 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 gray 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 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:

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.

11 In Which the Past Casts a Shadow

The telephone bell tinkled.

“Q? Sampson speaking,” came the District Attorney’s voice over the wire.

“Good morning, Henry,” said Queen. “Where are you and how do you feel this morning?”

“I’m at the office and I feel rotten,” returned Sampson, chuckling. “The doctor insists I’ll be a corpse if I keep this up and the office insists the City will go under unless I attend to business. So what’s a feller to do?... I say, Q.”

The Inspector winked at Ellery across the table, as if to say, “I know what’s coming!”

“Yes, Henry?”

“There’s a gentleman in my private office whom I think it would be greatly to your advantage to meet,” continued Sampson in a subdued tone. “He wants to see you and I’m afraid you’ll have to chuck whatever you’re doing and hotfoot it up here. He” — Sampson’s voice became a whisper — “he’s a man I can’t afford to antagonize unnecessarily, Q, old boy.”

The Inspector frowned. “I suppose you’re referring to Ives-Pope,” he said. “Riled, is he, because we questioned the apple of his eye last night?”

“Not exactly,” said Sampson. “He’s really a decent old chap. Just — er — just be nice to him, Q, won’t you?”

“I’ll handle him with silk gloves,” chuckled the old man. “If it will ease your mind any I’ll drag my son along. He generally attends to our social obligations.”

“That will be fine,” said Sampson gratefully.

The Inspector turned to Ellery as he hung up. “Poor Henry’s in something of a mess,” he said quizzically, “and I can’t say I blame him for trying to please. Sick as a dog and the politicians hopping on him, this Crœsus howling in his front office... Come along, son, we’re going to meet the celebrated Franklin Ives-Pope!”

Ellery groaned, stretching his arms. “You’ll have another sick man on your hands if this continues.” Nevertheless he jumped up and clamped his hat on his head. “Let’s look over this captain of industry.”

Queen grinned at Velie. “Before I forget, Thomas... I want you to do a bit of sleuthing today. Your job is to find out why Monte Field, who did a rushing legal business and lived in princely style, had only six thousand dollars in his personal account. It’s probably Wall Street and the racetrack but I want you to make sure. You might learn something from the cancelled vouchers — Lewin down at Field’s office could help you there... And while you’re at it — this might be extremely important, Thomas — get a complete line-up on Field’s movements all day yesterday.”

The two Queens departed for Sampson’s headquarters.

The office of the District Attorney was a busy place and even an Inspector of Detectives was treated with scant ceremony in the sacred chambers. Ellery was wroth, and his father smiled, and finally the District Attorney himself came rushing out of his sanctum with a word of displeasure to the clerk who had allowed his friends to cool their heels on a hard bench.

“Watch your throat, young man,” warned Queen, as Sampson led the way to his office, muttering maledictions on the head of the offender. “Are you sure I look all right to meet the money-mogul?”

Sampson held the door open. The two Queens on the threshold saw a man, hands clasped behind his back, looking through the window on the uninteresting vista outside. As the District Attorney closed the door the occupant of the room wheeled about with astonishing agility for a man of his weight.

Franklin Ives-Pope was a relic of more virile financial days. He resembled the strong self-assertive type of magnate who like old Cornelius Vanderbilt had dominated Wall Street as much by force of personality as by extent of wealth. Ives-Pope had clear gray eyes, iron-gray hair, a grizzled mustache, a husky body still springy with youth and an air of authority unmistakably masterful. Standing against the light of the dingy window, he was a most impressive figure of a man and Ellery and Queen, stepping forward, realized at once that here was an individual whose intelligence required no patronage.

The financier spoke in a deep pleasant voice even before Sampson, slightly embarrassed, could make the introduction. “I suppose you’re Queen, the man-hunter,” he said. “I’ve been anxious to meet you for a long time, Inspector.” He offered a large square hand, which Queen took with dignity.

“It would be unnecessary for me to echo that statement, Mr. Ives-Pope,” he said, smiling a little. “Once I took a flyer in Wall Street and I think you’ve got some of my money. This, sir, is my son Ellery, who is the brains and beauty of the Queen family.”

The big man’s eyes measured Ellery’s bulk appreciatively. He shook hands, saying, “You’ve got a smart father there, son!”

“Well!” sighed the District Attorney, setting three chairs. “I’m glad that’s over. You haven’t the slightest idea, Mr. Ives-Pope, how nervous I’ve been about this meeting. Queen is the devil himself when it comes to the social amenities and I shouldn’t have been surprised if he had clapped his handcuffs on you as you shook hands!”

The tension snapped with the big man’s hearty chuckle.

The District Attorney came abruptly to the point. “Mr. Ives-Pope is here, Q, to find out for himself just what can be done in the matter of his daughter.” Queen nodded. Sampson turned to the financier. “As I told you before, sir, we have every confidence in Inspector Queen — always have had. He generally works without any check or supervision from the District Attorney’s office. In view of the circumstances, I thought I should make that clear.”

“That’s a sane method, Sampson,” said Ives-Pope, with approval. “I’ve always worked on that principle in my own business. Besides, from what I’ve heard about Inspector Queen, your confidence is well placed.”

“Sometimes,” said Queen gravely, “I have to do things that go against the grain. I will be frank to say that some things I did last night in the line of duty were extremely disagreeable to me. I suppose, Mr. Ives-Pope, your daughter is upset because of our little talk last night?”

Ives-Pope was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head and met the Inspector’s gaze squarely. “Look here, Inspector,” he said. “We’re both men of the world and men of business. We’ve had dealings with all sorts of queer people, both of us; and we have, too, solved problems that presented enormous difficulties to others. So I think we can converse frankly... Yes, my daughter Frances is more than a little upset. Incidentally, so is her mother, who is an ill woman at the best of times; and her brother Stanford, my son — but we needn’t go into that... Frances told me last night when she got home with — her friends — everything that happened. I know my daughter, Inspector, and I’d stake my fortune that there isn’t the slightest connection between her and Field.”

“My dear sir,” returned the Inspector quietly, “I didn’t accuse her of anything. Nobody knows better than I what peculiar things can happen in the course of a criminal investigation; therefore I never let the slightest blind spot escape my notice. All I did was to ask her to identify the bag. When she did so, I told her where it was found. I was waiting, of course, for an explanation. It did not come... You must understand, Mr. Ives-Pope, that when a man is murdered and a woman’s bag is found in his pocket it is the duty of the police to discover the owner of the bag and his or her connection with the crime. But of course — I do not have to convince you of that.”

The magnate drummed on the arm of his chair. “I see your point of view, Inspector,” he said. “It was obviously your duty, and it is still your duty to go to the bottom of the thing. In fact, I want you to make every effort to. My own personal opinion is that she is the victim of circumstances. But I don’t want to plead her case. I trust you sufficiently to rely on your judgment after you’ve thoroughly probed the problem.” He paused. “Inspector Queen, how would you like to have me arrange a little interview at my home tomorrow morning? I would not ask you to go to this trouble,” he added apologetically, “except that Frances is quite ill, and her mother insists she stay at home. May we expect you?”

“Very good of you, Mr. Ives-Pope,” remarked Queen calmly. “We’ll be there.”

The financier seemed indisposed to end the interview. He shifted heavily in his chair. “I’ve always been a fair man, Inspector,” he said. “I feel somehow that I may be accused of using my position as a means of securing special privileges. That is not so. The shock of your tactics last night made it impossible for Frances to tell her story. At home, among the members of her family, I am sure she will be able to clear up her connection with the affair to your satisfaction.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued in a colder tone. “Her fiancé will be there and perhaps his presence will help to calm her.” His voice expressed the thought that he personally did not think so. “May we expect you, let us say, at ten-thirty?”

“That will be fine,” said Queen, nodding. “I should like to know more definitely, sir, just who will be present.”

“I can arrange it as you wish, Inspector,” replied Ives-Pope, “but I imagine Mrs. Ives-Pope will want to be there and I know that Mr. Barry will — my future son-in-law,” he explained dryly. “Perhaps a few of Frances’ friends — theatrical friends. My son Stanford may also grace us with his presence — a very busy young man, you know,” he added with a suspicion of bitterness.

The three men shifted embarrassedly. Ives-Pope rose with a sigh and Ellery, Queen and Sampson followed suit. “That’s all, I think, Inspector,” said the financier in a lighter tone. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then I’ll be getting along.” Ives-Pope turned to Ellery and Sampson. “Of course, Sampson, if you can get away, I’d like you to be there. Do you think you can make it?” The District Attorney nodded. “And Mr. Queen” — the big man turned to Ellery — “will you come also? I understand that you have been following the investigation very closely at your father’s side. We shall be happy to have you.”

“I’ll be there,” said Ellery softly, and Ives-Pope left the office.

“Well, what do you think, Q?” asked Sampson, fidgeting in his swivel chair.

“A most interesting man,” returned the Inspector. “How fair-minded he is!”

“Oh, yes — yes,” said Sampson. “Er — Q, he asked me before you came if you wouldn’t go easy on the publicity. Sort of special favor, you know.”

“He didn’t have the nerve to come out with it to me, eh?” chuckled the Inspector. “He’s quite human... Well, Henry, I’ll do my best, but if that young woman is implicated seriously, I won’t vouch for hands off with the press.”

