The Roman hat mystery 21Part 1 · In Which Mr. Michaels Writes a Letter
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Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Roman hat mystery 21
Part 1 · In Which Mr. Michaels Writes a Letter
QueenEnglish
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.
