The Roman Hat Mystery - (9)

She jumped forward as if to come to grips with the old man. Ritter lumbered swiftly toward her and squeezed her arm. “Here you,” he growled, “shut up until you’re spoken to.”
    She glared at him. Then with a tigerish twist she was out of his grasp and in a chair, panting, wild-eyed.
    Arms akimbo, the Inspector stood looking her up and down with unconcealed distaste. Ellery had glanced at the woman briefly and begun to potter about the room, peering at the wall-hangings and Japanese prints, picking up a book from an end-table, poking his head into dark corners.
    Queen motioned to Hagstrom. “Take this lady into the next room and keep her company for a while,” he said. The detective unceremoniously hustled the woman to her feet. She tossed her head defiantly and marched into the next room, Hagstrom following.
    “Now, Ritter, my boy,” sighed the old man, sinking into an easy-chair, “tell me what happened.”
    Ritter answered stiffly. His eyes were strained, bloodshot. “I followed out your orders last night to the dot. I beat it down here in a police car, left it on the corner because I didn’t know but what somebody might be keeping a lookout, and strolled up to this apartment. Everything was quiet—and I hadn’t noticed any lights either, because before I went in I beat it down to the court and looked up at the back windows of the apartment. So I gave ’em a nice short ring on the bell and waited.
    “No answer,” continued Ritter, with a tightening of his big jaw. “I buzzed again—this time longer and louder. This time I got results. I heard the latch on the inside rattle and this woman yodels, ‘That you, honey? Where’s your key?’ Aha—thinks I—Mr. Field’s lady-friend! So I shoved my foot in the door and grabbed her before she knew what was what. Well, sir, I got a surprise. Sort of expected,” he grinned sheepishly, “sort of expected to find the woman dressed, but all I grabbed was a thin piece o’ silk night-gown. I guess I must have blushed....”
    “Ah, the opportunities of our good minions of the law!” murmured Ellery, head bent over a small lacquered vase.
    “Anyway—” continued the detective, “I got my hands on her and she yelped—plenty. Hustled her into the living-room here where she’d put on the light, and took a good look at her. She was scared blue but she was kind of plucky, too, because she began to cuss me and she wanted to know who in hell I was, what I was tryin’ to do in a woman’s apartment at night, and all that sort of stuff. I flashed my badge. And Inspector, that hefty Sheba—the minute she sees the badge, she shuts up tight like a bluepoint and won’t answer a question I ask her!”
    “Why was that?” The old man’s eyes roved from floor to ceiling as he looked over the appointments of the room.
    “Hard to tell, Inspector,” said Ritter. “First she seemed scared, but when she saw my badge she bucked up wonderful. And the longer I was here the more brazen she became.”
    “You didn’t tell her about Field, did you?” queried the Inspector, in a sharp, low tone.
    Ritter gave his superior a reproachful glance. “Not a peep out o’ me, sir,” he said. “Well, when I saw it was no go tryin’ to get anything out of her—all she’d yell was, ‘Wait till Monte gets home, you bozo!’—I took a look at the bedroom. Nobody there, so I shoved her inside, kept the door open and the light on and stayed all night. She climbed into bed after a while and I guess she went to sleep. At about seven this morning she popped out and started to yell all over again. Seemed to think that Field had been grabbed by headquarters. Insisted on having a newspaper. I told her nothin’ doin’ and then phoned the office. Not another thing happened since.”
    “I say, dad!” exclaimed Ellery suddenly, from a corner of the room. “What do you think our legal friend reads—you’ll never guess. ‘How to Tell Character from Handwriting’!”
    The Inspector grunted as he rose. “Stop fiddling with those eternal books,” he said, “and come along.”
    He flung open the bedroom door. The woman was sitting cross-legged on the bed, an ornate affair of a bastard French period-style, canopied and draped from ceiling to floor with heavy damask curtains. Hagstrom leaned stolidly against the window.
    Queen looked quickly about. He turned to Ritter. “Was that bed mussed up when you came in here last night—did it look as if it had been slept in?” he whispered aside.
    Ritter nodded. “All right, then, Ritter,” said Queen in a genial tone. “Go home and get some rest. You deserve it. And send up Piggott on your way out.” The detective touched his hat and departed.
    Queen turned on the woman. He walked to the bed and sat down beside her, studying her half-averted face. She lit a cigarette defiantly.
