“Is MacTavish in?” he asked.
“Right here,” grunted somebody behind him, and, turning, he caught sight of MacTavish standing in the detectives’ room. MacTavish beckoned him inside and closed the door. They were alone. “Great Scott, man, what the dickens is all this muss about a diamond necklace last night? I just got down, and only finished reading the paper ten minutes ago.”
Casperson told him the story from beginning to end. Then he took out the card which had drawn him from the mask ball. “And here,” he said, “is the message that decoyed me from the ball, Mac. Read it if you can. If I’d had sense enough to show it to you last night, we’d — ” He broke off. “But last night I merely thought it was a mistake in the street number, so I didn’t even bother you with it.”
The detective wrinkled his brow as he turned to both sides of it and found, with the exception of the pencilled words “Yellow Moth,” only blank white space. “Blank!’ he ejaculated. “Well, what do you know about that? Funny business of some sort here. Casperson, can you recall that message word for word now?”
It was no difficulty at all for Casperson to repeat the message, almost verbatim. Whereupon MacTavish slumped back in his swivel chair, drumming on the desk with his fingers. Then he rose. “We’ll have to dig into the thing deeper than we have, Casp.” He fumbled in a compartment of his desk and took from it a peculiar little contrivance — a fine steel wire with twisted ends, bearing a single Yale key. The wire bracelet, for such it undoubtedly was, had been cut with pliers. “Know where this came from?” he said.
The other shook his head gloomily. “No.”
“I stopped in the morgue on my way down this morning,” went on the detective, “and had another look at the body of Silvester. This improvised bracelet is what they found on his arm, above the elbow. No doubt, of course, that it’s a key to something he’s been concealing. So I’m wondering if it was for this key, or for what the key has locked up, that the Jap killed him; for the Jap did it, that’s obvious. Silvester’s rubber-stamp message and the Jap’s flight fit together beautifully.” He glanced toward the clock. “I was just about to start for the Detective Bureau to interview the Jap before they give him the third degree. Come along, if you wish. It certainly looks as though you are vitally mixed up somehow in this tangle.”
“I’ll go gladly,” said Casperson, rising.
Together they left the place. Twenty minutes later they were entering the gloomy old police building at the foot of La Salle Street tunnel. MacTavish nodded toward the blue-clad sergeant at the desk. “Morning, O’Reilly. Want to have a word and a look at this Ushi Yatsura you fellows picked up early this morning on our tip.”
O’Reilly jerked his thumb toward the basement stairs. “Go right on down, Mac. Cell Twenty-four.”
Below, a turnkey unlocked the barred door to a whitewashed corridor flanked on both sides with cells over each of which a solitary electric bulb burned. The whole interior presented a gloomy contrast to the sunlit streets above. MacTavish led the way down the corridor and stopped at cell twenty-four. Casperson, at his elbow, peered in curiously.
The prisoner was undersized, yellow, slant-eyed, and hardly more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old. His face was a shrewder, more worldly-wise one than that borne by the usual Japanese house-boy, such as he had been, supposedly, in the professor’s laboratory. He sat on the hard ledge, his face and chin in his hands; but he looked up as the two men pressed their faces to the iron bars.
“Come over here, Yatsura; want to speak to you a minute,” said MacTavish.
The prisoner dragged himself slowly, almost reluctantly, over to the cell door.
“Whata you want weeth me?” he stammered.
“Ushi, MacTavish is my name. I’m from the Chicago Avenue station.” He paused. “Ushi, what did you shoot old man Silvester for?”
The Oriental’s voice held in it a trace of sullenness, of defiance. “Ushi nevair shoot old man Silvester, sair. Thata what they say w’en they peeck him up joos as he go f’um depot to tak’ train back for Freesco. He knowa nothing about it all.”
MacTavish studied the brown-skinned figure in front of him. “Ushi, why were you in the North-western depot when you were supposed to be taking care of the laboratory on Ernst Court?”
