Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “I see what you’re driving at,” muttered the Inspector.

  “Go on.”

  “If he was the murderer, we have definitely established the sex and also the fact that our man was wearing evening-clothes that night—perhaps not a very illuminating point, since there were scores of such men in the theatre. If he was only an accomplice, we must conclude that the murderer was one of two possibilities: either a man dressed in ordinary clothes, whose possession of a tophat as he left would be patently suspicious; or else a woman, who of course could not sport a tophat at all!”

  The Inspector sank back into the leather cushions. “Talk about your logic!” he chortled. “My son, I’m almost proud of you—that is, I would be if you weren’t so disgustingly conceited. . . . Things standing where they do, therefore, the reason you pulled your little drama in Panzer’s office . . .”

  His voice lowered as Ellery leaned forward. They continued to converse in inaudible tones until the taxicab drew up before the headquarters building.

  No sooner had Inspector Queen, who had proceeded blithely through the somber corridors with Ellery striding at his side, entered his tiny office than Sergeant Velie lumbered to his feet.

  “Thought you were lost, Inspector!” he exclaimed. “That Stoates kid was in here not long ago with a suffering look on his face. Said that Cronin was tearing his hair at Field’s office—that they still hadn’t found a thing in the files of an incriminating nature.”

  “Go away, go away, Thomas my lad,” gurgled the Inspector softly. “I can’t bother myself with petty problems like putting a dead man behind bars. Ellery and I—”

  The telephone bell rang. Queen sprang forward and snatched the instrument from the desk. As he listened the glow left his thin cheeks and a frown settled once more on his forehead. Ellery watched him with a strange absorption.

  “Inspector?” came the hurried voice of a man. “This is Hagstrom reporting. Just got a minute—can’t say much. Been tailing Angela Russo all morning and had a tough time. . . . Seems to be wise that I’m following her. . . . A half hour ago she thought she’d given me the slip—she hopped into a cab and beat it downtown. . . . And say, Inspector—just three minutes ago I saw her enter Benjamin Morgan’s office!”

  Queen barked, “Nail her the instant she comes out!” and slammed the receiver down. He turned slowly to Ellery and Velie and repeated Hagstrom’s report. Ellery’s face became a study in frowning astonishment. Velie appeared unmistakably pleased.

  But the old man’s voice was strained as he sat down weakly in his swivel-chair. Finally he groaned, “What do you know about that!”

  76.First recorded in 1896 in the sense of nervousness. The origin of the phrase is obscure, perhaps drawn from the itching sensation caused by “woolies,” long underwear.

  77.“Au fai” literally means “to the fact” and usually connotes familiarity or expertise—that is, here, Inspector Queen has done this kind of work before. However, typical of Ellery, this is a somewhat stilted way to express that thought.

  78.Not surprisingly, there was no Electra Theatre on 43rd St.—indeed, the only theaters on 43rd St. were Henry Miller’s Theatre, the home of the English actor-producer, and George M. Cohan’s Theatre, built by Cohan and his partner Sam H. Harris but sold in 1915. Harris also owned the Sam H. Harris Theatre on 42nd St. Could Harris be Gordon Davis? Not a single Gordon Davis is listed in Trow’s General Directory of New York City for 1922–23.

  79.This is the full form of the abbreviation of “i.e.,” that is, “that is.”

  CHAPTER XV

  In Which an Accusation is Made

  Detective Hagstrom was a phlegmatic man. He traced his ancestry to the mountains of Norway, where stolidity was a virtue and stoicism the ultimate cult. Nevertheless, as he leaned against a gleaming marble wall on the twentieth floor of the Maddern Building, thirty feet to the side of the bronze-and-glass door marked:

  BENJAMIN MORGAN

  Attorney-at-Law

  his heart beat a trifle faster than usual. He shuffled his feet nervously as his jaw masticated a wad of chewing-tobacco. If the truth were told Detective Hagstrom, a man of varied experience in the service of the police department, had never clamped his hand on the shoulder of a female with intent to arrest. He faced his coming assignment therefore in some trepidation, remembering with appalling clarity the fiery temperament of the lady for whom he was waiting.

