On one point, before I close this painfully unhandsome preface, I should like to make myself clear.
I have always found it extremely difficult to explain to strangers the peculiar affinity which bound Richard to Ellery Queen, as I must call them. For one thing, they are persons of by no means uncomplicated natures. Richard Queen, sprucely middle-aged after thirty-two years’ service in the city police, earned his Inspector’s chevrons not so much through diligence as by an extraordinary grasp of the technique of criminal investigation. It was said, for example, at the time of his brilliant detectival efforts during the now-ancient Barnaby Ross murder case,†8 that “Richard Queen by this feat firmly establishes his fame beside such masters of crime-detection as Tamaka Hiero, Brillon the Frenchman, Kris Oliver, Renaud, and James Redix the Younger.” ‡9
Queen, with his habitual shyness toward newspaper eulogy, was the first to scoff at this extravagant statement; although Ellery maintains that for many years the old man secretly preserved a clipping of the story. However that may he—and I like to think of Richard Queen in terms of human personality, despite the efforts of imaginative journalists to make a legend of him—I cannot emphasize too strongly the fact that he was heavily dependent upon his son’s wit for success in many of his professional achievements.
This is not a matter of public knowledge. Some mementoes of their careers are still reverently preserved by friends: the small bachelor establishment maintained during their American residence on West 87th Street,10 and now a semiprivate museum of curios collected during their productive years; the really excellent portrait of father and son, done by Thiraud and hanging in the art gallery of an anonymous millionaire; Richard’s precious snuff-box, the Florentine antique which he had picked up at an auction and which he therefore held dearer than rubies, only to succumb to the blandishments of a charming old lady whose name he cleared of slander; Ellery’s enormous collection of books on violence, perhaps as complete as any in the world, which he regretfully discarded when the Queens left for Italy; and, of course, the many as yet unpublished documents containing records of cases solved by the Queens and now stored away from prying eyes in the City’s police archives.11
But the things of the heart—the spiritual bonds between father and son—have until this time remained secret from all except a few favored intimates, among whom I was fortunate enough to be numbered. The old man, perhaps the most famous executive of the Detective Division in the last half century, overshadowing in public renown, it is to be feared, even those gentlemen who sat briefly in the Police Commissioner’s suite—the old man, let me repeat, owed a respectable portion of his reputation to his son’s genius.
In matters of pure tenacity, when possibilities lay frankly open on every hand, Richard Queen was a peerless investigator. He had a crystal-clear mind for detail; a retentive memory for complexities of motive and plot; a cool viewpoint when the obstacle seemed insuperable. Give him a hundred facts, bungled and torn, out of proportion and sequence, and he had them assembled in short order. He was like a bloodhound who follows the true scent in the clutter of a hopelessly tangled trail.
But the intuitive sense, the gift of imagination, belonged to Ellery Queen, the fiction writer. The two might have been twins possessing abnormally developed faculties of mind, impotent by themselves but vigorous when applied one to the other. Richard Queen, far from resenting the bond which made his success so spectacularly possible—as a less generous nature might have done—took pains to make it plain to his friends. The slender, grey old man whose name was anathema to contemporary lawbreakers, used to utter his “confession,” as he called it, with a naïveté explicable only on the score of his proud fatherhood.
One word more. Of all the affairs pursued by the two Queens this, which Ellery has titled “The Roman Hat Mystery” for reasons shortly to be made clear, was surely the crowning case of them all. The dilettante of criminology, the thoughtful reader of detective literature, will understand as the tale unfolds why Ellery considers the murder of Monte Field worthy of study. The average murderer’s motives and habits are fairly accessible to the criminal specialist. Not so, however, in the case of the Field killer. Here the Queens dealt with a person of delicate perception and extraordinary finesse. In fact, as Richard pointed out shortly after the dénouement, the crime planned was as nearly perfect as human ingenuity could make it. As in so many “perfect crimes,” however, a small mischance of fate coupled with Ellery’s acute deductive analyses gave the hunting Queens the single clue which led ultimately to the destruction of the plotter.
