The Roman hat mystery 6Part 1 · In Which Inspector Queen Conducts Some Legal Conversations
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Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Roman hat mystery 6
Part 1 · In Which Inspector Queen Conducts Some Legal Conversations
QueenEnglish
Queen made his way across the broad red carpet covering the rear of the orchestra, his hat pulled down over his eyes. He was searching the recesses of his pocket for the inevitable snuff-box. The Inspector was evidently engaged in a weighty mental process, for his hand closed tightly upon the two blue ticket-stubs and he grimaced, as if he were not at all satisfied with his thoughts.
Before opening the green-speckled door marked “Manager’s Office,” he turned to survey the scene behind him. The stir in the audience was businesslike. A great chattering filled the air; policemen and detectives circulated among the rows, giving orders, answering questions, hustling people out of their seats, lining them up in the main aisles to be searched at the huge outer door. The Inspector noticed absently that there was little protest from the audience at the ordeal they were facing. They seemed too tired to resent the indignity of a search. A long queue of half-angry, half-amused women was lined up at one side being examined rapidly, one by one, by a motherly woman dressed in black. Queen glanced briefly at the detectives blocking the door. Piggott with the experience of long practice was making rapid passes over the clothing of the men. Velie, at his side, was studying the reactions of the various people undergoing examination. Occasionally he searched a man himself. Ellery stood a little apart, hands in his capacious topcoat pockets, smoking a cigarette and seeming to be thinking of nothing more important than the first edition he had missed buying.
Queen sighed, and went in.
The anteroom to the main office was a tiny place, fitted out in bronze and oak. On one of the chairs against the wall, burrowed into the deep leather cushions, sat Parson Johnny, puffing at a cigarette with a show of unconcern. A policeman stood by the chair, one massive hand on the Parson’s shoulder.
“Trail along, Parson,” said Queen casually, without stopping. The little gangster lounged to his feet, spun his cigarette butt deftly into a shining brass cuspidor, and slouched after the Inspector, the policeman treading on his heels.
Queen opened the door to the main office, glancing quickly about him as he stood on the threshold. Then he stepped aside, allowing the gangster and the bluecoat to precede him. The door banged shut behind them.
Louis Panzer had an unusual taste in office appointments. A clear green light-shade shone brilliantly above a carved desk. Chairs and smoking-stands; a skillfully wrought clothes-tree; silk-covered divan—these and other articles were strewn tastefully about the room. Unlike most managers’ offices, Panzer’s did not exploit photographs of stars, managers, producers and “angels.” Several delicate prints, a huge tapestry, and a Constable oil painting hung on the walls.
But Inspector Queen’s scrutiny at the moment was not for the artistic quality of Mr. Panzer’s private chamber. It was rather for the six people who faced him. Beside Detective Johnson sat a middle-aged man inclining to corpulence, with shrewd eyes and a puzzled frown. He wore faultless evening clothes. In the next chair sat a young girl of considerable beauty, attired in a simple evening gown and wrap. She was looking up at a handsome young man in evening clothes, hat in hand, who was bending over her chair and talking earnestly in an undertone. Beside them were two other women, both leaning forward and listening intently.
The stout man held aloof from the others. At Inspector Queen’s entrance he immediately got to his feet with an inquiring look. The little group became silent and turned solemn faces on Queen.
With a deprecating cough Parson Johnny, accompanied by his escort, sidled across the rug and into a corner. He seemed overwhelmed by the splendor of the company in which he found himself. He shuffled his feet and cast a despairing look in the direction of the Inspector.
Queen moved over to the desk and faced the group. At a motion of his hand Johnson came quickly to his side.
“Who are the three extra people, Johnson?” he asked in a tone inaudible to the others.
“The old fellow there is Morgan,” whispered Johnson, “and the good-looker sitting near him is the woman you told me to get. When I went for her in the orchestra I found the young chap and the other two women with her. The four of ’em were pretty chummy. I gave her your message, and she seemed nervous. But she stood up and came along like a major—only the other three came, too. I didn’t know but what you’d like to see ’em, Inspector....”
Queen nodded. “Hear anything?” he asked in the same low tone.
“Not a peep, Inspector. The old chap doesn’t seem to know any of these people. The others have just been wondering why you could possibly want her.”
The Inspector waved Johnson to a corner and addressed the waiting group.
