The Roman Hat Mystery (43 page)

“
The fact that the murderer could not enter until 9:30 or thereabouts explains why the torn edges of LL32 Left and LL30 Left did not coincide. It was necessary for Field and Barry, you see, to come in at different times. Field could not very well enter with Barry or even at a noticeably later hour
―
the matter of secrecy was too important to Barry, and Field understood, or thought he did, how necessary it was for him to play the secret game.

“
When we pinned the guilt on Barry Thursday night, we resolved to question subtly the other members of the cast as well as workmen backstage. We wanted to find out, of course, whether any one had actually seen Barry leave or return. As it happened, no one had. Everybody was busy either acting, redressing, or working backstage. We conducted this little investigation after the performance that night, when Barry had already left the theatre. And it was checkmate, right enough.

“
We had already borrowed a seating plan from Panzer. This map, together with the examination of the alleyway on the left and the dressing-room arrangement backstage
―
an examination made directly after the second act Thursday night
―
showed us how the murder was committed.
”

Sampson stirred.
“
I
’
ve been puzzling my wits about that,
”
he confessed.
“
After all, Field was no babe-in-the-woods. This Barry must be a wizard, Q. How did he do it?
”

“
Every riddle is simple when you know the answer,
”
retorted the Inspector.
“
Barry, whose freedom began at 9:20, immediately returned to his dressing room, slapped on a quick but thorough facial disguise, donned an evening cloak and the tophat which was part of his costume
―
you
’
ll remember he was already dressed in evening clothes
―
and slipped out of his room into the alley.

“
Of course you can
’
t be expected to know the topography of the theatre. There is a series of tiers in a wing of the building backstage, facing the left alley, which is made up of dressing rooms. Barry
’
s room is on the lowest tier, the door opening into the alleyway. There is a flight of iron steps leading down to the pavement.

“
It was through this door that he quitted the dressing room, walking through the dark alley while the side doors of the theatre were shut during Act II. He sneaked out into the street, since there was no guard at the head of the alley at that time
―
and he knew it
―
nor had Jess Lynch and his
‘
girl
’
arrived, luckily for him; and entered the theatre brazenly through the regular front entrance, as if he were a latecomer. He presented his ticket
―
LL30 Left
―
at the door, muffled in his cloak and of course well disguised. As he passed into the theatre he deliberately threw away his ticket stub. This appeared to him to be a wise move, since he figured that if the ticket stub were found there, it would point to a member of the audience and directly away from the stage. Also, if his plans fell through and he were later searched carefully, the finding of the stub on his person would be damning evidence. All in all, he thought his move not only misleading but protective.
”

“
But how did he plan to get to the seat without being ushered to it
―
and therefore seen?
”
objected Cronin.

“
He hadn
’
t planned to evade the usher,
”
returned the Inspector.
“
Naturally, he had hoped, since the play was well on and the theatre dark, to gain the last row, the nearest to the door, before the usher could approach. However, even if the usher forestalled him and escorted him to the seat he was well disguised and the blackness of the theatre was proof enough against recognition. So that, if things turned out as badly as possible for him, the most that would be remembered was that some man, unknown, barely describable in general contour, arrived during the second act. As it happened he was not accosted, since Madge O
’
Connell was luckily seated with her lover. He managed to slip into the seat next to Field without being noticed.

“
Remember, what I
’
ve just told you,
”
went on the Inspector, clearing his dry throat,
“
is not the result of deduction or investigation. We could have no means of discovering such facts. Barry made his confession last night and cleared up all these points . . . . Knowing the culprit was Barry, of course, we might have reasoned out the entire procedure
―
it follows simply and is the natural situation if you know the criminal. It wasn
’
t necessary, however. Does that sound like an alibi for Ellery or myself? Hmph!
”
The old man barely smiled.

“
When he sat down next to Field he had a carefully planned idea of his course of action. Don
’
t forget that he was on a strict time schedule and could not afford to waste a minute. On the other hand, Field, too, knew that Barry had to get back so he made no unnecessary delays. The truth of the matter, as Barry has told us, is that he expected to have a more difficult time with Field than he actually did have. But Field was sociably amenable to Barry
’
s suggestions and conversation, probably because he was quite drunk and expected to receive a huge sum of money within a short time.

“
Barry first requested the papers. When Field cannily asked for the money before he produced the documents, Barry showed him a wallet bulging with apparently genuine bills. It was quite dark in the theatre and Barry did not take the bills apart. Actually they were stage money. He patted them suggestively and did what Field must have expected: refused to hand over the money until he had checked the documents. Bear in mind that Barry was an accomplished actor and could handle the difficult situation with the confidence imparted to him by his stage training . . . . Field reached under his seat and to Barry
’
s utter astonishment and consternation produced his tophat. Barry says that Field remarked:
‘
Never thought I
’
d keep the papers in this, did you? As a matter of fact, I
’
ve dedicated this hat to your history quite exclusively. See
―
it has your name in it.
’
And with this astounding statement he turned back the band! Barry used his pocket pencil flashlight and saw his name inked in on the underside of the leather sweatband.

