Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  Morgan grew pale. His brows twitched and his eyes, glazed and worried, stared pitifully at the Inspector.

  “She was lying!” he cried hoarsely. Several diners nearby looked around curiously, and Inspector Queen tapped Morgan’s arm. He bit his lip and lowered his voice. “I did nothing of the sort, Inspector. I was honest with you a moment ago when I said that I had thought savagely from time to time of killing Field. It was a crippled, silly, pointless thought. I—I wouldn’t have the courage to kill a man. Even at the Webster Club when I lost my temper completely and shouted that threat I didn’t mean it. Certainly Sunday night—please believe me rather than that unscrupulous, money-grubbing harlot, Inspector—you must!”

  “I merely want you to explain what you said. Because,” said the Inspector quietly, “strange as it may seem, I do believe that you made the statement she attributes to you.”

  “What statement?” Morgan was in a sweat of fear; his eyes started from his head.

  “‘Publish those papers, and if it means ruin to me—I’ll see to it that it’s the last time you’ll ever blackmail anybody!’” replied the Inspector. “Did you say that, Mr. Morgan?”

  The lawyer stared incredulously at the Queens, then threw back his head and laughed. “Good heavens!” he gasped, at last. “Is that the ‘threat’ I made? Why, Inspector, what I meant was that if he published those documents, in the event that I couldn’t meet his blackguard demands, that I’d make a clean breast of it to the police and drag him down with me. That’s what I meant! And she thought I was threatening his life!” He wiped his eyes hysterically.

  Ellery smiled, his finger summoning the waiter. He paid the check and lit a cigarette, looking sidewise at his father, who was regarding Morgan with a mixture of abstraction and sympathy.

  “Very well, Mr. Morgan.” The Inspector rose, pushed back his chair. “That’s all we wanted to know.” He stood aside courteously to allow the dazed, still trembling lawyer to precede them toward the cloak-room.

  The sidewalk fronting the Roman Theatre was jammed when the two Queens strolled up 47th Street from Broadway. The crowd was so huge that police lines had been established. Traffic was at a complete standstill along the entire length of the narrow thoroughfare. The electric lights of the marquee blared forth the title “Gunplay” in vigorous dashes of light and in smaller lights the legend, “Starring James Peale and Eve Ellis, Supported by an All-Star Cast.” Women and men wielded frenzied elbows to push through the milling mob; policemen shouted hoarsely, demanding tickets for the evening’s performance before they would allow any one to pass through the lines.

  The Inspector showed his badge and he and Ellery were hurled with the jostling crowd into the small lobby of the theatre. Beside the box-office, his Latin face wreathed in smiles, stood Manager Panzer, courteous, firm and authoritative, helping to speed the long line of cash customers from the box-office window to the ticket-taker. The venerable doorman, perspiring mightily, was standing to one side, a bewildered expression on his face. The cashiers worked madly. Harry Neilson was huddled in a comer of the lobby, talking earnestly to three young men who were obviously reporters.

  Panzer caught sight of the two Queens and hurried forward to greet them. At an imperious gesture from the Inspector he hesitated, then with an understanding nod turned back to the cashier’s window. Ellery stood meekly in line and procured two reserved tickets from the box-office. They entered the orchestra in the midst of a pushing throng.

  A startled Madge O’Connell fell back as Ellery presented two tickets plainly marked LL32 Left and LL30 Left. The Inspector smiled as she fumbled with the pasteboards and threw him a half-fearful glance. She led them across the thick carpet to the extreme left aisle, silently indicated the last two seats of the last row and fled. The two men sat down, placed their hats in the wire holders below the seats and leaned back comfortably, for all the world like two pleasure-seekers contemplating an evening’s gory entertainment.

  The auditorium was packed. Droves of people being ushered down the aisles were rapidly consuming the empty seats. Heads twisted expectantly in the direction of the Queens, who became unwittingly the center of a most unwelcome scrutiny.

  “Heck!” grumbled the old man. “We should have come in after the curtain went up.”

