The Roman hat mystery 11Part 1 · In Which Mr. Field’s Tophats Begin to Assume Proportions
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Roman hat mystery 11
Part 1 · In Which Mr. Field’s Tophats Begin to Assume Proportions
QueenEnglish
It was exactly ten o’clock in the morning when Inspector Queen and his son opened the frosted glass door marked:
MONTE FIELD
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
The large waiting-room they entered was decorated in just such a fashion as might have been expected from a man of Field’s taste in clothes. It was deserted, and with a puzzled glance Inspector Queen pushed through the door, Ellery strolling behind, and went into the General Office. This was a long room filled with desks. It resembled a newspaper “city room” except for its rows of bookcases filled with ponderous legal tomes.
The office was in a state of violent upheaval. Stenographers chattered excitedly in small groups. A number of male clerks whispered in a corner; and in the center of the room stood Detective Hesse, talking earnestly to a lean saturnine man with greyed temples. It was evident that the demise of the lawyer had created something of a stir in his place of business.
At the entrance of the Queens the employees looked at each other in a startled way and began to slip back to their desks. An embarrassed silence fell. Hesse hurried forward. His eyes were red and strained.
“Good morning, Hesse,” said the Inspector abruptly. “Where’s Field’s private office?”
The detective led them across the room to still another door, a large PRIVATE lettered on its panels. The three men went into a small office which was overwhelmingly luxurious.
“This chap went in for atmosphere, didn’t he?” Ellery chuckled, sinking into a red-leather armchair.
“Let’s have it, Hesse,” said the Inspector, following Ellery’s suit.
Hesse began to talk rapidly. “Got here last night and found the door locked. No sign of a light inside. I listened pretty closely but couldn’t hear a sound, so I took it for granted that there was no one inside and camped in the corridor all night. At about a quarter to nine this morning the office-manager breezed in and I collared him. He was that tall bird I was talking to when you came in. Name’s Lewin—Oscar Lewin.”
“Office-manager, eh?” remarked the old man, inhaling snuff.
“Yes, Chief. He’s either dumb or else he knows how to keep his mouth shut,” continued Hesse. “Of course, he’d already seen the morning papers and was upset by the news of Field’s murder. I could see he didn’t like my questions any too well, either.... I didn’t get a thing out of him. Not a thing. He said he’d gone straight home last night—it seems Field had left about four o’clock and didn’t come back—and he didn’t know anything about the murder until he read the papers. We’ve been sort of sliding along here all morning, waiting for you to come.”
“Get Lewin for me.”
Hesse returned with the lanky office-manager in his wake. Oscar Lewin was physically unprepossessing. He had shifty black eyes and was abnormally thin. There was something predatory in his beaked nose and bony figure. The Inspector looked him over coldly.
“So you’re the office-manager,” he remarked. “Well, what do you think of this affair, Lewin?”
“It’s terrible—simply terrible,” groaned Lewin. “I can’t imagine how it happened or why. Good Lord, I was talking to him only four o’clock yesterday afternoon!” He seemed genuinely distressed.
“Did Mr. Field appear strange or worried when you spoke to him?”
“Not at all, sir,” replied Lewin nervously. “In fact, he was in unusually good spirits. Cracked a joke about the Giants and said he was going to see a darned good show last night—‘Gunplay.’ And now I see by the papers that he was killed there!”
“Oh, he told you about the play, did he?” asked the Inspector. “He didn’t happen to remark by any chance that he was going with anybody?”
“No, sir.” Lewin shuffled his feet.
“I see.” Queen paused. “Lewin, as manager you must have been closer to Field than any other of his employees. Just what do you know about him personally?”
“Not a thing, sir, not a thing,” said Lewin hastily. “Mr. Field was not a man with whom an employee could become familiar. Occasionally he said something about himself, but it was always of a general nature and more jesting than serious. To us outside he was always a considerate and generous employer—that’s all.”
“What exactly was the calibre of the business he conducted, Lewin? You must certainly know something about that.”
