“Well maybe,” acknowledged Penworth dryly, as one who had caught a very broad hint, “I am getting old.” He turned to the reddish-haired ex-defendant. “But go ahead, Wainright. Since Mr. Wah hasn’t told me how he did get this extremely vital information, I’ll have to lean on you.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Well it seems—to relate things in their chronological order—that Wah Lee was just a little bit troubled after that conversation with the unknown inquirer after Room No. 304, lest the whole thing wasn’t strictly on the level! And so, having nothing to do, he wrote his father—in Chinese—the details of the conversation. And asked him to check up all the parties who had the ten numbers beginning with Ivy-199. And which Wah Lung—being a business man, and having one of those reversed telephone directories—could presumably easily do. Wah Lee told his father that if he heard nothing in return, he would assume that his father had located the calling party, and found that everything was quite all right. However, his letter never reached his father—and even if it had, the Ivy numbers would not have been immediately locatable, let alone checkable. And—but, as I say, his letter did not reach his father. Not then, that is. And he left the hospital next afternoon presuming that his father had checked the numbers—even the actual calling party—and that everything was okay. You see, Your Honor, he had addressed his letter in Chinese—taking advantage of the fact that the Chicago post office translated such addresses, and made such deliveries promptly. But his letter evidently got dropped by the Hyde Park postal sub-station into a bag filled with stuff bound for China. And went clear to China, by slow steamer. Stayed there awhile. Then came back to Chicago—again by slow steamer. And when Mr. Wah Lung got it, months later, the whole thing was over. The kidnapping case—as an active police case—was closed.”
“And it was then that Mr. Wah proceeded to investigate the Ivy egg numbers? And ran down all but—I think he said—those ending in 1, 5 and 9? And—”
“Exactly, Your Honor.”
“—and of the seven he did run down,” Penworth probed on, “found one person who could not only certainly have functioned as a gang ‘fingerman,’ but who would naturally and assuredly be a witness in any case involving Wah Lee’s kidnapping or any aftermath from it?”
Penworth shook his head critically as Parks Wainright nodded deferentially.
“This—this is a pretty tenuous thing, Wainright. I don’t wonder you don’t give the name in question, for—but go ahead.”
“Well, when Mr. Wah Lung came upstairs this morning with the news that Wah Lee’s skull had at last turned up, but had been stolen—and with his curious observation about how it would fly straight to the man who had engineered that robbery, no doubt to save his own skin in case McGurk later cracked—well, Your Honor, a skull isn’t destructible—nor burnable—it’s buryable at most—and only under particular conditions. Anyway, Mr. Wah and I realized that that skull would be, for from twelve to twenty hours or so, on this party’s premises. And so together we worked out the plan which I myself suggested.”
Penworth turned sadly to Wah Lung. “Then, Wah, you actually helped with this mad scheme, whatever it is or was?” He shook his head troubledly. “I’m afraid you’ve put me in a very bad spot! For I just assured Wainright here that he was due for some penalty tonight—whether it might be for contempt of co—”
“Friend Hilford—and Your Honor,” interrupted Wah Lung courteously, “I shall demand that you give me also a contempt-of-court sentence. If, that is, my young friend does not at least justify what together I admit we worked out.
“Well, old friend, we shall see.” And Ultra-Legal Penworth, turning once more toward Parks Wainright, sighed the sigh of a man sorely, sorely tried, and being torn between strongly conflicting emotions.
CHAPTER XXIII
“May I Leave, Your Honor?”
“And so,” Penworth now asked of the ex-defendant in the case, puzzlement rife in his tones, “you brought this suspect—suspect, that is, of yours and Mr. Wah’s—here, I take it, in order to have his premises searched in his absence? And some sort of signal sent you, by some substation employee operating under direct orders of Superintendent of A.C. electric distribution Alfred Domaire, as to the successful—if successful—results of that search? And—but exactly what was the signal, which Domaire at least made possible, to have been? If the search had been successful!”
