Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “Sure it is, Inspector. Who says I wasn’t?” The girl was growing excited, but Queen glanced at her fluttering fingers and they became still.

  “Aw, cut it out, Madge,” snapped the Parson unexpectedly. “Don’t make it no worse than it is. Sooner or later he’ll find out we were together anyways, and then he’d have something on you. You don’t know this bud. Come clean, Madge!”

  “So!” said the Inspector, looking pleasantly from the gangster to the girl. “Parson, you’re getting sensible in your old age. Did I hear you say you two were together? When, and why, and for how long?”

  Madge O’Connell’s face had gone red and white by turns. She favored her lover with a venomous glance, then turned back to Queen.

  “I guess I might as well spill it,” she said disgustedly, “after this half-wit shows a yellow streak. Here’s all I know, Inspector—and Gawd help you if you tell that little mutt of a manager about it!” Queen’s eyebrow went up, but he did not interrupt her. “I got the passion for Johnny, all right,” she continued defiantly, “because—well, Johnny kind of likes blood-and-thunder stuff, and it was his off-night. So I got him the pass. It was for two—all the passes are—so that the seat next to Johnny was empty all the time. It was an aisle seat on the left—best I could get for that loud-mouthed shrimp! During the first act I was pretty busy and couldn’t sit with him. But after the first intermission, when the curtain went up on Act II, things got slack and it was a good chance to sit next to him. Sure, I admit it—I was sittin’ next to him nearly the whole act! Why not—don’t I deserve a rest once in a while?”

  “I see.” Queen bent his brows. “You would have saved me a lot of time and trouble, young lady, if you’d told me this before. Didn’t you get up at all during the second act?”

  “Well, I did a couple of times, I guess,” she said guardedly. “But everything was okay, and the manager wasn’t around, so I went back.”

  “Did you notice this man Field as you passed?”

  “No—no, sir.”

  “Did you notice if somebody was sitting next to him?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t know he was there. Wasn’t—wasn’t looking that way, I guess.”

  “I suppose, then,” continued Queen coldly, “you don’t remember ushering somebody into the last row, next to the last seat, during the second act?”

  “No, sir. . . . Aw, I know I shouldn’t have done it, maybe, but I didn’t see a thing wrong all night.” She was growing more nervous at each question. She furtively glanced at the Parson, but he was staring at the floor.

  “You’re a great help, young lady,” said Queen, rising suddenly. “Beat it.”

  As she turned to go, the gangster with an innocent leer slid across the rug to follow her. Queen made a sign to the policeman. The Parson found himself yanked back to his former position.

  “Not so fast, Johnny,” said Queen icily. “O’Connell!” The girl turned, trying to appear unconcerned. “For the time being I shan’t say anything about this to Mr. Panzer. But I’d advise you to watch your step and learn to keep your mouth clean when you talk to your superiors. Get out now, and if I ever hear of another break on your part God help you!”

  She started to laugh, wavered and fled from the room. Queen whirled on the policeman. “Put the nippers on him, officer,” he snapped, jerking his finger toward the gangster, “and run him down to the station!”

  The policeman saluted. There was a flash of steel, a dull click, and the Parson stared stupidly at the handcuffs on his wrists. Before he could open his mouth he was hustled out of the room.

  Queen made a disgusted motion of his hand, threw himself into the leather-covered chair, took a pinch of snuff, and said to Johnson in an entirely different tone, “I’ll trouble you, Johnson my boy, to ask Mr. Morgan to step in here.”

  Benjamin Morgan entered Queen’s temporary sanctum with a firm step that did not succeed entirely in concealing a certain bewildered agitation. He said in a cheerful, hearty baritone, “Well, sir, here I am,” and sank into a chair with much the same air of satisfaction that a man exhales when he seats himself in his club-room after a hard day. Queen was not taken in. He favored Morgan with a long, earnest stare, which made the paunchy grizzled man squirm.

  “My name is Queen, Mr. Morgan,” he said in a friendly voice, “Inspector Richard Queen.”

  “I suspected as much,” said Morgan, rising to shake hands. “I think you know who I am, Inspector. I was under your eye more than once in the Criminal Court years ago. There was a case—do you remember it?—I was defending Mary Doolittle when she was being tried for murder. . . .”

