The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
you could tell us something about Mr. Field’s convivial habits. Was he,
now, what you would call a heavy drinker?”
She laughed merrily. “Is that all?” she said. “Yes and no. I’ve seen
Monte drink half a night and be sober as a—as a parson. And then I’ve
seen him at other times when he was pickled silly on a couple of tots.
It all depended—don’t you know?” She laughed again.
“Well, many of us are that way,” murmured the Inspector. “I don’t want
you to abuse any confidences, Mrs. Russo—but perhaps you know the
source of his liquor supply?”
She stopped laughing instantly, her face reflecting an innocent
indignation. “What do you think I am, anyway?” she demanded. “I don’t
know, but even if I did I wouldn’t tell. There’s many a hard-working
bootlegger who’s head and shoulders above the guys who try to run ’em
in, believe me!”
“The way of all flesh, Mrs. Russo,” said Queen soothingly.
“Nevertheless, my dear,” he continued softly, “I’m sure that if I need
that information eventually, you will enlighten me. Eh?” There was a
silence. “I think that will be all, then, Mrs. Russo. Just stay in
town, won’t you? We may require your testimony soon.”
“Well—so long,” she said, tossing her head. She marched out of the room
to the foyer.
“Mrs. Russo!” called Queen suddenly, in a sharp tone. She turned
with her gloved hand on the front-door knob, the smile dying from
her lips. “What’s Ben Morgan been doing since he and Field dissolved
partnership—do you know?”
Her reply came after a split-second of hesitation. “Who’s he?” she
asked, her forehead wrinkled into a frown.
Queen stood squarely on the rug. He said sadly, “Never mind. Good day,”
and turned his back on her. The door slammed. A moment later Hagstrom
strolled out, leaving Piggott, Queen and Ellery in the apartment.
The three men, as if inspired by a single thought, ran into the
bedroom. It was apparently as they had left it. The bed was disordered
and Mrs. Russo’s nightgown and _negligée_ were lying on the floor.
Queen opened the door of the bedroom clothes-closet. “Whew!” said
Ellery. “This chap had a quiet taste in clothes, didn’t he? Sort of
Mulberry Street Beau Brummell.” They ransacked the closet with no
result. Ellery craned his neck at the shelf above. “No hats—no
canes; that settles _that_!” he murmured with an air of satisfaction.
Piggott, who had disappeared into a small kitchen, returned staggering
under the burden of a half-empty case of liquor-bottles.
Ellery and his father bent over the case. The Inspector removed a cork
gingerly, sniffed the contents, then handed the bottle to Piggott, who
followed his superior’s example critically.
“Looks and smells okay,” said the detective. “But I’d hate to take a
chance tasting this stuff—after last night.”
“You’re perfectly justified in your caution,” chuckled Ellery. “But if
you should change your mind and decide to invoke the spirit of Bacchus,
Piggott, let me suggest this prayer: O wine, if thou hast no name to be
known by, let us call thee Death.”[4]
[4] Ellery Queen was here probably paraphrasing the Shakespearian
quotation: “O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be
known by, let us call thee devil.”
“I’ll have the firewater analyzed,” growled Queen. “Scotch and rye
mixed, and the labels look like the real thing. But then you never can
tell....” Ellery suddenly grasped his father’s arm, leaning forward
tensely. The three men stiffened.
A barely audible scratching came to their ears, proceeding from the
foyer.
“Sounds as if somebody is using a key on the door,” whispered Queen.
“Duck out, Piggott—jump whoever it is as soon as he gets inside!”
Piggott darted through the living-room into the foyer. Queen and Ellery
waited in the bedroom, concealed from view.
There was utter silence now except for the scraping on the outer door.
The newcomer seemed to be having difficulty with the key. Suddenly the
rasp of the lock-tumblers falling back was heard and an instant later
the door swung open. It slammed shut almost immediately.
A muffled cry, a hoarse bull-like voice, Piggott’s half-strangled
oath, the frenzied shuffling of feet—and Ellery and his father were
speeding across the living-room to the foyer.
Piggott was struggling in the arms of a burly, powerful man dressed
in black. A suit-case lay on the floor to one side, as if it had been
thrown there during the tussle. A newspaper was fluttering through the
air, settling on the parquet just as Ellery reached the cursing men.
It took the combined efforts of the three to subdue their visitor.
Finally, panting heavily, he lay on the floor, Piggott’s arm jammed
tightly across his chest.
The Inspector bent down, gazed curiously into the man’s red, angry
features and said softly, “And who are you, mister?”
CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS MR. MICHAELS APPEARS
The intruder rose awkwardly to his feet. He was a tall, ponderous man
with solemn features and blank eyes. There was nothing distinguished
in either his appearance or his manner. If anything unusual could be
said of him at all, it was that both his appearance and manner were
so unremarkable. It seemed as if, whoever he was or whatever his
occupation, he had made a deliberate effort to efface all marks of
personality.
“Just what’s the idea of the strong-arm stuff?” he said in a bass
voice. But even his tones were flat and colorless.
Queen turned to Piggott. “What happened?” he demanded, with a pretense
of severity.
“I stood behind the door, Inspector,” gasped Piggott, still winded,
“and when this wildcat stepped in I touched him on the arm. He jumped
me like a trainload o’ tigers, he did. Pushed me in the face—he’s got a
wallop, Inspector.... Tried to get out the door again.”
Queen nodded judicially. The newcomer said mildly, “That’s a lie, sir.
He jumped me and I fought back.”