“Business?” Lewin seemed startled. “Why, it was as fine a practice as any I’ve encountered in the law profession. I’ve worked for Field only two years or so, but he had some high-and-mighty clients, Inspector. I can give you a list of them....”
“Do that, and mail it to me,” said Queen. “So he had a flourishing and respectable practice, eh? Any personal visitors to your knowledge—especially recently?”
“No. I can’t remember ever seeing any one up here except his clients. Of course, he may have known some of them socially.... Oh, yes! Of course his valet came here at times—tall, brawny fellow by the name of Michaels.”
“Michaels? I’ll have to remember that name,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. He looked up at Lewin. “All right, Lewin. That will be all now. You might dismiss the force for the day. And—just stay around for a while. I expect one of Mr. Sampson’s men soon, and undoubtedly he will need your help.” Lewin nodded gravely and retired.
The moment the door closed Queen was on his feet. “Where’s Field’s private washroom, Hesse?” he demanded. The detective pointed to a door in a far corner of the room.
Queen opened it, Ellery crowding close behind. They were peering into a tiny cubicle spaced off in an angle of the wall. It contained a wash-bowl, a medicine chest and a small clothes-closet. Queen looked into the medicine chest first. It held a bottle of iodine, a bottle of peroxide, a tube of shaving-cream, and other shaving articles. “Nothing there,” said Ellery. “How about the closet?” The old man pulled the door open curiously. A suit of street-clothes hung there, a half-dozen neckties and a fedora hat. The Inspector carried the hat back into the office and examined it. He handed it to Ellery, who disdainfully returned it at once to its peg in the closet.
“Dang those hats!” exploded the Inspector. There was a knock on the door and Hesse admitted a bland young man.
“Inspector Queen?” inquired the newcomer politely.
“Right,” snapped the Inspector, “and if you’re a reporter you can say the police will apprehend the murderer of Monte Field within twenty-four hours. Because that’s all I’m going to give you right now.”
The young man smiled. “Sorry, Inspector, but I’m not a reporter. I’m Arthur Stoates, new man at District Attorney Sampson’s office. The Chief couldn’t reach me until this morning and I was busy on something else—that’s why I’m a little late. Too bad about Field, isn’t it?” He grinned as he threw his coat and hat on a chair.
“It’s all in the point of view,” grumbled Queen. “He’s certainly causing a heap of trouble. Just what were Sampson’s instructions?”
“Well, I’m not as familiar with Field’s career as I might be, naturally, but I’m pinch-hitting for Tim Cronin, who’s tied up this morning on something else. I’m to make a start until Tim gets untangled, which will be some time this afternoon. Cronin, you know, was the man after Field a couple of years ago. He’s aching to get busy with these files.”
“Fair enough. From what Sampson told me about Cronin—if there’s anything incriminating in these records and files, he’ll ferret it out.—Hesse, take Mr. Stoates outside and introduce him to Lewin.—That’s the office-manager, Stoates. Keep your eye on him—he looks like a wily bird. And, Stoates—remember you’re looking not for legitimate business and clientele in these records, but for something crooked.... See you later.”
Stoates gave him a cheery smile and followed Hesse out. Ellery and his father faced each other across the room.
“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked the old man sharply.
“A copy of ‘What Handwriting Tells,’ which I picked up in this bookcase,” replied Ellery lazily. “Why?”
“Come to think of it now, El,” declared the Inspector slowly, “there’s something fishy about this handwriting business.” He shook his head in despair and rose. “Come along, son—there isn’t a blamed thing here.”
On their way through the main office, now empty except for Hesse, Lewin and Stoates, Queen beckoned to the detective. “Go home, Hesse,” he said kindly. “Can’t have you coming down with the grippe.” Hesse grinned and sped through the door.
In a few minutes Inspector Queen was sitting in his private office at Center Street. Ellery termed it “the star chamber.” It was small and cozy and homelike. Ellery draped himself over a chair and began to con the books on handwriting which he had filched from Field’s apartment and office. The Inspector pressed a buzzer and the solid figure of Thomas Velie loomed in the doorway.
