Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  At the Inspector’s sudden gesture all became silent as the grave. Sampson, looking about him at the bright chandeliers and lights, the deserted theatre, the lowered curtain, could not help feeling that the stage was being set for dramatic revelations. He leaned forward interestedly. Panzer and Neilson were quiet and watchful. Djuna kept his eyes fixed on the old man.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Queen announced curtly, staring at the assembled company, “I’ve brought you here for a definite purpose. I will not keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary, but what is necessary and what is not necessary is entirely up to me. If I find that I do not receive what I consider truthful answers to my questions, everybody will stay here until I am satisfied. I want that thoroughly understood before we proceed.”

  He paused and glared about. There was a ripple of apprehension, a sudden crackle of conversation which died as quickly as it was born.

  “On Monday night,” continued the Inspector frostily, “you people attended the performance at this theatre and, with the exception of certain employees and others now seated at the rear, occupied the seats in which you now find yourselves.” Sampson grinned as he noticed the stiffening of backs at these words, as if each individual felt his seat grow suddenly warm and uncomfortable beneath him.

  “I want you to imagine that this is Monday night. I want you to think back to that night and try to remember everything that happened. By everything I mean any occurrence, no matter how trivial or apparently unimportant, that might have left an impression on your memory. . . .”

  As the Inspector warmed to his words, a number of people drifted into the orchestra at the rear. Sampson greeted them in whispers. The little party was composed of Eve Ellis, Hilda Orange, Stephen Barry, James Peale and three or four other members of the cast of “Gunplay.” They were dressed in their street-clothes. Peale whispered to Sampson that they had just come from their dressing-rooms and had dropped into the auditorium on hearing voices.

  “Queen’s holding a little pow-wow,” whispered Sampson in return.

  “Do you think the Inspector has any objections to our staying a while and listening?” asked Barry in a low tone, with an apprehensive glance toward the Inspector, who had stopped and was staring icily in their direction.

  “Don’t see why—” began Sampson worriedly, when Eve Ellis murmured “Shhh!” and they all became silent.

  “Now—” said the Inspector venomously, when the flurry had subsided, “this is the situation. Remember, you are now back in Monday evening. The curtain has gone up on the second act and the theatre is dark. There is a lot of noise from the stage and you are intent on the exciting sequences of the play. . . . Did any of you, especially those sitting in the aisle seats, notice anything peculiar, unusual or disturbing around or near you at that time?”

  He paused expectantly. There were puzzled, fearful shakings of the head. No one answered.

  “Think hard,” growled the Inspector. “You remember on Monday night I went down this aisle and questioned all of you in the same vein. Naturally I don’t want lies, and I can’t reasonably expect that you will tell me something startling now when you could remember nothing Monday night. But this is a desperate situation. A man was murdered here and we are frankly up against it. One of the most difficult cases we have ever encountered! In the light of such a condition, when we find ourselves against a blank wall with not the slightest idea where to turn—I am being honest with you as I expect you to be with me—I must turn to you as the only members of the audience five nights ago who were in a position to see something important, if anything important occurred. . . . It has been my experience that often, under stress of nervousness and excitement, a man or woman will forget a little detail that returns to memory after a few hours, days, weeks of normalcy. It is my hope that something of the sort has taken place with you. . . .”

  As Inspector Queen spoke, the words dropping acidly from his lips, the company lost its nervousness in its fascinated interest. When he paused, people put their heads together and whispered excitedly, shaking their heads at times, arguing in fierce, low tones at others. The Inspector waited in a resigned patience.

  “Raise your hands if you have something to tell me. . . .” he said.

  A woman’s timid white hand fluttered aloft.

  “Yes, madam?” commanded Queen, pointing his finger. “Do you recall anything unusual?”

  A withered old lady rose embarrassedly to her feet and began to stammer in a squeaking voice. “I don’t know whether it’s important or not, sir,” she said tremulously. “But I do remember some time during the second act a woman, I think it was, walking down the aisle and a few seconds later walking up again.”

  “Yes? That’s interesting, madam,” commented the Inspector. “About what time was this—can you recall?”

