“Two hours—and sixteen minutes?” queried Vann puzzledly. “Why, I thought Adolph—being night watchman—always handled the cage till 8—and then you took on?”
“Right, Mr. Vann,” the other said, as the car wheezed slowly upward. “Only, Adolph went on another spree last night—prior to midnight—and didn’t come back. So the night engineer called the Old Man—and the Old Man rung me at 5 bells this morning to beat it down and take over at 6. Adolph’ll be rolling in, however, before noon—demanding to take over. And I’ll be sending him packing home—to sleep it off. Only that won’t get me back my 2 hours lost sleep.”
“Poor Adolph!” said Vann, as the car creaked past the 5th floor. “A good-hearted chap. Or at least so he’s always seemed to me. For he’s been around here now—if I’m not mistaken—just a week short of the time I’ve been State’s Attorney. But oh—that occasional thirst of his! Why docs the owner of the Klondike keep him on?”
“Why?” asked Peters as the car drew up to the 8th floor, and he stopped it. “Well, Mr. Vann, Adolph Reibach hails—or at least he says he does—from the same province in Germany—Pomerania—that the Old Man, Mr. Kieckhofer—does. Which was why—and no less!—Mr. Kieckhofer bounced out that mighty good Negro nightman we used to have—remember him?—Energetic Enos, I think you called him?—and put Adolph, straight over from Germany, on. In other words, Mr. Vann, the Old Man—Herr K!—has sentiment, don’t you forget—just like you—ever holding your first law office.”
And he swung wide the door.
“I see,” Vann laughed, stepping forth. “Sentimentalists all, eh?”
The bell in the cage now buzzed raucously, indicating another passenger downstairs, and, as the cage started down, Vann himself proceeded up the old dark wooden-floored hall. But marveling, as always he did—how well and efficient and clean this old building was kept up by the punctilious August Kieckhofer, its sole owner. And a moment later he was putting his key in the lock of the door of his room, Number 803.
But, to his surprise, the key did not have to turn—to release the door! And frowning—and opening the door a few inches—he saw immediately why. The lock had been sprung! Moreover—and his face darkened—there were jimmy marks on the wood of both door and door frame at the level of the lock.
Sneakthieves!
Searching for odds and en—
He had swung the door halfway open now, and was himself halfway across the threshold when, glancing across the room itself, he stopped dead—in his very tracks. For a man lay on the floor—on his back—a man clad in clean striped overalls and jumper, and with a large bunch of keys at his waist. And his face was white and set—his dead, unseeing blue eyes staring straight towards the ceiling. His head had been bashed in, for blood—now sticky, coagulated blood—had rolled clear across the floor to the nearest floorboard. And Vann’s horrified eyes, roving straight from the dead face with its odd yellow mustache—a face which he knew to be that of poor Adolph Reibach—came to rest, quite naturally, on his safe.
His—his cheesebox!
Which was all it was. And all, moreover, chat it had proved to be. For its door stood wide open. Its single bolt was shot. Its cast-iron knob and combination dials lay in shattered pieces on the floor in front of it.
And Louis Vann—gazing at the few old books standing in it—knew immediately what had gone out of that safe. What had gone out had been—the skull of Wah Lee! And with it, the nomination and re-election of Louis Vann as State’s Attorney of Chicago!
CHAPTER XI
Murder—At 10:43 P.M.
Louis Vann, in his spacious and beautifully furnished private office in the City Hall, paced up and down, up and down, over the thick green velvet carpet covering the huge floor. During which—as he knew—Inspector Rufus Scott, the best burglary man on the Detective Bureau—the one individual who knew about all there was to know about safe burglary—was making, in the old building across from the City Hall, a complete examination of Room 806. On Vann’s great polished hand-carved mahogany desk lay, under the generous light from the huge windows, the long foolscap sheet of paper containing his seventeen handwritten legal points against the liberation, on bail, of Banker Claussen—the penciling of which he had done in his spare time in St. Louis, and for the rendering of which in court this morning he had come back to Chicago as promptly as he had. And fortunate for his rendition of them—in the light of what had happened across the street!—Banker Claussen’s attorney had phoned the State’s Attorney’s office early that morning that Claussen would, for the nonce, remain in jail, and that the appeal for bail was off.
