The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
leathern-reeking series of bookcases, rising tier upon tier to the
high ceiling. On the fourth wall was a huge natural fireplace, with a
solid oak beam as a mantel and gleaming iron-work spacing the grate.
Above the fireplace were the famous crossed sabres, a gift from the
old fencing-master of Nuremburg with whom Richard had lived in his
younger days during his studies in Germany. Lamps winked and gleamed
all over the great sprawling room; easy-chairs, armchairs, low divans,
foot-stools, bright-colored leather cushions, were everywhere. In a
word, it was the most comfortable room two intellectual gentlemen of
luxurious tastes could devise for their living-quarters. And where such
a place might after a time have become stale through sheer variety, the
bustling person of Djuna, man-of-all-work, general factotum, errand
boy, valet and mascot prevented such a dénouement.
Djuna had been picked up by Richard Queen during the period of Ellery’s
studies at college, when the old man was very much alone. This cheerful
young man, nineteen years old, an orphan for as long as he could
remember, ecstatically unaware of the necessity for a surname—slim and
small, nervous and joyous, bubbling over with spirit and yet as quiet
as a mouse when the occasion demanded—this Djuna, then, worshiped
old Richard in much the same fashion as the ancient Alaskans bowed down
to their totem-poles. Between him and Ellery, too, there was a shy
kinship which rarely found expression except in the boy’s passionate
service. He slept in a small room beyond the bedrooms used by father
and son and, according to Richard’s own chuckling expression, “could
hear a flea singing to its mate in the middle of the night.”
On the morning after the eventful night of Monte Field’s murder, Djuna
was laying the cloth for breakfast when the telephone bell rang. The
boy, accustomed to early morning calls, lifted the receiver:
“This is Inspector Queen’s man Djuna talking. Who is calling, please?”
“Oh, it is, is it?” growled a bass voice over the wire. “Well, you son
of a Gypsy policeman, wake the Inspector for me and be quick about it!”
“Inspector Queen may not be disturbed, sir, unless his man Djuna knows
who’s calling.” Djuna, who knew Sergeant Velie’s voice especially well,
grinned and stuck his tongue in his cheek.
A slim hand firmly grasped Djuna’s neck and propelled him half-way
across the room. The Inspector, fully dressed, his nostrils quivering
appreciatively with his morning’s first ration of snuff, said into
the mouthpiece, “Don’t mind Djuna, Thomas. What’s up? This is Queen
talking.”
“Oh, that you, Inspector? I wouldn’t have buzzed you so early in the
morning except that Ritter just phoned from Monte Field’s apartment.
Got an interesting report,” rumbled Velie.
“Well, well!” chuckled the Inspector. “So our friend Ritter’s bagged
someone, eh? Who is it, Thomas?”
“You guessed it, sir,” came Velie’s unmoved voice. “He said he’s got
a lady down there in an embarrassing state of deshabille and if
he stays alone with her much longer his wife will divorce him. Orders,
sir?”
Queen laughed heartily. “Sure enough, Thomas. Send a couple of men down
there right away to chaperon him. I’ll be there myself in two shakes of
a lamb’s tail—which is to say, as soon as I can drag Ellery out of bed.”
He hung up, grinning. “Djuna!” he shouted. The boy’s head popped out
from behind the kitchenette door immediately. “Hurry up with the eggs
and coffee, son!” The Inspector turned toward the bedroom to find
Ellery, collarless but unmistakably on the road to dress, confronting
him with an air of absorption.
“So you’re really up?” grumbled the Inspector, easing himself into an
armchair. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of bed, you sluggard!”
“You may rest easy,” said Ellery absently. “I most certainly am up,
and I am going to stay up. And as soon as Djuna replenishes the inner
man I’ll be off and out of your way.” He lounged into the bedroom,
reappearing a moment later brandishing his collar and tie.
“Here! Where d’ye think you’re going, young man?” roared Queen,
starting up.
“Down to my book-shop, Inspector darling,” replied Ellery judicially.
“You don’t think I’m going to allow that Falconer first-edition to get
away from me? Really—it may still be there, you know.”
“Falconer fiddle-sticks,” said his father grimly. “You started
something and you’re going to help finish it. Here—Djuna—where in time
is that kid?”
Djuna stepped briskly into the room balancing a tray in one hand and a
pitcher of milk in the other. In a twinkling he had the table ready,
the coffee bubbling, the toast browned; and father and son hurried
through their breakfast without a word.
“Now,” remarked Ellery, setting down his empty cup, “now that I’ve
finished this Arcadian repast, tell me where the fire is.”
“Get your hat and coat on and stop asking pointless questions, son of
my grief,” growled Queen. In three minutes they were on the sidewalk
hailing a taxicab.
The cab drew up before a monumental apartment building. Lounging on the
sidewalk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, was Detective Piggott.
The Inspector winked and trotted into the lobby. He and Ellery were
whisked up to the fourth floor where Detective Hagstrom greeted them,
pointing to an apartment door numbered 4-D. Ellery, leaning forward
to catch the inscription on the nameplate, was about to turn on his
father with an amused expostulation when the door swung open at Queen’s
imperious ring and the broad flushed face of Ritter peered out at them.
“Morning, Inspector,” the detective mumbled, holding the door open.
“I’m glad you’ve come, sir.”
Queen and Ellery marched inside. They stood in a small foyer, profusely
furnished. Directly in their line of vision was a living-room, and
beyond that a closed door. A frilled feminine slipper and a slim ankle
were visible at the edge of the door.
