The Roman Hat Mystery (17 page)

.. To illustrate: Once young Jean C. came to me after a month of diligent investigation on a difficult assignment. He wore a forlorn expression. Without a word he handed me a slip of official paper. I read it in surprise. It was his resignation.

“
‘
Here, Jean!
’
I cried.
‘
What is the meaning of this?
’

“
7
have failed, M. Brillon,
’
he muttered.
‘
A month
’
s work gone to the devil. I have been on the wrong track. It is a disgrace.
‘

“
‘
Jean, my friend,
’
said I solemnly,
‘
this for your resignation.
‘
Wherewith I tore it to bits before his astonished eyes.
‘
Go now,
’
/ admonished him,
‘
and begin from the beginning. For remember always the maxim: He who would know right must first know wrong!
’
“

―
From Reminiscences of a Prefect by Auguste Brillon

The Queens
’
apartment on West 87th Street was a man
’
s domicile from the piperack over the hearth to the shining sabers on the wall. They lived on the top floor of a three-family brownstone house, a relic of late Victorian times. You walked up the heavily carpeted stairs through seemingly endless halls of dismal rectitude. When you were quite convinced that only mummified souls could inhabit such a dreary place, you came upon the huge oaken door marked,
“
The Queens
”―
a motto lettered neatly and framed. Then Djuna grinned at you from behind a crack and you entered a new world.

More than one individual, exalted in his own little niche, had willingly climbed the uninviting staircases to find sanctuary in this haven. More than one card bearing a famous name had been blithely carried by Djuna through the foyer into the living room.

The foyer was Ellery
’
s inspiration, if the truth were told. It was so small and so narrow that its walls appeared unnaturally towering. With a humorous severity one wall had been completely covered by a tapestry depicting the chase
―
a most appropriate appurtenance to this medieval chamber. Both Queens detested it heartily, preserving it only because it had been presented to them with regal gratitude by the Duke of
―
, the impulsive gentleman whose son Richard Queen had saved from a noisome scandal, the details of which have never been made public. Beneath the tapestry stood a heavy mission table, displaying a parchment lamp and a pair of bronze bookends bounding a three-volume set of the Arabian Nights
’
Entertainment.

Two mission chairs and a small rug completed the foyer.

When you walked through this oppressive place, always gloomy and almost always hideous, you were ready for anything except the perfect cheeriness of the large room beyond. This study in contrast was Ellery
’
s private jest, for if it were not for him the old man would long since have thrown the foyer and its furnishings into some dark limbo.

The living room was lined on three sides with a bristling and leathern-reeking series of bookcases, rising tier upon tier to the high ceiling. On the fourth wall was a huge natural fireplace, with a solid oak beam as a mantel and gleaming ironwork spacing the grate. Above the fireplace were the famous crossed sabers, a gift from the old fencing master of Nuremberg with whom Richard had lived in his younger days during his studies in Germany. Lamps winked and gleamed all over the great sprawling room; easychairs, armchairs, low divans, footstools, bright-colored leather cushions were everywhere. In a word, it was the most comfortable room two intellectual gentlemen of luxurious tastes could devise for their living quarters. And where such a place might after a time have become stale through sheer variety, the bustling person of Djuna, man-of-work, general factotum, errand boy, valet and mascot prevented such a denouement.

Djuna had been picked up by Richard Queen during the period of Ellery
’
s studies at college, when the old man was very much alone. This cheerful young man, nineteen years old, an orphan for as long as he could remember, ecstatically unaware of the necessity for a surname
―
slim and small, nervous and joyous, bubbling over with spirit and yet as quiet as a mouse when the occasion demanded
―
this Djuna, then, worshipped old Richard in much the same fashion as the ancient Alaskans bowed down to their totempoles. Between him and Ellery, too, there was a shy kinship which rarely found expression except in the boy
’
s passionate service. He slept in a small room beyond the bedroom used by father and son and, according to Richard
’
s own chuckling expression,
“
could hear a flea singing to its mate in the middle of the night.
”

On the morning after the eventful night of Monte Field
’
s murder, Djuna was laying the cloth for breakfast when the telephone rang. The boy, accustomed to early morning calls, lifted the receiver:

“
This is Inspector Queen
’
s man Djuna talking. Who is calling, please?
”

“
Oh, it is, is it?
”
growled a bass voice over the wire.
“
Well, you son of a gypsy policeman, wake the Inspector for me and be quick about it!
”

“
Inspector Queen may not be disturbed, sir, unless his man Djuna knows who
’
s calling.
”
Djuna, who knew Sergeant Velie
’
s voice especially well, grinned and stuck his tongue in his cheek.

