“What? What must you do, Mr. Vann?”
“I must call Moundsville,” said Vann, frowning, “the minute you pull out—and I get over town. For, depending on what date Big Gus went in to prison, he could conceivably—yes—be about ready to go out now. And if he were to get out, Beryl, before we indict him, then any indictment—gotten on that skull you took in—wouldn’t be worth a continental. Yes, I must ring the warden—the minute I get to the Klondike Building.”
CHAPTER IX
And Five Years Later
Vann was silent for a moment. For such few further facts as he had to complete the story of that famous kidnaping—which facts had come to light some years later than those he had just set forth—he had to resuscitate through sheer recollection, intensified, to be sure, by his never-failing interest in that case which he had helped—though fruitlessly—to prepare for trial; but aided not at all now through having worked professionally on the facts. But these were reasonably clear in his mind, and he went on.
“Five years later, Beryl—yes, 1935—you would then have been in that girl’s school in Christchurch there—yes—this clergyman, Mylrea, of San Francisco died—but just before he died he remorsefully left a signed confession to the effect that he had secretly taken morphine for years, getting it through various peddlers; that he had been having—back in 1930, that is—ever-increasing trouble to get his dope; and that his dope peddler, of that date, had approached him with a proposition that, if he would swear to a deposition that he had seen and talked with one Wah Lee, on certain dates, and to certain effects—etc.—he would be given dope enough to carry him for two full years. And frantic with narcotic hunger, he had assented—and had, moreover, fully fulfilled the compact.”
“This—this Big Gus’ gang,” the girl queried quickly, “had reached this—this clergyman?”
“Yes,” Vann nodded. “With their widely extended criminal affiliations, it had evidently been no trouble to reach a dope addict of some far-away city—an addict of good repute, and not known to the police as an addict!—and they did reach him through this peddler.” Vann paused. “And now, of course, this old Grubbs woman was immediately re-investigated. All this happening incidentally during the State’s Attorneyship of another of my predecessors—one Charley Gilborne. She had died in the meantime—in ter—having presumably fallen off one of the lonely bridges going into Goose Island from—from, well, the mainland, Chicago! But plainly, Beryl, she was ‘bumped off’ by Big Gus’s gang so that she would never be able to repudiate her deposition concerning that headless body; probably followed, she was, one night, and actually hoisted right up over the rail into the dark river. The headless body she had of course claimed, the previous year, right after her deposition thereto, and had had cremated, and its ashes scattered—with some prayers—from a lake boat on which Dolf had once, as a sailor, sailed. But though the body was gone—it was, you see, of official record—and could serve as a corpus delicti should she ever change her testimony. So—they ‘knocked her off’—for safety’s sake. But it was found, Beryl, on re-investigating her, long after her death, that she had been a miser—and had owned several Rat buildings in Hyde Park; and it was found also that she had mysteriously paid off a $5000 mortgage on a certain 2-flat building she’d owned on Blackstone Avenue—and right after she’d sworn to and signed that deposition in Chicago relative to the identity of that headless skeleton. And the then State’s Attorney told me personally, Beryl, that he believed that both of her sons undoubtedly went down on the freighter City of Duluth—which sank in a storm on Lake Michigan on April 2nd, 1927. Carrying to their death a lot of unknown sailors recruited suddenly because of strike trouble. And if this were so—and Mrs. Grubbs knew they had both shipped aboard that boat—then, three years later, she could with absolute safety have laid the murder of one upon the other—and as of April 3rd—since both were dead. For no-one in the world would have been able to contravert her statement.”
“I suppose,” the girl interrupted, “that that gang even furnished that large-bore elephant-gun with which Brunker was supposed to have blown Dolf’s head off?”
“Beyond any doubt,” Vann replied. “Not to make mention of the $5000—doubtlessly part of the Wah Lung ransom money, though not identifiable as such. But,” he added, “Mrs. Grubbs being then—in 1935—non-est, and the previous S. A. having accepted her disposition without attack—attacked it could not be at that late date. But it was evident that $5000 had bought her—bag and baggage—body and soul!”
“Misers will do just anything for money,” commented the girl. “I had an aunt once, in Wellington, New Zealand, who—but that’s not important now. No! For just what, Mr. Vann, is the new situation—which the finding of this skull creates?”
“What?” said Vann, triumphantly. “Why, Beryl, it simply means that—found within six feet of that headless body—it becomes prima facie evidence of skeleton and skull belonging to each other. And constitutes the complete—not partial, but complete!—corpus delicti—absolutely clinching the kidnaping. The bullet hole in that skull is, we might say, pure velvet—since murder and kidnaping both have the same penalties. What is of further importance, Beryl, is that no defense attorney will by any possibility be able to claim that body and head are both that of Dolf—for the reason that Dolf is definitely known to have had no upper teeth—and the matter thereof was carefully checked at the time. Through the records and testimony of the very dental surgeon who drew those teeth, and made the plate, for the simple reason that that was the crux of the alleged quarrel between Dolf and Brunker, Brunker having allegedly called the other ‘a toothless old man.’ And this skull which the Negro brought to you has, according to what he told you, good and plentiful teeth, both upper and lower. So—it’s a one hundred per cent ‘out,’ you see, as Dolf’s. And, with the nasal operative work done on its right side—not that Dolf couldn’t have had, at some time in his wandering life, such an operation—well—that proves that Mary Grubbs’ entire evidence and deposition was a lie. A hundred per cent lie. And now Big Gus McGurk can be tried for kidnaping. With murder thrown in for good measure!”