“Becooze me an’ he have quarrel w’at all heez fault — not mine. I speel bot’le o’ ink on Persi’n rug in doorway o’ lebbertory on secon’ floor las’ night — an’ he say Ushi got pay for new rug. Ushi don’t not pay f’r no rugs, nevaire, to man w’at pay ‘im only eight dollar a week. I say I not pay, an’ he say he hol’ back my monee till it paid for.” The Jap emitted a snarling laugh. “Old man Silvester not know Ushi got monee enough save’ to go back to Freesco, an’ Ushi queet on spot, leave las’ week’s pay go jus’ like that” — he snapped his fingers — ”pack ‘is suit-case an’ slip out. From there he went to depot an’ bought ticket for Freesco an’ wait till train ready to go. An’ they peeck him up as he get on train. Thaz all he knows.”
MacTavish held up in the light of the overhanging bulb the wisp of wire with the Yale key twisted on it. “Ushi, was this what you shot him for?”
The Jap’s eyes took in the contrivance stolidly, un-blinkingly. Finally he shook his head wearily. “ I nota keel him; thaz all I have say. I nota keel him — I nota keel him at all. An’ I don’t not know nothing about it.”
MacTavish remained a moment longer in front of the cell door. Then he turned to Casperson. “Come, let’s go,” he said. “The old case of tight-mouth Orientalism. Never saw a criminal from the East yet who couldn’t shut up beautifully whether matters concerned him or not. But they’ll sweat him to a fare-you-well up in the chief’s office in a little while.”
He led the way back upstairs. At the sergeant’s desk, he paused. “What did you find in the Jap’s suit-case, O’Reilly?”
The sergeant took the black cigar from his mouth with exasperating slowness. “Just shirts, collars, clothing, and a roll o’ money — twenty or thirty bucks. Nothing out of the way; no gun, neither. He got rid o’ that. Whatever he croaked him for, he probably didn’t get. Likely revenge or anger. Chief’s just arrived, and they’re going to sweat him upstairs in a few minutes. Want to sit in?”
MacTavish shook his head. “I guess not. We’ll go on.” Outside he said to Casperson. “No doubt, of course, that Ushi’s lying, and I’m wondering if a good old Chicago third degree can squeeze the truth out of a Jap prisoner. I’m a little doubtful about it.” He motioned to a street car. “We’ll mosey on to Ernst Court now, and see what this little key of ours fits — if it fits anything. The Jap had a look in his eyes that might have meant anything or nothing when I showed it to him.”
Arriving a few minutes later at Ernst Court, they tramped down the cobble-stones between the close-set buildings and found a bluecoat sitting on the steps. With a nod MacTavish passed him by and led the way to the upper floor. There things were much as they had been the night before, except that the body was not in evidence.
The two men stood gazing about the room, and Casperson, his eyes roving along the work-bench, came to rest upon a stout steel drawer, painted black, built into its structure; near the top of the drawer gleamed a shiny nickel-plated lock. He stepped forward and tried it. It was locked tight and snug, not giving by so much as a millimetre. He turned to the detective, who was watching him. “Try your key on this, Mac.”
MacTavish strode forward and inserted the key, hampered by its wisp of wire. It turned easily, smoothly. He pulled open the steel drawer. Inside were but two articles: a slip of blue pasteboard with rounded corners and a few words scrawled on it, and a huge glass-covered flat box, perhaps a foot long and seven inches wide. Like the many other boxes which covered the walls, its bottom, too, was lined with cork. Its contents were indeed safely enclosed, considering the tight glass, and it was obviously dust-proof, air-proof, insect-proof. Pinned by one stout steel pin, driven straight into the cork bottom, was an enormous gau
dy moth, one whose vivid red-and-purple front wings cleared easily five inches each, or ten inches together; whose rear, or smaller wings, of a soft grey with several yellow spots on them, were perhaps not more than three inches across each. Fastened to the bottom of the cork panel by four thumb tacks was a tiny white label card, which bore red-stamped letters like those on the cards the professor had been making as death had overtaken him:
VERGITILLA PHYLEAS
(Giant Tropical Moth)
Habitat: Low Regions from Eastern Costa Rica to Western
Colombia, South America.
