Finger finger, p.50
Finger, Finger!, page 50
I drank the cup of coffee. My brain felt clear again. And I went downstairs to the telephone.
I rang the number of the house on Laflin Street where O’Rourke roomed. I got his landlady, a Welshwoman, and knew her by the curious accent of her voice.
“Will you call Mr. O’Rourke, Mrs. Lllandrefff? This is David Rand—tell him.”
“Oh—his friend on the North Side? Mr. Rand—couldn’t—couldn’t you call him—at another time?”
“Why?”
“Oh—he’s in a most terrible mood. He’s been sitting in his room for—for two days and two nights now, figuring on some problem. Even has a substitute sitting in nights at his desk downtown. The Greek from the corner keeps bringing him coffee and cigarettes. And paper. Yes, tablets and tablets of paper. Everytime I go to his room, when he’s called on the phone, he just roars ‘Go Away!’ I—I never saw him in such an ugly mood in my life.”
“Um. Yes. I understand. I know all about it. Well if I give you a message to which he won’t call ‘Go Away’—will you try him?”
“We—ell—I’ll—yes—I’ll try. But—but I’m afraid.”
“Tell him, then, that I’ve solved the cryptogram. And am on the phone.”
“You’ve solved—the crypt—oh, cryptogram! Well—just hold the wire then.”
And she was gone.
I stood in the booth, with the receiver in my hand. Poor O’Rourke—with his fatal weakness for all riddles. Conundrums. Puzzles—crossword and jigsaw! And kindred irritants. I could understand how he must have suffered. I had never suffered so much myself, in fact, since the time I had essayed the famous puzzle of the three bungalows that must receive oil, water, and gas—with no pipes crossing—and which puzzle, by the way, had no solution!
And as I stood there, I heard the bell of No. 72 ring—saw Belladonna go to the door—and there, in the vestibule, stood Winsome One. She had a chic little pancake hat perked on her blonde curls, and her face was very worried.
I stuck my head out of the booth and called to her. “This way, ’Line. Here I am!”
Belladonna disappeared downstairs. Winsome One came over to where I held on to the receiver.
“David, I’ve been worrying about you. Mrs. Sprudelganger kept reporting that you had issued orders that you were working on a fearful problem—and under no conditions were to be disturbed. If it hadn’t been for her reports, I would have thought you were drinking—or something.”
“My work is all over,” I told her quietly. “I’ve solved the problem of where $50,000 in gold coin, belonging to some lucky devil, lies beneath the waves of Lake Michigan.”
“You—have?” she echoed. “Why David—how—”
“Yes,” I said. “Did you get to read the full transcript of Peter Hess’ dying statement?”
“Yes. Inspector St. John Mackenzie let me read it Saturday night, so that I could check all such parts as I might have any knowledge about. Which were few though—being just the parts that involved our office—and Jack Kenwood himself. He let me read it, of course, with the understanding that I wasn’t to talk to reporters about it. He didn’t—”
“I know,” I told her. “He—or rather Chief Mike Sheehan—is giving the Chicago newspaper reporters a run-around for a change. It seems he wants to put them in their place, for a little while—and incidentally, too, avoid all the messing up they do in every case that requires a thorough and painstaking investigation.” I paused. “Well, you saw Hess’ idea of how the message left in those two rings was to be solved? Alas—it wasn’t quite so simple as all that.”
“David,” she said frowningly, “how on earth long have you been working on that problem?”
“Ever since O’Rourke and I left the Public Library, just before it closed Saturday night. Around 10 o’clock. After we’d hunted there through all the city and telephone directories for the last 26 years or so, and found no entry whatsoever of the American Novelty Company. And over the police reports of October and November, 1911, on File at the Central Bureau—all of which showed no safe robbery reported. And looked up old Cap Shimmer—of that old South Water Street police station—and found he’d been dead 11 years. And the station itself gone a quarter century, or more. And searched the entire person of a certain old tramp called Crazy Hoxey—which I’m willing to tell you is no other than Jack Kenwood Senior—and found not a scrap of paper on him that would cast any light on the rings or their messages. Yet why should there be—after 15 years—and a wardrobe constantly replenished from scrap heaps? And,” I continued, “saw Dr. Charles F. Read—the famous neurologist—fail, by a dozen tests, to dig anything whatever out of the wreck of that poor old tramp’s memory. It was then that O’Rourke and I mutually and severally came to the conclusion that until the cryptogram itself was solved—we’d probably never be able to fill in the full details of this case. So we each drew out a book on cryptography—I think he got the better one, too—got a set of the prints from those dead fingers, a Standard 1920 Dictionary apiece—and retired to our respective rooms.”
