The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
do with human tribulation? My next book is as good as written, dad.”
“Stealing another idea from real life, you rascal,” muttered the
old man. “If you’re borrowing the Field case for your plot, I’d be
extremely interested to read your last few chapters!”
“Poor dad!” chuckled Ellery. “Don’t take life so seriously. If you
fail, you fail. Monte Field wasn’t worth a hill of legumes, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” said the old man. “I hate to admit defeat....
What a queer mess of motives and schemes this case is, Ellery. This is
the first time in my entire experience that I have had such a hard nut
to crack. It’s enough to give a man apoplexy! I know WHO committed the
murder—I know WHY the murder was committed—I even know HOW the murder
was committed! And where am I?...” He paused and savagely took a pinch
of snuff. “A million miles from nowhere, _that’s_ where!” he growled,
and subsided.
“Certainly a most unusual situation,” murmured Ellery. “Yet—more
difficult things have been accomplished.... Heigh-ho! I can’t wait to
bathe myself in that Arcadian stream!”
“And get pneumonia, probably,” said the Inspector anxiously. “You
promise me now, young man, that you don’t do any back-to-Nature stunts
out there. I don’t want a funeral on my hands—I....”
Ellery grew silent suddenly. He looked over at his father. The
Inspector seemed strangely old in the flickering light of the fire. An
expression of pain humanized the deeply sculptured lines of his face.
His hand, brushing back his thick grey hair, looked alarmingly fragile.
Ellery rose, hesitated, colored, then bent swiftly forward and patted
his father on the shoulder.
“Brace up, dad,” he said in a low voice. “If it weren’t for my
arrangements with Chauvin.... Everything will be all right—take my word
for it. If there were the slightest way in which I could help you by
remaining.... But there isn’t. It’s your job now, dad—and there’s no
man in the world who can handle it better than you....” The old man
stared up at him with a strange affection. Ellery turned abruptly away.
“Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll have to pack now if I expect to make the
7:45 out of Grand Central to-morrow morning.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. Djuna, who had been sitting
Turkish-wise in his corner, got quietly to his feet and crossed the
room to the Inspector’s chair. He slipped to the floor, his head
resting against the old man’s knees. The silence was punctuated by the
snapping of wood in the fireplace and the muffled sounds of Ellery
moving about in the next room.
Inspector Queen was very tired. His face, worn, thin, white, lined, was
like a cameo in the dull red light. His hand caressed Djuna’s curly
head.
“Djuna, lad,” he muttered, “never be a policeman when you grow up.”
Djuna twisted his neck and stared gravely at the old man. “I’m going to
be just what you are,” he announced....
The old man leaped to his feet as the telephone bell rang. He snatched
the instrument from its table, his face livid, and said in a choked
voice: “Queen speaking. Well?”
After a time he put down the ’phone and trudged across the room
toward the bedroom. He leaned against the lintel heavily. Ellery
straightened up from his suitcase—and jumped forward.
“Dad!” he cried. “What’s the matter?”
The Inspector essayed a feeble smile. “Just—a—little tired, son, I
guess,” he grunted. “I just heard from our housebreaker....”
“And—?”
“He found absolutely nothing.”
Ellery gripped his father’s arm and led him to the chair by the bed.
The old man slumped into it, his eyes ineffably weary. “Ellery, old
son,” he said, “the last shred of evidence is gone. It’s maddening! Not
a morsel of physical, tangible evidence that would convict the murderer
in court. What have we? A series of perfectly sound deductions—and
that’s all. A good lawyer would make Swiss cheese out of our case....
Well! The last word hasn’t been spoken yet,” he added with a sudden
grimness as he rose from the chair. He pounded Ellery’s broad back in
returning vigor.
“Get to bed, son,” he said. “You’ve got to get up early to-morrow
morning. I’m going to sit up and think.”
INTERLUDE
IN WHICH THE READER’S ATTENTION IS RESPECTFULLY REQUESTED
The current vogue in detective literature is all for the practice of
placing the reader in the position of chief sleuth. I have prevailed
upon Mr. Ellery Queen to permit at this point in The Roman Hat Mystery
the interpolation of a challenge to the reader.... “Who killed Monte
Field?” “How was the murder accomplished?” ... Mr. Queen agrees with
me that the alert student of mystery tales, now being in possession of
all the pertinent facts, should at this stage of the story have reached
definite conclusions on the questions propounded. The solution—or
enough of it to point unerringly to the guilty character—may be reached
by a series of logical deductions and psychological observations....
In closing my last personal appearance in the tale let me admonish the
reader with a variation of the phrase _Caveat Emptor_: “Let the reader
beware!”
J. J. McC.
PART FOUR
_“The perfect criminal is a superman. He must be meticulous in his
technique: unseen, unseeable, a Lone Wolf. He must have neither friends
nor dependents. He must be careful to a fault, quick, of brain, hand
and foot.... But these are nothing. There have been such men.... On
the other hand, he must be a favored child of Fate—for circumstances
over which he cannot have the remotest control must never contrive his
downfall. This, I think, is more difficult to achieve.... But the last
is most difficult of all. He must never repeat his crime, his weapon
or his motive! ... In all my twoscore years as an official of the
American police I have not once encountered the perfect criminal nor
investigated the perfect crime.”_
—_From_ American Crime and Methods of Detection,
_By_ Richard Queen.
CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH INSPECTOR QUEEN CONDUCTS MORE LEGAL CONVERSATIONS
It was notable, particularly to District Attorney Sampson, that on
Saturday evening Inspector Richard Queen was far from being himself.
The old man was irritable, snappish and utterly uncongenial. He paced
fretfully across the carpet of Manager Louis Panzer’s office, biting
his lips and muttering beneath his breath. He seemed oblivious to the
presence of Sampson, Panzer and a third person who had never been in
that theatrical sanctum before and was seated, mouse-like, in one of
Panzer’s big chairs, his eyes like saucers. This was bright-eyed Djuna,
granted the unprecedented privilege of accompanying his grey patron on
this latest incursion into the Roman Theatre.
In truth, Queen was singularly depressed. He had many times in his
official life been confronted by apparently insoluble problems; he
had as many times brought triumph out of failure. The Inspector’s
strange manner therefore was doubly inexplicable to Sampson, who had
been associated with the old man for years and had never seen him so
completely unstrung.
The old man’s moodiness was not due to the progress of the Field
investigation, as Sampson worriedly thought. Wiry little Djuna, sitting
open-mouthed in his corner, was the only spectator to the Inspector’s
mad pacing who could have put his finger on the truth. Djuna, wise by
virtue of _gamin_ perspicacity, observant by nature, familiar with
Queen’s temperament through a loving association, knew that his
patron’s manner was due solely to Ellery’s absence from the scene.
Ellery had left New York on the 7:45 express that morning, having been
gloomily accompanied to the station by his father. At the last moment
the younger man had changed his mind, announcing his decision to forego
the trip to Maine and abide in New York by his father’s side until the
case was concluded. The old man would have none of it. With his shrewd
insight into Ellery’s nature, he realized how keenly his highly strung
son had been looking forward to this first vacation in over a year. It
was not in his heart, impatient as he was for the constant presence of
his son, to deprive him of this long contemplated pleasure trip.
Accordingly, he had swept aside Ellery’s proposal and pushed him up
the steps of the train, with a parting clap and a wan smile. Ellery’s
last words, shouted from the platform as the train glided out of the
station, were: “I’m not forgetting you, dad. You’ll hear from me sooner
than you expect!”
Now, torturing the nap of Manager Panzer’s rug, the Inspector was
feeling the full impact of their separation. His brain was addled, his
constitution flabby, his stomach weak, his eyes dim. He felt completely
out of tune with the world and its denizens, and he made no attempt to
conceal his irritation.
“Should be about time now, Panzer,” he growled to the stout little
manager. “How long does this infernal audience take to clear out,
anyway?”
“In a moment, Inspector, in a moment,” replied Panzer. The District
Attorney sniffed away the remnants of his cold. Djuna stared in
fascination at his god.
A rap on the door twisted their heads about. Towheaded Harry Neilson,
the publicity man, poked his rugged face into the room. “Mind if I join
the little party, Inspector?” he inquired cheerfully. “I was in at the
birth, and if there’s going to be a death—why, I’m aiming to stick
around, with your permission!”
The Inspector shot him a dour glare from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
He stood in a Napoleonic attitude, his every hair and muscle bristling
with ill-nature. Sampson regarded him in surprise. Inspector Queen was
showing an unexpected side to his temper.
“Might’s well,” he barked. “One more won’t hurt. There’s an army here
as it is.”
Neilson reddened slightly and made a move as if to withdraw. The
Inspector’s eye twinkled with a partial return to good spirits.
“Here—sit down, Neilson,” he said, not unkindly. “Mustn’t mind an old
fogey like me. I’m just frazzled a bit. Might need you to-night at
that.”
“Glad to be let in on it, Inspector,” grinned Neilson. “What’s the
idea—sort of Spanish Inquisition?”
“Just about.” The old man bent his brows. “But—we’ll see.”
At this moment the door opened and the tall, broad figure of Sergeant
Velie stepped quickly into the room. He was carrying a sheet of paper
which he handed to the Inspector.
“All present, sir,” he said.
“Everybody out?” snapped Queen.
“Yes, sir. I’ve told the cleaning-women to go down into the lounge and
hang around until we’re through. Cashiers have gone home, so have the
ushers and usherettes. Cast is backstage, I guess, getting dressed.”
“Right. Let’s go, gentlemen.” The Inspector stalked out of the room
followed closely by Djuna, who had not opened his mouth all evening
except to emit noiseless gasps of admiration, for no reason that the
amused District Attorney could see. Panzer, Sampson and Neilson also
followed, Velie bringing up the rear.
The auditorium was again a vast and deserted place, the empty rows
of seats stark and cold. The lights of the theatre had been switched on
in full and their cold radiance lit up every corner of the orchestra.
As the five men and Djuna swung toward the extreme left aisle, there
was a concerted bobbing of heads from the left section of seats. It was
apparent now that a small group of people were awaiting the arrival of
the Inspector, who walked heavily down the aisle and took up a position
in front of the left boxes, so that all the seated people faced him.
Panzer, Neilson and Sampson stood at the head of the aisle with Djuna
at one side, a feverish spectator.