The Roman Hat Mystery - (11)

“Sure thing, Thomas,” said Queen. “And while you’re out bring me the list you made last night containing the names of the people who had no stubs. The seat numbers are attached to each name, aren’t they?”
    Velie nodded and disappeared. Queen was looking morosely at the top of his son’s head when the Sergeant returned with an unwieldy package and a typewritten list.
    They spread the contents of the package carefully on the desk. For the most part the collected material consisted of crumpled programs, stray scraps of paper, chiefly from candy-boxes, and many ticket-stubs—those which had not been found by Flint and his searchers. Two women’s gloves of different design; a small brown button, probably from a man’s coat; the cap of a fountain pen; a woman’s handkerchief and a few other scattered articles of the kind usually lost or thrown away in theatres came to light.
    “Doesn’t look as if there’s much here, does it?” commented the Inspector. “Well, at least we’ll be able to check up on the ticket-stub business.”
    Velie heaped the lost stubs in a small pile and began to read off their numbers and letters to Queen, who checked them off on the list Velie had brought him. There were not many of these and the checking-off process was completed in a few moments.
    “That all, Thomas?” inquired the Inspector, looking up.
    “That’s all, Chief.”
    “Well, there are about fifty people still unaccounted for according to this list.—Where’s Flint?”
    “He’s in the building somewhere, Inspector.”
    Queen picked up his telephone and gave a rapid order. Flint appeared almost at once.
    “What did you find last night?” asked Queen abruptly.
    “Well, Inspector,” answered Flint sheepishly, “we practically dry-cleaned that place. We found quite a bit of stuff, but most of it was programs and things like that, and we left those for the cleaning-women, who were working along with us. But we did pick up a raft of ticket-stubs, especially out in the alleys.” He brought forth from his pocket a package of pasteboards neatly bound with a rubber band. Velie took them and continued the process of reading off numbers and letters. When he was finished Queen slapped the typewritten list down on the desk before him.
    “No fruit in the loom?” murmured Ellery, looking up from the book.
    “Ding it, every one of those people who had no stubs is accounted for!” growled the Inspector. “There isn’t a stub or a name left unchecked.... Well, there’s one thing I can do.” He searched through the pile of stubs, referring to the lists, until he found the stub which had belonged to Frances Ives-Pope. He fished from his pocket the four stubs he had collected Monday night and carefully tested the girl’s stub with the one for Field’s seat. The torn edges did not coincide.
    “There’s one consolation,” the Inspector continued, stuffing the five tickets into his vest pocket, “we haven’t found a trace of the six tickets for the seats next to and in front of Field’s seat!”
    “I didn’t think you would,” remarked Ellery. He put the book down and regarded his father with unwonted seriousness. “Have you ever stopped to consider, dad, that we don’t know definitely why Field was in the theatre last night?”
    Queen knit his grey brows. “That particular problem has been puzzling me, of course. We know from Mrs. Russo and Michaels that Field did not care for the theatre—”
    “You can never tell what vagary will seize a man,” said Ellery decisively. “Many things might make a non-theatre-going man decide suddenly to go in for that sort of entertainment. The fact remains—he was there. But what I want to know is why he was there.”
    The old man shook his head gravely. “Was it a business appointment? Remember what Mrs. Russo said—that Field had promised to be back at 10 o’clock.”
    “I fancy the business appointment idea,” applauded Ellery. “But consider how many probabilities there are—the Russo woman might be lying and Field said nothing of the sort; or if he did, he might have had no intention of keeping the appointment with her at 10 o’clock.”
    “I’ve quite made up my mind, Ellery,” said the Inspector, “whatever the probabilities, that he didn’t go to the Roman Theatre last night to see the show. He went there with his eyes open—for business.”
    “I think that’s correct, myself,” returned Ellery, smiling. “But you can never be too careful in weighing possibilities. Now, if he went on business, he went to meet somebody. Was that somebody the murderer?”
    “You ask too many questions, Ellery,” said the Inspector.—“Thomas, let’s have a look at the other stuff in that package.”
    Velie carefully handed the Inspector the miscellaneous articles one by one. The gloves, fountain-pen cap, button, and handkerchief Queen threw to one side after a quick scrutiny. Nothing remained except the small bits of candy paper and the crumpled programs. The former yielding no clues, Queen took up the programs. And suddenly, in the midst of his examination, he cried delightedly: “See what I’ve found, boys!”