“But, Mr. Vann,” the girl queried, “can a man here in America—he can’t, in New Zealand, you know—can a man here be put in jeopardy twice for the same thing?”
“A very good comment, Beryl,” complimented Vann. “And the answer is ‘no.’ But Fos Emmons, the S. A. back there in 1930, had brains enough, evidently, not to burn our—our State’s Attorney’s aces, I mean—bridges behind us—on that conviction. For Big Gus, you see, had never been in jeopardy for kidnaping. No! Nor for murder. No! He was technically tried only for extortion of $50,000 ransom money. And plead guilty to that. Now he can be tried on a bigger charge—and will absolutely get the chair—because we’ve the evidence now that the kidnaped youth was buried right in and under his regular hideout, and—by virtue of McGurk’s previous guilty plea—he got the ransom money therefor! Oh, Beryl, Beryl—it’s a case that even Leo Kilgallon—my young helper over there in the offices at the City Hall—could go in Court with, and win with both his hands tied behind his back—and his eyes blindfolded. It’s—it’s what we call a ‘push-over.’”
And Vann shook his head in absolute wonderment as to what had literally tumbled into his lap, and in extreme satisfaction too—considering the recent dictum of his party chiefs—and that badly needed 4-years’ States-Attorneyship’s salary.
“And I wonder,” he now said musingly, “what ex-Sarge Tom McFee, the vault custodian over there in the City Hall, will say this morning when I take that package out of the vault—and strip off the paper from it right in front of his eyes?”
The girl looked at him a bit queryingly, and then replied.
“Well, Mr. Vann,” she said, “you could, of course—if you wanted to—to bewilder Mr. McFee—take the package over to him and do just that—for I locked it in the office safe.”
“In—in the o
ffice safe, Beryl!” Vann ejaculated. “You don’t mean—you don’t mean—in that old cheesebox—in the Klondike Building office?”
“Cheesebox?” she retorted. “Why—it has a combination dial—and is made of metal, and—”
“Oh Beryl, Beryl!” he remonstrated. “That safe isn’t fit to house a hundred-dollar bill. A fact! It—but why didn’t you take the skull package over to the City Hall vaults?”
“Well, Mr. Vann, I—I didn’t understand—no—I regarded it as just some evidence in some case already completely disposed of and over. I considered its value to be—well—to be academic at the most.”
“Academic?” he repeated helplessly. “I’ll say it’s of academic value! It—why, Beryl—by that single skull Big Gus McGurk, one of the rottenest lowest crooks that crookdom ever spawned, will go to the chair. While without that item, the deposition—testimony—of that Negro is of no utility whatsoever. Any defense attorney—with that actual item not produced—could have the case thrown out of Court pronto. He could—no, Beryl,” Vann broke off, “if ever anything should have gone over to the City Hall and been put in our high-powered, burglar-proof vault, that should have been. For—however, since nobody knows it’s been there in the Klondike Building, I don’t suppose it really matt—however,” Vann broke off again, “you’re quite sure you haven’t told anybody about it?”
The girl’s eyes fluttered momentarily to the floor.
Then she looked up.
“No, Mr. Vann. No—nobody.”
“All right, then,” he said, patting her hand reassuringly.
“Everything’s okay then. Big Gus, you know, undoubtedly has wires—to the underworld. And he—but chances of the finding of that skull filtering to him, way down there in Moundsville, would be practically nihil, and so—” Vann broke off. “But—by golly!—the Negro! Now I wonder—yes, I wonder—if he’s told anybody. He didn’t, you say, tell the Negro laborer who gave him all the dope—but then he may have confidential friends of his own. And—you hold the fort here, Beryl—I want to call a number.”
And rising from the high-backed bench, Vann entered a glassed-in telephone booth which stood against the wall some 20 feet in front of them. And looking in the telephone directory, found with no trouble an entry of the name Moses Klump, at 3733 Vernon Avenue. And rang that number—which was Vernon 1062.
A woman—obviously, from her high-pitched tones, colored—answered the phone.
“Let me speak to Moses Klump, please,” Vann asked. “Or tell me what job—if any—he’s working on.”
“Moses? Ah’m sohhy, Mista—Ah’m Moses’ sistah, Mis’ Geran’um Klump—what lib out neah de Wes’en ’Lectric Comp’ny—but Moses, he done was killed yest’day in a—a accident.”
“Killed? In an accident? Why, good Heavens—how—”
“Yassuh. He was killed w’en a big wall falled on him—du’in’ de wreckin’ ob de Litchman Wah’house on Cott’ge Grobe Ab’noo neah 18th St’eet. His fun’al gonna be tomo’oh mo’nin’ f’um Green’s Fun’al Pahlohs on Th’utty-ninth St’eet, an’ Ah’m puttin’ in de day heah gittin’ all Moses’s fu’nituh an’ things togethah fo’ to sell, an’ put in sto’age. Ah—ah ain’ hahdly dygested his death mahse’f, yit.