    “I am Inspector Queen of the police, my dear,” announced the old man mildly. “I warn you that any attempt to keep a stubborn silence or lie to me will only get you into a heap of trouble. But there! Of course you understand.”
    She jerked away. “I’m not answering any questions, Mr. Inspector, until I know what right you have to ask ’em. I haven’t done anything wrong and my slate’s clean. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it!”
    The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, as if the woman’s reference to the vile weed had reminded him of his favorite vice. He said: “That’s fair enough,” in dulcet tones. “Here you are, a lonely woman suddenly tumbled out of bed in the middle of the night—you were in bed, weren’t you—?”
    “Sure I was,” she flashed instantly, then bit her lip.
    “—And confronted by a policeman.... I don’t wonder you were frightened, my dear.”
    “I was not!” she said shrilly.
    “We’ll not argue about it,” rejoined the old man benevolently. “But certainly you have no objection to telling me your name?”
    “I don’t know why I should, but I can’t see any harm in it,” retorted the woman. “My name is Angela Russo—Mrs. Angela Russo—and I’m, well, I’m engaged to Mr. Field.”
    “I see,” said Queen gravely. “Mrs. Angela Russo and you are engaged to Mr. Field. Very good! And what were you doing in these rooms last night, Mrs. Angela Russo?”
    “None of your business!” she said coolly. “You’d better let me go now—I haven’t done a thing out of the way. You’ve got no right to jabber at me, old boy!”
    Ellery, in a corner peering out of the window, smiled. The Inspector leaned over and took the woman’s hand gently.
    “My dear Mrs. Russo,” he said, “believe me—there is every reason in the world why we should be anxious to know what you were doing here last night. Come now—tell me.”
    “I won’t open my mouth till I know what you’ve done with Monte!” she cried, shaking off his hand. “If you’ve got him, why are you pestering me? I don’t know anything.”
    “Mr. Field is in a very safe place at the moment,” snapped the Inspector, rising. “I’ve given you plenty of rope, madam. Monte Field is dead.”
    “Monte—Field—is—” The woman’s lips moved mechanically. She leaped to her feet, clutching the negligée to her plump figure, staring at Queen’s impassive face.
    She laughed shortly and threw herself back on the bed. “Go on—you’re taking me for a ride,” she jeered.
    “I’m not accustomed to joking about death,” returned the old man with a little smile. “I assure you that you may take my word for it—Monte Field is dead.” She was staring up at him, her lips moving soundlessly. “And what is more, Mrs. Russo, he has been murdered. Perhaps now you’ll deign to answer my questions. Where were you at a quarter to ten last night?” he whispered in her ear, his face close to hers.
    Mrs. Russo relaxed limply on the bed, a dawning fright in her large eyes. She gaped at the Inspector, found little comfort in his face and with a cry whirled to sob into the rumpled pillow. Queen stepped back and spoke in a low tone to Piggott, who had come into the room a moment before. The woman’s heaving sobs subsided suddenly. She sat up, dabbing her face with a lace handkerchief. Her eyes were strangely bright.
    “I get you now,” she said in a quiet voice. “I was right here in this apartment at a quarter to ten last night.”
    “Can you prove that, Mrs. Russo?” asked Queen, fingering his snuff-box.
    “I can’t prove anything and I don’t have to,” she returned dully. “But if you’re looking for an alibi, the doorman downstairs must have seen me come into the building at about nine-thirty.”
    “We can easily check that up,” admitted Queen. “Tell me—why did you come here last night at all?”
    “I had an appointment with Monte,” she explained lifelessly. “He called me up at my own place yesterday afternoon and we made a date for last night. He told me he’d be out on business until about ten o’clock, and I was to wait here for him. I come up”—she paused and continued brazenly—“I come up quite often like that. We generally have a little ‘time’ and spend the evening together. Being engaged—you know.”
    “Ummm. I see, I see.” The Inspector cleared his throat in some embarrassment. “And then, when he didn’t come on time—?”
    “I thought he might’ve been detained longer than he’d figured. So I—well, I felt tired and took a little nap.”
    “Very good,” said Queen quickly. “Did he tell you where he was going, or the nature of his business?”
    “No.”
    “I should be greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Russo,” said the Inspector carefully, “if you would tell me what Mr. Field’s attitude was toward theatre-going.”
    The woman looked at him curiously. She seemed to be recovering her spirits. “Didn’t go very often,” she snapped. “Why?”