“What a giant moth it is!” remarked Casperson, as he stared down at it. “And do you suppose, Mac., that thing could possibly be rare enough for — ” He stopped as MacTavish drew forth the blue card with rounded corners which appeared to have been hastily tossed into the drawer. He proceeded to read it over the plain-clothes man’s shoulder. Its few pencilled words ran: “My address after Monday: Ontario Hotel.”
MacTavish turned it over. On the other side was written in a fine hand, different from that of the scrawled words: “Rec’d ten dollars deposit on yellow-moth masquerade suit. D.”
A silence followed the discovery of the words on the other side. It was broken by MacTavish, who thrust the card forward at Casperson and spoke: “There, my friend, is the beginning of light on your own unfortunate affairs. Who was the other yellow moth that never showed up at the masquerade ball on Lake Shore Drive?”
CHAPTER XII
A HUNT ABOUT TOWN
“THE other moth,” Casperson repeated slowly. “The other yellow moth!” Mac, I guess you’ve hit the nail on the head.”
A moment of thought, and he stepped over to the ‘phone on the counter, and raising the receiver, asked for a number. After a clicking had ensued, a woman’s voice answered. Casperson asked:
“Mrs. Dolliver? Can you tell me where Mr. Arthur Sennet has moved to? Better — can you give me his new ‘phone number?”
“Mr. Sennet’s sitting on the front steps now,” the woman answered, “waiting for a messenger boy or a mail-man or something. I’ll call him.”
Casperson waited impatiently, and presently he heard Sennet’s youthful, familiar voice on the wire.
“Arthur,” he asked,” you didn’t send me any notes, or anything, since we talked last night, did you!”
“Not on your life,” answered the other glumly. “Nothing developed. That’s why.”
“It’s all right, then. Where can I get you on the ‘phone if I need you? I forgot to get your new address. Last night may have been too late to expect to hear anything from the judges, so it doesn’t mean particularly bad or good news, boy.”
“Well, I’m sticking right here on the old steps,” declared Sennet, “till the noon mail delivery; then you get me at my new lodgings at 1062 La Salle Avenue; Superior 4449. That’s all I’ve got to report.”
Casperson, after noting the address and the phone number, hung up and turned from the ‘phone. “Well, just as we ought to have suspected last night, Mac; the note didn’t come from him at all. There was evidently another yellow moth supposed to have been at that mask ball last night, and he never showed up at all — or else he showed up after I left. If we find that individual we’ll be able to get some light on our affair which the disappearing writing mentioned. And from there — ”
He stopped, for MacTavish’s attention was once more riveted to the great entomological specimen taken from the drawer, and its data at the bottom; whereupon Casperson changed the angle of his question.
“What do you think of it, Mac? Does it look to you as if it was worth stealing?”
MacTavish studied the specimen in front of him again, with its many colours. “Casp, to you and me this thing ain’t worth a day’s pay; but to a bug collector it might be worth — well — murder! Who knows? One thing is certain: this is the only thing in the room that seems to be under lock and key.” He ran his eyes along the work-bench and the walls. “This is the only lock, that’s sure.” He paused. “And if it wasn’t for the dying accusation against Ushi, I’d say it might possibly be the blue card they were after, for some strange reason. And here’s the third and most likely theory: if this here Vergitilla Phyleas was wanted by some crazy bugologist, who’s the first person he’d hire to steal it? Answer me that.”
“Ushi Yatsura” replied the other quickly.
MacTavish gave a satisfied smile. “All right. That’s sufficient. And now, Mr. Vergitilla Phyleas — or is it Mrs. Vergitilla Phyleas? — we’ll put you back in your steel mausoleum for the present.” And replacing the glass-covered box, he pushed the drawer shut and locked it.
After another brief study of the room of moths which provided nothing of interest, they left the place.
