“That’s too bad, Johnny,” sighed the Inspector. He took a pinch of snuff. “All right, then. You didn’t kill Monte Field. What time did you get here tonight, and where’s your ticket?”
The Parson twisted his hat in his hands. “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’ before, Inspector, because I figured you was tryin’ to railroad me. I can explain when and how I got here all right. It was about half past eight, and I got in on a pass, that’s how. Here’s the stub to prove it.” He searched carefully in his coat pocket and produced a perforated blue stub. He handed it to Queen, who glanced at it carelessly and put it in his pocket.
“And where,” he asked, “and where did you get the pass, Johnny?”
“I—my girl give it to me, Inspector,” replied the gangster nervously.
“Ah—the woman enters the case,” said Queen jovially. “And what might this young Circe’s name be, Johnny?”
“Who?—why, she’s—hey, Inspector, don’t get her in no trouble, will you?” burst out Parson Johnny. “She’s a reg’lar kid, an’ she don’t know nothin’ either. Honest, I—”
“Her name?” snapped Queen.
“Madge O’Connell,” whined Johnny. “She’s an usher here.”
Queen’s eyes lit up. A quick glance passed between him and Johnson. The detective left the room.
“So,” continued the Inspector, leaning back again comfortably, “so my old friend Parson Johnny doesn’t know a thing about Monte Field. Well, well, well! We’ll see how your lady-friend’s story backs you up.” As he talked he looked steadily at the hat in the gangster’s hand. It was a cheap black fedora, matching the sombre suit which the man was wearing. “Here, Parson,” he said suddenly. “Hand over that hat of yours.”
He took the headpiece from the gangster’s reluctant hand and examined it. He pulled down the leather band inside, eyed it critically and finally handed it back.
“We forgot something, Parson,” he said. “Officer, suppose you frisk Mr. Cazzanelli’s person, eh?”
The Parson submitted to the search with an ill grace, but he was quiescent enough. “No gat,” said the policeman briefly, and continued. He put his hand into the man’s hip-pocket, extracting a fat wallet. “Want this, Inspector?”
Queen took it, counted the money briskly, and handed it back to the policeman, who returned it to the pocket.
“One hundred and twenty-two smackers, Johnny,” the old man murmured. “Seems to me I can smell Bonomo silk in these bills. However!” He laughed and said to the bluecoat, “No flask?” The policeman shook his head. “Anything under his vest or shirt?” Again a negative. Queen was silent until the search was completed. Parson Johnny relaxed with a sigh.
“Well, Johnny, mighty lucky night this is for you—Come in!” Queen said at a knock on the door. It opened to disclose the slender girl in usherette’s uniform whom he had questioned earlier in the evening. Johnson came in after her and closed the door.
Madge O’Connell stood on the rug and stared with tragic eyes at her lover, who was thoughtfully studying the floor. She flashed a glance at Queen. Then her mouth hardened and she snapped at the gangster, “Well? So they got you after all, you sap! I told you not to try to make a break for it!” She turned her back contemptuously on the Parson and began to ply a powder-puff with vigor.
“Why didn’t you tell me before, my girl,” said Queen softly, “that you got a pass for your friend John Cazzanelli?”
“I ain’t telling everything, Mr. Cop,” she answered pertly. “Why should I? Johnny didn’t have anything to do with this business.”
“We won’t discuss that,” said the Inspector, toying with his snuffbox. “What I want you to tell me now, Madge, is whether your memory has improved any since I spoke to you.”
“What d’ya mean?” she demanded.
“I mean this. You told me that you were at your regular station just before the show started—that you conducted a lot of people to their seats—that you didn’t remember whether you ushered Monte Field, the dead man, to his row or not—and that you were standing up at the head of the left aisle all during the performance. All during the performance, Madge. Is that correct?”
“Sure it is, Inspector. Who says I wasn’t?” The girl was growing excited, but Queen glanced at her fluttering fingers and they became still.
“Aw, cut it out, Madge,” snapped the Parson unexpectedly. “Don’t make it no worse than it is. Sooner or later he’ll find out we were together anyways, and then he’d have something on you. You don’t know this bird. Come clean, Madge!”
“So!” said the Inspector, looking pleasantly from the gangster to the girl. “Parson, you’re getting sensible in your old age. Did I hear you say you two were together? When, and why, and for how long?”
Madge O’Connell’s face had gone red and white by turns. She favored her lover with a venomous glance, then turned back to Queen.
“I guess I might as well spill it,” she said disgustedly, “after this half-wit shows a yellow streak. Here’s all I know, Inspector—and Gawd help you if you tell that little mutt of a manager about it!” Queen’s eyebrows went up, but he did not interrupt her. “I got the pass for Johnny, all right,” she continued defiantly, “because—well, Johnny kind of likes blood-and-thunder stuff, and it was his off-night. So I got him the pass. It was for two—all the passes are—so that the seat next to Johnny was empty all the time. It was an aisle seat on the left—best I could get for that loud-mouthed shrimp! During the first act I was pretty busy and couldn’t sit with him. But after the first intermission, when the curtain went up on Act II, things got slack and it was a good chance to sit next to him. Sure, I admit it—I was sittin’ next to him nearly the whole act! Why not—don’t I deserve a rest once in a while?”
“I see.” Queen bent his brows. “You would