“I’ve summoned two of you,” he said pleasantly, “for a little chat. And since the others are here, too, it will be all right for them to wait. But for the moment I must ask you all to step into the anteroom while I conduct a little business with this gentleman.” He inclined his head toward the gangster, who stiffened indignantly.
With a flutter of excited conversation the two men and three women departed, Johnson closing the door behind them.
Queen whirled on Parson Johnny.
“Bring that rat here!” he snapped to the policeman. He sat down in Panzer’s chair and drew the tips of his fingers together. The gangster was jerked to his feet and marched across the carpet, to be pushed directly in front of the desk.
“Now, Parson,” said Queen menacingly, “I’ve got you where I want you. We’re going to have a nice little talk with nobody to interrupt. Get me?”
The Parson was silent, his eyes liquid with distrust.
“So you won’t say anything, eh, Johnny? How long do you think I’ll let you get away with that?”
“I told you before—I don’t know nothin’ and besides I won’t say nothin’ till I see my lawyer,” the gangster said sullenly.
“Your lawyer? Well, Parson, who is your lawyer?” asked the Inspector in an innocent tone.
The Parson bit his lip, remaining silent. Queen turned to Johnson.
“Johnson, my boy, you worked on the Babylon stick-up, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Sure did, Chief,” said the detective.
“That,” explained Queen gently, to the gangster, “was when you were sent up for a year. Remember, Parson?”
Still silence.
“And Johnson,” continued the Inspector, leaning back in his chair, “refresh my memory. Who was the lawyer defending our friend here?”
“Field. By—” Johnson exclaimed, staring at the Parson.
“Exactly. The gentleman now lying on one of our unfeeling slabs at the morgue. Well, Parson, what about it? Cut the comedy! Where do you come off saying you don’t know Monte Field? You knew his first name, all right, when I mentioned only his last. Come clean, now!”
The gangster had sagged against the policeman, a furtive despair in his eyes. He moistened his lips and said, “You got me there, Inspector. I—I don’t know nothin’ about this, though, honest. I ain’t seen Field in a month. I didn’t—my Gawd, you’re not tryin’ to tie this croakin’ around my neck, are you?”
He stared at Queen in anguish. The policeman jerked him straight.
“Parson, Parson,” said Queen, “how you do jump at conclusions. I’m merely looking for a little information. Of course, if you want to confess to the murder, I’ll call my men in and we can get your story all straight and go home to bed. How about it?”
“No!” shouted the gangster, thrashing out suddenly with his arm. The officer caught it deftly and twisted it behind the squirming back. “Where do you get that stuff? I ain’t confessin’ nothin’. I don’t know nothin’. I didn’t see Field to-night an’ I didn’t even know he was here! Confess.... I got some mighty influential friends, Inspector—you can’t pull that stuff on me, I’ll tell you!”
“That’s too bad, Johnny,” sighed the Inspector. He took a pinch of snuff. “All right, then. You didn’t kill Monte Field. What time did you get here to-night, and where’s your ticket?”
The Parson twisted his hat in his hands. “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’ before, Inspector, because I figured you was tryin’ to railroad me. I can explain when and how I got here all right. It was about half past eight, and I got in on a pass, that’s how. Here’s the stub to prove it.” He searched carefully in his coat pocket and produced a perforated blue stub. He handed it to Queen, who glanced at it carelessly and put it in his pocket.
“And where,” he asked, “and where did you get the pass, Johnny?”
“I—my girl give it to me, Inspector,” replied the gangster nervously.
“Ah—the woman enters the case,” said Queen jovially. “And what might this young Circe’s name be, Johnny?”
“Who?—why, she’s—hey, Inspector, don’t get her in no trouble, will you?” burst out Parson Johnny. “She’s a reg’lar kid, an’ she don’t know nothin’ either. Honest, I—”
“Her name?” snapped Queen.
“Madge O’Connell,” whined Johnny. “She’s an usher here.”
Queen’s eyes lit up. A quick glance passed between him and Johnson. The detective left the room.
“So,” continued the Inspector, leaning back again comfortably, “so my old friend Parson Johnny doesn’t know a thing about Monte Field. Well, well, well! We’ll see how your lady-friend’s story backs you up.” As he talked he looked steadily at the hat in the gangster’s hand. It was a cheap black fedora, matching the sombre suit which the man was wearing. “Here, Parson,” he said suddenly. “Hand over that hat of yours.”