  “Indeed, yes!” exclaimed the Inspector heartily. “I wondered where I’d seen you before. You got her off, too, if I’m not mistaken. That was a mighty nice piece of work, Morgan—very, very nice. So you’re the fellow! Well, well!”

  Morgan laughed. “Was pretty nice, at that,” he admitted. “But those days are over, I’m afraid, Inspector. You know—I’m not in the criminal end of it any more.”

  “No?” Queen took a pinch of snuff. “I didn’t know that. Anything”—he sneezed—“anything go wrong?” he asked sympathetically.

  Morgan was silent. After a moment he crossed his legs and said, “Quite a bit went wrong. May I smoke?” he asked abruptly. On Queen’s assent he lit a fat cigar and became absorbed in its curling haze.

  Neither man spoke for a long time. Morgan seemed to sense that he was under a rigid inspection, for he crossed and uncrossed his legs repeatedly, avoiding Queen’s eyes. The old man appeared to be ruminating, his head sunk on his breast.

  The silence became electric, embarrassing. There was not a sound in the room, except the ticking of a floor-clock in a comer. From somewhere in the theatre came a sudden burst of conversation. Voices were raised to a high pitch of indignation or protest. Then even this was cut off.

  “Come, now, Inspector. . . .” Morgan coughed. He was enveloped in a thick rolling smoke from his cigar, and his voice was harsh and strained. “What is this—a refined third degree?”

  Queen looked up, startled. “Eh? I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan. My thoughts went wool-gathering, I guess. Been rubbing it in, have I? Dear me! I must be getting old.” He rose and took a short turn about the room, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Morgan’s eyes followed him.

  “Mr. Morgan”—the Inspector pounced on him with one of his habitual conversational leaps—“do you know why I’ve asked you to stay and talk to me?”

  “Why—I can’t say I do, Inspector. I suppose, naturally, that it has to do with the accident here to-night. But what connection it can possibly have with me, I’ll confess I don’t know.” Morgan puffed violently at his weed.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, you will know in a moment,” said Queen, leaning back against the desk. “The man murdered here to-night—it wasn’t any accident, I can assure you of that—was a certain Monte Field.”

  The announcement was placid enough but the effect upon Morgan was astounding. He fairly leaped from his chair, eyes popping, hands trembling, breath hoarse and heavy. His cigar dropped to the floor. Queen regarded him with morose eyes.

  “Monte—Field!” Morgan’s cry was terrible in its intensity. He stared at the Inspector’s face. Then he collapsed in the chair, his whole body sagging.

  “Pick up your cigar, Mr. Morgan,” said Queen. “I shouldn’t like to abuse Mr. Panzer’s hospitality.” The lawyer stooped mechanically and retrieved the cigar.

  “My friend,” thought Queen to himself, “either you are one of the world’s greatest actors or you just got the shock of your life!” He straightened up. “Come now, Mr. Morgan—pull yourself together. Why should the death of Field affect you in this way?”

  “But—but, man! Monte Field . . . Oh, my God!” And he threw back his head and laughed—a wild humor that made Queen sit up alertly. The spasm continued, Morgan’s body rocking to and fro in hysteria. The Inspector knew the symptoms. He slapped the lawyer in the face, pulling him to
his feet by his coat-collar.

  “Don’t forget yourself, Morgan,” commanded Queen. The rough tone had its effect. Morgan stopped laughing, regarded Queen with a blank expression, and dropped heavily into the chair—still shaken, but himself.

  “I’m—I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, dabbing his face with a handkerchief. “It was—quite a surprise.”

  “Evidently,” said Queen dryly. “You couldn’t have acted more surprised if the earth had opened under your feet. Now, Morgan, what’s this all about?”

  The lawyer continued to wipe the perspiration from his face. He was shaking like a leaf, his jowls red. He gnawed at his lip in indecision.

  “All right, Inspector,” he said at last. “What do you want to know?”

  “That’s better,” said Queen approvingly. “Suppose you tell me when you last saw Monte Field?”

  The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Why—why, I haven’t seen him for ages,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose you know that we were partners once—we had a successful legal practice. Then something happened and we broke up. I—I haven’t seen him since.”

  “And that was how long ago:”

  “A little over two years.”

  “Very good.” Queen leaned forward. “I’m anxious to know, too, just why the two of you broke up your partnership.”