“Morning, Thomas,” said Queen. “What is this remarkable news you have for me from Browne Bros.?”
“I don’t know how remarkable it is, Inspector,” said Velie coolly, seating himself in one of the straight-backed chairs which lined the wall, “but it sounded like the real thing to me. You told me last night to find out about Field’s tophat. Well, I’ve an exact duplicate of it on my desk. Like to see it?”
“Don’t be silly, Thomas,” said Queen. “On the run!” Velie departed and was back in a moment carrying a hatbox. He tore the string and uncovered a shining tophat, of such fine quality that Queen blinked. The Inspector picked it up curiously. On the inside was marked the size: 7⅛.
“I spoke to the clerk, an old-timer, down at Browne’s. Been waiting on Field for years,” resumed Velie. “It seems that Field bought every stitch of his clothing there—for a long time. And it happens that he preferred one clerk. Naturally the old buzzard knows quite a bit about Field’s tastes and purchases.
“He says, for one thing, that Field was a fussy dresser. His clothes were always made to order by Browne’s special tailoring department. He went in for fancy suits and cuts and the latest in underclothes and neckwear....”
“What about his taste in hats?” interposed Ellery, without looking up from the book he was reading.
“I was coming to that, sir,” continued Velie. “This clerk made a particular point of the hat business. For instance, when I questioned him about the tophat, he said: ‘Mr. Field was almost a fanatic on the subject. Why, in the last six months he has bought no less than three of them!’ I caught that up, of course—made him check back with the sales-records. Sure enough, Field bought three silk-toppers in the last half-year!”
Ellery and his father found themselves staring at each other, the same question on their lips.
“Three—” began the old man.
“Now ... isn’t that an extraordinary circumstance?” asked Ellery slowly, reaching for his pince-nez.
“Where in heaven’s name are the other two?” continued Queen, in a bewildered manner.
Ellery was silent.
Queen turned impatiently toward Velie. “What else did you find out, Thomas?”
“Nothing much of value, except for this point”—answered Velie—“that Field was an absolute fiend when it came to clothes. So much so that last year he bought fifteen suits and no less than a dozen hats, including the toppers!”
“Hats, hats, hats!” groaned the Inspector. “The man must have been a lunatic. Look here—did you find out whether Field ever bought walking-sticks at Browne’s?”
A look of consternation spread over Velie’s face. “Why—why, Inspector,” he said ruefully, “I guess I slipped up there. I never even thought of asking, and you hadn’t told me last night—”
“Heck! We’re none of us perfect,” growled Queen. “Get that clerk on the wire for me, Thomas.”
Velie picked up one of the telephones on the desk and a few moments later handed the instrument to his superior.
“This is Inspector Queen speaking,” said the old man rapidly. “I understand that you served Monte Field for a good many years?... Well, I want to check up on a little detail. Did Field ever purchase canes or walking-sticks from you people?... What? Oh, I see.... Yes. Now, another thing. Did he ever give special orders about the manufacture of his clothes—extra pockets, or things like that?... You don’t think so. All right.... What? Oh, I see. Thank you very much.”
He hung up the receiver and turned about.
“Our lamented friend,” he said disgustedly, “seems to have had as great an aversion to sticks as he had a love for hats. This clerk said he tried many times to interest Field in canes, and Field invariably refused to buy. Didn’t like ’em, he said. And the clerk just confirmed his own impression about the special pockets—nothing doing. So that leaves us up a blank alley.”
“On the contrary,” said Ellery coolly, “it does nothing of the kind. It proves fairly conclusively that the only article of apparel taken away by the murderer last night was the hat. It seems to me that simplifies matters.”
