The box from japan, p.43
The Box from Japan, page 43
His uncle shook his own head helplessly.
“However,” said Carr Halsey triumphantly, “I’ve got the blue liquid from which the fatal—for hell, Uncle, I call it fatal!—sample was drawn.”
“Well you just look out, boy, that they don’t try to get you.”
“Not worried, Uncle. My having the liquid put away nicey-nice protects me equally nicey-nice. What they expect to do is to walk off with it in the morning, thinking I’m too dumb to guess why Wen was murdered. And their reasoning is fair enough, too, I’ll admit. For, to tell you the truth, Uncle, if that girl’s trail hadn’t shown in both places—and if that Jap hadn’t inadvertently used the back of that Hemingway card to draw me that Mazoru-Ikeuna label—I wouldn’t have had the least inkling of the real state of affairs. The Jap’s slip—and somebody’s girl spy’s step into a piece of soft refractory furnace lining—has jerked a whole handful of cards out of their hands. That is—hm—” Carr Halsey broke off, scratching his head. “Yes,” he added, half-abstractedly, “that’s just what’s worrying me again now: whether they could have planted that information about a white man at Wen’s fingertips to steer me, and all the rest of the investigators, off the real underlying—well—Oriental reasons! Still again—they smudged it off. Just partly, though. Yet again—that would be the crowning touch, wouldn’t it?” He shook his head. “Too deep. Too deep—as yet.”
Both men were silent a second. Then his uncle shifted the conversation a bit to a slightly more pleasant subject.
“And so, Carr, you actually tried to meet Orski face to face?” He broke into a half-chuckle, obviously in spite of himself.
“Yes, I did. But he ran out on me! Discourteous devil, I must say. He might have had the decency to leave my property behind. Well, he doesn’t know it’s an exhibit in a murder case—so I’ll be seeing him, as the saying goes, tomorrow morning. I’d be calling him up tonight for that translation if they weren’t so confoundedly tight over at the Ajax Company as to his residential whereabouts, and phone number.”
“Well, now your uncle becomes of some assistance in this murder case! In fact, you’ve come to just the right person to help you get that translation tonight. You’re out of luck, Carr, so far as taking it somewhere else far translation goes. For you it’s got to be Orski now, and no one else. Now I think I told you how, up to some time ago at least, we had access to a little leak in his offices—yes, the red-haired Flower sisters. One was then working for him, and her sister had previously worked for us, and was friendly to us. Well, we got various bits of vital information most of which I detailed to you this morning, but we got lots of information also that we didn’t need. Such as, for instance, that Orski lives in Greenwood Manor, at 5533 Greenwood Avenue. He has a rich exotically furnished 8-room apartment, full of divans and weird opium pipes—no, he’s not a drug addict, Carr—he just surrounds himself with the sensual atmosphere of the Far East. Russian samovars galore; rich ikons on the wall; rugs an inch thick. Silken draperies. Regular sensuist he is. Has plenty of women in for little dinners and tête-à-têtes—and the younger they are, the better he likes ’em, so I understand. For a while, at least. He doesn’t realize it, of course, but he pays for all the love and affection he gets from ’em—certainly from the young ones. He doesn’t like servants about him; so a cleaning woman comes in two mornings a week to keep his place shipshape, and he retains one serving man to stay on the premises all the time. A general serving man, that is, who fills his every need—combination butler, valet and messenger, you might say—and who can prepare a most dazzling dinner as well. And oh yes—his phone number you said? Private, of course. Unlisted. It’s Hyde Park 54321.”
“Five-four-three-two-one, eh?” echoed Carr Halsey. “That’s an easy one. About as easy as any I ever encountered—unless it be my own present phone. For which thank the Lord! I see no paper around this Roman chamber to write on; and if I send out for an attendant to bring me an indelible pencil, and write the number on myself, I’ll only be sweating it off in a few minutes. Well, I won’t have to rack my brains to remember five-four-three-two-one, nor an exchange that takes its name from fashionable Hyde Park. I’ll be ringing him this evening, and I’ll keep on doing so, even to waking him out of a sound sleep if he gets between covers—between rings! I’ll probably even—”
But at this juncture of the low-voiced conversation the door of the room opened, and a sunny haired, ox-muscled German came in, a tall fellow with honest open face and black curly hair over his chest. A newspaper was under his arm.
