The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
into the ash-tray. He fumbled in his pocket for the brown snuff-box,
took a pinch, inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair. Ellery
suddenly poured a glass of water for Morgan, who took it and drained it.
“Thank you, Morgan,” said Queen. “And since you have been so frank in
your story, please be honest and tell me whether you threatened Field’s
life Sunday night during your quarrel. It is only fair to let you
know that Mrs. Russo flatly accused you of Field’s murder because of
something you said in the heat of the moment.”
Morgan grew pale. His brows twitched and his eyes, glazed and worried,
stared pitifully at the Inspector.
“She was lying!” he cried hoarsely. Several diners nearby looked around
curiously, and Inspector Queen tapped Morgan’s arm. He bit his lip and
lowered his voice. “I did nothing of the sort, Inspector. I was honest
with you a moment ago when I said that I had thought savagely from time
to time of killing Field. It was a crippled, silly, pointless thought.
I—I wouldn’t have the courage to kill a man. Even at the Webster Club
when I lost my temper completely and shouted that threat I didn’t
mean it. Certainly Sunday night—please believe me rather than that
unscrupulous, money-grubbing harlot. Inspector—you must!”
“I merely want you to explain what you said. Because,” said the
Inspector quietly, “strange as it may seem, I do believe that you made
the statement she attributes to you.”
“What statement?” Morgan was in a sweat of fear; his eyes started from
his head.
“‘Publish those papers, and if it means ruin to me—I’ll see to it that
it’s the last time you’ll ever blackmail _anybody_!’” repeated the
Inspector. “Did you say that, Mr. Morgan?”
The lawyer stared incredulously at the Queens, then threw back his head
and laughed. “Good heavens!” he gasped, at last. “Is that the ‘threat’
I made? Why, Inspector, what I meant was that if he published
those documents, in the event that I couldn’t meet his blackguard
demands, that I’d make a clean breast of it to the police and drag him
down with me. That’s what I meant! And she thought I was threatening
his life—” He wiped his eyes hysterically.
Ellery smiled, his finger summoning the waiter. He paid the check and
lit a cigarette, looking sidewise at his father, who was regarding
Morgan with a mixture of abstraction and sympathy.
“Very well, Mr. Morgan.” The Inspector rose, pushed back his chair.
“That’s all we wanted to know.” He stood aside courteously to allow the
dazed, still trembling lawyer to precede them toward the cloak-room.
* * * * *
The sidewalk fronting the Roman Theatre was jammed when the two Queens
strolled up 47th Street from Broadway. The crowd was so huge that
police lines had been established. Traffic was at a complete standstill
along the entire length of the narrow thoroughfare. The electric lights
of the marquee blared forth the title “Gunplay” in vigorous dashes of
light and in smaller lights the legend, “Starring James Peale and Eve
Ellis, Supported by an All-Star Cast.” Women and men wielded frenzied
elbows to push through the milling mob; policemen shouted hoarsely,
demanding tickets for the evening’s performance before they would allow
any one to pass through the lines.
The Inspector showed his badge and he and Ellery were hurled with
the jostling crowd into the small lobby of the theatre. Beside the
box-office, his Latin face wreathed in smiles, stood Manager Panzer,
courteous, firm and authoritative, helping to speed the long line of
cash customers from the box-office window to the ticket-taker. The
venerable doorman, perspiring mightily, was standing to one side,
a bewildered expression on his face. The cashiers worked madly. Harry
Neilson was huddled in a corner of the lobby, talking earnestly to
three young men who were obviously reporters.
Panzer caught sight of the two Queens and hurried forward to greet
them. At an imperious gesture from the Inspector he hesitated, then
with an understanding nod turned back to the cashier’s window. Ellery
stood meekly in line and procured two reserved tickets from the
box-office. They entered the orchestra in the midst of a pushing throng.
A startled Madge O’Connell fell back as Ellery presented two tickets
plainly marked LL32 Left and LL30 Left. The Inspector smiled as she
fumbled with the pasteboards and threw him a half-fearful glance. She
led them across the thick carpet to the extreme left aisle, silently
indicated the last two seats of the last row and fled. The two men
sat down, placed their hats in the wire holders below the seats and
leaned back comfortably, for all the world like two pleasure-seekers
contemplating an evening’s gory entertainment.
The auditorium was packed. Droves of people being ushered down
the aisles were rapidly consuming the empty seats. Heads twisted
expectantly in the direction of the Queens, who became unwittingly the
center of a most unwelcome scrutiny.
“Heck!” grumbled the old man. “We should have come in after the curtain
went up.”
“You’re much too sensitive to public acclaim, _mon père_,” laughed
Ellery. “I don’t mind the limelight.” He consulted his wrist-watch and
their glances met significantly. It was exactly 8:25. They wriggled in
their seats and settled down.
The lights were blotted out, one by one. The chatter of the audience
died in a responsive sympathy. In total darkness the curtain rose
on a weirdly dim stage. A shot exploded the silence; a man’s gurgling
shout raised gasps in the theatre. “Gunplay” was off in its widely
publicized and theatrical manner.
