The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
The assembled party was placed peculiarly. From the row nearest the
Inspector, who stood about half-way down the orchestra, and proceeding
towards the rear the only seats occupied were those directly on the
left aisle. The end two seats of the dozen rows were filled by a motley
aggregation—men and women, old and young. They were the same people
who had occupied these chairs on the night of the fatal performance
and whom Inspector Queen had personally examined after the discovery
of the body. In the section of eight seats—Monte Field’s and the empty
ones which had surrounded it—were grouped William Pusak, Esther Jablow,
Madge O’Connell, Jess Lynch and Parson Johnny—the Parson furtive-eyed,
uneasy and whispering to the usherette behind nicotined fingers.
At the Inspector’s sudden gesture all became silent as the grave.
Sampson, looking about him at the bright chandeliers and lights, the
deserted theatre, the lowered curtain, could not help feeling that
the stage was being set for dramatic revelations. He leaned forward
interestedly. Panzer and Neilson were quiet and watchful. Djuna kept
his eyes fixed on the old man.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Queen announced curtly, staring at the
assembled company, “I’ve brought you here for a definite purpose.
I will not keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary, but what
is necessary and what is not necessary is entirely up to me. If I find
that I do not receive what I consider truthful answers to my questions,
everybody will stay here until I am satisfied. I want that thoroughly
understood before we proceed.”
He paused and glared about. There was a ripple of apprehension, a
sudden crackle of conversation which died as quickly as it was born.
“On Monday night,” continued the Inspector frostily, “you people
attended the performance at this theatre and, with the exception of
certain employees and others now seated at the rear, occupied the seats
in which you now find yourselves.” Sampson grinned as he noticed the
stiffening of backs at these words, as if each individual felt his seat
grow suddenly warm and uncomfortable beneath him.
“I want you to imagine that this is Monday night. I want you to think
back to that night and try to remember everything that happened. By
everything I mean any occurrence, no matter how trivial or apparently
unimportant, that might have left an impression on your memory....”
As the Inspector warmed to his words, a number of people drifted into
the orchestra at the rear. Sampson greeted them in whispers. The little
party was composed of Eve Ellis, Hilda Orange, Stephen Barry, James
Peale and three or four other members of the cast of “Gunplay.” They
were dressed in their street-clothes. Peale whispered to Sampson that
they had just come from their dressing-rooms and had dropped into the
auditorium on hearing voices.
“Queen’s holding a little pow-wow,” whispered Sampson in return.
“Do you think the Inspector has any objections to our staying a
while and listening?” asked Barry in a low tone, with an apprehensive
glance toward the Inspector, who had stopped and was staring icily in
their direction.
“Don’t see why—” began Sampson worriedly, when Eve Ellis murmured
“Shhh!” and they all became silent.
“_Now—_” said the Inspector venomously, when the flurry had subsided,
“this is the situation. Remember, you are now back in Monday evening.
The curtain has gone up on the second act and the theatre is dark.
There is a lot of noise from the stage and you are intent on the
exciting sequences of the play.... Did any of you, especially those
sitting in the aisle seats, notice anything peculiar, unusual or
disturbing around or near you at that time?”
He paused expectantly. There were puzzled, fearful shakings of the
head. No one answered.
“Think hard,” growled the Inspector. “You remember on Monday night
I went down this aisle and questioned all of you in the same vein.
Naturally I don’t want lies, and I can’t reasonably expect that you
will tell me something startling now when you could remember nothing
Monday night. But this is a desperate situation. A man was murdered
here and we are frankly up against it. One of the most difficult cases
we have ever encountered! In the light of such a condition, when we
find ourselves against a blank wall with not the slightest idea where
to turn—I am being honest with you as I expect you to be with me—I
_must_ turn to you as the only members of the audience five nights
ago who were in a position to see something important, if anything
important occurred.... It has been my experience that often, under
stress of nervousness and excitement, a man or woman will forget a
little detail that returns to memory after a few hours, days, weeks of
normalcy. It is my hope that something of the sort has taken place with
you....”
As Inspector Queen spoke, the words dropping acidly from his lips,
the company lost its nervousness in its fascinated interest. When
he paused, people put their heads together and whispered excitedly,
shaking their heads at times, arguing in fierce, low tones at others.
The Inspector waited in a resigned patience.
“Raise your hands if you have something to tell me....” he said.
A woman’s timid white hand fluttered aloft.
“Yes, madam?” commanded Queen, pointing his finger. “Do you recall
anything unusual?”
A withered old lady rose embarrassedly to her feet and began to stammer
in a squeaking voice. “I don’t know whether it’s important or not,
sir,” she said tremulously. “But I do remember some time during the
second act a woman, I think it was, walking down the aisle and a few
seconds later walking up again.”
“Yes? That’s interesting, madam,” commented the Inspector. “About what
time was this—can you recall?”
“I don’t remember the time, sir,” shrilled the old lady, “but it was
about ten minutes or so after the beginning of the act.”
“I see.... And do you recall anything of her appearance? Was she young
or old? What did she wear?”
The old lady looked troubled. “I don’t exactly remember, sir,” she
quavered. “I wasn’t paying—”
A high, clear voice interrupted from the rear. Heads twisted about.