It was but 45 minutes ago, in fact, that Vann had discovered the body of Adolph—and his own pillaged safe. And but 44 minutes ago that, like a wise man who realized that certain others knew their business of burglary and homicide examination much better than he, he had quietly drawn shut the door of Room 806, and closeted himself within the telephone booth standing on the stairs between Floors 8 and 7. First inquiring therein at the Detective Bureau for Detective Scott—then getting the latter at his home, near in to the Loop—and requesting him to come down immediately. But without a word to his superiors—or to any reporters.
And now Miss Jason, the elderly scrawny-necked female who acted as Vann’s secretary and Cerberus in these, the legal offices which the State provided him, stood in the doorway.
“Inspector Scott, Mr. Vann. He wants to know whether he can see you for just a few min—”
“Yes—yes—yes”, Vann said irritably. “Of course! Show Scott in—at once.”
And a second later, Rufus Scott, his square black criminological examination case in hand, his 50 years of age and gray hair at his temples contrasting as vividly with Vann’s more youthful appearance and ungrayed hairs, as did his bulky muscular build contrast with Vann’s more slender figure, stepped inside. Miss Jason, at a peremptory nod from Vann, withdrew.
“Sit down, Rufus,” Vann ordered immediately.
Which Scott did, in the hand-carved visitor’s chair at the edge of Vann’s big desk. Depositing his hat on a near-by mahogany stand, and his square black case on the floor by the side of his chair. During which Vann dropped down into his own swivel chair.
“Well, old man,” the latter began without delay, “what did you figure out—on the job? And what—but first, Rufus, is it all safely hidden away yet—from the press?”
“Absolutely, Louis,” said the veteran police department inspector. “For I took advantage of the fact that your office door—” Scott broke off, however, and inserting his thumb and finger in one of his vest pockets, withdrew a shining long flat key. “Though the lock appears to be quite out of commission now on your door, the door fortunately held those two powerful ringbolts—rather, I should say, Louis, it and the doorjam together, and—but you know to what I refer?”
“Oh yes,” interpolated Vann. “I put them in myself years ago. And when I used to knock off in the summertime for a couple of weeks, I always locked up the office by padlock.”
“Yes,” Scott nodded. “Well, I locked the eyes of those two ringbolts together with an official police department Waddington padlock. To each of which padlocks, as no doubt you know, there exists only one key. And so tight that door is now, thanks to the way you installed those ringbolts, that a flea couldn’t weave through! And now—” Scott slid the key across to Vann, who slipped it into his own vest pocket. “And now you only, Louis, hold the one and only key. So if you’ve some pickup you want to make, on suspicion—for questioning, that is—you’ve at least all of today to do it in. For I find, by inquiry from the night engineer, that Reibach had no relatives whatsoever. At least, you understand, of record. And so, being dead now less than 12 hours, his body can easily stay right where it is—till night.”
Vann nodded emphatically. “It would,” he said quietly, “have stayed there till tomorrow, Rufus—if it hadn’t been for Banker Claussen. A
fact! For my office girl over there is out of town—and I’d not have been back here in Chicago today except for the Claussen Case.” Vann broke off, waiting expectantly. Then added: “Well, Rufus—what have you got to give me? So that I can figure whether there’s any use to make any kind of an effort to get the rat—or rats—who pulled that job? Was it a professional peterman, Rufus—who got in my safe? Or an amateur? Which? And at about just what hour do you fig—”
“I can tell you a bit, Louis,” Scott interrupted, “about what happened there last night. But not, I’m afraid, all you want. Or expect. Because—but first, do you mind telling me, Louis, if you had some evidence in that safe—against some individual? You know, of course, that I can keep my mouth shut.”
“Of course,” nodded Vann. “That’s exactly why I called you—on the dot. Yes, I had something in that safe, Rufus, that was evidence. Something turned in, two days ago, to my girl over there—who locked it in there. It was evidence, however, only against a man now locked up in Moundsville Penitentiary—Big Gus McGurk.”
