“Weren’t you horror-stricken by Reibach’s body—on the floor?”
“Not at all. I’ve often helped a certain friend—an undertaker here—to fix up lady corpses. That is, with respect to the rouging of their cheeks and lips.”
Vann sighed.
“You’re a very strange bird, Wainwright,” was all he said. And then: “Who is this girl you expect to marry?”
“I—I refuse to drag her name into this.”
“Well, by Godfrey, you didn’t pull your punches any—when it came to dragging in the name of a foremost Chicagoan. Yes—I refer to your use of the name of Philander Moriarity—our own Chief of Police. What on earth induced you to use him, of all persons—as the name of the man mentioned to you by the alleged ‘Jack Melbourne’ as being the old passer of inside police information to the old Parson Gang?”
“We-ell—the attorney I was consulting def’nitely identified him for me as the man who, in plain clothes, had been a bit insulting to me one day on City Hall Block. And in the same breath told me that Mr. Moriarity had been known, in his day, as the Nemesis of the Parson Gang. And even in the same breath—to, he said, divert my calling up Mr. Moriarity’s house, and dropping some—er—Billingsgate on the latter’s head—my attorney told me that Mr. Moriarity was reported in the morning papers as flying to the coast—though with stop-off at Denver till the 3 p.m. Denver plane today.”
“I see. Well, Chief Moriarity, because he’s of the political party opposed to me, will never believe other than that we induced you, with a piece of hose, to use his name. And—but the point is, anyway, that the use of his name gave you one individual who—being in the air above the Rocky Mountains—wouldn’t be contactable from the hour of your confession till late tonight. Yeah, I see.” Vann paused. “Well, the name of this girl you expect to marry is of no use to us anyway. But what would she have said—to your confessing to a murder?”
“She? Well, when she would have learned all the circumstances, she would have agreed that I should have tried—what I did try.”
“Hrmph!” Vann turned to the 260-pound Kelgrave.
“Some prescience, Art, must have been in my cranium when I put Rufus Scott, the best burglary man on your bureau there, to examining those premises this morning—after I eased in to the Klondike Building there from St. Louis, and found that body.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Vann,” said Kelgrave, “just what pressy-ince is—but I do know that Rufus Scott’s notes and camera shots and testimony’ll never be shaken on any witness stand. You’ve the best criminological expert and observer in all U.S.A. to go on the stand for you against your John Doe.”
Vann turned to Wainwright.
“Don’t you realize, Wainwright,” he said sternly, “that you could have jimmied up justice? Just suppose I hadn’t had those premises fully examined and checked up this morning —”
“Well,” expostulated Mr. Wainwright, “I wouldn’t have known anything about the crime—if they hadn’t been. For then you wouldn’t have been retailing the facts to any newspaper. But anyway, I didn’t do anything but step across the body—slide my watch under the safe—imprint my fingertips on one wall—and then got out.”
“Well, I’ll be taking your affidavit on that, of course. But that’s not the real point. Don’t you realize that you might have knocked Justice sky-high? Here I’ve got the real cracksman and murderer fast and tight. But what, now, if I’d quashed the indictment which I now have against him—on the pure strength of your confession?”
“You wouldn’t have,” said Mr. Wainwright naively.
“For, as Confucius said, ‘No man lets a bird fly out of his hand because another nestles in his hair.’ ”
Vann grimaced.
“And,” he commented dryly, “as Confucius didn’t say: ‘No man is safe in even rubbing noses against even the handle of a chair that carries 2200 volts.’ ”
“Well, I wasn’t even doing that!” pronounced Mr. Wainwright. “For I had an alibi—14 persons—and 14 signatures—strong. And I could prove that the sledge and the watch came into the picture after the crime. And could show, by the key to that police padlock, how I got in as well.”
Vann surveyed the other sourly.
“Well, we’re going to bring this interview to an end, now. And—but one question: Why did you call me up, as Dr. Miranovski, and attempt to persuade me he could supply an alibi for my reddish-haired prisoner John Doe?”
“Why? Why, to strengthen my own position. That reddish-haired man, from what I read in the Despatch, is hopelessly involved. I knew, of course, you’d check back eventually with Miranovski—and find that the call was spurious.”
“But how’d you know I wouldn’t check back immediately—and right off the bat?”
