“Well, gentlemen, the great search is finished, over, kaput, and the perspiring detectives will now partake of midnight tiffin.” He laughed and slapped his father affectionately on the shoulder.
“But, Ellery!” cried Queen delightedly. “This is a welcome surprise! Henry, will you join us in a little celebration?” He filled three paper cups with the steaming coffee.
“I don’t know what you’re celebrating, but count me in,” said Sampson and the three men fell to with enthusiasm.
“What’s happened, Ellery?” asked the old man, sipping his coffee contentedly.
“Gods do not eat, neither do they drink,” murmured Ellery, from behind a cream puff. “I am not omnipotent, and suppose you tell me what happened in your impromptu torture-chamber. … I can tell you one thing you don’t know, however. Mr. Libby, of Libby’s ice-cream parlor, whence came these elegant cakes, confirms Jess Lynch’s story about the ginger ale. And Miss Elinor Libby nicely corroborated the alley story.”
Queen wiped his lips daintily with a huge handkerchief. “Well, let Prouty make sure about the ginger ale, anyway. As for me, I interviewed several people and now I have nothing to do.”
“Thank you,” remarked Ellery dryly. “That was a perfect recitation. Have you acquainted the D.A. with the events of this tumultuous evening?”
“Gentlemen,” said Sampson, setting down his cup, “here’s what I know. About a half-hour ago I was telephoned by ‘one of my very good friends’—who happens to wield a little power behind the scenes—and he told me in no uncertain terms that during tonight’s performance a man was murdered. Inspector Richard Queen, he said, had descended upon the theatorium like a whirlwind, accompanied by his minor whirlwinds, and had proceeded to make everybody wait over an hour—an inexcusable, totally unwarranted procedure, my friend charged. He further deposed that said Inspector even went so far as to accuse him personally of the crime, and had domineering policemen search him and his wife and daughter before they were allowed to leave the theatre.
“So much for my informant’s story—the rest of his conversation, being rather profane, is irrelevant. The only other thing I know is that Velie told me outside who the murdered man was. And that, gentlemen, was the most interesting part of the whole story.”
“You know almost as much about this case as I do,” grunted Queen. “Probably more, because I have an idea you are thoroughly familiar with Field’s operations. … Ellery, what happened outside during the search?”
Ellery crossed his legs comfortably. “As you might have guessed, the search of the audience was entirely without result. Nothing out of the way was found. Not one solitary thing. Nobody looked guilty, and nobody took it upon himself to confess. In other words, it was a complete fiasco.”
“Of course, of course,” said Queen. “There’s somebody almighty clever behind this business. I suppose you didn’t even come across the suspicion of an extra hat?”
“That, dad,” remarked Ellery, “was what I was decorating the lobby for. No—no hat.”
“Are they all through out there?”
“Just finished when I strolled across the street for the refreshments,” said Ellery. “There was nothing else to do but allow the angry mob in the gallery to file downstairs and out into the street. Everybody’s out now—the galleryites, the employees, the cast. … Queer species, actors. All night they play God and then suddenly they find themselves reduced to ordinary street clothes and the ills that flesh is heir to. By the way, Velie also searched the five people who came out of this office. Quite a motor that young lady possesses. Miss Ives-Pope and her party, I gathered. … Didn’t know but that you might have forgotten them,” he chuckled.
“So we’re up a tree, eh?” muttered the Inspector. “Here’s the story, Henry.” And he gave a concise resume of the evening’s events to Sampson, who sat silently throughout, frowning.
“And that,” concluded Queen, after describing briefly the scenes enacted in the little office, “is that. Now, Henry, you must have something to tell us about Monte Field. We know that he was a slick article—but that’s all we do know.”
“That would be putting it mildly,” said Sampson savagely. “I can give you almost by rote the story of his life. It looks to me as if you’re going to have a difficult time and some incident in his past might give you a clue.
“Field first came under the scrutiny of my office during my predecessor’s regime. He was suspected of negotiating a swindle connected with the bucket-shop scandals. Cronin, an assistant D.A. at the time, couldn’t get a thing on him. Field had covered his operations well. All we had was the telltale story, which might or might not have been true, of a ‘stool-pigeon’ who had been kicked out of the mob. Of course, Cronin never let on to Field directly or indirectly that he was under suspicion. The affair blew over and although Cronin was a bulldog, every time he thought he had something he found that he had nothing after all. Oh, no question about it—Field was slick.
“When I came into office, on Cronin’s fervent suggestion we began an exhaustive investigation of Field’s background. On the q.t., of course. And this is what we discovered: Monte Field came of a blue-blood New England family—the kind that doesn’t brag about its Mayflower descendants. He had private tutoring as a kid, went to a swanky prep school, got through by the skin of his teeth and then was sent to Harvard by his father as a sort of last despairing gesture. He seems to have been a pretty bad egg even as a boy. Nothing criminal, but just wild. On the other hand, he must have had a grain of pride because when the blowup came he actually shortened his name. The family name was Fielding—and he became Monte Field.”
Queen and