  His apprehension was well founded. When he had been lounging in the corridor some twenty minutes, and wondering whether his quarry had not slipped away through another exit, Benjamin Morgan’s office-door suddenly swung open and the large, curved figure of Mrs. Angela Russo, garbed in a modish tweed ensemble, appeared. An unbecoming snarl distorted her carefully made-up features; she swung her purse menacingly as she strode toward the line of elevators. Hagstrom glanced quickly at his wrist-watch. It was ten minutes to twelve. In a short time the offices would be disgorging their occupants for the lunch hour, and he was most desirous of making his arrest in the quiet of the deserted hall.

  Accordingly he straightened up, adjusted his orange-and-blue necktie and stepped with a fair assumption of coolness into full view of the approaching woman. As she caught sight of him she slackened her stride perceptibly. Hagstrom hurried toward her, anticipating flight. But Mrs. Angela Russo was made of sterner stuff. She tossed her head and came on brazenly.

  Hagstrom fixed his large red hand on her arm. “I guess you know what I want you for,” he said fiercely. “Come along now, and don’t make a fuss or I’ll put the nippers on you!”

  Mrs. Russo shook off his hand. “My, my—aren’t you the big rough cop?” she murmured. “Just what do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

  Hagstrom glared. “None o’ your lip, now!” His finger pressed savagely on the “Down” signal for the elevators. “You just shut up and come along!”

  She faced him sweetly. “Are you trying to arrest me, by any chance?” she cooed. “Because you know, my big he-man, you’ve got to have a warrant to do that!”

  “Aw, stow it!” he growled. “I’m not arresting you—I’m just inviting you to step down to headquarters for a little gab with Inspector Queen. You coming, or do I have to call the wagon?”

  An elevator flashed to a stop. The elevator-man snapped, “Going down!” The woman glanced with momentary uncertainty at the car, peered slyly at Hagstrom and finally stepped into the elevator, the detective’s hand firmly clasped on her elbow. They descended in silence under the curious scrutiny of several passengers.

  Hagstrom, uneasy but determined, sensing somehow a storm brewing in the breast of the woman who strode so calmly by his side, was taking no chances. He did not relax his grasp until they sat side by side in a taxicab, bound for headquarters. Mrs. Russo’s face had gone pasty under her rouge, despite the bold smile curving her lips. She turned suddenly to face her captor, leaning close to his rigidly official body.

  “Mr. Cop, darling,” she whispered, “do you think you could use a hundred-dollar bill?”

  Her hand fumbled suggestively in her purse. Hagstrom lost his temper.

  “Bribery, huh?” he sneered. “We’ll have to chalk that one up for the Inspector!”

  The woman’s smile faded. For the rest of the journey she sat looking fixedly at the back of the driver’s neck.

  It was only when she was being marched, like a soldier on parade, down the dark corridors of the big police structure that her poise returned. And when Hagstrom held open the door of Inspector Queen’s office, she passed inside with an airy tilt to her head and a pleasant smile that would have deceived a police matron.

  Inspector Queen’s office was a cheery affair of sunlight and color. At the moment it resembled a clubroom. Ellery’s long legs were stretched comfortably across the thick carpet, his eyes pleasantly absorbed in the contents of a small cheaply bound book entitled “The Complete Guide to Handwriting Analysis.” The smoke of a cigarette curled from his slack fingers. Sergeant Velie was sitti
ng stolidly in a chair against the far wall, engrossed in a contemplation of Inspector Queen’s snuff-box, which was held lovingly between the thumb and forefinger of the old police official himself. Queen was seated in his comfortable armchair, smiling in hazy introspection at some secret thought.

  “Ah! Mrs. Russo! Come in. come in!” exclaimed the Inspector, bouncing to his feet. “Thomas—a chair for Mrs. Russo, if you please.” The Sergeant silently placed one of the bare wooden chairs by the side of the Inspector’s desk and as silently retreated to his comer. Ellery had not even glanced in the woman’s direction. He read on, the same pleasantly abstracted smile on his lips. The old man was bowing with hospitable courtesy to Mrs. Russo.

