The Roman Hat Mystery
By Ellery Queen
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
Ellery Queen
Ellery Queen was a pen name created and shared by two cousins, Frederic Dannay (1905–1982) and Manfred B. Lee (1905–1971), as well as the name of their most famous detective. Born in Brooklyn, they spent forty-two years writing, editing, and anthologizing under the name, gaining a reputation as the foremost American authors of the Golden Age “fair play” mystery. Although eventually famous on television and radio, Queen’s first appearance came in 1928, when the cousins won a mystery-writing contest with the book that would eventually be published as The Roman Hat Mystery. Their character was an amateur detective who uses his spare time to assist his police inspector uncle in solving baffling crimes. Besides writing the Queen novels, Dannay and Lee cofounded Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, one of the most influential crime publications of all time. Although Dannay outlived his cousin by nine years, he retired Queen upon Lee’s death.
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Reviews for The Roman Hat Mystery
20 ratings9 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5#1 Ellery Queen - how exciting to find these vintage mysteries on Scribd. It's brilliant, of course, but Ellery's character is just developing.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The two things I remember about this mystery are that it is set in a theater --one of my favorite mystery settings --and the victim dies by a particularly horrible form of poisoning.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I enjoyed this book very well. I hadn't read an Ellery Queen book for 15 years and it took me a full month to read this particular beauty. The mystery is engrossing. In the preface the authors whet your appetite by telling you that the criminal has a remarkable mind. That's kind of a tall order to live up to, but this book delivers. At first the criminal could be anyone, but then it turns out that the murderer is someone in the vicinity, not unlike Marple or Poirot stories. The book was pleasing but not cozy enough to warrant 5 stars. It doesn't have that type of pull on you.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5This is one of those books that are so firmly set in the time of their publication that it is difficult to rate them now on their own merits independent of their placement in the development of their genre. Ellery Queen, detective novel writer and son of Inspector Richard Queen, is the co-protagonist at the center of the early Ellery Queen books. The character of Ellery is clearly inspired by S. S. Van Dine's Philo Vance. The prejudices and attitudes of the time of its initial publication (1929) are obvious with incidents of casual gender, class, education and race biases cropping up throughout. The continuous discussion in the book about the difficulty of solving such a mysterious crime hides the fact that answer to "who was the murderer" is fairly obvious and the most important clue would have been found within hours of the murder had the police been even minimally competent.In addition it is hard, when reading this first Ellery Queen novel, to shake off the impressions left by reading Ellery Queens written half a century later and even more, it is almost impossible not to see Jim Hutton in the mind's eye whenever Ellery comes into a room.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Much as I love the early Ellery Queen, this is, unfortunately, one where he makes a blatent scientific error - it's at the heart of the solution to the mystery, and it blows the entire deal. Until then, the book is fun, with the usual cast of delightfully eccentric New Yorkers.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5first in the Inspector Queen series of mysteries featuring Inspector Richard Queen and his bookwormish geeky son Ellery, the Roman Hat mystery was set in the late 1920s or early 1930s. Very much the classical-style whodunit, complete with a list of suspects, lists of motives and a final showdown, this book was a fun read and a definite no-miss for fans of classic detective fiction. I have the 50th anniversary issue; the original was written in 1929. I really enjoy these old mysteries; I have a shelf filled with them just waiting to be read.A new play has just opened on Broadway called "Gunplay!" ... and it is close after intermission that a man gets out of his seat to go out to the lobby and tries to get past another guy who seems to be asleep hunched over in his seat. But it turns out he's not asleep; he's dying. He leans up to the passer-by and says "murder!" and promptly dies. The man runs out of the theater, summons a policeman, and the show is over for the night. The policeman calls on Inspector Queen, who is famous in the department for getting his man. Along with the inspector comes his son Ellery, who carries books in his pocket and keeps notes on the crime in their flyleaves. On the back of the dead man's seat they find his cape but what's missing is his tophat; remember, this is back in the days when going to the theater was an extremely formal occasion. Although they scour the theater, and search everyone leaving for a tophat, they find nothing; thus Ellery and the Inspector come to realize that the key to the murder lies in the missing hat.To be honest, I guessed the who, but my motive was incorrect. I had the person pegged for an entirely different motive, but I like being wrong in the case of good mysteries. I have most of the Ellery Queen novels, which I haven't read yet, but I plan to get to them here shortly! If you're an old-fashioned mystery fan, this one should be a fun read.