“But—but, man! Monte Field. … Oh, my God!” And he threw back his head and laughed—a wild humor that made Queen sit up alertly. The spasm continued, Morgan’s body rocking to and fro in hysteria. The Inspector knew the symptoms. He slapped the lawyer in the face, pulling him to his feet by his coat-collar.
“Don’t forget yourself, Morgan!” commanded Queen. The rough tone had its effect. Morgan stopped laughing, regarded Queen with a blank expression, and dropped heavily into the chair—still shaken, but himself.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Inspector,” he muttered, dabbing his face with a handkerchief. “It was—quite a surprise.”
“Evidently,” said Queen dryly. “You couldn’t have acted more surprised if the earth had opened under your feet. Now, Morgan, what’s this all about?”
The lawyer continued to wipe the perspiration from his face. He was shaking like a leaf, his jowls red. He gnawed at his lip in indecision.
“All right, Inspector,” he said at last. “What do you want to know?”
“That’s better,” said Queen approvingly. “Suppose you tell me when you last saw Monte Field.”
The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Why—why, I haven’t seen him for ages,” he said in a low voice. “I suppose you know that we were partners once—we had a successful legal practice. Then something happened and we broke up. I—I haven’t seen him since.”
“And that was how long ago?”
“A little over two years.”
“Very good.” Queen leaned forward. “I’m anxious to know, too, just why the two of you broke up your partnership.”
The lawyer looked down at the rug, fingering his cigar. “I—well, I guess you know Field’s reputation as well as I. We didn’t agree on ethics, had a little argument and decided to dissolve.”
“You parted amicably?”
“Well—under the circumstances, yes.”
Queen drummed on the desk. Morgan shifted uneasily. He was evidently still laboring under the effects of his astonishment.
“What time did you get to the theatre tonight, Morgan?” asked the Inspector.
Morgan seemed surprised at the question. “Why—about a quarter after eight,” he replied.
“Let me see your ticket-stub, please,” said Queen.
The lawyer handed it over after fumbling for it in several pockets. Queen took it, extracted from his own pocket the three stubs he had secreted there, and lowered his hands below the level of the desk. He looked up in a moment, his eyes expressionless as he returned the four bits of pasteboard to his own pocket.
“So you were sitting in M2, Center, were you? Pretty good seat, Morgan,” he remarked. “Just what made you come to see Gunplay tonight, anyway?”
“Why, it is a rum sort of show, isn’t it, Inspector?” Morgan appeared embarrassed. “I don’t know that I would ever have thought of coming—I’m not a theatre-going man, you know—except that the Roman management was kind enough to send me a complimentary ticket for this evening’s performance.”
“Is that a fact?” exclaimed Queen ingenuously. “Quite nice of them, I’d say. When did you receive the ticket?”
“Why, I got the ticket and the letter Saturday morning, Inspector, at my office.”
“Oh, you got a letter, too, eh? You don’t happen to have it around you, do you?”
“I’m—pretty—sure I—have,” grunted Morgan, as he began to search his pockets. “Yes! Here it is.”
He offered the Inspector a small, rectangular sheet of white paper, deckle-edged and of crushed bond stock. Queen handled it gingerly as he held it up to the light. Through the few typewritten lines on it a watermark was distinctly visible. His lips puckered, and he laid the sheet cautiously on the desk-blotter. As Morgan watched, he opened the top drawer of Panzer’s desk and rummaged about until he found a piece of notepaper. It was large, square, and heavily glazed with an ornate theatre-insignia engraved on an upper quarter. Queen put the two pieces of paper side by side, thought a moment, then sighed and picked up the sheet which Morgan had handed him. He read it through slowly.
The Management of the Roman Theatre cordially invites the attendance of Mr. Benjamin Morgan at the Monday evening, September twenty-fourth performance of Gunplay. As a leading figure of the New York bar, Mr. Morgan’s opinion of the play as a social and legal document is earnestly solicited. This, however, is by no means obligatory; and the Management wishes further to assure Mr. Morgan that the acceptance of its invitation entails no obligation whatsoever.
The “S” was a barely decipherable ink-scrawl.
Queen looked up, smiling. “Mighty nice of the Theatre, Mr. Morgan. I just wonder now—” Still smiling, he signalled to Johnson, who had been sitting in a corner chair, silent spectator to the interview.
“Get Mr. Panzer, the manager, for me, Johnson,” said Queen. “And if the publicity man—chap by the name of Bealson, or Pealson, or something—is around, have him step in here, too.”
He turned to the lawyer after Johnson left.
“Let me trouble you for your gloves a moment, Mr. Morgan,” he said lightly.
With a puzzled stare, Morgan dropped them on the desk in front of Queen, who picked them up curiously. They were of white silk—the conventional gloves for evening-wear. The Inspector pretended to be very busy examining them. He turned them inside out, minutely scrutinized a speck on the tip of one finger, and even went so far as to try them on his own hands, with a jesting remark to Morgan. His examination concluded, he gravely handed the gloves back to the lawyer.
“And—oh, yes, Mr. Morgan—that’s a mighty spruce-looking tophat you’ve got there. May I see it a moment?”
Still silently, the lawyer placed his hat on the desk. Queen picked it up with a carefree air, whistling in a slightly flat key, “The Sidewalks of New York.” He turned the hat over in his hand. It was a glistening affair of extremely fine quality. The lining was of shimmering white silk, with the name of the maker, “James Chauncey Co.,” stamped in gold. Two initials, “B. M.,” were similarly inlaid on the band.
Queen grinned as he