“All right, all right, Q — it’s up to you,” said Sampson irritably. “Damn this throat of mine!” He took an atomizer from a desk drawer and sprinkled his throat wryly.

“Didn’t Ives-Pope recently donate a hundred thousand dollars to the Chemical Research Foundation?” asked Ellery suddenly, turning to Sampson.

“I seem to remember something of that sort,” said Sampson, gargling. “Why?”

Ellery mumbled an inaudible explanation that was lost in Sampson’s violent gyrations with the sprayer. Queen, who was regarding his son speculatively, shook his head, consulted his watch and said, “Well, son, it’s time we knocked off for lunch. What do you say — Henry, think you’d like to join us in a bite?”

Sampson grinned with an effort. “I’m full up to my neck with work, but even a District Attorney has to eat,” he said. “I’ll go on only one condition — that I pay the check. I owe you something, anyway.”

As they donned their coats Queen picked up Sampson’s telephone.

“Mr. Morgan?... Oh, hello, Morgan. I say, do you think you can find a little time this afternoon for a chat?... Right. Two-thirty will be fine. Good-by.”

“That settles that,” said the Inspector comfortably. “Always pays to be polite, Ellery — remember that.”

At two-thirty promptly the two Queens were ushered into the quiet law office of Benjamin Morgan. It was noticeably different from Field’s lavish suite — richly furnished but with a more businesslike simplicity. A smiling young woman closed the door after them. Morgan greeted them with some reserve. He held out a box of cigars as they sat down.

“No thanks — my snuff will do,” said the Inspector genially, while Ellery after being introduced lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings. Morgan lit a cigar with shaking fingers.

“I suppose you’re here to continue that talk of ours last night, Inspector?” said Morgan.

Queen sneezed, replaced his snuffbox, and leaned back in the chair. “Look here, Morgan old man,” he said evenly. “You haven’t been quite on the up-and-up with me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Morgan, coloring.

“You told me last night,” said the Inspector reflectively, “you told me last night that you parted amicably with Field two years ago, when you dissolved the firm of Field & Morgan. Did you say that?”

“I did,” said Morgan.

“How, then, my dear fellow,” asked Queen, “do you explain the little incident of the quarrel at the Webster Club? I certainly would not call a threat against another man’s life an ‘amicable’ way of dissolving a partnership!”

Morgan sat quietly for several minutes while Queen stared patiently at him and Ellery sighed. Then he looked up and began to speak in a passionate undertone.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, glancing away. “I might have known that a threat like that would be remembered by somebody... Yes, it’s true enough. We had lunch one day in the Webster Club at Field’s suggestion. As far as I was concerned, the less I had to do with him socially the better I liked it. But the purpose of the luncheon was to go over some last details of the dissolution, and of course I had no choice... I’m afraid I lost my temper. I did make a threat against his life, but it was — well, it was said in the heat of an angry moment. I forgot the whole thing before the week was over.”

The Inspector nodded sagely. “Yes, things do happen like that sometimes. But” — and Morgan licked his lips in despairing anticipation — “a man doesn’t threaten another man’s life, even if he doesn’t mean it, merely over a matter of business detail.” He leveled his finger at Morgan’s shrinking body. “Come on now, man — out with it. What are you holding back?”

Morgan’s entire body had gone flaccid. His lips were ashy as he turned from one Queen to the other, mute appeal in his eyes. But their glances were inexorable and Ellery, who was regarding him much as a vivisectionist regards a guinea pig, interrupted.

“My dear Morgan,” he said coldly, “Field had something on you, and he thought that that was a good time to tell you about it. It’s as obvious as the red in your eye.”

“You’ve guessed it in part, Mr. Queen. I’ve been one of the most unfortunate men God ever created. That devil Field — whoever killed him deserves to be decorated for his service to humanity. He was an octopus — a soulless beast in human form. I can’t tell you how happy — yes, happy! — I am that he is dead!”

“Softly there, Morgan,” said Queen. “Although I gather our mutual friend was a good deal of a skunk, your remarks might be overheard by a less sympathetic audience. And—?”

“Here’s the whole story,” mumbled Morgan, his eyes fixed on the desk blotter. “It’s a hard one to tell... When I was a kid at college I got into some trouble with a girl — a waitress in the college restaurant. She was not bad — just weak, and I suppose I was wild in those days. At any rate she had a child — my child... I suppose you know that I come from a straitlaced family. If you don’t, you would find out soon enough on investigation. They had great plans for me, they were socially ambitious — to cut it short, I couldn’t very well marry the girl and bring her to father’s house as my wife. It was a caddish thing to do...”

He paused.

“But it was done, and that’s all that matters. I’ve— I’ve always loved her. She was sensible enough about the arrangements... I managed to provide for her out of my generous allowance. No one — I’ll swear not a soul in this world with the exception of her widowed mother, a fine old lady — knew about the affair. I’ll swear to that, I say. And yet—” His fist clenched, but he resumed with a sigh. “Eventually, I married the girl whom my family had selected for me.” There was a painful silence as he stopped to clear his throat. “It was a mariage de convenance — just that and nothing else. She came from an old aristocratic family, and I had the money. We have lived fairly happily together... And then I met Field. I curse the day I ever consented to go into partnership with him — but my own business was not exactly all it might have been and Field, if nothing else, was an aggressive and clever lawyer.”

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff.

“Everything went smoothly at first,” continued Morgan in the same low tone. “But by degrees I began to suspect that my partner was not everything he should have been. Queer clients — queer clients indeed — would enter his private office after hours; he would evade my questions about them; things began to look peculiar. Finally I decided my own reputation would suffer if I continued to be linked with the man, and I broached the subject of dissolution. Field objected strenuously, but I was stubborn and after all he could not dominate my desires. We dissolved.”

Ellery’s fingers tapped an absent tattoo on the handle of his stick.

“Then the affair at the Webster. He insisted we have lunch together for the settlement of the last few details. That wasn’t his purpose at all, of course. You can guess, I suppose, his intentions... He came out quite suavely with the overwhelming statement that he knew I was supporting a woman and my illegitimate child. He said that he had some of my letters to prove it, and a number of cancelled vouchers of checks I had sent her... He admitted he had stolen them from me. I hadn’t looked at them for years, of course... Then he blandly announced that he meant to make capital out of this evidence!”

“Blackmail!” muttered Ellery, a light creeping into his eyes.

“Yes, blackmail,” retorted Morgan bitterly. “Nothing less. He described in very graphic terms what would happen if the story should come out. Oh, Field was a clever crook! I saw the entire structure of social position I had built up — a process which took years — destroyed in an instant. My wife, her family, my own family — and more than that, the circle in which we moved — I shouldn’t have been able to lift my head out of the muck. And as for business — well, it doesn’t take much to make important clients go elsewhere for their legal work. I was trapped — I knew it and he knew it.”

“Just how much did he want, Morgan?” asked Queen.

“Enough! He wanted twenty-five thousand dollars — just to keep quiet. I didn’t even have any assurances that the affair would end there. I was caught and caught properly. Because, remember, this was not an affair which had died years before. I was still supporting that poor woman and my son. I am supporting them now. I will — continue to support them.” He stared at his fingernails.

“I paid the money,” he resumed morosely. “It meant stretching a bit but I paid it. But the harm was done. I saw red there at the Club, and — but you know what happened.”

“And this blackmail has continued all the while, Morgan?” asked the Inspector.

“Yes, sir — for two solid years. The man was insatiable, I tell you! Even today I can’t completely understand it. He must have been earning tremendous fees in his own practice, and yet he always seemed to be needing money. No small change, either — I have never paid him less than ten thousand dollars at one time!”

Queen and Ellery looked at each other fleetingly. Queen said, “Well, Morgan, it’s a pretty kettle of fish. The more I hear about Field the more I dislike putting the irons on the fellow who did away with him. However! In the light of what you’ve told me, your statement last night that you hadn’t seen Field for two years is patently untrue. When did you see him last?”

Morgan appeared to be racking his memory. “Oh, it was about two months ago, Inspector,” he said at last.

The Inspector shifted in his chair. “I see... I’m sorry you didn’t tell me all this last night. You understand, of course, that your story is perfectly safe with the police. And it’s mighty vital information. Now then — do you happen to know a woman by the name of Angela Russo?”

Morgan stared. “Why, no, Inspector. I’ve never heard of her.”

Queen was silent for a moment. “Do you know a gentleman called ‘Parson Johnny’?”

“I think I can give you some information there, Inspector. I’m certain that during our partnership Field was using the little thug for some shady business of his own. I caught him sneaking up into the office a number of times after hours, and when I asked Field about him, he would sneer and say, ‘Oh, that’s only Parson Johnny, a friend of mine!’ But it was sufficient to establish the man’s identity. What their connection was I can’t tell you, because I don’t know.”

“Thanks, Morgan,” said the Inspector. “I’m glad you told me that. And now — one last question. Have you ever heard the name Charles Michaels?”

“To be sure I have,” responded Morgan grimly. “Michaels was Field’s so-called valet — he acted in the capacity of bodyguard and was really a blackguard, or I’m greatly mistaken in my judgment of men. He came to the office once in a while. I can’t think of anything else about him, Inspector.”

“He knows you, of course?” asked Queen.