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I read this book in annotated form as included in Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920sedited by Leslie S. Klinger.Thus far in this collection, I've read the first books about Charlie Chan and Philo Vance. Both had issues, from my modern perspective--a painfully slow start and barely any Charlie Chan in the first, and the rambling, annoying presence of Philo Vance in the second. But in this, the first Ellery Queen novel, I finally encountered a 1920s mystery I absolutely loved. The writing is fantastic from page one, the mystery utterly intriguing, and the cast of characters diverse and amusing. I could see myself reading and enjoying more Ellery Queen novels.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5As a teenager I used to love the Ellery Queen television series (though I imagine they were already rather dated even then), and I remember reading a few of the books at that time. I hadn’t thought of him (Them? ‘Ellery Queen was actually a partnership of two writers) for ages until a colleague chanced to mention him in the office the other day.In an idle moment I tracked this book (the first of the series) down on Amazon and decided to give it a go. The book hasn’t aged particularly well, though that is perhaps fair enough, given that it was published in the 1930s, with markedly different social mores and conventions. The basic premise is straightforward enough. Monte Field, a defence attorney with dubious gangland connections, is found dead, apparently poisoned, at a Broadway show. Inspector Queen is summoned to investigate. His son Ellery also turns up and, over the next few days, employs his beloved logical deduction to identify the killer.The plot is certainly sound, and the clues are certainly all there. The relationship between Ellery and his father, Inspector Richard Queen, is very well constructed, with mutual affection and regard occasionally obscured by utter exasperation. (Well, that certainly struck a chord with memories of my own family!)I enjoyed the experiment of revisiting Ellery Queen’s mysteries, and I would be interested to see an episode from the television series, too, but I don’t think I will be venturing any further down memory lane as far as the books are concerned.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Listened on Hoopla.Top hats, so many top hats.This mystery was fine, and I guessed where it was going based on a line of inquiry that was not mentioned in the investigation. Then, at the end, it was pulled out of a hat (ba-dum-tssss) as a key point.Not gory or violent, but very very 1929. Especially the motive.
Book preview
The Roman Hat Mystery - Ellery Queen
PART ONE
The policeman must oft follow the precept of the ‘bakadori’—those fool-birds who, though they know disaster awaits them at the hands and clubs of the beachcombers, brave ignominious death to bury their eggs in the sandy shore…. So the policeman. All Nippon should not deter him from hatching the egg of thoroughness.
—From A THOUSAND LEAVES
by Tamaka Hiero
1
In Which Are Introduced a Theatre Audience and a Corpse
THE DRAMATIC SEASON of 192– began in a disconcerting manner. Eugene O’Neill had neglected to write a new play in time to secure the financial encouragement of the intelligentsia; and as for the low-brows,
having attended play after play without enthusiasm, they had deserted the legitimate theatre for the more ingenuous delights of the motion picture palaces.
On the evening of Monday, September 24th, therefore, when a misty rain softened the electric blaze of Broadway’s theatrical district, it was viewed morosely by house managers and producers from 37th Street to Columbus Circle. Several plays were then and there given their walking papers by the men higher up, who called upon God and the weather bureau to witness their discomfiture. The penetrating rain kept the play-going public close to its radios and bridge tables. Broadway was a bleak sight indeed to those few who had the temerity to patrol its empty streets.
The sidewalk fronting the Roman Theatre, on 47th Street west of the White Way,
however, was jammed with a mid-season, fair-weather crowd. The title Gunplay
flared from a gay marquee. Cashiers dextrously attended the chattering throng lined up at the Tonight’s Performance
window. The buff-and-blue doorman, impressive with the dignity of his uniform and the placidity of his years, bowed the evening’s top-hatted and befurred customers into the orchestra with an air of satisfaction, as if inclemencies of weather held no terrors for those implicated in Gunplay’s
production.
Inside the theatre, one of Broadway’s newest, people bustled to their seats visibly apprehensive, since the boisterous quality of the play was public knowledge. In due time the last member of the audience ceased rustling his program; the last latecomer stumbled over his neighbor’s feet; the lights dimmed and the curtain rose. A pistol coughed in the silence, a man screamed … the play was on.