A slim hand firmly grasped Djuna
’
s neck and propelled him halfway across the room. The Inspector, fully dressed, his nostrils quivering appreciatively with his morning
’
s first ration of snuff, said into the mouthpiece,
“
Don
’
t mind Djuna, Thomas. What
’
s up? This is Queen talking.
”

“
Oh, that you, Inspector? I wouldn
’
t have buzzed you so early in the morning except that Ritter just phoned from Monte Field
’
s apartment. Got an interesting report,
”
rumbled Velie.

“
Well, well!
”
chuckled the Inspector.
“
So our friend Ritter
’
s bagged someone, eh? Who is it, Thomas?
”

“
You guessed it, sir,
”
came Velie
’
s unmoved voice.
“
He said he
’
s got a lady down there in an embarrassing state of deshabille and if he stays alone with her much longer his wife will divorce him. Orders, sir?
”

Queen laughed heartily.
“
Sure enough, Thomas. Send a couple of men down there right away to chaperon him. I
’
ll be there myself in two shakes of a lamb
’
s tail
―
which is to say, as soon as I can drag Ellery out of bed.
”

He hung up, grinning.
“
Djuna!
”
he shouted. The boy
’
s head popped out from behind the kitchenette door immediately.
“
Hurry up with the eggs and coffee, son!
”
The Inspector turned toward the bedroom to find Ellery, collarless but unmistakably on the road to dress, confronting him with an air of absorption.

“
So you
’
re really up?
”
grumbled the Inspector, easing himself into an armchair.
“
I thought I
’
d have to drag you out of bed, you sluggard!
”

“
You may rest easy,
”
said Ellery absently.
“
I most certainly am up, and I am going to stay up. And as soon as Djuna replenishes the inner man I
’
ll be off and out of your way.
”
He lounged into the bedroom, reappearing a moment later brandishing his collar and tie.

“
Here! Where d
’
ye think you
’
re going, young man?
”
roared Queen, starting up.

“
Down to my bookshop, Inspector darling,
”
replied Ellery judicially.
“
You don
’
t think I
’
m going to allow that Falconer first edition to get away from me? Really
―
it may still be there, you know.
”

“
Falconer fiddlesticks,
”
said his father grimly.
“
You started something and you
’
re going to help finish it. Here
―
Djuna
―
where in time is that kid?
”

Djuna stepped briskly into the room balancing a tray in one hand and a pitcher of milk in the other. In a twinkling he had the table ready, the coffee bubbling, the toast browned; and father and son hurried through their breakfast without a word.

“
Now,
”
remarked Ellery, setting down his empty cup,
“
now that I
’
ve finished this Arcadian repast, tell me where the fire is.
”

“
Get your hat and coat on and stop asking pointless questions, son of my grief,
”
growled Queen. In three minutes they were on the sidewalk hailing a taxicab.

The cab drew up before a monumental apartment building. Lounging on the sidewalk, a cigarette drooping from his lips, was Detective Piggott. The Inspector winked and trotted into the lobby. He and Ellery were whisked up to the fourth floor where Detective Hagstrom greeted them, pointing to an apartment door numbered 4-D. Ellery, leaning forward to catch the inscription on the nameplate, was about to turn on his father with an amused expostulation when the door swung open at Queen
’
s imperious ring and the broad flushed face of Ritter peered out at them.

“
Morning, Inspector,
”
the detective mumbled, holding the door open.
“
I
’
m glad you
’
ve come, sir.
”

Queen and Ellery marched inside. They stood in a small foyer, profusely furnished. Directly in their line of vision was a living room, and beyond that a closed door. A frilled feminine slipper and a slim ankle were visible at the edge of the door.

The Inspector stepped forward, changed his mind and quickly opening the hall door called to Hagstrom, who was sauntering about outside. The detective ran up.

“
Come inside here,
”
said Queen sharply.
“
Got a job for you.
”

With Ellery and the two plainclothesmen following at his heels, he strode into the living room.

A woman of mature beauty, a trifle worn, the pastiness of a ruined complexion apparent beneath heavily applied rouge, sprang to her feet. She was dressed in a flowing flimsy negligee and her hair was tousled. She nervously crushed a cigarette underfoot.

“
Are you the big cheese around here?
”
she yelled in a strident fury to Queen. He stood stock still and examined her impersonally.
“
Then what the hell do you mean by sending one o
’
your flatfoots to keep me locked up all night, hey?
”

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 glanced at the woman briefly and began to putter 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 nightgown. I guess I must have blushed . . . .
”