“How you vass gettin’ along, Meester Halzey? You hat a goot sleeb, eh?”
“The best ever, Gus. I feel a thousand percent refreshed. What’s that you got there?”
“Der ladest editions of der baper, Meester Halzey. Der Star. Choost vass brung ofer from Olt Loop by der night cage-man vot iss com’ on now by duty. I t’ink you like to haf him to read.”
“Is it later than the 8th edition?” spoke up Carr Halsey quickly, from his stool. “What’s the headline? Chemist Murdered on North Side?”
Gus examined the paper punctiliously. “No, der nint’ edition. She sais, ‘Bo-leece Search for Pesty—no, Pestle—Slay-er.’”
“Thanks. That’s a later one than I’ve read. Give it over here, will you?”
Gus, catching the older man’s assenting nod, handed it to the younger.
Roger Halsey was speaking: “Carr, what time was it that Pr—er—the chap on the North Side was killed?”
“Two forty-one,” replied Carr Halsey casually, as one discussing a purely impersonal news event.
The older man looked at the Turkish bath rubber. “Gus, wasn’t it mighty, mighty close to that time when I had that peculiar presentiment? Yes, those queer feelings I had. Tell my nephew here all about it.”
“Hm.” Gus cleared his throat. “Vell, I vass unlocking der door of dis room for Mr. Halzey to enter. I alvays led him do his untressing here—unt put hees glothes avay mineself. She vass exact’ tventy minutes to dree by der elegdric glock in der corridor outside. Meester Halzey he sais to me, he sais: ‘Kus, I feel like I am going into a undertakin’ shamber ven you dake me into diss stone room, mit stone furniture unt a stone couch. For vy not get a marble slab, Kus, unt be done mit it.’ ‘Be glat, Meester Halzey,’ I sais, ‘dot you ain’t rilly goink into no room like dot. Blenty beoples gotta go into rooms chust like dot tonide. For beoples iss dying all ofer Cheecago deez afternoon. Beoples iss dying efen dis ferry minute, only for to go in rooms like a real untertager’s mork tonight.’ Sais he: ‘Right dees minute, Kus?’ Unt I sais: ‘Chess, right dees minute. Somebody die efery minute.’ Unt he sais, ‘It giv’ me der creep, Kus, to t’ink dot right deez minute somebody iss dying. I vant to choke for air.’ Unt I sais, ‘Come out from it, Meester Halzey. You vant for qviet prain—so you can catch goot sleeb.’” Gus solicitously tucked in a dislodged blanket corner at the foot of his mummified client. “Vell, I mage myself sgarce. I got some odder chentlemens to roll up.” And he was gone.
Halsey moved his stone stool closer to the older man, and eagerly opened out the newspaper so that both could see. As Gus had painfully interpreted, the big display line spread across the top of the page was:
POLICE SEARCH FOR PESTLE SLAYER!
and the subhead beneath amplified it further by the information:
Expect to Have Him Within Custody Within 12 Hours.
There appeared to be a far more extended story this time, but the story proclaimed itself, at the most superficial glance, to consist of nothing but words, words, words—to be but an artful expansion of that single nicely-leaded two-column paragraph which had been carried in the previous edition; words, indeed, which had been spun forth, hammered out, thrown in, dished up, and splashed upon it, by unparsimonious re-write men pounding out their paragraphs on electric typewriters while the next-previous edition was being loaded onto the waiting news wagons. But what caused Carr Halsey, who, at this rate of turning sparse details into lines of print, knew that he held enough facts locked in his brain to make a full front page story, to wrinkle up his brow, were two further accretions to the account of the murder of Wendell Proctor by pestle. One was a large three-column-wide bust photograph centered directly under the sub-head of the newspaper. It showed a youngish sort of man, with stocky powerful shoulders that had become just a bit stooped, with blondish sort of hair, square hornshell glasses hemming in a pair of somewhat calculatingly appraising eyes which looked as though they could grasp the entire elements of a situation in a trice, and a pronounced cleft in his fairly square-cut chin as well as a vertical semi-cleft at the end of his nose. While the chin itself was thrust forward with pronounced belligerency, there was about the lips a peculiarly striking weakness of some sort—a hint, perhaps, of a slumbering emotional nature which could in an instant fan into action the combativeness of that chin, or which could with equal misjudgment allow its owner to dream away countless priceless minutes required for action, an artlessness too, perhaps, about those lips, that would make their owner the sure victim of a cunning bewildering argument, of a skillful piece of verbal chicanery. The face of one who could as easily be a powerful implement to do things on his own behalf, as to be a tool to do preposterous things for others. A face behind which lurked the super-sensitiveness from which paranoiacs are sometimes made. A peculiar face, beyond all doubt, bewilderingly replete with conflicting characteristics which might baffle the best of physiognomists. Beneath it was a title in black capital letters, and below that title an explanatory caption, and still underneath that in turn, in small bold-face capitals, a notice emphasized with a small pointing black “printers’ hand.” All in all they announced:
CLIFFORD X. HEMINGWAY
Wanted by the police in brutal pestle murder.
