The Man with the Crimson Box
Page 24
Never before in his entire life had it taken so many seconds for facts to sift into Vann’s brain. But now they were in—all of them!
“And you—you,” he said slowly, “will be coming to the trial tonight—and testifying—to all this?”
“Why, of course, Mr. Vann. And Dr. Alberti the same. And three different parties who rang either me—or him—at the office there—at, respectively, between 8 and 9, between 10 and 11, and between 3 and 4 in the morning. In the interests of justice, you know—and of science.”
“Good—night!” said Vann disgustedly. “Then the whole case is up the flue, and the bigger case yet knocked into a cocked hat. And I—”
“Dr. Alberti beckons me,” said Miranovski, courteously.
“But I’ll see you in court.”
“Of course,” was all Vann said. And, as the other clicked off, he replaced the telephone instrument slowly on its cradle.
“Oh, hell!” he said wearily. “I wonder how long it will take to build up a new practice? And where, oh where, can I rent a decent suburban home cheap? I wonder?”
CHAPTER XXVIII
Canceled—One Contract!
“By the Gods!” ejaculated Rutgers Allstyn, delightedly. “If the little devil didn’t succeed in doing it—after all!” And, grinning as he uttered them, he repeated softly—and aloud—a certain four words which still lingered powerfully and ineradicably in his recollection: “I’ll find a way!”
Seated in his car during a temporary jam in the heavy after-5 o’clock Michigan Avenue traffic—for this unusual day had seen him catapulted back to Chicago from Logansport, Indiana, whither he had gone; and now bound, in exact opposite direction, to Superior, Wisconsin, where he must needs be!—he grinned even more broadly—from, it might be said, this time, ear to ear!—as he re-read the particular sub-head that was printed in bright scarlet, of the many-headed story printed across the damp Evening Gazette on his knees—and which Gazette had been agilely passed up to him, in exchange for a nickel from which he had waved away the change, by the newsboy on the corner who had perceived both from the stalled traffic and Allstyn’s emphatic half-nod, that a sale could be made. For the bright, scarlet-printed sub-head in that peculiar evening paper whose absolute profligacy in sub-head was diagnosed, by those in the typographical “know” as “Multiple Headitis,” read:
NEW YORK RADIO ENTERTAINMENT CORPO-
RATION TO WHOM HE WAS EXCLUSIVELY
CONTRACTED ANNOUNCES HE HAS
DEFINITELY NOT BEEN IN THEIR
EMPLOY FOR LAST THREE DAYS
BECAUSE OF THEIR HAVING
CANCELLED HIS CON-
TRACT 3 DAYS
AGO!
Allstyn chuckled. And, as the green traffic signal came on, instead of pouring on northward with the Good of cars, he turned off on quiet Balboa Avenue where, completely out of the rush, he drew up alongside the curb. And—thanks to the fact that bright daylight was still coming down out of a quite unclouded sky, due to the continuation this year, over America, of “Daylight Saving” time—Allstyn bent his full attention to the fresh-stamped Gazette now in his hands instead of on his knees. “And him,” he chuckled again, “at a party at Buford van der Zook’s all of last night giving imitations before a dozen or so guests.” And he grinningly re-read that first head. Which—at the instant he had bought the paper—had literally hit him in the face! And which head ran:
RADIO WRITER, ONE OF TWO PERSONS PICKED
UP ON GENERAL SUSPICION AT SCENE OF
CRIME, CONFESSES CHICAGO MURDER
AND SAFE BURGLARY!!!!
“‘I’ll find a way,’” Allstyn again quoted softly. “And Squires—Squires wouldn’t believe he was Sentimental Tommy!”
He continued on with the heads:
KILLER OF NIGHTWATCHMAN PROVES TO BE
AUTHOR OF BEDTIME STORIES TO WHICH
THOUSANDS OF TINY TOTS
HAVE BEEN LISTENING
NIGHTLY!!!
