Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “How to accomplish the feat was another matter. . . . The blackmail opportunity fitted the circumstances perfectly. I actually had the original papers pertaining to Barry’s parentage and tainted blood. Barry thought these destroyed—he had no reason to suspect that the papers he took from Field were clever forgeries. If I blackmailed him he was in the same boat as before. Consequently he would have to take the same action.

  “And so I used our friend Charley Michaels. The only reason I utilized him was that to Barry it would seem logical that Michaels, Field’s crony and bully and constant companion, should be in possession of the original papers. I got Michaels to write a letter, dictated by me. The reason I wanted Michael to write it was that possibly Barry, through association with Field, was familiar with the man’s handwriting. This may seem a small point but I couldn’t take any chances. If I slipped up on my ruse, Barry would see through it at once and I’d never get him again.

  “I enclosed a sheet of the original papers in the letter, to show that the new blackmailing threat had teeth. I stated that Field had brought Barry copies—the sheet enclosed proved my statement. Barry had no reason in the world to doubt that Michaels was milking him as his master had done before. The letter was so worded as to be an ultimatum. I set the time and the place and, to make a long story short, the plan worked. . . .

  “I guess that’s all, gentlemen. Barry came, he had his trusty little hypodermic filled with tetra ethyl lead, also a flask—an exact replica, you see, of the Field crime except for locale. My man—it was Ritter—was instructed to take no chances. As soon as he recognized Barry he covered him and raised the alarm. Luckily we were almost at their elbows behind the bushes. Barry was desperate and would have killed himself and Ritter, too, if he’d had half a chance.”

  There was a significant silence as the Inspector finished, sighed, leaned forward and took some snuff.

  Sampson shifted in his chair. “Listens like a thriller, Q,” he said admiringly. “But I’m not clear on a few points. For example, if this tetra ethyl lead is so little known, how on earth did Barry ever find out about it—to the degree of actually making some himself?”

  “Oh.” The Inspector smiled. “That worried me from the moment Jones described the poison. I was in the dark even after the capture. And yet—it just goes to show how stupid I am—the answer was under my nose all the time. You will remember that at the Ives-Pope place a certain Dr. Cornish was introduced. Now Cornish is a personal friend of the old financier and both of them are interested in medical science. In fact, I recall Ellery’s asking at one time: ‘Didn’t Ives-Pope recently donate $100,000 to the Chemical Research Foundation?’ That was true. It was on the occasion of a meeting in the Ives-Pope house one evening several months ago that Barry accidentally found out about tetra ethyl lead. A delegation of scientists had called upon the magnate, introduced by Cornish, to request his financial aid in the Foundation. In the course of the evening, the talk naturally turned to medical gossip and the latest scientific discoveries. Barry admitted that he overheard one of the directors of the Foundation, a famous toxicologist, relate to the group the story of the poison. At this time Barry had no idea that he would put the knowledge to use; when he decided to kill Field, he saw the advantages of the poison and its untraceable source immediately.”

  “What the deuce was the significance of that message you sent to me by Louis Panzer Thursday morning, Inspector?” inquired Cronin curiously. “Remember? Your note requested that I watch Lewin and Panzer when they met to see if they knew each other. As I reported to you, I asked Lewin later and he denied any acquaintance with Panzer. What was the idea?”

  “Panzer,” repeated the Inspector softly. “Panzer has always intrigued me, Tim. At the time I sent him to you, remember the hat deductions which absolved him had not yet been made. . . . I sent him to you merely out of a sense of curiosity. I thought that if Lewin recognized him, it might point to a connection between Panzer and Field. My thought was not borne out; it wasn’t too hopeful to begin with. Panzer might have been acquainted with Field on the outside without Lewin’s knowledge. On the other hand, I didn’t particularly want Panzer hanging around the theatre that morning; so the errand did both of us a lot of good.”

  “Well, I hope you were satisfied with that package of newspapers I sent you in return, as you instructed,” grinned Cronin.

  “How about the anonymous letter Morgan received? Was that a blind, or what?” demanded Sampson.