“Gee—David,” was all she said, “and you got it? That’s—that’s wonderful. How did you solve it? And what is—the solution?”
“That’s too long, darlin’,” I told her, “to try and explain now. I’m waiting here now to tell O’Rourke the news. There’s got to be some further checkup, however, on my findings before they’re final. And when I get that, then—boy howdy!—I got to get out and hustle and find another position. Thanks to O’Rourke’s drag, my name has been kept out of the Kenwood murder case. For Belladonna brought me up all the newspapers. So I won’t have any explaining to do—at least right off the bat—to finicky and thin-skinned employment managers. At least, until I’ve sold myself enough—so I can spring the bad news: that I worked for Jack Kenwood, and was involved thus and so, and a bit, in the Kenwood murder case!” I looked at her a bit sadly. “You see—I haven’t forgotten that you and I have an agreement—to get married. And me now—without a nickel! And on the labor market, as well—just when I was about to put you in a cozy little home of your own. Well, at least the cryptogram’s off my mind now. So the decks are clear—to hunt a job.”
She placed a hand on my arm. The upper hall was deserted. “I was just thinking something sort of—absurd,” she said.
“What, honey?”
“You’ll consider me full of foolish ideas, maybe,” she answered. “But something seems to tell me that your solving this cryptogram will do something—a little something—towards your getting that job.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if you really have solved it, surely, by a diver and his apparatus, the safe can be recovered. Heaven knows that every paper and ledger and line of writing in it will be soaked into illegibility—after immersion all these years. I saw a super-safe once, David, in Peoria, Illinois—near Monmouth—that had been in the Illinois River only a week. It had tumbled off a wagon crossing a bridge. And the water had seeped in easily, past a door that even a safecracker’s wedge couldn’t get in. But yet, David, there must be something in the safe—that water couldn’t destroy—that would indicate the rightful owner of this old defunct company. Or at least his present stockholders. Who would own the gold. And if he’s found—or them—suppose he—or they—prove to be connected with a much bigger and stronger business—or corporation—than the old one, but under some new name? Don’t you suppose that a good position could be made then, for one David Rand—in view of your part in recovering that gold?”
I smiled at her naivete. Not that there weren’t things in the world that water couldn’t soak. And answered her.
“There might be something to what you say—except that the stockholders of a company don’t own what its president happens to lock up in its safe! However, as far as that goes, the registrar of corporate matters at Springfield reports back that the American Novelty Company wasn’t a corporation. At least not an Illinois one. No application is on file there for incorporation papers. And—however—aside from all that, there’ll be either an owner—or heirs, a-plenty, for that gold. And don’t forget—if they can prove up their claims—but are a selfish bunch—they may vote me at best a reward of $10—or even only a vote of thanks. For there’s positively no reward on file for this stolen safe. The owner evidently played his unlucky hand so as not to kill his huge prospective burglar-alarm deal by disastrous publicity—and lost out even on that as well. If he hired anyone to work on that theft, O’Rourke says, he hired one of the dozens of private detective agencies that always clustered—at least so O’Rourke says—around Clark Street and Lake Street—and which melt away as fast as they’re born.” I paused. “No reward, you see. It rests just with these people—with their innate decency—what they want to give me out of it. If I can get a job out of it, I’ll be tickled stiff. If I get nothing but eclat—not so good!”
