And so he decided directly to involve “Red” in an incident where the latter would get picked up under damning circumstances—and pronto. And the method by which he would do so, he says, was suggested by his seeing—while he himself walked troubledly along Old Post Office Block—a girl with a lavender gripsack, or rather, carpet bag made of lavender carpeting, going along, with people gazing after her and the gripsack as though both were curios. And so—
“The gal with the lavender gripsack!” commented Allstyn amusedly. “Whom in reality Piffington saw this morning—when he was registering a manuscript to New York! There, at least, is fact—for a change. Lavender gripsack! ’Twould be one grand finale to this comedy of errors if she were found somewhere today—and had a couple of skulls herself in her gripsack!” But Allstyn realized that he too now was soaring on the wings of hypermelodramatic invention. And reined himself sharply in. Went on with the story, in fact. Which now changed its setting again to that stage so conveniently placed behind high billboards—and with witnesses none!
And so, going back home—for his story was all set in his mind—Wainright found “Red” at last returned. And utterly downcast in spirits. So much so that he revealed at last, Wainright says, his real identity and why he had come to Chicago. His name was, he said, Jack Melbourne; he was, he said, from Australia originally, having been brought from there to America, when a small boy, by an uncle now dead; and stated that he had many relatives living in Australia today.
“’Twas evidently about here,” Allstyn said shrewdly, “that Piffington managed to grab hold of a concrete name for his man ‘Red’: and gave him, I note, the commonest two names in all Australia—and a dead uncle, on this side of the world, to boot!” And went on:
He had come to Chicago, he said frankly to Wainright, to blackmail a certain man, residing in the Chicago suburb of Evergreen Park, who had once been a purveyor of inside police information to a band of criminals. “Red” did not, Wainright says, use the actual word “blackmail,” but put it urbanely that he had come to “gently induce this man to set him up, in a small business, in the man’s own suburb of Evergreen Park.” This man, he said, while touring Rio de Janeiro a couple of years ago with a Cook’s tour, had heard a lecture of Königsburg’s and had later come to the latter’s hotel, and had had a private medical hypnotization for some nervous disorder. At this hypnotization, “Red” Melbourne had assisted. During the hypnosis, however, the man accidentally revealed that he had been, years and years back, in Chicago, the inside information man—the bridge from the Law to Crookdom—for a gang of criminals known—so he said—as The Parson Gang—
“Said gang name furnished,” groaned Allstyn, “by yours truly!” And went on:
So “Red,” fulfilling an intention of long, long duration, had come to Chicago to look this man up. And to—after, of course, surveying the whole situation pro and con—force money—or the favor of being set up in business!—from this man because of what the latter had revealed. But—alas for “Red”—he had just ascertained that his man was not in Evergreen Park, much less in Chicago, Cook County, or even Illinois, as it appeared! Nor would he be for months and months to come. And was, therefore, not in the least a source of money—or financial favors!—for “Red.”
Wainright waited patiently till the other had talked himself out. And then sprung on “Red” the story he had concocted. Which was, in short, that he, Wainwright, was in secret a Federal under-cover man. Indeed, he says he showed “Red” a Federal badge, which he had actually picked up some days before, and never turned in—and which badge he now says he has tossed into the river from one of the bridges, but doesn’t recall which.
“That—river!” said Allstyn. “The without-which-not of this affair, all right, all right!” He went on with the story:
He told “Red” that he had been delegated to make a criminal “meet” with a man, carrying a bright box of crimson, with a skull in it. And that an operative friend of his was delegated to follow the man. But he had just received word, now—so he told “Red”—that his fellow operator would not be able to play in; and, rather than call up the chief and arrange for a new man, he offered “Red” $10 to perform the actual act of “making the meet”—and would, in that case, he told “Red,” himself follow the man. “Red” avidly agreed, he says. And on the basis of payment after completion of the job. So Wainwright hastily painted over his shoebox with some crimson ink he happened to have in the trailer. And instructed “Red” that the latter was to stand on the north-east corner of Old Post Office Block—at noon—and, when the criminal came up—and the criminal might, Wainwright told the other, be dressed in any manner whatsoever—and asked, as a code message, “What have you in the box, buddy?” “Red” was to say, “Wah Lee’s skull; I cracked Vann’s pete.” All of which dialogue Wainwright says he obtained from the same source that he obtained the method of robbing the safe: namely, pulp-paper magazines.
