“And now let us consider certain points in that deposition, by which we learn that Moses Klump’s skull was characteriz—but no,” Vann broke off, “I’ll touch on that aspect of matters later. Yes!”
And he paused, abstractedly contemplating the calibrations on his ruler-pointer.
“It was at this juncture, of course,” said Judge Penworth, a slight bit helpfully, and yet also a slight bit reprovingly, “that you diverged off into what you termed was the motive-theme of the robbery which is the occasion of this trial. And where I ruled—against Miss Colby’s objection—that the State had a right to show that the underworld learned of the existence of this skull in the safe in your personal office—and that a special motive to rob that safe existed.”
“Yes, of course, Your Honor,” nodded Vann. “For a second or so I had thought off-hand that I had next put on the stand—but yes—I took this intersecting triangle of circles next—yes. Well then, Your Honor—rehearsing my finely-knit web of facts which you term a ‘divergence’—Miss Burlinghame yonder, recalled, testified that she told everything concerning Moses Klump’s visit to a sweetheart of hers, who called himself Harry Hotchkiss. And how Harry Hotchkiss, when she called his rooming-house today at my request, was reported by his landlady to have packed up and departed hastily, leaving no forwarding address. Mr. Mullins has here, however, as a State’s exhibit, a portrait-photograph this fellow gave Miss Burlinghame, which photograph fortunately had Mr. Hotchkiss’ fingerprint on it, enabling us in a jiffy to unearth the other State’s exhibit Mr. Mullins has—yes—the detective-bureau photo of one ‘Handsome Harry’ Hockmeister, identified by Miss Burlinghame as one and the same man. A crook who, young as he is, is known to be allied with a certain gang called the Tritt Mob. Also lying right with that card is a detective-bureau card on Gus McGurk, detailing among many and various things that at one time he was allied criminally with one Lon Brink, subsequently killed by a police officer. In turn,” Vann went on relentlessly—relentlessly at least so far as rigidly dovetailing facts went, “we heard Guard Ernest Hickson, of the Moundsville Illinois Penitentiary, now sitting there, in his blue prison uniform, in the second row—the second seat from the wall—tell us how yesterday morning, while detailed to the visiting window, a shifty-eyed man claiming to be an attorney for one Charlie Brink, inmate, asked for special urgent visiting permission; and how Brink, being a trusty and even the warden’s chauffeur, was accorded permission to talk privately with that man; and how Brink talked a long, long time; and how Brink, shortly thereafter, was directed by the warden to go through the prison and retrieve for the warden the prison cat—whose whereabouts were then unknown; and how—But I call the Court’s attention now to the testimony of the man now sitting next to Guard Hickson, Mr. Walter Buckman, alias, it seems, ‘Whitey’ Buckman—present inmate of Moundsville—who told us how yesterday morning, waiting medical examination in his cell, he saw Brink, from his cell in Cell Block No. 1, which has a view of a certain corridor connecting the so-called Old Cell Block and Cell Block No. 1, as well as part of the lower cell walk in Old Cell Block, he—Buckman—saw Brink, with the prison cat under his arm, pass McGurk, who was mopping that cell walk, whisper something out of the side of his mouth, then deliberately release the cat; and how then, a few minutes later, Buckman saw Brink and McGurk enter a certain secluded prison faucet room off that very corridor so beautifully visible to Buckman, and not emerge for approximately thirty full minutes. My youthful legal opponent yonder, it will be recollected, entered there her first bit of cross-examination in this case: namely, as to what reduction of prison sentence Mr. ‘Whitey’ Buckman had been promised by the State for his testimony, only to learn from Mr. ‘Whitey’ that tomorrow his three years sentence expires—without good behavior time off—and so that any testimony he renders here tonight is essentially rendered without fear nor favor.”
But Vann’s half-smile toward Elsa at this juncture did, at least, say that Elsa had done exactly the right thing—even if it had beautifully boomeranged against her!