  “You’re much too sensitive to public acclaim, mon pêre,” laughed Ellery. “I don’t mind the limelight.” He consulted his wrist watch and their glances met significantly. It was exactly 8:25. They wriggled in their seats and settled down.

  The lights were blotted out, one by one. The chatter of the audience died in a responsive sympathy. In total darkness the curtain rose on a weirdly dim stage. A shot exploded the silence; a man’s gurgling shout raised gasps in the theatre. “Gunplay” was off in its widely publicized and theatrical manner.

  Despite the preoccupation of his father, Ellery, relaxed in the chair which three nights before had held the dead body of Monte Field, was able to sit still and enjoy the exceedingly mellow melodrama. The fine rich voice of James Peale, ushered onto the stage by a series of climactic incidents, rang out and thrilled him with its commanding art. Eve Ellis’s utter absorption in her rôle was apparent—at the moment she was conversing in low throbbing tones with Stephen Barry, whose handsome face and pleasant voice were evoking admiring comment from a young girl seated directly to the Inspector’s right. Hilda Orange was huddled in a comer, dressed flamboyantly as befitted her stage character. The old “character-man” pottered aimlessly about the stage. Ellery leaned toward his father.

  “It’s a well cast production,” he whispered. “Watch that Orange woman!”

  The play stuttered and crackled on. With a crashing symphony of words and noise the first act came to an end. The Inspector consulted his watch as the lights snapped on. It was 9:05.

  He rose and Ellery followed him lazily. Madge O’Connell, pretending not to notice them, pushed open the heavy iron doors across the aisle and the audience began to file out into the dimly lit alleyway. The two Queens sauntered out among the others.

  A uniformed boy standing behind a neat stand covered with paper cups was crying his wares in a subdued, “refined” voice. It was Jess Lynch, the boy who had testified in the matter of Monte Field’s request for ginger ale.

  Ellery strolled behind the iron door—there was a cramped space between the door and the brick wall. He noticed that the wall of the building flanking the other side of the alley was easily six stories high and unbroken. The Inspector bought an orange-drink from the boy. Jess Lynch recognized him with a start and Inspector Queen greeted the boy pleasantly.

  People were standing in small groups, their attitudes betokening a strange interest in their surroundings. The Inspector heard a woman remark, in a fearful, fascinated voice, “They say he was standing right out here Monday night, buying an orange-drink!”

  The warning-bell soon clanged inside the theatre, and those who had come outside for a breath of air hurried back into the orchestra. Before he sat down, the Inspector glanced over across the rear of the auditorium to the foot of the staircase leading to the balcony. A stalwart, uniformed young man stood alertly on the first step.

  The second act exploded into being. The audience swayed and gasped in the approved fashion while the dramatic fireworks were shot off on the stage. The Queens seemed suddenly to have become absorbed in the action. Father and son leaned forward, bodies taut, eyes intent. Ellery consulted his watch at 9:30—and the two Queens settled back again while the play rumbled on.

  At 9:50 exactly they rose, took their hats and coats and slipped out of the LL row into the clear space behind the orchestra. A number of people were standing—at which the Inspector smiled and blessed the power of the press beneath his breath. The white-faced usherette, Madge O’Connell, was leaning stiffly against a pillar, staring unseeingly ahead.

  The Queens, espying Manager Panzer in the doorway of his office beaming delightedly at the crowded auditorium, made their way towards him. The Inspec
tor motioned him inside and rapidly stepped into the little anteroom, Ellery close behind. The smile faded from Panzer’s face.

  “I hope you’ve had a profitable evening?” he asked nervously.

  “Profitable evening? Well—it depends upon what you mean by the word.” The old man gestured briefly and led the way through the second door into Panzer’s private office.

  “Look here, Panzer,” he said, pacing up and down in some excitement, “‘have you a plan of the orchestra handy which shows each seat, numbered, and all the exits?”

  Panzer stared. “I think so. Just a moment.” He fumbled in a filing-cabinet, rummaged among some folders and finally brought out a large map of the theatre separated into two sections—one for the orchestra and the other for the balcony.