“Why — I suppose so,” returned Morgan doubtfully. “I never spoke to him, but undoubtedly he saw me during his visits to the office.”

“Well, now, that’s fine, Morgan,” grunted Queen, rising. “This has been a most interesting and informative chat. And — no, I don’t think there’s anything else. That is, at the moment. Just ride along, Morgan, and keep in town — available if we need you for anything. Remember that, won’t you?”

“I’m not likely to forget it,” said Morgan dully. “And — of course the story I told you — about my son — it won’t come out?”

“You needn’t have the slightest fear — about that, Morgan,” said Queen, and a few moments later he and Ellery were on the sidewalk.

“So it was blackmail, Dad,” murmured Ellery. “That gives me an idea, do you know?”

“Well, son, I’ve a few ideas of my own!” chuckled Queen, and in a telepathic silence they walked briskly down the street in the direction of headquarters.

12 In Which the Queens Invade Society

Wednesday morning found Djuna pouring the coffee before a bemused Inspector and a chattering Ellery. The telephone bell rang. Both Ellery and his father jumped for the instrument.

“Here! What are you doing?” exclaimed Queen. “I’m expecting a call and that’s it!”

“Now, now, sir, allow a bibliophile the privilege of using his own telephone,” retorted Ellery. “I have a feeling that that’s my friend the book-dealer calling me about the elusive Falconer.”

“Look here, Ellery, don’t start—” While they were chaffing each other good-naturedly across the table, Djuna picked up the telephone.

“The Inspector — the Inspector, did you say? Inspector,” said Djuna, grinning as he held the mouthpiece to his thin chest, “it’s for you.”

Ellery subsided in his chair while Queen, with an air of triumph, snatched the instrument

“Yes?”

“Stoates calling from Field’s office, Inspector,” came a fresh cheery young voice. “I want to put Mr. Cronin on the wire.”

The Inspector’s brow wrinkled in anticipation. Ellery was listening intently, and even Djuna, with the monkey-like eagerness of his sharp features, had become rooted to his corner, as if he, too, awaited important news. Djuna in this respect resembled his brother anthropoid — there was an alertness, a bright inquisitiveness in his attitude and mien which delighted the Queens eternally.

Finally a high-pitched voice came over the wire. “This is Tim Cronin speaking, Inspector,” came Cronin’s excited tones. “As you know, I’ve been watching this bird Field for years. He’s been my pet nightmare for as long as I can remember. The D. A. tells me that he gave you the story night before last, so I needn’t go into it. But in all these years of watching and waiting and digging I’ve never been able to find a solitary piece of evidence against that crook that I could bring into a courtroom. And he was a crook, Inspector — I’d stake my life on that... Anyway, it’s the old story here. I really shouldn’t have hoped for anything better, knowing Field as I did. And yet — well, I couldn’t help praying that somewhere, somehow, he would slip up, and that I’d nail it when I could get my hands on his private records. Inspector — there’s nothing doing.”

Queen’s face reflected a fleeting disappointment, which Ellery interpreted with a sigh, rising as he did so to walk restlessly up and down the room.

“I guess we can’t help it, Tim,” returned Queen, with an effort at heartiness. “Don’t worry — we’ve other irons in the fire.”

“Inspector,” said Cronin abruptly, “you’ve got your hands full. Field was a really slick article. And from the way it looks to me, the genius who could get past his guard and put him away is a really slick article, too. He couldn’t be anything else. Incidentally, we’re not halfway through with the files and maybe what we’ve looked over isn’t as unpromising as I made it sound. There’s plenty here to suggest shady work on Field’s part — it’s just that there’s no direct incriminating evidence. We’re hoping that we find something as we go on.”

“All right, Tim — keep up the good work,” muttered the Inspector. “And let me know how you make out... Is Lewin there?”

“You mean the office manager?” Cronin’s voice lowered. “He’s around somewhere. Why?”

“You want to keep your eye peeled,” said Queen. “I have a sneaking suspicion he’s not as stupid as he sounds. Just don’t let him get too familiar with any records lying around. For all we know, he may have been in on Field’s little sideline.”

“Right, Inspector. Call you sometime later,” and the receiver clicked as Cronin hung up.

At ten-thirty Queen and Ellery pushed open the high gate at the entrance to the Ives-Pope residence on Riverside Drive. Ellery was moved to remark that the atmosphere was a perfect invitation to formal morning dress and that he was going to feel extremely uncomfortable when they were admitted through the stone portals.

In truth, the house which concealed the destinies of the Ives-Popes was in many respects awe-inspiring to men of the modest tastes of the Queens. It was a huge rambling old stone house, set far back from the Drive, hunched on the greensward of a respectable acreage. “Must have cost a pretty penny,” grunted the Inspector as his eyes swept the rolling lawns surrounding the building. Gardens and summer-houses; walks and bowered nooks — one would have thought himself miles away from the city which roared by a scant few rods away, behind the high iron palings which circled the mansion. The Ives-Popes were immensely wealthy and brought to this not uncommon possession a lineage stretching back into the dim recesses of American colonization.

The front door was opened by a whiskered patrician whose back seemed composed of steel and whose nose was elevated at a perilous angle toward the ceiling. Ellery lounged in the doorway, surveying this uniformed nobleman with admiration, while Inspector Queen fumbled in his pockets for a card. He was a long time producing one; the stiff-backed flunkey stood graven into stone. Red-faced, the Inspector finally discovered a battered card. He placed it on the extended salver and watched the butler retreat to some cavern of his own.

Ellery chuckled as his father drew himself up at the sight of Franklin Ives-Pope’s burly figure emerging from a wide carved doorway.

The financier hurried toward them.

“Inspector! Mr. Queen!” he exclaimed in a cordial tone. “Come right in. Have you been waiting long?”

The Inspector mumbled a greeting. They walked through a high-ceilinged shining-floored hall, decorated with austere old furniture.

“You’re on the dot, gentlemen,” said Ives-Pope, standing aside to allow them to pass into a large room. “Here are some additional members of our little board meeting. I think you know all of us present.”

The Inspector and Ellery looked about. “I know everybody, sir, except that gentleman — I presume he is Mr. Stanford Ives-Pope,” said Queen. “I’m afraid my son has still to make the acquaintance of — Mr. Peale, is it? — Mr. Barry — and, of course, Mr. Ives-Pope.”

The introductions were made in a strained fashion. “Ah, Q!” murmured District Attorney Sampson, hurrying across the room. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he said in a low tone. “First time I’ve met most of the people who’ll be present at the inquisition.”

“What is that fellow Peale doing here?” muttered Queen to the District Attorney, while Ellery crossed the room to engage the three young men on the other side in conversation. Ives-Pope had excused himself and disappeared.

“He’s a friend of young Ives-Pope, and, of course, he’s chummy with Barry there, too,” returned the District Attorney. “I gathered from the chitchat before you came that Stanford, Ives-Pope’s son, originally introduced these professional people to his sister Frances. That’s how she met Barry and fell in love with him. Peale seems on good terms with the young lady, too.”

“I wonder how much Ives-Pope and his aristocratic spouse like the bourgeois company their children keep,” said the Inspector, eyeing the small group on the other side of the room with interest.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” chuckled Sampson. “Just watch the icicles dripping from Mrs. Ives-Pope’s eyebrows every time she sees one of these actors. I imagine they’re about as welcome as a bunch of Bolsheviks.”

Queen put his hands behind his back and stared curiously about the room. It was a library, well stocked with rich and rare books, catalogued carefully and immaculate behind shining glass. A desk dominated the center of the room. It was unpretentious for a millionaire’s study, the Inspector noted with approval.

“Incidentally,” resumed Sampson, “Eve Ellis, the girl who you said was with Miss Ives-Pope and her fiancé at the Roman Theatre Monday night is here, too. She’s upstairs keeping the little heiress company, I imagine. Don’t think the old lady likes it much. But they’re both charming girls.”

“What a pleasant place this must be when the Ives-Popes and the actors get together in private!” grunted Queen.

The four young men strolled towards them. Stanford Ives-Pope was a slender, well-manicured young man, fashionably dressed. There were deep pouches under his eyes. He wore a restless air of boredom that Queen was quick to note. Both Peale and Barry, the actors, were attired faultlessly.

“Mr. Queen tells me that you’ve got a pretty problem on your hands, Inspector,” drawled Stanford Ives-Pope. “We’re all uncommonly sorry to see poor Sis dragged into it. How in the world did her purse ever get into that chap’s pocket? Barry hasn’t slept for days over Frances’ predicament, I give you my word!”

“My dear young man,” said the Inspector, with a twinkle in his eye, “if I knew how Miss Ives-Pope’s purse found its way into Monte Field’s pocket, I wouldn’t be here this morning. That’s just one of the things that make this case so infernally interesting.”

“The pleasure’s all yours, Inspector. But you certainly can’t think Frances had the slightest connection with all this?”

Queen smiled. “I can’t think anything yet, young man,” he protested. “I haven’t heard what your sister has to say about it.”

“She’ll explain all right, Inspector,” said Stephen Barry, his handsome face drawn into lines of fatigue. “You needn’t worry about that. It’s the damnable suspicion that she’s open to that makes me angry — the whole thing is ridiculous!”