J. J. McC.
NEW YORK.
March 1, 1929.
2.Lee and Dannay, great admirers of the Sherlock Holmes Canon, here indulge in an even greater meta-fiction than Doyle. Of course, the Holmes adventures are primarily narrated by John H. Watson, M.D., who is Holmes’s flatmate and partner; Watson, over the course of the series of tales, becomes a successful writer of stories, and that success is alluded to—often with irony—by Holmes. Only in one book, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, does the reader hear the voice of Arthur Conan Doyle, as he bids farewell to Holmes and Watson, and there Doyle makes no pretense that Holmes and Watson are not fictional. Here, we learn of “J. J. McC.,” who served as the go-between twixt Ellery Queen and Frederick A. Stokes. “J. J. McC.” appears in this limited role in several of the early Queen novels (and, although he describes himself here as a stockbroker, likely is Judge J. J. McCue, a minor character in the late Queen novel Face to Face (1967). Three J. J. McCues are listed in Trow’s General Directory of New York City for 1922–23, but none are stockbrokers.
3.At the age of sixteen, novelist Joseph Conrad (1857–1924) left his home in Poland and began a career as a seafarer; only in his mid-thirties did he settle down in England, begin writing, and marry. McC. may be referring to a four-month trip Conrad took to Poland in 1918, during which he visiting his childhood home in Krakow. After his return to England, Conrad became a vocal partisan for Polish sovereignty. However, with the exception of that Polish trip, his post-marital travel was limited to sedate vacations.
4.This witty remark—that Ellery’s wife is as gracious as the name she bore (that being Queen)—makes little sense when we learn that Queen is a pseudonym. Later in the series, not only does it become apparent that the name Queen is not a pseudonym, the wife and child have disappeared without explanation.
5.The name was based on Djuna Barnes (1892–1982), American writer and artist, best remembered for the 1936 lesbian novel Nightwood. In 1924, Barnes was living in Paris, where she had already established a reputation as a feminist journalist and writer.
6.One who may be said to have escaped the grace of God—an incorrigible rascal.
7.Dannay’s real name was Daniel Nathan; Manfred Lee’s real name was Emanuel Lepofsky. Thus their initials were N and L. “En el queerly” (an anagram of Ellery Queen) is how a British crossword puzzle would describe an anagram of their names. According to a 1979 interview with Dannay in People magazine, Ellery was a school-yard friend, and Queen was chosen because it was euphonious. “‘We were so naive,’ laughs Dannay, ‘we had absolutely no idea that “queen” had another possible meaning.’”
* [Author’s note:] “The Mimic Murders.” This crime in its fiction form has not yet reached the public. J. J. McC.
[Editor’s note: The case has never been published, but it is mentioned in Ellery Queen’s The Dutch Shoe Mystery (1931) as involving reporter Peter Harper.]
† [Author’s note:] Ellery Queen made his bow as his father’s unofficial counsel during this investigation.
8.The Barnaby Ross murder case refers to one of the mysteries recounted in a series of four novels written by Lee and Dannay under the name of Barnaby Ross: The Tragedy of X (1932), The Tragedy of Y (1932), The Tragedy of Z (1933), and Drury Lane’s Last Case (1933). The novels feature Drury Lane, a deaf amateur detective who is a retired Shakespearean actor, Inspector Thumm, and Thumm’s daughter Patience. Of course,
none of these had been published at the time of The Roman Hat Mystery, and Ellery does not appear in any of these publications.
‡ [Author’s note:] Chicago Press, January 16, 191–.
9.In Ellery Queen’s The French Powder Mystery (1930), Tamaka Hiero’s A Thousand Leaves and There Is an Under World by James Redix (the Elder) are quoted; no other mention of any of these authors may be found in any book other than the present volume.
10.West 87th Street, running between Central Park West and Riverside Drive on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, is a mixed residential/commercial street. Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe, an amateur detective of some note, lived on West 35th Street.
