“On the contrary,” commented Ellery, staring with half-closed eyes into the fire. “You are developing a natural case of nerves. You allow little things like apprehending a murderer to upset you unduly. Pardon the hedonistic philosophy. … If you will recall, in my story entitled ‘The Affair of the Black Window,’ my good sleuths had no difficulty at all in laying their hands on the criminal. And why? Because they kept their heads. Conclusion: Always keep your head. … I’m thinking of tomorrow. Glorious vacation!”
“For an educated man, my son,” growled the Inspector petulantly, “you show a surprising lack of coherence. You say things that mean nothing and mean things when you say nothing. No—I’m all mixed up—”
Ellery burst into laughter. “The Maine woods—the russet—the good Chauvin’s cabin by the lake—a rod—air—Oh Lord, won’t tomorrow ever come?”
Inspector Queen regarded his son with a pitiful eagerness. “I—I sort of wish. … Well, never mind.” He sighed. “All I do say, El, is that if my little burglar fails—it’s all up with us.”
“To the blessed Gehenna with burglars!” cried Ellery. “What has Pan to do with human tribulation? My next book is as good as written, dad.”
“Stealing another idea from real life, you rascal,” muttered the old man. “If you’re borrowing the Field case for your plot, I’d be extremely interested to read your last few chapters!”
“Poor dad!” chuckled Ellery. “Don’t take life so seriously. If you fail, you fail. Monte Field wasn’t worth a hill of legumes, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” said the old man. “I hate to admit defeat. … What a queer mess of motives and schemes this case is, Ellery. This is the first time in my entire experience that I have had such a hard nut to crack. It’s enough to give a man apoplexy! I know who committed the murder—I know why the murder was committed—I even know how the murder was committed! And where am I? …” He paused and savagely took a pinch of snuff. “A million miles from nowhere, that’s where!” he growled, and subsided.
“Certainly a most unusual situation,” murmured Ellery. “Yet—more difficult things have been accomplished. … Heigh-ho! I can’t wait to bathe myself in that Arcadian stream!”
“And get pneumonia, probably,” said the Inspector anxiously. “You promise me now, young man, that you don’t do any back-to-Nature stunts out there. I don’t want a funeral on my hands—I. …”
Ellery grew silent suddenly. He looked over at his father. The Inspector seemed strangely old in the flickering light of the fire. An expression of pain humanized the deeply sculptured lines of his face. His hand, brushing back his thick grey hair, looked alarmingly fragile.
Ellery rose, hesitated, colored, then bent swiftly forward and patted his father on the shoulder.
“Brace up, dad,” he said in a low voice. “If it weren’t for my arrangements with Chauvin. … Everything will be all right—take my word for it. If there were the slightest way in which I could help you by remaining. … But there isn’t. It’s your job now, dad—and there’s no man in the world who can handle it better than you. …” The old man stared up at him with a strange affection. Ellery turned abruptly away. “Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll have to pack now if I expect to make the 7:45 out of Grand Central tomorrow morning.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. Djuna, who had been sitting Turkish-wise in his corner, got quietly to his feet and crossed the room to the Inspector’s chair. He slipped to the floor, his head resting against the old man’s knees. The silence was punctuated by the snapping of wood in the fireplace and the muffled sounds of Ellery moving about in the next room.
Inspector Queen was very tired. His face, worn, thin, white, lined, was like a cameo in the dull red light. His hand caressed Djuna’s curly head.
“Djuna, lad,” he muttered, “never be a policeman when you grow up.”
Djuna twisted his neck and stared gravely at the old man. “I’m going to be just what you are,” he announced. …
The old man leaped to his feet as the telephone bell rang. He snatched the instrument from its table, his face livid, and said in a choked voice: “Queen speaking. Well?”
After a time he put down the phone and trudged across the room toward the bedroom. He leaned against the lintel heavily. Ellery straightened up from his suitcase—and jumped forward.
“Dad!” he cried. “What’s the matter?”
The Inspector essayed a feeble smile. “Just—a—little tired, son, I guess,” he grunted. “I just heard from our housebreaker. …”
“And—?”
“He found absolutely nothing.”
Ellery gripped his father’s arm and led him to the chair by the bed. The old man slumped into it, his eyes ineffably weary. “Ellery, old son,” he said, “the last shred of evidence is gone. It’s maddening! Not a morsel of physical, tangible evidence that would convict the murderer in court. What have we? A series of perfectly sound deductions—and that’s all. A good lawyer would make Swiss cheese out of our case. … Well! The last word hasn’t been spoken yet,” he added with a sudden grimness as he rose from the chair. He pounded Ellery’s broad back in returning vigor.
“Get to bed, son,” he said. “You’ve got to get up early tomorrow morning. I’m going to sit up and think.”
Interlude
In which the reader’s attention is respectfully requested
The current vogue in detective literature is all for the practice of placing the reader in the position of chief sleuth. I have prevailed upon Mr. Ellery Queen to permit at this point in The Roman Hat Mystery the interpolation of a challenge to the reader. … “Who killed Monte Field?” “How was the murder accomplished?” … Mr. Queen agrees with me that the alert student of mystery tales, now being in possession of all the pertinent facts, should at this stage of the story have reached definite conclusions on the questions propounded. The solution—or enough of it to point unerringly to the guilty character—may be reached by a series of logical deductions and psychological observations. …