Inspector Scott’s face was a bit blank. “McGurk? Oh yes—he went up for kidnaping, didn’t he? Nine—no—ten years ago. I was in India on furlough when he went up.”
Vann realized that Scott virtually knew no more of the peculiar technicalities of McGurk’s conviction than had even his own office girl from New Zealand. But he did not correct the other—and for purely legal reasons. So that, in fact, if by some now forlorn chance Scott should be later testifying in court, no defendant’s lawyer could bring out that Scott had a knowledge, prior to his examination of those quarters, or during his report of his examination to the State’s Attorney, of any specific motive for such crime.
“I won’t explain the setup, Rufus,” Vann said briefly, “in the wild hopes that maybe later you’ll be testifying in court for the State—and no crook’s ‘mouthpiece’ can be tumbling you about on the witness stand!”
“That’s good reasoning, Louis,” assented Scott, “and I’d prefer it that way myself.” He paused. “We-ell—there’s only 4 old law books in your safe now! Which I daresay you saw yourself—from the open door? But what you want to know first, of course, is whether there was one or two men in there last night—and whether a professional peterman, or an amateur, cracked your pete—or whether some gazabo midway between both professional and amateur?” He paused again. “Well, I’ll say, Louis, that beyond any doubt, one man only did the job. A man, moreover, of somewhat distinctive appearance—in some way! And he was actually already in your box—when he knocked Reibach off. But I’m sorry to have to add that there’s no ascertaining this particular peterman’s professional status.”
“No? Why not, Rufus?”
“Simply because,” the other explained, “he used a purely amateur’s method to get into your box—a sledge. The identical thing he’d have used if he’d been a 100 per cent professional—and come there prepared to crack it, no matter what kind of a box it was. Yes, he used a sledge. Carrying it, in all probability, in an old violin case. For a violin case seems to be practically the only thing a sledge can be toted inconspicuously about in. But whatever else was inside that case, Louis—soup—wedges—whatnot—there’s quite no telling. For—but good Lord, Louis—Where ever did you get that ancient cheesebox!”
“From a today-defunct second-hand safe store on Lake Street,” admitted Vann. “For $14! In my salad days. And kept it throughout all the years for sentiment.”
“I see,” Scott nodded. He paused a second, uncertainly. Then resumed speaking. “Well—getting back to this lone boxman again—while he left fingerprints about your safe door—and his only!—he, but say, was your office girl in the habit of occasionally wiping things off in the office there?”
“Yes,” Vann replied promptly. “Every night, before leaving, she always went over things with an oil rag. Even the painted walls. Neatest thing, that girl, in four counties. No—four continents is better. For she—so he left f. p’s, eh! Amateur then, Rufus—no professional!”
Rufus Scott smiled dryly. “You think so, do you? Well, Louis, these fingerprints all show leather grain—no skin patterns! In short, he used gloves—old leather gloves. Such as I’ve known many a dyed-in-the-wool professional to use. So don’t make any deductions as to his peterman’s status—and don’t hope to convict him either on the f. p.’s he left!” Vann’s face fell. “That’s bad,” was all he said. “Well—how do you personally figure he got in there? And at about what time did he—”
“Secreted himself, beyond any doubt,” Scott put in, “in the building before the street doors were locked at 9 o’clock. For there’s a big unused and unoccupied closet under the stairs. And 4 toilet rooms—each with two private compartments. The location of the toilets being even listed on the directory board. And there’s a mop closet on every floor. Oh, he was in, all right, when the place was locked up.”
“And let himself out,” said Vann, “when the job was done?”
“Yes. Which was within not more than 2—3—minutes after 10:43 p.m.. last night.”
“10:43—p.m.?” said Vann, his face lighting up. “Then you’ve got evidence—to clinch the exact hour he killed Adolph?”
“Absolutely, Louis. I’m able to say conclusively he killed Reibach at 10:43. Or, to be exact, within a fraction of a minute one way or the other. So, if you pull in any likely suspect who can’t account for his whereabouts at that moment—Well—” Scott broke off, and made a significant gesture with his hands.
