“Yes?”
“Stoates calling from Field’s office, Inspector,” came a fresh cheery young voice. “I want to put Mr. Cronin on the wire.”
The Inspector’s brow wrinkled in anticipation. Ellery was listening intently, and even Djuna, with the monkey-like eagerness of his sharp features, had become rooted to his corner, as if he, too, awaited important news. Djuna in this respect resembled his brother anthropoid—there was an alertness, a bright inquisitiveness in his attitude and mien which delighted the Queens eternally.
Finally a high-pitched voice came over the wire. “This is Tim Cronin speaking, Inspector,” it said. “How are you? I haven’t got round to seeing you for an age.”
“I’m getting a little bent and withered, Tim, but otherwise I’m still all there,” returned Queen. “What’s on your mind? Have you found anything?”
“Now that’s the very peculiar part of the whole business, Inspector,” came Cronin’s excited tones. “As you know, I’ve been watching this bird Field for years. He’s been my pet nightmare for as long as I can remember. The D.A. tells me that he gave you the story night before last, so I needn’t go into it. But in all these years of watching and waiting and digging I’ve never been able to find a solitary piece of evidence against that crook that I could bring into a courtroom. And he was a crook, Inspector—I’d stake my life on that. … Anyway, it’s the old story here. I really shouldn’t have hoped for anything better, knowing Field as I did. And yet—well, I couldn’t help praying that somewhere, somehow, he would slip up, and that I’d nail it when I could get my hands on his private records. Inspector—there’s nothing doing.”
Queen’s face reflected a fleeting disappointment, which Ellery interpreted with a sigh, rising as he did so to walk restlessly up and down the room.
“I guess we can’t help it, Tim,” returned Queen, with an effort at heartiness. “Don’t worry—we’ve other irons in the fire.”
“Inspector,” said Cronin abruptly, “you’ve got your hands full. Field was a really slick article. And from the way it looks to me, the genius who could get past his guard and put him away is a really slick article, too. He couldn’t be anything else. Incidentally, we’re not halfway through with the files and maybe what we’ve looked over isn’t as unpromising as I made it sound. There’s plenty here to suggest shady work on Field’s part—it’s just that there’s no direct incriminating evidence. We’re hoping that we find something as we go on.”
“All right, Tim—keep up the good work,” muttered the Inspector. “And let me know how you make out. … Is Lewin there?”
“You mean the office manager?” Cronin’s voice lowered. “He’s around somewhere. Why?”
“You want to keep your eye peeled,” said Queen. “I have a sneaking suspicion he’s not as stupid as he sounds. Just don’t let him get too familiar with any records lying around. For all we know, he may have been in on Field’s little sideline.”
“Right, Inspector. Call you sometime later,” and the receiver clicked as Cronin hung up.
At ten-thirty Queen and Ellery pushed open the high gate at the entrance to the Ives-Pope residence on Riverside Drive. Ellery was moved to remark that the atmosphere was a perfect invitation to formal morning-dress and that he was going to feel extremely uncomfortable when they were admitted through the stone portals.
In truth, the house which concealed the destinies of the Ives-Popes was in many respects awe-inspiring to men of the modest tastes of the Queens. It was a huge rambling old stone house, set far back from the Drive, hunched on the greensward of a respectable acreage. “Must have cost a pretty penny,” grunted the Inspector as his eyes swept the rolling lawns surrounding the building. Gardens and summerhouses; walks and bowered nooks—one would have thought himself miles away from the city which roared by a scant few rods away, behind the high iron palings which circled the mansion. The Ives-Popes were immensely wealthy and brought to this not uncommon possession a lineage stretching back into the dim recesses of American colonization.
The front door was opened by a whiskered patrician whose back seemed composed of steel and whose nose was elevated at a perilous angle toward the ceiling. Ellery lounged in the doorway, surveying this uniformed nobleman with admiration, while Inspector Queen fumbled in his pockets for a card. He was a long time producing one; the stiff-backed flunkey stood graven into stone. Red-faced, the Inspector finally discovered a battered card. He placed it on the extended salver and watched the butler retreat to some cavern of his own.
Ellery chuckled as his father drew himself up at the sight of Franklin Ives-Pope’s burly figure emerging from a wide carved doorway.
The financier hurried toward them.
“Inspector! Mr. Queen!” he exclaimed in a cordial tone. “Come right in. Have you been waiting long?”
The Inspector mumbled a greeting. They walked through a high-ceilinged shining-floored hall, decorated with austere old furniture.
“You’re on the dot, gentlemen,” said Ives-Pope, standing aside to allow them to pass into a large room. “Here are some additional members of our little board-meeting. I think you know all of us present.”
The Inspector and Ellery looked about. “I know everybody, sir, except that gentleman—I presume he is Mr. Stanford Ives-Pope,” said Queen. “I’m afraid my son has still to make the acquaintance of—Mr. Peale, is it?—Mr. Barry—and, of course, Mr. Ives-Pope.”
The introductions were made in a strained fashion. “Ah, Q.!” murmured District Attorney Sampson, hurrying across the room. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he said in a low tone. “First time I’ve met most of the people who’ll be present at the inquisition.”
“What is that fellow Peale doing here?” muttered Queen to the District Attorney, while Ellery crossed the room to engage the three young men on the other side in conversation. Ives-Pope had excused himself and disappeared.
“He’s a friend of young Ives-Pope, and, of course, he’s chummy with Barry there, too,” returned the District Attorney. “I gathered from
