The Man with the Crimson Box

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The Man with the Crimson Box Page 10

by Harry Stephen Keeler


  Perhaps, Limp mused frowningly, as he now stood on Dearborn Street in front of the Old Post Office main door, a good half-block away from the curious waiter for the car that came not—not even, indeed, in view of the latter, since the other stood at present just around the bend of the street intersection—he, Limp, had exceeded his authority as an ordinary officer-of-the-beat when, quite ocularly dazzled by the screaming crimson of that punched box, he had veered over to the waiting man and had asked: “What kind-a pet is it, Chappy? Kit—or a pup?” And the fellow, looking up from the thing he was working on—and which this time at close range revealed itself to be a thing of white and black squares—a crossword puzzle!—had enunciated, slowly and very painfully, “No—spik—Inglize—Mist—er.” And to which Limp, scratching his head, had merely said “Okay.” And had gone on.

  For of course the mere fact that this fellow had hair with a decidedly reddish cast—well, that was nothing warranting his even being cross-questioned on an open street corner when he was doing nothing wrong, nor even out of the way. Even in the face of the very fact that an order was out today for all squad cars, detective sergeants, and officers-of-the-beat to question—and even arrest—all obvious or known hoods who had “z” characteristics in their Bertillon. Such as red-haired men, men with limps like himself, or men with a bad optic. And so forth. But—now that Limp had questioned the man with the box—well, the thing took on queer aspects. For that crossword puzzle—such of it as had already been completed by the fellow’s stubby pencil—was one involving English letters—moreover, English words! That much Limp had positively seen. No foreign language newspaper clipping, that crossword puzzle, at all. English words—all of them! And yet the fellow had absolutely said “No—spik—Inglize.”

  Which—red hair or no red hair—certainly tossed the fellow into the suspicious class. Except that—Men under suspicion—or who know they are under suspicion—don’t stand around in the open where any passing plainclothesmen can give them the once-over. And maybe put the bracelets on them.

  Limp Kilgallon scratched his head again.

  He was in a dilemma.

  For the set-up was strange—peculiar—bizarre.

  And the problem, centering as it did about a quite American-looking “foreigner” with a punched-out crimson box from which came neither “meeiow” nor “woof,” waiting for a streetcar that invariably he let pass, doing a crossword puzzle in pure English—and yet saying “No—spik—” to a uniformed officer questioning him friendlily—well, the problem wasn’t covered by anything in the book of regulations—pickup order, or no pickup order.

  Wild ideas, however, surged through Limp Kilgallon’s phlegmatic brain as he stood uncertainly here in mid block. A man might, f’rinstance, carry on his person the reddest box possible, in order to make his own red hair seem less red—by mere contrast. An out-of-town hood, possessing no Chicago “scatter,” might boldly make a stand on the open “stem”—knowing that people in the open are, for the most part, considered “on the legit” and seldom—in fact, almost never—questioned on suspicion. In short, pure nerve carries off many a ticklish situation. And “hard guys,” Limp realized—guys who could shoot their way with a single rod out of a blind alley police trap—or could go before the green lights, and take all that could be given, without ever issuing a sing—had plenty of nerve. But as for this fellow—well, Limp pondered, while he did look to be a typical gangster type all right, all right, with his cap and his quiet clothing, he might just as easily be an individual who would shiver from his boots to his ears if he even had to pick up a departmental revolver such as now reposed in the holster at Limp Kilgallon’s own belt. In fact, the fellow might even be a pansy—so far as that went. And might just be waiting for somebody—instead of for a streetcar. Might even be waiting to get picked up by someone—in a machine.

  All quite on the up-and-up, however, except for—except for that damned crossword puzzle—and the fellow’s reply. And—and, yes, the bright red of that box! For the thing could actually be spotted, under the fellow’s arm, two blocks away. It could be—hm?—could that now be it? Was the box empty—just a “shill”?—but a “highball”—to somebody—hovering about? Was the affair a “meet”! Or was it just—

  But at this juncture of Officer Limp Kilgallon’s hopelessly chaotic conjectures, he saw, coming out of the entrance of the Old Post Office, and thence majestically down the steps, nobody else than an old friend. And a friend who was, withal, one of the highest personages in the city.