“The pulps again!” Allstyn commented. And added, reprovingly: “He should have involved the 10-cent burlesque shows a little—and given Mayor Sweeney a really good chance for a grand civic purification. However, maybe he will involve ’em yet.” And, hopeful of most anything now, he drove on with the story:
And he would, Wainwright told “Red,” himself follow the man who would approach “Red” with the cryptic query. So, “Red,” accompanying Wainwright downtown—to Old Post Office, in fact—took from the latter’s arm the box, and took up the prescribed position. The while Wainwright stood off some 20 feet, putatively the “shadow” in the case. But “Red” did not, for some reason, get questioned by anyone but an obtuse patrolman who merely strolled on. And then by a clergyman of sorts, who presumably thought “Red” was drunk. And while figuring how to get into a drugstore and tip off the States’ Attorney’s office anonymously, Wainwright saw “Red” picked up by a squad car. Eagerly, he says, he watched the papers. And found, evidently, that his plan had worked perfectly. For at 2:30 a minor contemporary of this paper, which has been enabled to receive inside facts only through relationship of one of its men with the State’s Attorney, came out with the full story of the crime—and the full story of the arrest—and the fact that “Red” had, putatively at least, become amnesiac over the whole period of his stay in Chicago.
“While in the meantime,” Allstyn commented, “ ‘Red’—in limbo and incommunicado—is keeping his trap tightly shut as to what he pulled last night for some underworld bigwig, and doesn’t even dream that his wild—oy-yoy, how wild!—’amnesia’ story is being backed up by one of the half million people who read it. If he even knows it got into print—which I doubt. Probably he’s trying to fabricate some wild, wild story to account to the State’s Attorney for having a Chinaman’s skull on his person. For he’s the safe-buster all right, all right—and not that other suspect picked up by Smith. Since—” But Allstyn, with a deep sigh, gave it up—and went on with the story instead:
But seeing that his plan had gone through, Wainwright feared suddenly, for the first time, that “Red’s” amnesia might be pierced by hypnotism—and lead straight to himself. If it did, of course, he told himself, he would brazen it out—and claim that “Red” was the burglar. But he had—as it has been said—found that his watch was missing—and also realized that he might have left his fingerprints under that diploma. And so he decided, before “Red’s” amnesia might be pierced by hypnotism, to remove the last possible things that could incriminate him, Wainwright. And thus—as a result of visiting the Klondike Building to remove them, and of being taken up on suspicion by Detective Smith—and of being brought to Captain Congreve’s—and of becoming hopelessly entangled in his explanations—to full confession.
Wainwright is—or rather was!—the little-known author of most of the Uncle Griffy Bedtime Animal Tales for Tiny Tots, delivered over the United-Evening Chain. And was—up, that is, to three days ago!—under contract with the Radio-Entertainment firm of Adlai,
Collerman and Grimshawster of New York City. Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster were unable, however, when confronted by the New York representatives of the various Chicago papers now carrying this story—and each of which representatives naturally received a telegraphic flash of Wainwright’s confession here, involving Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster as employers—to cast any additional light on their former, employee, stating that he had always been for them a somewhat enigmatic figure, even to rendering—as a legal name—the mere name of “P. Wainwright,” and claiming that he had been christened thus because of the wishes of some grandfather; to which the firm also added that not until the news of Wainwright’s being a murderer was brought to them, did they even know that—in Chicago and the Midwest—Wainwright used, for a first name, the name “Piffington,” arbitrarily selected by him. They did announce, however—through Sam Collerman, vice-president—and over the firm’s official signature given out in multiplicate to the various news representatives—that P. Wainwright’s services with the company had terminated 3 nights ago, etc., unknown to himself, and through their optional cancellation of his contract.
