Part Four
“The perfect criminal is a superman. He must be meticulous in his technique: unseen, unseeable, a Lone Wolf. He must have neither friends nor dependents. He must be careful to a fault, quick of brain, hand and foot. … But these are nothing. There have been such men. … On the other hand, he must be a favored child of Fate—for circumstances over which he cannot have the remotest control must never contrive his downfall. This, I think, is more difficult to achieve. … But the last is most difficult of all. He must never repeat his crime, his weapon or his motive! … In all my twoscore years as an official of the American police I have not once encountered the perfect criminal nor investigated the perfect crime.”
From American Crime and Methods of Detection,
by Richard Queen
XIX
In Which Inspector Queen Conducts More Legal Conversations
It was notable, particularly to District Attorney Sampson, that on Saturday evening Inspector Richard Queen was far from being himself. The old man was irritable, snappish and utterly uncongenial. He paced fretfully across the carpet of Manager Louis Panzer’s office, biting his lips and muttering beneath his breath. He seemed oblivious to the presence of Sampson, Panzer and a third person who had never been in that theatrical sanctum before and was seated, mouse-like, in one of Panzer’s big chairs, his eyes like saucers. This was bright-eyed Djuna, granted the unprecedented privilege of accompanying his grey patron on this latest incursion into the Roman Theatre.
In truth, Queen was singularly depressed. He had many times in his official life been confronted by apparently insoluble problems; he had as many times brought triumph out of failure. The Inspector’s strange manner therefore was doubly inexplicable to Sampson, who had been associated with the old man for years and had never seen him so completely unstrung.
The old man’s moodiness was not due to the progress of the Field investigation, as Sampson worriedly thought. Wiry little Djuna, sitting open-mouthed in his corner, was the only spectator to the Inspector’s mad pacing who could have put his finger on the truth. Djuna, wise by virtue of gamin perspicacity, observant by nature, familiar with Queen’s temperament through a loving association, knew that his patron’s manner was due solely to Ellery’s absence from the scene. Ellery had left New York on the 7:45 express that morning, having been gloomily accompanied to the station by his father. At the last moment the younger man had changed his mind, announcing his decision to forego the trip to Maine and abide in New York by his father’s side until the case was concluded. The old man would have none of it. With his shrewd insight into Ellery’s nature, he realized how keenly his highly strung son had been looking forward to this first vacation in over a year. It was not in his heart, impatient as he was for the constant presence of his son, to deprive him of this long contemplated pleasure trip.
Accordingly, he had swept aside Ellery’s proposal and pushed him up the steps of the train, with a parting clap and a wan smile. Ellery’s last words, shouted from the platform as the train glided out of the station, were: “I’m not forgetting you, dad. You’ll hear from me sooner than you expect!”
Now, torturing the nap of Manager Panzer’s rug, the Inspector was feeling the full impact of their separation. His brain was addled, his constitution flabby, his stomach weak, his eyes dim. He felt completely out of tune with the world and its denizens, and he made no attempt to conceal his irritation.
“Should be about time now, Panzer,” he growled to the stout little manager. “How long does this infernal audience take to clear out, anyway?”
“In a moment, Inspector, in a moment,” replied Panzer. The District Attorney sniffed away the remnants of his cold. Djuna stared in fascination at his god.
A rap on the door twisted their heads about. Towheaded Harry Neilson, the publicity man, poked his rugged face into the room. “Mind if I join the little party, Inspector?” he inquired cheerfully. “I was in at the birth, and if there’s going to be a death—why, I’m aiming to stick around, with your permission!”
The Inspector shot him a dour glare from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. He stood in a Napoleonic attitude, his every hair and muscle bristling with ill-nature. Sampson regarded him in surprise. Inspector Queen was showing an unexpected side to his temper.
“Might’s well,” he barked. “One more won’t hurt. There’s an army here as it is.”
Neilson reddened slightly and made a move as if to withdraw. The Inspector’s eye twinkled with a partial return to good spirits.
“Here—sit down, Neilson,” he said, not unkindly. “Mustn’t mind an old fogey like me. I’m just frazzled a bit. Might need you tonight at that.”
“Glad to be let in on it, Inspector,” grinned Neilson. “What’s the idea—sort of Spanish Inquisition?”
“Just about.” The old man bent his brows. “But—we’ll see.”
At this moment the door opened and the tall, broad figure of Sergeant Velie stepped quickly into the room. He was carrying a sheet of paper which he handed to the Inspector.
“All present, sir,” he said.
“Everybody out?” snapped Queen.
“Yes, sir. I’ve told the cleaning-women to go down into the lounge and hang around until we’re through. Cashiers have gone home, so have the ushers and usherettes. Cast is backstage, I guess, getting dressed.”
“Right. Let’s go, gentlemen.” The Inspector stalked out of the room followed closely by Djuna, who had not opened his mouth all evening except to emit noiseless gasps of admiration, for no reason that the amused District Attorney could see. Panzer, Sampson and Neilson also followed, Velie bringing up the rear.
The auditorium was again a vast and deserted place, the empty rows of seats stark and cold.
