The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
had no intention of keeping the appointment with her at 10 o’clock.”
“I’ve quite made up my mind, Ellery,” said the Inspector, “whatever the
probabilities, that he didn’t go to the Roman Theatre last night to see
the show. He went there with his eyes open—for business.”
“I think that’s correct, myself,” returned Ellery, smiling. “But you
can never be too careful in weighing possibilities. Now, if he went on
business, he went to meet somebody. Was that somebody the murderer?”
“You ask too many questions, Ellery,” said the Inspector.—“Thomas,
let’s have a look at the other stuff in that package.”
Velie carefully handed the Inspector the miscellaneous articles one by
one. The gloves, fountain-pen cap, button, and handkerchief Queen threw
to one side after a quick scrutiny. Nothing remained except the small
bits of candy paper and the crumpled programs. The former yielding no
clues, Queen took up the programs. And suddenly, in the midst of his
examination, he cried delightedly: “See what I’ve found, boys!”
The three men leaned over his shoulder. Queen held a program in
his hand, its wrinkles smoothed out. It showed evidences of having been
crushed and thrown away. On one of the inside pages, bordering the
usual article on men’s wear, was a number of varied marks, some forming
letters, some forming numbers, still others forming cabalistic designs
such as a person scribbles in moments of idle thought.
“Inspector, it looks as if you’ve found Field’s own program!” exclaimed
Flint.
“Yes, sir, it certainly does,” said Queen sharply. “Flint, look through
the papers we found in the dead man’s clothing last night and bring me
a letter showing his signature.” Flint hurried out.
Ellery was studying the scrawls intently. On the top margin of the
paper appeared:
Flint returned with a letter. The Inspector compared the
signatures—they were plainly by the same hand.
“We’ll have them checked by Jimmie down in the laboratory,” muttered
the old man. “But I guess this is pretty authentic. It’s Field’s
program, there can’t be any doubt of that.... What do you make of it,
Thomas?”
Velie grated: “I don’t know what those other numbers refer to, but that
‘50,000’ couldn’t mean anything but dollars, Chief.”
“The old boy must have been figuring his bank account,” said Queen. “He
loved the sight of his own name, didn’t he?”
“That’s not quite fair to Field,” protested Ellery. “When a man is
sitting idle, waiting for something to happen—as he will when he is in
a theatre before the performance begins—one of his most natural actions
is to scribble his initials or his name on the handiest object. In a
theatre the handiest object would be the program.... The writing of
one’s own name is fundamental in psychology. So perhaps Field wasn’t as
egotistical as this seems to make him.”
“It’s a small point,” said the Inspector, studying the scrawls with a
frown.
“Perhaps,” returned Ellery. “But to get back to a more pressing
matter.—I don’t agree with you when you say the ‘50,000’ probably
refers to Field’s bank account. When a man jots down his bank balance
he will not do it in such round numbers.”
“We can prove or disprove that easily enough,” retorted the Inspector,
picking up a telephone. He asked the police operator to get him the
number of Field’s office. When he had spoken to Oscar Lewin for some
time, he turned back to Ellery with a crestfallen air.
“You were right, El,” he said. “Field had an amazingly small personal
account. All his accounts balance to less than six thousand dollars.
And this despite the fact that he frequently made deposits of ten and
fifteen thousand dollars. Lewin himself was surprised. He hadn’t known,
he said, how Field’s personal finances stood until I asked him to
look the matter up.... I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts Field played the
stock market or the horses!”
“I’m not particularly overwhelmed by the news,” remarked Ellery. “It
points to the probable reason for the ‘50,000’ on the program. That
number not only represents dollars, but more than that—it indicates
a business deal in which the stakes were fifty thousand! Not a bad
night’s work, if he had come out of it alive.”
“How about the other two numbers?” asked Queen.
“I’m going to mull over them a bit,” replied Ellery, subsiding in his
chair. “I _would_ like to know what the business deal was that involved
such a large financial consideration,” he added, absently polishing his
pince-nez.
“Whatever the business deal was,” said the Inspector sententiously,
“you may be sure, my son, it was an evil one.”
“An evil one?” inquired Ellery in a serious tone.
“Money’s the root of all evil,” retorted the Inspector with a grin.
Ellery’s tone did not change. “Not only the root, dad—but the fruit,
too.”
“Another quotation?” mocked the old man.
“Fielding,” said Ellery imperturbably.
CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH THE PAST CASTS A SHADOW
The telephone bell tinkled.
“Q? Sampson speaking,” came the District Attorney’s voice over the wire.
“Good morning, Henry,” said Queen. “Where are you and how do you feel
this morning?”
“I’m at the office and I feel rotten,” returned Sampson, chuckling.
“The doctor insists I’ll be a corpse if I keep this up and the office
insists the City will go under unless I attend to business. So what’s a
feller to do?... I say, Q.”
The Inspector winked at Ellery across the table, as if to say, “I know
what’s coming!”
“Yes, Henry?”
“There’s a gentleman in my private office whom I think it would be
greatly to your advantage to meet,” continued Sampson in a subdued
tone. “He wants to see you and I’m afraid you’ll have to chuck whatever
you’re doing and hotfoot it up here. He”—Sampson’s voice became a
whisper—“he’s a man I can’t afford to antagonize unnecessarily, Q, old
boy.”