  The Inspector brushed the second away impatiently as he and Ellery bent over the orchestra-plan.* They studied it for a moment. Queen looked up at Panzer, who was shifting from one foot to another on the rug, evidently at a loss to know what would be required of him next.

  “May I have this map, Panzer?” asked the Inspector shortly. “I’ll return it unbanned in a few days.”

  “Certainly, certainly!” said Panzer. “Is there anything else I can do for you now, Inspector? . . . I want to thank you for your consideration m the matter of publicity, sir—Gordon Davis is extremely pleased at the ‘house’ to-night. He asked me to relay his thanks.”

  “Not at all—not at all,” grumbled the Inspector, folding the map and putting it in his breast-pocket. “It was coming to you—what’s right is right. . . . And now, Ellery—If you’ll come along. . . . Good night, Panzer. Not a word about this, remember!”

  The two Queens slipped out of Panzer’s office while he was babbling his reassurances of silence.

  They crossed the rear of the orchestra once more, in the direction of the extreme left aisle. The Inspector beckoned curtly to Madge O’Connell.

  “Yes,” she breathed, her face chalky.

  “Just open those doors wide enough to let us through, O’Connell, and forget all about it afterward. Understand?” said the Inspector grimly.

  She mumbled under her breath as she pushed open one of the big iron doors opposite the LL row. With a last warning shake of the head the Inspector slipped through, Ellery following—and the door came softly back into place again.

  At 11 o’clock, as the wide exits were disgorging their first flocks of theatre-goers after the final curtain, Richard and Ellery Queen re-entered the Roman Theatre through the main door.

  81.The characters of P. G. Wodehouse, the author of numerous British satires, are often nervous, suffering the “willies.” See note 76.

  82.Handwriting.

  83.Carlos Table D’ Hote was at 25 West 24th Street between Broadway and 6th Avenue.

  Postcard depicting Carlos Table d’Hote, ca. 1920.

  * [Author’s note:] The plan illustrated in the frontispiece and drawn by Ellery Queen was designed from Manager Panzer's map.—THE EDITOR.

  CHAPTER XVII

  In Which More Hats Grow

  Sit down, Tim—have a cup of coffee?”

  Timothy Cronin, a keen-eyed man of medium height thatched plentifully with fire-red hair, seated himself in one of the Queens’ comfortable chairs and accepted the Inspector’s invitation in some embarrassment.

  It was Friday morning and the Inspector and Ellery, garbed romantically in colorful dressing gowns, were in high spirits. They had retired the night before at an uncommonly early hour—for them; they had slept the sleep of the just; now Djuna had a pot of steaming coffee, of a variety which he blended himself, ready on the table; and indubitably all seemed right with the world.

  Cronin had stalked into the cheery Queen quarters at an ungodly hour—disheveled, morose and unashamedly cursing. Not even the mild protests of the Inspector were able to stem the tide of profanity which streamed from his lips; and as for Ellery, he listened to the lawyer’s language with an air of grave enjoyment, as an amateur harkens to a professional.

  Then Cronin awoke to his environment, and blushed, and was invited to sit down, and stared at the unbending back of Djuna as that nimble man-of-affairs busied himself with the light appurtenances of the morning meal.

  “I don’t suppose you’re in a mood to apologize for your shocking language, Tim Cronin, me lad,” chided the Inspector, folding his hands Buddha-like over his stomach. “Do I have to inquire the reason for the bad temper?”

  “Not much, you don’t,” growled Cronin, shifting his feet savagely on the rug. “You ought to be able to guess. I’m up against a blank wall in the matter of Field’s papers. Blast his black soul!”

  “It’s blasted, Tim—it’s blasted, never fear,” said Queen sorrowfully. “Poor Field is probably roasting his toes over a sizzling little coal-fire in Hell just now—and chortling to himself over your profanity. Exactly what is the situation—how do things stand?”

  Cronin grasped the cup Djuna had set before him and drained its scalding contents in a gulp. “Stand?” he cried, banging down the cup. “They don’t stand—they’re nil, nit, not! By Christopher, if I don’t get my hands on some documentary evidence soon I’ll go batty! Why, Inspector—Stoates and I ransacked that swell office of Field’s until I don’t think there’s a rat in the walls who dares show his head outside a ten-foot hole—and there’s nothing. Nothing! Man—it’s inconceivable. I’d stake my reputation that somewhere—the Lord alone knows where—Field’s papers are hidden, just begging somebody to come along and carry them away.”