The story was nearly ended now!
“Well, all I can say,” was Allstyn’s comment now, “is that he was able to do for himself, the little be-rouged devil, what I couldn’t do for him! It seems, after all, that God helps those who have the guts to help themselves. And—”
And now he chuckled so loud that 2 passers-by nudged each other, for the final paragraph ran:
Wainwright, when informed that his contract was cancelled, had a face a mile long, and stated sadly that it would have been possible only through continued work in his line, in his cell, to obtain adequate legal counsel.
And now the story was ended.
And Allstyn’s laugh faded.
“Yes,” he said, “he’s achieved—what he was after. And now it’s up to Rutgers Allstyn to rescue him.”
And throwing forward his starting lever, he turned his car toward the Detective Bureau.
CHAPTER XXIX
The Discomfiture of Captain Congreve!
Three minutes later Allstyn drew up in front of the Detective Bureau, great white-stone 10-story building towering high in the air on the dingy corner of 11th and South State Streets. Tumble-down Negro shacks clustered under its eaves—tired spavined horses, driving rickety junk-wagons to near-south-side and near-west-side junk yards, plodded past its doors—and, far over in the west, in the black smoke arising from Chicago, London of the West, the sun sank, a great ball of red fire.
In and out of the revolving doors of the Detective Bureau people threaded even at this late hour of the day: thick-soled plainclothesmen, policemen in uniform, worried-looking women whose husbands had gotten into the toils of the law, plump-looking well-fed bondsmen. Inside the marble tessellated foyer, however, there were probably more people flooding towards the doors than coming from them.
Allstyn, inside, went straight to the row of booth telephones along the wall. Went, in fact—as one long experienced—to one booth which carried an unobtrusive card lettered:
FOR DEPARTMENT COMMUNICATION ONLY
And without having to drop a nickel—inasmuch as this booth was to expedite official business, it being presumed that anybody who had gotten as far as this outlying fringe of the city’s downtown district, must have plentifully valid business with some department upstairs—Allstyn asked the switchboard operator for Captain Congreve’s office. Asked, in fact, for Captain Congreve himself, knowing that a detective bureau chief comes on duty at noon, and does not leave till 9 p.m.
In a minute, a booming resonant voice, of, manifestly, a big-shouldered man, answered Allstyn:
“Captain Congreve—speaking?”
“Hello there, Captain. This—this is Rutgers Allstyn.”
“Oh, yes, Allstyn. What can I do for you!”
“A lot, Captain! I’m just dashing pell-mell through Chicago on a civil-law matter—ran down to Lo—to a southeastern Indiana town on it this afternoon—found my client had been called, by a death in his family, up to—well, to a northwest Wisconsin city!—his wire had missed me, you see—and now I find myself dashing back through Chicago again—and bound northwestward this time. And—but I’ll just say in brief that I’m representing—at least sort of, anyway!—this—this fellow Wainwright you had up there today.”
“Oh, Wainwright? Oh, yes. Well since when, Allstyn, are you doing criminal work?”
“Never, Captain. I ought to have said, really, that—”
“Well, hold the wire—” And Congreve’s words were the weary words of one who had said those same words, to a million criminal attorneys, a million times in his career, “—and I’ll have you put directly on to your client. That is, if possible. For he’s somewhere over at the State’s Attorney’s offices now.”
“But wait, Captain. I—”
But a loud clicking was ensuing, marking Congreve’s rocking of his departmental telephone, and Allstyn heard him saying to the local police operator: “Put this party on with P. Wainwright—who’s now somewhere in the Sta—well, you can locate the party through the State’s Attorney’s operator.”
A clicking, some more talking—off the phone, however—and Allstyn found himself suddenly talking to no less than his civil client of that afternoon.
“Hello?” the almost inarticulate voice of Piffington Wainwright answered.
“Piffington?”