11.Dannay and Lee here ape the modus operandi of John H. Watson, M.D., who indicates throughout the Sherlock Holmes Canon that there are many stories that he either cannot tell (for privacy reasons) or has not yet chosen to tell. Many of these Holmes cases are listed by name (for example, the affair of the Giant Rat of Sumatra) and have tantalized readers for a century.
Lexicon of Persons Connected with the Investigation
Note: The complete list of individuals, male and female, brought into the story of Monte Field’s murder and appended below is given solely for the convenience of the reader. It is intended to simplify rather than mystify. In the course of perusing mysterio-detective literature the reader is, like as not, apt to lose sight of a number of seemingly unimportant characters who eventually prove of primary significance in the solution of the crime. The writer therefore urges a frequent study of this chart during the reader’s pilgrimage through the tale, if toward no other end than to ward off the inevitable cry of “Unfair!”—the consolation of those who read and do not reason.
E. Q.
MONTE FIELD, an important personage indeed—the victim.
WILLIAM PUSAK, clerk. Cranially a brachycephalic.
DOYLE, a gendarme with brains.
LOUIS PANZER, a Broadway theatre-manager.
JAMES PEALE, the Don Juan of “Gunplay.”
EVE ELLIS. The quality of friendship is not strained.
STEPHEN BARRY. One can understand the perturbation of the juvenile lead.
LUCILLE HORTON, the “lady of the streets”—in the play.
HILDA ORANGE, a celebrated English character-actress.
THOMAS VELIE, Detective-Sergeant who knows a thing or two about crime.
HESSE, PIGGOTT, FLINT, JOHNSON, HAGSTROM, RITTER, gentlemen of the Homicide Squad.
DR. SAMUEL PROUTY, Assistant to the Chief Medical Examiner.
MADGE O’CONNELL, usherette on the fatal aisle.
DR. STUTTGARD. There is always a doctor in the audience.
JESS LYNCH, the obliging orangeade-boy.
JOHN CAZZANELLI, alias “Parson Johnny,” naturally takes a professional interest in “Gunplay.”
BENJAMIN MORGAN. What do you make of him?
FRANCES IVES-POPE. Enter the society interest.
STANFORD IVES-POPE, man-about-town.
HARRY NEILSON. He revels in the sweet uses of publicity.
HENRY SAMPSON, for once an intelligent District Attorney.
CHARLES MICHAELS, the fly—or the spider?
MRS. ANGELA RUSSO, a lady of reputation.
TIMOTHY CRONIN, a legal ferret.
ARTHUR STOATES, another.
OSCAR LEWIN, the Charon of the dead man’s office.
FRANKLIN IVES-POPE. If wealth meant happiness—
MRS. FRANKLIN IVES-POPE, a maternal hypochondriac.
MRS. PHILLIPS. Middle-aged angels have their uses.
DR. THADDEUS JONES, toxicologist of the City of New York.
EDMUND CREWE, architectural expert attached to the Detective Bureau.
DJUNA, an Admirable Crichton of a new species.
The Problem Is—
Who Killed Monte Field?
Meet the astute gentlemen whose business it is to discover such things—
MR. RICHARD QUEEN
MR. ELLERY QUEEN
Explanation for the Map of the Roman Theatre
A: Actors’ dressing-rooms.
B: Frances Ives-Pope’s seat.
C: Benjamin Morgan’s seat.
D: Aisle-seats occupied by “Parson Johnny” Cazzanelli and Madge O’Connell
E: Dr. Stuttgard’s seat.
F, F: Orangeade boys’ stands (only during intermissions).
G: Area in vicinity of crime. Black square represents seat occupied by Monte Field. Three white squares to the right and four white squares directly in front represent vacant seats.
H: Publicity office, occupied by Harry Neilson.
I: Manager Louis Panzer’s private office.
J: Anteroom to manager’s office.
K: Ticket-taker’s box.
L: Only stairway leading to the balcony.
M: Stairway leading downstairs to General Lounge.
N, N: Cashiers’ offices.