    The Inspector beamed. “Now, that’s a question, isn’t it?” he asked. He motioned to Hagstrom, who pulled a notebook out of his pocket.
    “Could you give me a list of Mr. Field’s personal friends?” resumed Queen. “And any business acquaintances you might know of?”
    Mrs. Russo put her hands behind her head, coquettishly. “To tell the truth,” she said sweetly, “I don’t know any. I met Monte about six months ago at a masque-ball in the Village. We’ve kept our engagement sort of quiet, you see. In fact, I’ve never met his friends at all.... I don’t think,” she confided, “I don’t think Monte had many friends. And of course I don’t know a thing about his business associates.”
    “What was Field’s financial condition, Mrs. Russo?”
    “Trust a woman to know those things!” she retorted, completely restored to her flippant manner. “Monte was always a good spender. Never seemed to run out of cash. He’s spent five hundred a night on me many a time. That was Monte—a damned good sport. Tough luck for him!—poor darling.” She wiped a tear from her eye, sniffing hastily.
    “But—his bank account?” pursued the Inspector firmly.
    Mrs. Russo smiled. She seemed to possess an inexhaustible fund of shifting emotions. “Never got nosey,” she said. “As long as Monte was treating me square it wasn’t any of my business. At least,” she added, “he wouldn’t tell me, so what did I care?”
    “Where were you, Mrs. Russo,” came Ellery’s indifferent tones, “before nine-thirty last night?”
    She turned in surprise at the new voice. They measured each other carefully, and something like warmth crept into her eyes. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but if you want to find out ask the lovers in Central Park. I was taking a little stroll in the Park—all by my lonesome—from about half-past seven until the time I reached here.”
    “How fortunate!” murmured Ellery. The Inspector hastily went to the door, crooking his finger at the other three men. “We’ll leave you now to dress, Mrs. Russo. That will be all for the present.” She watched quizzically as they filed out. Queen, last, shut the door after a fatherly glance at her face.
    In the living-room the four men proceeded to make a hurried but thorough search. At the Inspector’s command Hagstrom and Piggott went through the drawers of a carved desk in one corner of the room. Ellery was interestedly riffling the pages of the book on character through handwriting. Queen prowled restlessly about, poking his head into a clothes-closet just inside the room, off the foyer. This was a commodious storage compartment for clothes—assorted topcoats, overcoats, capes and the like hung from a rack. The Inspector rifled the pockets. A few miscellaneous articles—handkerchiefs, keys, old personal letters, wallets—came to light. These he put to one side. A top shelf held several hats.
    “Ellery—hats,” he grunted.
    Ellery quickly crossed the room, stuffing into his pocket the book he had been reading. His father pointed out the hats meaningly; together they reached up to examine them. There were four—a discolored Panama, two fedoras, one gray and one brown, and a derby. All bore the imprint of Browne Bros.
    The two men turned the hats over in their hands. Both noticed immediately that three of them had no linings—the Panama and the two fedoras. The fourth hat, an excellent derby, Queen examined critically. He felt the lining, turned down the leather sweat-band, then shook his head.
    “To tell the truth, Ellery,” he said slowly, “I’ll be switched if I know why I should expect to find clues in these hats. We know that Field wore a tophat last night and obviously it would be impossible for that hat to be in these rooms. According to our findings the murderer was still in the theatre when we arrived. Ritter was down here by eleven o’clock. The hat therefore couldn’t have been brought to this place. For that matter, what earthly reason would the murderer have for such an action, even if it were physically possible for him to do it? He must have realized that we would search Field’s apartment at once. No, I guess I’m feeling a little off-color, Ellery. There’s nothing to be squeezed out of these hats.” He threw the derby back onto the shelf disgustedly.
    Ellery stood thoughtful and unsmiling. “You’re right enough, dad; these hats mean nothing. But I have the strangest feeling.... By the way!” He straightened up and took off his pince-nez. “Did it occur to you last night that something else belonging to Field might have been missing besides the hat?”
    “I wish they were all as easy to answer as that,” said Queen grimly. “Certainly—a walking-stick. But what could I do about that? Working on the premise that Field brought one with him—it would have been simple enough for some one who had entered the theatre without a walking-stick to leave the theatre with Field’s. And how could we stop him or identify the stick? So I didn’t even bother thinking about it. And if it’s still on the Roman premises, Ellery, it will keep—no fear about that.”
