“Yes? That’s interesting, madam,” commented the Inspector. “About what time was this—can you recall?”
“I don’t remember the time, sir,” shrilled the old lady, “but it was about ten minutes or so after the beginning of the act.”
“I see. … And do you recall anything of her appearance? Was she young or old? What did she wear?”
The old lady looked troubled. “I don’t exactly remember, sir,” she quavered. “I wasn’t paying—”
A high, clear voice interrupted from the rear. Heads twisted about. Madge O’Connell had jumped to her feet.
“You don’t have to mess around with that any more. Inspector,” she announced coldly. “That lady saw me walking down the aisle and back again. That was before I—you know.” She winked pertly in the Inspector’s direction.
People gasped. The old lady stared with pitiful bewilderment at the usherette, then at the Inspector and finally sat down.
“I’m not surprised,” said the Inspector quietly. “Well, anybody else?”
There was no answer. Realizing that the company might feel shy of announcing their thoughts in public Queen started up the aisle, working from row to row, questioning each person separately in tones inaudible to the rest. When he had finished he returned slowly to his original position.
“I see that I must allow you ladies and gentlemen to return to your peaceful firesides. Thank you very much for your help. … Dismissed!”
He flung the word at them. They stared at him dazedly, then rose in muttering groups, took up their coats and hats and under Velie’s stern eye began to file out of the theatre. Hilda Orange, standing in the group behind the last row, sighed.
“It’s almost embarrassing to see that poor old gentleman’s disappointment,” she whispered to the others. “Come on, folks, let’s be going, too.”
The actors and actresses left the theatre among the departing company.
When the last man and woman had disappeared, the Inspector marched back up the aisle and stood gloomily staring at the little group who were left. They seemed to sense the seething fire in the old man and they cowered. But the Inspector, with a characteristic lightning change of front, became human again.
He sat down in one of the seats and folded his arms over the back, surveying Madge O’Connell, Parson Johnny and the others.
“All right, folks,” he said in a genial tone. “How about you, Parson? You’re a free man, you don’t have to worry about silks any more and you can speak up now like any self-respecting citizen. Can you give us any help in this affair?”
“Naw,” grunted the little gangster. “I told you all I knew. Ain’t got a thing to say.”
“I see. … You know, Parson, that we’re interested in your dealings with Field.” The gangster looked up in shocked surprise. “Oh, yes,” continued the Inspector. “We want you to tell us sometime about your business with Mr. Field in the past. You’ll keep that in mind, won’t you? … Parson,” he said sharply, “who killed Monte Field? Who had it in for him? If you know—out with it!”
“Aw, Inspector,” the Parson whined, “you ain’t pullin’ that stuff on me again, are you? How should I know? Field was one slick guy—he didn’t go around welching on his enemies. No, sir! I wouldn’t know. … He was pretty good to me—got me off on a couple of charges,” he admitted unblushingly. “But I didn’t have no more idea he was here Monday night than—hell, than anything.”
The Inspector turned to Madge O’Connell.
“How about you, O’Connell?” he asked softly. “My son, Mr. Queen, tells me that on Monday night you confided in him about closing the exit-doors. You didn’t say anything to me about that. What do you know?”
The girl returned his stare coolly. “I told you once, Inspector. I haven’t a thing to say.”
“And you, William Pusak—” Queen turned to the weazened little bookkeeper. “Do you remember anything now that you forgot Monday night?”
Pusak wriggled uncomfortably. “Meant to tell you, Inspector,” he mumbled. “And when I read about it in the papers it came back to me. … As I bent over Mr. Field Monday night I smelled a terrible smell of whiskey. I don’t remember if I told you that before.”
“Thank you,” remarked the Inspector dryly, rising. “A very important contribution to our little investigation. You may go, the whole lot of you. …”
The orangeade-boy, Jess Lynch, looked disappointed. “Don’t you want to talk to me, too, sir?” he asked anxiously.
The Inspector smiled despite his abstraction. “Ah, yes. The helpful purveyor of orangeade. … And what have you to say, Jess?”
“Well, sir, before this fellow Field came over to my stand to ask for the ginger ale, I happened to notice that he picked up something in the alleyway,” said the boy eagerly. “It was shiny, sort of, but I couldn’t see it clear enough. He put it in his hip-pocket right away.”
He concluded triumphantly, glancing about him as if to invite applause. The Inspector seemed interested enough.
“What was this shiny object like, Jess?” he inquired. “Might it have been a revolver?”
“Revolver? Gosh, I don’t think so,” said the orangeade-boy doubtfully. “It was square, like. …”
“Might it have been a woman’s purse?” interrupted the Inspector.
The boy’s face brightened. “That’s it!” he cried. “I’ll bet that’s what it was. Shined all over, like colored stones.”
Queen sighed. “Very good. Lynch,” he said. “You go home now like a good boy.”
Silently the gangster, the usherette, Pusak and his feminine charge, and the orangeade-boy rose and departed. Velie accompanied them to the outer door.
Sampson waited until they had gone before he took the Inspector to one side.
“What’s the matter, Q.?” he demanded. “Aren’t things going right?”
“Henry, my boy,” smiled the Inspector, “we’ve done as much as mortal brains could. Just a little more time. … I wish—” He did not say what he wished. He grasped Djuna firmly by the arm and