“Well, David, you have a 90-to-10 chance for a job, I’d say. That is, if they have any jobs to give out. And you have a 50-50 chance for a reward. Ranging from anything to several thousand dollars. For everybody in the world is either a stingy, selfish, narrow thing—or a broad, decent, fair-minded person, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said lugubriously, “but I have—alliteratively speaking—a sort of hunch that the heirs are a pack of pusillanimous pups! I—” I stopped. For a voice literally roared forth from the receiver in my hand.
“HELLO! What in hell do you want, Rand! Call back later, I—”
“Wait!” I said. “Wait. O’Rourke, didn’t she tell you?”
“Tell me what?” he actually shrieked. “I told her to get the hell away from my door. And she said it—it was life and death. Call me lat—”
“Wait!” I said. “Your nerves are as badly shot as mine. You must have tried a million letter combinations. Well, so did I. But I’ve solved it.”
“Solved it? You—you solved it? You—you mean you got the answer?”
“Yes. Positively. Put your papers and pencils away. I solved it, I tell you. My own nerves are shrieking too. I—”
Winsome One tapped me timidly on the arm.
“Hold the wire,” I told him. “And digest on this a minute.” I turned to her. “What, darlin’?”
“I must go now, David. I’m going up the street to—I hate to tell you—to take a job as waitress, in the teashop on Oak and State Streets. I’m just without a penny—to my name, David. It’s that, for the time being—or starve. I’ll be off from 2:30 to 4:30—if you want to see me. Please come—and tell me all.” And she kissed me and went quietly out, a bit pensive, and the door closed behind her.
“Waitress,” I said, to the empty hall, and the faint perfume she left behind her. “Gad—but Jack Kenwood’s death certainly put us two on the blink! We—”
“Are you still there?” intoned the receiver.
“Oh—you?” I said. “Yes. Still here. Had to say goodbye to Miss Creston. Now listen—are you interested in this solution? If so—”
“Interested? Jeez Cri’, Rand, I owe you my life—and sanity. I’d never have been no good no more as long as I lived. I’d—I’d have died in Kankakee Insane Asylum workin’ on that damn cryptogram. I—well—I’m hoppin’ a taxi and comin’ straight over. I–”
“Wait!” I said. “You’re welcome to come—and I’ll be waiting. But first you’ve got to do something for me. I need some detailed information to check completely and perfectly what I’ve worked out.”
I could actually hear his face fall. “Oh—then you haven’t solved—”
“Yes,” I said. “I have. But there mustn’t be a slip. Because of the numbers involved. Just a—a check and double check.” I paused. “O’Rourke, do you know anybody in the Federal bee-hive at Washington who could tell you where a letter, inquiring anything about the Government Pier, sent at least 26 years and some months ago, would have been referred—and filed?”
“Government Pier? You mean the Outer Breakwater?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. Brigadier Casley, of the War Department. Engineering Staff. I was with him in France. I was just a rookie then, and he was only my First Loot. But we were together—all through 1918. He’ll remember me.”
“Good. Then, O’Rourke, get him on the long-distance wire. Right now. Trace—if you possibly can—and before you come over here—whether a letter was ever written to Washington by one Jack Kenwood, of Minocket, Minnesota, late in the year 1911—or in the spring—or summertime—of 1912. In particular, a letter asking data of any sort about the Outer Breakwater. Get the substance of the letter—and where and to whom it was referred—and the carbon copy of any answer to it—that may be on file.”
“Jumping Jupiter!” groaned O’Rourke. “Do—do I have to do all that—before hearing what you’ve—”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s absolutely essential.”
“All right then,” he said wearily. “I’ll call Washington—Brigadier Casley—at once. Then, baby mine, I’m coming to your diggings hot foot.”
“Don’t come,” I warned him, “till you get the answer. And all that pertains to it!”
And we hung up.
I went slowly upstairs. And back into that wreckage once more. It was a great feeling to know that I had solved a tantalizing riddle—all by myself. I lay back on my bed. My mind was at rest. All except, that is, that job. And Aline—taking a menial position as waitress. It was tough, that she’d—
I awoke sharply. Tinglingly. With the feeling that I had but dreamed all of this. There was a rapping on my door. My clock showed that I had slipped away from reality for a full hour. No wonder—considering that I had not closed my eyes for more than a cat-nap or two, since I awoke Saturday afternoon. I heard O’Rourke’s voice outside.