“I know just how you feel, Mr. Barry,” said the Inspector kindly. “And I want to take this opportunity of apologizing for my conduct the other night. I was perhaps a little — harsh.”

“I suppose I ought to apologize, too,” returned Barry, with a wan smile. “I guess I said a few things I didn’t mean in that office. In the heat of the moment — seeing Frances — Miss Ives-Pope go off in a faint—” He paused awkwardly.

Peale, a massive giant, ruddy and wholesome in his morning clothes, put his arm affectionately about Barry’s shoulders. “I’m sure the Inspector understood, Steve old boy,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t take it so much to heart — everything’s bound to come out all right.”

“You can leave it to Inspector Queen,” said Sampson, nudging the Inspector jovially in the ribs. “He’s the only bloodhound I’ve ever met who has a heart under his badge — and if Miss Ives-Pope can clear this thing up to his satisfaction, even to a reasonable extent, that will be the end of it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” murmured Ellery thoughtfully. “Dad’s a great one for surprises. As for Miss Ives-Pope” — he smiled ruefully and bowed to the actor — “Mr. Barry, you’re a deucedly lucky fellow.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you saw the mater,” drawled Stanford Ives-Pope. “If I’m not mistaken, here she barges in now.”

The men turned toward the door. An enormously stout woman was waddling in. A uniformed nurse supported her carefully under one huge arm, holding a large green bottle in her other hand. The financier followed briskly, by the side of a white-haired youngish looking man, wearing a dark coat and holding a black bag in his hand.

“Catharine, my dear,” said Ives-Pope in a low voice to the stout woman as she sank into a great-chair, “these are the gentlemen whom I told you about — Inspector Richard Queen and Mr. Ellery Queen.”

The two Queens bowed, receiving a stony glance from the myopic eyes of Mrs. Ives-Pope. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she shrilled. “Where’s Nurse? Nurse! I feel faint, please.”

The uniformed girl hurried to her side, the green bottle ready. Mrs. Ives-Pope closed her eyes and inhaled, sighing with relief. The financier hurriedly introduced the white-haired man, Dr. Vincent Cornish, the family physician. The physician made swift apologies and disappeared behind the butler. “Great chap, this Cornish,” whispered Sampson to Queen. “Not only the most fashionable doctor on the Drive, but a genuine scientist as well.” The Inspector elevated his brows, but said nothing.

“The mater’s one reason why I never cared for the medical profession,” Stanford Ives-Pope was saying in a loud whisper to Ellery.

“Ah! Frances, my dear!” Ives-Pope hurried forward, followed by Barry, who dashed for the door. Mrs. Ives-Pope’s fishy stare enveloped his back with cold disapproval. James Peale coughed embarrassedly and made a mumbled remark to Sampson.

Frances, attired in a filmy morning gown, her face pale and drawn, entered the room leaning heavily on the arm of Eve Ellis, the actress. Her smile was somewhat forced as she murmured a greeting to the Inspector. Eve Ellis was introduced by Peale and the two girls seated themselves near Mrs. Ives-Pope. The old lady was sitting squarely in her chair, glaring about her like a lioness whose cub has been threatened. Two servants appeared silently and set chairs for the men. At Ives-Pope’s urgent request Queen sat down at the big desk. Ellery refused a chair, preferring to lean against a bookcase behind and to the side of the company.

When the conversation had died away the Inspector cleared his throat and turned toward Frances, who after a startled flutter of the eyelids returned his glance steadily.

“First of all Miss Frances — I hope I may call you that,” began Queen in a fatherly tone, “allow me to explain my tactics of Monday night and to apologize for what must have seemed to you a totally unwarranted severity. From what Mr. Ives-Pope has told me, you can explain your actions on the night of the murder of Monte Field. I take it, therefore, that as far as you are concerned our little chat this morning will effectually remove you from the investigation. Before we have that chat, please believe me when I say that Monday night you were to me merely one of a number of suspicious characters. I acted in accordance with my habits in such cases. I see now how, to a woman of your breeding and social position, a grilling by a policeman under such tense circumstances would cause sufficient shock to bring on your present condition.”

Frances smiled wearily. “You’re forgiven, Inspector,” she said in a clear, low voice. “It was my fault for being so foolish. I’m ready to answer any questions you may care to ask me.”

“In just a moment, my dear.” The Inspector shifted a bit to include the entire silent company in his next remark. “I should like to make one point, ladies and gentlemen,” he said gravely. “We are assembled here for a definite purpose, which is to discover a possible connection, and there must be one, between the fact that Miss Ives-Pope’s bag was found in the dead man’s pocket, and the fact that Miss Ives-Pope apparently was unable to explain this circumstance. Now, whether this morning’s work bears fruit or not, I must ask you all to keep whatever is said a profound secret. As District Attorney Sampson knows very well, I do not generally conduct an investigation with such a large audience. But I am making this exception because I believe you are all deeply concerned in the unfortunate young lady who has been drawn into this crime. You cannot, however, expect any consideration at my hands if one word of today’s conversation reaches outside ears. Do we understand each other?”

“I say, Inspector,” protested young Ives-Pope, “that’s putting it a bit strong, don’t you think? We all of us know the story, anyway.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Ives-Pope,” retorted the Inspector with a grim smile, “that is the reason I have consented to have all of you here.”

There was a little rustle and Mrs. Ives-Pope opened her mouth as if to burst into wrathful speech. A sharp look from her husband made her lips droop together, with the protest unuttered. She transferred her glare to the actress sitting by Frances’ side. Eve Ellis blushed. The nurse stood by Mrs. Ives-Pope with the smelling salts, like a setter dog about to point.

“Now, Miss Frances,” resumed Queen kindly, “this is where we stand. I examine the body of a dead man named Monte Field, prominent lawyer, who was apparently enjoying an interesting play before he was so unceremoniously done away with, and find, in the rear coattail pocket of his full-dress suit, an evening bag. I identify this as yours by a few calling cards and some personal papers inside. I say to myself, ‘Aha! A lady enters the problem!’ — naturally enough. And I send one of my men to summon you, with the idea of allowing you to explain a most suspicious circumstance. You come — and you faint on being confronted with your property and the news of its place of discovery. At the time, I say to myself, ‘This young lady knows something!’ — a not unnatural conclusion. Now, in what way can you convince me that you know nothing — and that your fainting was caused only by the shock of the thing? Remember, Miss Frances — I am putting the problem not as Richard Queen but as a policeman looking for the truth.”

“My story is not as illuminating, perhaps, as you might like it to be, Inspector,” answered Frances quietly, in the deep hush that followed Queen’s peroration. “I don’t see how it is going to help you at all. But some facts which I think unimportant may be significant to your trained mind... Roughly, this is what happened.

“I came to be in the Roman Theatre Monday night in a natural way. Since my engagement to Mr. Barry, although it has been a very quiet affair” — Mrs. Ives-Pope sniffed; her husband looked steadfastly at a point beyond his daughter’s dark hair — “I have often dropped into the theatre, following a habit of meeting my fiancé after the performance. At such times he would either escort me home or take me to some place in the neighborhood for supper. Generally we make arrangements beforehand for these theatre meetings; but sometimes I drop in unexpectedly if the opportunity presents itself. Monday night was one of those times...”

“I got to the Roman a few minutes before the end of the first act, since I have of course seen ‘Gunplay’ any number of times. I had my regular seat — arranged for me many weeks ago by Mr. Barry through Mr. Panzer — and had no more than settled myself to watch the performance when the curtain came down for the first intermission. I was feeling a little warm; the air was none too good... I went first to the ladies’ restroom downstairs off the general lounge. Then I came up again and went out into the alley through the open door. There was quite a crowd of people there, enjoying the air.”

She paused for a moment and Ellery, leaning against the bookcase, sharply surveyed the faces of the little audience. Mrs. Ives-Pope was looking about in her leviathan manner: Ives-Pope was still staring at the wall above Frances’ head; Stanford was biting his fingernails; Peale and Barry were both watching Frances with nervous sympathy, looking furtively at Queen as if to gauge the effect of her words upon him; Eve Ellis’ hand had stolen forward to clasp Frances’ firmly.

The Inspector cleared his throat once more.

“Which alley was it, Miss Frances — the one on the left or the one on the right?” he asked.

“The one on the left, Inspector,” she answered promptly. “You know I was sitting in M8 Left, and I suppose it was natural for me to go to the alley on that side.”

“Quite so,” said Queen smiling. “Go on, please.”

“I stepped out into the alley,” she resumed, less nervously, “and, not seeing any one I knew, stood close to the brick wall of the theatre, a little behind the open iron door. The freshness of the night air after the rain was delightful. I hadn’t been standing there more than two minutes when I felt somebody brush up against me. I naturally moved a little to one side, thinking the person had stumbled. But when he — it was a man — when he did it again, I became a little frightened and started to walk away. He — he grasped my wrist and pulled me back. We were halfway behind the iron door, which was not pushed back completely and I doubt if anyone noticed his action.”

“I see — I see,” murmured the Inspector sympathetically. “It seems an unusual thing for a total stranger to do in a public place.”

“It seemed as if he wanted to kiss me, Inspector. He leaned over and whispered, ‘Good evening, honey!’ and — well, of course, I jumped to that conclusion. I drew back a little and said as coldly as I could, ‘Please let me go, or I will call for help.’ He just laughed at that and bent closer. The reek of whisky on his breath was overpowering. It made me ill.”

