XVIII
Stalemate
At Friday noon, while Inspector Queen, Ellery and Timothy Cronin were deep in their search of Monte Field’s rooms, Sergeant Velie, sombre and unmoved as usual, walked slowly up 87th Street from Broadway, mounted the brownstone steps of the house in which the Queens lived and rang the bell. Djuna’s cheery voice bade him ascend, which the good Sergeant did with gravity.
“Inspector’s not home!” announced Djuna pertly, his slim body completely hidden behind an enormous housewife’s apron. Odorous traces of an onion-covered steak pervaded the air.
“Get on with you, you imp!” growled Velie. He took from his inner breast pocket a bulky envelope, sealed, and handed it to Djuna. “Give this to the Inspector when he comes home. Forget, and I’ll dip you into the East River.”
“You and who else?” breathed Djuna, with a remarkable twitching of his lips. Then he added decorously, “Yes, sir.”
“All right, then.” Velie deliberately turned about and descended to the street, where his broad back was visible in formidable proportions to the grinning Djuna from the fourth-story window.
When, at a little before six, the two Queens trudged wearily into their rooms, the alert eyes of the Inspector pounced upon the official envelope where it lay on his plate.
He tore off a corner of the envelope and pulled out a number of typewritten sheets on the stationery of the Detective Bureau.
“Well, well!” he muttered to Ellery, who was lazily pulling off his topcoat. “The clans are gathering. …”
Sinking into an armchair, his hat forgotten on his head, his coat still buttoned, he set about reading the reports aloud.
The first slip read:
John Cazzanelli, alias Parson Johnny, alias John the Wop, alias Peter Dominick, released from custody today on parole.
Undercover investigation of J. C.’s complicity in the robbery of the Bonomo Silk Mills (June 2, 192‒) not successful. We are searching for “Dinky” Morehouse, police informer, who has disappeared from usual haunts, for further information.
Release effected under advice of District Attorney Sampson. J. C. under surveillance and is available at any time.
The second report which the Inspector picked up, laying aside the advices concerning Parson Johnny with a frown, read as follows:
Investigation of the history of William Pusak reveals the following:
32 years old; born in Brooklyn, N. Y., of naturalized parents; unmarried; regular habits; socially inclined; has “dates” three or four nights a week; religious. Is bookkeeper at Stein & Rauch, clothing merchants, 1076 Broadway. Does not gamble or drink. No evil companions. Only vice seems fondness for girls.
Activities since Monday night normal. No letters sent, no money withdrawn from bank, hours fairly regular. No suspicious movements of any kind.
Girl, Esther Jablow, seems Pusak’s “steadiest.” Has seen E. J. twice since Monday—Tuesday at lunch, Wednesday evening. Went to movies and Chinese restaurant Wednesday evening.
The Inspector grunted as he threw the sheet aside. The third report was headed:
O’Connell, lives at 1436—10th Avenue. Tenement, 4th floor. No father. Idle since Monday night, due to shutting down of Roman Theatre. Left theatre Monday night at general release of public. Went home, but stopped in drugstore corner 8th Avenue and 48th Street to telephone. Unable to trace call. Overheard reference to Parson Johnny in phone conversation. Seemed excited.
Tuesday did not leave house until 1 o’clock. No attempt get in touch with Parson Johnny at Tombs. Went around theatre employment agencies looking for usherette position after finding out Roman Theatre was closed indefinitely.
Nothing new Wednesday all day or Thursday. Returned to work at Roman Thursday night after call from manager. No attempt see or communicate with Parson Johnny. No incoming calls, no visitors, no mail. Seemed suspicious—think she is “wise” to tailing.
“Hmph!” muttered the Inspector as he picked up the next sheet of paper. “Let’s see what this one says. …”
F. I.-P. left Roman Theatre Monday night directly after release from Manager’s Office by Inspector Queen. Examined with other departing members of audience at main door. Left in company of Eve Ellis, Stephen Barry, Hilda Orange, of the cast.
Took taxi to Ives-Pope house on Riverside Drive. Taken out in half-unconscious condition. Three actors left house soon after.
Tuesday she did not leave house. Learned from a gardener she was laid up in bed all day. Learned she received many calls during day.