Gunplay
was the first drama of the season to utilize the noises customarily associated with the underworld. Automatics, machine guns, raids on night-clubs, the lethal sounds of gang vendettas—the entire stock-in-trade of the romanticized crime society was jammed into three swift acts. It was an exaggerated reflection of the times—a bit raw, a bit nasty and altogether satisfying to the theatrical public. Consequently it played to packed houses in rain and shine. This evening’s house was proof of its popularity.
The performance proceeded smoothly. The audience was thrilled at the thunderous climax to the first act. The rain having stopped, people strolled out into the side alley for a breath of air during the first ten-minute intermission. With the rising of the curtain on Act II, the detonations on the stage increased in volume. The second act hurtled to its big moment as explosive dialogue shot across the footlights. A slight commotion at the rear of the theatre went unnoticed, not unnaturally, in the noise and the darkness. No one seemed aware of anything amiss and the play crashed on. Gradually, however, the commotion increased in volume. At this point a few spectators at the rear of the left section squirmed about in their seats, to assert their rights in angry whispers. The protest was contagious. In an incredibly short time scores of eyes turned toward that section of the orchestra.
Suddenly a sharp scream tore through the theatre. The audience, excited and fascinated by the swift sequence of events on the stage, craned their necks expectantly in the direction of the cry, eager to witness what they thought was a new sensation of the play.
Without warning the lights of the theatre snapped on, revealing puzzled, fearful, already appreciative faces. At the extreme left, near a closed exit door, a large policeman stood holding a slight nervous man by the arm. He fended off a group of inquisitive people with a huge hand, shouting in stentorian tones, Everybody stay right where he is! Don’t get out of your seat, any of you!
People laughed.
The smiles were soon wiped away. For the audience began to perceive a curious hesitancy on the part of the actors. Although they continued to recite their lines behind the footlights they were casting puzzled glances out into the orchestra. People, noting this, half-rose from their seats, panicky in the presence of a scented tragedy. The officer’s Jovian voice continued to thunder, Keep your seats, I say! Stay where you are!
The audience suddenly realized that the incident was not play-acting but reality. Women shrieked and clutched their escorts. Bedlam broke loose in the balcony, whose occupants were in no position to see anything below.
The policeman turned savagely to a stocky, foreign-looking man in evening clothes who was standing by, rubbing his hands together.
I’ll have to ask you to close every exit this minute and see that they’re kept closed, Mr. Panzer,
he growled. Station an usher at all the doors and tell ’em to hold everybody tryin’ to get in or out. Send somebody outside to cover the alleys, too, until help comes from the station. Move fast, Mr. Panzer, before hell pops!
The swarthy little man hurried away, brushing aside a number of excited people who had disregarded the officer’s bellowed admonition and had jumped up to question him.
The bluecoat stood wide-legged at the entrance to the last row of the left section, concealing with his bulk the crumpled figure of a man in full evening dress, lying slumped in a queer attitude on the floor between rows. The policeman looked up, keeping a firm grip on the arm of the cowering man at his side, and shot a quick glance toward the rear of the orchestra.
Hey, Neilson!
he shouted.
A tall tow-headed man hurried out of a small room near the main entrance and pushed his way through to the officer. He looked sharply down at the inert figure on the floor.
What’s happened here, Doyle?
Better ask this feller here,
replied the policeman grimly. He shook the arm of the man he was holding. There’s a guy dead, and Mr.
—he bent a ferocious glance upon the shrinking little man—Pusak, W-William Pusak,
he stammered—this Mr. Pusak,
continued Doyle, says he heard him whisper he’d been croaked.
Neilson stared at the dead body, stunned.
The policeman chewed his lip. I’m in one sweet mess, Harry,
he said hoarsely. The only cop in the place, and a pack of yellin’ fools to take care of…. I want you to do somethin’ for me.
Say the word…. This is one hell of a note!
Doyle wheeled in a rage to shout to a man who had just risen three rows ahead and was standing on his seat, peering at the proceedings. Hey you!
he roared. Get down offa there! Here—get back there, the whole bunch o’ you. Back to your seats, now, or I’ll pinch the whole nosey mob!
He turned on Neilson. Beat it to your desk, Harry, and give headquarters a buzz about the murder,
he whispered. Tell ’em to bring down a gang—make it a big one. Tell ’em it’s a theatre—they’ll know what to do. And here, Harry—take my whistle and toot your head off outside. I gotta get some help right away.
As Neilson fought his way back through the crowd, Doyle shouted after him: Better ask ’em to send old man Queen down here, Harry!
