Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “You don’t, eh, son?” asked Queen affably. “How is that?”

  The boy was plainly in a funk. His eyes rolled alarmingly as they sought the broad face of Doyle. The policeman patted him encouragingly on the shoulder and said to the Inspector, “He’s a little scared, sir—but he’s a good boy. I’ve known him since he was a shaver. Grew up on my beat.—Answer the Inspector, Jessie. . . .”

  “Well, I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered the boy, shuffling his feet. “The only drinks we’re allowed to sell during the intermissions is orangeade. We got a contract with the ——”—he mentioned the name of a well-known manufacturer of the concoction32—“people and they give us a big discount if we sell their stuff and nobody else’s. So—”

  “I see,” said the Inspector. “Are drinks sold only during intermissions?”‘

  “Yes, sir,” answered the boy, more naturally. “As soon as the curtain goes down the doors to the alleys on both sides are opened, and there we are—my partner and me, with our stands set up, and the cups filled ready to serve.”

  “Oh, so there are two of you, eh?”

  “No, sir, three all together. I forgot to tell you—one feller is downstairs in the main lounge, too.”

  “Ummmm.” The Inspector fixed him with a large and kindly eye. “Now, son, if the Roman Theatre sells nothing but orangeade, do you think you could explain how this ginger-ale bottle got here?”

  His hand dove down and reappeared brandishing the dark green bottle discovered by Hagstrom. The boy paled and began to bite his lips. His eyes roved from side to side as if they sought a quick avenue of escape. He inserted a large and dirty finger between his neck and collar and coughed.

  “Why—why . . .” He had some difficulty in speaking.

  Inspector Queen put down the bottle and rested his wiry length against the arm of a seat. He folded his arms sternly. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

  The boy’s color changed from blue-white to a pasty yellow. He furtively eyed Hagstrom, who had with a flourish taken a notebook and pencil from his pocket and was waiting forbiddingly.

  The boy moistened his lips. “Lynch—Jess Lynch,” he said hoarsely.

  “And where is your station between acts, Lynch?” said the Inspector balefully.

  “I’m—I’m right here, in the left-side alley, sir,” stuttered the boy.

  “Ah!” said the Inspector, knitting his brows ferociously. “And were you selling drinks in the left alley to-night, Lynch?’”

  “Why, why—yes, sir.”

  “Then you know something about this ginger-ale bottle.”

  The boy peered about, saw the stout small form of Louis Panzer on the stage, about to make an announcement, and leaning forward, whispered, “Yes, sir—I do know about that bottle. I—I didn’t want to tell before because Mr. Panzer’s a strict guy when it comes to breaking rules, and he’d fire me in a minute if he knew what I did. You won’t tell, sir?”

  The Inspector started, then smiled. “Shoot, son. You’ve got something on your conscience—might as well get it off.” He relaxed and at a flick of a finger Hagstrom unconcernedly walked away.

  “This is how it happened, sir,” began Jess Lynch eagerly. “I’d set my stand up in the alley here about five minutes before the end of the first act, like we’re supposed to. When the girl on this aisle opened the doors after the first act, I began to give the people comin’ out a nice refined selling chatter. We all do. A lot of people bought drinks, and I was so busy I didn’t have time to notice anything going on around me. In a little while I had a breathing spell, and then a man came up to me and said, ‘Let me have a bottle of ginger ale, boy.’ I looked up and saw he was a ritzy feller in evening dress, actin’ kind of tipsy. He was laughing to himself and he looked pretty happy. I says to myself, ‘I bet I know what he wants ginger ale for’ and sure enough he taps his back pocket and winks.33 Well—”

  “Just a minute, son,” interrupted Queen. “Ever see a dead man before?”

  “Why—why, no, sir, but I guess I could stand it once,” said the boy nervously.

  “Fine! Is this the man who asked you for the ginger ale?” The Inspector took the boy by the arm and made him bend over the dead body.

  Jess Lynch regarded it with awed fascination. He bobbed his head vigorously.

  “Yes, sir. That’s the gentleman.”