“I knew you couldn’t check back immediately. For I was up there to his office this morning—to get some specialized hypnotic info I need for—for a play I’m figuring to write some day—though, God help me, I’ll never be able to market it, because A. C. and G. will sue any producer that deals with me—anyway, Miranovski’s girl was temporarily out of the office—but somebody in the hall told me he was out of town. So I rang him hurriedly today, after I’d formed my plans, and confirmed that he was out of town. And so I knew it would be some time before you could locate him—by long distance.”
Vann shook his head in helpless exasperation. Then spoke.
“Well, Wainwright, I regret to say that there are no criminal statutes today—at least unrepealed—covering the gentle pastime of confessing murders! I am going to tuck you in a cell over at Central Police Headquarters nevertheless, till tomorrow—and give you bread and water only. And that, only providing you get busy and dictate your repudiation of this damned confession. And if you don’t, Art Kelgrave here has a powerful arm, and—but can you dictate?”
“Yes—yes,” said Mr. Wainwright hurriedly. “Very—fluently.”
“All right. Get busy.” Vann had already pressed a button. And Miss Jason, looking extremely curious, popped into the tiny conclave.
“Miss Jason,” Vann instructed her, “I want you to take down a 300-word statement from this fellow here. Declaring what he did today in my office—how he did it—and why he did it. After which, type it up, and he’ll sign it. And—”
One of the four phones on Vann’s desk rang sharply.
“Wait!” he said. And raised the proper instrument.
“State’s Attorney Vann speaking,” he said cheerfully.
“Who’s calling?”
And a second later the answer came. And by the cold ugly tone in which it was couched—plus the identity of the caller himself!—Vann perceived instantly that no less a person than Chicago’s State’s Attorney was—on the spot!
1The visit of Mr. Piffington Wainwright to the offices of Mr. Rutgers Allstyn, specialist in contracts, is set forth in an earlier novel by Harry Stephen Keeler entitled The Man with the Crimson Box.
CHAPTER XV
On the Spot—One S. A.!
“This is Cockerill Danielson,” a voice said frigidly. “Editor of the Evening Gazette. Though possibly you don’t know me, and—”
“Oh—oh yes. Oh, hello, Danielson? And what can I do for you?” Vann’s tone was as pleasant as he could make it—since it was plain from Cockerill Danielson’s sarcastic words that he was on the warpath. And very much so!
“You can give me 20 seconds,” said Danielson, “to tell you what the afternoon newspapers of Chicago think of you. And—”
“What? What do you mean, Danielson?”
“I’ll tell you what I mean, Vann. For I’ve just returned from a meeting held over at the Palmer House between the editors of Chicago’s afternoon papers. That is—” And Danielson’s voice, if at least not his words, grew bitterly sarcastic—“all but the Despatch! And I’m herewith telling you—on behalf of those who were there—that the thing yo
u did today was the most unethical thing any State’s Attorney ever pulled in Chicago.”
“What—what do you mean, Danielson?”
“What do I mean? Good Christ, Vann—you ask that! Discovering a murder case in your own personal office this morning when you walked in—calling in Rufus Scott sub rosa to check it secretly—then locking the place—holding everything—and then giving it all out only to your own brother Hugh Vann. Plus the facts of an arrest you made later, to boot!”
“But see here, Dan—er Cockerill,” Vann expostulated, “I had good reasons for keeping everything tight under cover. I wanted to put out a special city-wide pick-up order and—”
“You can hold that, Vann,” retorted Danielson scornfully. “For when you did pass the facts of that crime to the press—you passed it to one paper only, the Despatch. And in plenty, plenty of time for the facts to be worked up—and completely written up in a big scoop.”
“Says who?” Vann retorted boldly, knowing at least that 20 rewrite men, all working simultaneously, could amplify a skeleton synopsis into a big story in 1/20th of the time it would take one man to write it up.
“Says who?” came back Danielson. “What do you think we are in this game, Vann? Half-wits? Why—but did you read the story your brother wrote?”
“Hell no!” said Vann, truthfully. “Why should I read facts I already know? And besides, don’t you suppose I’ve been busier today than a legless Marathon runner?”