The tow-headed man disappeared into the office. A few moments later a shrill whistle was heard from the sidewalk in front of the theatre.
The swarthy theatre manager whom Doyle had commanded to place guards at the exits and alleys came scurrying back through the press. His dress shirt was slightly rumpled and he was mopping his forehead with an air of bewilderment. A woman stopped him as he wriggled his way forward. She squeaked,
"Why is this policeman keeping us here, Mr. Panzer? I’ve a right to leave, I should like you to know! I don’t care if an accident did happen—I had nothing to do with it—that’s your affair—please tell him to stop this silly disciplining of innocent people!"
The little man stammered, trying to escape. Now, madam, please. I’m sure the officer knows what he is doing. A man has been killed here—it is a serious matter. Don’t you see…. As manager of the theatre I must follow his orders…. Please be calm—have a little patience….
He wormed his way out of her grasp and was off before she could protest.
Doyle, his arms waving violently, stood on a seat and bellowed: I told you to sit down and keep quiet, the pack o’ you! I don’t care if you’re the Mayor himself, you—yeah, you there, in the monocle—stay down or I’ll shove you down! Don’t you people realize what’s happened? Pipe down, I say!
He jumped to the floor, muttering as he wiped the perspiration from his capband.
In the turmoil and excitement, with the orchestra boiling like a huge kettle, and necks stretched over the railing of the balcony as the people there strove vainly to discover the cause of the confusion, the abrupt cessation of activity on the stage was forgotten by the audience. The actors had stammered their way through lines rendered meaningless by the drama before the footlights. Now the slow descent of the curtain put an end to the evening’s entertainment. The actors, chattering, hurried toward the stagestairs. Like the audience they peered toward the nucleus of the trouble in bewilderment.
A buxom old lady, in garish clothes—the very fine imported actress billed in the character of Madame Murphy, keeper of the public house
—her name was Hilda Orange; the slight, graceful figure of the street waif, Nanette
—Eve Ellis, leading-lady of the piece; the tall robust hero of Gunplay,
James Peale, attired in a rough tweed suit and cap; the juvenile, smart in evening clothes, portraying the society lad who had fallen into the clutches of the gang
—Stephen Barry; Lucille Horton, whose characterization of the lady of the streets
had brought down a shower of adjectives from the dramatic critics, who had little enough to rant about that unfortunate season; a vandyked old man whose faultless evening clothes attested to the tailoring genius of M. Le Brun, costumer extraordinary to the entire cast of Gunplay
; the heavy-set villain, whose stage scowl was dissolved in a foggy docility as he surveyed the frantic auditorium; in fact, the entire personnel of the play, bewigged and powdered, rouged and painted—some wielding towels as they hastily removed their make-up—scampered in a body under the lowering curtain and trooped down the stage steps into the orchestra, where they elbowed their way up the aisle toward the scene of the commotion.
Another flurry, at the main entrance, caused many people despite Doyle’s vigorous orders to rise in their seats for a clearer view. A group of bluecoats were hustling their way inside, their night sticks ready. Doyle heaved a gargantuan sigh of relief as he saluted the tall man in plainclothes at their head.
What’s up, Doyle?
asked the newcomer, frowning at the pandemonium raging about them. The bluecoats who had entered with him were herding the crowd to the rear of the orchestra, behind the seat section. People who had been standing tried to slip back to their seats; they were apprehended and made to join the angry cluster jammed behind the last row.
Looks like this man’s been murdered, Sergeant,
said Doyle.
Uh-huh.
The plainclothes man looked incuriously down at the one still figure in the theatre—lying at their feet, a black-sleeved arm flung over his face, his legs sprawled gawkily under the seats in the row before.
What is it—gat?
asked the newcomer of Doyle, his eyes roving.
No, sir—don’t seem to be,
said the policeman. Had a doctor from the audience look him over the very first thing—thinks it’s poison.
The Sergeant grunted. Who’s this?
he rapped, indicating the trembling figure of Pusak by Doyle’s side.
Chap who found the body,
returned Doyle. He hasn’t moved from the spot since.
Good enough.
The detective turned toward a compact group huddled a few feet behind them and asked, generally: Who’s the manager here?
Panzer stepped forward.
I’m Velie, detective-sergeant from headquarters,
said the plainclothes man abruptly. Haven’t you done anything to keep this yelling pack of idiots quiet?