“I must have a moron’s intelligence,” grunted his father. “It doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“By the way, Inspector,” put in Velie, scowling, “Jimmy reported about the fingerprints on Field’s flask. There are a few, but there’s no question, he says, that they’re all Field’s. Jimmy got a print from the Morgue, of course, to check up.”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “maybe the flask has nothing to do with the crime at all. We’ll have to wait, anyway, for Prouty’s report on its contents.”
“There’s something else, Inspector,” added Velie. “That junk—the sweepings of the theatre—that you told Panzer to send over to you this morning came a couple of minutes ago. Want to see it?”
“Sure thing, Thomas,” said Queen. “And while you’re out bring me the list you made last night containing the names of the people who had no stubs. The seat numbers are attached to each name, aren’t they?”
Velie nodded and disappeared. Queen was looking morosely at the top of his son’s head when the Sergeant returned with an unwieldy package and a typewritten list.
They spread the contents of the package carefully on the desk. For the most part the collected material consisted of crumpled programs, stray scraps of paper, chiefly from candy-boxes, and many ticket-stubs—those which had not been found by Flint and his searchers. Two women’s gloves of different design; a small brown button, probably from a man’s coat; the cap of a fountain pen; a woman’s handkerchief and a few other scattered articles of the kind usually lost or thrown away in theatres came to light.
“Doesn’t look as if there’s much here, does it?” commented the Inspector. “Well, at least we’ll be able to check up on the ticket-stub business.”
Velie heaped the lost stubs in a small pile and began to read off their numbers and letters to Queen, who checked them off on the list Velie had brought him. There were not many of these and the checking-off process was completed in a few moments.
“That all, Thomas?” inquired the Inspector, looking up.
“That’s all, Chief.”
“Well, there are about fifty people still unaccounted for according to this list.—Where’s Flint?”
“He’s in the building somewhere, Inspector.”
Queen picked up his telephone and gave a rapid order. Flint appeared almost at once.
“What did you find last night?” asked Queen abruptly.
“Well, Inspector,” answered Flint sheepishly, “we practically dry-cleaned that place. We found quite a bit of stuff, but most of it was programs and things like that, and we left those for the cleaning-women, who were working along with us. But we did pick up a raft of ticket-stubs, especially out in the alleys.” He brought forth from his pocket a package of pasteboards neatly bound with a rubber band. Velie took them and continued the process of reading off numbers and letters. When he was finished Queen slapped the typewritten list down on the desk before him.
“No fruit in the loom?” murmured Ellery, looking up from the book.
“Ding it, every one of those people who had no stubs is accounted for!” growled the Inspector. “There isn’t a stub or a name left unchecked.... Well, there’s one thing I can do.” He searched through the pile of stubs, referring to the lists, until he found the stub which had belonged to Frances Ives-Pope. He fished from his pocket the four stubs he had collected Monday night and carefully tested the girl’s stub with the one for Field’s seat. The torn edges did not coincide.
“There’s one consolation,” the Inspector continued, stuffing the five tickets into his vest pocket, “we haven’t found a trace of the six tickets for the seats next to and in front of Field’s seat!”
“I didn’t think you would,” remarked Ellery. He put the book down and regarded his father with unwonted seriousness. “Have you ever stopped to consider, dad, that we don’t know definitely why Field was in the theatre last night?”
Queen knit his grey brows. “That particular problem has been puzzling me, of course. We know from Mrs. Russo and Michaels that Field did not care for the theatre—”
“You can never tell what vagary will seize a man,” said Ellery decisively. “Many things might make a non-theatre-going man decide suddenly to go in for that sort of entertainment. The fact remains—he was there. But what I want to know is why he was there.”
The old man shook his head gravely. “Was it a business appointment? Remember what Mrs. Russo said—that Field had promised to be back at 10 o’clock.”
“I fancy the business appointment idea,” applauded Ellery. “But consider how many probabilities there are—the Russo woman might be lying and Field said nothing of the sort; or if he did, he might have had no intention of keeping the appointment with her at 10 o’clock.”
“I’ve quite made up my mind, Ellery,” said the Inspector, “whatever the probabilities, that he didn’t go to the Roman Theatre last night to see the show. He went there with his eyes open—for business.”