    The three men leaned over his shoulder. Queen held a program in his hand, its wrinkles smoothed out. It showed evidences of having been crushed and thrown away. On one of the inside pages, bordering the usual article on men’s wear, was a number of varied marks, some forming letters, some forming numbers, still others forming cabalistic designs such as a person scribbles in moments of idle thought.
    “Inspector, it looks as if you’ve found Field’s own program!” exclaimed Flint.
    “Yes, sir, it certainly does,” said Queen sharply. “Flint, look through the papers we found in the dead man’s clothing last night and bring me a letter showing his signature.” Flint hurried out.
    Ellery was studying the scrawls intently. On the top margin of the paper appeared:
    [Illustration: Play program with hand-written notes]
    Flint returned with a letter. The Inspector compared the signatures—they were plainly by the same hand.
    “We’ll have them checked by Jimmie down in the laboratory,” muttered the old man. “But I guess this is pretty authentic. It’s Field’s program, there can’t be any doubt of that.... What do you make of it, Thomas?”
    Velie grated: “I don’t know what those other numbers refer to, but that ‘50,000’ couldn’t mean anything but dollars, Chief.”
    “The old boy must have been figuring his bank account,” said Queen. “He loved the sight of his own name, didn’t he?”
    “That’s not quite fair to Field,” protested Ellery. “When a man is sitting idle, waiting for something to happen—as he will when he is in a theatre before the performance begins—one of his most natural actions is to scribble his initials or his name on the handiest object. In a theatre the handiest object would be the program.... The writing of one’s own name is fundamental in psychology. So perhaps Field wasn’t as egotistical as this seems to make him.”
    “It’s a small point,” said the Inspector, studying the scrawls with a frown.
    “Perhaps,” returned Ellery. “But to get back to a more pressing matter.—I don’t agree with you when you say the ‘50,000’ probably refers to Field’s bank account. When a man jots down his bank balance he will not do it in such round numbers.”
    “We can prove or disprove that easily enough,” retorted the Inspector, picking up a telephone. He asked the police operator to get him the number of Field’s office. When he had spoken to Oscar Lewin for some time, he turned back to Ellery with a crestfallen air.
    “You were right, El,” he said. “Field had an amazingly small personal account. All his accounts balance to less than six thousand dollars. And this despite the fact that he frequently made deposits of ten and fifteen thousand dollars. Lewin himself was surprised. He hadn’t known, he said, how Field’s personal finances stood until I asked him to look the matter up.... I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts Field played the stock market or the horses!”
    “I’m not particularly overwhelmed by the news,” remarked Ellery. “It points to the probable reason for the ‘50,000’ on the program. That number not only represents dollars, but more than that—it indicates a business deal in which the stakes were fifty thousand! Not a bad night’s work, if he had come out of it alive.”
    “How about the other two numbers?” asked Queen.
    “I’m going to mull over them a bit,” replied Ellery, subsiding in his chair. “I would like to know what the business deal was that involved such a large financial consideration,” he added, absently polishing his pince-nez.
    “Whatever the business deal was,” said the Inspector sententiously, “you may be sure, my son, it was an evil one.”
    “An evil one?” inquired Ellery in a serious tone.
    “Money’s the root of all evil,” retorted the Inspector with a grin.
    Ellery’s tone did not change. “Not only the root, dad—but the fruit, too.”
    “Another quotation?” mocked the old man.
    “Fielding,” said Ellery imperturbably.
    CHAPTER XI
    IN WHICH THE PAST CASTS A SHADOW
    The telephone bell tinkled.
    “Q? Sampson speaking,” came the District Attorney’s voice over the wire.
    “Good morning, Henry,” said Queen. “Where are you and how do you feel this morning?”
    “I’m at the office and I feel rotten,” returned Sampson, chuckling. “The doctor insists I’ll be a corpse if I keep this up and the office insists the City will go under unless I attend to business. So what’s a feller to do?... I say, Q.”
    The Inspector winked at Ellery across the table, as if to say, “I know what’s coming!”
    “Yes, Henry?”