I’ve done my best, Sergeant,
mumbled the manager, wringing his hands. But they all seem incensed at the way this officer
—he indicated Doyle apologetically—has been storming at them. I don’t know how I can reasonably expect them to keep sitting in their seats as if nothing had happened.
Well, we’ll take care of that,
snapped Velie. He gave a rapid order to a uniformed man nearby. Now
—he turned back to Doyle—how about the doors, the exits? Done anything yet in that direction?
Sure thing, Sergeant,
grinned the policeman. I had Mr. Panzer here station ushers at every door. They’ve been there all night, anyway. But I just wanted to make sure.
You were right. Nobody try to get out?
I think I can vouch for that, Sergeant,
put in Panzer meekly. The action of the play necessitates having ushers posted near every exit, for atmosphere. This is a crook play, with a good deal of shooting and screaming and that sort of thing going on, and the presence of guards around the doors heightens the general effect of mystery. I can very easily find out for you if …
We’ll attend to that ourselves,
said Velie. Doyle, who’d you send for?
Inspector Queen,
answered Doyle. I had the publicity man, Neilson, phone him at headquarters.
Velie allowed a smile to crease his wintry face. Thought of everything, didn’t you? Now how about the body? Has it been touched at all since this fellow found it?
The cowering man held in Doyle’s hard grasp broke out, half-crying. I—I only found him, officer—honest to God, I—
All right, all right,
said Velie coldly. You’ll keep, won’t you? What are you blubbering about? Well, Doyle?
Not a finger was laid on the body since I came over,
replied Doyle, with a trace of pride in his voice. Except, of course, for a Dr. Stuttgard. I got him out of the audience to make sure the man was dead. He was, and nobody else came near.
You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Doyle? I’ll see you won’t suffer by it,
said Velie. He wheeled on Panzer, who shrank back. Better trot up to the stage and make an announcement, Mr. Manager. The whole crew of ’em are to stay right where they are until Inspector Queen lets them go home—understand? Tell them it won’t do any good to kick—and the more they kick the longer they’ll be here. Make it plain, too, that they’re to stick to their seats, and any suspicious move on anybody’s part is going to make trouble.
Yes. Yes. Good Lord, what a catastrophe!
groaned Panzer as he made his way down the aisle toward the stage.
At the same moment a little knot of people pushed open the big door at the rear of the theatre and stepped across the carpet in a body.
2
In Which One Queen Works and Another Queen Watches
THERE WAS NOTHING remarkable in either the physique or the manner of Inspector Richard Queen. He was a small, withered, rather mild-appearing old gentleman. He walked with a little stoop and an air of deliberation that somehow accorded perfectly with his thick gray hair and mustaches, veiled gray eyes and slender hands.
As he crossed the carpet with short, quick steps Inspector Queen was far from impressive to the milling eyes that observed his approach from every side. And yet, so unusual was the gentle dignity of his appearance, so harmless and benevolent the smile that illumined his lined old face, that an audible rustle swept over the auditorium, preceding him in a strangely fitting manner.
In his own men the change was appreciable. Doyle retreated into a corner near the left exits. Detective-Sergeant Velie, poised over the body—sardonic, cold, untouched by the near-hysteria about him—relaxed a trifle, as if he were satisfied to relinquish his place in the sun. The bluecoats guarding the aisles saluted with alacrity. The nervous, muttering, angry audience sank back with an unreasoning relief.
Inspector Queen stepped forward and shook hands with Velie.
Too bad, Thomas, my boy. I hear you were going home when this happened,
he murmured. To Doyle he smiled in a fatherly fashion. Then, in a mild pity, he peered down at the man on the floor. Thomas,
he asked, are all the exits covered?
Velie nodded.
The old man turned back and let his eyes travel interestedly about the scene. He asked a low-voiced question of Velie, who nodded his head in assent; then he crooked his finger at Doyle.
Doyle, where are the people who were sitting in these seats?
He pointed to three chairs adjoining the dead man’s and four directly to the front of them in the preceding row.
The policeman appeared puzzled. Didn’t see anybody there, Inspector….
Queen stood silent for a moment, then waved Doyle back with the low remark to Velie, In a crowded house, too…. Remember that.
Velie raised his eyebrows gravely. I’m cold on this whole business,
continued the Inspector genially. All I can see right now are a dead man and a lot of perspiring people making noise. Have Hesse and Piggott direct traffic for a while, eh, son?