  “You seem possessed of a phobia on the subject of hidden papers, Cronin,” remarked Ellery mildly. “One would think we are living in the days of Charles the First. There’s no such thing as hidden papers. You merely have to know where to look.”

  Cronin grinned impertinently. “That’s very good of you, Mr. Queen. Suppose you suggest the place Mr. Monte Field selected to hide his papers.”

  Ellery lit a cigarette. “All right. I accept the challenge to combat. . . . You say—and I don’t doubt your word in the least—that the documents you suppose to be in existence are not in Field’s office. . . . By the way, what makes yon so sure that Field kept papers which would incriminate him in this vast clique of gangsters you told us about?”

  “He must have,” retorted Cronin. “Queer logic, but it works. . . . My information absolutely establishes the fact that Field had correspondence and written plans connecting him with men higher up in gangdom whom we’re constantly trying to ‘get’ and whom we haven’t been able to touch so far. You’ll have to take my word for it; it’s too complicated a story to go into here. But you mark my words, Mr. Queen—Field had papers that he couldn’t afford to destroy. Those are the papers I’m looking for.”

  “Granted,” said Ellery in a rhetorical tone. “I merely wished to make certain of the facts. Let me repeat, then, these papers are not in his office. We must therefore look for them farther afield. For example, they might be secreted in a safety-deposit vault.”

  “But, El,” objected the Inspector, who had listened to the interplay between Cronin and Ellery in amusement, “didn’t I tell you this morning that Thomas had run that lead to earth? Field did not have a box in a safety-deposit vault. That is established. He had no general delivery or private postoffice box either—under his real name or any other name.

  “Thomas has also investigated Field’s club affiliations and discovered that the lawyer had no residence, permanent or temporary, besides the flat on 75th Street. Furthermore, in all Thomas’ scouting around, he found not the slightest indication of a possible hiding-place. He thought that Field might have left the papers in a parcel or bag in the keeping of a shopkeeper, or something of the sort. But there wasn’t a trace. . . . Velie’s a good man in these matters, Ellery. You can bet your bottom dollar that hypothesis of yours is false.”

  “I was making a point for Cronin’s benefit,” retorted Ellery. He spread his fingers on the table elaborately and winked. “You see, we must narro
w the field of search to the point where we can definitely say: ‘It must be here.’ The office, the safety-deposit vault, the post-office boxes have been ruled out. Yet we know that Field could not afford to keep these documents in a place difficult of access. I cannot vouch for the papers you’re seeking, Cronin; but it’s different with the papers we’re seeking. No; Field had them somewhere near at hand. . . . And, to go a step further, it’s reasonable to assume that he would have kept all his important secret papers in the same hiding-place.”

  Cronin scratched his head and nodded.

  “We shall now apply the elementary precepts, gentlemen.” Ellery paused as if to emphasize his next statement. “Since we have narrowed our area of inquiry to the exclusion of all possible hiding-places save one—the papers must be in that one hiding-place. . . . Nothing to that.”

  “Now that I pause to consider,” interpolated the Inspector, his good humor suddenly dissipated into gloom, “perhaps we weren’t as careful in that place as we might have been.”

  “I’m as certain we’re on the right track,” said Ellery firmly, “as that to-day is Friday and there will be fish suppers in thirty million homes to-night.”

  Cronin was looking puzzled. “I don’t quite get it, Mr. Queen. What do you mean when you say there’s only one possible hiding-place left?”

  “Field’s apartment, Cronin,” replied Ellery imperturbably. “The papers are there.”

  “But I was discussing the case with the D. A. only yesterday,” objected Cronin, “and he said you’d already ransacked Field’s apartment and found nothing.”

  “True—true enough,” said Ellery. “We searched Field’s apartment and found nothing. The trouble was, Cronin, that we didn’t look in the right place.”