The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
Timothy Cronin, a keen-eyed man of medium height thatched plentifully
with fire-red hair, seated himself in one of the Queens’ comfortable
chairs and accepted the Inspector’s invitation in some embarrassment.
It was Friday morning and the Inspector and Ellery, garbed romantically
in colorful dressing-gowns, were in high spirits. They had retired the
night before at an uncommonly early hour—for them; they had slept the
sleep of the just; now Djuna had a pot of steaming coffee, of a variety
which he blended himself, ready on the table; and indubitably all
seemed right with the world.
Cronin had stalked into the cheery Queen quarters at an ungodly
hour—disheveled, morose and unashamedly cursing. Not even the mild
protests of the Inspector were able to stem the tide of profanity which
streamed from his lips; and as for Ellery, he listened to the lawyer’s
language with an air of grave enjoyment, as an amateur harkens to a
professional.
Then Cronin awoke to his environment, and blushed, and was invited to
sit down, and stared at the unbending back of Djuna as that nimble
man-of-affairs busied himself with the light appurtenances of the
morning meal.
“I don’t suppose you’re in a mood to apologize for your shocking
language, Tim Cronin, me lad,” chided the Inspector, folding his hands
Buddha-like over his stomach. “Do I have to inquire the reason for
the bad temper?”
“Not much, you don’t,” growled Cronin, shifting his feet savagely on
the rug. “You ought to be able to guess. I’m up against a blank wall in
the matter of Field’s papers. Blast his black soul!”
“It’s blasted, Tim—it’s blasted, never fear,” said Queen sorrowfully.
“Poor Field is probably roasting his toes over a sizzling little
coal-fire in Hell just now—and chortling to himself over your
profanity. Exactly what is the situation—how do things stand?”
Cronin grasped the cup Djuna had set before him and drained its
scalding contents in a gulp. “Stand?” he cried, banging down the
cup. “They don’t stand—they’re nil, nit, not! By Christopher, if I
don’t get my hands on some documentary evidence soon I’ll go batty!
Why, Inspector—Stoates and I ransacked that swell office of Field’s
until I don’t think there’s a rat in the walls who dares show his
head outside a ten-foot hole—and there’s nothing. Nothing! Man—it’s
inconceivable. I’d stake my reputation that somewhere—the Lord alone
knows where—Field’s papers are hidden, just begging somebody to come
along and carry them away.”
“You seem possessed of a phobia on the subject of hidden papers,
Cronin,” remarked Ellery mildly. “One would think we are living in the
days of Charles the First. There’s no such thing as hidden papers. You
merely have to know where to look.”
Cronin grinned impertinently. “That’s very good of you, Mr. Queen.
Suppose you suggest the place Mr. Monte Field selected to hide _his_
papers.”
Ellery lit a cigarette. “All right. I accept the challenge to
combat.... You say—and I don’t doubt your word in the least—that the
documents you suppose to be in existence are not in Field’s office....
By the way, what makes you so sure that Field kept papers which would
incriminate him in this vast clique of gangsters you told us
about?”
“He must have,” retorted Cronin. “Queer logic, but it works....
My information absolutely establishes the fact that Field had
correspondence and written plans connecting him with men higher up
in gangdom whom we’re constantly trying to ‘get’ and whom we haven’t
been able to touch so far. You’ll have to take my word for it; it’s
too complicated a story to go into here. But you mark my words, Mr.
Queen—Field had papers that he couldn’t afford to destroy. Those are
the papers I’m looking for.”
“Granted,” said Ellery in a rhetorical tone. “I merely wished to make
certain of the facts. Let me repeat, then, these papers are not in his
office. We must therefore look for them farther afield. For example,
they might be secreted in a safety-deposit vault.”
“But, El,” objected the Inspector, who had listened to the interplay
between Cronin and Ellery in amusement, “didn’t I tell you this morning
that Thomas had run that lead to earth? Field did not have a box in a
safety-deposit vault. That is established. He had no general delivery
or private post-office box either—under his real name or any other name.
“Thomas has also investigated Field’s club affiliations and discovered
that the lawyer had no residence, permanent or temporary, besides the
flat on 75th Street. Furthermore, in all Thomas’s scouting around,
he found not the slightest indication of a possible hiding-place. He
thought that Field might have left the papers in a parcel or bag in the
keeping of a shopkeeper, or something of the sort. But there wasn’t a
trace.... Velie’s a good man in these matters, Ellery. You can bet your
bottom dollar that hypothesis of yours is false.”
“I was making a point for Cronin’s benefit,” retorted Ellery. He
spread his fingers on the table elaborately and winked. “You see, we
must narrow the field of search to the point where we can definitely
say: ‘It must be here.’ The office, the safety-deposit vault, the
post-office boxes have been ruled out. Yet we know that Field could
not afford to keep these documents in a place difficult of access.
I cannot vouch for the papers _you’re_ seeking, Cronin; but it’s
different with the papers _we’re_ seeking. No; Field had them somewhere
near at hand.... And, to go a step further, it’s reasonable to assume
that he would have kept all his important secret papers in the same
hiding-place.”
Cronin scratched his head and nodded.
“We shall now apply the elementary precepts, gentlemen.” Ellery paused
as if to emphasize his next statement. “Since we have narrowed our area
of inquiry to the exclusion of all possible hiding-places save one—the
papers must be in that one hiding-place.... Nothing to that.”