Velie spoke sharply to two of the plainclothes men who had entered the theatre with the Inspector. They wriggled their way toward the rear and the people who had been crowding around found themselves pushed aside. Policemen joined the two detectives. The group of actors and actresses were ordered to move back. A section was roped off behind the central tier of seats and some fifty men and women packed into the small space. Quiet men circulated among them, instructing them to show their tickets and return to their seats one by one. Within five minutes not a member of the audience was left standing. The actors were cautioned to remain within the rope enclosure for the time being.
In the extreme left aisle Inspector Queen reached into his topcoat pocket, carefully extracted a brown carved snuffbox and took a pinch with every evidence of enjoyment.
That’s more like it, Thomas,
he chuckled. You know how fussy I am about noises…. Who is the poor chap on the floor—do you know?
Velie shook his head. I haven’t even touched the body, Inspector,
he said. I got here just a few minutes before you did. A man on the 47th Street beat called me up from his box and reported Doyle’s whistle. Doyle seems to have been doing things, sir…. His lieutenant reports favorably on his record.
Ah,
said the Inspector, ah, yes. Doyle. Come here, Doyle.
The policeman stepped forward and saluted.
Just what,
went on the little gray man, leaning comfortably against a seat back, just what happened here, Doyle?
All I know about it, Inspector,
began Doyle, is that a couple of minutes before the end of the second act this man
—he pointed to Pusak, who stood wretchedly in a corner—came running up to me where I was standin’ in the back, watchin’ the show, and he says, ‘A man’s been murdered, officer! … A man’s murdered!’ He was blubberin’ like a baby and I thought he was pie-eyed. But I stepped mighty quick and came over here—the place was dark and there was a lot of shootin’ and screamin’ on the stage—and I took a look at the feller on the floor. I didn’t move him, but I felt his heart and there wasn’t anything to feel. To make sure he was croaked I asked for a doctor and a gent by the name of Stuttgard answered my call….
Inspector Queen stood pertly, his head cocked on a side like a parrot’s. That’s excellent,
he said. Excellent, Doyle. I’ll question Dr. Stuttgard later. Then what happened?
he went on.
Then,
continued the policeman, then I got the usherette on this aisle to beat it back to the manager’s office for Panzer. Louis Panzer—that’s the manager right over there….
Queen regarded Panzer, who was standing a few feet to the rear talking to Neilson, and nodded. That’s Panzer, you say. All right, all right … Ellery! You got my message?
He darted forward, brushing aside Panzer, who fell back apologetically, and clapped the shoulder of a tall young man who had slipped through the main door and was slowly looking about the scene. The old man passed his arm through the younger man’s.
Haven’t inconvenienced you any, son? What bookstore did you haunt tonight? Ellery, I’m mighty glad you’re here!
He dipped into his pocket, again extracted the snuffbox, sniffed deeply—so deeply that he sneezed—and looked up into his son’s face.
As a matter of fact,
said Ellery Queen, his eyes restlessly roving, I can’t return the compliment. You just lured me away from a perfect book-lover’s paradise. I was at the point of getting the dealer to let me have a priceless Falconer first edition, intending to borrow the money from you at headquarters. I telephoned—and here I am. A Falconer—Oh, well. Tomorrow will do, I suppose.
The Inspector chuckled. Now if you told me you were picking up an old snuffbox I might be interested. As it is—trot along. Looks as if we have some work tonight.
They walked toward the little knot of men on the left, the old man’s hand grasping his son’s coatsleeve. Ellery Queen towered six inches above his father’s head. There was a square cut to his shoulders and an agreeable swing to his body as he walked. He was dressed in oxford gray and carried a light stick. On his nose perched what seemed an incongruous note in so athletic a man—a rimless pince-nez. But the brow above, the long delicate lines of the face, the bright eyes were those of a man of thought rather than action.
They joined the group at the body. Ellery was greeted respectfully by Velie. He bent over the seat, glanced earnestly at the dead man, and stepped back.
Go on, Doyle,
said the Inspector briskly. You looked at the body, detained the man who found it, got the manager…. Then what?
Panzer at my orders closed all the doors at once and saw that no one either came in or went out,
answered Doyle. There was a lot of fuss here with the audience, but nothing else happened.