She stopped. Eve Ellis patted her hand reassuringly. Peale nudged Barry forcibly as the young man half-rose to his feet in muttered protest “Miss Frances, I’m going to ask you a peculiar question — it’s almost ridiculous when you come to think of it,” said the Inspector, leaning back in his chair. “Did the reek on his breath suggest good liquor or bad liquor?... There! I knew you’d smile.” And the entire company tittered at the whimsical expression on Queen’s face.

“Well, Inspector — it’s hard to answer that,” returned the girl freely. “I’m afraid I’m not on intimate terms with spirits. But from what I can remember, it had the odor of rather fine liquor. Fine liquor — but plenty of it!” she concluded with a grim little toss of her head.

“I would’ve spotted the vintage in a minute if I’d been there!” muttered Stanford Ives-Pope.

His father’s lips tightened, but after a moment they relaxed into the suspicion of a grin. He shook his head warningly at his son.

“Go ahead, Miss Frances,” said the Inspector.

“I was terribly frightened,” the girl confessed, with a tremor of her red lips. “And feeling nauseated and all — I wrenched away from his outstretched hand and stumbled blindly into the theatre. The next thing I remember is sitting in my seat listening to the warning ring of the backstage bell, announcing the beginning of the second act. I really don’t remember how I got there. My heart was in my throat and now I distinctly recall thinking that I would not tell Stephen — Mr. Barry — anything about the incident for fear he would want to look up this man and punish him. Mr. Barry is terribly jealous, you know.” She smiled tenderly at her fiancé, who suddenly smiled back at her.

“And that, Inspector, is all I know about what happened Monday night,” she resumed. “I know you’re going to ask me where my purse comes into it. Well — it doesn’t at all, Inspector. Because on my word of honor I can’t remember a thing about it!”

Queen shifted in his chair. “And how is that, Miss Frances?”

“Actually, I didn’t even know I had lost it until you showed it to me in the manager’s office,” she answered bravely. “I recall taking it with me when I rose at the end of the first act to go to the restroom; and also opening it there to use my powderpuff. But whether I left it there or dropped it later, somewhere else, I don’t know to this minute.”

“Don’t you think, Miss Frances,” interposed Queen, reaching for his snuffbox and then guiltily dropping it back into his pocket as he met the icy gaze of Mrs. Ives-Pope, “that you might have dropped it in the alley after this man accosted you?”

A look of relief spread over the girl’s face, and it became almost animated. “Why, Inspector!” she cried. “That was just what I have thought about it all the time, but it seemed such a lame explanation — and I was so horribly afraid that I might be caught in a sort of — of spider’s web... I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you that! While I don’t actually remember, it seems logical, doesn’t it? — that I dropped it when he grasped my wrist and entirely forgot about it afterward.”

The Inspector smiled. “On the contrary, my dear,” he said, “it is the only explanation which seems to cover the facts. In all probability this man found it there — picked it up — and in a moment of half-drunken amorousness put it into his pocket, probably intending to return it to you later. In this way he would have had another opportunity to meet you. He seems to have been quite smitten by your charms, my dear — and no wonder.” And the Inspector bowed a little stiffly while the girl, the color in her face now completely restored, favored him with a dazzling smile.

“Now — a few things more, Miss Frances, and this little inquisition will be over,” continued Queen. “Can you describe his physical appearance?”

“Oh, yes!” Frances returned quickly. “He made a rather forcible impression on me, as you can imagine. He was a trifle taller than I — that would make him about five feet eight — and inclined to corpulence. His face was bloated and he had deep leaden-colored pouches under his eyes. I’ve never seen a more dissipated-looking man. He was clean-shaven. There was nothing remarkable about his features except perhaps a prominent nose.”

“That would be our friend Mr. Field, all right,” remarked the Inspector grimly. “Now — think carefully, Miss Frances. Did you ever meet this man anywhere before — did you recognize him at all?”

The girl responded instantly. “I don’t have to think much about that, Inspector. I can answer positively that I never saw the man before in my life!”

The pause which ensued was broken by the cool, even tones of Ellery. All heads turned toward him in a startled manner as he spoke.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Ives-Pope, for interrupting,” he said affably. “But I am curious to know whether you noticed how the man who accosted you was dressed.”

Frances turned her smile upon Ellery, who blinked quite humanly. “I didn’t take particular notice of his clothes, Mr. Queen,” she said, displaying white, brilliant teeth. “But I seem to remember his wearing a full-dress suit — his shirt bosom was a little stained — they were like liquor stains — and a tophat. From what I recall of his attire, it was rather fastidious and in good taste, except, of course, for the stains on his shirt.”

Ellery murmured a fascinated thanks and subsided against the bookcase. With a sharp look at his son, Queen rose to his feet.

“Then that will be all, ladies and gentlemen. I think we may safely consider the incident closed.”

There was an instantaneous little burst of approval and everybody rose to press in on Frances, who was radiant with happiness. Barry, Peale and Eve Ellis bore Frances off in triumphal march, while Stanford, with a lugubrious smile, offered his mother a carefully elbowed arm.

“Thus endeth the first lesson,” he announced gravely. “Mater, my arm before you faint!” A protesting Mrs. Ives-Pope departed, leaning ponderously on her son.

Ives-Pope shook Queen’s hand vigorously. “Then you think it’s all over as far as my girl is concerned?” he asked.

“I think so, Mr. Ives-Pope,” answered the Inspector. “Well, sir, thank you for your courtesy. And now we must be going — lots of work to do. Coming, Henry?”

Five minutes later Queen, Ellery and District Attorney Sampson were striding side by side down Riverside Drive toward 72nd Street, earnestly discussing the events of the morning.

“I’m glad that line of investigation is cleared up with no result,” said Sampson dreamily. “By the Lord Harry, I admire that girl’s pluck, Q!”

“Good child,” said the Inspector. “What do you think, Ellery?” he asked suddenly, turning on his son, who was walking along staring at the River.

“Oh, she’s charming,” Ellery said at once, his abstracted eyes brightening.

“I didn’t mean the girl, my son,” said his father irritably. “I meant the general aspect of the morning’s work.”

“Oh, that!” Ellery smiled a little. “Do you mind if I become Æsopian?”

“Yes,” groaned his father.

“A lion,” said Ellery, “may be beholden to a mouse.”

13 Queen to Queen

Djuna had just cleared the table of the dinner dishes and was serving coffee to the two Queens at six-thirty that evening when the outer doorbell rang. The little man-of-all-work straightened his tie, pulled down his jacket (while the Inspector and Ellery eyed him in twinkling amusement), and marched gravely into the foyer. He was back in a moment bearing a silver tray upon which lay two calling cards. The Inspector picked them up with beetling brows.

“Such ceremony, Djuna!” he murmured. “Well, well! So ‘Doc’ Prouty’s bringing a visitor. Show ’em in, you imp!”

Djuna marched back and returned with the Chief Assistant Medical Examiner and a tall, thin, emaciated man, entirely bald and wearing a closely clipped beard. Queen and Ellery rose.

“I’ve been expecting to hear from you, Doc!” Queen grinned, shaking hands with Prouty. “And if I’m not mistaken, here’s Professor Jones himself! Welcome to our castle, Doctor.” The thin man bowed.

“This is my son and keeper of my conscience, Doctor,” Queen added, presenting Ellery. “Ellery — Dr. Thaddeus Jones.”

Dr. Jones offered a large limp hand. “So you’re the chap Queen and Sampson keep prattling about!” he boomed. “Certainly happy to meet you, sir.”

“I’ve been fairly itching to be introduced to New York City’s Paracelsus and eminent Toxicologist,” smiled Ellery. “The honor of rattling the city’s skeletons is all yours.” He shuddered elaborately and indicated some chairs. The four men sat down.

“Join us in some coffee, gentlemen,” urged Queen, and shouted to Djuna, whose bright eyes were visible from behind the kitchenette door. “Djuna! You rascal! Coffee for four!” Djuna grinned and disappeared, to pop out a moment later like a jack-in-the-box, bearing four cups of steaming coffee.

Prouty, who resembled the popular conception of Mephistopheles, whipped from his pocket one of his black, dangerous-looking cigars and began to puff away furiously.

“This chitter-chatter may be all right for you men of leisure,” he said briskly, between puffs, “but I’ve been working like a beaver all day analyzing the contents of a lady’s stomach, and I want to get home for some sleep.”

“Hear, hear!” murmured Ellery, “I gather from your soliciting the aid of Professor Jones that you met with some obstruction in your analysis of Mr. Field’s corporeal remains. Lay on, Æsculapius!”

“I’ll lay on,” returned Prouty grimly. “You’re right — I met with a violent obstruction. I’ve had some little experience, if you’ll pardon the professional modesty, in examining the innards of deceased ladies and gentlemen, but I’ll confess I never saw ’em in such a mess as this chap Field’s. Seriously, Jones will attest to the truth of that. His æsophagus, for example, and the entire tracheal tract looked as if some one had taken a blowtorch and played it gently over his insides.”

“What was it — couldn’t have been bichloride of mercury, could it, Doc?” asked Ellery, who prided himself on a complete ignorance of the exact sciences.