“Here, here!” murmured Queen. “This will never do....”
The door swung open suddenly and Detective Johnson stood on the
threshold. He took the Inspector to one side. “Velie sent me down the
last minute on the chance you might need me, Inspector.... And as I
was coming up I saw that chap there. Didn’t know but what he might be
snooping around, so I followed him up.” Queen nodded vigorously. “Glad
you came—I can use you,” he muttered and, motioning to the others,
he led the way into the living-room.
“Now, my man,” he said curtly to the big intruder, “the show is over.
Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“My name is Charles Michaels—sir. I am Mr. Monte Field’s valet.”
The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. The man’s entire demeanor had in
some intangible manner changed. His face was blank, as before, and
his attitude seemed in no way different. Yet the old man sensed a
metamorphosis; he glanced quickly at Ellery and saw a confirmation of
his own thought in his son’s eyes.
“Is that so?” inquired the Inspector steadily. “Valet, eh? And where
are you going at this hour of the morning with that traveling-bag?”
He jerked his hand toward the suit-case, a cheap black affair, which
Piggott had picked up in the foyer and carried into the living-room.
Ellery suddenly strolled away in the direction of the foyer. He bent
over to pick up something.
“Sir?” Michaels seemed upset by the question. “That’s mine, sir,” he
confided. “I was just going away this morning on my vacation and I’d
arranged with Mr. Field to come here for my salary-check before I left.”
The old man’s eyes sparkled. He had it! Michaels’s expression and
general bearing had remained unchanged; but his voice and enunciation
were markedly different.
“So you arranged to get your check from Mr. Field this morning?”
murmured the Inspector. “That’s mighty funny now, come to think of it.”
Michaels permitted a fleeting amazement to scud across his features.
“Why—why, where is Mr. Field?” he asked.
“‘Massa’s in de cold, cold ground,’” chuckled Ellery, from the foyer.
He stepped back into the living-room, flourishing the newspaper which
Michaels had dropped during the fracas with Piggott. “Really, now, old
chap, that’s a bit thick, you know. Here is the morning paper you
brought in with you. And the first thing I see as I pick it up is the
nice black headline describing Mr. Field’s little accident. Smeared
over the entire front-page. And—er, you failed to see the story?”
Michaels stared stonily at Ellery and the paper. But his eyes fell as
he mumbled, “I didn’t get the opportunity of reading the paper this
morning, sir. What has happened to Mr. Field?”
The Inspector snorted. “Field’s been killed, Michaels, and you knew it
all the time.”
“But I didn’t, I tell you, sir,” objected the valet respectfully.
“Stop lying!” rapped Queen. “Tell us why you’re here or you’ll get
plenty of opportunity to talk behind bars!”
Michaels regarded the old man patiently. “I’ve told you the truth,
sir,” he said. “Mr. Field told me yesterday that I was to come here
this morning for my check. That’s all I know.”
“You were to meet him here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why did you forget to ring the bell? Used a key as if you didn’t
expect to find any one here, my man,” said Queen.
“The bell?” The valet opened his eyes wide. “I always use my key, sir.
Never disturb Mr. Field if I can help it.”
“Why didn’t Field give you a check yesterday?” barked the Inspector.
“He didn’t have his check-book handy, I think, sir.”
Queen’s lip curled. “You haven’t even a fertile imagination, Michaels.
At what time did you last see him yesterday?”
“At about seven o’clock, sir,” said Michaels promptly. “I don’t live
here at the apartment. It’s too small and Mr. Field likes—liked
privacy. I generally come early in the morning to make breakfast
for him and prepare his bath and lay out his clothes. Then when he’s
gone to the office I clean up a bit and the rest of the day is my own
until dinner-time. I return about five, prepare dinner unless I’ve
heard from Mr. Field during the day that he is dining out, and get his
dinner or evening clothes ready. Then I am through for the night....
Yesterday after I laid out his things he told me about the check.”
“Not an especially fatiguing itinerary,” murmured Ellery. “And what
things did you lay out last evening, Michaels?”
The man faced Ellery respectfully. “There was his underwear, sir, and
his socks, his evening shoes, stiff shirt, studs, collar, white tie,
full evening dress, cape, hat—”
“Ah, yes—his hat,” interrupted Queen. “And what kind of hat was it,
Michaels?”
“His regular tophat, sir,” answered Michaels. “He had only one, and
a very expensive one it was, too,” he added warmly. “Browne Bros., I
think.”
Queen drummed lazily on the arm of his chair. “Tell me, Michaels,” he
said, “what did you do last night after you left here—that is, after
seven o’clock?”
“I went home, sir. I had my bag to pack and I was rather fatigued. I
went right to sleep after I’d had a bite to eat—it must have been near
nine-thirty when I climbed into bed, sir,” he added innocently.
“Where do you live?” Michaels gave a number on East 146th Street, in
the Bronx section. “I see.... Did Field have any regular visitors
here?” went on the Inspector.
Michaels frowned politely. “That’s hard for me to say, sir. Mr. Field
wasn’t what you would call a friendly person. But then I wasn’t here
evenings, so I can’t say who came after I left. But—”
“Yes?”
“There was a lady, sir....” Michaels hesitated primly. “I dislike
mentioning names under the circumstances—”
“Her name?” said Queen wearily.
“Well, sir—it isn’t sort of right—Russo. Mrs. Angela Russo, her name
is,” answered Michaels.
“How long did Mr. Field know this Mrs. Russo?”
“Several months, sir. I think he met her at a party in Greenwich
Village somewhere.”