The Riddle of the Yellow Zuri

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “That little girl works every night in the week,” his informant advised him. “She’s a supervising operator — just a slip of a girl she is, too — at the Kildare automatic exchange from ten at night till six in the morning. When she gets home she sleeps till about four in the afternoon. She’s got a brother, but he don’t live at home.”

  “I see,” said Casper Wolff. He bowed deeply. “Thank you, madam. I’ll run in on the professor again when he gets back from Havana. Greatly obliged. Good day, madam.”

  And with these protestations of gratefulness, he left. And he was indeed grateful, for he had learned a great deal. His mind was working rapidly. He passed No. 5720 St. Giles Lane again on his way to the carline. An upstairs window facing the bright morning sunlight was down from the top, but a blue shade was drawn over it clear to the bottom, flapping gently back and forth in the breeze going through it. He surmised that it contained the sleeping granddaughter who worked nights from ten to six. He stepped over the low hedge that surrounded the lot, and went around the side of the house as though to cut across lots. And in so doing he passed a side window of the cottage. There was no shade cutting off this window. He took a quick cautious peep inside. He saw a little room containing a bookcase, a number of steel engravings on the walls, a red couch, and last but not least a little old-fashioned iron safe standing in one corner. Then he left the place and went directly toward the street-car line.

  He did not dismount north of the river, however, on his return trip to civilization, but continued over and beyond that turbid ribbon of water and, about a half-hour before noontime, was entering the greystone building on the lake front which housed Chicago’s public library. There in the catalogue room he busied himself for some ten minutes or so at the huge card index, and finally armed with a goodly number of printed manilla slips bearing cryptic numbers, he was drawing forth various books over the counter of the adjoining reading room. The index of each book he consulted in turn at one of the big tables some distance off, scanned a page or two in the interior of the volume, and then shook his head as he closed the book up and began on another.

  “Just a waste of time as I thought,” he said impatiently to himself. “There’s no fixed rule covering the species at all.”

  He returned his books to the desk used for that purpose, saw his withdrawal slips stamped and filed away, and then he went back to the Ratagoba House, walking the distance between it and the library in the bright noonday sunshine. Reaching the hotel he went upstairs and tapped at the door of room 414, four doors from that in which he himself was sojourning. The girl Lola stuck her head out. “Step over to my room, girlie,” he told her. “Got a bit of news for you.”

  She closed the door of her own room and quickly followed him to his. Inside his own cubicle, he related in detail the conditions he had found out on St. Giles Lane, but not until he was forced impatiently to listen to her approbative comments on the Perils of Aviatrix Ava.

  “Now,” he said in conclusion, “I find the old man really gone, just as the newspaper article states; there’s a boy in the family but he doesn’t live at home; as for the girl, she works from ten at night till six in the morning supervising calls which actually require personal handling at an automatic telephone exchange in that part of the city. This means that the house is unoccupied from 10 P.M. till 6 A.M. every day. That means ten at night, Lola, till six in the morning.” He paused. “Lo, in your circus experience did you ever run in with any of these Houdini acts — these professionals who unlock handcuffs, get out of boxes and so forth?”

  She appeared to comprehend perfectly this sudden descent into a particular line of theatrical activity. “Yes — one, Mr. Wolff. But he died of pinmoney. He — ”

  “Pinmoney!” ejaculated the grey-haired man in amazement. “Pinmoney?” he repeated.

  “Yes, pinmoney,” she asseverated without a smile. She passed a hand covered with cheap ten-cent store jewelry over her chest. “You know, Mr. Wolff — pinmoney what chokes you all up here.”

  “Oh, you poor little hillbilly,” the man laughed good-naturedly. “For the life of me I couldn’t get you at first. They call that pneumonia — not pinmoney.”

  He fell to pacing up and down. From his breast pocket he took a set of several sheets comprising some typewritten names and addresses, and these he studied disgruntedly while the girl sat by the window delightedly gazing down at the traffic like a baby. He shook his head and sighed. “No,” he said to himself, “I haven’t any more capital than Jake Jennings himself. I could take a wild shot in the dark — but if I guess wrong I’m out of the game. No, I’ve got to play direct, just as he was forced to do. It’s the only way. There isn’t a shorter cut possible.”