Madge O’Connell had jumped to her feet.
“You don’t have to mess around with that any more. Inspector,” she
announced coldly. “That lady saw _me_ walking down the aisle and
back again. That was before I—you know.” She winked pertly in the
Inspector’s direction.
People gasped. The old lady stared with pitiful bewilderment at
the usherette, then at the Inspector and finally sat down.
“I’m not surprised,” said the Inspector quietly. “Well, anybody else?”
There was no answer. Realizing that the company might feel shy of
announcing their thoughts in public Queen started up the aisle, working
from row to row, questioning each person separately in tones inaudible
to the rest. When he had finished he returned slowly to his original
position.
“I see that I must allow you ladies and gentlemen to return to your
peaceful firesides. Thank you very much for your help.... Dismissed!”
He flung the word at them. They stared at him dazedly, then rose in
muttering groups, took up their coats and hats and under Velie’s stern
eye began to file out of the theatre. Hilda Orange, standing in the
group behind the last row, sighed.
“It’s almost embarrassing to see that poor old gentleman’s
disappointment,” she whispered to the others. “Come on, folks, let’s be
going, too.”
The actors and actresses left the theatre among the departing company.
When the last man and woman had disappeared, the Inspector marched back
up the aisle and stood gloomily staring at the little group who were
left. They seemed to sense the seething fire in the old man and they
cowered. But the Inspector, with a characteristic lightning change of
front, became human again.
He sat down in one of the seats and folded his arms over the back,
surveying Madge O’Connell, Parson Johnny and the others.
“All right, folks,” he said in a genial tone. “How about you, Parson?
You’re a free man, you don’t have to worry about silks any more and you
can speak up now like any self-respecting citizen. Can you give us
any help in this affair?”
“Naw,” grunted the little gangster. “I told you all I knew. Ain’t got a
thing to say.”
“I see.... You know, Parson, that we’re interested in your dealings
with Field.” The gangster looked up in shocked surprise. “Oh, yes,”
continued the Inspector. “We want you to tell us sometime about your
business with Mr. Field in the past. You’ll keep that in mind, won’t
you?... Parson,” he said sharply, “who killed Monte Field? Who had it
in for him? If you know—out with it!”
“Aw, Inspector,” the Parson whined, “you ain’t pullin’ that stuff on me
again, are you? How should I know? Field was one slick guy—he didn’t
go around welching on his enemies. No, sir! _I_ wouldn’t know.... He
was pretty good to me—got me off on a couple of charges,” he admitted
unblushingly. “But I didn’t have no more idea he was here Monday night
than—hell, than anything.”
The Inspector turned to Madge O’Connell.
“How about you, O’Connell?” he asked softly. “My son, Mr. Queen,
tells me that on Monday night you confided in him about closing the
exit-doors. You didn’t say anything to me about that. What do _you_
know?”
The girl returned his stare coolly. “I told you once, Inspector. I
haven’t a thing to say.”
“And you, William Pusak—” Queen turned to the weazened little
bookkeeper. “Do you remember anything now that you forgot Monday night?”
Pusak wriggled uncomfortably. “Meant to tell you, Inspector,” he
mumbled. “And when I read about it in the papers it came back to me....
As I bent over Mr. Field Monday night I smelled a terrible smell of
whiskey. I don’t remember if I told you that before.”
“Thank you,” remarked the Inspector dryly, rising. “A very
important contribution to our little investigation. You may go, the
whole lot of you....”
The orangeade-boy, Jess Lynch, looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to
talk to me, too, sir?” he asked anxiously.
The Inspector smiled despite his abstraction. “Ah, yes. The helpful
purveyor of orangeade.... And what have you to say, Jess?”
“Well, sir, before this fellow Field came over to my stand to ask for
the ginger ale, I happened to notice that he picked up something in the
alleyway,” said the boy eagerly. “It was shiny, sort of, but I couldn’t
see it clear enough. He put it in his hip-pocket right away.”
He concluded triumphantly, glancing about him as if to invite applause.
The Inspector seemed interested enough.
“What was this shiny object like, Jess?” he inquired. “Might it have
been a revolver?”
“Revolver? Gosh, I don’t think so,” said the orangeade-boy doubtfully.
“It was square, like....”
“Might it have been a woman’s purse?” interrupted the Inspector.
The boy’s face brightened. “That’s it!” he cried. “I’ll bet that’s what
it was. Shined all over, like colored stones.”
Queen sighed. “Very good. Lynch,” he said. “You go home now like a good
boy.”
Silently the gangster, the usherette, Pusak and his feminine charge,
and the orangeade-boy rose and departed. Velie accompanied them to the
outer door.
Sampson waited until they had gone before he took the Inspector to one
side.
“What’s the matter, Q?” he demanded. “Aren’t things going right?”
“Henry, my boy,” smiled the Inspector, “we’ve done as much as mortal
brains could. Just a little more time.... I wish—” He did not say
what he wished. He grasped Djuna firmly by the arm and bidding Panzer,
Neilson, Velie and the District Attorney a placid good-night, left the
theatre.
At the apartment, as the Inspector wielded his key and the door swung
open, Djuna pounced on a yellow envelope lying on the floor. It had