  “I don’t remember the time, sir,” shrilled the old lady, “but it was about ten minutes or so after the beginning of the act.”

  “I see. . . . And do you recall anything of her appearance? Was she young or old? What did she wear?”

  The old lady looked troubled. “I don’t exactly remember, sir,” she quavered. “I wasn’t paying—”

  A high, clear voice interrupted from the rear. Heads twisted about. Madge O’Connell had jumped to her feet.

  “You don’t have to mess around with that any more, Inspector,” she announced coldly. “That lady saw me walking down the aisle and back again. That was before I—you know.” She winked pertly in the Inspector’s direction.

  People gasped. The old lady stared with pitiful bewilderment at the usherette, then at the Inspector and finally sat down.

  “I’m not surprised,” said the Inspector quietly. “Well, anybody else?”

  There was no answer. Realizing that the company might feel shy of announcing their thoughts in public Queen started up the aisle, working from row to row, questioning each person separately in tones inaudible to the rest. When he had finished he returned slowly to his original position.

  “I see that I must allow you ladies and gentlemen to return to your peaceful firesides. Thank you very much for your help. . . . Dismissed!”

  He flung the word at them. They stared at him dazedly, then rose in muttering groups, took up their coats and hats and under Velie’s stern eye began to file out of the theatre. Hilda Orange, standing in the group behind the last row, sighed.

  “It’s almost embarrassing to see that poor old gentleman’s disappointment,” she whispered to the others. “Come on, folks, let’s be going, too.”

  The actors and actresses left the theatre among the departing company.

  When the last man and woman had disappeared, the Inspector marched back up the aisle and stood gloomily staring at the little group who were left. They seemed to sense the seething fire in the old man and they cowered. But the Inspector, with a characteristic lightning change of front, became human again.

  He sat down in one of the seats and folded his arms over the back, surveying Madge O’Connell, Parson Johnny and the others.

  “All right, folks,” he said in a genial tone. “How about you, Parson? You’re a free man, you don’t have to worry about silks any more and you can speak up now like any self-respecting citizen. Can you give us any help in this affair?”

  “Naw,” grunted the little gangster. “I told you all I knew. Ain’t got a thing to say.”

  “I see. . . . You know, Parson, that we’re interested in your dealings with Field.” The gangster looked up in shocked surprise. “Oh, yes,” continued the Inspector. “We want you to tell us sometime about your business with Mr. Field in the past. You’ll keep that in mind, won’t you? . . . Parson,” he said sharply, “who killed Monte Field? Who had it in for him? If you know—out with it!”

  “Aw, Inspector,” the Parson whined, “you ain’t pullin’ that stuff on me again, are you? How should I know? Field was one slick guy—he didn’t go around welching on his enemies. No, sir! I wouldn’t know. . . . He was pretty good
to me—got me off on a couple of charges,” he admitted unblushingly. “But I didn’t have no more idea he was here Monday night than—hell, than anything.”

  The Inspector turned to Madge O’Connell.

  “How about you, O’Connell?” he asked softly. “My son, Mr. Queen, tells me that on Monday night you confided in him about closing the exit-doors. You didn’t say anything to me about that. What do you know?”

  The girl returned his stare coolly. “I told you once, Inspector. I haven’t a thing to say.”

  “And you, William Pusak—” Queen turned to the wizened little bookkeeper. “Do you remember anything now that you forgot Monday night?”

  Pusak wriggled uncomfortably. “Meant to tell you, Inspector,” he mumbled. “And when I read about it in the papers it came back to me . . . As I bent over Mr. Field Monday night I smelled a terrible smell of whisky. I don’t remember if I told you that before.”

  “Thank you,” remarked the Inspector dryly, rising. “A very important contribution to our little investigation. You may go, the whole lot of you . . .”

  The orangeade-boy, Jess Lynch, looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to talk to me, too, sir?” he asked anxiously.

  The Inspector smiled despite his abstraction. “Ah, yes. The helpful purveyor of orangeade. . . . And what have you to say, Jess?”

