The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
the orchestra, his hat pulled down over his eyes. He was searching the
recesses of his pocket for the inevitable snuff-box. The Inspector was
evidently engaged in a weighty mental process, for his hand closed
tightly upon the two blue ticket-stubs and he grimaced, as if he were
not at all satisfied with his thoughts.
Before opening the green-speckled door marked “Manager’s Office,”
he turned to survey the scene behind him. The stir in the audience
was businesslike. A great chattering filled the air; policemen and
detectives circulated among the rows, giving orders, answering
questions, hustling people out of their seats, lining them up in the
main aisles to be searched at the huge outer door. The Inspector
noticed absently that there was little protest from the audience at the
ordeal they were facing. They seemed too tired to resent the indignity
of a search. A long queue of half-angry, half-amused women was lined
up at one side being examined rapidly, one by one, by a motherly woman
dressed in black. Queen glanced briefly at the detectives blocking
the door. Piggott with the experience of long practice was making
rapid passes over the clothing of the men. Velie, at his side, was
studying the reactions of the various people undergoing examination.
Occasionally he searched a man himself. Ellery stood a little apart,
hands in his capacious topcoat pockets, smoking a cigarette and seeming
to be thinking of nothing more important than the first edition he
had missed buying.
Queen sighed, and went in.
The anteroom to the main office was a tiny place, fitted out in bronze
and oak. On one of the chairs against the wall, burrowed into the deep
leather cushions, sat Parson Johnny, puffing at a cigarette with a show
of unconcern. A policeman stood by the chair, one massive hand on the
Parson’s shoulder.
“Trail along, Parson,” said Queen casually, without stopping. The
little gangster lounged to his feet, spun his cigarette butt deftly
into a shining brass cuspidor, and slouched after the Inspector, the
policeman treading on his heels.
Queen opened the door to the main office, glancing quickly about him as
he stood on the threshold. Then he stepped aside, allowing the gangster
and the bluecoat to precede him. The door banged shut behind them.
Louis Panzer had an unusual taste in office appointments. A clear
green light-shade shone brilliantly above a carved desk. Chairs and
smoking-stands; a skillfully wrought clothes-tree; silk-covered
divan—these and other articles were strewn tastefully about the room.
Unlike most managers’ offices, Panzer’s did not exploit photographs of
stars, managers, producers and “angels.” Several delicate prints, a
huge tapestry, and a Constable oil painting hung on the walls.
But Inspector Queen’s scrutiny at the moment was not for the artistic
quality of Mr. Panzer’s private chamber. It was rather for the six
people who faced him. Beside Detective Johnson sat a middle-aged man
inclining to corpulence, with shrewd eyes and a puzzled frown. He
wore faultless evening clothes. In the next chair sat a young girl of
considerable beauty, attired in a simple evening gown and wrap. She was
looking up at a handsome young man in evening clothes, hat in hand, who
was bending over her chair and talking earnestly in an undertone.
Beside them were two other women, both leaning forward and listening
intently.
The stout man held aloof from the others. At Inspector Queen’s entrance
he immediately got to his feet with an inquiring look. The little group
became silent and turned solemn faces on Queen.
With a deprecating cough Parson Johnny, accompanied by his escort,
sidled across the rug and into a corner. He seemed overwhelmed by the
splendor of the company in which he found himself. He shuffled his feet
and cast a despairing look in the direction of the Inspector.
Queen moved over to the desk and faced the group. At a motion of his
hand Johnson came quickly to his side.
“Who are the three extra people, Johnson?” he asked in a tone inaudible
to the others.
“The old fellow there is Morgan,” whispered Johnson, “and the
good-looker sitting near him is the woman you told me to get. When I
went for her in the orchestra I found the young chap and the other two
women with her. The four of ’em were pretty chummy. I gave her your
message, and she seemed nervous. But she stood up and came along like a
major—only the other three came, too. I didn’t know but what you’d like
to see ’em, Inspector....”
Queen nodded. “Hear anything?” he asked in the same low tone.
“Not a peep, Inspector. The old chap doesn’t seem to know any of these
people. The others have just been wondering why you could possibly want
_her_.”
The Inspector waved Johnson to a corner and addressed the waiting group.
“I’ve summoned two of you,” he said pleasantly, “for a little chat. And
since the others are here, too, it will be all right for them to
wait. But for the moment I must ask you all to step into the anteroom
while I conduct a little business with this gentleman.” He inclined his
head toward the gangster, who stiffened indignantly.
With a flutter of excited conversation the two men and three women
departed, Johnson closing the door behind them.
Queen whirled on Parson Johnny.
“Bring that rat here!” he snapped to the policeman. He sat down in
Panzer’s chair and drew the tips of his fingers together. The gangster
was jerked to his feet and marched across the carpet, to be pushed
directly in front of the desk.
“Now, Parson,” said Queen menacingly, “I’ve got you where I want you.
We’re going to have a nice little talk with nobody to interrupt. Get
me?”
The Parson was silent, his eyes liquid with distrust.
“So you won’t say anything, eh, Johnny? How long do you think I’ll let
you get away with that?”
“I told you before—I don’t know nothin’ and besides I won’t say nothin’
till I see my lawyer,” the gangster said sullenly.
“Your lawyer? Well, Parson, who _is_ your lawyer?” asked the Inspector
in an innocent tone.
The Parson bit his lip, remaining silent. Queen turned to Johnson.