“Busy, yes—keeping facts back from part of the Press. Well, for your own edification, Vann, your brother has a wind-up feature on the part of his story that was written before the later arrest bulletin, consisting of a comment by Wah Lung, Wah Lee’s father. In which Wah Lung says—but here—I’ll read it straight off from the Despatch in front of me.” And Danielson, evidently aiming for some point, read off the bereaved father’s alleged comment: “ ‘If I knew where my son’s skull was at this moment—or will be, at least, by tonight—I would know the man who was the higher-up in that kidnap gang; or if I knew with absolute certitude who the man was who was the higher-up in that gang, I not only would have my son’s skull—but the evidence by which to convict that man—and McGurk as well—for the crime of kidnaping and murder.’ ” To which Danielson added: “And when your brother asks him here which of the two quite different statements is to be his official statement, Wah Lung says: ‘Was it not Confucius who once said that Truth is exactly like the sleeve of a coat—insofar as that when it is turned inside out, it is still Truth?’ ”
“Well, now about Wah Lung’s statement,” Vann blustered, “I happen to know that Hugh got it, from him by phone, just as the Despatch was locking up its forms early this afternoon. And—”
“Oh—yeah?” And from the biting scorn in the words, Vann knew Danielson had him. “Well, I just talked myself on the wire to Wah Lung, over there in his Inn of the Golden Dragon, on the Rialto, and he says that Hugh Vann came in there as early as 10 this morning—told him all the facts of how that skull had been unearthed by some Negro—and brought to your office in your absence—the full description of the skull, as given in the Negro’s deposition—the fact of the Negro having been killed yesterday in an accident—and the fact of the robbery last night, and the murder—and bound Wah Lung to secrecy by promise from Wah that he wouldn’t let the facts go to any rival paper. At least before 2:30. Which Wah Lung lived up to—being a Chinaman!—and a damn site whiter than a lot of State’s Attorneys in Illinois.”
“Ouch!” said Vann to himself. And openly: “But see here, Cock—er Danielson, I’ve a right, don’t forget for a minute, to—”
“And you can hold that too, Vann,” Danielson retorted, as scornfully as he had before. “Sure you have a right! A right to do any damn thing you want to do. Only—honorable State’s Attorney—your ‘divine right’ will cost you your re-election. Rather, your re-nomination. Since re-nomination this year, is re-election.”
“How do you make that out?” Vann inquired guardedly.
“How? Why, do you think Boss Hennerty will have you re-nominated, Vann, if all the afternoon papers—all but the Despatch—are lined up solidly to pound hell out of you? Never—in a pig’s eye!”
“All the papers? But hell-fire, Danielson, you’re one of the Party’s papers—”
“Oh—yeah? We’re just what we want to be. On any particular candidate. And I’m on this wire now to tell you, Vann, that the decision passed at that meeting today at the Palmer House is that we’re going to pound hell out of you if you run—which’ll mean you won’t run—because Hennerty won’t re-nominate you. In short, Vann, you’re done. Washed up.”
“But listen here, Danielson, I—now see here, I—say—will you hold the wire?”
“Why?” said the other. “I’ve said all I want to say, so—”
“No, no—wait, Danielson—hold it, please. Will you do that?”
“Oh, all right. Since there’s no more news around here just now than meat in chop suey. And 20 re-write men snoring with their chins on their chests’.”
“Then just hold it,” begged Vann.
He plastered his palm squarely over the transmitter of the instrument. And turned toward the three men closest to him. Miss Jason still stood exactly where she had been riveted by the ringing of the phone. Vann addressed his word, however, only to Leo Kilgallon.
“Hell’s bells, Leo!” he said. “The afternoon papers have all ganged up on me—because of that rich handout I gave Hugh today. And with the set-up of affiliations as it is today—that means all the morning papers likewise. That’ll mean finis on my running again—for Hennerty won’t re-nominate me. Do you know anything about Danielson? What tack I should take with him?”
Leo Kilgallon scratched his chin.
“Yes,” he said, “I know Danielson. Not personally, no. He’s tough—but can be turned. But only if—” He broke off. “Listen, Boss, you’ve one ‘out’ from this jam—and one only.”
“One ‘out’? And what is it?”
“Simply this: Boss, you cheated ’em all today on a big story; so now you’ve got to give ’em a bigger one!”
“What bigger one have I got?”
“The story of the capture—and the confession—of the real burglar and murderer!”