    Ellery chuckled. “I should be able to quote Shelley or Wordsworth at this point,” he said, “in proof of my admiration for your mental prowess. But I can’t think of a more poetical phrase than ‘You’ve put one over on me.’ Because I didn’t think of it until just now. But here’s the point: there is no cane of any kind in the closet. A man like Field, had he possessed a swanky halberd to go with evening dress, would most certainly have owned other sticks to match other costumes. That fact—unless we find sticks in the bedroom closet, which I doubt, since all the overclothes seem to be here—that fact, therefore, eliminates the possibility that Field had a stick with him last night. Ergo—we may forget all about it.”
    “Good enough, El,” returned the Inspector absently. “I hadn’t thought of that. Well—let’s see how the boys are getting on.”
    They walked across the room to where Hagstrom and Piggott were rifling the desk. A small pile of papers and notes had accumulated on the lid.
    “Find anything interesting?” asked Queen.
    “Not a thing of value that I can see, Inspector,” answered Piggott. “Just the usual stuff—some letters, chiefly from this Russo woman, and pretty hot too!—a lot of bills and receipts and things like that. Don’t think you’ll find anything here.”
    Queen went through the papers. “No, nothing much,” he admitted. “Well, let’s get on.” They restored the papers to the desk. Piggott and Hagstrom rapidly searched the room. They tapped furniture, poked beneath cushions, picked up the rug—a thorough, workmanlike job. As Queen and Ellery stood silently watching, the bedroom door opened. Mrs. Russo appeared, saucily appareled in a brown walking-suit and toque. She paused at the door, surveying the scene with wide, innocent eyes. The two detectives proceeded with their search without looking up.
    “What are they doing, Inspector?” she inquired in a languid tone. “Looking for pretty-pretties?” But her eyes were keen and interested.
    “That was remarkably rapid dressing for a female, Mrs. Russo,” said the Inspector admiringly. “Going home?”
    Her glance darted at him. “Sure thing,” she answered, looking away.
    “And you live at—?”
    She gave an address on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village.
    “Thank you,” said Queen courteously, making a note. She began to walk across the room. “Oh, Mrs. Russo!” She turned. “Before you go—perhaps you could tell us something about Mr. Field’s convivial habits. Was he, now, what you would call a heavy drinker?”
    She laughed merrily. “Is that all?” she said. “Yes and no. I’ve seen Monte drink half a night and be sober as a—as a parson. And then I’ve seen him at other times when he was pickled silly on a couple of tots. It all depended—don’t you know?” She laughed again.
    “Well, many of us are that way,” murmured the Inspector. “I don’t want you to abuse any confidences, Mrs. Russo—but perhaps you know the source of his liquor supply?”
    She stopped laughing instantly, her face reflecting an innocent indignation. “What do you think I am, anyway?” she demanded. “I don’t know, but even if I did I wouldn’t tell. There’s many a hard-working bootlegger who’s head and shoulders above the guys who try to run ’em in, believe me!”
    “The way of all flesh, Mrs. Russo,” said Queen soothingly. “Nevertheless, my dear,” he continued softly, “I’m sure that if I need that information eventually, you will enlighten me. Eh?” There was a silence. “I think that will be all, then, Mrs. Russo. Just stay in town, won’t you? We may require your testimony soon.”
    “Well—so long,” she said, tossing her head. She marched out of the room to the foyer.
    “Mrs. Russo!” called Queen suddenly, in a sharp tone. She turned with her gloved hand on the front-door knob, the smile dying from her lips. “What’s Ben Morgan been doing since he and Field dissolved partnership—do you know?”
    Her reply came after a split-second of hesitation. “Who’s he?” she asked, her forehead wrinkled into a frown.
    Queen stood squarely on the rug. He said sadly, “Never mind. Good day,” and turned his back on her. The door slammed. A moment later Hagstrom strolled out, leaving Piggott, Queen and Ellery in the apartment.
    The three men, as if inspired by a single thought, ran into the bedroom. It was apparently as they had left it. The bed was disordered and Mrs. Russo’s nightgown and negligée were lying on the floor. Queen opened the door of the bedroom clothes-closet. “Whew!” said Ellery. “This chap had a quiet taste in clothes, didn’t he? Sort of Mulberry Street Beau Brummell.” They ransacked the closet with no result. Ellery craned his neck at the shelf above. “No hats—no canes; that settles that!” he murmured with an air of satisfaction. Piggott, who had disappeared into a small kitchen, returned staggering under the burden of a half-empty case of liquor-bottles.