“Hardly,” growled Prouty. “But let me tell you what happened. I analyzed for every poison on the calendar, and although this one had familiar petroleum components I couldn’t place it exactly. Yes, sir — I was stumped good and proper. And to let you in on a secret — the Medical Examiner himself, who thought I was pie-eyed from overwork, made a stab at it with his own fine Italian hand. The net result in his case, my boys, was zero. And the M. E.’s not exactly a novice either when it comes to chemical analysis. So we surrendered the problem to our fountainhead of learning. Let him spout his own story.”

Dr. Thaddeus Jones cleared his throat forbiddingly. “Thank you, my friend, for a most dramatic introduction,” he said in his deep lumbering voice. “Yes, Inspector, the remains were turned over to me, and in all seriousness, I want to say here and now that my discovery was the most startling the Toxicologist’s office has made in fifteen years!”

“My, my!” murmured Queen, taking a pinch of snuff. “I’m beginning to respect the mentality of our friend the murderer. So many things point to the unusual lately! And what did you find, Doctor?”

“I took it for granted that Prouty and the Medical Examiner had done the preliminaries very well,” began Dr. Jones, crossing his bony knees. “They generally do. And so, before anything else, I analayzed for the obscure poisons. Obscure, that is to say, from the standpoint of the criminal user. To show you how minutely I searched — I even thought of that favorite standby of our friends the fiction writers: curare, the South American toxin which makes the grade in four out of five detective stories. But even that sadly abused member of the toxic family disappointed me...”

Ellery leaned back and laughed. “If you’re referring in a mildly satirical way to my profession, Dr. Jones, let me inform you that I have never used curare in any of my novels.”

The toxicologist’s eyes twinkled. “So you’re one of them, too, eh? Queen, old man,” he added dolorously, turning to the Inspector, who was thoughtfully chewing on a piece of French pastry, “allow me to offer you my condolences... At any rate, gentlemen, let me explain that in the case of rare poisons we can generally come to a definite conclusion without much trouble — that is, rare poisons that are in the pharmacopoeia. Of course, there are any number of rare poisons of which we have no knowledge whatever — Eastern drugs particularly.

“Well, to make a long story short, I found myself faced with the unpleasant conclusion that I was up a tree.” Dr. Jones chuckled in reminiscence. “It wasn’t a pleasant conclusion. The poison I analyzed had certain properties which were vaguely familiar, as Prouty has said, and others which didn’t jibe at all. I spent most of yesterday evening mulling over my retorts and test-tubes, and late last night I suddenly got the answer.”

Ellery and Queen sat up straight and Dr. Prouty relaxed in his chair with a sigh, reaching for a second cup of coffee. The toxicologist uncrossed his legs, his voice booming more terrifyingly than ever.

“The poison that killed your victim, Inspector, is known as tetra ethyl lead!”

To a scientist this announcement, in Dr. Jones’s profoundest tones, might have carried a dramatic quality. To the Inspector it meant less than nothing. As for Ellery, he murmured, “Sounds like a mythological monster to me!”

Dr. Jones went on, smiling. “So it hasn’t impressed you much, eh? But let me tell you a little about tetra ethyl lead. It is almost odorless — to be more exact, it resembles chloroform in physical appearance. Point number one. Point number two — it has an odor — faint, to be sure — but distinctly like that of ether. Point number three — it is fearfully potent. So potent — but let me illustrate just what this devilishly powerful chemical substance will do to living tissue.”

By this time the toxicologist had gained the entire attention of his audience.

“I took a healthy rabbit, of the sort we use for experiment, and painted — just painted, mind you — the tender area behind the creature’s ear with an undiluted dose of the stuff. Re-member, this was not an internal injection. It was merely a painting of the skin. It would have to be absorbed through the dermis before it reached the bloodstream. I watched the rabbit for an hour — and after that I didn’t have to watch him any more. He was as dead as any dead rabbit I ever saw.”

“That doesn’t seem so powerful to me, Doctor,” protested the Inspector.

“It doesn’t, eh? Well, take my word for it that it’s extraordinary. For a mere daubing of whole, healthy skin — I tell you, I was astounded. If the skin had an incision of some sort, or if the poison were administered internally, that would be a different story. You can imagine, therefore, what happened to Field’s insides when he swallowed the stuff — and he swallowed plenty!”

Ellery’s brow was wrinkled in thought. He began to polish the lenses of his pince-nez.

“And that isn’t all,” resumed Dr. Jones. “As far as I know — and I have been in the service of the city for God knows how many years, and I’ve not kept uninformed about the progress of my science in other parts of the world, either — as far as I know, terra ethyl lead has never before been used for criminal purposes!”

The Inspector drew up, startled. “That’s saying something, Doctor!” he muttered. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. That’s why I’m so keenly interested.”

“Just how long would it take for this poison to kill a man, Doctor?” asked Ellery slowly.

Dr. Jones grimaced. “That’s something I can’t answer definitely, for the very good reason that to my knowledge no human being has ever died of its effects before. But I can make a fairly good guess. I can’t conceive of Field having lived more than fifteen to twenty minutes at the utmost after having taken the poison internally.”

The silence that followed was broken by a cough from Queen. “On the other hand, Doctor, this very strangeness of the poison should make it fairly easy to trace. What, would you say, is its commonest source? Where does it come from? How would I go about getting it if I wanted some for a criminal purpose and didn’t want to leave a trail?”

A gaunt smile lit up the features of the toxicologist “The job of tracing this stuff, Inspector,” he said fervently, “I’ll leave to you. You can have it. Tetra ethyl lead, as far as I’ve been able to determine — remember, it is almost entirely new to us — occurs most commonly in certain petroleum products. I tinkered around quite a bit before I found the easiest way of making it in quantity. You’ll never guess how it’s done. It can be extracted from common, ordinary, everyday gasoline!”

The two Queens exclaimed under their breaths. “Gasoline!” cried the Inspector. “Why — how on earth could a man trace that?”

“That’s the point,” answered the toxicologist. “I could go to the corner gas station, fill up the tank of my car, run it home, extract some of the gasoline from the tank, go into my laboratory and distill the tetra ethyl lead in remarkably little-time with remarkably little effort!”

“Doesn’t that imply, Doctor,” put in Ellery hopefully, “that the murderer of Field had some laboratory experience — knew something about chemical analysis, and all that sort of rot?”

“No, it doesn’t. Any man with a home-brew ‘still’ in his house could distill that poison without leaving a trace. The beauty of the process is that the tetra ethyl lead in the gasoline has a higher boiling point than any other of the fluid’s constituents. All you have to do is distill everything out up to a certain temperature, and what’s left is this poison.”

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff with trembling fingers. “All I can say is — I take my hat off to the murderer,” he muttered. “Tell me — Doctor — wouldn’t a man have to know quite a bit about toxicology to possess such knowledge? How could he ever know this without some special interest — and therefore training — in the subject?”

Dr. Jones snorted. “Inspector, I’m surprised at you. Your question is already answered.”

“How? What do you mean?”

“Haven’t I just told you how to do it? And if you heard about the poison from a toxicologist, couldn’t you make some provided you had the ‘still’? You would require no knowledge except the boiling point of tetra ethyl lead. Get along with you, Queen! You haven’t a chance in the world of tracing the murderer through the poison. In all probability he overheard a conversation between two toxicologists, or even between two medical men who had heard about the stuff. The rest was easy. I’m not saying this is so. The man might be a chemist, at that. But I’m concerned only in giving you the possibilities.”

“I suppose it was administered in whisky, eh, Doctor?” asked Queen abstractedly.

“No doubt about it,” returned the toxicologist. “The stomach, showed a large whisky content. Certainly, it would be an easy way for the murderer to slip it over on his victim. With the whisky you get nowadays, most of it smells etherized, anyway. And besides, Field probably had it down before he realized anything was wrong — if he did at all.”

“Wouldn’t he taste the stuff?” asked Ellery wearily.

“I’ve never tasted it, young man, so I can’t say definitely,” answered Dr. Jones, a trifle tartly. “But I doubt whether he would — sufficiently to alarm him, at any rate. Once he had it down it wouldn’t make any difference.”

Queen turned to Prouty, whose cigar had gone out. He had fallen into a hearty doze. “Say, Doc!”

Prouty opened his eyes sleepily. “Where are my slippers — I can’t even seem to find my slippers, damn it!”

Despite the tension of the moment, there was a spontaneous roar of amusement at the expense of the Assistant Medical Examiner. When he had come to with sufficient thoroughness to understand what he had said, he joined the chuckling group and said, “Just goes to prove that I’d better be going home, Queen. What did you want to know?”

“Tell me,” said Queen, still shaking, “what did you get from your analysis of the whisky?”

“Oh!” Prouty sobered instantly. “The whisky in the flask was as fine as any I’ve ever tested — and I’ve been doing nothing but testing booze for years now. It was the poison in the liquor on his breath that made me think at first that Field had drunk rotten booze. The Scotch and rye that you sent me in bottles from Field’s apartment were also of the very highest quality. Probably the flask’s contents came from the same place as the bottled stuff. In fact, I should say that both samples were imported goods. I haven’t come across domestic liquor of that caliber ever since the war — that is, except for the pre-war stuff that was stored away... And I suppose Velie communicated my report to you that the ginger ale is okay.”