“No more piggle-wiggle—with the spotted ears,” Allstyn said softly. “Or the big gray mousie—with the long white whiskers. At least of the brand Piffingtonian. And my guess is, that the kids aren’t going to be fooled by any imitations, either.” But he forged on:
DETAILS IN FULL, TO CHIEF OF DETECTIVE
BUREAU, HIS REASONS FOR—AND
METHOD OF—COMMITTING
THE CRIME!!
“This, at least,” Allstyn commented to himself smilingly, “ought to be good! But whether or no, it’ll be the test as to whether Piffington is going to strike 12 in his new field!” And he went on. For of sub-heads there appeared to be literally no end!
STORY COMPLETELY CLEARS REDDISH-HAIRED
SUSPECT KNOWN THUS FAR ONLY
AS “JOHN DOE”
“Gad,” said Allstyn, growing serious for the first time, “I hope the idiot hasn’t given clearance papers to some guilty bird. However, the State’s Attorney won’t be letting anybody go just because Piffington has unloaded a boat-load of moonshine.”
And now, continuing, Allstyn came to the bright scarlet sub-head by which he had been particularly intrigued back there in the traffic jam.
NEW YORK RADIO ENTERTAINMENT CORPOR-
ATION TO WHICH HE WAS EXCLUSIVELY
CONTRACTED ANNOUNCES HE HAS
DEFINITELY NOT BEEN IN THEIR
EMPLOY FOR THE LAST THREE
DAYS BECAUSE OF THEIR
HAVING CANCELED HIS
CONTRACT
3 DAYS
AGO!
“Which,” Allstyn commented, nodding slowly, “having been announced by them to the press, is a legal cancellation—and no maybe!”
He went on devouring the sub-headlines:
SUBSTITUTE NEW PROGRAM FOR UNCLE
GRIFFY TEMPORARILY
“Boy, I’ll say he burned the circus up! Uncle Griffy—sponsors—kids—all in the spill.” He chuckled again. “And now for the story. This should be good!”
And he commenced the story proper. Which began:
Piffington Wainwright, radio-writer, and one of two unusual acting or appearing persons picked up today under extremely suspicious circumstances in the foyer of the Klondike Building by Detective “Portfolio” Smith, working specially for the State’s Attorney, and hopelessly entangled in various explanations, confessed late this afternoon, in the presence of police and Captain Matthew Congreve of the Detective Bureau, the burglary last night of the State’s Attorney’s safe, and the murder of the Klondike Building nightwatchman.
“Now what the devil crime was this one, I wonder?” Allstyn queried of himself. “There was absolutely nothing on it in the papers—clear up to noon today. And—”
“Shine your shoes, sir?” said a most intelligent-looking bootblack, of about 16, carrying a few papers also; a boy wearing pedantic-looking spectacles, and so intelligent that Allstyn figured at once he was a high school boy helping, after school hours, to get himself through school.
“No,” Allstyn told him, “but you can take this quarter, if you will, and get me a package of Piedmont cigarettes over there—yes, the store on the alley—and keep the change,” The boy took the quarter. He had a very honest face. “And boy—wait—did some crime story break in today’s paper? Oh, after noon time—but before, say, 4?”
“Indeed there did, sir,” declared the boy eagerly. “Around 2:30 the Despatch came out with a big scoop—about the State’s Attorney’s safe having been robbed last night, around 10:40 or so, and the nightwatchman killed.”
“Around 2:30, eh? The publication of the story, I mean? Well, go ahead and get me those smokes.”
The boy was off. To Allstyn, remembering how Piffington had left his office just before the Despatch must have flashed forth on the stands—and remembering, as though it had been but 5 minutes ago, Piffington’s l
ast dramatic words, “I’ll find a way!” everything fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. All Allstyn wanted to view now was the highly colored illustration the jigsaw pieces purported to set forth.
Wainwright’s break came after an attempt to establish, as an alibi for the known hour of the crime, that he had been at the jai-alai matches at Winterset Gardens last night from 8 till midnight, and he had a seat coupon to apparently establish it. He was proven to be lying, however, by the fact that all the jai-alai matches were called off last night because of the championship disputes, and all wrestling bouts substituted. This he did not know at all!