“
Just imagine what went through his mind at this moment. Here he saw what seemed at the moment a ruinous accident to his careful plans. Should Field
’
s hat be examined
―
and of course it would be
―
at the time of the discovery of the body, then the name Stephen Barry on the band would be overwhelming evidence . . . . Barry had no time to rip out the band. In the first place he had no knife
―
unfortunately for him; and in the second place the hatband was closely and securely stitched to the tough fabric. Working on split-time, he saw at once that the only course open to him was to take the hat away after he killed Field. Since he and Field were of the same general physique, with Field wearing an average sized hat, 7 1/8, he immediately decided to leave the theatre wearing or carrying Field
’
s hat. He would deposit his own in the dressing room, where its presence was not out of the way, take Field
’
s hat from the theatre with him and destroy it as soon as he reached his rooms. It also occurred to him that if the hat were by some chance examined as he was leaving the theatre, his name printed inside would certainly ward off suspicion. In all probability it was this fact that made Barry feel he was running into no particular danger, even though he had not foreseen the unexpected circumstance.
”

“
Clever rogue,
”
murmured Sampson.

“
The quick brain, Henry, the quick brain,
”
said Queen gravely.
“
It has run many a man
’
s neck into the noose . . . . As he made the lightning decision to take the hat, he realized that he could not leave his own in its place. For one thing, his hat was a snapdown
―
an opera hat
―
but more important, it had the name of Le Brun, the theatrical costumer, stamped in it. You can see that this would immediately point to someone in the cast
―
just the thing he wished to avoid. He told me also that at the moment, and for quite some time thereafter, he felt that the most the police could deduce from the hat
’
s being missing was that it was taken because it contained something valuable. He could not see how this investigatory guess would point the finger of suspicion anywhere near him. When I explained to him the series of deductions Ellery made from the mere fact that the tophat was missing, he was utterly astounded . . . . You can see, now, that the only really fundamental weakness of his crime was due not to an oversight or a mistake on his part, but to an occurrence which he could not possibly have foreseen. It forced his hand and the entire chain was started. Had Barry
’
s name not been lettered in Field
’
s hat, there is no question in my mind but that he would be a free and unsuspected man today. The police records would carry another unsolved murder on its pages.

“
I need not state that this entire train of thought flashed through his brain in less time than it takes to describe. He saw what he had to do and his plans adjusted themselves instantly to the new development . . . . When Field extracted the papers from the hat, Barry examined them cursorily under the lawyer
’
s watchful eye. He did this by the same pencil flashlight
―
a tiny streak of illumination quite obscured by their shielding bodies. The papers seemed in good order and complete. But Barry did not spend much time over the papers at the moment. He looked up with a rueful smile and said:
‘
Seem to be all here, damn you
’―
very naturally, as if they were enemies under a truce and he was being a good sport. Field interpreted the remark for what it was intended to convey. Barry dipped into his pocket
―
the light was out now
―
and, as if he was nervous, took a swig at a pocket-flask of good whisky. Then as if recollecting his manners, he asked Field pleasantly enough if he would not take a drink to bind the bargain. Field, having seen Barry drink from the flask, could have no suspicion of foul play. In fact, he probably never dreamed that Barry would try to do him in. Barry handed him a flask . . . .

“
But it wasn
’
t the same flask. Under cover of the darkness he had taken out two flasks
―
the one he himself used coming from his left hip pocket. In handing it over to Field, he merely switched flasks. It was very simple
―
and made simpler because of the darkness and the fuddled condition of the lawyer . . . . The ruse of the flask worked. But Barry had taken no chances. He had in his pocket a hypodermic filled with the poison. If Field had refused to drink Barry was prepared to plunge the needle into the lawyer
’
s arm or leg. He possessed a hypodermic needle which a physician had procured for him many years before. Barry had suffered from nervous attacks and could not remain under a doctor
’
s care since he was traveling from place to place with a stock company. The hypodermic was untraceable, therefore, on a cold trail years old; and he was ready if Field refused to drink. So you see
―
his plan, even in this particular, was fool-proof . . . .

“
The flask from which Field drank contained good whisky, all right, but mixed with tetra ethyl lead in a copious dose. The poison
’
s slight ether smell was lost in the reek of the liquor; and Field, drinking, gulped down a huge mouthful before he realized that anything was wrong, if he did at all.

“
Mechanically he returned the flask to Barry, who pocketed it and said:
‘
I guess I
’
ll look over these papers more carefully
―
there
’
s no reason why I should trust you, Field . . . .
’
Field, who was feeling extremely disinterested by this time, nodded in a puzzled sort of way and slumped down in his seat. Barry really did examine the papers but he watched Field like a hawk out of the corner of his eye all the time. In about five minutes he saw that Field was out
―
out for good. He was not entirely unconscious but well under way; his face was contorted and he was gasping for breath. He seemed unable to make any violent muscular movement or outcry. Of course, he
’
d utterly forgotten Barry
―
in his agony
―
perhaps didn
’
t remain conscious very long. When he groaned those few words to Pusak it was the superhuman effort of a practically dead man . . . .