Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  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 grey 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 sweat-band, 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 mental prowess. But I can’t think of a more poetical phrase than ‘You’ve put 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?”57

  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 négligee 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.”58 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.”*

  “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 livingroom into the foyer. Queen and Elle
ry 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 suit-case 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?”

  54.Literally, dressed in a casual or careless manner, but usually connoting an inappropriate exposure of skin.

  55.Men’s shirts still had collars that were detachable from the shirt body. If necessary, one could change one’s collar without changing the shirt.

  Advertisement for shirt collars, ca. 1925.

  56.A bluepoint oyster, that is.

  57.This was, after all, during Prohibition.

  58.Mulberry Street was the heart of Little Italy. The remark implies that Field was well-dressed in the manner of an Italian gangster.

  * [Author’s note:] Ellery Queen was here probably paraphrasing the Shakespearian quotation: “O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.”

  [Editor’s note: Othello, Act II, Scene 3.]

  CHAPTER IX

  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 distinguished 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 suit-case, 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,’”59 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 any one 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 check-book 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 dinner-time. 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.”