Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  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 IvesPope,” he said curtly, “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 so 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.

  41.One wonders what in fact the police were searching for. We learn later that it was not ticket-stubs. Perhaps weapons? Vials marked poison? At this
stage, with the cause of death unknown, what could the police regard as unnoteworthy?

  42.Circe, a minor Greek goddess who was said to have the power—through herbs or magic or innate abilities—to coerce men to her will, is the symbol of the predatory female, taking advantage of and controlling her male partner.

  43.By the standard of wages of an unskilled laborer, this would be almost $6,000 today, a very substantial amount for a known thug to be carrying around.

  44.A popular song about life in New York City in the 1890s, it was composed in 1894 by Charles B. Lawlor and James W. Blake. Governor Al Smith (of New York) used it as the theme song of his Presidential campaigns in 1920, 1924, and 1928.

  45.There is no trace now of this manufacturer. Popular American top-hat-makers of the day included Rogers Peet, Dunlap & Co., B&K Browning King & Co., the Knox Hat Company (which maintained a large store on 40th St. and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan), and of course Stetson, which made far more than their eponymous cowboy hats.

  A 1910 advertisement for the Knox Hat Co., showing President Theodore Roosevelt’s hand waving farewell to the Grand Fleet with his Knox hat.

  CHAPTER VI

  In Which the District Attorney Turns Biographer

  Inspector Richard Queen was a peculiar man. Small and wiry, thatched with grey and wrinkled in fine lines of experience, he might have been a business executive, a night-watchman, or what he chose. Certainly, in the proper raiment, his quiet figure would mold itself to any disguise.

  This ready adaptability was carried out in his manner as well. Few people knew him as he was. To his associates, to his enemies, to the forlorn scraps of humanity whom he turned over to the due processes of the law, he remained ever a source of wonder. He could be theatrical when he chose, or mild, or pompous, or fatherly, or bull-dogging.

  But underneath, as someone has said with an over-emphatic sentimentality, the Inspector had “a heart of gold.” Inside he was harmless, and keen, and not a little hurt by the cruelties of the world. It was true that to the people who officially came under his eye he was never twice the same. He was constantly whirling into some new facet of personality. He found this to be good business; people never understood him, never knew what he was going to do or say, and consequently they were always a little afraid of him.

  Now that he was alone, back in Panzer’s office, the door shut tight, his investigations temporarily halted, the true character of the man shone from his face. At this moment it was an old face—old physically, old and wise spiritually. The incident of the girl he had startled into unconsciousness was uppermost in his mind. The memory of her drawn, horrified face made him wince. Frances Ives-Pope seemed to personify everything a man of years could hope for in his own daughter. To see her shrink under the lash pained him. To see her fiancé turn fiercely in her defense made him blush.

  Abstemious except for his one mild dissipation, the Inspector reached for his snuff-box with a sigh and sniffed freely. . . .

  When there came a peremptory knock on the door, he was the chameleon again—a detective-inspector sitting at a desk and no doubt thinking clever and ponderous thoughts. In truth, he was wishing that Ellery would come back.

  At his hearty “Come in!” the door swung open to admit a thin, bright-eyed man dressed in heavy overclothes, a woolen muffler wound about his neck.

  “Henry!” exclaimed the Inspector, starting to his feet. ‘“What the dickens are you doing here? I thought the doctor had ordered you to stay in bed!”

  District Attorney Henry Sampson winked as he slumped into an armchair.

  “Doctors,” he said didactically, “doctors give me a pain in the neck. How are tricks?”

  He groaned and felt his throat gingerly. The Inspector sat down again.

  “For a grown man, Henry,” he said decisively, “you’re the most unruly patient I’ve ever seen. Man alive, you’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t watch out!”

  “Well,” grinned the District Attorney, “‘I carry a lot of insurance, so I should worry . . . You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Oh, yes,” grunted Queen. “Your question. How’s tricks, I think you asked? Tricks, my dear Henry, are at present in a state of complete nullity. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Kindly be more explicit,” said Sampson. “Remember, I’m a sick man and my head is buzzing.”

  “Henry,” said Queen, leaning forward earnestly, “I warn you that we’re in the midst of one of the toughest cases this department has ever handled. . . . Is your head buzzing? I’d hate to tell you what’s happening in mine!”

  Sampson regarded him with a frown. “If it’s as you say—and I suppose it is—this comes at a rotten time. Election’s not so far off—an unsolved murder handled by the improper parties . . .”

