The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
vitriolic glance at Queen as he slammed the door.
Queen was instantly on his feet, his manner brisk and impersonal. He
gazed fully into Frances’ eyes, his palms pressed against the top
surface of the desk. “Now, Miss Frances Ives-Pope,” he said clearly,
“this is all the business I have to transact with you....” He dipped
into his pocket and produced with something of the stage-magician’s
celerity the rhinestone bag. “I want to return your bag.”
Frances half-rose to her feet, staring from him to the shimmering
purse, the color drained from her face. “Why, that’s—that’s my evening
bag!” she stammered.
“Precisely, Miss Ives-Pope,” said Queen. “It was found in the
theatre—to-night.”
“Of course!” The girl dropped back into her seat with a little nervous
laugh. “How stupid of me! And I didn’t miss it until just now....”
“But, Miss Ives-Pope,” the little Inspector continued deliberately,
“the finding of your purse is not nearly as important as the place in
which it was found.” He paused. “You know that there was a man murdered
here this evening?”
She stared at him open-mouthed, a wild fear gathering in her eyes.
“Yes, I heard so,” she breathed.
“Well, your bag, Miss Ives-Pope,” continued Queen inexorably, “was
found in the murdered man’s pocket!”
Terror gleamed in the girl’s eyes. Then, with a choked scream, she
toppled forward in the chair, her face white and strained.
Queen sprang forward, concern and sympathy instantly apparent on his
face. As he reached the limp form, the door burst open and Stephen
Barry, coat-tails flying, catapulted into the room. Hilda Orange, Eve
Ellis and Johnson, the detective, hurried in behind him.
“What in hell have you done to her, you damned snooper!” the actor
cried, shouldering Queen out of the way. He gathered Frances’ body
tenderly in his arms, pushing aside the wisps of black hair tumbled
over her eyes, crooning desperately in her ear. She sighed and looked
up in bewilderment as she saw the flushed young face close to hers.
“Steve, I—fainted,” she murmured, and dropped back in his arms.
“Get some water, somebody,” the young man growled, chafing her hands.
A tumbler was promptly pushed over his shoulder by Johnson. Barry
forced a few drops down Frances’ throat and she choked, coming back
to consciousness. The two actresses pushed Barry aside and brusquely
ordered the men to leave. Queen meekly followed the protesting actor
and the detective.
“You’re a fine cop, you are!” said Barry scathingly, to the Inspector.
“What did you do to her—hit her over the head with the policeman’s
usual finesse?”
“Now, now, young man,” said Queen mildly, “no harsh words, please. The
young lady simply received a shock.” They stood in a strained silence
until the door opened and the actresses appeared supporting Frances
between them. Barry flew to her side. “Are you all right now, dear?” he
whispered, pressing her hand.
“Please—Steve—take me—home,” she gasped, leaning heavily on his arm.
Inspector Queen stood aside to let them pass. There was a mournful look
in his eyes as he watched them walk slowly to the main door and join
the short line going out.
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY TURNS BIOGRAPHER
Inspector Richard Queen was a peculiar man. Small and wiry, thatched
with grey and wrinkled in fine lines of experience, he might have been
a business executive, a night-watchman, or what he chose. Certainly, in
the proper raiment, his quiet figure would mold itself to any disguise.
This ready adaptability was carried out in his manner as well. Few
people knew him as he was. To his associates, to his enemies, to the
forlorn scraps of humanity whom he turned over to the due processes of
the law, he remained ever a source of wonder. He could be theatrical
when he chose, or mild, or pompous, or fatherly, or bull-dogging.
But underneath, as someone has said with an over-emphatic
sentimentality, the Inspector had “a heart of gold.” Inside he was
harmless, and keen, and not a little hurt by the cruelties of the
world. It was true that to the people who officially came under his
eye he was never twice the same. He was constantly whirling into some
new facet of personality. He found this to be good business; people
never understood him, never knew what he was going to do or say, and
consequently they were always a little afraid of him.
Now that he was alone, back in Panzer’s office, the door shut tight,
his investigations temporarily halted, the true character of the man
shone from his face. At this moment it was an old face—old physically,
old and wise spiritually. The incident of the girl he had startled
into unconsciousness was uppermost in his mind. The memory of her
drawn, horrified face made him wince. Frances Ives-Pope seemed to
personify everything a man of years could hope for in his own daughter.
To see her shrink under the lash pained him. To see her fiancé turn
fiercely in her defense made him blush.
Abstemious except for his one mild dissipation, the Inspector reached
for his snuff-box with a sigh and sniffed freely....
When there came a peremptory knock on the door, he was the chameleon
again—a detective-inspector sitting at a desk and no doubt thinking
clever and ponderous thoughts. In truth, he was wishing that Ellery
would come back.
At his hearty “Come in!” the door swung open to admit a thin,
bright-eyed man dressed in heavy overclothes, a woolen muffler wound
about his neck.
“Henry!” exclaimed the Inspector, starting to his feet. “What the
dickens are you doing here? I thought the doctor had ordered you to
stay in bed!”
District Attorney Henry Sampson winked as he slumped into an armchair.
“Doctors,” he said didactically, “doctors give me a pain in the neck.
How are tricks?”
He groaned and felt his throat gingerly. The Inspector sat down again.
“For a grown man, Henry,” he said decisively, “you’re the most unruly
patient I’ve ever seen. Man alive, you’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t
watch out!”