  “It was a sweet little frame-up,” returned Queen grimly. “Barry explained that to me last night. He had heard of Morgan’s threat against Field’s life. He didn’t know, of course, that Field was blackmailing Morgan. But he thought it might plant a strong false trail if he got Morgan to the theatre on a thin story Monday night. If Morgan didn’t come, there was nothing lost. If he did— He worked it this way. He chose ordinary cheap notepaper, went down to one of the typewriter agencies and, wearing gloves, typed the letter, signed it with that useless scrawled initial, and mailed the thing from the general post-office. He was careful about fingerprints and certainly the note could never be traced to him. As luck would have it, Morgan swallowed the bait and came. The very ridiculousness of Morgan’s story and the obvious falsity of the note, as Barry figured, made Morgan a strong suspect. On the other hand, Providence seems to provide compensations. For the information we got from Morgan about Field’s blackmailing activities did Mr. Barry a heap of harm. He couldn’t have foreseen that, though.”

  Sampson nodded. “I can think of only one other thing. How did Barry arrange for the purchase of the tickets—or did he arrange for it at all?”

  “He certainly did. Barry convinced Field that as a matter of fairness to himself, the meeting and the transfer of papers should take place in the theatre under a cloak of absolute secrecy. Field was agreeable and was easily persuaded to purchase the eight tickets at the box-office. He himself realized that the six extra tickets were needed to insure privacy. He sent Barry seven and Barry promptly destroyed them all except LL30 Left.”

  The Inspector rose, smiling tiredly. “Djuna!” he said in a low voice. “Some more coffee.”

  Sampson stopped the boy with a protesting hand. “Thanks, Q, but I’ve got to be going. Cronin and I have loads of work on this gang affair. I couldn’t rest, though, until I got the whole story from your own lips. . . . Q, old man,” he added awkwardly, “I’m really sincere when I say that I think you’ve done a remarkable piece of work.”

  “I never heard of anything like it,” put in Cronin heartily. “What a riddle, and what a beautiful piece of clear reasoning, from beginning to end!”

  “Do you really think so?” asked the Inspector quietly. “I’m so glad, gentlemen. Because all the credit rightfully belongs to Ellery. I’m rather proud of that boy of mine . . .”

  When Sampson and Cronin had departed and Djuna had retired to his tiny kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes, the Inspector turned to his writing-desk and took up his fountain-pen. He rapidly read over what he had written to his son. Sighing, he put pen to paper once more.

  Let’s forget what I just wrote. More than an hour has passed since then. Sampson and Tim Cronin came up and I had to crystallize our work on the case for their benefit. I never saw such a pair! Kids, both of ’em. Gobbled the story as if it were a fairy-tale. . . . As I talked, I saw with appalling clarity how little I actually did and how much you did. I’m pining for the day when you will pick out some nice girl and be married, and then the whole darned Queen family can pack off to Italy and settle down to a life of peace. . . . Well, El, I’ve got to dress and go down to headquarters. A lot of routine work has collected since last Monday and my job is just about cut out for me. . . .

  When are you coming home? Don’t think I want to rush you, but it’s so gosh-awful lonesome, son. I— No, I guess I’m selfish as well as tired. Just a doddering old fogey who needs coddling. But you will come home soon, won’t you? Djuna sends his regards. The rascal is taking my ears o
ff with the dishes in the kitchen.

  Your loving

  Father

  * [Author’s note:] Inspector Queen’s statement here is not altogether true. Benjamin Morgan was far from “innocent.” But the Inspector’s sense of justice compelled him to shield the lawyer and keep his word regarding silence.—E. Q.

  [Editor’s note: What exactly was Morgan guilty of?]

  100.The Inspector is telling the story dramatically, for that is exactly what Barry did! He went into the theatre in plainclothes and changed into evening dress as a costume, leaving his street clothes in the theater when he left later that evening. Why didn’t the police discover his street clothes in his dressing room and therefore immediately identify him as the culprit?