Queen nodded. “Well, that seems to settle it,” he said heavily. “It looks as if we’re up against a blank wall on this tetra ethyl lead business. But just to make sure, Doc — work along with the professor here and try to locate a possible leak somewhere in the distribution of the poison. You fellows know more about that than anybody I could put on the case. It’s just a stab in the dark and probably nothing will come of it.”

“There’s no question about it,” murmured Ellery. “A novelist should stick to his last.”

“I think,” remarked Ellery eagerly, after the two doctors had gone, “that I’ll amble down to my bookseller for that Falconer.” He rose and began a hasty search for his coat.

“Here!” bellowed the Inspector, pulling him down into a chair. “Nothing doing. That blasted book of yours won’t run away. I want you to sit here and keep my headache company.”

Ellery nestled into the leather cushions with a sigh. “Just when I get to feeling that all investigations into the foibles of the human mind are useless and a waste of time, my worthy sire puts the onus of thought upon me again. Heigh-ho! What’s on the menu?”

“I’m not putting any onus on you at all,” growled Queen. “And stop using such big words. I’m dizzy enough. What I want you to do is help me go over this confounded mess of a case and see — well, what we can see.”

“I might have suspected it,” said Ellery. “Where do I start?”

“You don’t,” grunted his father. “I’m doing the talking tonight and you’re going to listen. And you might make a few notes, too.”

“Let’s begin with Field. I think, in the first place, that we can take it for granted our friend went to the Roman Theatre Monday night not for pleasure but for business. Right?”

“No doubt about it in my mind,” said Ellery. “What did Velie report about Field’s movements Monday?”

“Field got to his office at 9:30 — his usual morning arrival hour. He worked until noon. He had no personal visitors all day. At twelve o’clock he lunched at the Webster Club alone, and at 1:30 returned to his office. He worked steadily until 4:00 — and seems to have gone straight home, as the doorman and elevator-man both testify he arrived at the apartment about 4:30. Velie could get no further data except that Michaels arrived at 5:00 and left at 6:00. Field left at 7:30, dressed as we found him. I have a list of the clients whom he saw during the day, but it doesn’t tell much.”

“How about the reason for his small bank account?” asked Ellery.

“Just what I figured,” returned Queen. “Field has been losing steadily on the stock market — and not chicken feed, either. Velie’s just run a little tip to earth which makes Field out as a frequent visitor to the racetrack, where he’s also dropped plenty. For a shrewd man, he certainly was an easy mark for the wiseacres. Anyway, that explains his having so little cash in his personal account. And more than that — it probably also explains more conclusively the item of ‘50,000’ on the program we found. That meant money, and the money it referred to was in some way connected, I’m sure, with the person he was to meet at the theatre.

“Now, I think that we can pretty well conclude that Field knew his murderer rather intimately. For one thing, he accepted a drink obviously without suspicion, or at least question; for another, the meeting seems to have been definitely arranged for purposes of concealment — why, else, if that is not so, was the theatre chosen for the meeting at all?”

“All right. Let me ask you the same question,” interposed Ellery, puckering his lips. “Why should a theatre be chosen as a meeting place to transact a secret and undoubtedly nefarious business? Wouldn’t a park be more secret? Wouldn’t a hotel lobby have its advantages? Answer that.”

“Unfortunately, my son,” said the Inspector mildly, “Mr. Field could have had no definite knowledge that he was going to be murdered. As far as he was concerned, all he was going to do was to take care of his part of the transaction. As a matter of fact, Field himself might have chosen the theatre as the place of meeting. Perhaps he wanted to establish an alibi for something. There’s no way of telling yet just what he wanted to do. As for the hotel lobby — certainly he would run a grave risk of being seen. He might have been unwilling, further, to risk himself in such a lonely place as a park. And, lastly, he may have had some particular reason for not wanting to be seen in the company of the second party. Remember — the ticket stubs we found showed that the other person did not come into the theatre at the same time as Field. But this is all fruitless conjecture—”

Ellery smiled in a thoughtful manner, but said nothing. He was thinking to himself that the old man had not completely satisfied the objection, and that this was a strange thing in a man of Inspector Queen’s direct habits of thought...

But Queen was continuing. “Very well. We must always bear in mind the further possibility that the person with whom Field transacted his business was not his murderer. Of course, this is merely a possibility. The crime seems to have been too well planned for that. But if this is so, then we must look for two people in the audience Monday night who were directly connected with Field’s death.”

“Morgan?” asked Ellery idly.

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. Why didn’t he tell us about it when we spoke to him yesterday afternoon? He confessed everything else. Well, maybe because he felt that a confession of having paid blackmail to the murdered man, together with the fact that he was found in the theatre, would be too damning a bit of circumstantial evidence.”

“Look at it this way,” said Ellery. “Here we find a man dead who has written on his program the number ‘50,000,’ obviously referring to dollars. We know from what both Sampson and Cronin have told us about Field that he was a man of unscrupulous and probably criminal character. Further, we know from Morgan that he was also a blackmailer. I think, therefore, we can deduce safely that he went to the Roman Theatre on Monday night to collect or arrange for the payment of $50,000 in blackmail from some person unknown. Right so far?”

“Go ahead,” grunted the Inspector noncommittally.

“Very well,” continued Ellery. “If we conclude that the person blackmailed that night and the murderer were one and the same, we need look no further for a motive. There’s the motive ready made — to choke off the blackmailing Field. If, however, we proceed on the assumption that the murderer and the person blackmailed were not the same, but two entirely different individuals, then we must still scrabble about looking for a motive for the crime. My personal opinion is that this is unnecessary — that the murderer and the blackmailed person are one. What do you think?”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Ellery,” said the Inspector. “I merely mentioned the other possibility — did not state my own conviction. Let us proceed, for the time being, then, on the assumption that Field’s blackmail victim and his murderer were the same...

“Now — I want to clear up the matter of the missing tickets.”

“Ah — the missing tickets,” murmured Ellery. “I was wondering what you made of that.”

“Don’t be funny, now, you rascal,” growled Queen. “Here’s what I make of it. All in all, we are dealing with eight seats — one in which Field sat, for which we have the stub found on Field’s person; one in which the murderer sat, for which we have the stub found by Flint; and finally the six empty seats for which tickets were bought, as established by the box-office report, and for which stubs were not found, torn or whole, anywhere in the theatre or box office. First of all, it is barely possible that all of those six whole tickets were in the theatre Monday night, and went out of the theatre on somebody’s person. Remember, the search of individuals was necessarily not so exhaustive as to include an examination for small things like tickets. This, however, is highly improbable. The best explanation is that either Field or his murderer bought all eight tickets at one time, intending to use two and reserving the other six to insure absolute privacy during the short time that the business was to be transacted. In this case, the most sensible thing to have done was to destroy the tickets as soon as they were bought; which was probably done by either Field or the murderer, according to who made the arrangements. We must, therefore, forget those six tickets — they’re gone and we’ll never get our hands on them.

“To proceed,” continued the Inspector. “We know that Field and his victim entered the theatre separately. This may positively be deduced from the fact that when I put the two stubs back to front, the torn edges did not match. When two people enter together, the tickets are presented together and are invariably torn together. Now — this does not say that they did not come in at practically the same time, because for purposes of safety they may have come in one after the other, as if they did not know each other. However, Madge O’Connell claims no one sat in LL30 during Act I, and the orangeade boy, Jess Lynch, testified that ten minutes after Act II had started, there was still no one in LL30. This means that the murderer either had not yet entered the theatre, or he had come in before but was sitting in some other part of the orchestra, having a ticket necessarily for another seat.”

Ellery shook his head. “I realize that as well as you, son,” said the old man testily. “I’m just following the thought through. I was going to say that it doesn’t seem likely the murderer had come into the theatre at the regular time. It’s probable that he entered at least ten minutes after the second act started.”

“I can give you proof of that,” said Ellery lazily.

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff. “I know — those cabalistic figures on the program. How did they read?”

“We know what the fifty thousand represented. The other two figures must have referred not to dollars, but to time. Look at the ‘815.’ The play started at 8:25. In all likelihood Field arrived about 8:15, or if he arrived sooner, he had some cause to refer to his watch at that time. Now, if he had an appointment with some one who, we assume, arrived much later, what more likely than that Field should have idly jotted down on his program — first, the ‘50,000,’ which indicates that he was thinking about the impending transaction, which involved $50,000 in blackmail; then 8:15, the time he was thinking about it; and finally 9:30 — the time the blackmail victim was due to arrive! It’s the most natural thing in the world for Field to have done this, as it would be for anyone who is in the habit of scribbling in idle moments. It’s very fortunate for us, because it points to two things: first, to the exact time of the appointment with the murderer — 9:30; and, second, it corroborates our conjecture as regards the actual time the murder was committed. At 9:25 Lynch saw Field alive and alone; at 9:30, by Field’s written evidence, the murderer was due to arrive, and we take it for granted he did; according to Dr. Jones’ statement it would take the poison from fifteen to twenty minutes to kill Field — and in view of Pusak’s discovery at 9:55 of the dead body, we may say that the poison was administered about 9:35. If the tetra ethyl lead took at the most twenty minutes — that gives us 9:55. Much before then, of course, the murderer left the scene of the crime. Remember — he could not have known that our friend Mr. Pusak would suddenly desire to rise and leave his seat. The murderer was probably figuring that Field’s body would not be discovered until the intermission, at 10:05, which would have been ample time for Field to have died without being able to murmur any message at all. Luckily for our mysterious murderer Field was discovered too late to gasp more than the information that he’d been murdered. If Pusak had walked out five minutes earlier we’d have our elusive friend behind the bars right now.”

