The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
they’re kept closed, Mr. Panzer,” he growled. “Station an usher at all
the doors and tell ’em to hold everybody tryin’ to get in or out. Send
somebody outside to cover the alleys, too, until help comes from the
station. Move fast, Mr. Panzer, before hell pops!”
The swarthy little man hurried away, brushing aside a number of excited
people who had disregarded the officer’s bellowed admonition and had
jumped up to question him.
The bluecoat stood wide-legged at the entrance to the last row of the
left section, concealing with his bulk the crumpled figure of a man
in full evening dress, lying slumped in a queer attitude on the floor
between rows. The policeman looked up, keeping a firm grip on the arm
of the cowering man at his side, and shot a quick glance toward the
rear of the orchestra.
“Hey, Neilson!” he shouted.
A tall tow-headed man hurried out of a small room near the main
entrance and pushed his way through to the officer. He looked sharply
down at the inert figure on the floor.
“What’s happened here, Doyle?”
“Better ask this feller here,” replied the policeman grimly. He shook
the arm of the man he was holding. “There’s a guy dead, and Mr.”—he
bent a ferocious glance upon the shrinking little man—“Pusak, W-William
Pusak,” he stammered—“this Mr. Pusak,” continued Doyle, “says he heard
him whisper he’d been croaked.”
Neilson stared at the dead body, stunned.
The policeman chewed his lip. “I’m in one sweet mess, Harry,” he said
hoarsely. “The only cop in the place, and a pack of yellin’ fools to
take care of.... I want you to do somethin’ for me.”
“Say the word.... This is one hell of a note!”
Doyle wheeled in a rage to shout to a man who had just risen three rows
ahead and was standing on his seat, peering at the proceedings. “Hey
you!” he roared. “Get down offa there! Here—get back there, the whole
bunch o’ you. Back to your seats, now, or I’ll pinch the whole nosey
mob!”
He turned on Neilson. “Beat it to your desk, Harry, and give
headquarters a buzz about the murder,” he whispered. “Tell ’em to bring
down a gang—make it a big one. Tell ’em it’s a theatre—they’ll know
what to do. And here, Harry—take my whistle and toot your head off
outside. I gotta get some help right away.”
As Neilson fought his way back through the crowd, Doyle shouted after
him: “Better ask ’em to send old man Queen down here, Harry!”
The tow-headed man disappeared into the office. A few moments later a
shrill whistle was heard from the sidewalk in front of the theatre.
The swarthy theatre-manager whom Doyle had commanded to place guards
at the exits and alleys came scurrying back through the press. His
dress-shirt was slightly rumpled and he was mopping his forehead with
an air of bewilderment. A woman stopped him as he wriggled his way
forward. She squeaked,
“Why is this policeman keeping us here, Mr. Panzer? I’ve a right to
leave, I should like you to know! I don’t care if an accident _did_
happen—I had nothing to do with it—that’s your affair—please tell him
to stop this silly disciplining of innocent people!”
The little man stammered, trying to escape. “Now, madam, please. I’m
sure the officer knows what he is doing. A man has been killed here—it
is a serious matter. Don’t you see.... As manager of the theatre I must
follow his orders.... Please be calm—have a little patience....”
He wormed his way out of her grasp and was off before she could protest.
Doyle, his arms waving violently, stood on a seat and bellowed: “I
told you to sit down and keep quiet, the pack o’ you! I don’t care
if you’re the Mayor himself, you—yeah, you there, in the monocle—stay
down or I’ll shove you down! Don’t you people realize what’s happened?
Pipe down, I say!” He jumped to the floor, muttering as he wiped the
perspiration from his cap-band.
In the turmoil and excitement, with the orchestra boiling like a huge
kettle, and necks stretched over the railing of the balcony as the
people there strove vainly to discover the cause of the confusion,
the abrupt cessation of activity on the stage was forgotten by the
audience. The actors had stammered their way through lines rendered
meaningless by the drama before the footlights. Now the slow descent
of the curtain put an end to the evening’s entertainment. The actors,
chattering, hurried toward the stage-stairs. Like the audience they
peered toward the nucleus of the trouble in bewilderment.
A buxom old lady, in garish clothes—the very fine imported actress
billed in the character of Madame Murphy, “keeper of the public
house”—her name was Hilda Orange; the slight, graceful figure of “the
street waif, Nanette”—Eve Ellis, leading-lady of the piece; the tall
robust hero of “Gunplay,” James Peale, attired in a rough tweed suit
and cap; the juvenile, smart in evening clothes, portraying the society
lad who had fallen into the clutches of the “gang”—Stephen Barry;
Lucille Horton, whose characterization of the “lady of the streets” had
brought down a shower of adjectives from the dramatic critics, who had
little enough to rant about that unfortunate season; a vandyked old man
whose faultless evening clothes attested to the tailoring genius of M.
Le Brun, costumer extraordinary to the entire cast of “Gunplay”; the
heavy-set villain, whose stage-scowl was dissolved in a foggy docility
as he surveyed the frantic auditorium; in fact, the entire personnel
of the play, bewigged and powdered, rouged and painted—some wielding
towels as they hastily removed their make-up—scampered in a body
under the lowering curtain and trooped down the stage-steps into the
orchestra, where they elbowed their way up the aisle toward the scene
of the commotion.
Another flurry, at the main entrance, caused many people despite
Doyle’s vigorous orders to rise in their seats for a clearer view. A
group of bluecoats were hustling their way inside, their night-sticks
ready. Doyle heaved a gargantuan sigh of relief as he saluted the tall
man in plainclothes at their head.
