The Case of the Lavender Gripsack

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “Well, good Lord, Wainright, 57,600 different settings at three seconds each is—is—let’s see—is thirty-six hours. So—”

  “Yes, Your Honor. But this expert is, as I told you, a real expert. And he has invented a tiny pair of cone-like eardrums not greatly unlike those I described in my fictitious story tonight—except that they connect to a microscopic microphone that can be stuck to the door or dial of a safe, and also to a vest pocket battery. And will magnify certain sounds, or rather nuances of sound. And this downright genius has also discovered that five sets of 7,200 settings, each embracing one distinct concentric relationship of the dials, but false sets all, since none contain the true unlocking setting, can be eliminated entirely from the total of 57,600 setting by a certain sound that is created in the ‘magic eardrums’ when the safe door is lightly tapped with a tile, with the false setting on.”

  “Well, this is getting too deep into the intricacies of safe locks for me,” said Penworth helplessly. “But I get your point: that the said test reduces the total settings to be actually tried out to 7,200, which—hm?—three seconds each?—yes, I see now where you get your six hours!”

  “Six hours, yes, Your Honor, if our man had bad luck and caught the correct setting only on the wrong end! But no hours at all—if he caught it on the beginning.”

  “And it rather seems,” said Penworth dryly, “that he caught it—not at all! For no signal has been flashed to this block. And my hunch is that he has been nabbed himself. In the face of which, you and Mr. Wah have lost whatever chances you ever had to acquire this hypothetical evidence against your suspect. For I think I can safely say that on such slight premises as you and Mr. Wah are operating, the suspect in the case does not have to open his safe for, or by order, of all the police in the world. And when or if he does, if such evidence is there now, it won’t any longer—however, why not name the man to me privately—‘in chambers,’ as we call it—since your expert has come a cropper?”

  “But, Your Honor, I believe I can say, without any hesitation, that our man did get into the safe in question!”

  “How can you?” And Penworth gazed back of him again at the clock. “More than seven hours,” he said, returning his gaze to the ex-defendant, “and not just six, have gone by. And no signal was flashed to this section tonight.”

  “Well, Your Honor, there was at that—when you come down to it. For if you’ll recall that when Inspector Scott, at Miss Colby’s request, snapped off the lights in this room tonight, so that she could demonstrate with her ultra-violet lamp, the lights in the chandelier here started to dim just a second before the click of the button. And I maintain that that was when the signal came in.”

  The Judge looked incredulous, and turned to Scott, on whose own face was a puzzled look.

  “How about that, Inspector Scott?”

  “It’s a fact, Your Honor,” Scott admitted. “The lights started to dim practically as I touched the snapswitch. I was certain, myself, at the time, that the switch spring was merely out of order—loose, that is.”

  Penworth turned back to Wainright. “Well then, it does look as though your man made it. And getting safely out, called up the sub-station operator of this district—and sent the signal. And it looks also, with what you’ve told, as if both the sub-station operator and superintendent of A.C. distribu­tion Domaire will be indicted tomorrow as at least acces­sories-after-the-fact of burglary—while you and Mr. Wah, on the other hand, will be locked up tomorrow under charges of actual burglary—at least conspiracy to commit burglary, and heaven knows what el—”

  “But—Your Honor! What if our man, having opened the safe in question, found the evidence? What then?”

  “What then? Well, I figure the suspect in question, who­ever he may be, will be very glad to waive charges against you—being too busy saving his own skin from the electric chair!” Penworth was thoughtful for a second. “Well, Wain­right, I fear you’ve dug your own pit—as well as that of my good friend Wah yonder—and so I’m not going to dig it deeper for both of you by sticking a contempt-ofcourt sen­tence on either of you. If, however, Mr. Vann there, as Dis­trict Attorney, orders me to sign a warrant so that Officer Mullarky can take you in tow, I have absolutely no choice but to sign it, since I am a sitting judge. And while Mr. Vann is deciding on that, I declare Court to be adj—”

  “But wait, Your Honor! I believe that, before Mr. Vann has me arrested, we can determine definitely whether Mr. Wah’s and my expert found ‘hanging evidence.’”