“And last but not least,” Vann continued suddenly, “concluding this particular individual web of testimony, I myself took the chair and testified how years ago I was visited by McGurk, in my original old office, with a plea that I represent him as his ‘mouthpiece’; and of how my safe which was robbed last night—of very ancient vintage, even at the time of McGurk’s visit, I confess—was then in that office that day; and how McGurk’s eyes took in everything in that office, bar nothing! And so—in my testimony—and that which went directly before it—I am sure I have shown the perfect linkage between the sequestration in my safe of that skull so dangerous to certain still surviving underworld characters, and the underworld—that is, the path by which the facts passed from Beryl to one segment of that underworld, and thence to Brink—thence to McGurk—and thence, amplified with certain orders or instructions, back again to Brink, scheduled to go into Chicago that day with the warden—and who did, moreover, as Guard Hickson told us, go in. Brink—chauffeur for the warden—in lone charge of the latter’s car while the latter made calls—able therefore on any trip to go, a dozen times, to a dozen phones and make calls. For from Brink it is quite obvious that that information—plus or not plus concrete orders—was shunted straight back to another segment of the Chicago underworld. A segment which would take deadly and quick action. Action, in short, through a human tool right now sitting sneeringly in the defendant’s chair! And I thank Your Honor sincerely for ruling that that linkage is very much relevant to the case being tried!”
Vann now paused a number of long seconds, as though perhaps emphasizing rhetorically that a definite time and space gap existed between the group of hypothetical events which he had just set forth, and a certain group of actual events which obviously existed only because of those hypothetical ones. “And we come now, quite naturally,” he said, “to a group of witnesses whose testimony told us graphically tonight what happened, and how, and when, as a result of that information getting hack to that part of the underworld suddenly interested in it. My own brief testimony as to what I saw when I opened the door of my old office this morning was of quite no consequence except to inaugurate, as it were, the events set forth by the witnesses whose testimony I am now rehears—detailing,” Van quickly corrected himself. “For we heard first—as a matter of natural exposition, and not straight chronology—the testimony of Coroner Minton Blaine—or, giving him his proper professional title, Doctor Minton Blaine—” and Vann’s ruler floated gently till it pointed toward an olive-complexioned man with thin black moustache, seated in the endmost seat, but nearest the door, of the third row, “—that the man whom I found lying on the floor of my room—and Inspector Scott likewise—was—as he, Dr. Blaine, elicited when called in not much later to examine him officially—killed, between approximately the hours of nine o’clock last night and midnight, by a terrific blow delivered to one side of his head, by an instrument leaving a pentagonal bruise-impression and proclaiming in both impression and force that it was a sledge; but killed, incidentally, only after he had been virtually knocked unconscious by precisely such a blow atop his head; and that there was a tiny gash in the man’s scalp, and a contused place on his forearm as though it had warded off a first blow.
“It is, of course, true,” Vann admitted at this point in his words, “that we agreed here tonight that no testimony would be entered into tonight as to conditions found by a witness subsequent to the hour of 2:30 today, when, as we all know, P. Wainright entered that office. In which case, all that Coroner Blaine can legitimately testify to is that Reibach is dead—and for approximately how long.
“It was by my next witness that I introduced—legitimately—the evidence that Reibach had first been sent reeling across the room by a sledge blow on his arm; then knocked unconscious, by one on the top of his head; and then slain ruthlessly by one at the side of his head. A witn
ess who gathered his evidence and clues early this morning—and not after 2:30!