“Now that I pause to consider,” interpolated the Inspector, his good
humor suddenly dissipated into gloom, “perhaps we weren’t as careful in
that place as we might have been.”
“I’m as certain we’re on the right track,” said Ellery firmly, “as that
to-day is Friday and there will be fish suppers in thirty million homes
to-night.”
Cronin was looking puzzled. “I don’t quite get it, Mr. Queen. What do
you mean when you say there’s only one possible hiding-place left?”
“Field’s apartment, Cronin,” replied Ellery imperturbably. “The papers
are there.”
“But I was discussing the case with the D.A. only yesterday,” objected
Cronin, “and he said you’d already ransacked Field’s apartment and
found nothing.”
“True—true enough,” said Ellery. “We searched Field’s apartment
and found nothing. The trouble was, Cronin, that we didn’t look in the
right place.”
“Well, by ginger, if you know now, let’s get a move on!” cried Cronin,
springing from his chair.
The Inspector tapped the red-haired man’s knee gently and pointed to
the seat. “Sit down, Tim,” he advised. “Ellery is merely indulging in
his favorite game of ratiocination. He doesn’t know where the papers
are any more than you do. He’s guessing.... In detective literature,”
he added with a sad smile, “they call it the ‘art of deduction.’”
“I should say,” murmured Ellery, emitting a cloud of smoke, “that I am
being challenged once more. Nevertheless, although I haven’t been back
to Field’s rooms I intend, with Inspector Queen’s kind permission, to
return there and find the slippery documents.”
“In the matter of these papers—” began the old man, when he was
interrupted by the doorbell ringing. Djuna admitted Sergeant Velie, who
was accompanied by a small, furtive young man so ill at ease as to be
trembling. The Inspector sprang to his feet and intercepted them before
they could enter the living-room. Cronin stared as Queen said, “This
the fellow, Thomas?” and the big detective answered with grim levity,
“Large as life, Inspector.”
“Think you could burgle an apartment without being caught, do you?”
inquired the Inspector genially, taking the newcomer by the arm.
“You’re just the man I want.”
The furtive young man seemed overcome by a species of terrified palsy.
“Say, Inspector, yer not takin’ me fer a ride, are ya?” he stammered.
The Inspector smiled reassuringly and led him out into the foyer. They
held a whispered and one-sided conversation, with the stranger grunting
assents at every second word uttered by the old man. Cronin and Ellery
in the living-room caught the flash of a small sheet of paper as
it passed from the Inspector’s hand into the clutching paw of the
young man.
Queen returned, stepping spryly. “All right, Thomas. You take care
of the other arrangements and see that our friend here gets into no
trouble.... Now, gentlemen—”
Velie made his adieu monosyllabically and led the frightened stranger
from the apartment.
The Inspector sat down. “Before we go over to Field’s rooms, boys,” he
said thoughtfully, “I want to make certain things plain. In the first
place, from what Benjamin Morgan has told us, Field’s business was law
but his great source of income—blackmail. Did you know that, Tim? Monte
Field sucked dozens of prominent men dry, in all likelihood to the tune
of hundreds of thousands of dollars. In fact, Tim, we’re convinced
that the motive behind Field’s murder was connected with this phase of
his under-cover activities. There is no doubt but that he was killed by
somebody who was being taken in for huge sums of hush-money and could
stand the gaff no longer.
“You know as well as I, Tim, that blackmail depends largely for
its ugly life on the possession of incriminating documents by the
blackmailer. That’s why we’re so sure that there are hidden papers
about somewhere—and Ellery here maintains that they’re in Field’s
rooms. Well, we’ll see. If eventually we find those papers, the
documents you’ve been hunting so long will probably come to light also,
as Ellery pointed out a moment ago.”
He paused reflectively. “I can’t tell you, Tim, how badly I want to get
my hands on those confounded documents of Field’s. They mean a good
deal to me. They’d clear up a lot of questions about which we’re still
in the dark....”
“Well, then, let’s get going!” cried Cronin, leaping from his chair.
“Do you realize, Inspector, that I’ve worked for years on Field’s tail
for this one purpose? It will be the happiest day of my life....
Inspector—come on!”
Neither Ellery nor his father, however, seemed to be in haste.
They retired to the bedroom to dress while Cronin fretted in the
living-room. If Cronin had not been so preoccupied with his own
thoughts he would have noticed that the light spirits which had
suffused the Queens when he arrived were now scattered into black
gloom. The Inspector particularly seemed out of sorts, irritable and
for once slow to push the investigation into an inevitable channel.
Eventually the Queens appeared fully dressed. The three men descended
to the street. As they climbed into a taxicab Ellery sighed.
“Afraid you’re going to be shown up, son?” muttered the old man, his
nose buried in the folds of his topcoat.
“I’m not thinking of that,” returned Ellery. “It’s something else....
The papers will be found, never fear.”
“I hope to Christmas you’re right!” breathed Cronin fervently, and it
was the last word spoken until the taxicab ground to a stop before the
lofty apartment-house on 75th Street.
The three men took the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped out
into the quiet corridor. The Inspector peered about quickly, then
punched the doorbell of the Field apartment. There was no answer,
although they could hear the vague rustling of someone behind the door.
Suddenly it swished open to reveal a red-faced policeman whose hand
hovered uneasily in the region of his hip-pocket.