  The lawyer looked down at the rug, fingering his cigar. “I—well, I guess you know Field’s reputation as well as I. We didn’t agree on ethics, had a little argument and decided to dissolve.”

  “You parted amicably?”

  “Well—under the circumstances, yes.”

  Queen drummed on the desk. Morgan shifted uneasily. He was evidently still laboring under the effects of his astonishment.

  “What time did you get to the theatre to-night, Morgan?” asked the Inspector.

  Morgan seemed surprised at the question. “Why—about a quarter after eight,” he replied.

  “Let me see your ticket-stub, please,” said Queen.

  The lawyer handed it over after fumbling for it in several pockets. Queen took it, extracted from his own pocket the three stubs he had secreted there, and lowered his hands below the level of the desk. He looked up in a moment, his eyes expressionless as he returned the four bits of pasteboard to his own pocket.

  “So you were sitting in M2 Center, were you? Pretty good seat, Morgan,” he remarked. “Just what made you come to see ‘Gunplay’ to-night, anyway?”

  “Why, it is a rum sort of show, isn’t it, Inspector?” Morgan appeared embarrassed. “I don’t know that I would ever have thought of coming—I’m not a theatre-going man, you know—except that the Roman management was kind enough to send me a complimentary ticket for this evening’s performance.”

  “Is that a fact?” exclaimed Queen ingenuously. “Quite nice of them, I’d say. When did you receive the ticket?”

  “Why, I got the ticket and the letter Saturday morning, Inspector, at my office.”

  “Oh, you got a letter, too, eh? You don’t happen to have it around you, do you?”

  “I’m—pretty—sure I—have,” grunted Morgan as he began to search his pockets. “Yes! Here it is.”

  He offered the Inspector a small, rectangular sheet of white paper, deckle-edged and of crushed bond stock. Queen handled it gingerly as he held it up to the light. Through the few typewritten lines on it a watermark was distinctly visible. His lips puckered, and he laid the sheet cautiously on the desk-blotter. As Morgan watched, he opened the top drawer of Panzer’s desk and rummaged about until he found a piece of note-paper. It was large, square, and heavily glazed with an ornate theatre-insignia engraved on an upper quarter. Queen put the two pieces of paper side by side, thought a moment, then sighed and picked up the sheet which Morgan had handed him. He read it through slowly.

  The Management of the Roman Theatre cordially invites the attendance of Mr. Benjamin Morgan at the Monday evening, September twenty-fourth performance of GUNPLAY. As a leading figure of the New York bar, Mr. Morgan’s opinion of the play as a social and legal document is earnestly solicited. This, however, is by no means obligatory; and the Management wishes further to assure Mr. Morgan that the acceptance of its invitation entails no obligation whatsoever.

  (Signed) THE ROMAN THEATRE

  Per: S.

  The “S” was a barely decipherable ink-scrawl.

  Queen looked up, smiling. “Mighty nice of the Theatre, Mr. Morgan. I just wonder now—” Still smiling, he signaled to Johnson, who had been sitting in a comer chair, silent spectator to the interview.

  “Get Mr. Panzer, the manager, for me, Johnson,” said Queen. “And if the publicity man—chap by the name of Bealson, or Pealson, or something—is around, have him step in here, too.”

  He turned to the lawyer after Johnson left.

  “Let me trouble you for your gloves a moment, Mr. Morgan,” he said lightly.

  With a puzzled stare, Morgan dropped them on the desk in front of Queen, who picked them up curiously. They were of white silk—the conventional gloves for evening-wear. The Inspector pretended to be very busy examining them. He turned them inside out, minutely scrutinized a speck on the tip of one finger, and even went so far as to try them on his own hands, with a jesting remark to Morgan. His examination concluded, he gravely handed the gloves back to the lawyer. “And—oh, yes, Mr. Morgan—that’s a mighty spruce-looking tophat you’ve got there. May I see it a moment?”

  Still silently, the lawyer placed his hat on the desk. Queen picked it up with a carefree air, whistling in a slightly flat key, “The Sidewalks of New York.”44 He turned the hat over in his hand. It was a glistening affair of extremely fine quality. The lining was of shimmering white silk, with the name of the maker, “James Chauncey Co.,”45 stamped in gold. Two initials, “B.M.,” were similarly inlaid on the band.

  Queen grinned as he placed the hat on his own head. It was a close fit. He doffed it almost immediately and returned it to Morgan.