  “Well, sir, before this fellow Field came over to my stand to ask for the ginger ale, I happened to notice that he picked up something in the alleyway,”‘ said the boy eagerly. “It was shiny, sort of, but I couldn’t see it clear enough. He put it in his hip-pocket right away.”

  He concluded triumphantly, glancing about him as if to invite applause. The Inspector seemed interested enough.

  “What was this shiny object like, Jess?” he inquired. “Might it have been a revolver?”

  “Revolver? Gosh, I don’t think so,” said the orangeade boy doubtfully. “It was square, like. . . .”

  “Might it have been a woman’s purse?” interrupted the Inspector.

  The boy’s face brightened. “That’s it!” he cried. “I’ll bet that’s what it was. Shined all over, like colored stones.”

  Queen sighed. “Very good, Lynch,” he said. “You go home now like a good boy.”

  Silently the gangster, the usherette, Pusak and his feminine charge, and the orangeade-boy rose and departed. Velie accompanied them to the outer door.

  Sampson waited until they had gone before he took the Inspector to one side.

  “What’s the matter, Q?” he demanded. “Aren’t things going right?”

  “Henry, my boy,” smiled the Inspector, “we’ve done as much as mortal brains could. Just a little more time . . . I wish—” He did not say what he wished. He grasped Djuna firmly by the arm and bidding Panzer, Neilson, Velie and the District Attorney a placid good-night, left the theatre.

  At the apartment, as the Inspector wielded his key and the door swung open, Djuna pounced on a yellow envelope lying on the floor. It had evidently been stuck through the crack at the bottom of the door. Djuna flourished it in the old man’s face.

  “It’s from Mr. Ellery, I’ll bet!” he cried. “I knew he wouldn’t forget!” He seemed more extraordinarily like a monkey than ever as he stood grinning, the telegram in his hand.

  The Inspector snatched the envelope from Djmm’s hand and, not pausing to take off his hat or coat, switched on the lights in the living-room and eagerly extracted the yellow slip of paper.

  Djuna had been correct.

  ARRIVED SAFELY [it ran] CHAUVIN WILD WITH DELIGHT FISHING PROJECT EXCEPTIONAL stop THINK I HAVE SOLVED YOUR LITTLE PROBLEM stop JOIN DISTINGUISHED COMPANY OF RABELAIS CHAUCER SHAKESPEARE DRYDEN WHO SAID MAKE A VIRTUE OF NECESSITY stop WHY NOT GO INTO BLACKMAILING BUSINESS YOURSELF stop DONT CROWL DJUNA TO DEATH AFFECTIONATELY ELLERY

  The Inspector stared down at the harmless yellow slip, a startled comprehension transmuting the harsh lines of his face.

  He whirled on Djnna, clapped that young gentleman’s cap on his tousled head and pulled his arm purposefully.

  “Djuna, old son,” he said gleefully, “let’s go around the comer and celebrate with a couple of ice-cream sodas!”

  CHAPTER XX

  In Which Mr. Michaels Writes a Letter

  For the first time in a week Inspector Queen was genuinely himself as he strode cheerfully into his tiny office at the headquarters building and shied his coat at a chair.

  It was Monday morning. He rubbed his hands, hummed “The Sidewalks of New York,” as he plumped down at his desk and briskly ran through his voluminous mail and reports. He spent a half-hour issuing instructions by word of mouth and telephone to subordinates in various offices of the Detective Bureau, studied briefly a number of reports which a stenographer placed before him and finally pressed one of a row of buttons on his desk.

  Velie appeared at once.

  “Howdy, Thomas,” said the Inspector heartily. “How are you this fine Fall morning?”

  Velie permitted himself a smile. “Well enough. Inspector,” he said. “And you? You seemed a little under the weather Saturday night.”

  The Inspector chuckled. “Let bygones be bygones, Thomas, my lad. Djuna and I visited the Bronx Zoo yesterday and spent a delightful four hours among our brethren, the animals.”

  “That imp of yours was in his element, I’ll bet,” growled Velie, “among the monkeys especially.”

