The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
suite—the old man, let me repeat, owed a respectable portion of his
reputation to his son’s genius.
In matters of pure tenacity, when possibilities lay frankly open
on every hand, Richard Queen was a peerless investigator. He had a
crystal-clear mind for detail; a retentive memory for complexities of
motive and plot; a cool viewpoint when the obstacle seemed insuperable.
Give him a hundred facts, bungled and torn, out of proportion and
sequence, and he had them assembled in short order. He was like a
bloodhound who follows the true scent in the clutter of a hopelessly
tangled trail.
But the intuitive sense, the gift of imagination, belonged to Ellery
Queen, the fiction writer. The two might have been twins possessing
abnormally developed faculties of mind, impotent by themselves but
vigorous when applied one to the other. Richard Queen, far from
resenting the bond which made his success so spectacularly possible—as
a less generous nature might have done—took pains to make it plain
to his friends. The slender, gray old man whose name was anathema
to contemporary lawbreakers, used to utter his “confession,” as he
called it, with a _naïveté_ explicable only on the score of his proud
fatherhood.
One word more. Of all the affairs pursued by the two Queens this, which
Ellery has titled “The Roman Hat Mystery” for reasons shortly to be
made clear, was surely the crowning case of them all. The dilettante
of criminology, the thoughtful reader of detective literature, will
understand as the tale unfolds why Ellery considers the murder of
Monte Field worthy of study. The average murderer’s motives and habits
are fairly accessible to the criminal specialist. Not so, however, in
the case of the Field killer. Here the Queens dealt with a person of
delicate perception and extraordinary finesse. In fact, as Richard
pointed out shortly after the dénouement, the crime planned was
as nearly perfect as human ingenuity could make it. As in so many
“perfect crimes,” however, a small mischance of fate coupled with
Ellery’s acute deductive analyses gave the hunting Queens the single
clue which led ultimately to the destruction of the plotter.
J. J. McC.
New York,
_March 1, 1929._
LEXICON OF PERSONS CONNECTED WITH THE INVESTIGATION
Note: The complete list of individuals, male and female, brought
into the story of Monte Field’s murder and appended below is given
solely for the convenience of the reader. It is intended to simplify
rather than mystify. In the course of perusing mysterio-detective
literature the reader is, like as not, apt to lose sight of a number
of seemingly unimportant characters who eventually prove of primary
significance in the solution of the crime. The writer therefore urges
a frequent study of this chart during the reader’s pilgrimage through
the tale, if toward no other end than to ward off the inevitable cry of
“Unfair!”—the consolation of those who read and do not reason.
E. Q.
Monte Field, an important personage indeed—the victim.
William Pusak, clerk. Cranially a brachycephalic.
Doyle, a _gendarme_ with brains.
Louis Panzer, a Broadway theatre-manager.
James Peale, the Don Juan of “Gunplay.”
Eve Ellis. The quality of friendship is not strained.
Stephen Barry. One can understand the perturbation of the juvenile lead.
Lucille Horton, the “lady of the streets”—in the play.
Hilda Orange, a celebrated English character-actress.
Thomas Velie, Detective-Sergeant who knows a thing or two about crime.
Hesse, Piggott, Flint, Johnson, Hagstrom, Ritter, gentlemen of the
Homicide Squad.
Dr. Samuel Prouty, Assistant to the Chief Medical Examiner.
Madge O’Connell, usherette on the fatal aisle.
Dr. Stuttgard. There is always a doctor in the audience.
Jess Lynch, the obliging orangeade-boy.
John Cazzanelli, _alias_ “Parson Johnny,” naturally takes a
professional interest in “Gunplay.”
Benjamin Morgan. What do you make of him?
Frances Ives-Pope. Enter the society interest.
Stanford Ives-Pope, man-about-town.
Harry Neilson. He revels in the sweet uses of publicity.
Henry Sampson, for once an intelligent District Attorney.
Charles Michaels, the fly—or the spider?
Mrs. Angela Russo, a lady of reputation.
Timothy Cronin, a legal ferret.
Arthur Stoates, another.
Oscar Lewin, the Charon of the dead man’s office.
Franklin Ives-Pope. If wealth meant happiness—
Mrs. Franklin Ives-Pope, a maternal ♦hypochondriac.
Mrs. Phillips. Middle-aged angels have their uses.
Dr. Thaddeus Jones, toxicologist of the City of New York.
Edmund Crewe, architectural expert attached to the Detective Bureau.
Djuna, an Admirable Crichton of a new species.
The Problem Is—
Who Killed Monte Field?
Meet the astute gentlemen whose business
it is to discover such things—
Mr. Richard Queen
Mr. Ellery Queen
♦ “hypochrondiac” replaced with “hypochondriac”
Explanation for the
MAP OF THE ROMAN THEATRE
A: Actors’ dressing-rooms.
B: Frances Ives-Pope’s seat.
C: Benjamin Morgan’s seat.
D: Aisle-seats occupied by “Parson Johnny” Cazzanelli and Madge
O’Connell.
E: Dr. Stuttgard’s seat.
F, F: Orangeade boys’ stands (only during intermissions).