  He dropped into a chair and sat thinking for a minute. Then he arose suddenly and taking up his hat turned to the girl. “You wait here, Lo,” he directed. “I’m going down to the foyer and get a Carnival Review. I might pick up the person I need — at least one can never tell. If anybody could, it seems to me that Casper Wolff ought to be able.”

  Whereupon he left the room to go downstairs to the magazine and candy stand of the Ratagoba House which displayed a good line of theatrical magazines and the cheaper and trashier fiction publications. In his absence, Lola continued to survey the traffic with unabated interest till a tap came on the door. She stepped over to it and answered it. A telegraph boy with soiled collar and stained uniform stood there with a yellow envelope in his hand.

  “Does this fellow have this here room, lady?” He thrust the envelope in her hand.

  She stared at the typewritten inscription for quite a long time. The boy fidgeted. A wave of color suffused her face. She handed the envelope back to him. “I — I lost my glasses,” she faltered. “What — what be the name?”

  “Casper Wolff,” the boy read off.

  “Yes,” she told him. “Mr. Wolff — this here is Mr. Wolff’s room. I’ll give it to him right-smart off.”

  She took it, and a moment later when Casper Wolff returned with a rolled-up publication in his hand, she gave it to him. He tore it open and gave a cursory glance at it. “Hm,” he said. “That’s bad. I ought to be back tomorrow. ‘Fraid that would come about. Well, I’ll just have to wire somebody to handle it for me. That’s all I can do.”

  He crumpled it up and stuck it in his breast pocket where reposed the typewriting which he had been studying a while back. Then he unfolded the Carnival Review with its bright striped circus tent printed in colors on the cover. At the sight of the striped tent the girl Lola’s face lighted up as if by magic, and she became all attention by this simple fetish.

  Wolff ran his eyes over several of the pages within headed “Routes.” Then suddenly he stopped. He read carefully for a minute and then looked up.

  “Eureka!” he cried. “Capital. Lo, I tell you we’re in luck. Pringle’s carnival and circus is booked for Kensington, Illinois, for three days beginning this afternoon. And Kensington is out on the southern outskirts of Chicago, not more than an hour’s ride on the Illinois Central. Talk about luck, eh, Lo? Madame Mercedes is with Pringle’s circus, or was when last I did some legal business for her.”

  “Who’s Madam Mercesdis?” asked the girl illiterately.

  Casper Wolff was all suppressed excitement now. His face was the face of a man who saw glowing possibilities open to him.

  “Madame Mercedes, Lo, is Kate Barwick off stage. Daughter of Dave Barwick, the first and greatest handcuff king, who reigned in circus circles ‘way back before you were born. She’s worked with Pringle’s little outfit for a pretty good while now, and although I knew Dave Barwick had a daughter, the way I first happened to meet Kate Barwick personally was when I did some legal work for her in the home town some two years ago. It seems she had signed up a contract at that time to go over with Jevons’ circus, just some few days before John Pringle projected his first big South American tour which he’s been playing each year since, during the winter months. Naturally since the pickings of all
the acts were expected to be pretty fair on this South American circuit, Kate decided to stay on with Pringle’s outfit and so came to me to get her a legal release from the Jevons’ outfit. I managed to get it, and it didn’t cost her nearly what she’d have had to pay if she’d bought her release, for I found a flaw in Jevons’ contract. So much for that.

  “Now about her act,” Wolff went on after a very brief pause. “Handcuff act and all that goes with it. Just the same as her illustrious father. But Lo, she’s as good or better than Dave Barwick any day in the week. Then why isn’t she on the big time, you ask? I’ll tell you why. Simply because of the bad luck that she’s a woman, and because she hasn’t got the stage presence that comes from being handsome if not prepossessing. I’ve seen her work once, and I tell you, Lo, Kate can wiggle out of more handcuffs on the rube circuit, undo more padlocks, get out of more rope tangles and open more of the old-fashioned safes for the hicks than anybody doing the Houdini act on the big time today. Theatrical people are wont to say that there’s no such thing as hereditary talent in their game,” Wolff continued, apparently forgetful of the intellectual status of his auditor. “They claim that association accounts for everything in that line. But when old Dave Barwick, the first handcuff king, passed out, and some years later his daughter who had spent half of her life in a girls’ college and the other half in a little one-horse town in Kansas that nobody ever heard of, stepped back on the boards with all his stunts and a good many more to boot, the wiseacres were forced to revise their opinions. She had her father beaten at his own game. In fact, Lo, it was Kate Barwick who first devised the great stunt of getting out of a wooden packing box nailed up on the stage, roped up on top of that, and then placed back of a screen.”

