“You’re not such a bad criminal lawyer yourself, Mr. King,” Steenburg commented, admiringly.
“Man,” I told him, “I ought to be, for I’ve had plenty legal messes in my own game. However,” I went on, “I don’t even think, on what you’ve presented here, that your client could even be pulled out of the State of Illinois—to stand trial in Wisconsin.”
“No?” said Steenburg moodily. “Though remember, Mr. King,” he added, “that if only he could be—they wouldn’t need to convict him there on the murder at all—for if they once get him there, on any extraditable charge—they can give him life—as a habitual criminal.” He paused. “Well, to make a sad story sadder, even though ‘Blinky’ was never bertillioned—nor fingerprinted—I shall have to tell you, Mr. King, that his skull can be identified fully and conclusively as the skull of—well—we’ll just continue to call him ‘Blinky.’ In short, the corpus delicti identifactus, necessary for a charge of murder—and an extradition warrant—can be established with and by that skull!”
CHAPTER XVI
Corpus Delicti Identifactus
It was all clear now. All clear, that is, except—
“But how,” I queried Steenburg, “can that skull—”
“I’ll tell you,” he interrupted me. “And in straight chronological order now—from Illinois—somewhere south of Chicago!—to Queen Avenue, South, Minneapolis!” He paused. “It was a week ago yesterday—let’s see?—today’s Tuesday, October 22nd, isn’t it?—yes—according to that clock up there, still Tuesday, with some margin to spare!—well then, it was a week ago today—at 10 in the morning—that I got an airmail special from ‘Big Shoes’—the client whose retaining fee saved my Old Man’s life just 9 years ago. He recalled for me, in it, the circumstances of our first meeting—told me that he’d just received disconcerting news—and that, because of the fact that his regular Minneapolis ‘mouthpiece’ of years ago was dead, he was calling on me now, in a hurry. Asked me to wire him only if I couldn’t come—and he enclosed money for fare to fetch me down to—well—where I had to go! See? I left Buffalo at noon—had absolutely nothing doing just then in the courts anyway. Got into Chicago that night at around 10 p.m.—and just too late, in fact, to be able to go on to ‘Big Shoes’’ town. So I laid over, and pulled out early next morning—Wednesday. And arrive at ‘Big Shoes’’ town between then and noon—I’ve told you the town is only about 100 miles from Chicago. All right. And with about 30 railroad lines going out of Chicago, you haven’t much chance, have you, Mr. King, to guess the town? No, I thought not!
“But anyway, I landed myself at ‘Big Shoes’’ place. Wednesday before noon. And believe me, he did need me! He was in bed—on the flat of his back—with acute lumbago. He couldn’t have gone north if all the Habitual Criminal Acts in the Universe had been repealed. Well, the tramp—that ex-grafter, you know?—who’d been there at ‘Big Shoes’’ place Sunday and Monday had by now gone on. And it was that same Monday that ‘Big Shoes’ had shot me that airmail special, with the fare money in it, pronto to Buffalo. And so we talked this thing over, pro and con. During which we decided exactly what to do. In fact, I stayed over with him till late next afternoon, Thursday. When I started back to Chicago—on my way not home to Buffalo, but up to Minneapolis here.
“Our decision,” Steenburg went on, “was that that skull, as a result of about 8 spring plowings, since it’s trivial, has probably wandered a full couple of rods in that field. And couldn’t be surreptitiously dug for today—without maybe raising a big commotion over the countryside. And we decided that, anyway, the first and most important thing was for me to see ‘Blinky’s’ wife—to find out if by any chance, after all, ‘Blinky’ had ever been in any legal trouble in some other city—been fingerprinted—and all that. For our first thought, to be candid, was that that body—found in that Wisconsin ditch—might ultimately prove to be the real weak point—against ‘Big Shoes.’ If and when ‘Cokey’ cracked—and revealed ‘Blinky’s’ identity.
“At any rate,” Steenburg continued, “I got into Minneapolis at 11 a.m. Friday last, by taking a 1 a.m. train out of Chicago Thursday. With all ‘Big Shoes’ had given me on ‘Blinky,’ I had no trouble whatever to locate ‘Blinky’s’ frau. In fact, Mr. King, she’s locatable by anybody—who ever gets ‘Blinky’s’ name—out of ‘Cokey’!
