The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
the dead man, to his row or not—and that you were standing up at the
head of the left aisle all during the performance. _All_ during the
performance, Madge. Is that correct?”
“Sure it is, Inspector. Who says I wasn’t?” The girl was growing
excited, but Queen glanced at her fluttering fingers and they became
still.
“Aw, cut it out, Madge,” snapped the Parson unexpectedly. “Don’t make
it no worse than it is. Sooner or later he’ll find out we were together
anyways, and then he’d have something on you. You don’t know this bird.
Come clean, Madge!”
“So!” said the Inspector, looking pleasantly from the gangster to the
girl. “Parson, you’re getting sensible in your old age. Did I hear you
say you two were together? When, and why, and for how long?”
Madge O’Connell’s face had gone red and white by turns. She favored her
lover with a venomous glance, then turned back to Queen.
“I guess I might as well spill it,” she said disgustedly, “after this
half-wit shows a yellow streak. Here’s all I know, Inspector—and Gawd
help you if you tell that little mutt of a manager about it!” Queen’s
eyebrows went up, but he did not interrupt her. “I got the pass for
Johnny, all right,” she continued defiantly, “because—well, Johnny
kind of likes blood-and-thunder stuff, and it was his off-night. So I
got him the pass. It was for two—all the passes are—so that the seat
next to Johnny was empty all the time. It was an aisle seat on the
left—best I could get for that loud-mouthed shrimp! During the first
act I was pretty busy and couldn’t sit with him. But after the first
intermission, when the curtain went up on Act II, things got slack
and it was a good chance to sit next to him. Sure, I admit it—I was
sittin’ next to him nearly the whole act! Why not—don’t I deserve a
rest once in a while?”
“I see.” Queen bent his brows. “You would have saved me a lot of time
and trouble, young lady, if you’d told me this before. Didn’t you get
up at all during the second act?”
“Well, I did a couple of times, I guess,” she said guardedly. “But
everything was okay, and the manager wasn’t around, so I went back.”
“Did you notice this man Field as you passed?”
“No—no, sir.”
“Did you notice if somebody was sitting next to him?”
“No, sir. I didn’t even know he was there. Wasn’t—wasn’t looking that
way, I guess.”
“I suppose, then,” continued Queen coldly, “you don’t remember ushering
somebody into the last row, next to the last seat, during the second
act?”
“No, sir.... Aw, I know I shouldn’t have done it, maybe, but I didn’t
see a thing wrong all night.” She was growing more nervous at each
question. She furtively glanced at the Parson, but he was staring at
the floor.
“You’re a great help, young lady,” said Queen, rising suddenly. “Beat
it.”
As she turned to go, the gangster with an innocent leer slid across the
rug to follow her. Queen made a sign to the policeman. The Parson found
himself yanked back to his former position.
“Not so fast, Johnny,” said Queen icily. “O’Connell!” The girl turned,
trying to appear unconcerned. “For the time being I shan’t say anything
about this to Mr. Panzer. But I’d advise you to watch your step and
learn to keep your mouth clean when you talk to your superiors. Get
out now, and if I ever hear of another break on your part God help
_you_!”
She started to laugh, wavered and fled from the room.
Queen whirled on the policeman. “Put the nippers on him, officer,” he
snapped, jerking his finger toward the gangster, “and run him down to
the station!”
The policeman saluted. There was a flash of steel, a dull click, and
the Parson stared stupidly at the handcuffs on his wrists. Before he
could open his mouth he was hustled out of the room.
Queen made a disgusted motion of his hand, threw himself into the
leather-covered chair, took a pinch of snuff, and said to Johnson in an
entirely different tone, “I’ll trouble you, Johnson my boy, to ask Mr.
Morgan to step in here.”
* * * * *
Benjamin Morgan entered Queen’s temporary sanctum with a firm step that
did not succeed entirely in concealing a certain bewildered agitation.
He said in a cheerful, hearty baritone, “Well, sir, here I am,” and
sank into a chair with much the same air of satisfaction that a man
exhales when he seats himself in his club-room after a hard day. Queen
was not taken in. He favored Morgan with a long, earnest stare, which
made the paunchy grizzled man squirm.
“My name is Queen, Mr. Morgan,” he said in a friendly voice, “Inspector
Richard Queen.”
“I suspected as much,” said Morgan, rising to shake hands. “I think you
know who I am, Inspector. I was under your eye more than once in the
Criminal Court years ago. There was a case—do you remember it?—I was
defending Mary Doolittle when she was being tried for murder....”
“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed the Inspector heartily. “I wondered where I’d
seen you before. You got her off, too, if I’m not mistaken. That
was a mighty nice piece of work, Morgan—very, very nice. So _you’re_
the fellow! Well, well!”
Morgan laughed. “Was pretty nice, at that,” he admitted. “But those
days are over, I’m afraid, Inspector. You know—I’m not in the criminal
end of it any more.”
“No?” Queen took a pinch of snuff. “I didn’t know that. Anything”—he
sneezed—“anything go wrong?” he asked sympathetically.
Morgan was silent. After a moment he crossed his legs and said, “Quite
a bit went wrong. May I smoke?” he asked abruptly. On Queen’s assent he
lit a fat cigar and became absorbed in its curling haze.
Neither man spoke for a long time. Morgan seemed to sense that he
was under a rigid inspection, for he crossed and uncrossed his
legs repeatedly, avoiding Queen’s eyes. The old man appeared to be
ruminating, his head sunk on his breast.
