“Trail along, Parson,” said Queen casually, without stopping. The little gangster lounged to his feet, spun his cigarette butt deftly into a shining brass cuspidor, and slouched after the Inspector, the policeman treading on his heels.
Queen opened the door to the main office, glancing quickly about him as he stood on the threshold. Then he stepped aside, allowing the gangster and the bluecoat to precede him. The door banged shut behind them.
Louis Panzer had an unusual taste in office appointments. A clear green light-shade shone brilliantly above a carved desk. Chairs and smoking-stands; a skillfully wrought clothes-tree; silk-covered divan—these and other articles were strewn tastefully about the room. Unlike most managers’ offices, Panzer’s did not exploit photographs of stars, managers, producers and “angels.” Several delicate prints, a huge tapestry, and a Constable oil painting hung on the walls.
But Inspector Queen’s scrutiny at the moment was not for the artistic quality of Mr. Panzer’s private chamber. It was rather for the six people who faced him. Beside Detective Johnson sat a middle-aged man inclining to corpulence, with shrewd eyes and a puzzled frown. He wore faultless evening clothes. In the next chair sat a young girl of considerable beauty, attired in a simple evening gown and wrap. She was looking up at a handsome young man in evening clothes, hat in hand, who was bending over her chair and talking earnestly in an undertone. Beside them were two other women, both leaning forward and listening intently.
The stout man held aloof from the others. At Inspector Queen’s entrance he immediately got to his feet with an inquiring look. The little group became silent and turned solemn faces on Queen.
With a deprecating cough Parson Johnny, accompanied by his escort, sidled across the rug and into a corner. He seemed overwhelmed by the splendor of the company in which he found himself. He shuffled his feet and cast a despairing look in the direction of the Inspector.
Queen moved over to the desk and faced the group. At a motion of his hand Johnson came quickly to his side.
“Who are the three extra people, Johnson?” he asked in a tone inaudible to the others.
“The old fellow there is Morgan,” whispered Johnson, “and the good-looker sitting near him is the woman you told me to get. When I went for her in the orchestra I found the young chap and the other two women with her. The four of ’em were pretty chummy. I gave her your message, and she seemed nervous. But she stood up and came along like a major—only the other three came, too. I didn’t know but what you’d like to see ’em, Inspector. …”
Queen nodded. “Hear anything?” he asked in the same low tone.
“Not a peep, Inspector. The old chap doesn’t seem to know any of these people. The others have just been wondering why you could possibly want her.”
The Inspector waved Johnson to a corner and addressed the waiting group.
“I’ve summoned two of you,” he said pleasantly, “for a little chat. And since the others are here, too, it will be all right for them to wait. But for the moment I must ask you all to step into the anteroom while I conduct a little business with this gentleman.” He inclined his head toward the gangster, who stiffened indignantly.
With a flutter of excited conversation the two men and three women departed, Johnson closing the door behind them.
Queen whirled on Parson Johnny.
“Bring that rat here!” he snapped to the policeman. He sat down in Panzer’s chair and drew the tips of his fingers together. The gangster was jerked to his feet and marched across the carpet, to be pushed directly in front of the desk.
“Now, Parson,” said Queen menacingly, “I’ve got you where I want you. We’re going to have a nice little talk with nobody to interrupt. Get me?”
The Parson was silent, his eyes liquid with distrust.
“So you won’t say anything, eh, Johnny? How long do you think I’ll let you get away with that?”
“I told you before—I don’t know nothin’ and besides I won’t say nothin’ till I see my lawyer,” the gangster said sullenly.
“Your lawyer? Well, Parson, who is your lawyer?” asked the Inspector in an innocent tone.
The Parson bit his lip, remaining silent. Queen turned to Johnson.
“Johnson, my boy, you worked on the Babylon stickup, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Sure did, Chief,” said the detective.
“That,” explained Queen gently, to the gangster, “was when you were sent up for a year. Remember, Parson?”
Still silence.
“And Johnson,” continued the Inspector, leaning back in his chair, “refresh my memory. Who was the lawyer defending our friend here?”
“Field. By—” Johnson exclaimed, staring at the Parson.
“Exactly. The gentleman now lying on one of our unfeeling slabs at the morgue. Well, Parson, what about it? Cut the comedy! Where do you come off saying you don’t know Monte Field? You knew his first name, all right, when I mentioned only his last. Come clean, now!”
The gangster had sagged against the policeman, a furtive despair in his eyes. He moistened his lips and said, “You got me there, Inspector. I—I don’t know nothin’ about this, though, honest. I ain’t seen Field in a month. I didn’t—my Gawd, you’re not tryin’ to tie this croakin’ around my neck, are you?”
He stared at Queen in anguish. The policeman jerked him straight.
“Parson, Parson,” said Queen, “how you do jump at conclusions. I’m merely looking for a little information. Of course, if you want to confess to the murder, I’ll call my men in and we can get your story all straight and go home to bed. How about it?”
“No!” shouted the gangster, thrashing out suddenly with his arm. The officer caught it deftly and twisted it behind the squirming back. “Where do you get that stuff? I ain’t confessin’ nothin’. I don’t know nothin’. I didn’t see Field tonight an’ I didn’t even know he was here! Confess. … I got