G: Area in vicinity of crime. Black square represents seat
occupied by Monte Field. Three white squares to the right and
four white squares directly in front represent vacant seats.
H: Publicity office, occupied by Harry Neilson.
I: Manager Louis Panzer’s private office.
J: Anteroom to manager’s office.
K: Ticket-taker’s box.
L: Only stairway leading to the balcony.
M: Stairway leading downstairs to General Lounge.
N, N: Cashiers’ offices.
O: Property Room.
P: William Pusak’s seat.
Q, Q: Orchestra boxes.
PART ONE
_“The policeman must oft follow the precept of the ‘bakadori’—those
fool-birds who, though they know disaster awaits them at the hands and
clubs of the beach-combers, brave ignominious death to bury their eggs
in the sandy shore.... So the policeman. All Nippon should not deter
him from hatching the egg of thoroughness.”_
—_From_ A Thousand Leaves,
_By_ Tamaka Hiero.
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH ARE INTRODUCED A THEATRE-AUDIENCE AND A CORPSE
The dramatic season of 192- began in a disconcerting manner. Eugene
O’Neill had neglected to write a new play in time to secure the
financial encouragement of the _intelligentzia_; and as for the
“low-brows,” having attended play after play without enthusiasm, they
had deserted the legitimate theatre for the more ingenuous delights of
the motion picture palaces.
On the evening of Monday, September 24th, therefore, when a misty
rain softened the electric blaze of Broadway’s theatrical district,
it was viewed morosely by house-managers and producers from 37th
Street to Columbus Circle. Several plays were then and there given
their walking-papers by the men higher up, who called upon God and the
weather-bureau to witness their discomfiture. The penetrating rain kept
the play-going public close to its radios and bridge-tables. Broadway
was a bleak sight indeed to those few who had the temerity to patrol
its empty streets.
The sidewalk fronting the Roman Theatre, on 47th Street west of the
“White Way,” however, was jammed with a mid-season, fair-weather crowd.
The title “Gunplay” flared from a gay marquee. Cashiers dextrously
attended the chattering throng lined up at the “To-night’s Performance”
window. The buff-and-blue doorman, impressive with the dignity of
his uniform and the placidity of his years, bowed the evening’s
top-hatted and befurred customers into the orchestra with an air of
satisfaction, as if inclemencies of weather held no terrors for those
implicated in “Gunplay’s” production.
Inside the theatre, one of Broadway’s newest, people bustled to their
seats visibly apprehensive, since the boisterous quality of the play
was public knowledge. In due time the last member of the audience
ceased rustling his program; the last latecomer stumbled over his
neighbor’s feet; the lights dimmed and the curtain rose. A pistol
coughed in the silence, a man screamed ... the play was on.
“Gunplay” was the first drama of the season to utilize the noises
customarily associated with the underworld. Automatics, machine guns,
raids on night-clubs, the lethal sounds of gang vendettas—the entire
stock-in-trade of the romanticized crime society was jammed into
three swift acts. It was an exaggerated reflection of the times—a bit
raw, a bit nasty and altogether satisfying to the theatrical public.
Consequently it played to packed houses in rain and shine. This
evening’s house was proof of its popularity.
The performance proceeded smoothly. The audience was properly thrilled
at the thunderous climax to the first act. The rain having stopped,
people strolled out into the side alleys for a breath of air during
the first ten-minute intermission. With the rising of the curtain on
Act II, the detonations on the stage increased in volume. The second
act hurtled to its big moment as explosive dialogue shot across
the footlights. A slight commotion at the rear of the theatre went
unnoticed, not unnaturally, in the noise and the darkness. No one
seemed aware of anything amiss and the play crashed on. Gradually,
however, the commotion increased in volume. At this point a few
spectators at the rear of the left section squirmed about in their
seats, to assert their rights in angry whispers. The protest was
contagious. In an incredibly short time scores of eyes turned toward
that section of the orchestra.
Suddenly a sharp scream tore through the theatre. The audience, excited
and fascinated by the swift sequence of events on the stage, craned
their necks expectantly in the direction of the cry, eager to witness
what they thought was a new sensation of the play.
Without warning the lights of the theatre snapped on, revealing
puzzled, fearful, already appreciative faces. At the extreme left, near
a closed exit-door, a large policeman stood holding a slight nervous
man by the arm. He fended off a group of inquisitive people with a huge
hand, shouting in stentorian tones, “Everybody stay right where he is!
Don’t move! Don’t get out of your seat, any of you!”
People laughed.
The smiles were soon wiped away. For the audience began to perceive a
curious hesitancy on the part of the actors. Although they continued
to recite their lines behind the footlights they were casting puzzled
glances out into the orchestra. People, noting this, half-rose from
their seats, panicky in the presence of a scented tragedy. The
officer’s jovian voice continued to thunder, “Keep your seats, I say!
Stay where you are!”
The audience suddenly realized that the incident was not play-acting
but reality. Women shrieked and clutched their escorts. Bedlam broke
loose in the balcony, whose occupants were in no position to see
anything below.
The policeman turned savagely to a stocky, foreign-looking man in
evening clothes who was standing by, rubbing his hands together.
“I’ll have to ask you to close every exit this minute and see that