“Well, you may be right on that, Miss Jones. At least not if our best criminal mouthpiece defends him. Now—just a minute. ’Till I fill out the family-history blank on this card. Mother a huge woman, you say—with pituitary gland disease. Father a rapid calculator. Yes. Well, that’s that. Well, Miss Jones, here’s hoping you won’t ever have to come to Chicago to testify on no murder case. And maybe you won’t—if Mr. O’Connor there has a few more witnesses like you. Would you put him back on, please?”

  “Yes. Mr. O’Connor, Mr. O’Rourke wants you—”

  The switchboard girl at the Detective Bureau—that is, O’Rourke’s own switchboard girl—came suddenly into the circuit.

  “Excuse me, Mr. O’Rourke, but I couldn’t hold it off any longer. Indianapolis Heights has good contact now with that plane Monon Bullet, on the auxiliary short-wave, and the connections are all hooked up. You’ll either have to have me cut the Indianapolis one, and take the plane, or—”

  “No, never mind cutting the Indianapolis one. I told you to hold it. Kelvy?”

  “Yes, Terry.”

  “You got some other witnesses there too—that you claim will clear this hatchet murderer? For I think, b’God, that he’s guilt—”

  “Yes, Terry. I told you I had. Two.”

  “I see. Well keep ’em there and have ’em ready. I got to shove you to one side a minute while I catch a plane in midair. I’ll be right back on with you in a minute. All right, Jessica. Hold this Indianapolis connection—as is—and check the time on it, too. And put me on the Indianapolis Heights wire.”

  “Yes, Mr. O’Rourke. Take that Instrument Number 4.”

  There was silence.

  Then some sharp clicks.

  And of a sudden David Rand could hear a terrific rattling roar like a battery of paddle-wheels cutting water at high speed. It lasted but a second thus, dying away swiftly to sound like the buzz of a giant bee—and then seeming to be suddenly occluded altogether, although a continual low humming drone kept sounding in the circuit.

  And a second later a Negro’s rich, sonorous voice came on the wire.

  CHAPTER XIV

  And a Little Chinese Girl Speaks Her Small Piece

  The negro spoke, at least, as one accustomed to speaking from plane to ground.

  “Dis am Hennery Jackson, de potah, conductah, an gin’al man abohd de Monon Bullet. Kin you heah me—wheah you is at?”

  “Yes, Henry. What was all that roar a minute ago?”

  “Oh, dat? Dat wuz de p’opellahs. Ah had open de triple-encase’ glass doh ob dis little closet a min’, aftah de lil green light flah up inside an Ah had ansah’d it. But Ah is sence close dat do’ tight, so de noise ought to be pretty well shet out now. You havin’ trouble to heah me, sah?”

  “No, not at all, Henry. I hear you fine. Well, Henry, this is the Chicago Police Department. Yes, at Chicago. T. O’Rourke speaking. Detective Bureau. I’m investigatin’ the movements of somebody who took your plane tonight.”

  “Oh—” You could hear Mr. Henry Jackson’s voice lower subcon­sciously. “Somebuddy—somebuddy is aboh’d dis plane now—whut is wanted?”

  “No. Nobody in there, Henry. It’s a Chinaman—that we got locked up here in Chicago—for murder. We understand he was coming tonight from Indianapolis to Chicago. Now what can you tell me about that? Was there a Chinaman aboard your plane on the northbound trip tonight?”

  “Whooie! You spectin’ me to git messed up wid some ob dem tongs, is you? Ah—”

  “Come, come, Henry. Give me the facts. I can talk to the pilots, you know, on the regular wave length.”

  “Huh? Dem boys? Dey so—so snooty, ’cause dey is pilots, dat dey don’t nevah gib eben half a look back in de cabin. Dey ain’t int’rusted in nothin’ but weathah, an’ dey flyin’ signals, an’ de groun’ beacons down below. Dey couldn’ tell you nuffin ’bout nobody!”

  “Well, you can. Now come clean! Was there a Chinaman aboard that plane tonight? Or—was there none aboard? You’d better talk up, now, or there’ll be a police officer at Cincinnati waiting for you, and—”

  “Well, yes—dey—dey wuz a Chinaman ’boh’d de plane, Mist’ Detictive. An’ Ah suah nevah dream he ’uz goin’ up t’ Chicago to mu’der nobody, neithah. Now Ah—Ah ’spose Ah gonna ketch me a axe in de haid!”

  “You’re a good crime expert, Henry. Axe in the head—you know Chink murder all right! What—what did this Chink look like?”

