The Roman hat mystery A problem in deduction
KK32 Left, KK30 Left, KK28 Left, and KK26 Left on the back of an old
envelope. He handed the memorandum to Velie, who went away.
Ellery, who had been leaning idly against the rear wall of the last
row, watching his father, the audience, and occasionally restudying the
geography of the theatre, murmured in the Inspector’s ear: “I was just
reflecting on the unusual fact that with such a popular bit of dramatic
trash as ‘Gunplay,’ seven seats in the direct vicinity of the
murdered man’s seat should remain empty during the performance.”
“When did you begin to wonder, my son?” said Queen, and while Ellery
absently tapped the floor with his stick, barked, “Piggott!”
The detective stepped forward.
“Get the usherette who was on this aisle and the outside doorman—that
middle-aged fellow on the sidewalk—and bring ’em here.”
As Piggott walked off, a disheveled young man appeared by Queen’s side,
wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“Well, Flint?” asked Queen instantly.
“I’ve been over this floor like a scrub-woman, Inspector. If you’re
looking for a hat in this section of the theatre, it’s mighty well
hidden.”
“All right, Flint, stand by.”
The detective trudged off. Ellery said slowly, “Didn’t really think
your young Diogenes would find the tophat, did you, dad?”
The Inspector grunted. He walked down the aisle and proceeded to lean
over person after person, questioning each in low tones. All heads
turned in his direction as he went from row to row, interrogating the
occupants of the two aisle-seats successively. As he walked back in
Ellery’s direction, his face expressionless, the policeman whom he had
sent out with the piece of string, saluted him.
“What size, officer?” asked the Inspector.
“The clerk in the hat store said it was exactly 7⅛,” answered the
bluecoat. Inspector Queen nodded, dismissing him.
Velie strode up, with Panzer trailing worriedly behind. Ellery leaned
forward with an air of keen absorption to catch Velie’s words. Queen
grew tense, the light of a great interest on his face.
“Well, Thomas,” he said, “what did you find in the box-office?”
“Just this, Inspector,” reported Velie unemotionally. “The seven
tickets for which you gave me the numbers are not in the ticket-rack.
They were sold from the box-office window, at what date Mr. Panzer has
no way of knowing.”
“The tickets might have been turned over to an agency, you know,
Velie,” remarked Ellery.
“I verified that, Mr. Queen,” answered Velie. “Those tickets were not
assigned to any agency. There are definite records to prove it.”
Inspector Queen stood very still, his grey eyes gleaming. Then he said,
“In other words, gentlemen, it would seem that at a drama which has
been playing to capacity business ever since its opening, seven tickets
in a group were bought—and then the purchasers conveniently forgot to
attend the performance!”
CHAPTER III
IN WHICH A “PARSON” COMES TO GRIEF
There was a silence as the four men regarded each other with a dawning
conviction. Panzer shuffled his feet and coughed nervously; Velie’s
face was a study in concentrated thought; Ellery stepped backward and
fell into a rapt contemplation of his father’s grey-and-blue necktie.
Inspector Queen stood biting his mustache. He shook his shoulders
suddenly and turned on Velie.
“Thomas, I’m going to give you a dirty job,” he said. “I want you
to marshal a half-dozen or so of the uniformed men and set ’em to a
personal examination of every soul in this place. All they have to do
is get the name and address of each person in the audience. It’s quite
a job, and it will take time, but I’m afraid it’s absolutely necessary.
By the way, Thomas, in your scouting around, did you question any of
the ushers who take care of the balcony?”
“I got hold of the very man to give me information,” said Velie.
“He’s the lad who stands at the foot of the stairs in the orchestra,
directing holders of balcony tickets to the upper floor. Chap by the
name of Miller.”
“A very conscientious boy,” interposed Panzer, rubbing his hands.
“Miller is ready to swear that not a person in this theatre either went
upstairs from the orchestra or came downstairs from the balcony from
the moment the curtain went up on the second act.”
“That sort of cuts down your work, Thomas,” remarked the Inspector,
who had been listening intently. “Have your men go through the
orchestra-boxes and orchestra only. Remember—I want the name and
address of every person here—every single one. And Thomas—”
“Yes, Inspector?” said Velie, turning back.
“While they’re at it, have ’em ask these people to show the
ticket-stubs belonging to the seats in which they are sitting. Every
case of loss of stub should be noted beside the name of the loser; and
in cases—it is a bare possibility—where a person holds a stub which
does not agree with the seat-number of the chair in which he’s sitting,
a notation is also to be made. Think you can get all that done, my boy?”
“Sure thing!” Velie grunted as he strode away.
The Inspector smoothed his grey mustache and took a pinch of snuff,
inhaling deeply.
“Ellery,” he said, “there’s something worrying you. Out with it, son!”
“Eh?” Ellery started, blinking his eyes. He removed his pince-nez,
and said slowly, “My very revered father, I am beginning to think
that—Well! There’s little peace in this world for a quiet book-loving
man.” He sat down on the arm of the dead man’s seat, his eyes troubled.
Suddenly he smiled. “Take care that you don’t repeat the unfortunate
error of that ancient butcher who, with his twoscore apprentices,
sought high and low for his most treasured knife when all the time it
reposed quietly in his mouth.”
“You’re very informative these days, my son,” said the Inspector
petulantly. “Flint!”
The detective came forward.
“Flint,” said Queen, “you’ve had one pleasant job to-night and I’ve
another for you. Think your back could stand a little more bending?