  “Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” remarked Queen, in a low voice. “I wasn’t exactly thinking of this affair in terms of votes, Henry. A man’s been killed—and at the moment I’ll be frank enough to admit that I haven’t the slightest idea who did the job or how.”

  “I accept your well-meant rebuke, Inspector,” said Sampson, in a lighter tone. “But if you’d heard what I did a few moments ago—over the telephone . . .”

  “One moment, my dear Watson, as Ellery would say,” chuckled Queen, with that startling change of temperament so characteristic of him. “I’ll bet I know what happened. You were at home, probably in bed. Your telephone rang. A voice began to crab, protest, gurgle, and do all the other things a voice does when its owner is excited. The voice said, ‘I won’t stand for being cooped up by the police, like a common criminal! I want that man Queen severely reprimanded! He’s a menace to personal liberty!’ And so on, in words of that general tenor. . . .”

  “My dear fellow!” said Sampson, laughing.

  “This gentleman, the owner of the protesting voice,” continued the Inspector, “is short, rather stout, wears gold-rimmed eyeglasses, has an exceedingly disagreeable feminine voice, displays a really touching concern for his family—one wife and one-daughter—in the presence of possible publicity agents, and always refers to you as his ‘very good friend, District Attorney Sampson.’ Correct?”

  Sampson sat staring at him. Then his keen face creased into a smile.

  “Perfectly astounding, my dear Holmes!” he murmured. “Since you know so much about my friend, perhaps it would be child’s-play for you to give me his name?”

  “Er—but that was the fellow, wasn’t it?” said Queen, his face scarlet. “I—Ellery, my boy! I’m glad to see you!”

  Ellery had entered the room. He shook hands cordially with Sampson, who greeted him with a pleasure born of long association, and made a remark about the dangers of a District Attorney’s life, briskly setting down on the desk a huge container of coffee and a paper bag pleasantly suggestive of French pastry.

  “Well, gentlemen, the great search is finished, over, kaput, and the perspiring detectives will now partake of midnight tiffin.” He laughed and slapped his father affectionately on the shoulder.

  “But, Ellery!” cried Queen delightedly. “This is a welcome surprise! Henry, will you join us in a little celebration?” He filled three paper cups with the steaming coffee.

  “I don’t know what you’re celebrating, but count me in,” said Sampson and the three men fell to with enthusiasm.

  “What’s happened, Ellery?” asked the old man, sipping his coffee contentedly.

  “Gods do not eat, neither do they drink,” murmured Ellery from behind a cream puff. “I am not omnipotent, and suppose you tell me what happened in your impromptu torture-chamber. . . . I can tell you one thing you don’t know, however. Mr. Libby, of Libby’s ice-cream parlor, whence came these elegant cakes, confirms Jess Lynch’s story about the ginger ale. And Miss Elinor Libby nicely corroborated the alley story.”

  Queen wiped his lips daintily with a huge handkerchief. “Well, let Prouty make sure about the ginger ale, anyway. As for me, I interviewed several people and now I have nothing to do.�
��

  “Thank you,” remarked Ellery dryly. “That was a perfect recitation. Have you acquainted the D. A. with the events of this tumultuous evening?”

  “Gentlemen,” said Sampson, setting down his cup, “here’s what I know. About a half-hour ago I was telephoned by ‘one of my very good friends’—who happens to wield a little power behind the scenes—and he told me in no uncertain terms that during to-night’s performance a man was murdered. Inspector Richard Queen, he said, had descended upon the theatorium like a whirlwind, accompanied by his minor whirlwinds, and had proceeded to make everybody wait over an hour—an inexcusable, totally unwarranted procedure, my friend charged. He further deposed that said Inspector even went so far as to accuse him personally of the crime, and had domineering policemen search him and his wife and daughter before they were allowed to leave the theatre.

  “So much for my informant’s story—the rest of his conversation, being rather profane, is irrelevant. The only other thing I know is that Velie told me outside who the murdered man was. And that, gentlemen, was the most interesting part of the whole story.”

  “You know almost as much about this case as I do,” grunted Queen. “Probably more, because I have an idea you are thoroughly familiar with Field’s operation . . . Ellery, what happened outside during the search?”

  Ellery crossed his legs comfortably. “As you might have guessed, the search of the audience was entirely without result. Nothing out of the way was found. Not one solitary thing. Nobody looked guilty, and nobody took it upon himself to confess. In other words, it was a complete fiasco.”