O: Property Room.
P: William Pusak’s seat.
Q, Q: Orchestra boxes.
PART ONE
“The policeman must oft follow the precept of the ‘bakadori’—those fool-birds who, though they know disaster awaits them at the hands and clubs of the beach-combers, brave ignominious death to bury their eggs in the sandy shore. . . . So the policeman. All Nippon should not deter him from hatching the egg of thoroughness.”
—From A Thousand Leaves
by Tamaka Hiero.
CHAPTER I
In Which Are Introduced a Theatre-Audience and a Corpse
The dramatic season of 192-12 began in a disconcerting manner. Eugene O’Neill had neglected to write a new play13 in time to secure the financial encouragement of the intelligentzia; and as for the “low-brows,” having attended play after play without enthusiasm, they had deserted the legitimate theatre for the more ingenuous delights of the motion picture palaces.
On the evening of Monday, September 24th, therefore, when a misty rain softened the electric blaze of Broadway’s theatrical district, it was viewed morosely by house managers and producers from 37th Street to Columbus Circle.14 Several plays were then and there given their walking papers by the men higher up, who called upon God and the weather bureau to witness their discomfiture. The penetrating rain kept the play-going public close to its radios and bridge-tables. Broadway was a bleak sight indeed to those few who had the temerity to patrol its empty streets.
The sidewalk fronting the Roman Theatre,15 on 47th Street west of the “White Way,” however, was jammed with a mid-season, fair-weather crowd. The title “Gunplay” flared from a gay marquee. Cashiers dexterously attended the chattering throng lined up at the “To-night’s Performance” window. The buff-and-blue doorman, impressive with the dignity of his uniform and the placidity of his years, bowed the evening’s top-hatted and befurred customers into the orchestra with an air of satisfaction, as if inclemencies of weather held no terrors for those implicated in “Gunplay’s” production.
The Broadway theater scene in the 1920s.
Inside the theatre, one of Broadway’s newest, people bustled to their seats visibly apprehensive, since the boisterous quality of the play was public knowledge. In due time the last member of the audience ceased rustling his program; the last latecomer stumbled over his neighbor’s feet; the lights dimmed and the curtain rose. A pistol coughed in the silence, a man screamed . . . the play was on.
“Gunplay” was the first drama of the season to utilize the noises customarily associated with the underworld.16 Automatics, machine guns, raids on night-clubs, the lethal sounds of gang vendettas—the entire stock-in-trade of the romanticized crime society was jammed into three swift acts. It was an exaggerated reflection of the times—a bit raw, a bit nasty and altogether satisfying to the theatrical public. Consequently it played to packed houses in rain and shine. This evening’s house was proof of its popularity.
The performance proceeded smoothly. The audience was properly thrilled at the thunderous climax to the first act. The rain having sto
pped, people strolled out into the side alleys for a breath of air during the first ten-minute intermission. With the rising of the curtain on Act II, the detonations on the stage increased in volume. The second act hurtled to its big moment as explosive dialogue shot across the footlights. A slight commotion at the rear of the theatre went unnoticed, not unnaturally, in the noise and the darkness. No one seemed aware of anything amiss and the play crashed on. Gradually, however, the commotion increased in volume. At this point a few spectators at the rear of the left section squirmed about in their seats, to assert their rights in angry whispers. The protest was contagious. In an incredibly short time scores of eyes turned toward that section of the orchestra.
Suddenly a sharp scream tore through the theatre. The audience, excited and fascinated by the swift sequence of events on the stage, craned their necks expectantly in the direction of the cry, eager to witness what they thought was a new sensation of the play.
Without warning the lights of the theatre snapped on, revealing puzzled, fearful, already appreciative faces. At the extreme left, near a closed exit-door, a large policeman stood holding a slight nervous man by the arm. He fended off a group of inquisitive people with a huge hand, shouting in stentorian tones, “Everybody stay right where he is! Don’t move! Don’t get out of your seat, any of you!”
People laughed.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 63