  101.One might have expected that the shrewd Field, knowing that his victim was impoverished—an actor—would have waited either until the eve of the wedding, when there might have been wedding-gifts of cash, or after the wedding, when the husband might well have had access to the family’s wealth, to demand a large payment. Compare “Charles Augustus Milverton,” a blackmail case handled by Sherlock Holmes that would have been well known to Lee and Dannay.

  102.In some states, the “hypodescent” laws—held constitutional by the U.S. Supreme Court—defined as black anyone with any black ancestry, even the smallest portion. Tennessee adopted such a “one-drop” statute in 1910, followed that same year by Louisiana. Similar laws were enacted in Texas and Arkansas in 1911, in Mississippi in 1917, in North Carolina in 1923, in Virginia in 1924, in Alabama and Georgia in 1927, and in Oklahoma as recently as 1931. During the 1920s, Florida, Indiana, Kentucky, Maryland, Missouri, Nebraska, North Dakota, and Utah amended the fractions of black ancestry required for classification as black to one-sixteenth or one-thirty-second. Thus in the eyes of many, Barry would have been irrevocably classed as a black man, no matter his appearance. Apparently it was unimaginable that a magnate like Ives-Pope would permit “black blood” to marry into his family. The taint of “black blood” mixing with white was one that did not lose its horror until well into the 1960s, when interracial celebrity couples were regularly in the news.

  “This is precisely the detached, intellectualized take on race one would expect in a formal deductive puzzle of the time,” writes Francis M. Nevins Jr., in Ellery Queen: The Art of Detection (Perfect Crime Books, 2013): “not racist but not outraged or even upset by the racism of the society, stoically accepting as unalterable that (in Richard’s words to Ellery) ‘there’s little justice and certainly no mercy in this world,’” (p. 17).

  103.In fact, the discovery of the Barry papers in the apartment—the only papers not in duplicate and the only papers belonging to someone who had been at the theater (other than Morgan, whose two sets of papers exonerated him)—was really all that was necessary to identify the murderer. All of the reasoning about hats, etc., added nothing to the solid evidence that Barry had motive and his (copied) papers were missing, meaning that Field had taken them with him to the theater where they had been stolen. The other reasoning is only relevant to the “Reader’s Challenge.”

  104.We must deduce, then, that Barry distilled more tetra ethyl lead after the search—how else would he have been able to fill his syringe before his visit to Central Park?

  Facsimile first-edition dust jacket for Little Caesar.

  LITTLE

  CAESAR1

  BY

  W. R. BURNETT

  “The first law of every being, is to preserve itself and live.

  You sow hemlock, and expect to see ears of corn ripen. . . .”

  —Machiavelli

  To Marjorie

  Note: The characters and events in this book are entirely imaginary.

  1 First published in 1929 in New York by Lincoln McVeagh/Dial Press.

  Little Caesar (London: Transworld Publishers [Corgi Books], 1957), illustration by Oliver Brabbins

  PART I

  I

  Sam Vettori sat staring down into Halsted Street.2 He was a big man, fat as a hog, with a dark oily complexion, kinky black hair and a fat aquiline face. In repose he had an air of lethargic good-nature, due entirely to his bulk; for in reality he was sullen, bad-tempered and cunning. From time to time he dragged out a huge gold watch and looked at it with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

  Near him at a round table sat Otero, called The Greek, Tony Passa and Sam Vettori’s lieutenant, Rico, playing stud for small stakes. Under the green-shaded lamp Otero’s dark face looked livid and cavernous. He sat immobile and said nothing, win or lose. Tony, robust and rosy, scarcely twenty years old, watched each turn of the cards intently, shouting with joy when his luck was good, cursing when it was bad, more out of excitement than interest in the stakes. Rico sat with his hat tilted over his eyes, his pale thin face slightly drawn, his fingers tapping. Rico always played to win.

  Vettori, puffing, pulled himself to his feet and began to walk up and down.

  “Where you suppose he is?” he asked the ceiling. “I told him eight o’clock. It is half-past.”

  “Joe never knows what time it is,” said Tony.

  “Joe’s no good,” said Rico without taking his eyes off the cards, “he’s soft.”