“I was with Mrs. ‘Blinky,’” Steenburg continued, “from 2 o’clock that afternoon—till 3:30 or so. Not under my own name—God no! I pretended to be investigating his rights to a bequest. From an unknown uncle. Proof of death—and all that. You know? Of course,” Steenburg explained, “she just thought he’d deserted her—had no idea whether he was alive or dead today. But I quizzed her from A to Izzard. And I must say got pretty well his complete life history. And no, he positively never had been in trouble. That was one thing, it seems, he’d always bragged to her about. But, Mr. King, he’d had his mouth—his entire head, in fact—X-rayed in the diagnostic laboratories of a certain well-known medical institute—still in existence today—trying, it seems, to trace down the cause of a frequently recurring facial neuritis. Two sets of films were made—mouth and head—and the head films, moreover, were taken from two different directions, at right angles to each other, for localizing purposes. One complete set was in the safety box of Mrs. ‘Blinky’s’ uncle—at present in Europe. The other complete set was locked in the Files of this medical institute—waiting for later developments in the patient’s obscure ease!”
“Well what—” I asked curiously, “—what do the films show? What can they show?”
“Nothing—by themselves,” was Steenburg’s reply. “But with the skull—if such is acquired by the police—everything! For one thing, they will show that such few fillings as were in the teeth of the man ‘Blinky’ lie in identical teeth—in the skull itself. What’s more, they will show which teeth have three roots—and which two. And which teeth have the wrong number of roots with respect to what they should have—for their position. A condition occurring in most everyone’s mouth. They will show the directions—and lengths—of all these prong-like roots. And those that cross instead of diverging. The files will also show the exact shapes of the frontal sinuses—the irregular hollow caverns above the eyebrows, you know?—which are different in every human being. Will show them frontward—and sideward! And, Mr. King, no less a body than the Supreme Court of the United States, in confirming Memphis, Tennessee, court ruling No. 45,161, in the suit against the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company of an amnesiac patient, Carson Hymer; and Niles, Michigan, court ruling 61,267 in the case of a first-born twin baby inheriting—the case is that of D. Agbora, guardian ad litem pro Philip Donson vs. Estate of Edgar Chalice; and Little Rock, Arkansas, ruling 983,212—State of Arkansas vs. George Filkinhole—that of a man claiming the right to be an alibi witness in a murder, has affirmed conclusively the fact that X-ray photographs of sinuses and teeth are sufficient to establish legal identification—with respect to all problems relating to either property—or life.”
“Then,” I commented, “it looks as though ‘Blinky’ is as good as officially identified, eh? For I take it that this ‘Cokey’ is not only able to give ‘Blinky’s’ real name—but the road, farm and fencepost near where ‘Blinky’s’ sconce presumably now rests?”
“Right,” nodded Steenburg. “That grove of poplar trees marks the field perfectly. Besides which, my client tells me that it was ‘Cokey’ who determined, that night, on that accurate location for that severed head—in case by any chance the Big Chief later wanted it dug up.”
I pondered a second.
“Well then—what did you do—when you unearthed the fact of the existence of this set—rather, these two complete sets—of X-ray films? Or am I asking—too much now?”
“Not at all,” affirmed Steenburg. “I am a criminal lawyer—in this matter. Obligated to pull my client—out of his jam. But absolutely convinced of my client�
��s innocence—in the bargain.” He paused. “Well—I went through with the case—tried to, anyway—in such a way as to protect him one hundred per cent. In short, I went next to Speevy’s farm. On Rural Route 3—out of Wiscotown, Wisconsin. Not that afternoon. No. But towards evening. Intending to look things over—yes—but prepared, nevertheless, to do a bit of digging as well that night. If things at all warranted it. Yes, I had a short spade—and a lantern—in a long violin case. And I was more than ever determined to dig for that skull, after a countryman, who was walking along the road with me towards dusk, telling me all the case histories of all those fields and farms, told me that that particular field—yes, the one east of the poplar grove—had been allowed to run to pasture for 8 long years. And had had but one plowing—and that last year.