  “You’re sure of that now, Jess?” The boy nodded. “By the way, is that the outfit he was wearing when he accosted you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything missing, Jess?” Ellery, who had been nestling in a dark comer, leaned forward a little.

  The boy regarded the Inspector with puzzlement on his face, looking from Queen to the body and back again. He was silent for a full minute, while the Queens hung on his words. Then his face lit up suddenly and he cried, “Why—yes, sir! He was wearin’ a hat—a shiny topper—when he spoke to me!”

  Inspector Queen looked pleased. “Go on, Jess—Doc Prouty! It’s taken you a long time getting here. What held you up?”

  A tall lanky man had come striding across the carpet, a black bag in his hand. He was smoking a vicious-looking cigar with no apparent concern for local fire rules, and appeared in something of a hurry.

  “You said something there, Inspector,” he said, setting down the bag and shaking hands with both Ellery and Queen. “You know we just moved and I haven’t got my new phone yet. I had a hard day to-day and I was in bed anyway. They couldn’t get hold of me—had to send a man around to my new place. I rushed down here as fast as I could. Where’s the casualty?”

  He dropped to his knees in the aisle as the Inspector indicated the body on the floor. A policeman was summoned to hold a flashlight as the Assistant Medical Examiner worked.

  Queen took Jess Lynch by the arm and walked him off to one side. “What happened after he asked you for the ginger ale, Jess?”

  The boy, who had been staring at the proceedings, gulped and continued. “Well, sir, of course I told him that we didn’t sell ginger ale, only orangeade. He leaned a little closer, and then I could smell the booze on his breath. He says confidentially, ‘There’s a half a dollar in it for you if you get me a bottle, kid! But I want it right away!’ Well—you know how it is—they don’t give tips nowadays. . . . Anyway, I said I couldn’t get it that minute but that I’d duck out and buy a bottle for him right after the second act started. He walked away—after tellin’ me where he was sitting—I saw him go back into the theatre. As soon as the intermission ended and the usherette closed the doors, I left my stand in the alleyway and hopped across the street to Libby’s ice-cream parlor. I—”

  “Do you usually leave your stand in the alley, Jess?”

  “No, sir. I always hop inside the doors with the stand just before she locks the doors, and then take it downstairs to the lounge. But the man said he wanted the ginger ale right away, so I figured I’d save time by getting the bottle for him first. Then I thought I’d go back into the alley, get my stand, and bring it into the theatre through the front door. Nobody’d say anything . . . Anyway, I left the stand in the alley and ran over to Libby’s. I bought a bottle of Paley’s ginger ale,34 sneaked it inside to this man, and he gave me a buck. Pretty nice of him, I thought, seeing as how he’d only promised me four bits.”

  “You told that very nicely, Jess,” said the Inspector with approval. “Now, a few things more. Was he sitting in this seat—was this the seat he told you to come to?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. He said LL32 Left, and sure enough that’s where I found him.”

  “Quite right.” The Inspector, after a pause, asked casually, “Did you notice if he was alone, Jess?”

  “Sure thing, sir,” returned the boy in a cheerful tone. “He was sittin’ all alone on this end seat. The reason I noticed it was that the show’s been packed ever since it opened, and I thought it was queer that there should be so many seats empty around here.”

  “That’s fine, Jess. You’ll make a detective yet.
. . . You couldn’t tell me how many seats were empty, I suppose?”

  “Well, sir, it was kind of dark and I wasn’t payin’ much attention. I guess it was about half a dozen, all told—some next to him in the same row and some right in the row in front.”

  “Just a moment, Jess.” The boy turned, licking his lips in honest fright at the sound of Ellery’s low cool voice: “Did you see anything more of that shiny topper when you handed him the bottle of ginger ale?” asked Ellery, tapping the point of his neat shoe with his stick.

  “Why, yes—yes, sir!” stammered the boy. “When I gave him the bottle he was holding the hat in his lap, but before I left I saw him stick it underneath his seat.”