  “How-like does she do all them things?” asked Lola, with more than a hint of feminine jealousy glinting from the somber, childlike, almost emotionless eyes.

  “Because she studies,” said Casper Wolff. “Because Kate Barwick studies, and in spite of an absolutely scientific application to her line of work she’s tied down to a one-horse outfit when her name ought to be in electric lights in the big towns. I talked at some length with her the time we were doing business some two years back, for having known Dave Barwick I was more than interested in his daughter. That woman, Lo, knows intimately over one hundred and fifty different types of knots, over sixty makes of handcuff locks, has safe catalogues from every safe house in America and Europe, and has practically a mental diagram of the internal mechanism and its location in every type of safe turned out prior to these modern thief-proof monsters. I saw her open up an old-fashioned safe once merely by knowing how to listen to the tumblers, and earn a bonus of twenty-five dollars in forty seconds. An artist, Lo, a thorough artist, and wasting her time by sticking with Pringle’s outfit year after year.” He shook his head. “But this doesn’t solve our particular question. Lo, I’m going to call Kate down here to Chicago. So I want you to beat it for the balance of the afternoon. I’m going to give her a line of talk — a regular sob story that’s already forming in my mind. And until you hear from me keep altogether away from my room. Kate Barwick, Lo, is going to get that Zuri snake for us or I miss my guess.”

  The girl arose. “All right, Mr. Wolff. I’ll keep away from you. Anyway I think I want to take in all them talkies down the street this afternoon. Oh, how I love drammar. Jes’ now I’m hongry. I’m going me down to the rest’ant downstairs. If the cook he says he ain’t got no percabbage and streaker meat, I ain’t gonna set. But I won’t come near till I hear from you.” Her face took on a sudden savage look. “We’uns ‘ll beat Jake yet, won’t weuns, Mr. Wolff?”

  “We certainly will,” said Casper Wolff fervently. But the look in his shrewd eyes would have betrayed to a more experienced observer than this childlike doll that the singular pronoun instead of the plural would have been more in keeping with his intentions.

  Once Lola was out of his room, and presumably on the hunt for “percabbage and streaker meat,” he raised the receiver of his phone and asked for long distance. Getting it, he inquired in turn for Kensington, Illinois. To the Chicago operator he said: “I want to speak to — ” He pondered a bare moment. “Wonder if she registers under her own name or her stage name?” he said to himself. “Probably her stage name in the hick burgs.” Then aloud: “I want to speak to Madame Mercedes of the John Pringle Circus, due to play Kensington, Illinois, today. No, I don’t know the hotel the performers are registered at. The Kensington switchboard girl will undoubtedly know. There’s probably no more than one hotel in the place anyway.”

  He had but a short time to wait before the answering ring on the wire announced that long distance had located his party. He raised the receiver. A few words sounded in his ear.

  “Madame Mercedes speaking.”

  “Hello, Kate,” said Wolff impulsively, wasting no more time on the euphonious nomenclature which belonged to the professional world. “This is Casper Wolff. You remember me?”

  “Casper Wolff?” A pause. “Oh — yes. What are you doing in Chicago, Mr. Wolff?”

  “Big story to that, Kate. Now listen carefully, Kate. Can you cut your act today? Can you get down to Chicago right away? I’m at the Ratagoba House across the river. I need your services and need ‘em bad. And I’ve got a piece of easy money for you.”

  Madame Mercedes, or Kate Barwick of non-professional life, appeared to be ruminating over the manner in which the proposition was couched.