Did not appear formally until Wednesday morning at interview in house with Inspector Queen. After interview, left house in company of Stephen Barry, Eve Ellis, James Peale, her brother Stanford. Ives-Pope limousine drove party out into Westchester. Outing revived F. Evening stayed at home with Stephen Barry. Bridge-party on.
Thursday went shopping on Fifth Avenue. Met Stephen Barry for luncheon. He took her to Central Park; spent afternoon in open. S. B. escorted her home before five. S. B. stayed to dinner, leaving after dinner for work at Roman Theatre on call from stage manager. F. I.-P. spent evening at home with family.
No report Friday morning. No suspicious actions all week. At no time accosted by strange persons. No communication from or to Benjamin Morgan.
“And that’s that,” murmured the Inspector. The next report he selected was extremely short.
Lewin spent all day Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday morning at office of Monte Field working with Messrs. Stoates and Cronin. Three men lunched together on each day.
Lewin married, lives in Bronx, 211 E. 156th Street. Spent every evening at home. No suspicious mail, no suspicious calls. No evil habits. Leads sober, modest life. Has good reputation.
The Inspector sighed as he deposited the five sheets of paper on his plate, rose, doffed his hat and coat, flung them into Djuna’s waiting arms and sat down again. Then he picked up the last report from the contents of the envelope—a larger sheet to which was pinned a small slip marked: Memorandum to R. Q.
This slip read:
Dr. Prouty left the attached report with me this morning for transmission to you. He is sorry he could not report in person, but the Burbridge poison-case is taking all his time.
It was signed with Velie’s familiar scrawling initials.
The attached sheet was a hastily typewritten message on the letterhead of the Chief Medical Examiner’s office.
Dear Q. [the message ran]: Here’s the dope on the tetra ethyl lead. Jones and I have been superintending an exhaustive probe of all possible sources of dissemination. No success, and I think you can resign yourself to your fate in this respect. You’ll never trace the poison that killed Monte Field. This is the opinion not merely of your humble servant but of the Chief and of Jones. We all agree that the most logical explanation is the gasoline theory. Try to trace that, Sherlocko!
A postscript in Dr. Prouty’s handwriting ran:
“Of course, if anything turns up, I’ll let you know immediately. Keep sober.”
“Fat lot of good that is!” mumbled the Inspector, as Ellery without a word attacked the aromatic and tempting meal that the priceless Djuna had prepared. The Inspector dug viciously into the fruit salad. He looked far from happy. He grumbled beneath his breath, cast baleful glances at the sheaf of reports by his plate, peered up at Ellery’s tired face and heartily munching jaws and finally threw down his spoon altogether.
“Of all the useless, exasperating, empty bunch of reports I ever saw—!” he growled.
Ellery smiled. “You remember Periander, of course. … Eh? You might be polite, sir. … Periander of Corinth, who said in a moment of sobriety, ‘To industry nothing is impossible!’ ”
With the fire roaring, Djuna curled up on the floor in a corner, his favorite attitude. Ellery smoked a cigarette and stared comfortably into the flames while old Queen crammed his nose vengefully with the contents of his snuffbox. The two Queens settled down to a serious discussion. To be more exact—Inspector Queen settled down and lent the tone of seriousness to the conversation, since Ellery seemed in a sublimely dreamy mood far removed from the sordid details of crime and punishment.
The old man brought his hand down on the arm of his chair with a sharp slap. “Ellery, did you ever in your born days see a case so positively nerve-racking?”
“On the contrary,” commented Ellery, staring with half-closed eyes into the fire. “You are developing a natural case of nerves. You allow little things like apprehending a murderer to upset you unduly. Pardon the hedonistic philosophy. … If you will recall, in my story entitled ‘The Affair of the Black Window,’ my good sleuths had no difficulty at all in laying their hands on the criminal. And why? Because they kept their heads. Conclusion: Always keep your head. … I’m thinking of tomorrow. Glorious vacation!”
