He pulled down the leather inner-band of the second silk hat, which also bore the imprint of Browne Bros. “Look at this, will you!” he exclaimed. The two men bent over and saw on the inner surface of the band, lettered with painful clarity in a purplish ink, the words Benjamin Morgan.
“I’ve got to pledge you to secrecy, Tim,” said the Inspector immediately, turning to the red-haired man. “Never let on that you were a witness to the finding of papers in any way implicating Benjamin Morgan in this affair.”
“What do you think I am, Inspector?” growled Cronin. “I’m as dumb as an oyster, believe me!”
“All right, then.” Queen felt the lining of the hat. There was a distinct crackle.
“Now,” remarked Ellery calmly, “we know for the first time definitely why the murderer had to take away the hat Field wore Monday night. In all likelihood the murderer’s name was lettered in the same way—that’s indelible ink, you know—and the murderer couldn’t leave a hat with his own name in it at the scene of the crime.”
“By gosh, if you only had that hat, now,” cried Cronin, “you’d know who the murderer is!”
“I’m afraid, Tim,” replied the Inspector dryly, “that hat is gone forever.”
He indicated a row of careful stitches at the base of the inner band, where the lining was attached to the fabric. He ripped these stitches swiftly and inserted his fingers between the lining and the crown. Silently he drew out a sheaf of papers held together by a thin rubber band.
“If I were as nasty as some people think I am,” mused Ellery, leaning back, “I might with perfect justice say, ‘I told you so.’ ”
“We know when we’re licked, my son—don’t rub it in,” chortled the Inspector. He snapped off the rubber band, glanced hastily through the papers and with a satisfied grin deposited them in his breast pocket.
“Morgan’s, all right,” he said briefly, and attacked one of the derbies.
The inner side of the band was marked cryptically with an X. The Inspector found a row of stitches exactly as in the silk hat. The papers he drew out—a thicker bundle than Morgan’s—he examined cursorily. Then he handed them to Cronin, whose fingers were trembling.
“A stroke of luck, Tim,” he said slowly. “The man you were angling for is dead, but there are a lot of big names in this. I think you’ll find yourself a hero one of these days.”
Cronin grasped the bundle and feverishly unfolded the papers, one by one. “They’re here—they’re here!” he shouted. He jumped to his feet, stuffing the sheaf into his pocket.
“I’ve got to beat it. Inspector,” he said rapidly. “There’s a load of work to do at last—and besides, what you find in that fourth hat is none of my business. I can’t thank you and Mr. Queen enough! So long!”
He dashed from the room, and a moment later the snores of the policeman in the foyer came to an abrupt end. The outer door banged shut.
Ellery and the Inspector looked at each other.
“I don’t know what good this stuff is going to do us,” grumbled the old man, fumbling with the inner band of the last hat, a derby. “We’ve found things and deduced things and run rings around our imaginations—well. …” He sighed as he held the band up to the light.
It was marked: Misc.
XVIII
Stalemate
At Friday noon, while Inspector Queen, Ellery and Timothy Cronin were deep in their search of Monte Field’s rooms, Sergeant Velie, sombre and unmoved as usual, walked slowly up 87th Street from Broadway, mounted the brownstone steps of the house in which the Queens lived and rang the bell. Djuna’s cheery voice bade him ascend, which the good Sergeant did with gravity.
“Inspector’s not home!” announced Djuna pertly, his slim body completely hidden behind an enormous housewife’s apron. Odorous traces of an onion-covered steak pervaded the air.
“Get on with you, you imp!” growled Velie. He took from his inner breast pocket a bulky envelope, sealed, and handed it to Djuna. “Give this to the Inspector when he comes home. Forget, and I’ll dip you into the East River.”
“You and who else?” breathed Djuna, with a remarkable twitching of his lips. Then he added decorously, “Yes, sir.”
“All right, then.” Velie deliberately turned about and descended to the street, where his broad back was visible in formidable proportions to the grinning Djuna from the fourth-story window.
When, at a little before six, the two Queens trudged wearily into their rooms, the alert eyes of the Inspector pounced upon the official envelope where it lay on his plate.
He tore off a corner of the envelope and pulled out a number of typewritten sheets on the stationery of the Detective Bureau.
“Well, well!” he muttered to Ellery, who was lazily pulling off his topcoat. “The clans are gathering. …”
Sinking into an armchair, his hat forgotten on his head, his coat still buttoned, he set about reading the reports aloud.
The first slip read:
Report of Release
28 September 192‒
John Cazzanelli, alias Parson Johnny, alias John the Wop, alias Peter Dominick, released from custody today on parole.
Undercover investigation of J. C.’s complicity in the robbery of the Bonomo Silk Mills (June 2, 192‒) not successful. We are searching for “Dinky” Morehouse, police informer, who has disappeared from usual haunts, for further information.
Release effected under advice of District Attorney Sampson. J. C. under surveillance and is available at any time.
The second report which the Inspector picked up, laying aside the advices concerning Parson Johnny with a frown, read as follows:
Report on William Pusak
September 28, 192‒
Investigation of the history of William Pusak reveals the following:
32 years old; born in Brooklyn, N. Y., of naturalized parents; unmarried; regular habits; socially inclined; has “dates” three or four nights a week; religious. Is bookkeeper at Stein & Rauch, clothing merchants, 1076 Broadway. Does not