The ex-defendant, however, tightened his lips stoutly together, and sat mute. The while the clock back of the Judge’s shoulder struck the hour of three.
Penworth sighed.
“Well, I note you stand mute when Domaire’s name is dragged into this—and have no doubt you will continue to do so. All right. We’ll leave him in the picture only by implication. You’ve already, you know, divulged that this mad scheme hinged on the matter of electric light and its control. And that alone, Wainright, under the circumstances existing, will involve the operator of the sub-station nearest this house—and Domaire to boot. But speaking quite legistically, I can so much as say to you that if no such signal as you expected was received tonight, then these people are not criminally involved. So all right. What was the signal to have been?” Now the defendant, apparently assured that he was criminally involving no one other than perhaps himself and his friend Wah Lung, spoke, and freely.
“The signal, Your Honor,” he said, “in the case the search was successful, was to have been a momentary cutting off of the electric light energy. Resulting in, of course, a momentary occlusion of the lights.”
“I see? Well, I note that such a signal as that hasn’t been received all evening. As at least all of us here in this block of Chicago can at least testify. And which means, then, that your confederate has failed to—but see here—a search of the premises of your suspect in this case must have involved certain skullduggery over his wife—children—servants, as the case may be. And I should like to know the prepared details for such skullduggery, since—but, see here, wasn’t it possible to achieve your objective, a search of this man’s premises, by decoying him downtown with a spurious telephone call?”
“No, Your Honor. For he would have returned within an hour or so. No! I needed to hold him—rather, let me say, to be able to hold him—up to a minimum of at least six hours. Not just an hour. But six hours, if, and perhaps! And which same I have done. For Mr. Vann there, in prosecuting this case tonight, tied things up for approximately three full hours. While I tossed in approximately another two hours, more or less, with my fantastic story laid in Minn—And, by the way, Your Honor, I feel that I should explain to you now—since I have somewhat tried your patience with it, I know—the genesis of the story I which I told tonight on the witness stand. It was, as you yourself accused me later, made up out of many news stories—or perhaps I should say synthesized out of the contents of those news stories—appearing in a file of Minneapolis papers which I brought down here to Chicago with me. And which complete file I had read, in toto, in bed in Mr. Wah Lung’s house, the night before we prepared our strange plan. And which complete reading thereof really came about due to the following circumstances. Because of some peculiar symptoms I had a few weeks ago, I had an ocular examination in Minneapolis about ten days ago. An examination which, I am glad to say, proved to be negative. But, unfortunately, the oculist used a tropical sunplate to dilate my pupils. And thus I could not read for the following ten days, and so brought all my accumulated Minneapolis papers down with me to Mr. Wah Lung’s. And that is why the many stories I used tonight were so accurately rendered, for I really do have the power of actually recollecting, and almost verbatim, text that I have read within twenty-four hours or so. My story was, of course, all fantastic—all unreal. I did not even know, this noon when I was arrested, that I would even ever get so far as having to render it on the witness stand. But for safety’s sake I did evolve its general sub-structure in my cell today, and did the ultimate elaborations of
it only when, and as, I spun it. Though I fear that I am a poor bedtime story writer for adults—since quite nobody in this entire room fell asleep! But be that as it may, I must say that I did at least objectify the stage of my story—Mortimer King’s home in Minneapolis—thanks to no less than the fact that I was myself, some months ago, a guest in King’s house—a ‘brought’ guest, don’t you know. And—”
“And,” put in Elsa, reproachfully, “you blackened a woman’s name in that story—when you told, in open court, before the Press and all, about Roz—”
“No, Elsa,” Wainright interrupted, shaking his head. “I didn’t blacken Rozalda Mardzienski. For Rozalda just doesn’t exist! She—or he—is Haling Gillette, a female impersonator whom I met in the East—and who was put by the Government into Kings household to get evidence for that forthcoming senatorial investigation of race-track bookies. And when I saw him there some time ago—and recognized him—he begged me to be quiet; at least till October 25, when he was leaving. October 25 is tomorrow, and I’ve perhaps terminated his connection a day earlier—but it was at least in a good cause.”