“What’s up, Doyle?” asked the newcomer, frowning at the pandemonium
raging about them. The bluecoats who had entered with him were herding
the crowd to the rear of the orchestra, behind the seat-sections.
People who had been standing tried to slip back to their seats; they
were apprehended and made to join the angry cluster jammed behind the
last row.
“Looks like this man’s been murdered, Sergeant,” said Doyle.
“Uh-huh.” The plainclothes man looked incuriously down at the one still
figure in the theatre—lying at their feet, a black-sleeved arm flung
over his face, his legs sprawled gawkily under the seats in the row
before.
“What is it—gat?” asked the newcomer of Doyle, his eyes roving.
“No, sir—don’t seem to be,” said the policeman. “Had a doctor from the
audience look him over the very first thing—thinks it’s poison.”
The Sergeant grunted. “Who’s this?” he rapped, indicating the trembling
figure of Pusak by Doyle’s side.
“Chap who found the body,” returned Doyle. “He hasn’t moved from the
spot since.”
“Good enough.” The detective turned toward a compact group huddled a
few feet behind them and asked, generally: “Who’s the manager here?”
Panzer stepped forward.
“I’m Velie, detective-sergeant from headquarters,” said the
plainclothes man abruptly. “Haven’t you done anything to keep this
yelling pack of idiots quiet?”
“I’ve done my best, Sergeant,” mumbled the manager, wringing his hands.
“But they all seem incensed at the way this officer”—he indicated Doyle
apologetically—“has been storming at them. I don’t know how I can
reasonably expect them to keep sitting in their seats as if nothing had
happened.”
“Well, we’ll take care of that,” snapped Velie. He gave a rapid order
to a uniformed man nearby. “Now”—he turned back to Doyle—“how about the
doors, the exits? Done anything yet in that direction?”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” grinned the policeman. “I had Mr. Panzer here
station ushers at every door. They’ve been there all night, anyway. But
I just wanted to make sure.”
“You were right. Nobody try to get out?”
“I think I can vouch for that, Sergeant,” put in Panzer meekly. “The
action of the play necessitates having ushers posted near every exit,
for atmosphere. This is a crook-play, with a good deal of shooting and
screaming and that sort of thing going on, and the presence of guards
around the doors heightens the general effect of mystery. I can very
easily find out for you if....”
“We’ll attend to that ourselves,” said Velie. “Doyle, who’d you send
for?”
“Inspector Queen,” answered Doyle. “I had the publicity man, Neilson,
’phone him at headquarters.”
Velie allowed a smile to crease his wintry face. “Thought of
everything, didn’t you? Now how about the body? Has it been touched at
all since this fellow found it?”
The cowering man held in Doyle’s hard grasp broke out, half-crying.
“I—I only found him, officer—honest to God, I—”
“All right, all right,” said Velie coldly. “You’ll keep, won’t you?
What are you blubbering about? Well, Doyle?”
“Not a finger was laid on the body since I came over,” replied Doyle,
with a trace of pride in his voice. “Except, of course, for a Dr.
Stuttgard. I got him out of the audience to make sure the man was dead.
He was, and nobody else came near.”
“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Doyle? I’ll see you won’t suffer by
it,” said Velie. He wheeled on Panzer, who shrank back. “Better trot up
to the stage and make an announcement, Mr. Manager. The whole crew of
’em are to stay right where they are until Inspector Queen lets them go
home—understand? Tell them it won’t do any good to kick—and the more
they kick the longer they’ll be here. Make it plain, too, that they’re
to stick to their seats, and any suspicious move on anybody’s part is
going to make trouble.”
“Yes. Yes. Good Lord, what a catastrophe!” groaned Panzer as he made
his way down the aisle toward the stage.
At the same moment a little knot of people pushed open the big door at
the rear of the theatre and stepped across the carpet in a body.
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH ONE QUEEN WORKS AND ANOTHER QUEEN WATCHES
There was nothing remarkable in either the physique or the manner
of Inspector Richard Queen. He was a small, withered, rather
mild-appearing old gentleman. He walked with a little stoop and an air
of deliberation that somehow accorded perfectly with his thick grey
hair and mustaches, veiled grey eyes and slender hands.
As he crossed the carpet with short, quick steps Inspector Queen was
far from impressive to the milling eyes that observed his approach
from every side. And yet, so unusual was the gentle dignity of his
appearance, so harmless and benevolent the smile that illumined his
lined old face, that an audible rustle swept over the auditorium,
preceding him in a strangely fitting manner.
In his own men the change was appreciable. Doyle retreated into a
corner near the left exits. Detective-Sergeant Velie, poised over the
body—sardonic, cold, untouched by the near-hysteria about him—relaxed
a trifle, as if he were satisfied to relinquish his place in the sun.
The bluecoats guarding the aisles saluted with alacrity. The nervous,
muttering, angry audience sank back with an unreasoning relief.
Inspector Queen stepped forward and shook hands with Velie.
“Too bad, Thomas, my boy. I hear you were going home when this
happened,” he murmured. To Doyle he smiled in a fatherly fashion. Then,
in a mild pity, he peered down at the man on the floor. “Thomas,” he
asked, “are all the exits covered?” Velie nodded.
The old man turned back and let his eyes travel interestedly about
the scene. He asked a low-voiced question of Velie, who nodded his head
in assent; then he crooked his finger at Doyle.