“I think that’s correct, myself,” returned Ellery, smiling. “But you can never be too careful in weighing possibilities. Now, if he went on business, he went to meet somebody. Was that somebody the murderer?”
“You ask too many questions, Ellery,” said the Inspector.—“Thomas, let’s have a look at the other stuff in that package.”
Velie carefully handed the Inspector the miscellaneous articles one by one. The gloves, fountain-pen cap, button, and handkerchief Queen threw to one side after a quick scrutiny. Nothing remained except the small bits of candy paper and the crumpled programs. The former yielding no clues, Queen took up the programs. And suddenly, in the midst of his examination, he cried delightedly: “See what I’ve found, boys!”
The three men leaned over his shoulder. Queen held a program in his hand, its wrinkles smoothed out. It showed evidences of having been crushed and thrown away. On one of the inside pages, bordering the usual article on men’s wear, was a number of varied marks, some forming letters, some forming numbers, still others forming cabalistic designs such as a person scribbles in moments of idle thought.
“Inspector, it looks as if you’ve found Field’s own program!” exclaimed Flint.
“Yes, sir, it certainly does,” said Queen sharply. “Flint, look through the papers we found in the dead man’s clothing last night and bring me a letter showing his signature.” Flint hurried out.
Ellery was studying the scrawls intently. On the top margin of the paper appeared:
Flint returned with a letter. The Inspector compared the signatures—they were plainly by the same hand.
“We’ll have them checked by Jimmie down in the laboratory,” muttered the old man. “But I guess this is pretty authentic. It’s Field’s program, there can’t be any doubt of that.... What do you make of it, Thomas?”
Velie grated: “I don’t know what those other numbers refer to, but that ‘50,000’ couldn’t mean anything but dollars, Chief.”
“The old boy must have been figuring his bank account,” said Queen. “He loved the sight of his own name, didn’t he?”
“That’s not quite fair to Field,” protested Ellery. “When a man is sitting idle, waiting for something to happen—as he will when he is in a theatre before the performance begins—one of his most natural actions is to scribble his initials or his name on the handiest object. In a theatre the handiest object would be the program.... The writing of one’s own name is fundamental in psychology. So perhaps Field wasn’t as egotistical as this seems to make him.”
“It’s a small point,” said the Inspector, studying the scrawls with a frown.
“Perhaps,” returned Ellery. “But to get back to a more pressing matter.—I don’t agree with you when you say the ‘50,000’ probably refers to Field’s bank account. When a man jots down his bank balance he will not do it in such round numbers.”
“We can prove or disprove that easily enough,” retorted the Inspector, picking up a telephone. He asked the police operator to get him the number of Field’s office. When he had spoken to Oscar Lewin for some time, he turned back to Ellery with a crestfallen air.
“You were right, El,” he said. “Field had an amazingly small personal account. All his accounts balance to less than six thousand dollars. And this despite the fact that he frequently made deposits of ten and fifteen thousand dollars. Lewin himself was surprised. He hadn’t known, he said, how Field’s personal finances stood until I asked him to look the matter up.... I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts Field played the stock market or the horses!”
“I’m not particularly overwhelmed by the news,” remarked Ellery. “It points to the probable reason for the ‘50,000’ on the program. That number not only represents dollars, but more than that—it indicates a business deal in which the stakes were fifty thousand! Not a bad night’s work, if he had come out of it alive.”
“How about the other two numbers?” asked Queen.
“I’m going to mull over them a bit,” replied Ellery, subsiding in his chair. “I would like to know what the business deal was that involved such a large financial consideration,” he added, absently polishing his pince-nez.
“Whatever the business deal was,” said the Inspector sententiously, “you may be sure, my son, it was an evil one.”
“An evil one?” inquired Ellery in a serious tone.
“Money’s the root of all evil,” retorted the Inspector with a grin.
Ellery’s tone did not change. “Not only the root, dad—but the fruit, too.”