“Well,” grinned the District Attorney, “I carry a lot of insurance, so
I should worry.... You haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, yes,” grunted Queen. “Your question. How’s tricks, I think you
asked? Tricks, my dear Henry, are at present in a state of complete
nullity. Does that satisfy you?”
“Kindly be more explicit,” said Sampson. “Remember, I’m a sick man and
my head is buzzing.”
“Henry,” said Queen, leaning forward earnestly, “I warn you that
we’re in the midst of one of the toughest cases this department has
ever handled.... Is _your_ head buzzing? I’d hate to tell you what’s
happening in mine!”
Sampson regarded him with a frown. “If it’s as you say—and I suppose it
is—this comes at a rotten time. Election’s not so far off—an unsolved
murder handled by the improper parties....”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” remarked Queen, in a low
voice. “I wasn’t exactly thinking of this affair in terms of votes,
Henry. A man’s been killed—and at the moment I’ll be frank enough to
admit that I haven’t the slightest idea who did the job or how.”
“I accept your well-meant rebuke, Inspector,” said Sampson, in a
lighter tone. “But if you’d heard what I did a few moments ago—over the
telephone....”
“One moment, my dear Watson, as Ellery would say,” chuckled Queen,
with that startling change of temperament so characteristic of him.
“I’ll bet I know what happened. You were at home, probably in bed. Your
telephone rang. A voice began to crab, protest, gurgle, and do all the
other things a voice does when its owner is excited. The voice said, ‘I
won’t stand for being cooped up by the police, like a common criminal!
I want that man Queen severely reprimanded! He’s a menace to personal
liberty!’ And so on, in words of that general tenor....”
“My dear fellow!” said Sampson, laughing.
“This gentleman, the owner of the protesting voice,” continued the
Inspector, “is short, rather stout, wears gold-rimmed eyeglasses, has
an exceedingly disagreeable feminine voice, displays a really
touching concern for his family—one wife and one daughter—in the
presence of possible publicity agents, and always refers to you as his
‘very good friend, District Attorney Sampson.’ Correct?”
Sampson sat staring at him. Then his keen face creased into a smile.
“Perfectly astounding, my dear Holmes!” he murmured. “Since you know so
much about my friend, perhaps it would be child’s-play for you to give
me his name?”
“Er—but that was the fellow, wasn’t it?” said Queen, his face scarlet.
“I—Ellery, my boy! I’m glad to see you!”
Ellery had entered the room. He shook hands cordially with Sampson,
who greeted him with a pleasure born of long association, and made a
remark about the dangers of a District Attorney’s life, briskly setting
down on the desk a huge container of coffee and a paper bag pleasantly
suggestive of French pastry.
“Well, gentlemen, the great search is finished, over, _kaput_, and the
perspiring detectives will now partake of midnight tiffin.” He laughed
and slapped his father affectionately on the shoulder.
“But, Ellery!” cried Queen delightedly. “This is a welcome surprise!
Henry, will you join us in a little celebration?” He filled three paper
cups with the steaming coffee.
“I don’t know what you’re celebrating, but count me in,” said Sampson
and the three men fell to with enthusiasm.
“What’s happened, Ellery?” asked the old man, sipping his coffee
contentedly.
“Gods do not eat, neither do they drink,” murmured Ellery, from behind
a cream puff. “I am not omnipotent, and suppose you tell me what
happened in your impromptu torture-chamber.... I can tell you one
thing you don’t know, however. Mr. Libby, of Libby’s ice-cream parlor,
whence came these elegant cakes, confirms Jess Lynch’s story about
the ginger ale. And Miss Elinor Libby nicely corroborated the alley
story.”
Queen wiped his lips daintily with a huge handkerchief. “Well, let
Prouty make sure about the ginger ale, anyway. As for me, I interviewed
several people and now I have nothing to do.”
“Thank you,” remarked Ellery dryly. “That was a perfect recitation.
Have you acquainted the D.A. with the events of this tumultuous
evening?”
“Gentlemen,” said Sampson, setting down his cup, “here’s what I
know. About a half-hour ago I was telephoned by ‘one of my very good
friends’—who happens to wield a little power behind the scenes—and he
told me in no uncertain terms that during to-night’s performance a man
was murdered. Inspector Richard Queen, he said, had descended upon
the theatorium like a whirlwind, accompanied by his minor whirlwinds,
and had proceeded to make everybody wait over an hour—an inexcusable,
totally unwarranted procedure, my friend charged. He further deposed
that said Inspector even went so far as to accuse him personally of
the crime, and had domineering policemen search him and his wife and
daughter before they were allowed to leave the theatre.
“So much for my informant’s story—the rest of his conversation, being
rather profane, is irrelevant. The only other thing I know is that
Velie told me outside who the murdered man was. And _that_, gentlemen,
was the most interesting part of the whole story.”
“You know almost as much about this case as I do,” grunted Queen.
“Probably more, because I have an idea you are thoroughly familiar with
Field’s operations.... Ellery, what happened outside during the search?”
Ellery crossed his legs comfortably. “As you might have guessed, the
search of the audience was entirely without result. Nothing out
of the way was found. Not one solitary thing. Nobody looked guilty,
and nobody took it upon himself to confess. In other words, it was a
complete fiasco.”
“Of course, of course,” said Queen. “There’s somebody almighty clever