He took the head-piece from the gangster’s reluctant hand and examined it. He pulled down the leather band inside, eyed it critically and finally handed it back.
“We forgot something, Parson,” he said. “Officer, suppose you frisk Mr. Cazzanelli’s person, eh?”
The Parson submitted to the search with an ill grace, but he was quiescent enough. “No gat,” said the policeman briefly, and continued. He put his hand into the man’s hip-pocket, extracting a fat wallet. “Want this, Inspector?”
Queen took it, counted the money briskly, and handed it back to the policeman, who returned it to the pocket.
“One hundred and twenty-two smackers, Johnny,” the old man murmured. “Seems to me I can smell Bonomo silk in these bills. However!” He laughed and said to the bluecoat, “No flask?” The policeman shook his head. “Anything under his vest or shirt?” Again a negative. Queen was silent until the search was completed. Parson Johnny relaxed with a sigh.
“Well, Johnny, mighty lucky night this is for you—Come in!” Queen said at a knock on the door. It opened to disclose the slender girl in usherette’s uniform whom he had questioned earlier in the evening. Johnson came in after her and closed the door.
Madge O’Connell stood on the rug and stared with tragic eyes at her lover, who was thoughtfully studying the floor. She flashed a glance at Queen. Then her mouth hardened and she snapped at the gangster, “Well? So they got you after all, you sap! I told you not to try to make a break for it!” She turned her back contemptuously on the Parson and began to ply a powder-puff with vigor.
“Why didn’t you tell me before, my girl,” said Queen softly, “that you got a pass for your friend John Cazzanelli?”
“I ain’t telling everything, Mr. Cop,” she answered pertly. “Why should I? Johnny didn’t have anything to do with this business.”
“We won’t discuss that,” said the Inspector, toying with his snuff-box. “What I want you to tell me now, Madge, is whether your memory has improved any since I spoke to you.”
“What d’ya mean?” she demanded.
“I mean this. You told me that you were at your regular station just before the show started—that you conducted a lot of people to their seats—that you didn’t remember whether you ushered Monte Field, the dead man, to his row or not—and that you were standing up at the head of the left aisle all during the performance. All during the performance, Madge. Is that correct?”
“Sure it is, Inspector. Who says I wasn’t?” The girl was growing excited, but Queen glanced at her fluttering fingers and they became still.
“Aw, cut it out, Madge,” snapped the Parson unexpectedly. “Don’t make it no worse than it is. Sooner or later he’ll find out we were together anyways, and then he’d have something on you. You don’t know this bird. Come clean, Madge!”
“So!” said the Inspector, looking pleasantly from the gangster to the girl. “Parson, you’re getting sensible in your old age. Did I hear you say you two were together? When, and why, and for how long?”
Madge O’Connell’s face had gone red and white by turns. She favored her lover with a venomous glance, then turned back to Queen.
“I guess I might as well spill it,” she said disgustedly, “after this half-wit shows a yellow streak. Here’s all I know, Inspector—and Gawd help you if you tell that little mutt of a manager about it!” Queen’s eyebrows went up, but he did not interrupt her. “I got the pass for Johnny, all right,” she continued defiantly, “because—well, Johnny kind of likes blood-and-thunder stuff, and it was his off-night. So I got him the pass. It was for two—all the passes are—so that the seat next to Johnny was empty all the time. It was an aisle seat on the left—best I could get for that loud-mouthed shrimp! During the first act I was pretty busy and couldn’t sit with him. But after the first intermission, when the curtain went up on Act II, things got slack and it was a good chance to sit next to him. Sure, I admit it—I was sittin’ next to him nearly the whole act! Why not—don’t I deserve a rest once in a while?”
“I see.” Queen bent his brows. “You would have saved me a lot of time and trouble, young lady, if you’d told me this before. Didn’t you get up at all during the second act?”
“Well, I did a couple of times, I guess,” she said guardedly. “But everything was okay, and the manager wasn’t around, so I went back.”
“Did you notice this man Field as you passed?”
“No—no, sir.”
“Did you notice if somebody was sitting next to him?”
“No, sir. I didn’t even know he was there. Wasn’t—wasn’t looking that way, I guess.”
“I suppose, then,” continued Queen coldly, “you don’t remember ushering somebody into the last row, next to the last seat, during the second act?”
“No, sir.... Aw, I know I shouldn’t have done it, maybe, but I didn’t see a thing wrong all night.” She was growing more nervous at each question. She furtively glanced at the Parson, but he was staring at the floor.
