Thursday went shopping on Fifth Avenue. Met Stephen Barry for luncheon. He took her to Central Park; spent afternoon in open. S. B. escorted her home before five. S. B. stayed to dinner, leaving after dinner for work at Roman Theatre on call from stage manager. F. I.-P. spent evening at home with family.
No report Friday morning. No suspicious actions all week. At no time accosted by strange persons. No communication from or to Benjamin Morgan.
Operative No. 39
OK’d: T. V.
“And that’s that,” murmured the Inspector. The next report he selected was extremely short.
REPORT ON OSCAR LEWIN
September 28, 192-
Lewin spent all day Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning at office of Monte Field working with Messrs. Stoates and Cronin. Three men lunched together on each day.
Lewin married, lives in Bronx, 211 E. 156th Street. Spent every evening at home. No suspicious mail, no suspicious calls. No evil habits. Leads sober, modest life. Has good reputation.
Operative No. 16
Note: Full details of Oscar Lewin’s history, habits, etc., available on request through Timothy Cronin, Assistant District Attorney.
T. V.
The Inspector sighed as he deposited the five sheets of paper on his plate, rose, doffed his hat and coat, flung them into Djuna’s waiting arms and sat down again. Then he picked up the last report from the contents of the envelope—a larger sheet to which was pinned a small slip marked: MEMORANDUM TO R.Q.
This slip read:
Dr. Prouty left the attached report with me this morning for transmission to you. He is sorry he could not report in person, but the Burbridge poison-case is taking all his time.
It was signed with Velie’s familiar scrawling initials.
The attached sheet was a hastily typewritten message on the letterhead of the Chief Medical Examiner’s office.
Dear Q [the message ran]: Here’s the dope on the tetra ethyl lead. Jones and I have been superintending an exhaustive probe of all possible sources of dissemination. No success, and I think you can resign yourself to your fate in this respect. You’ll never trace the poison that killed Monte Field. This is the opinion not merely of your humble servant but of the Chief and of Jones. We all agree that the most logical explanation is the gasoline theory. Try to trace that, Sherlocko!
A postscript in Dr. Pronty’s handwriting ran:
Of course, if anything turns up, I’ll let you know immediately. Keep sober.
“Fat lot of good that is!” mumbled the Inspector, as Ellery without a word attacked the aromatic and tempting meal that the priceless Djuna had prepared. The Inspector dug viciously into the fruit salad. He looked far from happy. He grumbled beneath his breath, cast baleful glances at the sheaf of reports by his plate, peered up at Ellery’s tired face and heartily munching jaws and finally threw down his spoon altogether.
“Of all the useless, exasperating, empty bunch of reports I ever saw—!” he growled.
Ellery smiled. “You remember Periander, of course. . . . Eh? You might be polite, sir. . . . Periander of Corinth, who said in a moment of sobriety, ‘To industry nothing is impossible!’”96
With the fire roaring, Djuna curled up on the floor in a corner, his favorite attitude. Ellery smoked a cigarette and stared comfortably into the flames while old Queen crammed his nose vengefully with the contents of his snuff-box. The two Queens settled down to a serious discussion. To be more exact—Inspector Queen settled down and lent the tone of seriousness to the conversation, since Ellery seemed in a sublimely dreamy mood far removed from the sordid details of crime and punishment.
The old man brought his hand down on the aim of his chair with a sharp slap. “Ellery, did you ever in your born days see a case so positively nerve-racking?”
“On the contrary,” commented Ellery, staring with half-closed eyes into the fire. “You are developing a natural case of nerves. You allow little things like apprehending a murderer to upset you unduly. Pardon the hedonistic philosophy. . . . If you will recall, in my story entitled ‘The Affair of the Black Widow,’ my good sleuths had no difficulty at all in laying their hands on the criminal. And why? Because they kept their heads. Conclusion: Always keep your head. . . . I’m thinking of to-morrow. Glorious vacation!”