IF YOU SEE THIS MAN OR KNOW THIS MAN YOU MAY EARN $1,000.
SEE OFFER IN ADJOINING COLUMN.
And in that adjoining column, boxed about with a highly ornamental border consisting of bold-face dollar signs ending in each corner with tiny printer’s-case stock bags of gold, was the announcement:
$2000 REWARD!!!!
($1000 To Any Citizen Within or Outside of Chicago. $1000 For Any Detective or Police Worker!)
There has been deposited with the police by a public-spirited citizen, a retired merchant who is interested in purging Chicago of crime, and who wishes to remain anonymous, two cash rewards, one of $1000 for any man, woman or child turning in information to the police by which the killer of W. E. Proctor, Bush Bourse chemist, may be arrested and convicted of first or second-degree murder, or manslaughter; and an equal amount to any detective, policeman or police squad who takes this person into custody. The man now wanted by the police, and evidence against whom is being worked up by the Municipal Crime Laboratory, is shown in the adjoining portrait. If you know him, or see him, notify immediately any agent of the law. It may mean one thousand dollars in your pocket!
Both men looked up from the paper at the same moment. The older of the two was the first to speak: “By Jehosephat, Carr, somebody puts up the money to catch our man for us! Can you beat that for luck?”
Carr Halsey wrinkled up his forehead troubledly. “You don’t suppose, Uncle, the Orski crowd—”
The older man shook his head: “I don’t see how, Carr. There’s scarcely enough time elapsed yet for them to know hardly anything about it. News broadcasts aren’t blaring in busy offices, you know. Indeed, a concrete offer like this, already in print, would presuppose their having known of that murder almost the very second the first tidings about it tumbled on the nearest newsstand in Old Loop—and to have dispensed with any pow-wows about it and to have worked like chain lightning. No, Carr, some moral-minded but slightly soft retired business man has sometime back indicated to the police a willingness to kick in with reward money, and the police phoned him pronto and gave him first chance to do so. He’s a Jewish gentleman, too, by the way. And unequivocally not Orski.”
“How do you make that out, Uncle Jewish—and not Russian?”
“Well, note how cautiously the reward’s been framed. Payable only if the suspect in question is arrested and convicted of first, or second degree murder—or manslaughter. All evidence, up to this moment, is that Hemingway did that murder. Orski himself plays, in whatever he does, with a lavish hand. He’s not interested in the killing—he would be interested only in dragging Hemingway forth where he could talk business with him. With Orski, I tell you, Carr—and I know his psychology from A to Izzard—it would be, now that the search becomes an open, official thing, and not a private matter between our two companies, a smash-bang clear-cut reward for Hemingway. There’s a cunning, cautious, involuntary Hebrew note back of that reward—the shrewd fixing of it so that everybody in Chicago will hunt the closest logical suspect down, and begin at once; but that the donor won’t have to pay up unless the police and state’s attorney do their subsequent parts successfully.”