  She looked about at the peaceful scene with bewilderment. She had been prepared for severity, harshness, brutality—the domestic atmosphere of the little office took her completely by surprise. Nevertheless she seated herself and, the instant of hesitation gone, she exhibited the same agreeable smile, the same ladylike demeanor that she had practiced so successfully in the corridors.

  Hagstrom was standing inside the doorway, glaring with offended dignity at the profile of the seated woman.

  “She tried to slip me a century note,” he said indignantly. “Tried to bribe me, Chief!”

  Queen’s eyebrows instantly rose in shocked surprise. “My dear Mrs. Russo!” he exclaimed in a sorrowful voice. “You really didn’t intend to make this excellent officer forget his duty to the city, did you? But of course not! How stupid of me! Hagstrom, certainly you must be mistaken, my dear fellow. A hundred dollars—” He shook his head dolefully sinking back into the leather swivel-chair.

  Mrs. Russo smiled. “Isn’t it queer how these cops get the wrong impression?” she asked in a lovely voice. “I assure you, Inspector—I was just having a little fun with him. . . .”

  “Exactly,” said the Inspector, smiling again, as if this statement restored his faith in human nature. “Hagstrom, that’ll be all.”

  The detective, who was staring open-mouthed from his superior to the smiling woman, recovered in time to intercept a wink which passed from Velie to Queen across the woman’s head. He went out quickly, muttering to himself.

  “Now, Mrs. Russo,” began the Inspector, in a businesslike tone, “what can we do for you to-day?”

  She stared at him. “Why—why, I thought you wanted to see me. . . .” Her lips tightened. “Cut the comedy, Inspector!” she said shortly. “I’m not paying any social calls on my own hook to this place and you know it. What did you pinch me for?”

  The Inspector spread his sensitive fingers deprecatingly, his mouth pursed in protest. “But, my dear lady!” he said. “Certainly you have something to tell me. Because, if you are here—and we cannot evade that evident fact—you are here for a reason. Granted that you did not come exactly of your own free will—still you were brought here because you have something to say to me. Don’t you see?”

  Mrs. Russo stared fixedly into his eyes. “What the—Hey, look here, Inspector Queen, what are you driving at? What do you think I’ve got to tell you? I answered everything you asked me Tuesday morning.”

  “Well!” The old man frowned. “Let us say that you did not answer every question Tuesday morning with absolute veracity. For example—do you know Benjamin Morgan?”

  She did not flinch. “All right. You take the cake on that one. Your bloodhound caught me coming out of Morgan’s office—what of it?” She deliberately opened her purse and began to dab powder on her nose. As she did so she glanced slyly at Ellery from the corner of her eye. He was still engrossed in his book, oblivious to her presence. She turned back to the Inspector with a toss of the head.

  Queen was looking at her sadly. “My dear Mrs. Russo, you’re not being fair to a poor old man. I wanted merely to point out that you had—shall I say—lied to me the last time I spoke to you. Now that’s a very dangerous procedure with police Inspectors, my dear—very dangerous.”

  “Listen here!” the woman said suddenly. “You’re not going to get anywhere with this soft soap, Inspector. I did lie to you Tuesday morning. Because, you see, I didn’t think you had anyone here who could follow me very long. Well, I took a gambler’s chance and I lost. So you found out I was lying, and you want to know what it’s all about. I’ll tell you—and then maybe again I won’t!”

  “Oho!” exclaimed Queen softly. “So you feel you’re in a safe enough position to dictate terms, eh? But Mrs. Russo—believe me you’re putting your very charming neck into a noose!”

  “Yeh?” The mask was fairly off now; the woman’s face was stripped to its essential character of intrigue. “You got nothing on me and you know it damn well. All right—I did lie to you—what are you going to do about it? I’m admitting it now. And I’ll even tell you what I was doing in that guy Morgan’s office, if that’ll help you any! That’s the kind of a square-shooter I am, Mr. Inspector!”

  “My dear Mrs. Russo,” returned the Inspector in a pained voice, a little puffed smile in his cheeks, “we know already what you were doing in Mr. Morgan’s office this morning, so you won’t be conferring such a great favor on us after all. . . . I’m really surprised that you should be willing to incriminate yourself to that extent, Mrs. Russo. . . . Blackmail is a mighty serious offense!”