Allstyn laughed out loud. He was picturing in his mind how far and how hard Piffington would have been booted, had the police gotten the least inkling of that van der Zook party! And would, in fact, be booted, Allstyn realized troubledly, when this beautiful edifice all crumbled in by one of those guests who had been in the van der Zook’s home, there on far South Shore Drive, and a full 20 miles from Chicago’s downtown, phoning in to the detective bureau. As matters undoubtedly stood now, however, if any of those guests were reading this story, that individual was doubtlessly presuming that one—or all the rest of the guests—was communicating with police headquarters. Which very psychological fact—Allstyn ruminated—Piffington, by no means a simpleton, had realized! And, it is to be admitted, Allstyn was later to discover that Buford van der Zook, of No. 7440 South Shore Drive, had left Chicago that morning for New York City. But right now, and not knowing even this, Allstyn was reflecting that this was the first time in all his history as a lawyer where a man had had, under strange circumstances, to conceal a perfectly good alibi, and offer in its place a “bum” one—and one which, Allstyn was certain, Piffington had elaborated solely out of having read in the morning papers about the calling off last night of the jai-alai matches. As even he, Allstyn, had read. And as for the seat coupon, it was Allstyn’s bet that Piffington—whose parsimonious mode of living indicated that he conserved anything and everything!—had picked that seat coupon up on the sidewalk somewhere—or on a park bench—for he was very much a type of person who would not go to a jai-alai game if admission were free! But Allstyn now ceased his analyzing and synthesizing and went on with the story.
Wainwright’s arrest was one of two made this afternoon by “Portfolio” Smith, a detective-bureau plainclothesman borrowed by the State’s Attorney to cover the foyer of the Klondike Building, and pick up any or all persons who came around there not “looking just right.” Smith’s first arrest the latter turned over to a passing squad car; his second, Wainwright, he took to the bureau himself. The arrest, in the case of Wainwright, was one purely “on suspicion.” For Wainwright came in the building looking very perturbed, but failed to enter the elevator which was then waiting. Instead, he stood and examined the directory board in order to—as is now known—let the elevator go on up, and allow him to take the stairs. But when asked, by Detective Smith—who was struck by his general appearance—who or what he wanted in the building, Wainwright was quite unable to explain. If he had even said he was a curiosity-seeker, he might then and there have been let go. But he made the egregious mistake of not preparing himself in advance with an excuse, if picked up under just the contingency under which he was. And so he was rushed to the detective bureau by Smith in a taxicab.
“Unable to explain!” Allstyn mimicked. “Some day I’m going to re-write this story—but all paraphrased. And that line will read, ‘He flung himself, with a loud hosanna of joy, into Detective Smith’s arms.’” Allstyn paused. “Wonder who the other fish was that Smith caught?” And bent his attention to the story again.
Thirty minutes later, his alibi smashed, and badly entangled in various statements about himself, and about his errand to the Klondike Building, Wainwright broke down and confessed all.
“And now,” Allstyn remarked to himself, “should come Extravaganza—with a big E! Do your stuff now, Piffington boy, old boy!” And he drove on, quite fascinated in spite of the utterly farcical aspect of the whole thing.
Wainwright had, so he said, come back to the building in which, last night, he had operated as a thief and a murderer, because of two reasons: One, that somewhere—either at or since the crime—he did not know which—he had lost, out of his watchpocket, a silver watch with his initials P. W. engraved on its back, and feared that, while in the State’s Attorney’s little office last night, and bending over to examine the contents of the safe which he had succeeded in opening, the watch had slipped to the floor, and slid under, and far back under the safe.
“Not bad at all,” commented Allstyn. “That losing the watch ‘either at—or since the crime’! I wonder where he actually stashed it?—if he even had one at all?” And Allstyn went on with the story detailing the “reasons” why P. Wainwright, Esquire, putatively went back to the Klondike Building!