  “How? By some spiritual telegraphy? Table-knocking? Well, at least we have three tables in the room here. No, four, with Mr. Mullins’ low deal table there.”

  “Well not exactly, Your Honor. And yet—yes, too! That is—” And Parks Wainright turned his gaze toward Inspector Scott.

  “Inspector Scott, would you mind knocking thrice on that locked door!”

  “Knocking? Thrice?” Scott looked disgusted. “What the–” And then he stopped abruptly, a blank look on his face. And with amazing mildness rose from his chair and knocked once, twice, three times on the door.

  And back came an answer. A knock! And it was repeated—once—twice!

  Scott passed a hand dazedly over his head. And then, with a helpless glance back of him, and drawing the key from his vest pocket, stuck it in the lock and flung the door back.

  And there, on the threshold, stood no other than Mr. Harry Seeong, the loudly check-suited Chinese youth with the gold-rimmed spectacles, who many, many hours ago had “had to go—when he had to go!”

  And, under his arm, facing all in the room, was a grinning, ghastly skull!

  CHAPTER XXV

  Mr. Seeong Reports

  The silence in the courtroom was so intense it was suffocating. While Scott, obviously dumbfounded, dropped back into his chair out of the way, so that, perhaps, Judge Penworth could question the youth.

  But the first words spoken were not by Penworth, but by the Chinese youth himself. And directly to his uncle, Wah Lung.

  “Easy, Uncle Wah,” he said kindly. “This is hard on you, I know, but—” He nodded. “This is Lee’s skull, all right. The right one, this time!”

  And the continuing suffocating silence was broken by no less than Parks Wainright, clear across the room.

  “And what else did you find, Harry?”

  With his free hand, the Chinese boy patted a heavyhanging side coat pocket. “A nasty-looking revolver. And—”

  Now he inserted that free hand into the hip pocket on that same side, and withdrew the hand, bulging with currency. “And $1,400 of Uncle Wah’s ransom money,” he added. “Of the hot part of that money, that is. For in it is the $10 bill patched with red and gold gum-gnun-yee-chee paper that my grandfather—years back—gave me for my birthday, and I traded in to Uncle Wah for singles.”

  “And that is all you found, Harry?”

  “Not quite, Mr. Wainright—no. For the original packet is there—handwritten address, canceled stamps and all—con­taining the X-ray films. Which did escape that packagebox fire, after all!”

  “And how long, Harry, did it take you to get in?”

  “Well, by rotating the safe on its wheels so that it faced completely away from the bed—so that, in short, I could work swiftly as well as freely—and by setting up the reading lamp on the floor to bring all the possible light to bear, I got in at about the 6,800th setting. About fifteen minutes before the end of the sixth hour, that is. But I wasn’t able, Mr. Wainright, to flash you the signal just then, for I was a full three-quarters of an hour after that trying to locate the con­founded fuse- and switch-box in the baseme—”

  But at this juncture of things came a sinister sound which swung the eyes of every person in the room—all riveted, thus far, with no exception, on the coolly-speaking Chinese youth—to the bench itself.

  The sharp hollow sound of a shot!

&nb
sp; Followed by a muffled “thump.” And the eyes of such of those as reached the bench first saw—

  Judge Penworth! Slumped forward on his face across the table. His right arm flung grotesquely out over the table itself. Its tightly clenched fingers, extending just beyond the further table edge, holding a shiny snub-nosed revolver. A weapon which obviously he must have drawn from his bathrobe pocket. But to those who sat leftmost of him was an even more horrid sight. For there was, in his temple on that side, a huge powder-stained black cavern. A cavern from which crimson blood was actually gushing forth in a series of visible spurts. While, to those who sat rightmost of him, was an almost equally ugly sight. The black nose of a flattened bullet protruding—just, and no more—from that other temple! And even as the visible jets of blood subsided before the eyes of all in the courtroom, to just a mere red sticky river flowing across the mahogany table, the snub-nosed revolver dropped—with a sharp clattering noise—to the floor, from the completely relaxing grip.