  “Very kind of you to allow me these liberties, Mr. Morgan,” he said as he hastily scribbled a note on a pad which he took from his pocket.

  The door opened to admit Johnson, Panzer and Harry Neilson. Panzer stepped forward hesitantly and Neilson dropped into an armchair.

  “What can we do for you, Inspector?” quavered Panzer, making a valiant attempt to disregard the presence of the grizzled aristocrat slumped in his chair.

  “Mr. Panzer,” said Queen slowly, “how many kinds of stationery are used in the Roman Theatre?”

  The manager’s eyes opened wide. “Just one, Inspector. There’s a sheet of it on the desk in front of you.”

  “Ummmm.” Queen handed Panzer the slip of paper which he had received from Morgan. “I want you to examine that sheet very carefully, Mr. Panzer. To your knowledge, are there any samples of it in the Roman?”

  The manager looked it over with an unfamiliar stare. “No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. What’s this?” he exclaimed, as his eye caught the first few typewritten lines. “Neilson!” he cried, whirling on the publicity man. “What’s this—your latest publicity stunt?” He waved the sheet in Neilson’s face.

  Neilson snatched it from his employer’s hand and read it quickly. ‘Well, I’ll be switched!” he said softly. “If that doesn’t beat the non-stop exploitation record!” He reread it, an admiring look on his face. Then, with four pairs of eyes trained accusingly on him, he handed it back to Panzer. “I’m sorry I have to deny any share in this brilliant idea,” he drawled. “Why the deuce didn’t I think of it?” And he retreated to his corner, arms folded on his chest.

  The manager turned to Queen in bewilderment. “This is very peculiar, Inspector. To my knowledge the Roman Theatre has never used this stationery, and I can state positively that I never authorized any such publicity stunt. And if Neilson denies a part in it—” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Queen placed the paper carefully in his pocket. “That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you.” He dism
issed the two men with a nod.

  He looked appraisingly at the lawyer, whose face was suffused with a fiery color that reached from his neck to the roots of his hair. The Inspector raised his hand and let it drop with a little bang on the desk.

  “What do you think of that, Mr. Morgan?” he asked simply. Morgan leaped to his feet. “It’s a damned frame-up!” he shouted, shaking his fist in Queen’s face. “I don’t know any more about it than—than you do, if you’ll pardon a little impertinence! What’s more, if you think you can scare me by this hocus-pocus searching of gloves and hats and—and, by God, you haven’t examined my underwear yet, Inspector!” He stopped for lack of breath, his face purple.

  “But, my dear Morgan,” said the Inspector mildly, “why do you upset yourself so? One would think I’ve been accusing you of Monte Field’s murder. Sit down and cool off, man; I asked you a simple question.”

  Morgan collapsed in his chair. He passed a quivering hand over his forehead and muttered, “Sorry, Inspector. Lost my temper. But of all the rotten deals—” He subsided, mumbling to himself.

  Queen sat staring quizzically at him. Morgan was making a great to-do with his handkerchief and cigar. Johnson coughed deprecatingly, looking up at the ceiling. Again a burst of sound penetrated the walls, only to be throttled in mid-air.

  Queen’s voice cut sharply into the silence. “That’s all, Morgan. You may go.”

  The lawyer lumbered to his feet, opened his mouth as if to speak, clamped his lips together and, clapping his hat on his head, walked out of the room. Johnson innocently lounged forward to help him with the door, on a signal from the Inspector. Both men disappeared.

  Queen, left alone in the room, immediately fell into a fierce preoccupation. He took from his pockets the four stubs, the letter Morgan had given him and the woman’s rhinestone evening bag which he had found in the dead man’s pocket. This last article he opened for the second time that evening and spread its contents on the desk before him. A few calling cards, with the name “Frances Ives-Pope” neatly engraved; two dainty lace handkerchiefs; a vanity case filled with powder, rouge and lipstick; a small change-purse containing twenty dollars in bills and a few coins; and a house-key. Queen fingered these articles thoughtfully for a moment, returned them to the handbag and putting bag, stubs and letter back into his pocket once more, rose and looked slowly about. He crossed the room to the clothes-tree, picked up the single hat, a derby, hanging there and examined its interior. The initials “L.P.” and the head-size “6¾,” seemed to interest him.