The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
of the muck. And as for business—well, it doesn’t take much to make
important clients go elsewhere for their legal work. I was trapped—I
knew it and he knew it.”
“Just how much did he want, Morgan?” asked Queen.
“Enough! He wanted twenty-five thousand dollars—just to keep quiet. I
didn’t even have any assurances that the affair would end there. I was
caught and caught properly. Because, remember, this was not an affair
which had died years before. I was still supporting that poor woman and
my son. I am supporting them now. I will—continue to support them.” He
stared at his fingernails.
“I paid the money,” he resumed morosely. “It meant stretching a
bit, but I paid it. But the harm was done. I saw red there at the Club,
and—but you know what happened.”
“And this blackmail has continued all the while, Morgan?” asked the
Inspector.
“Yes, sir—for two solid years. The man was insatiable, I tell you! Even
to-day I can’t completely understand it. He must have been earning
tremendous fees in his own practice, and yet he always seemed to be
needing money. No small change, either—I have never paid him less than
ten thousand dollars at one time!”
Queen and Ellery looked at each other fleetingly. Queen said, “Well,
Morgan, it’s a pretty kettle of fish. The more I hear about Field the
more I dislike putting the irons on the fellow who did away with him.
However! In the light of what you’ve told me, your statement last night
that you hadn’t seen Field for two years is patently untrue. When _did_
you see him last?”
Morgan appeared to be racking his memory. “Oh, it was about two months
ago, Inspector,” he said at last.
The Inspector shifted in his chair. “I see.... I’m sorry you didn’t
tell me all this last night. You understand, of course, that your story
is perfectly safe with the police. And it’s mighty vital information.
Now then—do you happen to know a woman by the name of Angela Russo?”
Morgan stared. “Why, no, Inspector. I’ve never heard of her.”
Queen was silent for a moment. “Do you know a gentleman called ‘Parson
Johnny’?”
“I think I can give you some information there, Inspector. I’m certain
that during our partnership Field was using the little thug for some
shady business of his own. I caught him sneaking up into the office a
number of times after hours, and when I asked Field about him, he would
sneer and say, ‘Oh, that’s only Parson Johnny, a friend of mine!’
But it was sufficient to establish the man’s identity. What their
connection was I can’t tell you, because I don’t know.”
“Thanks, Morgan,” said the Inspector. “I’m glad you told me that. And
now—one last question. Have you ever heard the name Charles Michaels?”
“To be sure I have,” responded Morgan grimly. “Michaels was Field’s
so-called valet—he acted in the capacity of bodyguard and was really a
blackguard, or I’m greatly mistaken in my judgment of men. He came to
the office once in a while. I can’t think of anything else about him,
Inspector.”
“He knows you, of course?” asked Queen.
“Why—I suppose so,” returned Morgan doubtfully. “I never spoke to him,
but undoubtedly he saw me during his visits to the office.”
“Well, now, that’s fine, Morgan,” grunted Queen, rising. “This has been
a most interesting and informative chat. And—no, I don’t think there’s
anything else. That is, at the moment. Just ride along, Morgan, and
keep in town—available if we need you for anything. Remember that,
won’t you?”
“I’m not likely to forget it,” said Morgan dully. “And—of course the
story I told you—about my son—it won’t come out?”
“You needn’t have the slightest fear—about that, Morgan,” said Queen,
and a few moments later he and Ellery were on the sidewalk.
“So it was blackmail, dad,” murmured Ellery. “That gives me an idea, do
you know?”
“Well, son, I’ve a few ideas of my own!” chuckled Queen, and in a
telepathic silence they walked briskly down the street in the direction
of headquarters.
CHAPTER XII
IN WHICH THE QUEENS INVADE SOCIETY
Wednesday morning found Djuna pouring the coffee before a bemused
Inspector and a chattering Ellery. The telephone bell rang. Both Ellery
and his father jumped for the instrument.
“Here! What are you doing?” exclaimed Queen. “I’m expecting a call and
that’s it!”
“Now, now, sir, allow a bibliophile the privilege of using his own
telephone,” retorted Ellery. “I have a feeling that that’s my friend
the book-dealer calling me about the elusive Falconer.”
“Look here, Ellery, don’t start—” While they were chaffing each other
good-naturedly across the table, Djuna picked up the telephone.
“The Inspector—the Inspector, did you say? Inspector—” said Djuna,
grinning as he held the mouthpiece to his thin chest, “it’s for you.”
Ellery subsided in his chair while Queen, with an air of triumph,
snatched the instrument.
“Yes?”
“Stoates calling from Field’s office, Inspector,” came a fresh cheery
young voice. “I want to put Mr. Cronin on the wire.”
The Inspector’s brow wrinkled in anticipation. Ellery was listening
intently, and even Djuna, with the monkey-like eagerness of his
sharp features, had become rooted to his corner, as if he, too,
awaited important news. Djuna in this respect resembled his brother
anthropoid—there was an alertness, a bright inquisitiveness in his
attitude and mien which delighted the Queens eternally.
Finally a high-pitched voice came over the wire. “This is Tim Cronin
speaking, Inspector,” it said. “How are you? I haven’t got round to
seeing you for an age.”
“I’m getting a little bent and withered, Tim, but otherwise I’m still
all there,” returned Queen. “What’s on your mind? Have you found
anything?”