    Ellery and his father bent over the case. The Inspector removed a cork gingerly, sniffed the contents, then handed the bottle to Piggott, who followed his superior’s example critically.
    “Looks and smells okay,” said the detective. “But I’d hate to take a chance tasting this stuff—after last night.”
    “You’re perfectly justified in your caution,” chuckled Ellery. “But if you should change your mind and decide to invoke the spirit of Bacchus, Piggott, let me suggest this prayer: O wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee Death.”[4]
    [4] Ellery Queen was here probably paraphrasing the Shakespearian quotation: “O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.”
    “I’ll have the firewater analyzed,” growled Queen. “Scotch and rye mixed, and the labels look like the real thing. But then you never can tell....” Ellery suddenly grasped his father’s arm, leaning forward tensely. The three men stiffened.
    A barely audible scratching came to their ears, proceeding from the foyer.
    “Sounds as if somebody is using a key on the door,” whispered Queen. “Duck out, Piggott—jump whoever it is as soon as he gets inside!”
    Piggott darted through the living-room into the foyer. Queen and Ellery waited in the bedroom, concealed from view.
    There was utter silence now except for the scraping on the outer door. The newcomer seemed to be having difficulty with the key. Suddenly the rasp of the lock-tumblers falling back was heard and an instant later the door swung open. It slammed shut almost immediately.
    A muffled cry, a hoarse bull-like voice, Piggott’s half-strangled oath, the frenzied shuffling of feet—and Ellery and his father were speeding across the living-room to the foyer.
    Piggott was struggling in the arms of a burly, powerful man dressed in black. A suit-case lay on the floor to one side, as if it had been thrown there during the tussle. A newspaper was fluttering through the air, settling on the parquet just as Ellery reached the cursing men.
    It took the combined efforts of the three to subdue their visitor. Finally, panting heavily, he lay on the floor, Piggott’s arm jammed tightly across his chest.
    The Inspector bent down, gazed curiously into the man’s red, angry features and said softly, “And who are you, mister?”
    CHAPTER IX
    IN WHICH THE MYSTERIOUS MR. MICHAELS APPEARS
    The intruder rose awkwardly to his feet. He was a tall, ponderous man with solemn features and blank eyes. There was nothing distinguished in either his appearance or his manner. If anything unusual could be said of him at all, it was that both his appearance and manner were so unremarkable. It seemed as if, whoever he was or whatever his occupation, he had made a deliberate effort to efface all marks of personality.
    “Just what’s the idea of the strong-arm stuff?” he said in a bass voice. But even his tones were flat and colorless.
    Queen turned to Piggott. “What happened?” he demanded, with a pretense of severity.
    “I stood behind the door, Inspector,” gasped Piggott, still winded, “and when this wildcat stepped in I touched him on the arm. He jumped me like a trainload o’ tigers, he did. Pushed me in the face—he’s got a wallop, Inspector.... Tried to get out the door again.”
    Queen nodded judicially. The newcomer said mildly, “That’s a lie, sir. He jumped me and I fought back.”
    “Here, here!” murmured Queen. “This will never do....”
    The door swung open suddenly and Detective Johnson stood on the threshold. He took the Inspector to one side. “Velie sent me down the last minute on the chance you might need me, Inspector.... And as I was coming up I saw that chap there. Didn’t know but what he might be snooping around, so I followed him up.” Queen nodded vigorously. “Glad you came—I can use you,” he muttered and, motioning to the others, he led the way into the living-room.
    “Now, my man,” he said curtly to the big intruder, “the show is over. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
    “My name is Charles Michaels—sir. I am Mr. Monte Field’s valet.” The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. The man’s entire demeanor had in some intangible manner changed. His face was blank, as before, and his attitude seemed in no way different. Yet the old man sensed a metamorphosis; he glanced quickly at Ellery and saw a confirmation of his own thought in his son’s eyes.
    “Is that so?” inquired the Inspector steadily. “Valet, eh? And where are you going at this hour of the morning with that traveling-bag?” He jerked his hand toward the suit-case, a cheap black affair, which Piggott had picked up in the foyer and carried into the living-room. Ellery suddenly strolled away in the direction of the foyer. He bent over to pick up something.