  And of the many persons in that room, used to death and violence, it was—strangely enough—District Attorney Van who came to first.

  “Good God!” he said aloud, though to no one in particular. “He’s—he’s killed himself! But everybody—please!—keep your positions! Let us not have confus—” But almost in the time it took to issue that last injunction, he was around and behind the table itself, leaning far over, rolling Penworth’s head very gently from one side to the other, and shaking his own head helplessly. Then reaching down with his free hand, and feeling the pulse of the hand that still lay on the bathrobe-clad knee. Then standing erect again. And holding his own hand out—palm flat—toward Dr. Blaine, who had arisen, but stood undecidedly.

  “No use, Blaine. No need even to get our your stethoscope. His heart’s stopped. It was a death shot—if ever there was one! Straight through the brain—temple to temple—and with a snubbed bullet that’s doubtlessly torn his whole cerebrum to pieces! Oh, he made certain all right that if ever he had to do it—there’d be no error.” The District Attorney’s gaze roved helplessly about the room. “Well, my friends—in fact, all of you folks—and—and you chaps of the Press—its evident at last, thanks to Wainright here, and Mr. Wah Lung, and Mr. Seeong yonder, who the higher-up in that old Parson Gang was. The man who was covertly sliding them informa­tion concerning the identities of persons who were dangerous to the organization and of impending police moves. Hilford Penworth! Honored Judge of the Criminal Bench.” And gaz­ing downward again at the quiet form, Vann shook his head helplessly, obviously not able himself to digest the grim fact which Penworth himself had just definitely ratified. “But here at last,” Vann managed to continue, as one realizing he alone must now be official spokesman for all, “we have the full answer to the burglary of my safe—and the murder of Reib—But—” Manifestly startled, Vann gazed upward. “But—” And his gaze swung, seemingly astounded, toward the newspapermen as perhaps the only ones who could follow his line of thought. “But who on earth, boys—did he send out on that job? For this man, with gout—arthritis—never could he have—”

  But now Harry Seeong, still in the open doorway, grinning skill still under left arm, spoke. Quietly.

  “Also standing in the safe, Mr. Vann, is a short sledge. With dried blood and hairs on one of its hammer faces. And with fingerprints all over the wooden handle, as I could easily see by putting the light closely on it. But I didn’t dare touch it. For—”

  “Stop!”

  The command—almost a snarling bark—came from Mul­lins, who had arisen. Who had, during the excitement, evi­dently opened the drawer in his deal table. For his hands held a sinister sub-machine-gun!

  “Don’t move—anybody!” he warned. “For if one person in this room so much as moves—I’ll give him all. Up with your hands, you bastards—all of you. Up, I say!” And almost like one of the magic tissue-paper gardens made by Japanese craftsmen to open up when tossed into water, the room seemed instantly a forest of upraised hands. “So you’re won­dering, are you, who did the ‘heavy’ on the Reibach job, and—don’t try it, Mullarky!” The machine-gun was pointing directly at the blue-clad officer. “You’re a dead man if you so much as reach for that police gat on your hip. Up, Scott, you fool—” The gun had swung, like lightning itself, across the room toward Inspector Scott. “Do you think you can put your hand into that shoulder holster before this spits? Hold it, you red-headed son-of-a-bitch—” And the gun had swung clear back to Parks Wainright. “I see it in your eyes. But don’t try it! For if you even move a foot this way, I’ll drill you square through this girl’s body.” And Elsa, closest of all in the room to the sub-machine-gun, stopped breathing—felt the very bottom of the world trying to drop out from under her, as the black hole representing the muzzle of that machine-gun faced her like a veritable tunnel entrance. Then it left her. Drifting gently back and forth, back and forth. The while Mullins’ cold blue eyes seemed to rake in every person in the room. “Now back—all of you,” he ordered. “Hands upraised—and back. Toward that rear wall. And turn around. Everyone of you. And face the wall. You too, Vann. And you two stenogs, too. And you, young Kilgal—”

