“At any rate, that statement of hers would seem to dispose of the two side-doors near the murdered man’s seat. I will admit that all sorts of possibilities enter into the problem—for example, Madge O’Connell might have been an accomplice. I mention this only as a possibility, and not even as a theory. At any rate, it seems to me that the murderer would not have run the risk of being seen leaving from side doors. Besides, a departure in so unusual a manner and at so unusual a time would have been all the more noticeable especially since few people leave during a second act. And again—the murderer could have no foreknowledge of the O’Connell girl’s dereliction in duty—if she were not an accomplice. As the crime was carefully planned—and we must admit that from all indications it was—the murderer would have discarded the side-doors as a means of escape.
“This probe left, I felt, only one other channel of investigation. That was the main entrance. And here again we received definite testimony from the ticket-taker and the doorman outside to the effect that no one left the building during the second act by that route. Except, of course, the harmless orangeade boy.
“All the exits having been guarded or locked, and the alley having been under constant surveillance from 9:35 on by Lynch, Elinor, Johnny Chase—the usher—and after him the police—these being the facts, all my questioning and checking, gentlemen,” continued Ellery in a grave tone, “lead to the inevitable conclusion that, from the time the murder was discovered and all the time thereafter while the investigation was going on, the murderer was in the theatre!”
A silence followed Ellery’s pronouncement. “Incidentally,” he added calmly, “it occurred to me when I talked to the ushers to ask if they had seen anyone leave his seat after the second act started, and they can’t recall anyone changing seats!”
Queen idly took another pinch of snuff. “Nice work—and a very pretty piece of reasoning, my son—but nothing, after all, of a startling or conclusive nature. Granted that the murderer was in the theatre all that time—how could we possibly have laid our hands on him?”
“He didn’t say you could,” put in Sampson, smiling. “Don’t be so sensitive, old boy; nobody’s going to report you for negligence in the performance of your duty. From all I’ve heard tonight you handled the affair well.”
Queen grunted. “I’ll admit I’m a little peeved at myself for not following up that matter of the doors more thoroughly. But even if it were possible for the murderer to have left directly after the crime, I nevertheless would have had to pursue the inquiry as I did, on the chance that he was still in the theatre.”
“But dad—of course!” said Ellery seriously. “You had so many things to attend to, while all I had to do was stand around and look Socratic.”
“How about the people who have come under the eye of the investigation so far?” asked Sampson curiously.
“Well, what about them?” challenged Ellery. “We certainly can draw no definite conclusions from either their conversation or their actions. We have Parson Johnny, a thug, who was there apparently for no other reason than to enjoy a play giving some interesting sidelights on his own profession. Then there is Madge O’Connell, a very doubtful character about whom we can make no decision at this stage of the game. She might be an accomplice—she might be innocent—she might be merely negligent—she might be almost anything. Then there is William Pusak, who found Field. Did you notice the moronic cast of his head? And Benjamin Morgan—here we strike fallow ground in the realm of probability. But what do we know of his actions tonight? True, his story of the letter and the complimentary ticket sounds queer, since anyone could have written the letter, even Morgan himself. And we must always remember the public threat against Field; and also the enmity, reason unknown, which has existed between them for two years. And, lastly, we have Miss Frances Ives-Pope. I’m exceedingly sorry I was absent during that interview. The fact remains—and isn’t it an interesting one?—that her evening bag was found in the dead man’s pocket. Explain that if you can.
“So you see where we are,” Ellery continued ruefully. “All we have managed to derive from this evening’s entertainment is a plethora of suspicions and a poverty of facts.”
“So far, son,” said Queen casually, “you have kept on mighty safe ground. But you’ve forgotten the important matter of the suspiciously vacant seats. Also the rather startling fact that Field’s ticket-stub and the only other stub that could be attributed to the murderer—I refer to the LL30 Left stub found by Flint—that these two stubs do not coincide. That is to say, that the torn edges indicate they were gathered by the ticket-taker at different times!”
“Check,” said Ellery. “But let’s leave that for the moment and get on to the problem of Field’s tophat.”
“The hat—well, what do you think of it?” asked Queen curiously.
“Just this. In the first place, we have fairly established the fact that the hat is not missing through accident. The murdered man was seen by Jess Lynch with the hat in his lap ten minutes after Act II began. Since it is now missing, the only reasonable theory that would explain its absence is that the murderer took it away with him. Now—for the moment, let’s forget the problem of where the hat is now. The immediate conclusion to draw is that the hat was taken away for one of two reasons: first, that it was in some way incriminating in itself, so that if it were left behind it would point to the murderer’s identity. What the nature of this incriminating indication is we cannot even guess at the moment. Second, the hat may have contained something which the murderer wanted. You will say: Why couldn’t he take this mysterious object and leave the