“Johnson, my boy, you worked on the Babylon stick-up, didn’t you?” he
asked.
“Sure did, Chief,” said the detective.
“That,” explained Queen gently, to the gangster, “was when you were
sent up for a year. Remember, Parson?”
Still silence.
“And Johnson,” continued the Inspector, leaning back in his chair,
“refresh my memory. Who was the lawyer defending our friend here?”
“Field. By—” Johnson exclaimed, staring at the Parson.
“Exactly. The gentleman now lying on one of our unfeeling slabs at the
morgue. Well, Parson, what about it? Cut the comedy! Where do you come
off saying you don’t know Monte Field? You knew his first name, all
right, when I mentioned only his last. Come clean, now!”
The gangster had sagged against the policeman, a furtive despair in his
eyes. He moistened his lips and said, “You got me there, Inspector. I—I
don’t know nothin’ about this, though, honest. I ain’t seen Field in a
month. I didn’t—my Gawd, you’re not tryin’ to tie this croakin’ around
my neck, are you?”
He stared at Queen in anguish. The policeman jerked him straight.
“Parson, Parson,” said Queen, “how you do jump at conclusions. I’m
merely looking for a little information. Of course, if you want to
confess to the murder, I’ll call my men in and we can get your story
all straight and go home to bed. How about it?”
“No!” shouted the gangster, thrashing out suddenly with his arm. The
officer caught it deftly and twisted it behind the squirming back.
“Where do you get that stuff? I ain’t confessin’ nothin’. I don’t know
nothin’. I didn’t see Field to-night an’ I didn’t even know he was
here! Confess.... I got some mighty influential friends, Inspector—you
can’t pull that stuff on me, I’ll tell you!”
“That’s too bad, Johnny,” sighed the Inspector. He took a pinch of
snuff. “All right, then. You didn’t kill Monte Field. What time did you
get here to-night, and where’s your ticket?”
The Parson twisted his hat in his hands. “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’
before, Inspector, because I figured you was tryin’ to railroad me. I
can explain when and how I got here all right. It was about half past
eight, and I got in on a pass, that’s how. Here’s the stub to prove
it.” He searched carefully in his coat pocket and produced a perforated
blue stub. He handed it to Queen, who glanced at it carelessly and put
it in his pocket.
“And where,” he asked, “and where did you get the pass, Johnny?”
“I—my girl give it to me, Inspector,” replied the gangster nervously.
“Ah—the woman enters the case,” said Queen jovially. “And what might
this young Circe’s name be, Johnny?”
“Who?—why, she’s—hey, Inspector, don’t get her in no trouble, will
you?” burst out Parson Johnny. “She’s a reg’lar kid, an’ she don’t know
nothin’ either. Honest, I—”
“Her name?” snapped Queen.
“Madge O’Connell,” whined Johnny. “She’s an usher here.”
Queen’s eyes lit up. A quick glance passed between him and Johnson. The
detective left the room.
“So,” continued the Inspector, leaning back again comfortably, “so my
old friend Parson Johnny doesn’t know a thing about Monte Field. Well,
well, well! We’ll see how your lady-friend’s story backs you up.” As he
talked he looked steadily at the hat in the gangster’s hand. It was a
cheap black fedora, matching the sombre suit which the man was wearing.
“Here, Parson,” he said suddenly. “Hand over that hat of yours.”
He took the head-piece from the gangster’s reluctant hand and examined
it. He pulled down the leather band inside, eyed it critically and
finally handed it back.
“We forgot something, Parson,” he said. “Officer, suppose you frisk Mr.
Cazzanelli’s person, eh?”
The Parson submitted to the search with an ill grace, but he was
quiescent enough. “No gat,” said the policeman briefly, and continued.
He put his hand into the man’s hip-pocket, extracting a fat wallet.
“Want this, Inspector?”
Queen took it, counted the money briskly, and handed it back to the
policeman, who returned it to the pocket.
“One hundred and twenty-two smackers, Johnny,” the old man murmured.
“Seems to me I can smell Bonomo silk in these bills. However!” He
laughed and said to the bluecoat, “No flask?” The policeman shook his
head. “Anything under his vest or shirt?” Again a negative. Queen was
silent until the search was completed. Parson Johnny relaxed with a
sigh.
“Well, Johnny, mighty lucky night this is for you—Come in!” Queen
said at a knock on the door. It opened to disclose the slender girl
in usherette’s uniform whom he had questioned earlier in the evening.
Johnson came in after her and closed the door.
Madge O’Connell stood on the rug and stared with tragic eyes at her
lover, who was thoughtfully studying the floor. She flashed a glance at
Queen. Then her mouth hardened and she snapped at the gangster, “Well?
So they got you after all, you sap! I told you not to try to make a
break for it!” She turned her back contemptuously on the Parson and
began to ply a powder-puff with vigor.
“Why didn’t you tell me before, my girl,” said Queen softly, “that you
got a pass for your friend John Cazzanelli?”
“I ain’t telling everything, Mr. Cop,” she answered pertly. “Why should
I? Johnny didn’t have anything to do with this business.”
“We won’t discuss that,” said the Inspector, toying with his snuff-box.
“What I want you to tell me now, Madge, is whether your memory has
improved any since I spoke to you.”
“What d’ya mean?” she demanded.
“I mean this. You told me that you were at your regular station
just before the show started—that you conducted a lot of people to
their seats—that you didn’t remember whether you ushered Monte Field,