“Hm! Don’t be so categorical, Uncle, on your racial psychology. On the basis you outline, it looks just as much as though a fellow named Sandy MacTavish framed the reward! Also, didn’t you tell me Orski had a Jewish lieutenant? Levenson—wasn’t that his name? Orski might have instructed him to shoot the works, and the Levenson henchman might have wangled in a bit of his own natural cautiousness in the offer. Well, let it ride. All we can do, in view of the anonymity of it. Baxter and I may be the ones to pluck off that reward. And our friendly newspaper detective may grab off the police share. My half would make good chewing gum money added to my part of our Zell killing. It’s even possible, don’t forget, that that Jap may pluck it off himself. Whosever game Hemingway was lured into playing, or overplaying as it seems he may have done here, he may be cast aside now like a broken reed—that is, cast aside into the hungry lap of the detective bureau! Depends altogether, of course, on how much he might know. About God knows what! But as to that Jap Sumiko, he’s not a bird in himself who reads American papers, if I know anything about people, and badly twisted English to boot; and by his own admission he tunes in on no American radio broadcasting. Well, everything comes in time—and so will tomorrow morning and its 9 bells. But what puzzles me, Uncle, is how the devil the Star got that photo?”
His uncle screwed up his eyes. Then he pointed to an infinitesimally fine line of print, almost microscopic in comparison to the well-rounded print in which the Star was set, situated on the upper left-hand edge of the photograph. “Look up there on left top, Mr. Newspaperman, who looks far down below to the right where the ordinary credit line would run—and sees nothing! Says: ‘M. Matson Photo, Madison, Wisconsin.’”
Carr Halsey nodded sheepishly. “That’s one on me, all right. Slap bang sling-’em-in yellow journalism make-up. Wonder they didn’t get the photo itself upside down.” He frowned, and shook his head. “Not time enough, though, to get such a clear photo here all the way from Mad—”
“Carr, you may know all there is to know about fisticuffs and polo, cricket and handball, but you’re not up at all on the latest opto-electrical devices. That picture could have been telephotoed directly into the Star office from Madison, Wisconsin, squarely onto a 75-line screen halftone plate, all in the space of 7 minutes.”
“Oh, yes? Then how’d the police—or the Star office—know that Clifford X. Hemingway hailed last from Madison, Wisconsin? In other words, that he’d been a recent student at the ‘U’ there? Answer me that one? It looks sinister to me.”
“Well, don’t let it. When I arranged with the Star’s radio station to put my call for recent Wisconsin-U graduates on the ether, I had to name the exact man I was trying to connect with in order to establish that it wasn’t some kind of a fraudulent swindle ad, or a fake promotion project. I did so—to the station director himself only. That stuff, they assured me, however, is kept inviolable, in the secret files. But you know yourself it’s not secret, in case hot news breaks on the paper itself. The radio director, viewing the earliest stuff sent over to him by the news department to put on the news broadcast, recognized the name. Having some special inside info on it, he shot the tip back to the news editor; the latter saw the chance for a pictorial beat, called Wisconsin-U by long distance, got shunted to the town photographer, and inside of ten minutes was having a telephotoed photo laid down on his half-tone plate.”
“I pass, Uncle. You’re the champion explainer away of lugubrious suspicions. So I’ll say no more. After all, I want to believe what I want to believe, just like everybody else.”
“Let’s not worry about it. You’ve fixed things with this Duffy. The Star was first paper to get anything by which to hand the city the face of our man. The rest of the papers will follow suit, naturally. Everything’s working hunky-dory, I think. With Duffy fixed, the more the papers can print about Hemingway and on him, the better it suits me. When they get him, I get to him, and we win on that Zell sale. I don’t want to cheat you out of your chewing gum money tomorrow, but I say God speed the police—tonight.”
“But be thankful, just the same, that there’s a 9 a.m. tomorrow as an anchor to windward,” grumbled Carr Halsey. He was pointing now at a short paragraph in the news-story itself. “Yours truly, you’ll note, has his name duly emblazoned in the story,” he commented. “See? I’m mentioned as discoverer of the body. They put me down as a journalist. Fair enough. I hope I am.”
For a brief few minutes more they sat and talked. Roger Halsey was unduly cheerful now. At length the younger man arose. “Well, Uncle, I mustn’t forget I’ve an appointment with Old Sleuth himself at 8 bells. Yes, Artemus Baxter. And I think by the time I get back to Tower Court I will have been away long enough to have dodged a half hundred reporters who may wish fifty words or so apiece from the fellow who found Proctor’s body—but who will have darned slight hope of getting it if they know I’m a Sun man. I’m going to soak in a little of the dry-heat now, in view of the fact that I’ve peeled myself down to bare essentials far this long talk with you; then grab a cold shower, dash out for a bite, and then home. Now do you know where to get me?”