“You’re a great help, young lady,” said Queen, rising suddenly. “Beat it.”
As she turned to go, the gangster with an innocent leer slid across the rug to follow her. Queen made a sign to the policeman. The Parson found himself yanked back to his former position.
“Not so fast, Johnny,” said Queen icily. “O’Connell!” The girl turned, trying to appear unconcerned. “For the time being I shan’t say anything about this to Mr. Panzer. But I’d advise you to watch your step and learn to keep your mouth clean when you talk to your superiors. Get out now, and if I ever hear of another break on your part God help you!”
She started to laugh, wavered and fled from the room.
Queen whirled on the policeman. “Put the nippers on him, officer,” he snapped, jerking his finger toward the gangster, “and run him down to the station!”
The policeman saluted. There was a flash of steel, a dull click, and the Parson stared stupidly at the handcuffs on his wrists. Before he could open his mouth he was hustled out of the room.
Queen made a disgusted motion of his hand, threw himself into the leather-covered chair, took a pinch of snuff, and said to Johnson in an entirely different tone, “I’ll trouble you, Johnson my boy, to ask Mr. Morgan to step in here.”
Benjamin Morgan entered Queen’s temporary sanctum with a firm step that did not succeed entirely in concealing a certain bewildered agitation. He said in a cheerful, hearty baritone, “Well, sir, here I am,” and sank into a chair with much the same air of satisfaction that a man exhales when he seats himself in his club-room after a hard day. Queen was not taken in. He favored Morgan with a long, earnest stare, which made the paunchy grizzled man squirm.
“My name is Queen, Mr. Morgan,” he said in a friendly voice, “Inspector Richard Queen.”
“I suspected as much,” said Morgan, rising to shake hands. “I think you know who I am, Inspector. I was under your eye more than once in the Criminal Court years ago. There was a case—do you remember it?—I was defending Mary Doolittle when she was being tried for murder....”
“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed the Inspector heartily. “I wondered where I’d seen you before. You got her off, too, if I’m not mistaken. That was a mighty nice piece of work, Morgan—very, very nice. So you’re the fellow! Well, well!”
Morgan laughed. “Was pretty nice, at that,” he admitted. “But those days are over, I’m afraid, Inspector. You know—I’m not in the criminal end of it any more.”
“No?” Queen took a pinch of snuff. “I didn’t know that. Anything”—he sneezed—“anything go wrong?” he asked sympathetically.
Morgan was silent. After a moment he crossed his legs and said, “Quite a bit went wrong. May I smoke?” he asked abruptly. On Queen’s assent he lit a fat cigar and became absorbed in its curling haze.
Neither man spoke for a long time. Morgan seemed to sense that he was under a rigid inspection, for he crossed and uncrossed his legs repeatedly, avoiding Queen’s eyes. The old man appeared to be ruminating, his head sunk on his breast.
The silence became electric, embarrassing. There was not a sound in the room, except the ticking of a floor-clock in a corner. From somewhere in the theatre came a sudden burst of conversation. Voices were raised to a high pitch of indignation or protest. Then even this was cut off.
“Come, now, Inspector....” Morgan coughed. He was enveloped in a thick rolling smoke from his cigar, and his voice was harsh and strained. “What is this—a refined third degree?”
Queen looked up, startled. “Eh? I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan. My thoughts went wool-gathering, I guess. Been rubbing it in, have I? Dear me! I must be getting old.” He rose and took a short turn about the room, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Morgan’s eyes followed him.
“Mr. Morgan”—the Inspector pounced on him with one of his habitual conversational leaps—“do you know why I’ve asked you to stay and talk to me?”
“Why—I can’t say I do, Inspector. I suppose, naturally, that it has to do with the accident here to-night. But what connection it can possibly have with me, I’ll confess I don’t know.” Morgan puffed violently at his weed.
“Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, you will know in a moment,” said Queen, leaning back against the desk. “The man murdered here to-night—it wasn’t any accident, I can assure you of that—was a certain Monte Field.”
The announcement was placid enough but the effect upon Morgan was astounding. He fairly leaped from his chair, eyes popping, hands trembling, breath hoarse and heavy. His cigar dropped to the floor. Queen regarded him with morose eyes.
“Monte—Field!” Morgan’s cry was terrible in its intensity. He stared at the Inspector’s face. Then he collapsed in the chair, his whole body sagging.