  “Another question, Jess.” The boy sighed with relief at the sound of the Inspector’s reassuring voice. “About how long, do you reckon, did it take you to deliver the bottle to this man after the second act started?”

  Jess Lynch thought gravely for a moment, and then said with finality, “It was just about ten minutes, sir. We got to keep pretty close tabs on the time, and I know it was ten minutes because when I came into the theatre with the bottle it was just the part on the stage when the girl is caught in the gang’s hang-out and is being grilled by the villain.”

  “An observant young Hermes!”35 murmured Ellery, smiling suddenly. The orangeade boy caught the smile and lost the last vestige of his fear. He smiled back. Ellery crooked his finger and bent forward. “Tell me, Jess. Why did it take you ten minutes to cross the street, buy a bottle of ginger ale and return to the theatre? Ten minutes is a long time, isn’t it?”

  The boy turned scarlet as he looked appealingly from Ellery to the Inspector. “Well, sir—I guess I stopped to talk for a few minutes with my girl . . .”

  “Your girl?” The Inspector’s voice was mildly curious.

  “Yes, sir. Elinor Libby—her old man owns the ice-cream parlor. She—she wanted me to stay there in the store with her when I went for the ginger ale. I told her I had to deliver it in the theatre, so she said all right but wouldn’t I come right back. And I did. We stayed there a couple of minutes and then I remembered the stand in the alley. . . .”

  “The stand in the alley?” Ellery’s tone was eager. “Quite so, Jess—the stand in the alley. Don’t tell me that, by some remarkable whim of fortune, you went back to the alley!”

  “Sure I did!” rejoined the boy, in surprise. “I mean—we both did, Elinor and me.”

  “Elinor and you, eh, Jess?” said Ellery softly. “And how long were you there?”

  The Inspector’s eyes flashed at Ellery’s question. He muttered approvingly to himself and listened intently as the boy answered.

  “Well, I wanted to take the stand right away, sir, but Elinor and me—we got to talking there—and Elinor said why not stay in the alley till the next intermission. . . . I figured that was a good idea, I’d wait till a few minutes before 10:05, when the act ends, and I’d duck down for some more orangeade, and then when the doors opened for the second intermission I’d be all ready. So we stayed there, sir. . . . It wasn’t wrong, sir. I didn’t mean anything wrong.”

  Ellery straightened and fixed the boy with his eyes. “Jess, I want you to be very careful now. At exactly what time did you and your Elinor get to the alley?”

  “Well . . . ,” Jess scratched his head. “It was about 9:25 when I gave that man the ginger ale. I went across for Elinor, stayed a few minutes and then came over to the alley. Musta been just about 9:35—just about—when I went back for my orangeade stand.”

  “Very good. And what time exactly did you leave the alley?”

  “It was just ten o’clock, sir. Elinor looked at her wrist watch when I asked her if it was time to go in for my orangeade refills.”

  “You didn’t hear anything going on in the theatre?”

  “No, sir. We were too busy talking, I guess. . . . I didn’t know anything had happened inside until we walked out of the alley and I met Johnny Chase, one of the ushers, standing there, like he was on guard. He told me there was an accident inside and Mr. Panzer had sent him to stand outside the left alley.”

  “I see. . . .” Ellery removed his pince-nez in some agitation and flourished it before the boy’s nose. “Carefully now, Jess. Did anyone go in or out of the alley all the time you were there with Elinor?”

  The boy’s answer was immediate and emphatic. “No, sir. Not a soul.”

  “Right, my lad.” The Inspector gave the boy a spanking slap on the back and sent him off grinning. Queen looked around sharply, spied Panzer, who had made his announcement on the stage with ineffectual results, and beckoned with an imperative finger.

  “Mr. Panzer,” he said abruptly, “I want some information about the time-schedule of the play. . . . At what time does the curtain go up on the second act?”

  “The second act begins at 9:15 sharp and ends at 10:05 sharp,” said Panzer instantly.

  “Was to-night’s performance run according to this schedule?”

  “Certainly. We must be on the dot because of cues, lights, and so on,” responded the manager.