“And as soon,” put in Vann with a dry smile, “as the papers print the full story of this murder, which will positively have to be by evening—for I can’t hold it back any further than that—well, every and any crook I take in will have an ironclad alibi for 10:43 last night. Not so?”
“Yes,” admitted the police-force veteran. “But ironclad alibis don’t always hold, you know, Louis.”
“Quite true. Yes, indeed. Well now, this exact hour of Adolph’s death is important. So how do you posit it at such exact—”
“By a perfect triple time alignment,” interrupted Scott. “And an alignment which—in this case—couldn’t have been staged. No! But here it is. And in giving you the alignment, I virtually give you what happened in your office last night.”
Scott paused. Then continued.
“This bird hid himself in one of the many, many places possible in the building—but, most likely, in the 7th floor toilet—till around 10:20 Of 10:25, more or less, when he figured the building would be clear of all tenants. Then he marched upstairs with his violin case—jimmied the door of 806—and passed on in. Turned on the lights boldly. Sized up speculatively—beyond any doubt whatsoever!—that 3-panel folding black burlap screen which partially shields that old leather couch of yours in the corner just opposite the door—since its lower panel edges are flush with the floor itself. But since the couch stood forth from the endmost panel at least a third of its own length—at least does this morning!—realized that the couch was untenanted—that your office girl hadn’t by some chance dropped off on it, waiting for some midnight date with some boy friend—and—”
“And a quite useless speculation, that, on his part, I can say,” commented Vann dryly. “Since my office girl, over there, is 100 per cent proper, and would die before meeting a man on the street at night—let alone midnight. But go ahead, Rufus. Finding the place was his, he then did exactly what—as you dope things out?”
“Well, finding—as you put it—that the place was all his, he examined the safe door—the knob—and the combination dials. Confirming in his own mind that they were made of brittle stuff all right; cast iron—and so forth. And then, getting out his sledge, started swinging at the knob and dials. He presumed any janitor or night watchman, if any existed, was on any of the other 9 floors—and knew, too, that the inertia of the heavy safe would practically absorb his blows at it. However, Reibach must have been on that very floor the
re—maybe in the corridor below—or above. And if he didn’t hear the blows—must have felt them. And hurried to the one office whose light indicated the disturbance might have emanated from there. And fumbling at the door—and finding it unlocked, thanks, of course, to the jimmying—opened it, and walked in. Very likely he thought just maybe you were there—that you’d returned to the office from here, near the end of the day, and had dropped off, yourself, on that old leather couch—and which I’ll warrant, Louis, you have done dozens of times—”
“Dozens of times is right,” assented Vann, nodding. “But go ahead.”
“—and so,” Scott continued, “Reibach probably just thought you’d awakened after a few hours’ snooze, and were now doing some important concentrative work, all by your lonesome, on one of your cases. And he thought perhaps that he’d ask you if you’d heard anything. Never suspecting a cracksman, I’m certain, in your old office—with that ancient cheesebox. Never! Anyway, it’s right there, Louis, where I postulate that one man only did the job. For, had there been two, the other man would have been in position back of where the door could swing open—to cope with any surprise interruption. And with, almost certainty, a gun. Whereas—as it happened—this bird with the sledge was virtually surprised at the job. And had to do his own dirty work. And, moreover, with the sledge itself. He leaped back of the door himself, Louis—yes, I definitely know that—when he heard the very first fumbling at the knob. And once Reibach was completely inside—and the door closed—your cracksman swung at him with the sledge. And Reibach raised his forearm defensively. And a silver wristwatch on his wrist, under the long-sleeved janitor’s jumper he wore, was smashed. And it was a watch, Louis, which Reibach had set by the Western Union clock in the engine room just an hour before. A fact I got from Dilliam Casey, the building engineer, who, by the way, thinks I’m investigating Reibach for non-appearance in court yesterday on some disorderly conduct charge. Anyway, Louis, the hands of Reibach’s watch, thanks to the stoppage of its mechanism, are—right now—at exactly 10:43:37.”
The Man with the Crimson Box Page 7
