The Roman Hat Mystery

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.

With a flutter of excited conversation the two men and three women departed, Johnson closing the door behind them.

Queen whirled on Parson Johnny.

“Bring that rat here!” he snapped to the policeman. He sat down in Panzer’s chair and drew the tips of his fingers together. The gangster was jerked to his feet and marched across the carpet, to be pushed directly in front of the desk.

“Now, Parson,” said Queen menacingly. “I’ve got you where I want you. We’re going to have a nice little talk with nobody to interrupt. Get me?”

The Parson was silent, his eyes liquid with distrust.

“So you won’t say anything, eh, Johnny? How long do you think I’ll let you get away with that?”

“I told you before — I don’t know nothin’ and besides I won’t say nothin’ till I see my lawyer,” the gangster said sullenly.

“Your lawyer? Well, Parson, who is your lawyer?” asked the Inspector in an innocent tone.

The Parson bit his lip, remaining silent. Queen turned to Johnson.

“Johnson, my boy, you worked on the Babylon stickup, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Sure did, Chief,” said the detective.

“That,” explained Queen gently, to the gangster, “was when you were sent up for a year. Remember, Parson?”

Still silence.

“And Johnson,” continued the Inspector, leaning back in his chair, “refresh my memory. Who was the lawyer defending our friend here?”

“Field. By—” Johnson exclaimed, staring at the Parson.

“Exactly. The gentleman now lying on one of our unfeeling slabs at the morgue. Well, what about it? Cut the comedy! Where do you come off saying you don’t know Monte Field? You knew his first name, all right, when I mentioned only his last. Come clean, now!”

The gangster had sagged against the policeman, a furtive despair in his eyes. He moistened his lips and said, “You got me there, Inspector. I–I don’t know nothin’ about this, though, honest I ain’t seen Field in a month. I didn’t — my Gawd, you’re not tryin’ to tie this croakin’ around my neck, are you?”

He stared at Queen in anguish. The policeman jerked him straight.

“Parson, Parson,” said Queen, “how you do jump at conclusions. I’m merely looking for a little information. Of course, if you want to confess to the murder I’ll call my men in and we can get your story all straight and go home to bed. How about it?”

“No!” shouted the gangster, thrashing out suddenly with his arm. The officer caught it deftly and twisted it behind the squirming back. “Where do you get that stuff? I ain’t confessin’ nothin’. I don’t know nothin’. I didn’t see Field tonight an’ I didn’t even know he was here! Confess... I got some mighty influential friends, Inspector — you can’t pull that stuff on me, I’ll tell you!”

“That’s too bad, Johnny,” sighed the Inspector. He took a pinch of snuff. “All right, then. You didn’t kill Monte Field. What time did you get here tonight, and Where’s your ticket?”

The Parson twisted his hat in his hands. “I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’ before, Inspector, because I figured you was tryin’ to railroad me. I can explain when and how I got here all right. It was about half past eight, and I got in on a pass, that’s how. Here’s the stub to prove it.” He searched carefully in his coat pocket and produced a perforated blue stub. He handed it to Queen, who glanced at it carefully and put it in his pocket.

“And where,” he asked, “and where did you get the pass, Johnny?”

“I — my girl give it to me, Inspector,” replied the gangster nervously.

“Ah — the woman enters the case,” said Queen jovially. “And what might this young Circe’s name be, Johnny?”

“Who? — why, she’s — hey, Inspector, don’t get her in no trouble, will you?” burst out Parson Johnny. “She’s a reg’lar kid, an’ she don’t know nothin’ either. Honest, I—”

“Her name?” snapped Queen.

“Madge O’Connell,” whined Johnny. “She’s an usher here.”

Queen’s eyes lit up. A quick glance passed between him and Johnson. The detective left the room.

“So,” continued the Inspector, leaning back again comfortably, “so my old friend Parson Johnny doesn’t know a thing about Monte Field. Well, well, well! We’ll see how your lady-friend’s story backs you up.” As he talked he looked steadily at the hat in the gangster’s hand. It was a cheap black fedora, matching the sombre suit which the man was wearing. “Here, Parson,” he said suddenly. “Hand over that hat of yours.”