And two: that Wainright recalled having twice, during his operations there, temporarily removed the leather gloves with which he had shrouded his fingertips: and remembered also once having leaned against the wall with his fingers outstretched, reading Louis Vain’s law graduation diploma. And viewing his crime later in retrospection, he feared that at the time he had so leaned, his ten fingers had been in their unshrouded state, and had left their imprints on the wall; and that some shrewd fingerprint man, dusting the wall for possible prints under pictures—as Wainwright admits having read in some crime story magazine they often did!—would bring the prints out, and crystallize them in a photograph. And because of certain other leads which might and could lead to Wainwright—and which are set forth later in his confession—pin the crime on him. And so, Wainwright said, his attempted return to the office was so that he could wipe away, with his handkerchief, the wall under that diploma before some expert dusted it.
“That, I must confess,” commented Allstyn critically, “is a bit ponderous! And far, far too generous with fingertips. Good God—10! And there must have been ‘pics’ in that story. One of which showed the sheepskin! For—but why, I wonder, did—however, this is Piffington’s party, not mine.” And Allstyn continued:
Wainwright thought, so he told the police, that now that the body of the man he killed had undoubtedly been removed from the office for inquest and so forth, and the premises superficially examined for clues, the office would be in operation again with a secretary; that he could call there on a pretext, decoy her out of the room by a word to the effect that the girl in the room on the floor beneath had asked her to run down there a minute; and, in her absence, he could look hastily under the safe and recover his watch if it were there, and swab off the wall under the diploma. As matters actually stood, however, Wainwright could not possibly have gotten into that office, since an official police-department padlock held the one door tightly closed, and its one key, originally in possession of the State’s Attorney himself, was now in possession of Captain Congreve of the Detective Bureau for the possible use of the Criminal Investigation Department after the inquest should be held.
“What the blamed idiot of a Piffington doesn’t know,” said Allstyn, now downright worried, “is that this thing is going to cost him a billy-hell of a licking—before he’s done. For if I know Mat Congreve and his sidekicks at all, Piffington can’t use up the time of that C. I. Department over there, and then later smilingly walk out. This is something that P. Wainwright’s pulp-paper magazines have never told him! For—” But Allstyn stopped musing, as he noted that the story had now reached what plainly was the highspot of Piffington Wainwright’s inventiveness. And Allstyn bent his full quizzical attention on it.
Wainwright’s story of the commission of the crime is as follows:
As to the actual murder itself, he struck—so he claims—at the nightwatchman Reibach, who came in on him, using the sledge with which he had opened the safe, but struck first in a sheer panic, and not to kill. Then, realizing that the other could identify him later, Wainwright knew he must finish what h
e had started. And, closing his eyes—he had already felled Reibach now, so he says—he delivered, so he states, on Reibach’s head, the lethal blow. He says that next morning he felt neither regrets nor self-reproach, for the reason that Reibach’s death had been due to take place at that second anyway—by one means or another—and that he, Wainwright, had merely administered Destiny’s dictum.
“I contributed that,” Allstyn smiled. “With that pass I made at that fly—and that philosophical discussion I precipitated. The original opportunist, Piffington! And I’m willing to wager a hundred dollars that Sam Weinheimer will offer him a week at the State-Lake Vaudeville theatre. With all this publicity! Specially when he finds out the fellow can do imitations—even though rotten ones.” And Allstyn went on with the story:
As to the causes out of which the murder and robbery grew, Wainwright asserts that three days ago a reddish-haired man of about 35 years of age fumbled at the door of the trailer in which he, Wainwright, lived, this trailer being stationed back of some billboards on Superior and North State Streets, and the—
“Now comes action and incident,” nodded Allstyn—appreciative, at least, of the technique of Piffington’s “confession,” if not the propriety of it, “laid inside a trailer—and the trailer back of billboards two high!—Piffington’s ‘residence’ was made for this drama.” And Allstyn went on:
—and the reddish-haired man thinking that the trailer, which stood wheel-less and propped up on packing boxes, was abandoned and deserted, and that he could pre-empt it, Wainwright, coming to the door, and seeing that the other was a drifter and adventurer type, invited him in, believing he could pick up some interesting facts to be woven into stories. For the radio bedtime story writer has, it seems, an urge to write fiction! The man, however, would give him no name, but laughingly said to call him “Red.” This man, in talking to Wain—