  “Now see heah, Mist’ Detictive, if’n you is ’spectin’ me to sen’ some po’ man to de rope, whut you is got lock’ up, Ah jes’ ain’ gonna make no testifyin’. All Chinamens dey looks just de same lak, to me. Ah don’ know de diffunce ’tween one ob ’em an’ anothah ob ’em. An’ Ah—”

  “Come, come, Henry. Nobody’s asking you to send anybody to the rope. You’re willing to clear a man, ain’t you?”

  “Suah—if’n he ain’t guilty ob nothin’—co’se Ah is willin’ to cl’ah him. But Ah tells you, all—all Chinamens dey looks ahdentical to me. Wouldn’ be no use to git me in fo’ no trial. ’Sides, Ah is gotta sleep days ’count ob dis night run. An’ Ah—”

  “Now listen, Henry. If this Chinaman you carried is the man we got locked up—then we got to let the man we got locked go. This murder wasn’t committed after the plane got to Chicago. It was committed in Chicago—shortly before the time the plane started from Indianapolis.”

  “Well—dat’s a lil diffu’nt. But still, Ah cain’t ’dentify nobbodah. All Chinamens looks des de sa—”

  “How old was this Chinaman you carried?”

  “Well—he—he ’bout thutty yeahs ol—so neah’s Ah kin judge. But Ah tells you, Ah ain’t no idea whatevah w’ut he looks lak. Ah—”

  “Did you note anything peculiar when he gave you his ticket?”

  “Gib me his ticket? Well now—he didn’t gib in no ticket. He gib me a ten-dollah bill an’ a five.”

  “Ah! Paid cash fare, eh? Well, did you give him a fare receipt?”

  “Yassuh. Suah did. But Ah fin’ de receipt undah de seat aftah de passengahs is go. Ah—lissen—if’n you is some smaht aleck on de Monon Aih Suhvice tryin’ to check mah honesty ’bout cash fahs, you ain’ gonna git nowah. Fo’ dat fah is already entered up on mah sheet what Ah is tuhn in at Chicago. Ah is wuk fo’ de Monon Railroad fo’ thutty yeahs, an’ is known as Honest Hennery.”

  “Good. Honest Henry is what we want. No, Henry, this is the Chicago Detective Bureau. Now come on with more details about this fellow. What kind of features did he have?”

  “Features? Dat mean face? Hm. Well, he des’ hab a soht ob flat face. Soht ob—Chineseh, if you don’t min’ dat abjectiv’.”

  “I might put that down at that, Henry. Chinaman—with a Chinesy face! Well, flat. That’s somep’n. Now think further. You may be the means of releasin’ a man who’s abs’lutely innocent. Surely you noticed something?”

  “Well—Ah ain’t notice much ob nothin’, ’cause he spen’ mos’ ob his time readin’ a Chinese newspapah. ’Cose, he is weahin’ lil gol’ specs lak w’at you gits f’m de ten cen’ stoh.”

  “We’re slowly getting somewhere, Henry. Notice anything about his features? Anything striking about his face, when he looked up to pay his cash fare?”

  “No, didn’ notice nothin’ at all. ’Cose, he hab a gold toof in his haid, an’—”

  “Where? Where was the gold tooth?”

  “’Bout—’bout de exac’ middle ob his uppers. It wuz a soht ob a dull gol’ toof. Ah membah thinkin’ it look pretty nice dataway—an’ dat us colohed folkses meks a big mistek to git ouah gol’ toofs shiny de way us does. But as Ah say, Ah ain’ notice nuffin at all ’bout dis Chinaman, an’ cain’t tell you nuffin’ at all.”

  “Well, you’ve told enough, Henry, to get yourself modeled in wax—free someday. Maybe! All right. Now call at the Cincinnati Detective Bureau the minute you come off that run, and swear to an affidavit. I’ll phone down there how the paper is to run. Ask for the affidavit clerk.”

  “Affidavit? Yes, sah. Ah’ll go thah soon’s we lands at Cinci. Now is that all, sah? If’n Ah hangs up, it’ll automatic-lak break dis auxil’ry shoht-wave connec—”

  “Yes, that’s all. Hang up. I can’t hang up here because—Jessica—you there in the wire?”

  “Yes, Mr. O’Rourke. Did—”

  “Put me back on that Indianapolis connection—the one with O’Connor—so I can wind up things. Throw it over on this phone Number 4, will you?”

  A clicking and sputtering.

  And David Rand heard Detective O’Connor’s well-modulated voice on the wire once more.

  “You back on there again, Terry?”