  The woman grew deathly white. She half rose in the chair, gripping its arms.

  “So Morgan squealed after all, the dirty dog!” she snarled. “And I thought he was a wise guy. I’ll get him something to squeal about, take it from me!”

  “Ah, now you’re beginning to talk my language,” murmured the Inspector, leaning forward. “And just what is it you know about our friend Morgan?”

  “I know this about him—but look here, Inspector, I can give you a red-hot tip. You wouldn’t frame a poor lonely woman on a blackmail charge, would you?”

  The Inspector’s face lengthened. “Now, now, Mrs. Russo!” he said. “Is that a nice thing to say? Certainly I can’t make any promises. . . .” He rose, his slender body deadly in its immobility. She shrank back a little. “You will tell me what you have on your mind, Mrs. Russo,” he said deliberately, “on the bare chance that I may show my gratitude in the generally accepted fashion. You will please talk—truthfully, do your understand?”

  “Oh, I know well enough you’re a tough nut, Inspector!” she muttered. “But I guess you’re fair, too. . . . What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Well, it isn’t my funeral,” she said, in a more composed voice. There was a pause while Queen examined her curiously. In accusing her of blackmailing Morgan he had made a successful stab in the dark; now a flash of doubt assailed him. She seemed much too sure of herself if all she knew were the details of Morgan’s past, as the Inspector had taken for granted from the beginning of the interview. He glanced at Ellery and was apprehensively quick to note that his son’s eyes were no longer on the book but riveted on the profile of Mrs. Russo.

  “Inspector,” said Mrs. Russo, a shrill triumph creeping into her voice, “I know who killed Monte Field!”

  “What’s that?” Queen jumped out of his seat, a flush suffusing his white features. Ellery had straightened convulsively in his chair, his sharp eyes boring into the woman’s face. The book he had been reading slipped out of his fingers and dropped to the floor with a thud.

  “I said I know who killed Monte Field,” repeated Mrs. Russo, evidently enjoying the sensation she had caused. “It’s Benjamin Morgan, and I heard him threaten Monte the night before he was murdered!”

  “Oh!” said the Inspector, sitting down. Ellery picked up his book and resumed his interrupted study of “The Complete Guide to Handwriting Analysis.” Quiet descended once more. Velie, who had been staring at father and son in struggling amazement, seemed at a loss to understand their suddenly changed manner.

  Mrs. Russo grew angry. “I suppose you think I’m lying again, but I’m not!” she screamed. “I tell you I heard with my own ears Ben Morgan tell Mont
e Sunday night that he’d put him away!”

  The Inspector was grave, but undisturbed. “I don’t doubt your word in the least, Mrs. Russo. Are you sure it was Sunday night?”

  “Sure?” she shrilled. “I’ll say I’m sure!”

  “And where did this happen?”

  “Right in Monte Field’s own apartment, that’s where!” she said bitingly. “I was with Monte all evening Sunday, and as far as I know he wasn’t expecting company, because we didn’t usually have company when we spent the evening together. . . . Monte himself jumped when the door-bell rang about eleven o’clock and said, ‘Who in hell could that be?’ We were in the living-room at the time. But he got up and went to the door, and right after that I heard a man’s voice outside. I figured Monte wouldn’t want me to be seen by anybody, so I went into the bed-room and closed the door, just leaving a crack open. I could hear Monte trying to stall the man off. Anyway, they finally came into the living-room. Through the crack in the door I saw it was this fellow Morgan—I didn’t know who he was at the time, but later on I got it during the talk they had. And afterward Monte told me . . .”

  She stopped. The Inspector listened imperturbably and Ellery was paying not the slightest attention to her words. She went on desperately.

  “For about a half hour they talked till I could have howled. Morgan was sort of cold and set; he didn’t get excited till the last. From which I gathered, Monte had asked Morgan not long before for a big wad of dough in return for some papers; and Morgan said he didn’t have the money, couldn’t raise it. Said he’d decided to drop into Monte’s place for one last reckoning. Monte was kind of sarcastic and mean—he could be awfully mean when he wanted to. Morgan kept getting madder and madder, and I could see he was holding his temper in. . . .”