“Yes. But—but the man who is in charge of me says I can’t say but a few words. So—”
“All right! This is Allstyn.” And almost without waiting for this to sift into Piffington’s brain, Allstyn hurried on: “Piffington, I want to just tell you that a notice given out by Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster late today, to the New York newspaper representatives, that your contract is out—finis!—over—and canceled—is legal cancellation. You’re free from the contract now, young man; so sit tight where you are, and—”
But by one of those unfortunate things, which happen between five and six o’clock in the afternoon on all switchboards, the connection was broken.
Allstyn paused undecidedly. Then emerged, and entered one of the elevators.
“Captain Congreve’s office,” he said.
“Private entrance at room 605 Mr. Allstyn,” said the operator, who, much to Allstyn’s surprise, had recognize him.
The elevator disgorged him at the 6th floor. And he went down the cool, cement-floored hall, finally coming to a blank, unlettered door with only the digits “605” on it. And he realized that, had he not been recognized, and given the correct “steer,” he would have reached an anteroom, with at least a couple of rooms and secretaries in between. And glad, at least, that this much red tape had been circumvented, he turned the knob and walked in. Captain Congreve, as broad-shouldered as his voice indicated, white of hair, and wearing his blue coat with brass buttons, sat at his huge flat-top mahogany desk, partly facing off from the tall windows which gazed forth over Chicago’s west side towards that rapidly falling ball of fire, in a huge private room carpeted entirely over with plum-colored monotone carpet. His huge desk, plus a few chairs, and, over in the opposite corner, a triple-glassed telephone booth, seemed to be the only furniture in the vast room. Captain Congreve was engaged just now in a humdrum clerical capacity which, as Allstyn knew, fell relentlessly on Detective Bureau chiefs: namely, drawing pay-vouchers for work of this, that, and the other kind done, and which vouchers could later be cashed at other departments. Several men, in fact, waited at Congreve’s desk, perhaps for the very vouchers in question. One, sitting in a chair at the right of the big desk, was a curly-headed man with stocky shoulders, who looked like a prize fighter. And, at the other side of Congreve’s desk, sat a tall, thin man with eyeglasses, who looked like a professor. And standing back of this man, against the wall, were two others: one, a thin keen man with penetrating blue eyes, framed in
silver-rimmed spectacles; the other, a decidedly roly-poly jolly chap of no more than 30. Congreve, fountain pen in hand, looked up.
“Well, well, Allstyn—thought I’d disposed of your troubles over the wire?”
“Not altogether, Captain,” laughed Allstyn, “no. I fear I have to come up in person to do that.”
“All right, Allstyn. Sit down. I’m just disposing of some of the daily clerical work that falls on my head! Paying one department, as it were, out of the funds of the other!” He waved a red hand around the circle surrounding him. “Rutgers Allstyn, gentlemen, best lawyer in Chicago, on contracts. But now apparently—ahem—taking up criminal law! Allstyn—” And he motioned to the curly-headed, stocky-shouldered man sitting next him, “—this is Peter McKanstry, who does work now and then for the bureau. And this—” And he motioned to the intelligent-looking man with the eyeglasses on the other side of his desk, “—is Mr. Horace Winterbottom, of the Social Service Bureau.” Now he inclined his head toward the fat roly-poly fellow: “This is Don Gribbons, office of the Traffic Department. And this—” And now he nodded towards the grave man with silver spectacles, “—is Jeff Forsyth, who happens to be—”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” said Allstyn. “Jefferson Forsyth?—famous fingerprint expert?—and head of the Criminal Identification Bureau of the Detective Bureau! Happy to meet you, Mr. Forsyth—and—” He swept his head in an arc, “—and the rest of you gentlemen likewise.”
He dropped, at Congreve’s nod, toward an empty visitors’ armchair facing the desk, into the chair in question. And waited patiently. Congreve, putting his name laboriously down to another salmon-colored oblong of paper in a book resembling a great multiple checkbook, turned his page, and wrote in a date for one further on. But turned his attention to Allstyn.
The Man with the Crimson Box Page 26