“I laid up in the poplar grove till later on that night. In fact, till the whole countryside went to sleep. Which was about 9. The road was under repair—lucky for me—and was cut off, at either end, by detour signs. So I had no passing cars or buggies to bother me. I found my exact spot. You know?—10 feet north of the 3rd fencepost—from the west edge of the field. And I dug. Dug on for two full hours. Dug at least 3 feet down. And around and around. A hole with a radius—at least finally—of a good 6 feet. Look—” Steenburg showed me his hands. Remnants, anyway, of blisters were there. “And I found the skull—not! And I knew then and there that that last plowing had turned it up. And that either the State of Wisconsin had it—or else Speevy.
“I ditched my stuff—maybe in a river bottom—I’d rather not say where, Mr. King—and I laid up the rest of that night in a cheap hotel on U. S. Highway No. 6 north of there—one of the many places that sells hot dogs and hamburgers. Gave ’em a song and dance about my car petering out on me further down the line—and how I tried to walk to the next town, but that my feet had given out. And so I was able, you see, to be back at Speevy’s place, next morning. Saturday, of course. About 9 a.m. Caught him, in fact, coming out of his barn with a pail of milk in each hand.
“I told him to come inside his house. And there I talked hard—and tough. I had an ornate private detective badge on my vest—something I once got from a client in Buffalo who’d worked for this agency—now defunct. The agent, I mean—not the client. I told Speevy I had positive sworn evidence that he’d dug up a skull. Right there on his farm. From the one person who knew. Gosh, I scared the living daylights out of him, Mr. King. I was gambling that he’d told at least one person about having dug it up. While he thought, as I now know, that you had double-crossed him! He got so white under the gills when I quoted the Wisconsin law, that I knew he was guilty, and that the State of Wisconsin hadn’t got that skull. And he didn’t even know, as we talked, that I myself had been out there in that far field, the night just gone, digging my fool head off! Well, I told him of course that his only ‘out’ from a $1000 fine and a 5-year sentence under No. 5621 of the Wisconsin Revised Statutes was that I was purely a private investigator, working on an inheritance case—and not a regular policeman working on a criminal case. I told him his one chance to avoid imprisonment would be to come clean with me—100 per cent. In which case I’d cover him up completely. Well he confessed—all he had to confess—dripping with perspiration, too, as he did so. In short, he told me he’d sold the skull to you. For $100. All the why and wherefore of it all And so I told him that the private case I was on would never require revealing his connection with matters—and that if he kept his mouth shut up, for ever more, he need never go to the Wisconsin State penitentiary.
“I was back in Minneapolis here,” Steenburg continued, “by noontime—that same day. I called up this place. Yes, on this very wire. Chando 0111. To make an appointment to see you. I’d rather not say what my plan of attack was to be with you—for at the time I didn’t know what I was to know later—that the skull wasn’t now worth, to you, powder to blow it to hell with. Maybe I was intending to do a little—well—er—shenaniging! For I was out to get possession of the skull. And destroy it—else send it to ‘Big Shoes.’ And I—but I say, Mr. King, you aren’t sore, are you? Because I was working to get hold of your property? Remember—I’m putting all my cards on the table tonight. And, after all, that wasn’t your property—that skull.”
I shook my head, more in admiration of Steenburg than any other emotion. “Steenburg,” I said, “if I were a crook instead of a bookmaker, I don’t know but that I’d hire you—if ever I got into a jam. You sure are a worker—whatever else you may be! And you sure have messed up, it seems, in my affairs—with my servants too, apparently and what not else. However, with your dad withholding his testimony in that Senatorial Investigation, and me unsubpoenaed—and I expect to stay that way!—there’ll be no killing of racing in America. So I ain’t mad! Go on with the merry tale.”
“Good. One look at you tonight, Mr. King, and I knew then and there that you were a man who—well—that my best play would be to lay every card on the table. I could see with half an eye that you were one who could view all sides—of any question. Like old ‘Ultra-Legal’ Penworth—of Chicago, don’t you know?”
“No,” I said. “And who on earth—is Ultra-Legal Penworth?—of Chicago?”