“That witness was, of course, Inspector Rufus Scott—” And Vann did not use his pointer now to single out that muscular, square-jawed individual who sat in the front row, nearest the door, almost as though fearing he might insult a most important witness by the very gesture. “He was,” Vann continued, “the first scientific criminological investigator to be in that room following the departure of the murderer, and he—following Coroner Blaine—told us all he found! The partially smashed open safe—rather, safe door, minus its combination dials and knob—which heavy State’s exhibit, now properly ticketed, stands just back of me leaning against the wall; the disarranged pendulum clock—” and Vann did, with his pointer, indicate the base of that heap of exhibits on Mullins’ desk “—to which I subsequently briefly added my own testimony, as a witness, to the effect that I only had the lone and special key to its special lock. And—continuing with Scott’s findings—the yellow hairs stuck on the sharp corner of that clock case—indeed Scott’s original envelope, initialed by him and then by myself, lies there on Mr. Mullins’ desk. In turn, Scott described to us the condition of the smashed watch on that man’s wrist—and there lies, moreover, the very watch itself, amidst those State’s exhibits If the defense later, in its address, attacks those exhibits as being silent testimony taken from that office after 2:30 today, the State but respectfully refers her to a certain notebook of Rufus Scott’s over there on Mr. Mullins’ desk, its notes taken at 9:30 this morning, detailing the condition of those exhibits at that hour—and containing, moreover, photographs of those exhibits, taken at that hour, and corresponding exactly with their condition as shown in court tonight.” Vann paused. “Scott told us likewise,” he went on, “of the apparently carefully-kept night-watchman report sheets he located downstairs in the engine-room. And which themselves lie there now on Mr. Mullins’ desk. The man who kept the sheets was dead. Coroner Doctor Blaine, from medical considerations, sets that man’s death as having occurred approximately between nine and midnight last night. Those report sheets show his death to have occurred at approximately between 10:10 and 10:50 p.m. And that clock and that wrist watch, in turn—and Scott’s photograph thereof—show it to have taken place at 10:43 last night.
“Indeed, the State so accepts the hour of the death of that man, Adolph Reibach, as 10:43—plus or minus a slight fraction of some minute or minutes one way or the other—that if yonder sneering defendant could establish in this room that he was ten miles away at that moment, the State would immediately move for a dismi—still, no, I withdraw that! Most certainly—in the face of the defendant’s own admissions—the State is hardly likely to withdraw anything! But at any rate the State rests solidly on that approximate minute and hour. For did not yonder genial Irish gentleman—” and Vann did point with his ruler to a very Hibernian-looking individual seated back in the third row, with gorilla-like shoulders and tufts of grayish hair over his ears “—Mr. Dilliam Casey, night engineer for the Klondike Building, and one of those several persons who made for the law the necessary legal identification of that body as that of Adolph Reibach—did not Mr. Casey, as I just started to say, tell us how he saw Reibach set his wrist-watch by the Western-Union clock in that engineer room at around half past nine? And we can well assume that that watch gained or lost practically nothing in what was to remain of poor Reibach’s life. Did we not in turn hear Professor Clark S. W. Adgate, head of the Crime Detection Laboratory associated with our city’s Mid-West University, tell us of his findings, made in Inspector Scott’s presence, with respect to several certain human hairs recovered by Inspector Scott from the corner of that pendulum clock, sealed in an envelope by Scott, initialed by him, and initialed in turn by myself? Which findings were that the hairs were Reibach’s! And which meant that it was Reibach’s head—and no other head—which stopped that clock last night at 10:43. A clock which was a hundred per cent accurate and correct at all times—judging from the testimony of just one person alone, Mr. Angus MacIntosh yonder—” And Vann’s pointer indicated, in the third row back of the chair which had been vacated by Wah Lung’s nephew, a very ruddy-cheeked gentleman, with hair so low on his temples that it amounted practically to sideburns. “Mr. Angus MacIntosh,” continued Vann, “who has an office across the hall from mine—that is, from that clock—and who has utilized the readings of that clock a thousand times, so he said, and has never found it to be observably wrong even apparently by seconds.
“And so by that little coterie of witnesses—and exhibits—we learned tonight that Adolph Reibach was murdered by a safe-robber—and criminally, incidentally, successful in his task—at 10:43 or extremely closely thereabouts. And we then heard all that virtually confirmed by a surprising State’s witness—surprising, I assure the Court, at least for the State, in the unexpected manner in which he entered the case—who told us how—
“But,” Vann broke off, glancing down at his curious circle-pattern, “I think I shall continue with the evidential pattern as I have it here—which pattern rather demands the placement of that witness in a somewhat different group of witnesses.
“And so—”
Vann paused, hands in pockets, then looked up.
“And so we now jump ahead to the day following the crime—today!
