The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
evidently been stuck through the crack at the bottom of the door. Djuna
flourished it in the old man’s face.
“It’s from Mr. Ellery, I’ll bet!” he cried. “I knew he wouldn’t
forget!” He seemed more extraordinarily like a monkey than ever as he
stood grinning, the telegram in his hand.
The Inspector snatched the envelope from Djuna’s hand and, not pausing
to take off his hat or coat, switched on the lights in the living-room
and eagerly extracted the yellow slip of paper.
Djuna had been correct.
ARRIVED SAFELY [it ran] CHAUVIN WILD WITH DELIGHT FISHING PROSPECT
EXCEPTIONAL stop THINK I HAVE SOLVED YOUR LITTLE PROBLEM stop JOIN
DISTINGUISHED COMPANY OF RABELAIS CHAUCER SHAKESPEARE DRYDEN WHO SAID
MAKE A VIRTUE OF NECESSITY stop WHY NOT GO INTO BLACKMAILING BUSINESS
YOURSELF stop DONT GROWL DJUNA TO DEATH AFFECTIONATELY ELLERY
The Inspector stared down at the harmless yellow slip, a startled
comprehension transmuting the harsh lines of his face.
He whirled on Djuna, clapped that young gentleman’s cap on his tousled
head and pulled his arm purposefully.
“Djuna, old son,” he said gleefully, “let’s go around the corner and
celebrate with a couple of ice-cream sodas!”
CHAPTER XX
IN WHICH MR. MICHAELS WRITES A LETTER
For the first time in a week Inspector Queen was genuinely himself as
he strode cheerfully into his tiny office at the headquarters building
and shied his coat at a chair.
It was Monday morning. He rubbed his hands, hummed “The Sidewalks of
New York,” as he plumped down at his desk and briskly ran through his
voluminous mail and reports. He spent a half-hour issuing instructions
by word of mouth and telephone to subordinates in various offices of
the Detective Bureau, studied briefly a number of reports which a
stenographer placed before him and finally pressed one of a row of
buttons on his desk.
Velie appeared at once.
“Howdy, Thomas,” said the Inspector heartily. “How are you this fine
Fall morning?”
Velie permitted himself a smile. “Well enough, Inspector,” he said.
“And you? You seemed a little under the weather Saturday night.”
The Inspector chuckled. “Let bygones be bygones, Thomas my lad. Djuna
and I visited the Bronx Zoo yesterday and spent a delightful four hours
among our brethren, the animals.”
“That imp of yours was in his element, I’ll bet,” growled Velie, “among
the monkeys especially.”
“Now, now, Thomas,” chided the Inspector. “Don’t be mistaken about
Djuna. He’s a smart little whippersnapper. Going to be a great man some
day, mark my words!”
“Djuna?” Velie nodded gravely. “Guess you’re right, Inspector. I’d
give my right paw for that kid.... What’s the program to-day, sir?”
“There’s a lot on the program to-day, Thomas,” Queen said mysteriously.
“Did you get hold of Michaels after I telephoned you yesterday morning?”
“Sure thing, Inspector. He’s been waiting outside for an hour. Came in
early, with Piggott hanging on his heels. Piggott’s been tailing him
all over creation and he’s pretty disgusted.”
“Well, I always said a man’s a fool to become a policeman,” chuckled
Queen. “Bring in the lamb.”
Velie went out, to reappear a moment later with the tall, portly
Michaels. Field’s valet was dressed sombrely. He seemed nervous and ill
at ease.
“Now, Thomas, my lad,” said the Inspector after he had motioned
Michaels to the chair beside his desk, “you go out and lock that door
and don’t let the Commissioner himself disturb me. Get that?”
Velie repressed a curious glance, grunted and departed. A few moments
later a bulky figure was dimly discernible in silhouette through the
frosted glass of the door.
At the expiration of a half-hour Velie was summoned by telephone
to his superior’s office. He unlocked the door. On the desk before
the Inspector reposed a cheap square envelope unsealed, a sheet of
notepaper partly visible as it lay inside. Michaels was on his feet,
pale and trembling, his hat crushed in two beefy hands. Velie’s sharp
eyes noticed a generous ink-stain on the fingers of the man’s left hand.
“You are going to take _very_ good care of Mr. Michaels, Thomas,” said
the Inspector genially. “To-day, for instance, I want you to entertain
him. I have no doubt you’ll find something to do—go to a movie—there’s
an idea! In any event be friendly with the gentleman until you hear
from me.... No communication with anybody, Michaels, do you hear?”
he added brusquely, turning to the big man. “Just you tag along with
Sergeant Velie and play nicely.”
“You know I’m on the square, Inspector,” mumbled Michaels sullenly.
“You don’t have to—”
“Just a precaution, Michaels—just an elementary precaution,”
interrupted the Inspector, smiling. “Have a nice time, boys!”
The two men left. Seated at his desk, Queen tilted his swivel chair,
picked up the envelope before him reflectively, took out the slip of
cheap white paper and read it over with a little smile.
The note bore neither date nor salutation. The message began abruptly.
“The writer is Chas. Michaels, I think you know me. I have been Monte
Field’s right-hand man for over two years.
I won’t beat around the bush. Last Monday night you killed Field in
the Roman Theatre. Monte Field told me Sunday he had an appointment
with you at the Theatre. And I am the only one who does know this.