They parted at the dingy, narrow mouth of Ernst Court, and Casperson took a car to the east which would bring him to the costumiers’ near North Avenue and Clark Street, where he had rented his yellow moth suit a couple of evenings before. Fifteen minutes later, as he waited at the counter in the eerie atmosphere of masked wax figures and costumes, a clerk approached him.
“The other evening,” Casperson said, “I rented a costume here — an odd sort of thing, supposed to represent a huge yellow moth. Do you have any others like that in stock? I’m trying to locate another masquerader who was dressed in just such a costume at the same ball.”
The clerk shook his head. “No, we have no others. That suit was one we purchased from an old maker over on West Monroe Street. His business is the devising and making of peculiar costumes.” He looked into a worn ledger, which he withdrew from a desk back of the counter. “His name is Adolph Stutz; his number is 2440 West Monroe. I’m inclined to think that it was his own design, and that he will probably be able to tell you where he had placed other such suits.”
Casperson thanked the clerk and straightway took a car to West Monroe Street. Here, in a district dirty and uncouth, with shabby houses and dirty-faced children, he soon found a basement with a little hunchbacked man sitting on a table cross-legged and working on a suit of scarlet silk. On the upper part of the window a sign in the last stages of dissolution announced: “Adolph Stutz, maker of masquerade suits.”
Casperson went down a few steps and walked inside. The old man looked up at him. Casperson stated his errand. The old man stopped threading his needle and scratched his head, blinking through his steel-rimmed spectacles.
“I did mage four uf dose suids,” he announced, “und I blace dem vun each in four masquerade houses.” He rose ponderously. “But you say you like mooch to locate man vass vear vun, eh? Vell, I shust dell you vere de four suids iss, and den you can look it up yourself.”
He found some entries in a book made of yellow paper. As he called them off Casperson copied out with his pencil three of the addresses, the fourth being that of the costumier on whom he had already called. Then he thanked the old man, and, leaving him a half-dollar concealed under a piece of silk on the table, departed from the region.
The first house he called at was quite pretentious, and was situated farther out on Monroe Street, near a huge dance pavilion which advertised extensively in the street cars. The clerk in charge thought first that Casperson wanted to rent a yellow-moth suit, and brought out one which was very similar — almost identical with the one Casperson had worn the night before. The latter’s queries, however, developed the fact that the suit had been there for several weeks; so that part of the chase was terminated. He was soon on the way to the other two addresses found in Stutz’s book.
The second of the three, like the first, had the suit in stock. It had not been out for a week. But the third one, situated in the Loop, and with a bigger stock than any of the others, proved to have had such a suit. And it was gone!
“When did it go out?” he asked the girl clerk.
“Several nights ago,” she replied.
“Is it your custom to write out a blue ticket, giving the deposit on a suit and signing it simply ‘D’?”
She nodded. “Yes ‘D’ is my last initial.”
Again he told how he was trying the find the temporary holder of the suit, and she appeared glad to give him the only information she had.
“I rented it to a dark, handsome man, tall and a little corpulent, but very polished in his manner,” she said. “I dimly recollect his saying that he had a friend who was a collector of moths, and he wondered why moths with their vivid colouring would not make unique subjects for masquerade suits. Of course I showed him the one we had and he rented it. I took his deposit, and, as usual in that case, did not bother with the name and address of the lessee.’’ She paused. “That is all I can tell.”
“It has not been returned?” Casperson asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
He thanked her and left the place. Outside in the Loop, in the bright sunshine, Casperson paused to reflect on recent developments. He — or perhaps he with MacTavish’s aid — had now brought to light that there was a man of a certain description who had rented a suit designed to represent a huge yellow moth. That was as far, at the present, as he could go. Ye was still bewildered, however. That he had received the note intended for the other moth seemed somehow certain; the A. S. supposed to have been Arthur Sennet was really Aloysius Silvester. Who, then, was W.C., who bore his own initials? And what connection was there between the human moth and old moth-collector which caused an urgent note to go out from the latter to the former?
Sing Sing Nights Page 7