“For an educated man, my son,” growled the Inspector petulantly, “you show a surprising lack of coherence. You say things that mean nothing and mean things when you say nothing. No—I’m all mixed up—”
Ellery burst into laughter. “The Maine woods—the russet—the good Chauvin’s cabin by the lake—a rod—air—Oh Lord, won’t tomorrow ever come?”
Inspector Queen regarded his son with a pitiful eagerness. “I—I sort of wish. … Well, never mind.” He sighed. “All I do say, El, is that if my little burglar fails—it’s all up with us.”
“To the blessed Gehenna with burglars!” cried Ellery. “What has Pan to do with human tribulation? My next book is as good as written, dad.”
“Stealing another idea from real life, you rascal,” muttered the old man. “If you’re borrowing the Field case for your plot, I’d be extremely interested to read your last few chapters!”
“Poor dad!” chuckled Ellery. “Don’t take life so seriously. If you fail, you fail. Monte Field wasn’t worth a hill of legumes, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” said the old man. “I hate to admit defeat. … What a queer mess of motives and schemes this case is, Ellery. This is the first time in my entire experience that I have had such a hard nut to crack. It’s enough to give a man apoplexy! I know who committed the murder—I know why the murder was committed—I even know how the murder was committed! And where am I? …” He paused and savagely took a pinch of snuff. “A million miles from nowhere, that’s where!” he growled, and subsided.
“Certainly a most unusual situation,” murmured Ellery. “Yet—more difficult things have been accomplished. … Heigh-ho! I can’t wait to bathe myself in that Arcadian stream!”
“And get pneumonia, probably,” said the Inspector anxiously. “You promise me now, young man, that you don’t do any back-to-Nature stunts out there. I don’t want a funeral on my hands—I. …”
Ellery grew silent suddenly. He looked over at his father. The Inspector seemed strangely old in the flickering light of the fire. An expression of pain humanized the deeply sculptured lines of his face. His hand, brushing back his thick grey hair, looked alarmingly fragile.
Ellery rose, hesitated, colored, then bent swiftly forward and patted his father on the shoulder.
“Brace up, dad,” he said in a low voice. “If it weren’t for my arrangements with Chauvin. … Everything will be all right—take my word for it. If there were the slightest way in which I could help you by remaining. … But there isn’t. It’s your job now, dad—and there’s no man in the world who can handle it better than you. …” The old man stared up at him with a strange affection. Ellery turned abruptly away. “Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll have to pack now if I expect to make the 7:45 out of Grand Central tomorrow morning.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. Djuna, who had been sitting Turkish-wise in his corner, got quietly to his feet and crossed the room to the Inspector’s chair. He slipped to the floor, his head resting against the old man’s knees. The silence was punctuated by the snapping of wood in the fireplace and the muffled sounds of Ellery moving about in the next room.
Inspector Queen was very tired. His face, worn, thin, white, lined, was like a cameo in the dull red light. His hand caressed Djuna’s curly head.
“Djuna, lad,” he muttered, “never be a policeman when you grow up.”
Djuna twisted his neck and stared gravely at the old man. “I’m going to be just what you are,” he announced. …
The old man leaped to his feet as the telephone bell rang. He snatched the instrument from its table, his face livid, and said in a choked voice: “Queen speaking. Well?”
After a time he put down the phone and trudged across the room toward the bedroom. He leaned against the lintel heavily. Ellery straightened up from his suitcase—and jumped forward.
“Dad!” he cried. “What’s the matter?”
The Inspector essayed a feeble smile. “Just—a—little tired, son, I guess,” he grunted. “I just heard from our housebreaker. …”
“And—?”
“He found absolutely nothing.”
Ellery gripped his father’s arm and led him to the chair by the bed. The old man slumped into it, his eyes ineffably weary. “Ellery, old son,” he said, “the last shred of evidence is gone. It’s maddening! Not a morsel of physical, tangible evidence that would convict the murderer in court. What have we? A series of perfectly sound deductions—and that’s all. A good lawyer would make Swiss cheese out of our case. … Well! The last word hasn’t been spoken yet,” he added with a sudden grimness as he rose from the chair. He pounded Ellery’s broad back in returning vigor.
“Get to bed, son,” he said. “You’ve got to get up early tomorrow morning. I’m going to sit up and think.”