“I—I am so glad,” was all Elsa said.
“And so as I was saying, Your Honor,” Parks Wainright resumed, “it was necessary for me to tie my suspect up not for one hour, but for six hours. Which I did! For Mr. Vann’s presentation of his case took roughly—and using round numbers only—three hours; my own story took roughly two—again using round numbers—and, had we not had a number of unexpected legal aftermaths—such as, for instance, Your Honor, your own unique mathematical analysis of my story—and Mr. Vann’s long-distance checking of it—and then, in turn, subsequent surprise defense witnesses, the latter thanks solely to my really clever and smart little attorney yonder!—I was prepared to offer to plead guilty to all the charges in the indictment only providing I might have one full hour to show mitigating circumstances.”
“Oh, my God!” said Penworth, aghast. “Another story?”
“Why not, Your Honor? I knew I might as well go to jail for contemptuousness of court as for—for mere contempt thereof.” Wainright paused. “Yes, Your Honor, Mr. Vann, I’m sure, would have grabbed at a bargain in which he’d obtain a guilty plea that no upper court could ever possibly set aside—and, if I may make so bold, I believe that you yourself would likewise have, since no judge, I believe, likes courting the risk of being reversed—anyway, in the event of such a one-hour bargain, I personally believe that next time I would have given the courtroom a real tale!”
“Thank the good God, then,” declared Penworth fervently, “that the aftermaths—provided by respectively myself and Mr. Vann, and those people in Minneapolis, and lastly Miss Colby, consumed the rest of your required six hours—plus some to boot—”
This, with a momentary glance over his shoulder at the clock, whose hands showed that, in actuality, seven hours and eight minutes had gone by since the trial had opened. “Well, you held your suspect here in my court, all right, for the required six long hours—Yes Dr. Blaine? What is it?”
This to Dr. Minton Blaine, the coroner, of the olive skin and thick black moustache, who had suddenly stood up—coroner’s bag in hand—in his endmost seat, near the locked door, of the third row. “I—I have a patient, Your Honor, who is ill—and I should like to leave.”
“Is the patient dying?”
“Well, no, but she is—”
“Who is the patient?”
“She—she is my old servant, who takes care of my apartment on South Wabash and near here. And she–”
“Sorry, Dr. Blaine—” Penworth’s words were curt “—but nobody can leave this room. It will be only a few minutes now before Wainright is done—and I pass sentence—and then all may leave.”
Blaine, a most worried look on his sallow face, sat down.
Penworth turned to Wainright again. “Well, as I started to say a few seconds back, you held your suspect here for the required six long hours—all right! But just why did you have to hold him that particular length of time? And the rest of us, as well—God help us!”
“Because, Your Honor—and you have the consolation of knowing that you, too, have helped in a good cause—this suspect, like almost everybody else in Chicago where second-hand safes sell for as low as twelve dollars—like everybody else, in short, who is one degree removed from being a pauper—has a safe; and it was certain that the stolen skull would be in his safe. Certainly not in his pantry! Or standing on his bureau! Or hanging from his ceiling! But in his safe. And, taking it as a foregone conclusion that the man who was helping Mr. Wah and myself in this thing could get past any old servant—be they man or woman—on a pretext of inspecting the lights, or the gas piping; and could even put such old party out of the way for any number of hours, with a piece of drugged candy—or a drugged cigar—there was still the matter of this safe, and—”
“By gad, Wainright! This is getting serious. To merely inspect a man’s premises under a pretext, and under the eyes of his servant, or servants, is no more, in law, than a misdemeanor at most. But to actually put his servant or servants out of the way—that—that is burglary. And no matter what I do to you for this courtroom business you cooked up, Mr. Vann there—if I know anything at all—will be indicting you, before nine o’clock tomorrow, for conspiracy to commit burglary. And sending you to the penitentiary. Yes, Wainright, as sure as God made little fishes, you’re headed now straight for the penitentiary—and a ten years’ sentence therein!”