Seems to me I remember you took a weight-lifting contest in the Police
Games when you were pounding a beat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Flint, grinning broadly. “I guess I can stand the
strain.”
“Well, then,” continued the Inspector, jamming his hands into his
pockets, “here’s your job. Get a squad of men together—good Lord, I
should have brought the Reserves along with me!—and make an exhaustive
search of every square foot of the theatre-property, inside and out.
You’ll be looking for ticket-stubs, do you understand? Anything
resembling half a ticket has to be in my possession when you’re
through. Search the theatre-floor particularly, but don’t neglect the
rear, the steps leading up to the balcony, the lobby outside, the
sidewalk in front of the theatre, the alleyways at both sides, the
lounge downstairs, the men’s room, the ladies’ room—Here, here! That’ll
never do. Call up the nearest precinct for a matron and have her do
that. Thoroughly clear?”
Flint was off with a cheerful nod.
“Now, then.” Queen stood rubbing his hands. “Mr. Panzer, would you
step this way a minute? Very kind of you, sir. I’m afraid we’re making
unholy nuisances of ourselves to-night, but it can’t be helped. I see
the audience is on the verge of rebellion. I’d be obliged if you would
trot up to the stage and announce that they will be held here just a
little while longer, to have patience, and all that sort of thing.
Thank you!”
As Panzer hurried down the center aisle, people clutching at his coat
to detain him, Detective Hagstrom, standing a few feet away, caught
the Inspector’s eye. By his side was a small slim youth of nineteen,
chewing gum with vehement motions of his jaw, and obviously quite
nervous at the ordeal he was facing. He was clad in a black-and-gold
uniform, very ornate and resplendent, and incongruously fitted out with
a starched shirt-front and a wing collar and bow tie. A cap resembling
the headgear of a bell-boy perched on his blonde head. He coughed
deprecatingly as the Inspector motioned him forward.
“Here is the boy who says they don’t sell ginger ale in this theatre,”
said Hagstrom severely, grasping the lad’s arm in a suggestive grip.
“You don’t, eh, son?” asked Queen affably. “How is that?”
The boy was plainly in a funk. His eyes rolled alarmingly as they
sought the broad face of Doyle. The policeman patted him encouragingly
on the shoulder and said to the Inspector, “He’s a little scared,
sir—but he’s a good boy. I’ve known him since he was a shaver. Grew up
on my beat.—Answer the Inspector, Jessie....”
“Well, I—I don’t know, sir,” stammered the boy, shuffling his feet.
“The only drinks we’re allowed to sell during the intermissions is
orangeade. We got a contract with the ——”—he mentioned the name of a
well-known manufacturer of the concoction—“people and they give us a
big discount if we sell their stuff and nobody else’s. So—”
“I see,” said the Inspector. “Are drinks sold only during
intermissions?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the boy, more naturally. “As soon as the curtain
goes down the doors to the alleys on both sides are opened, and there
we are—my partner and me, with our stands set up, and the cups filled
ready to serve.”
“Oh, so there are two of you, eh?”
“No, sir, three all together. I forgot to tell you—one feller is
downstairs in the main lounge, too.”
“Ummmm.” The Inspector fixed him with a large and kindly eye. “Now,
son, if the Roman Theatre sells nothing but orangeade, do you think you
could explain how this ginger-ale bottle got here?”
His hand dove down and reappeared brandishing the dark-green bottle
discovered by Hagstrom. The boy paled and began to bite his lips.
His eyes roved from side to side as if they sought a quick avenue of
escape. He inserted a large and dirty finger between his neck and
collar and coughed.
“Why—why ...” He had some difficulty in speaking.
Inspector Queen put down the bottle and rested his wiry length against
the arm of a seat. He folded his arms sternly.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
The boy’s color changed from blue-white to a pasty yellow. He furtively
eyed Hagstrom, who had with a flourish taken a notebook and pencil from
his pocket and was waiting forbiddingly.
The boy moistened his lips. “Lynch—Jess Lynch,” he said hoarsely.
“And where is your station between acts, Lynch?” said the Inspector
balefully.
“I’m—I’m right here, in the left-side alley, sir,” stuttered the boy.
“Ah!” said the Inspector, knitting his brows ferociously. “And were you
selling drinks in the left alley to-night, Lynch?”
“Why, why—yes, sir.”
“Then you know something about this ginger-ale bottle?”
The boy peered about, saw the stout small form of Louis Panzer on the
stage, about to make an announcement, and leaning forward, whispered,
“Yes, sir—I do know about that bottle. I—I didn’t want to tell before
because Mr. Panzer’s a strict guy when it comes to breaking rules, and
he’d fire me in a minute if he knew what I did. You won’t tell, sir?”
The Inspector started, then smiled. “Shoot, son. You’ve got
something on your conscience—might as well get it off.” He relaxed and
at a flick of a finger Hagstrom unconcernedly walked away.
“This is how it happened, sir,” began Jess Lynch eagerly. “I’d set my
stand up in the alley here about five minutes before the end of the
first act, like we’re supposed to. When the girl on this aisle opened
the doors after the first act, I began to give the people comin’ out a
nice refined selling chatter. We all do. A lot of people bought drinks,
and I was so busy I didn’t have time to notice anything going on around
me. In a little while I had a breathing spell, and then a man came up
to me and said, ‘Let me have a bottle of ginger ale, boy.’ I looked