“Now that’s the very peculiar part of the whole business, Inspector,”
came Cronin’s excited tones. “As you know, I’ve been watching this
bird Field for years. He’s been my pet nightmare for as long as I can
remember. The D.A. tells me that he gave you the story night before
last, so I needn’t go into it. But in all these years of watching and
waiting and digging I’ve never been able to find a solitary piece of
evidence against that crook that I could bring into a courtroom. And
he was a crook, Inspector—I’d stake my life on that.... Anyway, it’s
the old story here. I really shouldn’t have hoped for anything better,
knowing Field as I did. And yet—well, I couldn’t help praying that
somewhere, somehow, he would slip up, and that I’d nail it when I could
get my hands on his private records. Inspector—there’s nothing doing.”
Queen’s face reflected a fleeting disappointment, which Ellery
interpreted with a sigh, rising as he did so to walk restlessly up and
down the room.
“I guess we can’t help it, Tim,” returned Queen, with an effort at
heartiness. “Don’t worry—we’ve other irons in the fire.”
“Inspector,” said Cronin abruptly, “you’ve got your hands full. Field
was a really slick article. And from the way it looks to me, the
genius who could get past his guard and put him away is a really slick
article, too. He couldn’t be anything else. Incidentally, we’re not
half-way through with the files and maybe what we’ve looked over
isn’t as unpromising as I made it sound. There’s plenty here to
suggest shady work on Field’s part—it’s just that there’s no direct
incriminating evidence. We’re hoping that we find something as we go
on.”
“All right, Tim—keep up the good work,” muttered the Inspector. “And
let me know how you make out.... Is Lewin there?”
“You mean the office manager?” Cronin’s voice lowered. “He’s around
somewhere. Why?”
“You want to keep your eye peeled,” said Queen. “I have a sneaking
suspicion he’s not as stupid as he sounds. Just don’t let him get too
familiar with any records lying around. For all we know, he may have
been in on Field’s little side-line.”
“Right, Inspector. Call you sometime later,” and the receiver clicked
as Cronin hung up.
* * * * *
At ten-thirty Queen and Ellery pushed open the high gate at the
entrance to the Ives-Pope residence on Riverside Drive. Ellery was
moved to remark that the atmosphere was a perfect invitation to formal
morning-dress and that he was going to feel extremely uncomfortable
when they were admitted through the stone portals.
In truth, the house which concealed the destinies of the Ives-Popes
was in many respects awe-inspiring to men of the modest tastes of the
Queens. It was a huge rambling old stone house, set far back from the
Drive, hunched on the greensward of a respectable acreage. “Must have
cost a pretty penny,” grunted the Inspector as his eyes swept the
rolling lawns surrounding the building. Gardens and summer-houses;
walks and bowered nooks—one would have thought himself miles away
from the city which roared by a scant few rods away, behind the high
iron palings which circled the mansion. The Ives-Popes were immensely
wealthy and brought to this not uncommon possession a lineage
stretching back into the dim recesses of American colonization.
The front door was opened by a whiskered patrician whose back seemed
composed of steel and whose nose was elevated at a perilous angle
toward the ceiling. Ellery lounged in the doorway, surveying this
uniformed nobleman with admiration, while Inspector Queen fumbled
in his pockets for a card. He was a long time producing one; the
stiff-backed flunkey stood graven into stone. Red-faced, the Inspector
finally discovered a battered card. He placed it on the extended salver
and watched the butler retreat to some cavern of his own.
Ellery chuckled as his father drew himself up at the sight of Franklin
Ives-Pope’s burly figure emerging from a wide carved doorway.
The financier hurried toward them.
“Inspector! Mr. Queen!” he exclaimed in a cordial tone. “Come right in.
Have you been waiting long?”
The Inspector mumbled a greeting. They walked through a high-ceilinged
shining-floored hall, decorated with austere old furniture.
“You’re on the dot, gentlemen,” said Ives-Pope, standing aside to allow
them to pass into a large room. “Here are some additional members of
our little board-meeting. I think you know all of us present.”
The Inspector and Ellery looked about. “I know everybody, sir, except
that gentleman—I presume he is Mr. Stanford Ives-Pope,” said Queen.
“I’m afraid my son has still to make the acquaintance of—Mr. Peale, is
it?—Mr. Barry—and, of course, Mr. Ives-Pope.”
The introductions were made in a strained fashion. “Ah, Q!” murmured
District Attorney Sampson, hurrying across the room. “I wouldn’t have
missed this for the world,” he said in a low tone. “First time I’ve met
most of the people who’ll be present at the inquisition.”
“What is that fellow Peale doing here?” muttered Queen to the
District Attorney, while Ellery crossed the room to engage the three
young men on the other side in conversation. Ives-Pope had excused
himself and disappeared.
“He’s a friend of young Ives-Pope, and, of course, he’s chummy with
Barry there, too,” returned the District Attorney. “I gathered from the
chit-chat before you came that Stanford, Ives-Pope’s son, originally
introduced these professional people to his sister Frances. That’s how
she met Barry and fell in love with him. Peale seems on good terms with
the young lady, too.”
“I wonder how much Ives-Pope and his aristocratic spouse like the
bourgeois company their children keep,” said the Inspector, eyeing the
small group on the other side of the room with interest.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” chuckled Sampson. “Just watch the
icicles dripping from Mrs. Ives-Pope’s eyebrows every time she sees
one of these actors. I imagine they’re about as welcome as a bunch of
Bolsheviks.”
Queen put his hands behind his back and stared curiously about the