“Pick up your cigar, Mr. Morgan,” said Queen. “I shouldn’t like to abuse Mr. Panzer’s hospitality.” The lawyer stooped mechanically and retrieved the cigar.
“My friend,” thought Queen to himself, “either you are one of the world’s greatest actors or you just got the shock of your life!” He straightened up. “Come now, Mr. Morgan—pull yourself together. Why should the death of Field affect you in this way?”
“But—but, man! Monte Field.... Oh, my God!” And he threw back his head and laughed—a wild humor that made Queen sit up alertly. The spasm continued, Morgan’s body rocking to and fro in hysteria. The Inspector knew the symptoms. He slapped the lawyer in the face, pulling him to his feet by his coat-collar.
“Don’t forget yourself, Morgan!” commanded Queen. The rough tone had its effect. Morgan stopped laughing, regarded Queen with a blank expression, and dropped heavily into the chair—still shaken, but himself.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, dabbing his face with a handkerchief. “It was—quite a surprise.”
“Evidently,” said Queen dryly. “You couldn’t have acted more surprised if the earth had opened under your feet. Now, Morgan, what’s this all about?”
The lawyer continued to wipe the perspiration from his face. He was shaking like a leaf, his jowls red. He gnawed at his lip in indecision.
“All right, Inspector,” he said at last. “What do you want to know?”
“That’s better,” said Queen approvingly. “Suppose you tell me when you last saw Monte Field.”
The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Why—why, I haven’t seen him for ages,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose you know that we were partners once—we had a successful legal practice. Then something happened and we broke up. I—I haven’t seen him since.”
“And that was how long ago?”
“A little over two years.”
“Very good.” Queen leaned forward. “I’m anxious to know, too, just why the two of you broke up your partnership.”
The lawyer looked down at the rug, fingering his cigar. “I—well, I guess you know Field’s reputation as well as I. We didn’t agree on ethics, had a little argument and decided to dissolve.”
“You parted amicably?”
“Well—under the circumstances, yes.”
Queen drummed on the desk. Morgan shifted uneasily. He was evidently still laboring under the effects of his astonishment.
“What time did you get to the theatre to-night, Morgan?” asked the Inspector.
Morgan seemed surprised at the question. “Why—about a quarter after eight,” he replied.
“Let me see your ticket-stub, please,” said Queen.
The lawyer handed it over after fumbling for it in several pockets. Queen took it, extracted from his own pocket the three stubs he had secreted there, and lowered his hands below the level of the desk. He looked up in a moment, his eyes expressionless as he returned the four bits of pasteboard to his own pocket.
“So you were sitting in M2, Center, were you? Pretty good seat, Morgan,” he remarked. “Just what made you come to see ‘Gunplay’ to-night, anyway?”
“Why, it is a rum sort of show, isn’t it, Inspector?” Morgan appeared embarrassed. “I don’t know that I would ever have thought of coming—I’m not a theatre-going man, you know—except that the Roman management was kind enough to send me a complimentary ticket for this evening’s performance.”
“Is that a fact?” exclaimed Queen ingenuously. “Quite nice of them, I’d say. When did you receive the ticket?”
“Why, I got the ticket and the letter Saturday morning, Inspector, at my office.”
“Oh, you got a letter, too, eh? You don’t happen to have it around you, do you?”
“I’m—pretty—sure I—have,” grunted Morgan, as he began to search his pockets. “Yes! Here it is.”
He offered the Inspector a small, rectangular sheet of white paper, deckle-edged and of crushed bond stock. Queen handled it gingerly as he held it up to the light. Through the few typewritten lines on it a watermark was distinctly visible. His lips puckered, and he laid the sheet cautiously on the desk-blotter. As Morgan watched, he opened the top drawer of Panzer’s desk and rummaged about until he found a piece of note-paper. It was large, square, and heavily glazed with an ornate theatre-insignia engraved on an upper quarter. Queen put the two pieces of paper side by side, thought a moment, then sighed and picked up the sheet which Morgan had handed him. He read it through slowly.
The Management of the Roman Theatre cordially invites the attendance of Mr. Benjamin Morgan at the Monday evening, September twenty-fourth performance of Gunplay. As a leading figure of the New York bar, Mr. Morgan’s opinion of the play as a social and legal document is earnestly solicited. This, however, is by no means obligatory; and the Management wishes further to assure Mr. Morgan that the acceptance of its invitation entails no obligation whatsoever.