  Archbishop Stanley Pell!

  Who talked five—or was it seven?—different languages? The Archbishop, had it not been for his bit of a paunch sticking out, would have looked extremely dignified, clad as he was in his black cloth, his ecclesiastical collar, and with his gray hair proclaiming his 65 or 66 years of age. And Limp, casting a glance up the street, now saw the Archbishop’s famous Purple car parked at the curb—and realized that the Archbishop had doubtless gone in to post some important airmail or registered letter intended for some church dignitary in one of the other dioceses. And glancing up again, Limp saw that another man who had come out the doors at the same time as the Archbishop—a peculiar-looking short man of about 46, with beady black eyes and mustaches like handlebars—was actually with the Archbishop. For the two exchanged a word.

  But now the Archbishop, as both neared the bottom of the steps, caught sight of Limp Kilgallon smiling up at him.

  “Well—well—well!” he said boomingly, coming to a stop at the base of the steps. “If ‘tis not my good friend Daniel Kilgallon? And how are you, Daniel?”

  “Fine, Archbishop.”

  “And your good mother?”

  “She’s fine too, Archbishop. A bit o’ rheumatics in her legs, of course.”

  The Archbishop turned to the man with the handlebar mustaches. “Professor Mustaire, do meet an old friend of mine—Daniel Kilgallon of our honored Chicago police force. His mother and I grew up together on Chicago’s West Side, He covers this section of the Loop by foot—while the squad car covers it on four wheels!”

  Professor Mustaire bowed dignifiedly.

  “Most pleased to meet you, Officer Kilgallon.”

  The Archbishop was speaking. “Professor Mustaire, Daniel, is head of the West Chicago School for the Deaf and Dumb. And he is one who helped simplify the sign language used, the world over, by the deaf and the dumb.” Limp Kilgallon felt a bit overawed in the presence of two such distinguished individuals. But the Archbishop hastened to put him at his ease.

  “Daniel here, Professor, has a son—Leo is his name—who’s the right-hand bower to our estimable State’s Attorney, Mr. Louis Vann.”

  “Indeed?” murmured Professor Mustaire politely. And a brilliant piece of repartee now came to Limp. “It sorta seems,” he said, “that between the two of you gentlemen—you’ve a corner on all the languages spoke!”

  “Not quite,” said Archbishop Pell. “For I speak only eight myself, Daniel.”

  “I wish I did,” replied Kilgallon, dourly.

  “Why, Daniel?”

  “Because I could question a gazabo up the street who don’t speak English. That is—well, that is—” He broke off.

  “Well, what language does he speak, Daniel?”

  “I—I don’t know. His answer to me, when I tried to question him, was ‘No spik Inglize.’”

  “‘No spik Inglize’—eh?” the Archbishop laughed.

  “Well, that doesn’t convey much, does it? Though, Daniel, if you could talk all the languages, you could tell by the way he accented those words just what his own tongue was.”

  “Which,” proclaimed Limp, “is why I wish I could spiel to him—in each of your eight tongues!”

  “Why? Is he a suspicious character?”

  “Well—yes, Archbishop. He’s—he’s got red hair.”

  “Red—hair? Good heavens, Daniel—d
oes that make a man subject to suspicion—in Chicago?”

  “It does, Archbishop, when an order’s out to pick up all suspicious persons who have a ‘z’ in their Bertillon; meaning a distinguishin’ mark of any kind.”

  “I see. But—but is he a suspicious character? What is he doing?”

  “Well—he’s standing on the curb there on Adams Street—just off the line of this street—waiting for a car.”

  “Waiting for a—good heavens again, Daniel! Since when is it a crime—to wait for a streetcar?”

  “It ain’t a crime,” pronounced Mr. Kilgallon. “Only—he don’t take the car, see?”

  “Well—he’s probably waiting, through error, for one of the special-route cars that do not run down Adams Street.”

  “Maybe he is. Yes. Only—he’s suspicious.”

  “Because he’s minding his own bus—come, come, Daniel. Or—well—is he talking to himself?”

