Ellery Queen - Roman Hat Mystery

“Morgan set?” asked Queen.

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Well, then, you have one more job and you’ll be through for the night, Thomas. I want you to superintend the departure of the people seated in the orchestra and boxes. Have them leave one by one, and overhaul them as they go out. No one is to leave by any exit except the main door, and just to make sure tell the men at the side exits to keep ’em moving toward the rear.” Velie nodded. “Now, about the search. Piggott!” The detective came on the run. “Piggott, you accompany Mr. Queen and Sergeant Velie and help search every man who goes out the main door. There’ll be a matron there to search the women. Examine every parcel. Go over their pockets for anything suspicious; collect all the ticket stubs; and watch especially for an extra hat. The hat I want is a silk topper. But if you find any other kind of extra hat, nab the owner and be sure he’s nabbed properly. Now, boys, get to work!”

Ellery, who had been lounging against a pillar, straightened up and followed Piggott. As Velie stalked behind, Queen called, “Don’t release the people in the balcony until the orchestra is empty. Send somebody up there to keep them quiet.”

With his last important instruction given the Inspector turned to Doyle, who was standing guard nearby, and said quietly, “Shoot downstairs to the cloakroom, Doyle, my lad, and keep your eyes open while the people are getting their wraps. When they’re all gone, search the place with a fine comb. If there is anything left in the racks, bring it to me.”

Queen leaned back against the pillar which loomed, a marble sentinel, over the seat in which murder had been done. As he stood there, eyes blank, hands clutching his lapels, the broad-shouldered Flint hurried up with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. Inspector Queen regarded him critically.

“Found something, Flint?” he asked, fumbling for his snuffbox.

The detective silently offered him a half-ticket, colored blue, and marked “LL30 Left.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Queen. “Where did you find that?”

“Right inside the main door,” said Flint. “Looked as if it was dropped just as the owner came into the theatre.”

Queen did not answer. With a swooping dip of his fingers he extracted from his vest pocket the blue-colored stub he had found on the dead man’s person. He regarded them in silence — two identically colored and marked stubs, one with the inscription LL32 Left, the other LL30 Left.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the innocent-appearing pasteboards. He bent closer, slowly turning the stubs back to back. Then, with a puzzled light in his gray eyes, he turned them front to front. Still unsatisfied, he turned them back to front.

In none of the three positions did the torn edges of the tickets coincide!

Queen made his way across the broad red carpet covering the rear of the orchestra, his hat pulled down over his eyes. He was searching the recesses of his pocket for the inevitable snuffbox. The Inspector was evidently engaged in a weighty mental process, for his hand closed tightly upon the two blue ticket stubs and he grimaced, as if he were not at all satisfied with his thoughts.

Before opening the green-speckled door marked “Manager’s Office,” he turned to survey the scene behind him. The stir in the audience was businesslike. A great chattering filled the air; policemen and detectives circulated among the rows, giving orders, answering questions, hustling people out of their seats, lining them up in the main aisles to be searched at the huge outer door. The Inspector noticed absently that there was little protest from the audience at the ordeal they were facing. They seemed too tired to resent the indignity of a search. A long queue of half-angry, half-amused women was lined up at one side being examined rapidly, one by one, by a motherly woman dressed in black. Queen glanced briefly at the detectives blocking the door. Piggott with the experience of long practice was making rapid passes over the clothing of the men. Velie, at his side, was studying the reaction of the various people undergoing examination. Occasionally he searched a man himself. Ellery stood a little apart, hands in his capacious topcoat pockets smoking a cigarette and seeming to be thinking of nothing more important than the first edition he had missed buying.

Queen sighed, and went in.

The anteroom to the main office was a tiny place, fitted out in bronze and oak. On one of the chairs against the wall, burrowed into the deep leather cushions, sat Parson Johnny, puffing at a cigarette with a show of unconcern. A policeman stood by the chair, one massive hand on the Parson’s shoulder.

“Trail along, Parson,” said Queen casually, without stopping. The little gangster lounged to his feet, spun his cigarette butt deftly into a shining brass cuspidor, and slouched after the Inspector, the policeman treading on his heels.

Queen opened the door to the main office, glancing quickly about him as he stood on the threshold. Then he stepped aside, allowing the gangster and the bluecoat to precede him. The door banged shut behind them.

Louis Panzer had an unusual taste in office appointments. A clear green light-shade shone brilliantly above a carved desk. Chairs and smoking stands; a skillfully wrought clothes-tree; silk-covered divan — these and other articles were strewn tastefully about the room. Unlike most managers’ offices, Panzer’s did not exploit photographs of stars, managers, producers and “angels.” Several delicate prints, a huge tapestry, and a Constable oil painting hung on the wall.

But Inspector Queen’s scrutiny at the moment was not for the artistic quality of Mr. Panzer’s private chamber. It was rather for the six people who faced him. Beside Detective Johnson sat a middle-aged man inclining to corpulence, with shrewd eyes and a puzzled frown. He wore faultless evening clothes. In the next chair sat a young girl of considerable beauty, attired in a simple evening gown and wrap. She was looking up at a handsome young man in evening clothes, hat in hand, who was bending over her chair and talking earnestly in an undertone. Beside them were two other women, both leaning forward and listening intently.

The stout man held aloof from the others. At Inspector Queen’s entrance he immediately got to his feet with an inquiring look. The little group became silent and turned solemn faces on Queen.

With a deprecating cough Parson Johnny, accompanied by his escort, sidled across the rug into a corner. He seemed overwhelmed by the splendor of the company in which he found himself. He shuffled his feet and cast a despairing look in the direction of the Inspector.

Queen moved over to the desk and faced the group. At a motion of his hand Johnson came quickly to his side.

“Who are the three extra people, Johnson?” he asked in a tone inaudible to the others.

“The old fellow there is Morgan,” whispered Johnson, “and the good-looker sitting near him is the woman you told me to get. When I went for her in the orchestra I found the young chap and the other two women with her. The four of ’em were pretty chummy. I gave her your message, and she seemed nervous. But she stood up and came along like a major — only the other three came, too. I didn’t know but what you’d like to see ’em, Inspector...”

Queen nodded. “Hear anything?” he asked in the same low tone.

“Not a peep, Inspector. The old chap doesn’t seem to know any of these people. The others have just been wondering why you could possibly want her.”

The Inspector waved Johnson to a corner and addressed the waiting group.

“I’ve summoned two of you,” he said pleasantly, “for a little chat. And since the others are here, too, it will be all right for them to wait. But for the moment I must ask you all to step into the anteroom while I conduct a little business with this gentleman.” He inclined his head toward the gangster, who stiffened indignantly.