Chapter V in Which Inspector Queen Conducts Some Legal Conversations (1)

    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?”