  “Oh no—no. He’s just fiddling with a puzzle. Only—only he’s got a red pasteboard box under his arm—with holes punched in each end.”

  Archbishop Pell turned to Mustaire and smiled broadly. Mustaire threw back an equally broad smile. The Archbishop turned back to Limp, and his own smile faded.

  “You’re plainly troubled, Daniel, I can see that. And about nothing more than a mere foreigner who probably is taking a Mexican horned toad home to one of his children. However, maybe I could help you. That is, I mean, I might question him for you. Though—”

  “Sa-ay, Archbishop—that would be the berries! If you would. ’Twould call the turn. For you see—well you see this here puzzle is a crossword puzzle—containing English words.”

  “Containing English words? Well then, Daniel, I believe you just scared him. Scared him into pretending he couldn’t talk. Chances are that if I’d asked him the identical question which you did, he would have—however, what was your question?”

  “Just, Archbishop, what he had in his box. A kitten or a pup.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, chances are that if I’d asked him that same question, he would have tipped his hat and told me—courteously.”

  “But maybe not truthfully,” declared Limp Kilgallon stubbornly.

  “Truth, Daniel, is something that gleams from a man’s very intonations. And can almost never be mistaken. However, your man really may be a foreigner; and he may have just been jotting down a memo on somebody else’s partly worked-out crossword puzzle. I think, to bring peace to your mind, I’d better question him for you. Except that—” the Archbishop paused.

  “Except what?” queried Limp eagerly.

  “Except,” added the cleric solemnly, “in case his actions or words—in any language that he and I may mutually hit upon—do not strike me as being just—well—according to Hoyle, I—I will be at considerable of a loss exactly how to judge and weigh them. Since I have no knowledge, you see, of why you are seeking red-haired men today—or men with ‘z’ characteristics, as I think you’ve stated it. And I might thus report to you something that would cause an innocent man trouble with your department. Yes, indeed. So—if my assistance is of utility to you, Daniel, I think you should explain to me—” The Archbishop broke off, as one wishing his hearer to have the pleasure of doing the obvious courtesy.

  Limp scratched his head troubledly. “Unfortunately, Archbishop,” he said slowly, “I—I can’t tell you. For the reason that the order is a State’s Attorney’s special order, pers’nally issued, and—yes, I know Leo is Looey Vann’s own right hand—and I admit that Leo would naturally know, and would let his Old Man—meanin’ m’self!—in on what was what; and I admit that—by,Golly, Archbishop,” Limp broke off flounderingly, “I will tell you! Yes—I will.” And he drew out his watch, and gazed speculatively at it. “Yes, I can tell you—and will. But let’s see now. Th’ story springs at 2:30 sharp. Yes. And it’s 12:17 now.” He looked up. “But listen, Archbishop—if I tell you, and you alone, something terrific conf’dential now, will you promise never to let it out to anybody, man, woman or child, till—till 2:30?”

  “Would you believe an Archbishop’s oath?” countered the other quizzically, but with healthy curiosity written on his round face.

  “I’ll say I would,” was Kilgallon’s succinct reply.

  “Then the oath of an Archbishop you shall have,” declared the cleric.

  “An’ fedaith,” countered Kilgallon troubledly, “I will need it! For I’ll be trusting a fifth man with what—so far’s I know—only four people in all Chicago know anything about. But a bargain it is, Archbishop. And I’ll—” He broke off, gazing embarrassedly toward Professor Mustaire.

  Who promptly took the hint. “I’ll step down into the parcel-post a second,” he said to the cleric, “to get the pound-rate on old magazines to France. And will be back in a couple of minutes, Archbishop. Ready to lunch with you at St. Hubert’s Grill.”

  And he was gone, down the short flight of steps leading to the basement parcel-post division of the Post Office.

  “And now, Daniel,” the Archbishop asked, “what on earth is—all this?”