  “Well,” said Vettori, stopping to watch the game out of boredom, “maybe so. But we can’t do without him, Rico. I tell you, Rico, he can go anywhere. A front is what he’s got. Swell hotels? What does it mean to that boy? He says to the clerk, I would like please a suite. A suite! You see, Rico. We can’t do without him.”

  Rico tapped on the table, flushing slightly.

  “All right, Sam,” he said, “some day he’ll turn yellow. Hear what I say. He’s not right. What’s all this dancing? A man don’t dance for money.”

  Sam laughed.

  “Oh, Rico! You don’t know Joe.”

  Tony stared at Rico.

  “Rico,” he said, “Joe’s right. I know what I’m saying. All that dancing is a front. He’s smart. Have they ever got him once?”

  Rico slammed down his cards. He hated Joe and he knew that Tony and Vettori knew it.

  “All right,” he said, “hear what I say. He’ll turn yellow some day. A man don’t take money for dancing.”

  “I win,” said Otero.

  Rico pushed the money toward him and got to his feet.

  “Well, if he don’t show up in ten minutes I’ll take the air,” said Rico.

  “You stay where you are,” said Vettori, his face hardening.

  Tony watched the two of them intently. Otero counted his money. One day Vettori had said to Rico, “Rico, you are getting too big for us.” Tony remembered the look he had seen in Rico’s eyes. Lately they had all been talking about it. Rico was getting too big for them. Scabby, the informer, said: “Tony, mark what I say. It’s Rico or Sam. One or the other.”

  “I’ll stay ten minutes,” said Rico.

  Vettori sat down by the window and stared into Halsted Street.

  “Two-fifty,” said Otero.

  “I’ll match you for it,” said Tony.

  “No,” said Otero.

  Joe Massara opened the door and came in.

  “Well,” said Vettori, “you call this eight o’clock?”

  Joe got out of a big ulster. He was in evening clothes. His black hair was sleek and parted in the middle. He was vain of his resemblance to the late Mr. Rudolph Valentino.3

  “Sorry,” said Joe, “the bridge was up.4 Well, what’s the dirt?”

  “Draw up a chair,” said Vettori, “all of you.”

  They grouped themselved around the table under the greenshaded lamp. Joe put his hands on the table so they could see his well-manicured nails and the diamond ring the dancer, Olga Stassoff, had given him.

  “Now,” said Vettori, “I’ll do the talking. I know what I got to say and you birds keep quiet till I’m through . . .”

  “How long will it take?” asked Joe, smiling.

  “Shut up and listen,” said Rico.

  “All right, a
ll right,” said Vettori, patting them both, “no bad blood. Now: ever hear of the Casa Alvarado?”

  “Sure,” said Joe, “it’s an up and up place. One of Francis Wood’s joints. I nearly got an engagement there once.”

  Rico spread out his hands.

  “See? They know him. He won’t do.”

  “No, they never seen me. It was all done through an agent.”

  “All right,” said Vettori, “that’s the place.”

  Joe looked startled. Rico smiled and taking off his hat began to comb his hair with a little ivory pocket comb.

  “It’d be tough,” said Joe, “what’s in it?”

  “Plenty,” said Vettori. “They only bank once or twice a week. They’re careless, get that, because they’ve never been tapped. It’s easy.”

  Joe took out a gold cigarette case which he handled with ostentation.

  “Well? I’m listening.”

  Vettori refused a cigarette and pulled out a stogie. Downstairs a jazzband began to play and a saxophone sent vibrations along the floor.

  “Nine o’clock,” said Otero.

  Vettori lit his stogie.

  “They got a safe,” he said, “that a baby could crack. Too easy to talk about. But that’s on the side. What we’re after is the cashier. The place is lousy with jack. I got the lowdown from Scabby. Well, what do you say, Joe?”

  “Yeah,” Rico cut in, “take it or leave it. We ain’t begging you.”

  Vettori’s face hardened but he said nothing.

  “If you say it’s good,” said Joe, “it’s good with me.

  “All right, all right,” said Vettori. “Now, you Tony; we want a big car. Get that. A big, fast car. Get one when I tell you.5 Steve’s got the plates all ready. Yeah?”