“Bravo!” murmured Ellery, smiling affectionately. “A perfect recitation. My congratulations.”

“Oh, go jump in the bathtub,” growled his father. “At this point I just want to repeat what you brought out Monday night in Panzer’s office — the fact that although the murderer quitted the scene of the crime between 9:30 and 9:55, he was present in the theatre all the rest of the evening until we allowed everybody to go home. Your examination of the guards and the O’Connell girl, together with the doorman’s evidence, Jess Lynch’s presence in the alley, the usher’s corroboration of this fact and all the rest of it, takes care of that... He was there, all right.

“This leaves us momentarily up a tree. All we can do now is consider some of the personalities we’ve bumped into in the course of the investigation,” went on the Inspector with a sigh. “First — did Madge O’Connell tell the truth when she said she had seen no one pass up or down the aisle during the second act? And that she had not seen, at anytime during the evening at all, the person who we know sat in LL30 from half-past nine until ten or fifteen minutes before the body was discovered?”

“It’s a tricky question, Dad,” remarked Ellery seriously, “because if she was lying about these things, we are losing a mine of information. If she was lying — good Lord! — she might be in a position at this moment either to describe, or identify, or possibly name the murderer! However, her nervousness and peculiar attitude might be ascribed to her knowledge that Parson Johnny was in the theatre, with a pack of policemen just aching to get their fingers on him.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” grumbled Queen. “Well, what about Parson Johnny? How does he fit into this — or does he fit into it at all? We must always remember that, according to Morgan’s statement, Cazzanelli was actively associated with Field. Field had been his lawyer, and perhaps had even bought the Parson’s services for this shady business Cronin is nosing around about. If the Parson was not there by accident, was he there through Field or through Madge O’Connell, as she and he both say? I think, my son,” he added with a fierce tug at his mustache, “that I’m going to give Parson Johnny a taste of the lash — it won’t hurt his thick hide! And that snippy little O’Connell chit — won’t do any harm to scare the wits out of her either...”

He took an enormous pinch of snuff, sneezing to the tune of Ellery’s sympathetic chuckles.

“And dear old Benjamin Morgan,” continued the Inspector, “was he telling the truth about the anonymous letter which so conveniently gave him a mysterious source for his theatre ticket?

“And that most interesting lady, Mrs. Angela Russo... Ah, the ladies, bless ’em! They always muddle a man’s logic so. What did she say — that she came to Field’s apartment at 9:30? Is her alibi perfectly sound? Of course, the doorman at the apartment house confirmed her statement. But it’s easy to ‘fix’ doormen... Does she know more than she had indicated about Field’s business — particularly his private business? Was she lying when she said that Field told her he would be back at ten o’clock? Remember, we know that Field had an appointment in the Roman Theatre beginning at 9:30 — did he really expect to keep it and be back at his rooms by ten o’clock? By cab it would be a fifteen or twenty-minute drive, through traffic, which would leave only ten minutes for the transaction — possible, of course. Couldn’t do it much sooner by subway, either. We mustn’t forget, too, that this woman was not in the theatre at any time during the evening.”

“You’ll have your hands full with that fair flower of Eve,” remarked Ellery. “It’s so beautifully evident that she’s keeping back a story of some sort. Did you notice that brazen defiance? Wasn’t mere bravado. She knows something, Dad. I would certainly keep my eye on her — sooner or later she’ll give herself away.”

“Hagstrom will take care of her,” said Queen abstractedly. “Now, how about Michaels? He has no supported alibi for Monday evening. But then it might not make any difference. He wasn’t in the theatre... There’s something fishy about that fellow. Was he really looking for something when he came to Field’s apartment Tuesday morning? We’ve made a thorough search of the premises — is it possible we’ve overlooked something? It’s quite evident that he was lying when he spilled that story about the check, and not knowing that Field was dead. And consider this — he must have realized that he was running into danger in coming to Field’s rooms. He’d read about the murder and couldn’t have hoped that the police would delay going to the place. So he was taking a desperate chance — for what reason? Answer that one!”

“It might have had something to do with his imprisonment — by George, he looked surprised when I accused him, didn’t he?” chuckled Ellery.

“Might at that,” returned the Inspector. “By the way, I’ve heard from Velie about Michaels’ term up in Elmira. Thomas reports that it was a hushed-up case — much more serious than the light sentence in the Reformatory indicates. Michaels was suspected of forgery — and it looked mighty black for him. Then Lawyer Field nicely got Mr. Michaels off on an entirely different count — something to do with petty larceny — and nothing was ever heard about the forgery business again. This boy Michaels looks like the real thing — have to step on his heels a bit.”

“I have a little idea of my own about Michaels,” said Ellery thoughtfully. “But let it go for the present.”

Queen seemed not to hear. He stared into the fire roaring in the stone fireplace. “There’s Lewin, too,” he said. “Seems incredible that a man of Lewin’s stamp should have been so confidentially associated with his employer without knowing a good deal more than he professes. Is he keeping something back? If he is, heaven help him — because Cronin will just about pulverize him!”

“I rather like that chap Cronin,” sighed Ellery. “How on earth can a fellow be so set on one idea?... Has this occurred to you? I wonder if Morgan knows Angela Russo? Despite the fact that both of them deny a mutual acquaintance. Would be deucedly interesting if they did, wouldn’t it?”

“‘My son,” groaned Queen, “don’t go looking for trouble. We’ve a peck of it now without going out of our way for more... By jingo!”

There was a comfortable silence as the Inspector sprawled in the light of the leaping flames. Ellery munched contentedly on a succulent piece of pastry. Djuna’s bright eyes gleamed from the far corner of the room, where he had stolen noiselessly and squatted on his thin haunches on the floor, listening to the conversation.

Suddenly the old man’s eyes met Ellery’s in a spasmodic transference of thought.

“The hat...” muttered Queen. “We always come back to the hat.”

Ellery’s glance was troubled. “And not a bad thing to come back to, Dad. Hat — hat — hat! Where does it fit in? Just what do we know about it?”

The Inspector shifted in his chair. He crossed his legs, took another pinch of snuff and proceeded with a fresh vigor. “All right. We can’t afford to be lazy in the matter of that blamed silk topper,” he said briskly. “What do we know so far? First, that the hat did not leave the theatre. It seems funny, doesn’t it? Doesn’t seem possible that we would find no trace at all after such a thorough search... Nothing was left in the cloakroom after everybody was gone; nothing was found in the sweepings that might indicate a hat torn to small pieces or burned; in fact, not a trace, not a thing for us to go on. Therefore, Ellery, the only sensible conclusion we can make at this point is that we haven’t looked for the hat in the right place! And further, wherever it is, it’s still there, due to our precaution of closing the theatre down since Monday night. Ellery, we’ve got to go back tomorrow morning and turn that place upside down. I won’t sleep until we see light somewhere in this matter.”

Ellery was silent. “I’m not at all satisfied with things as you’ve stated them, Dad,” he muttered at last. “Hat — hat — there’s something wrong somewhere!” He fell silent once more. “No! The hat is the focal point of this investigation — I cannot see any other way out of it. Solve the mystery of Field’s hat and you will find the one essential clue that will point to the murderer. I’m so convinced of this that I’ll be satisfied we’re on the right track only when we’re making progress in the explanation of the hat.”

The old man nodded his head vigorously. “Ever since yesterday morning, when I had time to think over the hat business, I’ve felt that we had gone astray somewhere. And here it is Wednesday night — still no light. We’ve done necessary things — they’ve led nowhere...” He stared into the fire. “Everything is so badly muddled. I’ve got all the loose ends at my fingertips, but for some blasted reason I can’t seem to make them cohere — fit together — explain anything... Undoubtedly, son, what is missing is the story of the top piece.”

The telephone bell rang. The Inspector sprang for the instrument. He listened attentively to a man’s unhurried tones, made a brisk comment and finally hung up.

“Who’s the latest midnight babbler, O recipient of many confidences?” asked Ellery, grinning.

“That was Edmund Crewe,” said Queen. “You may remember I asked him yesterday morning to go over the Roman. He spent all of yesterday and today at it. And he reports positively that there is no secret hiding place anywhere on the premises of the theatre. If Eddie Crewe, who is about the last word in architectural matters of this kind, says there’s no hiding place there, you may rest assured it’s so.”

He jumped to his feet and espied Djuna squatting on his hams in the corner. “Djuna! Get the old bed ready,” he roared. Djuna slipped through the room and disappeared with a silent grin. Queen wheeled on Ellery, who had already taken off his coat and was fumbling with his tie.

“The first thing we do tomorrow morning is go down to the Roman Theatre and start all over again!” the old man said decisively. “And let me tell you, son — I’m through fooling around! Somebody’d better watch out!”

Ellery affectionately encircled his father’s shoulders with one great arm. “Come on to bed, you old fraud!” he laughed.