“For an educated man, my son,” growled the Inspector petulantly, “you show a surprising lack of coherence. You say things that mean nothing and mean things when you say nothing. No—I’m all mixed up—”
Ellery burst into laughter. “The Maine woods—the russet—the good Chauvin’s cabin by the lake—a rod—air—Oh, Lord, won’t to-morrow ever come?”
Inspector Queen regarded his son with a pitiful eagerness. “I—I sort of wish . . . Well, never mind.” He sighed. “All I do say, El, is that if my little burglar fails—it’s all up with us.”
“To the blessed Gehenna97 with burglars!” cried Ellery. “What has Pan98 to do with human tribulation? My next book is as good as written, dad.”
“Stealing another idea from real life, you rascal!” muttered the old man. “If you’re borrowing the Field case for your plot, I’d be extremely interested to read your last few chapters!”
“Poor dad!” chuckled Ellery. “Don’t take life so seriously. If you fail, you fail. Monte Field wasn’t worth a hill of legumes, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” said the old man. “I hate to admit defeat. . . . What a queer mess of motives and schemes this case is, Ellery. This is the first time in my entire experience that I have had such a hard nut to crack. It’s enough to give a man apoplexy! I know WHO committed the murder—I know WHY the murder was committed—I even know HOW the murder was committed! And where am I? . . .” He paused and savagely took a pinch of snuff. “A million miles from nowhere, that’s where!” he growled, and subsided.
“Certainly a most unusual situation,” murmured Ellery. “Yet—more difficult things have been accomplished. . . . Heigh-ho! I can’t wait to bathe myself in that Arcadian stream!”
“And get pneumonia, probably,” said the Inspector anxiously. “You promise me now, young man, that you don’t do any back-to-Nature stunts out there. I don’t want a funeral on my hands—I . . .”
Ellery grew silent suddenly. He looked over at his father. The Inspector seemed strangely old in the flickering light of the fire. An expression of pain humanized the deeply sculptured lines of his face. His hand, brushing back his thick grey hair, looked alarmingly fragile.
Ellery rose, hesitated, colored, then bent swiftly forward and patted his father on the shoulder.
“Brace up, dad,” he said in a low voice. “If it weren’t for my arrangements with Chauvin . . . Everything will be all right—take my word for it. If there were the slightest way in which I could help you by remaining. . . . But there isn’t. It’s your job now, dad—and there’s no man in the world who can handle it better than you. . . .” The old man stared up at him with a strange affection. Ellery turned abruptly away. “Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll have to pack now if I expect to make the 7:45 out of Grand Central to-morrow morning.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. Djuna, who had been sitting Turkish-wise in his comer, got quickly to his feet and crossed the room to the Inspector’s chair. He slipped to the floor, his head resting against the old man’s knees. The silence was punctuated by the snapping of wood in the fireplace and the muffled sounds of Ellery moving about in the next room.
Inspector Queen was very tired. His face, worn, thin, white, lined, was like a cameo in the dull red light. His hand caressed Djuna’s curly head.
“Djuna, lad,” he muttered, “never be a policeman when you grow up.”
Djuna twisted his neck and stared gravely at the old man. “I’m going to be just what you are,” he announced. . . .
The old man leaped to his feet as the telephone bell rang. He snatched the instrument from its table, his face livid, and said in a choked voice: “Queen speaking. Well?”
“Dad!” he cried. “What’s the matter?”
The Inspector essayed a feeble smile. “Just—a little—tired, son, I guess,” he grunted. “I just heard from our housebreaker . . .”
“And—?”
“He found absolutely nothing.”
Ellery gripped his father’s arm and led him to the chair by the bed. The old man slumped into it, his eyes ineffably weary. “Ellery, old son,” he said, “the last shred of evidence is gone. It’s maddening! Not a morsel of physical, tangible evidence that would convict the murderer in court. What have we? A series of perfectly sound deductions—and that’s all. A good lawyer would make Swiss cheese out of our case. . . . Well! The last word hasn’t been spoken yet,” he added with a sudden grimness as he rose from the chair. He pounded Ellery’s broad back in returning vigor.