Another thing. I also know _why_ you killed him. You put him away to
get hold of the papers in Field’s hat. But you do not know that the
papers you stole from him are _not the originals_. To prove this to
you, I am enclosing one sheet from the testimony of Nellie Johnson
which was in Field’s possession. If the papers you took from Field’s
hat are still in existence, compare what you have with this one. You
will soon see that I am giving you the straight goods. And I have the
rest of the originals safely put away where you will never lay hands
on them. I might say that the police are looking for them with their
tongues hanging out. Wouldn’t it be nice if I stepped into Inspector
Queen’s office with the papers and my little story?
I will give you a chance to buy these papers. You can bring $25,000 in
cold cash to the place I describe, and I will hand them over to you. I
need money and you need the papers and my silence.
Meet me to-morrow, Tuesday night, at twelve o’clock, at the
seventh bench on the right-hand side of the paved path in Central Park
which starts at the northwest corner of 59th Street and 5th Avenue. I
will be dressed in a gray overcoat and a gray slouch hat. Just say the
word Papers to me.
This is the only way you can get the papers. Don’t look for me before
the appointment. If you are not there, I know what I have to do.”
The scrawl, closely and painfully written, was signed: “Charles
Michaels.”
Inspector Queen sighed, licked the flap of the envelope and sealed
it. He stared steadily at the name and address written in the same
handwriting on the envelope. Unhurriedly he affixed a stamp on one
corner.
He pressed another button. The door opened to admit Detective Ritter.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
“Morning, Ritter.” The Inspector weighed the envelope reflectively in
his hand. “What are you working on now?”
The detective shuffled his feet. “Nothing special, Inspector. I was
helping Sergeant Velie up to Saturday, but I haven’t had any work yet
on the Field case this morning.”
“Well, then, I’ll give you a nice little job.” The Inspector suddenly
grinned, holding out the envelope. Ritter took it with a bewildered
air. “Here, son, go to the corner of 149th Street and Third Avenue and
post this letter in the nearest mail-box!”
Ritter stared, scratched his head, looked at Queen and finally went
out, depositing the letter in his pocket.
The Inspector tilted his chair and took a pinch of snuff with every
evidence of satisfaction.
CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH INSPECTOR QUEEN MAKES A CAPTURE—
On Tuesday evening, October second, promptly at 11:30 p.m., a tall man
wearing a soft black hat and a black overcoat, the collar pulled up
around his face to keep out the raw night-air, sauntered out of the
lobby of a small hotel on 53rd Street near Seventh Avenue and proceeded
at a sharp pace up Seventh Avenue toward Central Park.
Arrived at 59th Street he turned to the east and made his way along the
deserted thoroughfare in the direction of Fifth Avenue. When he reached
the Fifth Avenue entrance to Central Park, off the Plaza circle, he
stopped in the shadow of one of the big concrete corner-posts and
leaned back idly. As he lit a cigarette the flare from the match
illumined his face. It was that of an elderly man, a trifle lined. A
grizzled mustache drooped in a straggling line from his upper lip.
Under his hat a grey patch of hair was visible. Then the light from the
match flickered out.
He stood quietly against the concrete post, hands jammed into his
overcoat pockets, puffing away at his cigarette. An observer would have
noticed, had he been keen, that the man’s fingers trembled slightly and
that his black-shod feet tapped the sidewalk in an unsteady tattoo.
When his cigarette burned down, he threw it away and glanced at a
watch on his wrist. The hands stood at 11:50. He swore impatiently and
stepped past the portals of the Park entrance.
The light from the overhead arcs bordering the Plaza dimmed as he
walked up the stone lane. Hesitating, as if he were undecided as to his
course of action, he looked about him, considered for a moment, then
crossed over to the first bench and sat down heavily—like a man tired
from his day’s work and contemplating a restful quarter of an hour in
the silence and darkness of the Park.
Slowly his head drooped; slowly his figure grew slack. He seemed to
have fallen into a doze.
The minutes ticked away. No one passed the quiet figure of the
black-clad man as he sat on his bench. On Fifth Avenue the motors
roared past. The shrill whistle of the traffic officer in the Plaza
pierced the chill air periodically. A cold wind soughed through the
trees. From somewhere in the Stygian recesses of the Park came a girl’s
clear laugh—soft and far-off, but startlingly distinct. The minutes
drowsed on; the man was falling into a deeper sleep.
And yet, just as the bells of the neighborhood churches began to toll
the hour of twelve, the figure tensed, waited an instant and then rose
determinedly.
Instead of heading toward the entrance he turned and plodded farther up
the walk, his eyes bright and inquisitive in the gloomy depths created
by his hat-brim and coat-collar. He seemed to be counting the benches
as he proceeded in a steady, unhurried gait. Two—three—four—five—He
stopped. In the semi-darkness ahead he could barely make out a still
grey figure seated on a bench.
The man walked slowly on. Six—seven—He did not pause, but went straight
ahead. Eight—nine—ten.... Only then did he wheel and retrace his steps.
This time his gait was brisker, more definite. He approached the
seventh bench rapidly, then stopped short. Suddenly, as if he had made
up his mind, he crossed over to the spot where the indistinctly looming
figure rested quietly and sat down. The figure grunted and moved
over a trifle to give the newcomer more room.
The two men sat in silence. After a time the black-garbed man dipped
into the folds of his coat and produced a packet of cigarettes. He lit
one and held the match for a moment after the tip of the cigarette
glowed red. In the ray of the match-light he covertly examined the
quiet man at his side. The brief moment told him little—the occupant of
the bench was as well-muffled and concealed as himself. Then the light
puffed out and they were in darkness once more.