Despite the preoccupation of his father, Ellery, relaxed in the chair
which three nights before had held the dead body of Monte Field, was
able to sit still and enjoy the exceedingly mellow melodrama. The
fine rich voice of James Peale, ushered onto the stage by a series of
climactic incidents, rang out and thrilled him with its commanding
art. Eve Ellis’s utter absorption in her rôle was apparent—at the
moment she was conversing in low throbbing tones with Stephen Barry,
whose handsome face and pleasant voice were evoking admiring comment
from a young girl seated directly to the Inspector’s right. Hilda
Orange was huddled in a corner, dressed flamboyantly as befitted her
stage-character. The old “character-man” pottered aimlessly about the
stage. Ellery leaned toward his father.
“It’s a well cast production,” he whispered. “Watch that Orange woman!”
The play stuttered and crackled on. With a crashing symphony of words
and noise the first act came to an end. The Inspector consulted his
watch as the lights snapped on. It was 9:05.
He rose and Ellery followed him lazily. Madge O’Connell, pretending not
to notice them, pushed open the heavy iron doors across the aisle and
the audience began to file out into the dimly lit alleyway. The two
Queens sauntered out among the others.
A uniformed boy standing behind a neat stand covered with paper cups
was crying his wares in a subdued, “refined” voice. It was Jess Lynch,
the boy who had testified in the matter of Monte Field’s request for
ginger ale.
Ellery strolled behind the iron door—there was a cramped space
between the door and the brick wall. He noticed that the wall of the
building flanking the other side of the alley was easily six stories
high and unbroken. The Inspector bought an orange-drink from the boy.
Jess Lynch recognized him with a start and Inspector Queen greeted the
boy pleasantly.
People were standing in small groups, their attitudes betokening a
strange interest in their surroundings. The Inspector heard a woman
remark, in a fearful, fascinated voice, “They say he was standing right
out here Monday night, buying an orange-drink!”
The warning-bell soon clanged inside the theatre, and those who had
come outside for a breath of air hurried back into the orchestra.
Before he sat down, the Inspector glanced over across the rear of the
auditorium to the foot of the staircase leading to the balcony. A
stalwart, uniformed young man stood alertly on the first step.
The second act exploded into being. The audience swayed and gasped in
the approved fashion while the dramatic fireworks were shot off on
the stage. The Queens seemed suddenly to have become absorbed in the
action. Father and son leaned forward, bodies taut, eyes intent. Ellery
consulted his watch at 9:30—and the two Queens settled back again while
the play rumbled on.
At 9:50 exactly they rose, took their hats and coats and slipped out
of the LL row into the clear space behind the orchestra. A number of
people were standing—at which the Inspector smiled and blessed the
power of the press beneath his breath. The white-faced usherette, Madge
O’Connell, was leaning stiffly against a pillar, staring unseeingly
ahead.
The Queens, espying Manager Panzer in the doorway of his office beaming
delightedly at the crowded auditorium, made their way towards him.
The Inspector motioned him inside and rapidly stepped into the little
anteroom, Ellery close behind. The smile faded from Panzer’s face.
“I hope you’ve had a profitable evening?” he asked nervously.
“Profitable evening? Well—it depends upon what you mean by the word.”
The old man gestured briefly and led the way through the second door
into Panzer’s private office.
“Look here, Panzer,” he said, pacing up and down in some excitement,
“have you a plan of the orchestra handy which shows each seat,
numbered, and all the exits?”
Panzer stared. “I think so. Just a moment.” He fumbled in a
filing-cabinet, rummaged among some folders and finally brought out
a large map of the theatre separated into two sections—one for the
orchestra and the other for the balcony.
The Inspector brushed the second away impatiently as he and Ellery bent
over the orchestra-plan.[5] They studied it for a moment. Queen looked
up at Panzer, who was shifting from one foot to another on the rug,
evidently at a loss to know what would be required of him next.
[5] The plan illustrated in the frontispiece and drawn by Ellery Queen
was designed from Manager Panzer’s map.—The Editor.
“May I have this map, Panzer?” asked the Inspector shortly. “I’ll
return it unharmed in a few days.”
“Certainly, certainly!” said Panzer. “Is there anything else I can do
for you now, Inspector?... I want to thank you for your consideration
in the matter of publicity, sir—Gordon Davis is extremely pleased at
the ‘house’ to-night. He asked me to relay his thanks.”
“Not at all—not at all,” grumbled the Inspector, folding the map and
putting it in his breast-pocket. “It was coming to you—what’s right is
right.... And now, Ellery—if you’ll come along.... Good night, Panzer.
Not a word about this, remember!”
The two Queens slipped out of Panzer’s office while he was
babbling his reassurances of silence.
They crossed the rear of the orchestra once more, in the direction
of the extreme left aisle. The Inspector beckoned curtly to Madge
O’Connell.
“Yes,” she breathed, her face chalky.
“Just open those doors wide enough to let us through, O’Connell, and
forget all about it afterward. Understand?” said the Inspector grimly.
She mumbled under her breath as she pushed open one of the big iron
doors opposite the LL row. With a last warning shake of the head the
Inspector slipped through, Ellery following—and the door came softly
back into place again.
* * * * *
At 11 o’clock, as the wide exits were disgorging their first flocks
of theatregoers after the final curtain, Richard and Ellery Queen
re-entered the Roman Theatre through the main door.
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH MORE HATS GROW
“Sit down, Tim—have a cup of coffee?”