  “You mean — ”

  “I mean, Kate, I’ve got an easy chunk of money which you might as well have as anybody else. So run down on the first suburban train you can get after lunch. I want to see you very badly, and when you’re here I’ll go into full details.”

  The other end of the wire appeared to be puzzled. At length came the reply:

  “All right, Casper Wolff. Look for me in about an hour. I’ll be down to Chicago as soon as I can make it. The Ratagoba House you say?”

  And a moment later Casper Wolff was hanging up, rubbing his lean hands with a most satisfied air.

  CHAPTER XI

  CASPER WOLFF QUALIFIES AS A FICTIONIST

  CASPER WOLFF read through from beginning to end the morning paper whose complete perusal had been sidetracked hours earlier by his discovery of the Zuri snake story. Then, stowing it carefully away out of sight in one of the drawers of his chiffonier, he went downstairs and out to a Greek restaurant next door to the hotel and had a hasty lunch, meeting Lola as he came out starting to make a circuit of the talkies which dotted Clark Street northward. “Have a good time, Lo,” he said genially, stopping in the entrance of the Ratagoba House. “I’m working along ?. K. now on our end.” And with Lola disposed of, he hastened back to his room on the fourth floor of the third-rate theatrical hotel.

  At two o’clock a tap came at the door of the room, and Casper Wolff answered it. As soon as the door was opened, he stood aside with a welcoming smile. “Step in, Kate Barwick,” was his greeting. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The woman handcuff expert of Pringle’s circus was more or less slender in build, but in spite of this slenderness hers was not the build of grace. Nor was she at all beautiful. Perhaps it was to the lack of this vital feature that her slow and almost imperceptible rise up the ladder of professional success could be attributed. If stage presence were merely a matter of friendly eyes, she would have had it, for the eyes with which she surveyed the room were decidedly friendly, in spite of the fact that their color was a cold grey. Indeed, in them was a certain charm that drew one. But the face from which they looked was far from youthful — the face of a woman in the vicinity of forty-five — a face that under no conditions could ever be termed pretty. Its lack of charm was accentuated by the old-fashioned high boned collar of black silk, edged with lace, that fitted about the none too rounded neck, and its wearer’s clothing comprised a skirt and jacket of blue serge cut on stiff and unrelenting lines. Two pendant earrings of black jet suspended from the tips of her e
ars gave a highly theatrical, almost Oriental appearance, which fitted well with the Madame Mercedes phase of Kate Barwick’s double personality. Her nose was a bit too big for her other features, and two well-rouged areas of red on either cheek, together with a generous trace of face powder, marked indubitably the woman of the circus. A gold meshbag swung from a wrist graced by a dainty wrist watch; and a wealth of brown hair coiled about her head made one feel that a competent beauty expert, with perhaps a bobbing shears, could do more with such material than the circus rouge-pot.

  “How do you do, Casper Wolff?” was the Barwickian greeting, uttered in a low-pitched yet pleasing voice, and accompanied by the outstretched hand of the newcomer.

  “And thrice how do you do, Kate Barwick?” was Casper Wolff’s quick response, delight beaming from his crafty eyes. He closed the door behind his visitor. “Just go over to the window and have one of those two comfortable chairs. I wish I could give you something to drink or eat — but I suppose you’ve already dined.”

  “Forget it,” said the Madame Mercedes of the jet earrings. Removing the hat from the heavy masses of coiled brown hair occupied but a minute, and then Kate Barwick of Pringle’s outfit, sitting back in an easy chair by the window, prepared to listen to Casper Wolff.

  “Well, Kate,” he began, “I suppose you wonder why I sent for you. The fact of the matter is that I’m doing as strange a bit of work as any I’ve ever done. I’ve departed from my regular line to some extent, having been drawn into the case somewhat through accidental circumstances, but being in it I’m here to see it through.” He wet his lips. The smooth line of talk he was prepared to deliver was no problem to him whatever, dealing as he had for years in the commodity known as words.

  “In the first place, Kate,” he said, “suppose I should tell you that I’m on a murder case, and that if I land the evidence in it I’m actually made up in St. Paul?”