  “Yes, Kelvy. Sorry I had to keep you waiting. Well, Kelvy, it keeps looking more and more, all th’ time, as though Yin Yi did come to Chicago tonight on that plane. At least a guy come in that tallies with him, in a lot o’ ways. I won’t fall off my chair with surprise, though, if it turns out, by that toll report you’re gettin’, that this Jones music-teacher was half-asleep when Indianapolis Central told her that Chicago was on the wire. It’s an old last-minute trick of panic-stricken killers, who don’t never stop to think about them other phases of it. You see, Kelvy, there’s a whole string o’ factors here in favor of this guy pulling this killing. On top of which he tells a fearfully rickety—vague—story about a woman in Oak Park, and a doctor of hypnotizosis, an—’”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about all that, Terry. I just want to clear up your docket for you, and go home. The minute Harry Weiss gets over here with the print, I’m blowing for bed. I’ve been out two hours now on my own time, already.”

  “Harry Weiss? Who’s Harry Weiss? And who else you got there?”

  “Who’s Harry Weiss? I thought I told you about him. He’s second-shift fingerprint photographer, as well as third assistant fingerprint expert, at the Bureau here. Lives right around the corner here from Yin Tzu Lei. So knowing he had a battery of cameras, as well as a photo-laboratory at home, I just—well, you sent me this Yin Yi’s fingerprints, didn’t you? And I thought surely you’d want ’em checked with—well, you asked who else I had here. I’ve this Professor Emil Wunderlich who lives next door. Kindly old man, with a shawl across his shoulders, and—no, he doesn’t hear what I’m saying. He’s pretty deaf except when he uses a phone. Or an electric ear-trumpet. And his trumpet’s lying in his lap just now. And I’ve a sweet little kid here, too, named O Loya Yin—and I don’t think I can keep her awake much longer. Her mother’s here—brought her over, in fact—but has nothing to do with our matter. Then there’s a coon kid—a girl—about 16—named Tarbaby Watkins. She’s a little religio-maniac, so I understand—reads her Bible all the time. Mr. Yin Lei says she’s thin as a piece of string licorice, and wears a single cotton dress and a pair of sugar-sacking step’ins. And—”

  “Hey, hey—is this a radio-broadcast performance?”

  “Do you think I can get a job as announcer, Terry? No? Well, anyway, Tarbaby herself is not here—but she’s due in a minute—for she lives on the alley right back of Mr. Yin Tzu Lei’s place here—and on the alleys is where practically all the Negroes in Indianapolis live!”

  “Well, you sure are workin’ hard, Kelvy, for this Chink I got locked up. You ought to get free chopsuey somewhere for life. Well, put ’em on in turn, and let’s get clear.”

  “Okay. Professor Wunderlich? Miss Jones, will you please tap Professor Wunderlich on the shoulder? Yes—this way, Professor.”

  There was considerable of a pause, and then a man’s voice came on the wire—to Rand, obviously a man at least 60 years of age. The latter’s articulation was decidedly German in accent.

  “Hul-lo? I—I am shbeaking to the Chicago Bolice Debartment?”

  “You are, sir. The Detective Bureau at Chicago. And you are—”

  “Brofessor Emil Wunderlich, sir, bresident of der sdringed insdrumend depardment at der Eendianahbolis Musikal Konservadory.”

  “Oh yes—let’s see—you were at Miss Jones’ house tonight when—”

  “Nein, sir. I know Miss Chones vell. I haf met her by many musikals. Unt she dit accompany me vunce ven I indroduced, for der furst dime in Eendianahbolis, der Hankel zither-bancho. I lif next door to Misder Yin here.”

  “Oh—yes—I remember now his saying you were from next door. Well what light, Professor, have you to throw onto this murd—”

  “Chust, sir, dot Yin Yi vass here in Eendianahbolis—in dees house tonight. At leasd at a qvarter afder 8.”

  “He was, eh? You talked with him?”

  “Nein, I dittn’t talk mid him—no. But I see him. I know him chust so vell like I know Miss Chones. We haf dot music in common, you see. Unt he can blay some uf dem Chinese sdring—”

  “You mean you saw him then, from your front window? On the sidewalk?”

  “Nein, nein, nein. I see him—ride here in dees room here—vere ve are dalking now on der dellyphone. Dru der vindow-glass uf dees room—vot looks out on der passageway between dees house unt mine. Und dru mein vindow, vot looks oud on dot same passageway. Iss dot clear?”

  “Yes, I get you now perfectly. Well, what was he doing, Professor, when you saw him?”

  “He vass sidding on der vindow zill here, blaying der erh-hu—der dwo-strindged hu, dot iss!”

  “The two-stringed hu? Well, explain yourself, Professor. I don’t speak no Chinese, and don’t play no stringed instruments neither.”