(Signed) The Roman Theatre
Per: S.
The “S” was a barely decipherable ink-scrawl.
Queen looked up, smiling. “Mighty nice of the Theatre, Mr. Morgan. I just wonder now—” Still smiling, he signalled to Johnson, who had been sitting in a corner chair, silent spectator to the interview.
“Get Mr. Panzer, the manager, for me, Johnson,” said Queen. “And if the publicity man—chap by the name of Bealson, or Pealson, or something—is around, have him step in here, too.”
He turned to the lawyer after Johnson left.
“Let me trouble you for your gloves a moment, Mr. Morgan,” he said lightly.
With a puzzled stare, Morgan dropped them on the desk in front of Queen, who picked them up curiously. They were of white silk—the conventional gloves for evening-wear. The Inspector pretended to be very busy examining them. He turned them inside out, minutely scrutinized a speck on the tip of one finger, and even went so far as to try them on his own hands, with a jesting remark to Morgan. His examination concluded, he gravely handed the gloves back to the lawyer.
“And—oh, yes, Mr. Morgan—that’s a mighty spruce-looking tophat you’ve got there. May I see it a moment?”
Still silently, the lawyer placed his hat on the desk. Queen picked it up with a carefree air, whistling in a slightly flat key, “The Sidewalks of New York.” He turned the hat over in his hand. It was a glistening affair of extremely fine quality. The lining was of shimmering white silk, with the name of the maker, “James Chauncey Co.,” stamped in gold. Two initials, “B.M.,” were similarly inlaid on the band.
Queen grinned as he placed the hat on his own head. It was a close fit. He doffed it almost immediately and returned it to Morgan.
“Very kind of you to allow me these liberties, Mr. Morgan,” he said as he hastily scribbled a note on a pad which he took from his pocket.
The door opened to admit Johnson, Panzer and Harry Neilson. Panzer stepped forward hesitantly and Neilson dropped into an armchair.
“What can we do for you, Inspector?” quavered Panzer, making a valiant attempt to disregard the presence of the grizzled aristocrat slumped in his chair.
“Mr. Panzer,” said Queen slowly, “how many kinds of stationery are used in the Roman Theatre?”
The manager’s eyes opened wide. “Just one, Inspector. There’s a sheet of it on the desk in front of you.”
“Ummmm.” Queen handed Panzer the slip of paper which he had received from Morgan. “I want you to examine that sheet very carefully, Mr. Panzer. To your knowledge, are there any samples of it in the Roman?”
The manager looked it over with an unfamiliar stare. “No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure of it. What’s this?” he exclaimed, as his eye caught the first few typewritten lines. “Neilson!” he cried, whirling on the publicity man. “What’s this—your latest publicity stunt?” He waved the sheet in Neilson’s face.
Neilson snatched it from his employer’s hand and read it quickly. “Well, I’ll be switched!” he said softly. “If that doesn’t beat the non-stop exploitation record!” He reread it, an admiring look on his face. Then, with four pairs of eyes trained accusingly on him, he handed it back to Panzer. “I’m sorry I have to deny any share in this brilliant idea,” he drawled. “Why the deuce didn’t I think of it?” And he retreated to his corner, arms folded on his chest.
The manager turned to Queen in bewilderment. “This is very peculiar, Inspector. To my knowledge the Roman Theatre has never used this stationery, and I can state positively that I never authorized any such publicity stunt. And if Neilson denies a part in it—” He shrugged his shoulders.
Queen placed the paper carefully in his pocket. “That will be all, gentlemen. Thank you.” He dismissed the two men with a nod.
He looked appraisingly at the lawyer, whose face was suffused with a fiery color that reached from his neck to the roots of his hair. The Inspector raised his hand and let it drop with a little bang on the desk.
“What do you think of that, Mr. Morgan?” he asked simply.
Morgan leaped to his feet. “It’s a damned frame-up!” he shouted, shaking his fist in Queen’s face. “I don’t know any more about it than—than you do, if you’ll pardon a little impertinence! What’s more, if you think you can scare me by this hocus-pocus searching of gloves and hats and—and, by God, you haven’t examined my underwear yet, Inspector!” He stopped for lack of breath, his face purple.