    “There’s a gentleman in my private office whom I think it would be greatly to your advantage to meet,” continued Sampson in a subdued tone. “He wants to see you and I’m afraid you’ll have to chuck whatever you’re doing and hotfoot it up here. He”—Sampson’s voice became a whisper—“he’s a man I can’t afford to antagonize unnecessarily, Q, old boy.”
    The Inspector frowned. “I suppose you’re referring to Ives-Pope,” he said. “Riled, is he, because we questioned the apple of his eye last night?”
    “Not exactly,” said Sampson. “He’s really a decent old chap. Just—er—just be nice to him, Q, won’t you?”
    “I’ll handle him with silk gloves,” chuckled the old man. “If it will ease your mind any I’ll drag my son along. He generally attends to our social obligations.”
    “That will be fine,” said Sampson gratefully.
    The Inspector turned to Ellery as he hung up. “Poor Henry’s in something of a mess,” he said quizzically, “and I can’t say I blame him for trying to please. Sick as a dog and the politicians hopping on him, this Crœsus howling in his front office.... Come along, son, we’re going to meet the celebrated Franklin Ives-Pope!”
    Ellery groaned, stretching his arms. “You’ll have another sick man on your hands if this continues.” Nevertheless he jumped up and clamped his hat on his head. “Let’s look over this captain of industry.”
    Queen grinned at Velie. “Before I forget, Thomas.... I want you to do a bit of sleuthing to-day. Your job is to find out why Monte Field, who did a rushing legal business and lived in princely style, had only six thousand dollars in his personal account. It’s probably Wall Street and the racetrack but I want you to make sure. You might learn something from the cancelled vouchers—Lewin down at Field’s office could help you there.... And while you’re at it—this might be extremely important, Thomas—get a complete line-up on Field’s movements all day yesterday.”
    The two Queens departed for Sampson’s headquarters.
    The office of the District Attorney was a busy place and even an Inspector of Detectives was treated with scant ceremony in the sacred chambers. Ellery was wroth, and his father smiled, and finally the District Attorney himself came rushing out of his sanctum with a word of displeasure to the clerk who had allowed his friends to cool their heels on a hard bench.
    “Watch your throat, young man,” warned Queen, as Sampson led the way to his office, muttering maledictions on the head of the offender. “Are you sure I look all right to meet the money-mogul?”
    Sampson held the door open. The two Queens on the threshold saw a man, hands clasped behind his back, looking through the window on the uninteresting vista outside. As the District Attorney closed the door the occupant of the room wheeled about with astonishing agility for a man of his weight.
    Franklin Ives-Pope was a relic of more virile financial days. He resembled the strong self-assertive type of magnate who like old Cornelius Vanderbilt had dominated Wall Street as much by force of personality as by extent of wealth. Ives-Pope had clear grey eyes, iron-grey hair, a grizzled mustache, a husky body still springy with youth and an air of authority unmistakably masterful. Standing against the light of the dingy window, he was a most impressive figure of a man and Ellery and Queen, stepping forward, realized at once that here was an individual whose intelligence required no patronage.
    The financier spoke in a deep pleasant voice even before Sampson, slightly embarrassed, could make the introduction. “I suppose you’re Queen, the man-hunter,” he said. “I’ve been anxious to meet you for a long time, Inspector.” He offered a large square hand, which Queen took with dignity.
    “It would be unnecessary for me to echo that statement, Mr. Ives-Pope,” he said, smiling a little. “Once I took a flyer in Wall Street and I think you’ve got some of my money.—This, sir, is my son Ellery, who is the brains and beauty of the Queen family.”
    The big man’s eyes measured Ellery’s bulk appreciatively. He shook hands, saying, “You’ve got a smart father there, son!”
    “Well!” sighed the District Attorney, setting three chairs. “I’m glad that’s over. You haven’t the slightest idea, Mr. Ives-Pope, how nervous I’ve been about this meeting. Queen is the devil himself when it comes to the social amenities, and I shouldn’t have been surprised if he had clapped his handcuffs on you as you shook hands!”
    The tension snapped with the big man’s hearty chuckle.
    The District Attorney came abruptly to the point. “Mr. Ives-Pope is here, Q, to find out for himself just what can be done in the matter of his daughter.” Queen nodded. Sampson turned to the financier. “As I told you before, sir, we have every confidence in Inspector Queen—always have had. He generally works without any check or supervision from the District Attorney’s office. In view of the circumstances, I thought I should make that clear.”