  “Vell, der issn’t nodding to exblain. I know Yin Yi chust so vell nearlike as I know his onkle, Yin Lei. Bod uf dem are musicians of no mean apility, I can dell you dot! Dey haf a natural abptitude, unt blay many insdrumends, including der piano.” The Professor paused a second. “Vell, I vass come in my back parlor tonight, to sid in mein rocking chair—dot vass long afder der lights vass on—unt I see Yin Yi ofer here in dis room blaying her erh-hu. I see him achually sit down on der vindow-zill unt bow it back unt fort’ mit der bow. Unt—but you vass ask me vot her erh-hu iss, eh? Vell it chust iss nodding more as a modification of der hu-ch’in, or Chinese violin. Yess! Eggscept it hass lower tones, unt blays louder on der pentatonic scale. It is a vooden frame from bamboo, mit snakeskin sdredtched ofer der ends, unt dwo sdrings each apout a foot unt five inches in length. You blay it mid a bow, somevat like as you blay a violin. Yess. Dis erh-hu vass Misder Yin Lei’s erh-hu—only dot he doesn’t not make very good by it.” Professor Wunderlich paused helplessly. “Vell, dot bow vass go so smoodly unt—unt nimple-like ofer dot erh-hu, dot here—I sais—iss a man vot can blay dot instrumend like a masder. Unt so I knock hart on der glass uf my vindow to addract his attention. He dittn’t hear me—pecause he vass behind glass himselluf—until I rap mid a conch-shell. Den he looks arount, unt vave hello mit his hant. Unt I vave dot he come around into mein house, mid der erh-hu. He look at his vatch—unt nod dot he vill be ofer. Unt get up, unt leaf der vindow-zill.”

  “But he didn’t come?” asked O’Rourke, and though his question was distinctly of a fact-pursuing nature, it was evident by his voice that he was floundering himself now, at least in his thoughts.

  “Nein. Afder apout an hour, his onkle come ofer unt make apolochies for Yin Yi. He dell me dot Yin Yi vass going to come ofer lader—about nine o’clock, or so—but got a dellyphone message dot he must come by Chicago at vonce—unt dot he go qvick by der airfield. To catch a 9:30 areoblane. Unt vould come ofer next time he came by Eendianahbolis. Unt dot iss all I know. But id iss impordant, so far as I can see, unt I vant to add vot I can for him.”

  “You couldn’t hear him playing!” Rand never realized before how ruthless and searching a police inquisitor could be.

  “Ach nein. How coot I? Two glass vindows—unt me bartly deaf for longer distanzes! But I coot see he vass blaying der vay der blaying shoot be. Vot—vot more can you vant?”

  “Nothing, I guess, Professor. And you think you know Yin Yi real well?”

  “Ach—du lieber Gott! Dittn’t he deach me some dricks, vot I dittn’t know, on der yueh-ch’in—dot’s der Chinese moon guitar?”

  O’rourke sighed deeply. And again Rand wondered how much more deeply O’Rourke would sigh when he, Rand, should give the other further interesting information about this case. But Rand remained silent, for he remembered O’Rourke’s injunction that one peep out of him—and he was out!

  “All right, Professor Wunderlich,” O’Rourke said after a pause. “Tell Mr. O’Connor to put on anybody else he has to put on.”

  There was silence once more. Then O’Connor again.

  “Terry, wish you could see the sweet little kid in my arm here. Little Chiny gal—’bout 3 years old. Big brown eyes—with the corners pointing ’way skyward! Black bangs, too—some doll! Bright as a dollar, and nothing but. And speaks English, too! Mr. Yin Lei’s granddaughter, from up the street a block. Here, O Loya, you speak to the man in the wall.”

  A pause, while a receiver was adjusted to a small ear 190 miles away.

  “Hello—Mister Man.” The voice was tiny, threadlike, treble, piping.

  “Ah—hello, baby,” said O’Rourke, with marked diffidence.

  “You—you know my uncle Yinny Yi?”

  “Sure I do. He vellee nice oncle! You see you’ oncle lately!”

  “Uncle Yinny Yi here tonight. Gi’ me lil doll. I got lil doll here.”

  “Oh—so Uncle Yinny was there, eh?”

  “Yes—but he go ’way—’way off—on choo-choo train.”

  “Did Uncle Yinny Yi have his beard on?”

  O’Rourke—O’Rourke! To try, reflected David Rand, to snare an innocent child!

  “Uncle Yinny Yi don’ got beard. Uncle Yinny Yi lives in Sycago. I been in Sycago. Wif my grandpaw. ’Way off on choo-choo train. Uncle Yinny got store. With big wax dolls. Like mens and—and ladies. He paints ’em. He give me board to paint.”

  Take that forever, O’Rourke, thought Rand, in case you think a child doesn’t know its own uncle! Or that—

  But O’Rourke, manifestly chastened a little bit, was speaking.

 

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