  “Archbishop,” said Limp rapidly, “what I’m going to tell you now has come to me straight out of the S. A.’s office. And not over a phone wire—but face to face. It come to me from Leo, of course. Who happened to meet me on me beat but 20 minutes or so ago. And nobody, Archbishop, but Vann—and Leo—and now myself—knows it. Unless I count in the S. A.’s brother who, I think, is to catch a scoop on it. And, Archbishop, if that scoop was lost—if the other papers bust out today with the story ahead of the Despatch—well—it’ll be a straight one-two-three to trace how they got it. And—”

  “Daniel, Daniel—what do you think I am? Here—”

  And the Archbishop raised a hand. “I swear,” he said quietly, “not to reveal to a living soul—man woman or child—what D. Kilgallon is now about to tell me.” And his lips thereupon moved in some silent oath.

  “O—kay! Archbishop!” declared Limp, apparently relieved. “Well—here she is.” He gazed about him, but no one was even in two earshots of them. “Archbishop, somebody made the S. A.’s pete last night, an’—”

  “Made—made his pete?” the other queried helplessly. “Cracked his box,” explained Limp succinctly. “His—his safe, see? Right! And got away, Archbishop. With vital murder ev’dence. The skull, Archbishop, of that Chink boy, who was kidnapped years ago—”

  “Oh—yes. Wah—wah—”

  “Wah Lee. Right. And the cribman bumped off the night watchman in the place when he done the job. The story’s 100 per cent soopressed, however, so’s any suspicious bad actors can be questioned on the hour of th’ crime. But ’tis scheduled to spill on the first Despatch out.”

  “I see—I see,” nodded the other. “Well—well—what a criminal city! Yes, indeed. And—but now this chap—with the red box? And with—as you also say—red hair too? I suppose, Daniel, you don’t relish embarrassing an honest citizen—and thereby, indirectly, yourself!—cross-examining him on the public highway. But, on the other hand, you don’t want to be guilty of overlooking something with possible police significance. Yes, I quite understand. And so I will quest—”

  Professor Mustaire had by now come up the low stairs nearby, and, in fact, was just rejoining them.

  “I,” continued Archbishop Pell, “will question the man—for you. As to what kind of pet he has in his improvised cage. Friendlily. And will use such tongue as I figure he speaks in. Oh—he will not be afraid of the cloth, Daniel, as he would—and doubtlessly was—of the Law.”

  “This sounds very thrilling,” commented Professor Mustaire. “Could you use any witnesses?”

  “Sure, Perfesor,” said Limp Kilgallon genially. “If you want to sit in. Except, of course—if you don’t mind—I’ll ask you to tail the Archbishop by at least 10 feet or so—and sort of stand off like—some number of feet, you know—when Arc
hbishop puts him on the carpet?”

  “I’m sure I understand,” nodded Mustaire.

  “Then we’ll go,” said Archbishop Pell. “And—but where will we find you, Daniel? To tell you about the man’s white rat—or waltzing mice—or whatever his pet proves to be?”

  “I’ll stroll on up,” said Limp unsmilingly, “as far as Jackson Boulevard yonder—and wait.”

  And the Archbishop and his impromptu assistant moved off towards Adams Street, a gap quickly widening between them.

  Reaching Jackson Boulevard, the next corner, Limp moved out towards the curb—but off the line of Dearborn Street proper—and stood, whistling a tune. Damn decent, the Archbishop, big man that he was in Chicago, to help out a humble flattie—even if the matter was of no importance.

  And thus he continued to stand. One—two—three full minutes. When, turning, he saw Archbishop Pell and Professor Mustaire both returning.

  Both faces were puzzled—but that of Archbishop Pell was profoundly mystified.

  Limp was all interrogation.

  “Well, Archbishop,” he said, “you look like as you’ve viewed a horned toad all right—on’y one that had a skirt an’ a sunbonnet and specs on. But the fellow—well he’s the McCoy, I suppose? Was he scared o’ me—or was he a—and what was he, if he was? A Polack? For he sure looked American to me, I’ll say. I suppose I’m some damned—pardon me—darn fool, eh?”

  The Archbishop did not even look critical of Limp’s frank expression. For he was scratching his chin. At last he spoke.

  “Daniel, I fear the fellow is—well—crazy. Yes. Or—or that he took me for somebody else. Though, if he did, that doesn’t at all account for his wor—No, he’s crazy, that’s what he is.”

 

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