    “That’s a sane method, Sampson,” said Ives-Pope, with approval. “I’ve always worked on that principle in my own business. Besides, from what I’ve heard about Inspector Queen, your confidence is well placed.”
    “Sometimes,” said Queen gravely, “I have to do things that go against the grain. I will be frank to say that some things I did last night in the line of duty were extremely disagreeable to me. I suppose, Mr. Ives-Pope, your daughter is upset because of our little talk last night?”
    Ives-Pope was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head and met the Inspector’s gaze squarely. “Look here, Inspector,” he said. “We’re both men of the world and men of business. We’ve had dealings with all sorts of queer people, both of us; and we have, too, solved problems that presented enormous difficulties to others. So I think we can converse frankly.... Yes, my daughter Frances is more than a little upset. Incidentally, so is her mother, who is an ill woman at the best of times; and her brother Stanford, my son—but we needn’t go into that.... Frances told me last night when she got home with—her friends—everything that happened. I know my daughter, Inspector; and I’d stake my fortune that there isn’t the slightest connection between her and Field.”
    “My dear sir,” returned the Inspector quietly, “I didn’t accuse her of anything. Nobody knows better than I what peculiar things can happen in the course of a criminal investigation; therefore I never let the slightest blind spot escape my notice. All I did was to ask her to identify the bag. When she did so, I told her where it was found. I was waiting, of course, for an explanation. It did not come.... You must understand, Mr. Ives-Pope, that when a man is murdered and a woman’s bag is found in his pocket it is the duty of the police to discover the owner of the bag and his or her connection with the crime. But of course—I do not have to convince you of that.”
    The magnate drummed on the arm of his chair. “I see your point of view, Inspector,” he said. “It was obviously your duty, and it is still your duty to go to the bottom of the thing. In fact, I want you to make every effort to. My own personal opinion is that she is the victim of circumstances. But I don’t want to plead her case. I trust you sufficiently to rely on your judgment after you’ve thoroughly probed the problem.” He paused. “Inspector Queen, how would you like to have me arrange a little interview at my home to-morrow morning? I would not ask you to go to this trouble,” he added apologetically, “except that Frances is quite ill, and her mother insists she stay at home. May we expect you?”
    “Very good of you, Mr. Ives-Pope,” remarked Queen calmly. “We’ll be there.”
    The financier seemed indisposed to end the interview. He shifted heavily in his chair. “I’ve always been a fair man, Inspector,” he said. “I feel somehow that I may be accused of using my position as a means of securing special privileges. That is not so. The shock of your tactics last night made it impossible for Frances to tell her story. At home, among the members of her family, I am sure she will be able to clear up her connection with the affair to your satisfaction.” He hesitated for a moment, then continued in a colder tone. “Her fiancé will be there and perhaps his presence will help to calm her.” His voice expressed the thought that he personally did not think so. “May we expect you, let us say, at ten-thirty?”
    “That will be fine,” said Queen, nodding. “I should like to know more definitely, sir, just who will be present.”
    “I can arrange it as you wish, Inspector,” replied Ives-Pope, “but I imagine Mrs. Ives-Pope will want to be there and I know that Mr. Barry will—my future son-in-law,” he explained dryly. “Perhaps a few of Frances’ friends—theatrical friends. My son Stanford may also grace us with his presence—a very busy young man, you know,” he added with a suspicion of bitterness.
    The three men shifted embarrassedly. Ives-Pope rose with a sigh and Ellery, Queen and Sampson followed suit. “That’s all, I think, Inspector,” said the financier in a lighter tone. “Is there anything else I can do?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “Then I’ll be getting along.” Ives-Pope turned to Ellery and Sampson. “Of course, Sampson, if you can get away, I’d like you to be there. Do you think you can make it?” The District Attorney nodded. “And Mr. Queen”—the big man turned to Ellery—“will you come also? I understand that you have been following the investigation very closely at your father’s side. We shall be happy to have you.”
    “I’ll be there,” said Ellery softly, and Ives-Pope left the office.
    “Well, what do you think, Q?” asked Sampson, fidgeting in his swivel-chair.
    “A most interesting man,” returned the Inspector. “How fair-minded he is!”
    “Oh, yes—yes,” said Sampson. “Er—Q, he asked me before you came if you wouldn’t go easy on the publicity. Sort of special favor, you know.”