CHAPTER XXIV
The Man With the Magic Eardrums
Parks Wainright looked, at that second, utterly confounded. Wah Lung, too, in the front row, stroked his chin troubledly, and Penworth went on speaking sternly, as one who knew that only he could elicit all the facts in this strange conspiracy.
“Well, quite obviously, Wainright, your—and Mr. Wah’s—man whom you sent into this suspect’s home was no nitro-glycerine artist. And intended, quite plainly, to drill the suspect’s safe. Which, therefore, is burglary, all right. And so—”
“No, Your Honor. We dared not use burglary, of any type. Of any type—let me qualify that—which would leave traces. In short, we had to work in such manner that if our suspicions—”
And now came another unexpected interruption.
For the square-headed Gus Triglett, of the Evening Gazette, his chin thrust belligerently out, had risen in his seat between the reporter of the News and that of the Sun.
“Judge,” he bit out angrily, wasting no time on such phrases as “Your Honor,” “I’m a newspaperman—local sheet, yes—but delegated also, as Chicago correspondent, to wire a special story on this trial, that’s now legally over and completed, to a New York morning daily who’s probably holding open for it right now—in view of the one hour’s time difference. And in the face of the fact that no actual trial is now being held, I demand ‘out’ o’ here—so I can do my work.”
“So you demand of the Court, do you,” said Penworth coldly, “that you he let out?”
“Yes, I do demand it, and if I don’t—”
“That’ll do, Triglett. For a man who was a police reporter back in the Wah Lee kidnapping days, you’ve come a long ways. Rather, you think you have! Well, this Court’s not interested in New York dailies, or anything else.” Penworth swung his gaze across chat very front row to Inspector Scott on the other end. “You will just continue, Inspector, hanging on to that key until I say the court really is adjourned.” He swung his gaze back.
“And you, Triglett, take your seat and subside. I’ll see that you—and all the rest of your confrères—are out in time to write any stories for Chicago papers, but this Court isn’t running itself for any New York papers. And no more ‘demanding’ out of you. Sit down!”
And Triglett, biting his lip savagely, sat down, though only on the edge of his chair.
Penworth tool up his questioning again of Parks Wainri
ght.
“And you were saying, before this last interruption, that, in the case of yours and Mr. Wah’s suspect, you had to work in such manner—as what?”
“Yes, Your Honor. We had to work in such manner that if our suspicions proved to be false—at least remained unconfirmed—not a sign would be left of what we had done or tried.”
“No sign,” commented Penworth dryly, “but a headache in the head of the servant you drugged?”
Wainright smiled ruefully and worriedly.
“I suppose—yes. But at any rate, Your Honor, now that I’m facing a year in jail and a thousand dollar fine for contempt of court, if I say nothing at all, I am proceeding to—well—shoot the works. Except that I am absolutely not giving any details that—that will incriminate this man who has helped Mr. Wah and myself. Sufficient to say that he is a safe expert who works for a new and second-hand safe exchange on—oh, we’ll say West Lake Street, though, of course, that isn’t the actual street. But he is one of the best in the country. A real lock expert. And a genius, in his line. And like all true geniuses, specially talented in copious other ways. For he can take the cork out of a bottle at fifty paces—by shooting from his hip alone. And is beyond doubt the best informed individual in the United States today on the chrysanthemum—which is said, Your Honor, to have a thousand different forms. He has known Mr. Wah Lung for years, and is indebted to him deeply for many things. And—but the point of the matter is that a quiet investigation Mr. Wah had made of this suspect’s home revealed that, like everybody else in Chicago, he had a safe. But ’twas a safe, Your Honor, which—so Mr. Wah’s safe-expert friend informed him—possessed only 57,600 different settings, each of which could be individually set and tried, with the handle, in an average of three seconds each. And—”
The Case of the Lavender Gripsack Page 19