The Inspector stepped forward, changed his mind and quickly opening the
hall door called to Hagstrom, who was sauntering about outside. The
detective ran up.
“Come inside here,” said Queen sharply. “Got a job for you.”
With Ellery and the two plainclothes men following at his heels, he
strode into the living-room.
A woman of mature beauty, a trifle worn, the pastiness of a ruined
complexion apparent beneath heavily applied rouge, sprang to her
feet. She was dressed in a flowing flimsy _negligée_ and her hair was
tousled. She nervously crushed a cigarette underfoot.
“Are you the big cheese around here?” she yelled in a strident
fury to Queen. He stood stock still and examined her impersonally.
“Then what the hell do you mean by sending one o’ your flat-foots to
keep me locked up all night, hey?”
She jumped forward as if to come to grips with the old man. Ritter
lumbered swiftly toward her and squeezed her arm. “Here you,” he
growled, “shut up until you’re spoken to.”
She glared at him. Then with a tigerish twist she was out of his grasp
and in a chair, panting, wild-eyed.
Arms akimbo, the Inspector stood looking her up and down with
unconcealed distaste. Ellery had glanced at the woman briefly and begun
to potter about the room, peering at the wall-hangings and Japanese
prints, picking up a book from an end-table, poking his head into dark
corners.
Queen motioned to Hagstrom. “Take this lady into the next room and
keep her company for a while,” he said. The detective unceremoniously
hustled the woman to her feet. She tossed her head defiantly and
marched into the next room, Hagstrom following.
“Now, Ritter, my boy,” sighed the old man, sinking into an easy-chair,
“tell me what happened.”
Ritter answered stiffly. His eyes were strained, bloodshot. “I
followed out your orders last night to the dot. I beat it down here
in a police car, left it on the corner because I didn’t know but what
somebody might be keeping a lookout, and strolled up to this apartment.
Everything was quiet—and I hadn’t noticed any lights either, because
before I went in I beat it down to the court and looked up at the back
windows of the apartment. So I gave ’em a nice short ring on the bell
and waited.
“No answer,” continued Ritter, with a tightening of his big jaw. “I
buzzed again—this time longer and louder. This time I got results. I
heard the latch on the inside rattle and this woman yodels, ‘That
you, honey? Where’s your key?’ Aha—thinks I—Mr. Field’s lady-friend!
So I shoved my foot in the door and grabbed her before she knew what
was what. Well, sir, I got a surprise. Sort of expected,” he grinned
sheepishly, “sort of expected to find the woman dressed, but all I
grabbed was a thin piece o’ silk night-gown. I guess I must have
blushed....”
“Ah, the opportunities of our good minions of the law!” murmured
Ellery, head bent over a small lacquered vase.
“Anyway—” continued the detective, “I got my hands on her and she
yelped—plenty. Hustled her into the living-room here where she’d put
on the light, and took a good look at her. She was scared blue but
she was kind of plucky, too, because she began to cuss me and she
wanted to know who in hell I was, what I was tryin’ to do in a woman’s
apartment at night, and all that sort of stuff. I flashed my badge. And
Inspector, that hefty Sheba—the minute she sees the badge, she shuts up
tight like a bluepoint and won’t answer a question I ask her!”
“Why was that?” The old man’s eyes roved from floor to ceiling as he
looked over the appointments of the room.
“Hard to tell, Inspector,” said Ritter. “First she seemed scared, but
when she saw my badge she bucked up wonderful. And the longer I was
here the more brazen she became.”
“You didn’t tell her about Field, did you?” queried the Inspector, in a
sharp, low tone.
Ritter gave his superior a reproachful glance. “Not a peep out o’ me,
sir,” he said. “Well, when I saw it was no go tryin’ to get anything
out of her—all she’d yell was, ‘Wait till Monte gets home, you bozo!’—I
took a look at the bedroom. Nobody there, so I shoved her inside,
kept the door open and the light on and stayed all night. She climbed
into bed after a while and I guess she went to sleep. At about seven
this morning she popped out and started to yell all over again.
Seemed to think that Field had been grabbed by headquarters. Insisted
on having a newspaper. I told her nothin’ doin’ and then phoned the
office. Not another thing happened since.”
“I say, dad!” exclaimed Ellery suddenly, from a corner of the room.
“What do you think our legal friend reads—you’ll never guess. ‘How to
Tell Character from Handwriting’!”
The Inspector grunted as he rose. “Stop fiddling with those eternal
books,” he said, “and come along.”
He flung open the bedroom door. The woman was sitting cross-legged on
the bed, an ornate affair of a bastard French period-style, canopied
and draped from ceiling to floor with heavy damask curtains. Hagstrom
leaned stolidly against the window.
Queen looked quickly about. He turned to Ritter. “Was that bed mussed
up when you came in here last night—did it look as if it had been slept
in?” he whispered aside.
Ritter nodded. “All right, then, Ritter,” said Queen in a genial tone.
“Go home and get some rest. You deserve it. And send up Piggott on your
way out.” The detective touched his hat and departed.
Queen turned on the woman. He walked to the bed and sat down beside
her, studying her half-averted face. She lit a cigarette defiantly.
“I am Inspector Queen of the police, my dear,” announced the old man
mildly. “I warn you that any attempt to keep a stubborn silence or lie
to me will only get you into a heap of trouble. But there! Of course
you understand.”
She jerked away. “I’m not answering any questions, Mr. Inspector, until
I know what right you have to ask ’em. I haven’t done anything wrong