Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  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 bell 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 half-way 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 deshabille54 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, collarless55 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 book-shop, 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 fiddle-sticks,” 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 plainclothes men 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 négligee 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 flat-foots 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 had begun 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 night-gown. 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 bluepoint56 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 comer 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 comer 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 négligee 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 snuff-box.

  “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, overcoats, 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.