  “Don’t back up—anybody!” Van half screamed. “Don’t move—anybody. He—he wants to mass us all—it’ll be another St. Valentine’s massac—”

  “And for that, you swine,” Mullins bit out, “I’m going to give you hot lead. You goddamned cop—”

  But he did not finish his words. Instead, his mouth dropped grotesquely open—as though he had seen a weird sight! Though all that had really happened was a sharp muf­fled sound in the doorway. And Elsa’s eyes, turning auto­matically toward that doorway, saw only Harry Seeong still standing there. Hand, however, now in side coat pocket. And from an opening in that check-suited cloth, white smoke was oozing. And with a half gasp Elsa’s eyes swung back to Mullins, who was still standing, with mouth wide open, but with a red hole in his forehead! A hole from which, straight down his blue-veined nose, blood was pouring. And dripping—dripping—dripping off the end. And then suddenly he swayed. Forward. Then backward. The machine-gun dropped clatteringly to the floor. And forward he swayed again, crum­pling as he fell. Face and shoulders striking the table with a hollow thump. And, slowly, the entire hair of his head seem­ing to become detached by the collision. For it fell away. Proving itself to be but a cunning wig. And revealing, by its falling away, a shiny bald head. A head from which a tat­tooed nude Venus gazed contemptuously forward into the room.

  And once again it was the District Attorney who broke the stillness.

  “Venus—Baldy!” he ejaculated. “The—the escaped Australian convict! By the gods!” He turned swiftly to those in the rear of the room, many or most of whom still had their hands aloft—or at least half aloft. “Bring ’em down, folks! It’s all over, thanks to that sharpshooter in the doorway! It’s all over—I tell you. Two of the last three members of the old Parson Gang are dead, and the other’s safe this minute in Moundsville Prison—with evidence now to send him to the chair. Friends—folks—and last but not least, you boys of the Press—the McGurk Gang is now History!”

  But, of the Press, none seemingly heard Vann. For they were surging pell-mell towards that open door, some tearing at the coat-tails of those in front of them, others kicking viciously back at those holding on to them, one even smash­ing another in the face, and all trying to get out first. All of which meant that the greatest news story of the day would be on the doorsteps of all Chicago within an hour!

  CHAPTER XXVI

  As Cameramen Departed!

  It was four in the morning by the old clock ticking imperturbably away against the wall of the Penworth draw­ing-room.

  The air in the old mansion was acrid with the smoke of flashlights. And cameramen, who had snapped everybody and everything in sight—on all floors—in all rooms—to the extent even of using up their entire supply of flashbulbs and having to resort, ea
ch and everyone of them, to their old-fashioned flashlight powders, were now putting up their cam­eras and melting magically away. And that the last chapter had, indeed, been written upon the once notorious Parsons Gang was emphasized by the black-clothed undertakers themselves who, carrying the rubber-shrouded bodies of Judge Penworth and “Venus” Baldy—both properly certified as to “causes” of death by no less than the coroner of Cook County—present, himself, at the “time and place” thereof—threaded their ways silently through the hall and down the steps.

  And now, for the first time since that moment when the newspapermen had torn pell-mell from the house—and in the outer hall, outside of the dread room where two men tonight, both faced with the electric chair, had gone to their deaths, Elsa Colby and Parks Wainright came face to face; came thus by dint of gradually drawing, from group to group, from person to person, toward each other.

  “Mr. Wainright,” she began, “you—”

  “Here—here—Elsa!” he interrupted her chidingly. “The name is John! At least it was that, don’t forget, when you talked things over with me this—no, yesterday—afternoon, eons and eras ago, in my incommunicado cell! And so John it’s going to remain! For remember—I’m the guy who has no legal first name, and can choose his own. So John it is! Now proceed.”

  John! And Elsa gave an odd little shiver as she realized that but a few hours ago tonight she was defending—in front of two armed men—and one who proved, at the last ditch, to be desperate enough to commit mass murder—she was defending one “John Doe”!

  “All right then, John,” she said quietly, “John it shall be. John—Doe—Wainright!” She looked curiously at him. “Well, John, do you realize that you saved my fortune for me tonight?”