The silence became electric, embarrassing. There was not a sound in the
room, except the ticking of a floor-clock in a corner. From somewhere
in the theatre came a sudden burst of conversation. Voices were raised
to a high pitch of indignation or protest. Then even this was cut off.
“Come, now, Inspector....” Morgan coughed. He was enveloped in a thick
rolling smoke from his cigar, and his voice was harsh and strained.
“What is this—a refined third degree?”
Queen looked up, startled. “Eh? I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan. My
thoughts went wool-gathering, I guess. Been rubbing it in, have I? Dear
me! I must be getting old.” He rose and took a short turn about the
room, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Morgan’s eyes followed
him.
“Mr. Morgan”—the Inspector pounced on him with one of his habitual
conversational leaps—“do you know why I’ve asked you to stay and talk
to me?”
“Why—I can’t say I do, Inspector. I suppose, naturally, that it has to
do with the accident here to-night. But what connection it can possibly
have with me, I’ll confess I don’t know.” Morgan puffed violently at
his weed.
“Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, you will know in a moment,” said Queen, leaning
back against the desk. “The man murdered here to-night—it wasn’t any
accident, I can assure you of that—was a certain Monte Field.”
The announcement was placid enough but the effect upon Morgan was
astounding. He fairly leaped from his chair, eyes popping, hands
trembling, breath hoarse and heavy. His cigar dropped to the floor.
Queen regarded him with morose eyes.
“Monte—Field!” Morgan’s cry was terrible in its intensity. He stared at
the Inspector’s face. Then he collapsed in the chair, his whole body
sagging.
“Pick up your cigar, Mr. Morgan,” said Queen. “I shouldn’t like to
abuse Mr. Panzer’s hospitality.” The lawyer stooped mechanically and
retrieved the cigar.
“My friend,” thought Queen to himself, “either you are one of the
world’s greatest actors or you just got the shock of your life!” He
straightened up. “Come now, Mr. Morgan—pull yourself together. Why
should the death of Field affect you in this way?”
“But—but, man! Monte Field.... Oh, my God!” And he threw back his head
and laughed—a wild humor that made Queen sit up alertly. The spasm
continued, Morgan’s body rocking to and fro in hysteria. The Inspector
knew the symptoms. He slapped the lawyer in the face, pulling him to
his feet by his coat-collar.
“Don’t forget yourself, Morgan!” commanded Queen. The rough tone had
its effect. Morgan stopped laughing, regarded Queen with a blank
expression, and dropped heavily into the chair—still shaken, but
himself.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, dabbing his face with a
handkerchief. “It was—quite a surprise.”
“Evidently,” said Queen dryly. “You couldn’t have acted more surprised
if the earth had opened under your feet. Now, Morgan, what’s this all
about?”
The lawyer continued to wipe the perspiration from his face. He was
shaking like a leaf, his jowls red. He gnawed at his lip in indecision.
“All right, Inspector,” he said at last. “What do you want to know?”
“That’s better,” said Queen approvingly. “Suppose you tell me when you
last saw Monte Field.”
The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Why—why, I haven’t seen
him for ages,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose you know that we
were partners once—we had a successful legal practice. Then something
happened and we broke up. I—I haven’t seen him since.”
“And that was how long ago?”
“A little over two years.”
“Very good.” Queen leaned forward. “I’m anxious to know, too, just why
the two of you broke up your partnership.”
The lawyer looked down at the rug, fingering his cigar. “I—well, I
guess you know Field’s reputation as well as I. We didn’t agree on
ethics, had a little argument and decided to dissolve.”
“You parted amicably?”
“Well—under the circumstances, yes.”
Queen drummed on the desk. Morgan shifted uneasily. He was evidently
still laboring under the effects of his astonishment.
“What time did you get to the theatre to-night, Morgan?” asked the
Inspector.
Morgan seemed surprised at the question. “Why—about a quarter after
eight,” he replied.
“Let me see your ticket-stub, please,” said Queen.
The lawyer handed it over after fumbling for it in several pockets.
Queen took it, extracted from his own pocket the three stubs he had
secreted there, and lowered his hands below the level of the desk. He
looked up in a moment, his eyes expressionless as he returned the four
bits of pasteboard to his own pocket.
“So you were sitting in M2, Center, were you? Pretty good seat,
Morgan,” he remarked. “Just what made you come to see ‘Gunplay’
to-night, anyway?”
“Why, it _is_ a rum sort of show, isn’t it, Inspector?” Morgan appeared
embarrassed. “I don’t know that I would ever have thought of coming—I’m
not a theatre-going man, you know—except that the Roman management
was kind enough to send me a complimentary ticket for this evening’s
performance.”
“Is that a fact?” exclaimed Queen ingenuously. “Quite nice of them, I’d
say. When did you receive the ticket?”
“Why, I got the ticket and the letter Saturday morning, Inspector, at
my office.”
“Oh, you got a letter, too, eh? You don’t happen to have it around you,
do you?”
“I’m—pretty—sure I—have,” grunted Morgan, as he began to search his
pockets. “Yes! Here it is.”
He offered the Inspector a small, rectangular sheet of white paper,
deckle-edged and of crushed bond stock. Queen handled it gingerly as
he held it up to the light. Through the few typewritten lines on it a
watermark was distinctly visible. His lips puckered, and he laid the
sheet cautiously on the desk-blotter. As Morgan watched, he opened the
top drawer of Panzer’s desk and rummaged about until he found a piece
of note-paper. It was large, square, and heavily glazed with an
ornate theatre-insignia engraved on an upper quarter. Queen put the two