“But, my dear Morgan,” said the Inspector mildly, “why do you upset yourself so? One would think I’ve been accusing you of Monte Field’s murder. Sit down and cool off, man; I asked you a simple question.”
Morgan collapsed in his chair. He passed a quivering hand over his forehead and muttered, “Sorry, Inspector. Lost my temper. But of all the rotten deals—” He subsided, mumbling to himself.
Queen sat staring quizzically at him. Morgan was making a great to-do with his handkerchief and cigar. Johnson coughed deprecatingly, looking up at the ceiling. Again a burst of sound penetrated the walls, only to be throttled in mid-air.
Queen’s voice cut sharply into the silence. “That’s all, Morgan. You may go.”
The lawyer lumbered to his feet, opened his mouth as if to speak, clamped his lips together and, clapping his hat on his head, walked out of the room. Johnson innocently lounged forward to help him with the door, on a signal from the Inspector. Both men disappeared.
Queen, left alone in the room, immediately fell into a fierce preoccupation. He took from his pockets the four stubs, the letter Morgan had given him and the woman’s rhinestone evening bag which he had found in the dead man’s pocket. This last article he opened for the second time that evening and spread its contents on the desk before him. A few calling cards, with the name “Frances Ives-Pope” neatly engraved; two dainty lace handkerchiefs; a vanity case filled with powder, rouge and lipstick; a small change-purse containing twenty dollars in bills and a few coins; and a house-key. Queen fingered these articles thoughtfully for a moment, returned them to the handbag and putting bag, stubs and letter back into his pocket once more, rose and looked slowly about. He crossed the room to the clothes-tree, picked up the single hat, a derby, hanging there and examined its interior. The initials “L.P.” and the head-size, “6¾,” seemed to interest him.
He replaced the hat and opened the door.
The four people sitting in the anteroom jumped to their feet with expressions of relief. Queen stood smiling on the threshold, his hands jammed into his coat pockets.
“Here we are at last,” he said. “Won’t you all please step into the office?”
He politely stood aside to let them pass—the three women and the young man. They trooped in with a flurry of excitement, the women sitting down as the young man busied himself setting chairs for them. Four pairs of eyes gazed earnestly at the old man by the door. He smiled paternally, took one quick glance into the anteroom, closed the door and marched in a stately way to the desk, where he sat down, feeling for his snuff-box.
“Well!” he said genially. “I must apologize for having kept you people waiting so long—official business, you know.... Now, let’s see. Hmmm. Yes.... Yes, yes. I must—All right! Now, in the first place, ladies and gentleman, how do we stand?” He turned his mild gaze on the most beautiful of the three women. “I believe, miss, that your name is Frances Ives-Pope, although I haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced. Am I correct?”
The girl’s eyebrows went up. “That’s quite correct, sir,” she said in a vibrant musical voice. “Although I don’t quite understand how you know my name.”
She smiled. It was a magnetic smile, full of charm and a certain strong womanliness that was extremely attractive. A full-bodied creature in the bloom of youth, with great brown eyes and a creamy complexion, she radiated a wholesomeness that the Inspector found refreshing.
He beamed down at her. “Well, Miss Ives-Pope,” he chuckled, “I suppose it is mysterious to a layman. And the fact that I am a policeman no doubt heightens the general effect. But it’s quite simple. You are by no means an unphotographed young lady—I saw your picture in the paper to-day, as a matter of fact, on the society page.”
The girl laughed, a trifle nervously. “So that’s how it was!” she said. “I was beginning to be frightened. Just what is it, sir, that you want of me?”
“Business—always business,” said the Inspector ruefully. “Just when I’m getting interested in someone, I’m brought bang-up against my profession.... Before we conduct our inquisition, may I ask who your friends are?”
An embarrassed coughing arose from the three people on whom Queen bent his eye. Frances said charmingly, “I’m sorry—Inspector, is it? Allow me to introduce Miss Hilda Orange and Miss Eve Ellis, my very dear friends. And this is Mr. Stephen Barry, my fiancé.”
Queen glanced at them in some surprise. “If I’m not mistaken—aren’t you members of the cast of ‘Gunplay’?”
There was a unanimous nodding of heads.
Queen turned to Frances. “I don’t want to seem too officious, Miss Ives-Pope, but I want you to explain something.... Why are you accompanied by your friends?” he asked with a disarming smile. “I know it sounds impertinent, but I distinctly recall ordering my man to summon you—alone....”