“That is, we heard Officer Daniel Kilgallon yonder in chair three, row three, tell us how he noted, both at around five minutes before noontime today, and then again at around ten minutes after, the defendant in this case, posted on the corner of Adams and Dearborn Streets with a crimson hole-punched cardboard box under his arm; how, partly from curiosity and partly on suspicion—because of the police having my District Attorney’s order to particularly question all suspicious-looking or singular-acting ‘hoodlums’ with odd descriptive characteristics—he attempted to question the defendant; how the defendant smoothly and neatly evaded his questioning by saying, ‘No spik Englize’; and how, because he—Kilgallon—was puzzled by the fact of the defendant’s working on an obviously English crossword puzzle while he waited, he—again, yes, Kilgallon—enlisted the aid of an old family friend, Archbishop Stanley Pell, whom he encountered on the steps of the old Post Office. The chief reason for his so doing being that Archbishop Pell was an accomplished linguist.
“And we then saw Archbishop Pell himself sit in that chair, and heard him tell us how the defendant over yonder, when he—the Archbishop—accosted the other with the friendly words, ‘I’m Archbishop Pell. What have you in the box?’ took him carefully in, then replied quickly: ‘Wah Lee’s skull. I cracked Vann’s pete.’ Then added, after an embarrassing and troubled pause, ‘Pardon me, Your Reverence—I took you for somebody else. Just—just skip it, will you?’
“At which point,” Vann continued, “without yet dismisssing the Archbishop, I placed on record as the State’s next Exhibit the ecclesiastical suit—’suit,’ that is, in a manner of speaking—which now lies bundled up over there on Mr. Mullins’ desk, and which was found in the belongings of Gus McGurk at the time he was arrested ten years ago, in that room above the hexagonal room in the Schlitzheim Brewery—that lonely hide-out which he occupied by virtue of being ‘caretaker’! And possession of which suit branded McGurk then as belonging indubitably to the old Parson Gang. And which ‘suit’ has been for years ticketed, and in the custodianship of the State in its vaults in the City Hall, pending a possible later trial of McGurk. I had Mr. Leo Kilgallon, my assistant, here—and son of Mr. Daniel Kilgallon whom we had just heard—hold up those three items one by one, moth-eaten as two of them were, as I pointed out their extremely characteristic features: and we thus surveyed the long-tailed black frock coat—the curious low collar which buttons in back, and is designed to be worn without tie—and the buttonless, and almost surplice-like, black vest which is held to by fastenings in its back. And we saw plainly, all of us, exactly why yonder saf
e-breaking, night-watchman-murdering defendant slipped so badly, revealing what he did to a real ‘parson’ instead of a spurious parson who was some remnant of that old Parson Gang. Yes, we then quite understood!
“And we then heard Professor Mustaire, who, during the entire incident related by Archbishop Pell, was standing off some distance on the curb, an apparent deaf-mute thanks to the fact that he had just talked with his hands to one of his ex-pupils, corroborate every detail of Archbishop Pell’s simple story. And who—but it is right here that I want to reach a little forward in my evidential arch, and a little backward, and bring together, at this point in my capitulation, a number of isolated bits of testimony which give to this already damning incident a more than high voltage, to say the least! An ‘e.m.f.’ of at least 2,200—in a manner of speaking. That being, of course, the precise voltage which—so the State is confident—the Commonwealth will very shortly be administering to this murderer as his just deserts!”
CHAPTER IX
“I Pity Him if He Takes the Chair!”
Vann paused a bare second.
“Archbishop Pell and Professor Mustaire and Officer Kilgallon,” he said suddenly, “all told us that this incident, which has just been recapitulated by me, took place shortly after twelve noon.”
“Yet the Court heard me, at the time I testified as to what I found this morning on opening my office door, make a single salient final declaration: that between then and the time the defendant was arrested, I told but three human beings of what I had found—and what, presumably, had happened. Those three human beings being Inspector Rufus Scott, my own personal assistant Leo Kilgallon here, and my brother yonder—Hugh Vann of the Despatch.
The Case of the Lavender Gripsack Page 6