“Hey, hey! Wake up in there—you. O’Rourke. And blood in me eye, too!”
I went to the door, rubbing my own eyes. And let him in. He strode in. Second time in my life I’d seen him in a soft shirt, but the only time I’d ever seen him with the knot of his tie half untied and ’way out of line. His once-pressed blue serge suit looked exactly as though he had been sleeping in it. He looked around my room and shook his head. “Not so bad, at that. You ought to see mine. Oh boy! I at least bought my own paper to figure on. I didn’t use up all my landlady’s toilet pa—”
“That’ll do,” I said stiffly. And gave him a chair.
He was waiting. So was I.
“Well—did you get that information?” I asked him, scowling.
“I did,” he said. “There was a letter written by Jack Kenwood Senior in 1911. December 6th. I didn’t find it till I told them the probable nature of it. If it had inquired anything about the Outer Breakwater, they said, it would have been referred to the War Department. And the War Department had it. And their answer to it. Good filin’ system, I’ll say. However, because of what it asked, they had to refer the writer to the Department of Commerce. At Milwaukee. I called there. On the phone. Found another inquiry. Dated December 17th, 1911. And got their answer. Lucky that there’s an out-of-work steno in my roominghouse. She took these letters down for me. Over the wires. So here I am. Do you want ’em now, or—”
“No,” I said. “They aren’t required for the actual solution of the cipher. Only certain data, that’s doubtlessly in them, to check the correctness of my solution. Hold them for the moment. I—”
There was a timid knock on the door. I knew Belladonna’s sylph-like touch. “Come in,” I said.
She threw it open. She had two newspapers, one under each of the spindly black arms that protruded from the vast sleeves of the orange dressing sack.
“Well, heah you is, Mist’ Rand. You tell me you don’ wan’ no moh papahs till you is done wid dat p’oblum.”
“Never mind, Belladonna. I’ve a man here now who can tell me all the current news.”
“Meaning me?” grunted O’Rourke. “I can—like the devil. I haven’t stuck my nose out of my room since—since Saturday night.”
“Well,” said Belladonna proudly, “me an’ Maw Sprudel has done ri’d all de papahs fo’ news what concuhn de killin’ ob yo’ boss, Mist’ Rand, an’ Ah kin gib you a synonymus ob all whut lil dey is now.”
“A synopsis, you mean, Belladonna. I see you attend the Saturday afternoon movie serials. Well—What is there?”
“Nuffin’, ’cept de cohonoh’s jewelry—most ob dem—on dey fus’ sittin’—is decided dat a man name’ Pete Hess wuz kill yo boss. ’Sept dey couldn’ all git togeddah on it. Dey wuz had on’y paht ob de daid man’s confession gib dem. Whut say somep’n ’bout a one-ahmed Jap’nese doctah. Whut cain’t be found. Nohow. An’ nowhah. ’Cause he des’ ain’t, dat’s all! An’ de cohonoh’s jewelry hab demanded de whole confession ob de daid man—an’ is adjoin’ till day aftah tomorrow—when dey gonna bring in dey final verdic’—or bus’! An’—” She paused impressively.
But here Mrs. Sprudelganger’s shrill high-pitched voice spiralled up, clear from the basement. And Belladonna, panic-stricken, dropped her papers and fled precipitately. O’Rourke spoke.
“Well, I’m here to asc’rtain somethin’. The answer to that cryptogram. Peel loose of it, please. Peel loose!”
CHAPTER XLIII
Check—and Double Check
“Well,” I began, “I started out just where you started: with the knowledge that each ring contained a string of ordinary English letters, except that one was put into Phoenician, and one into Egyptian; the two strings obviously put into rings, with some value, as well as sentiment, so they’d never get thrown away—or lost—as they surely would, if they’d been on scraps of paper; and stuck into complicated bewildering hieroglyphics so that neither owner would ever he likely to remember the exact inscription on the other one’s ring. Plus—”