  “Now, now, Thomas,” chided the Inspector. “Don’t be mistaken about Djuna. He’s a smart little whippersnapper. Going to be a great man some day, mark my words!”

  “Djuna?” Velie nodded gravely. “Guess you’re right, Inspector. I’d give my right paw for that kid. . . . What’s the program to-day, sir?”

  “There’s a lot on the program to-day, Thomas,” Queen said mysteriously. “Did you get hold of Michaels after I telephoned you yesterday morning?”

  “Sure thing, Inspector. He’s been waiting outside for an hour. Came in early, with Piggott hanging on his heels. Piggott’s been tailing him all over creation and he’s pretty disgusted.”

  “Well, I always said a man’s a fool to become a policeman,” chuckled Queen. “Bring in the lamb.”

  Velie went out, to reappear a moment later with the tall, portly Michaels. Field’s valet was dressed sombrely. He seemed nervous and ill at ease.

  ‘“Now, Thomas, my lad,” said the Inspector after he had motioned Michaels to the chair beside his desk, “you go out and lock that door and don’t let the Commissioner himself disturb me. Get that?”

  Velie repressed a curious glance, grunted and departed. A few moments later a bulky figure was dimly discernible in silhouette through the frosted glass of the door.

  At the expiration of a half-hour Velie was summoned by telephone to his superior’s office. He unlocked the door. On the desk before the Inspector reposed a cheap square envelope unsealed, a sheet of notepaper partly visible as it lay inside. Michaels was on his feet, pale and trembling, his hat crushed in two beefy hands. Velie’s sharp eyes noticed a generous ink stain on the fingers of the man’s left hand.

  “You are going to take very good care of Mr. Michaels, Thomas,” said the Inspector genially. “To-day, for instance, I want you to entertain him. I have no doubt you’ll find something to do—go to a movie—there’s an idea! In any event be friendly with the gentleman until you hear from me. . . . No communication with anybody, Michaels, do you hear?” he added brusquely, turning to the big man. “Just you tag along with Sergeant Velie and play nicely.”

  “You know I’m on the square, Inspector,” mumbled Michaels sullenly. “You don’t have to—”

  “Just a precaution, Michaels—just an elementary precaution,” interrupted the Inspector, smiling. “Have a nice time, boys!”

  The two men left. Seated at his desk, Queen tilted his swivel chair, picked up the envelope before him reflectively, took out the slip of cheap white paper and read it over with a little smile.

  The note bore neither da
te nor salutation. The message began abruptly.

  “The writer is Chas. Michaels, I think you know me. I have been Monte Field’s right-hand man for over two years.

  I won’t beat around the bush. Last Monday night you killed Field in the Roman Theatre. Monte Field told me Sunday he had an appointment with you at the Theatre. And I am the only one who does know this.

  Another thing. I also know why you killed him. You put him away to get hold of the papers in Field’s hat. But you do not know that the papers you stole from him are not the originals. To prove this to you, I am enclosing one sheet from the testimony of Nellie Johnson which was in Field’s possession.99 If the papers you took from Field’s hat are still in existence, compare what you have with this one. You will soon see that I am giving you the straight goods. And I have the rest of the originals safely put away where you will never lay hands on them. I might say that the police are looking for them with their tongues hanging out. Wouldn’t it be nice if I stepped into Inspector Queen’s office with the papers and my little story?

  I will give you a chance to buy these papers. You can bring $25,000 in cold cash to the place I describe, and I will hand them over to you. I need money and you need the papers and my silence.

  Meet me to-morrow, Tuesday night, at twelve o’clock, at the seventh bench on the right-hand side of the paved path in Central Park which starts at the northwest corner of 59th Street and 5th Avenue. I will be dressed in a grey overcoat and a grey slouch hat. Just say the word Papers to me.

  This is the only way you can get the papers. Don’t look for me before the appointment. If you are not there, I know what I have to do.”

  The scrawl, closely and painfully written, was signed: “Charles Michaels.”

  Inspector Queen sighed, licked the flap of the envelope and sealed it. He stared steadily at the name and address written in the same handwriting on the envelope. Unhurriedly he affixed a stamp on one corner.