The three thespians rose stiffly. Frances turned from her companions to the Inspector with a pleading look.
“I—please forgive me, Inspector,” she said swiftly. “I—I’ve never been questioned by the police before. I was nervous and—and I asked my fiancé and these two ladies, who are my most intimate friends, to be present during the interview. I didn’t realize that I was going against your wishes....”
“I understand,” returned Queen, smiling. “I understand completely. But you see—” He made a gesture of finality.
Stephen Barry leaned over the girl’s chair. “I’ll stay with you, dear, if you give the word.” He glared at the Inspector belligerently.
“But, Stephen, dear—” Frances cried helplessly. Queen’s face was adamant. “You—you’d better all go. But please wait for me outside. It won’t take long, will it, Inspector?” she asked, her eyes unhappy.
Queen shook his head. “Not so very long.” His entire attitude had changed. He seemed to be growing truculent. His audience sensed the metamorphosis in him and in an intangible manner grew antagonistic.
Hilda Orange, a large buxom woman of forty, with traces of a handsome youth in her face, now brutally shorn of its make-up in the cold light of the room, leaned over Frances and glared at the Inspector.
“We’ll be waiting outside for you, my dear,” she said grimly. “And if you feel faint, or something, just screech a little and you’ll see what action means.” She flounced out of the room. Eve Ellis patted Frances’ hand. “Don’t worry, Frances,” she said in her soft, clear voice. “We’re with you.” And taking Barry’s arm, she followed Hilda Orange. Barry looked back with a mixture of anger and solicitude, shooting a vitriolic glance at Queen as he slammed the door.
Queen was instantly on his feet, his manner brisk and impersonal. He gazed fully into Frances’ eyes, his palms pressed against the top surface of the desk. “Now, Miss Frances Ives-Pope,” he said clearly, “this is all the business I have to transact with you....” He dipped into his pocket and produced with something of the stage-magician’s celerity the rhinestone bag. “I want to return your bag.”
Frances half-rose to her feet, staring from him to the shimmering purse, the color drained from her face. “Why, that’s—that’s my evening bag!” she stammered.
“Precisely, Miss Ives-Pope,” said Queen. “It was found in the theatre—to-night.”
“Of course!” The girl dropped back into her seat with a little nervous laugh. “How stupid of me! And I didn’t miss it until just now....”
“But, Miss Ives-Pope,” the little Inspector continued deliberately, “the finding of your purse is not nearly as important as the place in which it was found.” He paused. “You know that there was a man murdered here this evening?”
She stared at him open-mouthed, a wild fear gathering in her eyes. “Yes, I heard so,” she breathed.
“Well, your bag, Miss Ives-Pope,” continued Queen inexorably, “was found in the murdered man’s pocket!”
Terror gleamed in the girl’s eyes. Then, with a choked scream, she toppled forward in the chair, her face white and strained.
Queen sprang forward, concern and sympathy instantly apparent on his face. As he reached the limp form, the door burst open and Stephen Barry, coat-tails flying, catapulted into the room. Hilda Orange, Eve Ellis and Johnson, the detective, hurried in behind him.
“What in hell have you done to her, you damned snooper!” the actor cried, shouldering Queen out of the way. He gathered Frances’ body tenderly in his arms, pushing aside the wisps of black hair tumbled over her eyes, crooning desperately in her ear. She sighed and looked up in bewilderment as she saw the flushed young face close to hers. “Steve, I—fainted,” she murmured, and dropped back in his arms.
“Get some water, somebody,” the young man growled, chafing her hands. A tumbler was promptly pushed over his shoulder by Johnson. Barry forced a few drops down Frances’ throat and she choked, coming back to consciousness. The two actresses pushed Barry aside and brusquely ordered the men to leave. Queen meekly followed the protesting actor and the detective.
“You’re a fine cop, you are!” said Barry scathingly, to the Inspector. “What did you do to her—hit her over the head with the policeman’s usual finesse?”
“Now, now, young man,” said Queen mildly, “no harsh words, please. The young lady simply received a shock.” They stood in a strained silence until the door opened and the actresses appeared supporting Frances between them. Barry flew to her side. “Are you all right now, dear?” he whispered, pressing her hand.
“Please—Steve—take me—home,” she gasped, leaning heavily on his arm.
Inspector Queen stood aside to let them pass. There was a mournful look in his eyes as he watched them walk slowly to the main door and join the short line going out.
