“Doesn’t look as if you could make it either, Ellery,” he muttered. “And Field was no taller than you. There must be a ladder handy somewhere by which Field himself got up here!”
Cronin dashed into the kitchenette at Ellery’s nod in that direction. He was back in a moment with a six-foot stepladder. The Inspector, mounting to the highest rung, found that his fingers were still short of touching the rod. Ellery solved the difficulty by ordering his father down and climbing to the top himself. Standing on the ladder he was in a position to explore the top of the canopy.
He grasped the damask firmly and pulled. The entire fabric gave way and fell to the sides, revealing a wooden panel about twelve inches deep—a framework which the hangings had concealed. Ellery’s fingers swept swiftly over the wooden relief-work of this panel. Cronin and the Inspector were staring with varying expressions up at him. Finding nothing that at the moment presented a possibility of entrance, Ellery leaned forward and explored the damask directly beneath the floor of the panel.
“Rip it down!” growled the Inspector.
Ellery jerked violently at the material and the entire canopy of damask fell to the bed. The bare unornamented floor of the panel was revealed.
“It’s hollow,” announced Ellery, rapping his knuckles on the underside paneling.
“That doesn’t help much,” said Cronin. “It wouldn’t be a solid chunk, anyway. Why don’t you try the other side of the bed, Mr. Queen?”
But Ellery, who had drawn back and was again examining the side of the panel, exclaimed triumphantly. He had been seeking a complicated, Machiavellian “secret door”—he found now that the secret door was nothing more subtle than a sliding-panel. It was cleverly concealed—the juncture of sliding and stationary panels was covered by a row of wooden rosettes and clumsy decorations—but it was nothing that a student of mystery lore would have hailed as a triumph of concealment.
“It begins to appear as if I were being vindicated,” Ellery chuckled as he peered into the black recesses of the hole he had uncovered. He thrust a long arm into the aperture. The Inspector and Cronin were staring at him with bated breath.
“By all the pagan gods,” shouted Ellery suddenly, his lean body quivering with excitement. “Do you remember what I told you, dad? Where would those papers be except in—hats!”
His sleeve coated with dust, he withdrew his arm and the two men below saw in his hand a musty silk tophat!
Cronin executed an intricate jig as Ellery dropped the hat on the bed and dipped his arm once more into the yawning hole. In a moment he had brought out another hat—and another—and still another! There they lay on the bed—two silk hats and two derbies.
“Take this flashlight, son,” commanded the Inspector. “See if there’s anything else up there.”
Ellery took the proffered electric torch and flashed its beam into the aperture. After a moment he clambered down, shaking his head.
“That’s all,” he announced, dusting his sleeve, “but I should think it would be enough.”
The Inspector picked up the four hats and carried them into the living-room, where he deposited them on a sofa. The three men sat down gravely and regarded each other.
“I’m sort of itching to see what’s what,” said Cronin finally, in a hushed voice.
“I’m rather afraid to look,” retorted the Inspector.
“Mene mene tekel upharsin,” laughed Ellery. “In this case it might be interpreted as ‘the handwriting on the panel.’ Examine on, MacDuff!”
The Inspector picked up one of the silk hats. It bore on the rich satiny lining the chaste trademark of Browne Bros. Ripping out the lining and finding nothing beneath, he tried to tear out the leather sweatband. It resisted his mightiest efforts. He borrowed Cronin’s pocketknife and with difficulty slashed away the band. Then he looked up.
“This hat, Romans and countrymen,” he said pleasantly, “contains nothing but the familiar ingredients of hat-wear. Would you care to examine it?”
Cronin uttered a savage cry and snatched it from the Inspector’s hand. He literally tore the hat to pieces in his rage.
“Heck!” he said disgustedly, throwing the remnants on the floor. “Explain that to my undeveloped brain, will you, Inspector?”
Queen smiled, taking up the second silk hat and regarding it curiously.
“You’re at a disadvantage, Tim,” he said. “We know why one of these hats is a blank. Don’t we, Ellery?”
“Michaels,” murmured Ellery.
“Exactly—Michaels,” returned the Inspector.
“Charley Michaels!” exclaimed Cronin. “Field’s strong-arm guy, by all that’s holy! Where does he come into this?”
“Can’t tell yet. Know anything about him?”
“Nothing except that he hung onto Field’s coattails pretty closely. He’s an ex-jailbird, did you know that?”
“Yes,” replied the Inspector dreamily. “We’ll have a talk about that phase of Mr. Michaels some other time. … But let me explain that hat: Michaels on the evening of the murder laid out, according to his statement, Field’s evening clothes, including a silk hat. Michaels swore that as far as he knew Field possessed only one topper. Now if we suppose that Field used hats for concealing papers, and was going to the Roman Theatre that night wearing a ‘loaded’ one he must necessarily have substituted the loaded hat for the empty one which Michaels prepared. Since he was so careful to keep only one silk hat in the closet, he realized that Michaels, should he find a topper, would be suspicious. So, in switching hats, he had to conceal the empty one. What more natural than that he should put it in the place from which he had taken the loaded hat—the panel above the bed?”
“Well, I’ll be switched!” exclaimed Cronin.
“Finally,” resumed the Inspector, “we can take it as gospel that Field, who was devilishly careful in the matter of his headgear, intended to restore the theatre hat to its hideaway when he got home from the Roman.