“Get to bed, son,” he said. “You’ve got to get up early to-morrow morning. I’m going to sit up and think.”
94.The traditional Scottish song “The Gathering of the Clans” begins with the line “The clans are gathering, gathering, gathering . . .”
95.The prison of the City of New York was known as the Tombs, originally built in 1888, and persons held for arraignment or trial were incarcerated there. See The Benson Murder Case, note 71.
96.Periander was a ruler of Corinth who died in 585 B.C.E. There is no definitive source for the many maxims ascribed to him.
97.A real place near Jericho, Gehenna was held to be the final resting place of the ungodly or evildoers, as compared to Hades, which was merely a destination of all of the dead.
98.Hermes, the messenger of the gods and father of Pan, was also the patron of thieves. Pan, on the other hand, was viewed as a god of nature and sexuality. Elllery’s remark is opaque.
INTERLUDE
In Which the Reader’s Attention is Respectfully Requested
The current vogue in detective literature is all for the practice of placing the reader in the position of chief sleuth. I have prevailed upon Mr. Ellery Queen to permit at this point in THE ROMAN HAT MYSTERY the interpolation of a challenge to the reader. . . . “Who killed Monte Field?” “How was the murder accomplished?” . . . Mr. Queen agrees with me that the alert student of mystery tales, now being in possession of all the pertinent facts, should at this stage of the story have reached definite conclusions on the questions propounded. The solution—or enough of it to point unerringly to the guilty character—may be reached by a series of logical deductions and psychological observations. . . . In closing my last personal appearance in the tale let me admonish the reader with a variation of the phrase Caveat Emptor: “Let the reader beware!”
J. J. McC.
PART FOUR
“‘The perfect criminal is a superman. He must be meticulous in his techniques: unseen, unseeable, a Lone Wolf. He must have neither friends nor dependents. He must be careful to a fault, quick of brain, hand and foot. . . . But these are nothing. There have been such men. . . . On the other hand, he must be a favored child of Fate—for circumstances over which he cannot have the remotest control must never contrive his downfall. This, I think, is more difficult to achieve. . . . But the last is most difficult of all. He must never repeat his crime, his weapon or his motive! . . . In all my two-score years as an official of the American police I have not once encountered the perfect criminal nor investigated the perfect crime.”
—From American Crime and Methods of Detection,
by Richard Queen.
CHAPTER XIX
In Which Inspector Queen Conducts More Legal Conversations
It was notable, particularly to District Attorney Sampson, that on Saturday evening Inspector Richard Queen was far from being himself. The old man was irritable, snappish and utterly uncongenial. He paced fretfully across the carpet of Manager Louis Panzer’s office, biting his lips and muttering beneath his breath. He seemed oblivious to the presence of Sampson, Panzer and a third person who had never been in that theatrical sanctum before and was seated, mouse-like, in one of Panzer’s big chairs, his eyes like saucers. This was bright-eyed Djuna, granted the unprecedented privilege of accompanying his grey patron on this latest incursion into the Roman Theatre.
In truth, Queen was singularly depressed. He had many times in his official life been confronted by apparently insoluble problems; he had as many times brought triumph out of failure. The Inspector’s strange manner therefore was doubly inexplicable to Sampson, who had been associated with the old man for years and had never seen him so completely unstrung.
The old man’s moodiness was not due to the progress of the Field investigation, as Sampson worriedly thought. Wiry little Djuna, sitting open-mouthed in his comer, was the only spectator to the Inspector’s mad pacing who could have put his finger on the truth. Djuna, wise by virtue of gamin perspicacity, observant by nature, familiar with Queen’s temperament through a loving association, knew that his patron’s manner was due solely to Ellery’s absence from the scene. Ellery had left New York on the 7:45 express that morning, having been gloomily accompanied to the station by his father. At the last moment the younger man had changed his mind, announcing his decision to forego the trip to Maine and abide in New York by his father’s side until the case was concluded. The old man would have none of it. With his shrewd insight into Ellery’s nature, he realized how keenly his highly strung son had been looking forward to this first vacation in over a year. It was not in his heart, impatient as he was for the constant presence of his son, to deprive him of this long contemplated pleasure trip.