“We-ell—we-ell—thank you. That is—I’m sorry. I—I was going to talk about a job for him. And—but sorry. Sorry. Good-by.”
And Vann hung up.
He came out of the booth, his face serious. And sat down again by the girl, whose face was expectant, curious.
“Well, Beryl,” he said quietly, “I’ve got to hand it to you—in spite of the fact that I just chided you. Yes! For your getting that fully witnessed deposition from that Negro was the most astute piece of legal work you ever did for me. For Moses Klump is dead, Beryl. No—not murdered. He was killed in an accident. But the deposition—witnessed—notarized as it is—makes the skull box per cent legal evidence. Yes, Beryl, I’m going to forgive you for placing the Skull—or package—in an old pete whose cracking is nothing but—but a knob-knocking job.”
“Old Pete?—cracking? Knob-knocking job?” the girl put forth helplessly. “What—what—”
Vann smiled indulgently. For the naïveté of his little Klondike Building office caretaker had always amused him.
“Just a term that safe robbers use, Beryl, here in America. A pete is a safe. And when a cracksman has ‘cracked a pete,’ he’s gotten in—regardless of whether he’s gotten in by a ‘combo-twirl’—meaning expert manipulation of the dials—or by ‘dinny-juice’—meaning nitroglycerin—or by ‘knob-knocking.’ The latter meaning knocking the handle and knob and dials off with a sledge hammer, and drawing the bolt, through the resulting hole. Which is absolutely all that any cracksman—expert, or amateur—would have to do with that old cheesebox of ours there in the Klondike Building. Yes. Just knock the handle and dial off—pull the bolt—and he would be in! Except that, of course, cracksmen don’t crack safes in an office that is but the sentimental relic of a man’s early and poverty-stricken days. And—but see here now, Beryl, you’re quite sure, are you, that you told nobody about that sconce? For if it reached the underworld—well, somebody friendly to Big Gus might—but you told nobody?”
The girl looked most embarrassed. “N-no! No—I told nobody, Mr. Vann.” She shook her head as to confirm her statement.
And her obvious discomfiture was not lost on Vann. But he concluded that it was simply because he was cross-questioning her.
“All right then, Beryl,” he assured her. “Absolutely no harm done—so forget it. You’ll be a witness, later on, to the effect that you locked that package in a cheesebox! While Art Chambervain—up the hall there—will be a witness to the fact that I shall take it out this morning, and, unwrapping it, put my own initials on it—right above Klump’s. And—but, hey!—do you see what I see? Yes—your train for the Hoosier Capital. So—beat it! And I’ll do likewise. For the very first thing I’m going to do this morning, when I get over town, is to draw up an indictment for kidnaping and murder against Big Gus McGurk—and present it to whatever grand jury is sitting, by noontime. After which—well—what a trial you’ll see—in a few weeks. What a trial! It—it will make L. Vann, Esquire. It—”
“A-hall—abo-ho-hard—for India-nap-poh-lis and Cin-Cinn-at-tee. All abo-ho—” It was the train caller calling. Vann rose. “Better grab a seat, Beryl, while you can—on the sunny side. And I’ll be seeing you—when?”
“Tomorrow I’ll be back,” the girl told him, also rising. “On duty—at 8 a.m. prompt. And you have Sylvia’s address and phone number in case you have to ring me about anything.”
And Louis Vann, seeing the girl as far as Gate 9, turned and left the station. Already viewing—in his mind’s eye—the huge headlines of the noonday papers proclaiming the fact that new and damning evidence had at last brought Big Gus McGurk to rightful justice—and that Louis Vann was himself, and in person, to lead Big Gus to the electric chair!
CHAPTER X
In Room 806
Outside the station Vann flagged a yellow taxicab—still in a most pleasant frame of mind. The case—why, the case would be, of course, a “pushover.” Too easy, almost, he reflected just a bit regretfully, to take great professional satisfaction in. And at length, after being blocked at several downtown street intersections by passing floods of Loop and department store workers, he was dismounting in front of the Klondike Building, just across Washington Street from the tall towering City Hall which housed his official offices. The Klondike Building, though 12 stories high, was itself an ancient structure whose entrance was marked by an outmoded soapstone arch—and which was sandwiched between two stores, one selling shoes at $1.95 a pair—the other purveying animals and pets.
Inside the dark wood-floored foyer, he waited—with fitting patience—till the single elevator, housed in its wire screen shaft, wheezed its way to the bottom.
And climbed in, the only passenger.
Raising his eyebrows a bit curiously, as the operator, with white hair, stifled a gigantic yawn.
“Well!—well, Peters,” Vann said, “you must have been on some party last night! Yawning—” He glanced at his watch. “—only sixteen minutes after you start work?”
“Sixteen minutes?” retorted the other grouchily, trying the shaft door to see that it was closed, and jerking on the steel cable which started the cage. “Two hours, and sixteen minutes!”
The Man with the Crimson Box Page 6