The Inspector frowned. “I suppose you’re referring to Ives-Pope,” he
said. “Riled, is he, because we questioned the apple of his eye last
night?”
“Not exactly,” said Sampson. “He’s really a decent old chap.
Just—er—just be nice to him, Q, won’t you?”
“I’ll handle him with silk gloves,” chuckled the old man. “If it will
ease your mind any I’ll drag my son along. He generally attends to our
social obligations.”
“That will be fine,” said Sampson gratefully.
The Inspector turned to Ellery as he hung up. “Poor Henry’s in
something of a mess,” he said quizzically, “and I can’t say I blame
him for trying to please. Sick as a dog and the politicians hopping on
him, this Crœsus howling in his front office.... Come along, son, we’re
going to meet the celebrated Franklin Ives-Pope!”
Ellery groaned, stretching his arms. “You’ll have another sick man on
your hands if this continues.” Nevertheless he jumped up and clamped
his hat on his head. “Let’s look over this captain of industry.”
Queen grinned at Velie. “Before I forget, Thomas.... I want you to do a
bit of sleuthing to-day. Your job is to find out why Monte Field, who
did a rushing legal business and lived in princely style, had only six
thousand dollars in his personal account. It’s probably Wall Street and
the racetrack but I want you to make sure. You might learn something
from the cancelled vouchers—Lewin down at Field’s office could help you
there.... And while you’re at it—this might be extremely important,
Thomas—get a complete line-up on Field’s movements all day yesterday.”
The two Queens departed for Sampson’s headquarters.
The office of the District Attorney was a busy place and even an
Inspector of Detectives was treated with scant ceremony in the sacred
chambers. Ellery was wroth, and his father smiled, and finally the
District Attorney himself came rushing out of his sanctum with a word
of displeasure to the clerk who had allowed his friends to cool their
heels on a hard bench.
“Watch your throat, young man,” warned Queen, as Sampson led the way to
his office, muttering maledictions on the head of the offender. “Are
you sure I look all right to meet the money-mogul?”
Sampson held the door open. The two Queens on the threshold saw a
man, hands clasped behind his back, looking through the window on the
uninteresting vista outside. As the District Attorney closed the door
the occupant of the room wheeled about with astonishing agility for a
man of his weight.
Franklin Ives-Pope was a relic of more virile financial days. He
resembled the strong self-assertive type of magnate who like old
Cornelius Vanderbilt had dominated Wall Street as much by force of
personality as by extent of wealth. Ives-Pope had clear grey eyes,
iron-grey hair, a grizzled mustache, a husky body still springy with
youth and an air of authority unmistakably masterful. Standing against
the light of the dingy window, he was a most impressive figure of a man
and Ellery and Queen, stepping forward, realized at once that here was
an individual whose intelligence required no patronage.
The financier spoke in a deep pleasant voice even before Sampson,
slightly embarrassed, could make the introduction. “I suppose you’re
Queen, the man-hunter,” he said. “I’ve been anxious to meet you for a
long time, Inspector.” He offered a large square hand, which Queen took
with dignity.
“It would be unnecessary for me to echo that statement, Mr. Ives-Pope,”
he said, smiling a little. “Once I took a flyer in Wall Street and I
think you’ve got some of my money.—This, sir, is my son Ellery, who is
the brains and beauty of the Queen family.”
The big man’s eyes measured Ellery’s bulk appreciatively. He shook
hands, saying, “You’ve got a smart father there, son!”
“Well!” sighed the District Attorney, setting three chairs. “I’m glad
that’s over. You haven’t the slightest idea, Mr. Ives-Pope, how nervous
I’ve been about this meeting. Queen is the devil himself when it comes
to the social amenities, and I shouldn’t have been surprised if he
had clapped his handcuffs on you as you shook hands!”
The tension snapped with the big man’s hearty chuckle.
The District Attorney came abruptly to the point. “Mr. Ives-Pope is
here, Q, to find out for himself just what can be done in the matter
of his daughter.” Queen nodded. Sampson turned to the financier.
“As I told you before, sir, we have every confidence in Inspector
Queen—always have had. He generally works without any check or
supervision from the District Attorney’s office. In view of the
circumstances, I thought I should make that clear.”
“That’s a sane method, Sampson,” said Ives-Pope, with approval. “I’ve
always worked on that principle in my own business. Besides, from what
I’ve heard about Inspector Queen, your confidence is well placed.”
“Sometimes,” said Queen gravely, “I have to do things that go against
the grain. I will be frank to say that some things I did last night
in the line of duty were extremely disagreeable to me. I suppose, Mr.
Ives-Pope, your daughter is upset because of our little talk last
night?”
Ives-Pope was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head and met
the Inspector’s gaze squarely. “Look here, Inspector,” he said.
“We’re both men of the world and men of business. We’ve had dealings
with all sorts of queer people, both of us; and we have, too, solved
problems that presented enormous difficulties to others. So I think
we can converse frankly.... Yes, my daughter Frances is more than a
little upset. Incidentally, so is her mother, who is an ill woman at
the best of times; and her brother Stanford, my son—but we needn’t go
into that.... Frances told me last night when she got home with—her
friends—everything that happened. I know my daughter, Inspector; and
I’d stake my fortune that there isn’t the slightest connection between
her and Field.”