“This dithering infant’s blitherings?” ejaculated Vann, gazing toward the berouged Mr. Wainwright. “Why, repudiated as it already is, it isn’t worth two cen—”
“Hell, Boss—it isn’t repudiated yet! Not till he signs the repudiation. In fact, not till you hand it out. You can take his repudiation—yes—but date it a couple of hours from now—and for the moment dish forth this guy’s capture, and confession, to all the papers but the Despatch—yeah, you’ll have to leave Hugh out on a branch this time to save your own skin—for Danielson’s pride is hurt. And that’s your out. I’m confident that if you’ll tell Danielson you’ll give him and these others a hot screaming front-page scoop—and leave the Despatch out on a line—he’ll rescind.”
“And what,” asked Vann ironically, “when this Old Man Doddley, the watch engraver—and Waley, that hardware clerk, see the story of this grand confession? Involving a silver watch with ‘P. W.’ on it—and a sledge? One or the other—or both—will phone in lickety-instanter to some paper. And it’ll just be, of all things, the Despatch!—in which case the Despatch will have the ‘repudiation story’ in its mitt before even the ‘confession story’—and I will be up the creek with the other papers! And—”
“But see here, Boss,” Leo Kilgallon interposed, “Waley was just leaving for Joliet, Illinois, when I interviews him—to pick up a new lease for the store for his employer, from the owner of the place who lives in Joliet. He won’t be there till 7 bells at least—when the repudiation stop itself will be tumbling forth—and he’ll be on the train when that ‘confession story’ springs—and won’t even know anything about it.”
&n
bsp; “Hm? Did he know who you were?”
“No, Boss. He thought I was some private investigator investigating some petty matter—he didn’t know what.”
“And the old watch engraver?”
“The break is ours there too, Boss. The old man was just putting some drops in his eyes, when I was over there. To enlarge his pupils—it seems pre-senile cataract is impending. He told me he wouldn’t be able to do any more today but lock up and go home—and pass up his evening paper, tonight completely. And be bored, to boot, because his radio is out of whack. By all of which I infer he’s a widower.”
“We-ell—the breaks do seem, at that, to be ours. But these fellows—who were at that party last night—of course I can ring Bardell and Koncil, and shut them up!—but those Bohemians—”
“You’ve gotta take a chance sometimes, Boss. Chances are that if any of those birds see the story, they’ll think Wainwright is working some kind of a publicity stunt, and they’ll play in with him.”
“That’s right,” put in the prisoner. “We—we had a discussion on that very thing at the table last night—about how the lowest creature who lives is the one who breaks another man’s publicity.”
“You did, eh?” Vann surveyed the prisoner searchingly. Then turned and gazed undecidedly towards Kelgrave.
“I know nothing, Mr. Vann,” said the latter, hastily. “And I’ll stay under cover with this bird till you get ready to release his repudiation.”
Vann’s eyes came back to the prisoner’s undecidedly.
“I’ll never give you away, Mr. Vann,” that gentleman said fervently. “The story may—may be the break I’m looking for. Adlai, Collerman and Grimshawster may announce cancellation of my contract. You can rely on me.”
Vann turned his head half around to Miss Jason.
“Do let us work with you on this, Mr. Vann,” she begged. “We’re all with you.”
“Okay!” said Vann, suddenly. “You can date this fellow’s repudiation a full couple of hours from now by the clock. But we won’t take it in here, no, for the newspaper boys undoubtedly will be here within 10 minutes. In fact I myself will be running off photostats of these pages, Miss Jason, on your photostat machine while they come. Though with, of course, a strip of paper stuck over this confounded mention of Philander Moriarity—he’ll just have to remain for the newspaper boys, as ‘the Man in Evergreen Park’—and I’ll have to up and swear that we’re holding back that one blanked-out name so’s we can catch our man—yeah-bo! But the procedure—my running off the photostats—ought to make it possible—” Vann glanced at the telechron clock on one of his walls. “—yes, make it possible, with the help of plenty of rewrite men, for the papers to put the story of Wainwright’s capture and confession on the street for the home-going Loop crowds. As for the time of the repudiation story, our post-dating of it ought to be just right to let it get into the 7 o’clock editions tonight. Now all of you get ready to lam upstairs to the private files room above us here—yes, by the private stairway yonder—yes, you too, Leo, for I want you to direct the wording of this repudiation. Art, you continue to squat up there with the prisoner till we have to give out the second handout to the papers.”
The Man with the Wooden Spectacles Page 17