Right, right!
said the Inspector, feeling for his snuffbox. You did a mighty good job. Now—that gentleman there.
He gestured in the direction of the trembling little man in the corner, who stepped forward hesitantly, licked his lips, looked about him with a helpless expression, and then stood silent.
What’s your name?
asked the Inspector, in a kindly tone.
Pusak—William Pusak,
said the man. I’m a bookkeeper, sir. I was just—
One at a time, Pusak. Where were you sitting?
Pusak pointed eagerly to the sixth seat from the aisle, in the last row. A frightened young girl in the fifth seat sat staring in their direction.
I see,
said the Inspector. Is that young lady with you?
Yes, sir—yes, sir. That’s my fiancée, sir. Her name is Esther—Esther Jablow….
A little to the rear a detective was scribbling in a notebook. Ellery stood behind his father, glancing from one exit to another. He began to draw a diagram on the flyleaf of a small book he had taken from his topcoat pocket.
The Inspector scrutinized the girl, who immediately averted her eyes. Now, Pusak, I want you to tell me just what happened.
I—I didn’t do a thing out of the way, sir.
Inspector Queen patted his arm. Nobody is accusing you of anything, Pusak. All I want is your story of what happened. Take your time—tell it your own way….
Pusak gave him a curious glance. Then he moistened his lips and began. Well, I was sitting there in that seat with my—with Miss Jablow—and we were enjoying the show pretty much. The second act was kind of exciting—there was a lot of shooting and yelling on the stage—and then I got up and started to go out the row to the aisle. This aisle—here.
He pointed nervously to the spot of carpet on which he was standing. Queen nodded, his face benign.
I had to push past my—Miss Jablow, and there wasn’t anybody except one man between her and the aisle. That’s why I went that way. I didn’t sort of like to
—he hesitated apologetically—to bother people going out that way in the middle of the most exciting part….
That was very decent of you, Pusak,
said the Inspector, smiling.
Yes, sir. So I walked down the row, feeling my way, because it was pretty dark in the theatre, and then I came to—to this man.
He shuddered, and continued more rapidly. He was sitting in a funny way, I thought. His knees were touching the seat in front of him and I couldn’t get past. I said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and tried again, but his knees hadn’t moved an inch. I didn’t know what to do, sir—I’m not nervy, like some fellows, and I was going to turn around and go back when all of a sudden I felt the man’s body slip to the floor—I was still pressed up close to him. Of course, I got kind of scared—it was only natural….
I should say,
said the Inspector, with concern. It must have given you quite a turn. Then what happened?
Well, sir…. Then, before I realized what was happening, he fell clean out of his seat and his head bumped against my legs. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call for help—I don’t know why, but I couldn’t somehow—and I just naturally bent over him, thinking he was drunk or sick or something, and meant to lift him up. I hadn’t figured on what I’d do after that….
I know just how you felt, Pusak. Go on.
Then it happened—the thing I told this policeman about. I’d just got hold of his head when I felt his hand come up and grab mine, just like he was trying awfully hard to get a grip on something, and he moaned. It was so low I could hardly hear it, but sort of horrible. I can’t quite describe it exactly….
Now, we’re getting on,
said the Inspector. And?
And then he talked. It wasn’t really talking—it was more like a gurgle, as if he was choking. He said a few words that I didn’t catch at all, but I realized that this was something different from just being sick or drunk, so I bent even lower and listened hard. I heard him gasp, ‘It’s murder…. Been murdered …’ or something like that….
So he said, ‘It’s murder,’ eh?
The Inspector regarded Pusak with severity. Well, now. That must have given you a shock, Pusak.
He snapped suddenly, Are you certain this man said ‘murder’?
That’s what I heard, sir. I’ve got good hearing,
said Pusak doggedly.
Well.
Queen relaxed, smiling again. Of course. I just wanted to make sure. Then what did you do?
Then I felt him squirm a little and all of a sudden go limp in my arms. I was afraid he’d died and I don’t know how—but next thing I knew I was in the back telling it all to the policeman—this policeman here.
He pointed to Doyle, who rocked on his heels impersonally.
And that’s all?
Yes, sir. Yes, sir. That’s all I know about it,
said Pusak, with a sigh of relief.
Queen grasped him by the coat front and barked, That isn’t all, Pusak. You forgot to tell us why you left your seat in the first place!
He glared into the little man’s eyes.
Pusak coughed, teetered back and forth