Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “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. Morgan’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.”60

  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 suit-case 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.

  59.“Massa’s in de Cold Ground” is a minstrel song by Stephen Foster (1826–1864) first published in 1852. The chorus is:

  “Down in de cornfield

  “Hear dat mournful sound:

  “All de darkeys am a weeping—

  “Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.”

  60.The Temple of Apollo at Delphi was headed by the Pythia, known as the Oracle of Delphi. She provided divinely-inspired advice to supplicants in response to questions asked.

  CHAPTER X

  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:

  MONTE FIELD

  ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

  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 greyed 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 in 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 paper 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 st
raight 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 Giants61 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 calibre 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 wash-bowl, 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.