    “He didn’t have the nerve to come out with it to me, eh?” chuckled the Inspector. “He’s quite human.... Well, Henry, I’ll do my best, but if that young woman is implicated seriously, I won’t vouch for hands off with the press.”
    “All right, all right, Q—it’s up to you,” said Sampson irritably. “Damn this throat of mine!” He took an atomizer from a desk-drawer and sprinkled his throat wryly.
    “Didn’t Ives-Pope recently donate a hundred thousand dollars to the Chemical Research Foundation?” asked Ellery suddenly, turning to Sampson.
    “I seem to remember something of that sort,” said Sampson, gargling. “Why?”
    Ellery mumbled an inaudible explanation that was lost in Sampson’s violent gyrations with the sprayer. Queen, who was regarding his son speculatively, shook his head, consulted his watch and said, “Well, son, it’s time we knocked off for lunch. What do you say—Henry, think you’d like to join us in a bite?”
    Sampson grinned with an effort. “I’m full up to my neck with work, but even a District Attorney has to eat,” he said. “I’ll go on only one condition—that I pay the check. I owe you something, anyway.”
    As they donned their coats Queen picked up Sampson’s telephone.
    “Mr. Morgan?.... Oh, hello, Morgan. I say, do you think you can find a little time this afternoon for a chat?... Right. Two-thirty will be fine. Good-by.”
    “That settles that,” said the Inspector comfortably. “Always pays to be polite, Ellery—remember that.”
    At two-thirty promptly the two Queens were ushered into the quiet law-office of Benjamin Morgan. It was noticeably different from Field’s lavish suite—richly furnished but with a more business-like simplicity. A smiling young woman closed the door after them. Morgan greeted them with some reserve. He held out a box of cigars as they sat down.
    “No thanks—my snuff will do,” said the Inspector genially, while Ellery after being introduced lit a cigarette and blew smoke-rings. Morgan lit a cigar with shaking fingers.
    “I suppose you’re here to continue that talk of ours last night, Inspector?” said Morgan.
    Queen sneezed, replaced his snuff-box, and leaned back in the chair. “Look here, Morgan old man,” he said evenly. “You haven’t been quite on the up-and-up with me.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Morgan, coloring.
    “You told me last night,” said the Inspector reflectively, “you told me last night that you parted amicably with Field two years ago, when you dissolved the firm of Field & Morgan. Did you say that?”
    “I did,” said Morgan.
    “How, then, my dear fellow,” asked Queen, “do you explain the little incident of the quarrel at the Webster Club? I certainly would not call a threat against another man’s life an ‘amicable’ way of dissolving a partnership!”
    Morgan sat quietly for several minutes while Queen stared patiently at him and Ellery sighed. Then he looked up and began to speak in a passionate undertone.
    “I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, glancing away. “I might have known that a threat like that would be remembered by somebody.... Yes, it’s true enough. We had lunch one day in the Webster Club at Field’s suggestion. As far as I was concerned, the less I had to do with him socially the better I liked it. But the purpose of the luncheon was to go over some last details of the dissolution, and of ♦course I had no choice.... I’m afraid I lost my temper. I did make a threat against his life, but it was—well, it was said in the heat of an angry moment. I forgot the whole thing before the week was over.”
    ♦ “couse” replaced with “course”
    The Inspector nodded sagely. “Yes, things do happen like that sometimes. But”—and Morgan licked his lips in despairing anticipation—“a man doesn’t threaten another man’s life, even if he doesn’t mean it, merely over a matter of business detail.” He leveled his finger at Morgan’s shrinking body. “Come on now, man—out with it. What are you holding back?”
    Morgan’s entire body had gone flaccid. His lips were ashy as he turned from one Queen to the other, mute appeal in his eyes. But their glances were inexorable and Ellery, who was regarding him much as a vivisectionist regards a guinea-pig, interrupted.
    “My dear Morgan,” he said coldly, “Field had something on you, and he thought that that was a good time to tell you about it. It’s as obvious as the red in your eye.”
    “You’ve guessed it in part, Mr. Queen. I’ve been one of the most unfortunate men God ever created. That devil Field—whoever killed him deserves to be decorated for his service to humanity. He was an octopus—a soulless beast in human form. I can’t tell you how happy—yes, happy!—I am that he is dead!”