  The Inspector muttered some calculations to himself. “That makes it 9:25 the boy saw Field alive,” he mused. “He was found dead at . . .”

  He swung about and called for Officer Doyle. The man came running.

  “Doyle,” asked the Inspector, “Doyle, do you remember exactly at what time this fellow Pusak approached you with his story of the murder?”

  The policeman scratched his head. “Why, I don’t remember exactly, Inspector,” he said. “All I do know is that the second act was almost over when it happened.”

  “Not definite enough, Doyle,” said Queen irritably. “Where are the actors now?”

  “Got ’em herded right over there back of the center section, sir,” said Doyle. “We didn’t know what to do with ’em except that.”

  “Get one of them for me!” snapped the Inspector.

  Doyle ran off. Queen beckoned to Detective Piggott, who was standing a few feet to the rear between a man and a woman.

  “Got the doorman there, Piggott?” asked Queen. Piggott nodded and a tall, corpulent old man, cap trembling in his hand, uniform shrunken on his flabby body, stumbled forward.

  “Are you the man who stands outside the theatre—the regular doorman?” asked the Inspector.

  “Yes, sir,” the doorman answered, twisting the cap in his hands.

  “‘Very well. Now think hard. Did anyone—anyone, mind you—leave the theatre by the front entrance during the second act?” The Inspector was leaning forward, like a small greyhound.

  The man took a moment before replying. Then he said slowly, but with conviction, “No, sir. Nobody went out of the theatre. Nobody, I mean, but the orangeade boy.”

  “Were you there all the time?” barked the Inspector.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now then. Do you remember anybody coming in during the second act?”

  “We-e-ll. . . . Jessie Lynch, the orangeade boy, came in right after the act started.”

  “Anybody else?”

  There was silence as the old man made a frenzied effort at concentration. After a moment he looked helplessly from one face to another, eyes despairing. Then he mumbled, “I don’t remember, sir.”

  The Inspector regarded him irritably. The old man seemed sincere in his nervous way. He was perspiring and frequently looked sidewise at Panzer, as if he sensed that his defection of memory would cost him his position.

  “I’m awfully sorry, sir,” the doorman repeated. “Awfully sorry. There might’ve been some one, but my memory ain’t as good as it used to be when I was younger. I—I just can’t seem to recall.”

  Ellery’s cool voice cut in on the old man’s thick accents:

  “How long have you been a doorman?”

  The old man’s bewildered eyes shifted to this new inquisitor. “Nigh onto ten years, sir. I wasn’t always a doorman. Only when I got old and couldn’t do nothin’ else—”

&
nbsp; “I understand,” said Ellery kindly. He hesitated a moment, then added inflexibly, “A man who has been a doorman for as many years as you have might forget something about the first act. But people do not often come into a theatre during the second act. Surely if you think hard enough you can answer positively, one way or the other?”

  The response came painfully. “I—I don’t remember, sir. I could say no one did, but that mightn’t be the truth. I just can’t answer.”

  “All right.” The Inspector put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Forget it. Perhaps we’re asking too much. That’s all for the time being.” The doorman shuffled away with the pitiful alacrity of old age.

  Doyle clumped toward the group, a tall handsome man dressed in rough tweeds in his wake, traces of stage make-up streaking his face.

  “This is Mr. Peale, Inspector. He’s the leading man of the show,” reported Doyle.

  Queen smiled at the actor, offering his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Peale. Perhaps you can help us out with a little information.”

  “Glad to be of service, Inspector,” replied Peale, in a rich baritone. He glanced at the back of the Medical Examiner, who was busy over the dead man; then looked away with repugnance.

  “I suppose you were on the stage at the time the hue-and-cry went up in this unfortunate affair?” pursued the Inspector.

  “Oh, yes. In fact, the entire cast was. What is it you would like to know?”

  “Could you definitely place the time that you noticed something wrong in the audience?”

  “Yes, I can. We had just about ten minutes before the end of the act. It was at the climax of the play, and my rôle demands the discharge of a pistol. I remember we had some discussion during rehearsals of this point in the play, and that is how I can be so sure of the time.”