Velie returned with Ritter and Hesse at his heels. The Inspector said sharply, “Ritter, go to this man’s apartment. His name is Monte Field, he was an attorney, and he lived at 113 West 75th Street. Stick around until you’re relieved. If anyone shows up, nab him.”
Ritter, touching his hat, mumbled, “Yes, Inspector,” and turned away.
“Now, Hesse, my lad,” continued the Inspector to the other detective, “hurry down to 51 Chambers Street, this man’s office, and wait there until you hear from me. Get inside if you can, otherwise park outside the door all night.”
“Right, Inspector.” Hesse disappeared.
Queen turned about and chuckled as he saw Ellery, broad shoulders bent over, examining the dead man.
“Don’t trust your father, eh, Ellery?” the Inspector chided. “What are you snooping for?”
Ellery smiled, straightening up. “I’m merely curious, that’s all,” he said. “There are certain things about this unsavory corpse that interest me hugely. For example, have you taken the man’s head measurement?” He held up a piece of string, which he had slipped from a wrapped book in his coat pocket, and offered it for his father’s inspection.
The Inspector took it, scowled and summoned a policeman from the rear of the theatre. He issued a low-voiced order, the string exchanged hands and the policeman departed.
“Inspector.”
Queen looked up. Hagstrom stood by his elbow, eyes gleaming.
“I found this pushed way back under Field’s seat when I picked up the papers. It was against the back wall.”
He held up a dark-green bottle, of the kind used by ginger-ale manufacturers. A gaudy label read, “Paley’s Extra Dry Ginger Ale.” The bottle was half-empty.
“Well, Hagstrom, you’ve got something up your sleeve. Out with it!” the Inspector said curtly.
“Yes, sir! When I found this bottle under the dead man’s seat, I knew that he had probably used it tonight. There was no matinee today and the cleaning-women go over the place every twenty-four hours. It wouldn’t have been there unless this man, or somebody connected with him, had used it and put it there tonight. I thought, ‘Maybe this is a clue,’ so I dug up the refreshment boy who had this section of the theatre and I asked him to sell me a bottle of ginger ale. He said”—Hagstrom smiled—“he said they don’t sell ginger ale in this theatre!”
“You used your head that time, Hagstrom,” said the Inspector approvingly. “Get hold of the boy and bring him here.”
As Hagstrom left, a stout little man in slightly disarranged evening clothes bustled up, a policeman doggedly holding his arm. The Inspector sighed.
“Are you in charge of this affair, sir?” stormed the little man, drawing himself up to five feet two inches of perspiring flesh.
“I am,” said Queen gravely.
“Then I want you to know,” burst out the newcomer—“here, you, let go of my arm, do you hear?—I want you to know, sir. …”
“Detach yourself from the gentleman’s arm, officer,” said the Inspector, with deepening gravity.
“… that I consider this entire affair the most vicious outrage! I have been sitting here with my wife and daughter since the interruption to the play for almost an hour, and your officers refuse to allow us even to stand up. It’s a damnable outrage, sir! Do you think you can keep this entire audience waiting at your leisure? I’ve been watching you—don’t think I haven’t. You’ve been dawdling around while we sat and suffered. I want you to know, sir—I want you to know!—that unless you permit my party to leave at once, I shall get in touch with my very good friend District Attorney Sampson and lodge a personal complaint against you!”
Inspector Queen gazed distastefully into the empurpled face of the stout little man. He sighed and said with a note of sternness, “My dear man, has it occurred to you that at this moment, while you stand beefing about a little thing like being detained an hour or so, a person who has committed murder may be in this very audience—perhaps sitting next to your wife and daughter? He is just as anxious as you are to get away. If you wish to make a complaint to the District Attorney, your very good friend, you may do so after you leave this theatre. Meanwhile, I’ll trouble you to return to your seat and be patient until you are permitted to go. … I hope I make myself clear.”
A titter arose from some spectators nearby, who seemed to be enjoying the little man’s discomfiture. He flounced away, with the policeman stolidly following. The Inspector, muttering, “Jackass!” turned to Velie.
“Take Panzer with you to the box-office and see if you can find complete tickets for these numbers.” He bent over the last row and the row before it, scribbling the numbers LL30 Left, LL28 Left, LL26 Left, KK32 Left, KK30 Left, KK28 Left, and KK26 Left on the back of an old envelope. He handed the memorandum to Velie, who went away.
Ellery, who had been leaning idly against the rear wall of the last row, watching his father, the audience, and occasionally restudying the geography of the theatre, murmured in the Inspector’s ear: “I was just reflecting on the unusual fact that with such a popular bit of dramatic trash as Gunplay, seven seats in the direct vicinity of the murdered man’s seat should remain empty during the performance.”
“When did you begin to wonder, my son?” said Queen, and while Ellery absently tapped the floor with his stick, barked, “Piggott!”
The detective stepped forward.
“Get the usherette who was on this aisle and the outside doorman—that middle-aged fellow on the sidewalk—and bring ’em here.”
As Piggott walked off, a disheveled young man appeared by Queen’s side, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“Well, Flint?” asked Queen instantly.
“I’ve been over this floor like a scrub-woman, Inspector. If you’re looking for a hat in this section of the theatre, it’s