“He’s a criminal courts judge down there, Mr. King, whose decisions have been thought, by the lay public, to be pretty screwy in many cases—but which lawyers know are based on pure legal considerations. A bird that, Mr. King, if ever I were in a legal jam in Chicago—and could get my trial before him—I’d grab it. And—but here, I’ve got some facts to give you—a deal to make!—and a plane to board—before 1 o’clock tomorrow morning. Yes.” Steenburg paused. “Well you, of course, Mr. King, when I got around to trying to see you, were out of town. That’s all the girl who answered on this phone could tell me. Or would tell me, then. Yes, Rozalda. And neither was Mrs. King at home. That day, that is. Then and there, I figured, right off the bat, that that girl might be a ten times shorter cut—to that skull—than making a deal with you. And it wasn’t hard—at all!—to make a date with her. ‘Listen, Beautiful,’ I said, ‘I’ve sure heard plenty about you—I’m dying to meet you!’ ‘Go on, mister,’ she said, ‘you don’t even know my name.’ ‘No?’ I said. ‘Well, your name is Rozalda—’ You see, Mr. King, Speevy, when he was here selling you that skull, had heard you call her that. ‘And I know all about you, Beautiful,’ I told her. So finally she consented to meet me. That night; yes. At 8 p.m. Down near the city. At a tavern. In fact, she gave me the name of the place. And I was there that night, too. An hour early—believe me. She’s a pretty-looking skirt—and it wasn’t hard to make love to her, either. She—she—well—she lapped it up. I put a bottle of champagne into her. That is, half the bottle I ordered. So’s I could put across a little proposition to her—about that skull. And did that bottle make her communicative? And how! Though not about you, Mr. King, I will say. She’s damn tight-mouthed—when it comes to you. Dries right up the minute your name is even mentioned. If you ask me, I’ll say she’s got a secret yen for you. And—”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got both of my servants trained on that—never to discuss me—with anyone. But go on.”
“Well, her other boy friends, Mr. King, ought to train her likewise! For she sure shoots her mouth off—about all of ’em. Their private affairs, I mean. And that, by the way, is one of my reasons for thinking she’s straight as a string—for I’ve always found it to be the case, Mr. King, that a woman, spifflicated or otherwise, won’t even talk about a boy friend if there’s something between them—that there oughtn’t to be. But anyway, here she was, shooting off her mouth. About this one, and about that one. And so, having got the half of that bottle down her, I decided to make my play. And I told her that what I’d really been trying to call you about at noon that day was that I’d heard you had a skull—a piece of bric-a-brac—and that I’d been trying to get hold of one—to pull an initiation stunt with—on a friend who was desperately scared of such things. Of cours
e she admitted there was a skull here in the house. And I told her if she’d loan it to me—for just one evening—while you were out of town—she’d told me that much about you, you know—and Mrs. King also away—I’d buy her a new lid costing not less than ten bucks. She was communicative enough, however, right then, to tell me that she was sorry—but a boy friend already had the loan of the thing. Right at that very moment. And no—she wouldn’t say who. But it’d knock me off my feet, she said, if I knew the why, what, and wherefore of it. So gosh—nothing to do but call for another quart bottle of Ruinart Brothers joy-water. And dribble it down her. Jesus, it’s hell to toss your own champagne under the table, Mr. King. Just what I hadda do. But by the time that half-quart got down her—boy, howdy I—she was yapping her head off. Oh no, not about you. In fact, I wasn’t interested any more in you. No, she was spilling about this boy friend. Who had the skull. Yes. In fact, she was so hanging on the ropes by that time, Mr. King, that she was—”
“I know,” I said. “Expansive! Trying to demonstrate that she was participating in something of world importance. By God, I ought to fire her.”
“Well, you do what you want to, about that, Mr. King. This is all cold-blooded business with me. Enough to say that she bleated forth a yarn that, to tell you the truth, I didn’t believe off-hand.
“For the reason, Mr. King, that it was all based on—well—what looked to me like a drug dream. But wasn’t. For if you think she yapped last Saturday night, that was just nothing, Mr. King, to what this Dr. Sciecinskiwicz did the previous Sunday night—yes, 9 days ago tonight, if you want actual dates—while they were having a little party, late at night, in his office. Sure—he’s the boy-friend! No, she wouldn’t tell me his name—no!—he was just her ‘Doctor Friend.’ I got that later. By pulling a fast one on her. Anyway, it seems that her ‘Doctor Friend’ that Sunday night had downed a drink of absinthe—and then smoked a marihuana cigarette—one he’d got from some Filipino patient of his. And he—well—he must have just shot the works. And from what I’ve since learned, Mr. King, from a book on drugs—though maybe you know something yourself about the so-called ‘muggles’ cigarettes—if you smoke one, atop any kind of alcohol—let alone absinthe—you’ll just tell your whole family history.
The Man with the Magic Eardrums Page 13