Accordingly, he had swept aside Ellery’s proposal and pushed him up the steps of the train, with a parting clap and a wan smile. Ellery’s last words, shouted from the platform as the train glided out of the station, were: “I’m not forgetting you, dad. You’ll hear from me sooner than you expect!”
Now, torturing the nap of Manager Panzer’s rug, the Inspector was feeling the full impact of their separation. His brain was addled, his constitution flabby, his stomach weak, his eyes dim. He felt completely out of tune with the world and its denizens, and he made no attempt to conceal his irritation.
“Should be about time now, Panzer,” he growled to the stout little manager. “How long does this infernal audience take to clear out, anyway?”
“In a moment, Inspector, in a moment,” replied Panzer. The District Attorney sniffed away the remnants of his cold. Djuna stared in fascination at his god.
A rap on the door twisted their heads about. Tow-headed Harry Neilson, the publicity man, poked his rugged face into the room. “Mind if I join the little party, Inspector?” he inquired cheerfully. “I was in at the birth, and if there’s going to be a death—why, I’m aiming to stick around, with your permission!”
The Inspector shot him a dour glance from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. He stood in a Napoleonic attitude, his every hair and muscle bristling with ill-nature. Sampson regarded him in surprise. Inspector Queen was showing an unexpected side to his temper.
“Might’s well,” he barked. “One more won’t hurt. There’s an army here as it is.”
Neilson reddened slightly and made a move as if to withdraw. The Inspector’s eye twinkled with a partial return to good spirits.
“Here—sit down, Neilson,” he said, not unkindly. “Mustn’t mind an old fogey like me. I’m just frazzled a bit. Might need you to-night at that.”
“Glad to be let in on it, Inspector,” grinned Neilson. “What’s the idea—sort of Spanish Inquisition?”
“Just about.” The old man bent his brows. “But—we’ll see.”
At this moment the door opened and the tall, broad figure of Sergeant Velie stepped quickly into the room. He was carrying a sheet of paper which he handed to the Inspector.
“All present, sir,” he said.
“Everybody out
?” snapped Queen.
“Yes, sir. I’ve told the cleaning-women to go down into the lounge and hang around until we’re through. Cashiers have gone home, so have the ushers and usherettes. Cast is backstage, I guess, getting dressed.”
“‘Right. Let’s go, gentlemen.” The Inspector stalked out of the room followed closely by Djuna, who had not opened his mouth all evening except to emit noiseless gasps of admiration, for no reason that the bemused District Attorney could see. Panzer, Sampson and Neilson also followed, Velie bringing up the rear.
The auditorium was again a vast and deserted place, the empty rows of seats stark and cold. The lights of the theatre had been switched on in full and their cold radiance lit up every corner of the orchestra.
As the five men and Djuna swung toward the extreme left aisle, there was a concerted bobbing of heads from the left section of seats. It was apparent now that a small group of people were awaiting the arrival of the Inspector, who walked heavily down the aisle and took up a position in front of the left boxes, so that all the seated people faced him. Panzer, Neilson and Sampson stood at the head of the aisle with Djuna at one side, a feverish spectator.
The assembled party was placed peculiarly. From the row nearest the Inspector, who stood about half-way down the orchestra, and proceeding towards the rear the only seats occupied were those directly on the left aisle. The end two seats of the dozen rows were filled by a motley aggregation—men and women, old and young. They were the same people who had occupied these chairs on the night of the fatal performance and whom Inspector Queen had personally examined after the discovery of the body. In the section of eight seats—Monte Field’s and the empty ones which had surrounded it—were grouped William Pusak, Esther Jablow, Madge O’Connell, Jess Lynch and Parson Johnny—the Parson furtive-eyed, uneasy and whispering to the usherette behind nicotined fingers.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 89