The Roman Hat Mystery

Ritter answered stiffly. His eyes were strained, bloodshot. “I followed out your orders last night to the dot. I beat it down here in a police car, left it on the corner because I didn’t know but what somebody might be keeping a lookout, and strolled up to this apartment Everything was quiet — and I hadn’t noticed any lights either, because before I went in I beat it down to the court and looked up at the back windows of the apartment. So I gave ’em a nice short ring on the bell and waited.”

“No answer,” continued Ritter, with a tightening of his big jaw. “I buzzed again — this time longer and louder. This time I got results. I heard the latch on the inside rattle and this woman yodels, ‘That you, honey? Where’s your key?’ Aha — thinks I — Mr. Field’s lady friend! So I shoved my foot in the door and grabbed her before she knew what was what. Well, sir, I got a surprise. Sort of expected,” he grinned sheepishly, “sort of expected to find the woman dressed, but all I grabbed was a thin piece o’ silk nightgown. I guess I must have blushed...”

“Ah, the opportunities of our good minions of the law!” murmured Ellery, head bent over a small lacquered vase.

“Anyway,” continued the detective, “I got my hands on her and she yelped — plenty. Hustled her into the living room here where she’d put on the light, and took a good look at her. She was scared blue but she was kind of plucky, too, because she began to cuss me and she wanted to know who in hell I was, what I was tryin’ to do in a woman’s apartment at night, and all that sort of stuff. I flashed my badge. And Inspector, that hefty Sheba — the minute she sees the badge, she shuts up tight like a bluepoint and won’t answer a question I ask her!”

“Why was that?” The old man’s eyes roved from floor to ceiling as he looked over the appointments of the room.

“Hard to tell, Inspector,” said Ritter. “First she seemed scared, but when she saw my badge she bucked up wonderful. And the longer I was here the more brazen she became.”

“You didn’t tell her about Field, did you?” queried the Inspector, in a sharp, low tone.

Ritter gave his superior a reproachful glance. “Not a peep out o’ me, sir,” he said. “Well, when I saw it was no go tryin’ to get anything out of her — all she’d yell was, ‘Wait till Monte gets home, you bozo!’ — I took a look at the bedroom. Nobody there, so I shoved her inside, kept the door open and the light on and stayed all night. She climbed into bed after a while and I guess she went to sleep. At about seven this morning she popped out and started to yell all over again. Seemed to think that Field had been grabbed by headquarters. Insisted on having a newspaper. I told her nothin’ doin’ and then phoned the office. Not another thing happened since.”

“I say, Dad!” exclaimed Ellery suddenly, from a corner of the room. “What do you think our legal friend reads — you’ll never guess. ‘How to Tell Character from Handwriting’!”

The Inspector grunted as he rose. “Stop fiddling with those eternal books,” he said, “and come along.”

He flung open the bedroom door. The woman was sitting cross-legged on the bed, an ornate affair of a bastard French period style, canopied and draped from ceiling to floor with heavy damask curtains. Hagstrom leaned stolidly against the window.

Queen looked quickly about. He turned to Ritter. “Was that bed mussed up when you came in here last night — did it look as if it had been slept in?” he whispered aside.

Ritter nodded. “All right, then, Ritter,” said Queen in a genial tone. “Go home and get some rest. You deserve it. And send up Piggott on your way out.” The detective touched his hat and departed.

Queen turned on the woman. He walked to the bed and sat down beside her, studying her half-averted face. She lit a cigarette defiantly.

“I am Inspector Queen of the police, my dear,” announced the old man mildly. “I warn you that any attempt to keep a stubborn silence or lie to me will only get you into a heap of trouble. But there! Of course you understand.”

She jerked away. “I’m not answering any questions, Mr. Inspector, until I know what right you have to ask ’em. I haven’t done anything wrong and my slate’s clean. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, as if the woman’s reference to the vile weed had reminded him of his favorite vice. He said: “That’s fair enough,” in dulcet tones. “Here you are, a lonely woman suddenly tumbled out of bed in the middle of the night — you were in bed, weren’t you—?”

“Sure I was,” she flashed instantly, then bit her lip.

“—and confronted by a policeman... I don’t wonder you were frightened, my dear.”

“I was not!” she said shrilly.

“We’ll not argue about it,” rejoined the old man benevolently. “But certainly you have no objection to telling me your name?”

“I don’t know why I should but I can’t see any harm in it,” retorted the woman. “My name is Angela Russo — Mrs. Angela Russo — and I’m, well, I’m engaged to Mr. Field.”