The Man with the Crimson Box

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1940, 1968 by Harry Stephen Keeler.

  All rights reserved.

  *

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidepress.com

  CHAPTER I

  Bad News for Big Gus!

  Convict No. 53,784—known on the records of the Northern State Penitentiary at Moundsville, Illinois, as Gus L. McGurk—in the Chicago newspapers as “Big Gus”—and amongst crookdom as “Muscle-In”—stopped short in his mopping of the lower cell walk in Old Cell Block. It was but 10 in the morning—two full hours yet before dinner would be called in the prison’s 4 huge mess-halls—and since there was so little available work to distribute among Moundsville’s 2200 inmates, Big Gus always had to stretch out his limited area of mopping territory by actual slow-motion-picture manipulation of his mop—and frequent, if not more frequent, stoppings, as though for rest. Today, however, carried away by the realization that he would be “hitting the bricks” in only 3 more days, he had forgotten himself completely and actually worked—worked so hard and so swiftly that the collar of his coarse blue denim suit had actually become damp—and perspiration even hung from the end of his bulbous pockmarked nose. So stop he did—but not at all because of the damp neck, or the perspiration, or because he was using up “easy” mopping territory that should last him the rest of the day. For along that cell walk was coming nobody else than Convict No. 56,832—or “Educated” Brink, trusty—his youthful frame clad this morning in the neat gray chauffeur’s suit in which he drove the warden hither and thither; and, under Educated’s right arm, was no other than “Convict No. 1”—the latter being the beautiful all-striped black and grey cat who had been born in the prison but who, unlike the institution’s other 2200 “guests,” had the free run of the entire place, and was therefore known to every man within. The tense look on Educated’s face, with its narrow-set eyes, both directed squarely toward Big Gus, told the latter, standing there mop in hand, that something was afoot.

  And when Educated—who so often was sent aver the entire prison by the warden to gather in Convict No. 1, so that the famous striped cat could be shown to some visiting guest—deliberately freed Convict No. 1—though with a cautious glance around the now deserted cell block—Big Gus knew that something was afoot.

  Educated, approaching him, veered off to one side, and with the caution of one who knew that a “screw” might be silently watching from one of the upper cell walls, spoke in a low tone to Big Gus—and from the inner side of his mouth only. But constricted as his words were, they were nevertheless cleanly enunciated, and correctly, as well, as befitted one who had once spent 4 long years in a high school and thus attained his “monicker” of “Educated.”

  “Bad news, Gus!” were his opening words. “I carried Con No. 1 through 3 cell blocks to tell it to you. Brace yourself, now. For the news means—maybe—the chair for you. Where can I talk to you?”

  And Educated peered out over the cell walk rail, plaintively calling, “Kitty? Kitty?”

  The chair! Big Gus gasped. He had presence of mind enough to grunt: “Faucet room—off connectin’ corr’dor—right away!”

  And Educated was gone—peering here and there into various of those archaic flagstone-paved “one-man” cells which characterized Moundsville’s Old Cell Block, and calling “Kitty, Kitty?” Though obviously knowing that Convict No. 1, on his release, had slithered straight into Cell No. 44. Whose occupant—old Bill Raymond, lifer—was always known to leave therein—and where Con No. 1 could get it!—a single piece of meat from last night’s meal.

  As for Big Gus, though his mop water had just been drawn, and was therefore clean, he hastened, nevertheless, pail in hand, and sweating more now than if he were vigorously wielding his mop, around the large square cell walk, and down that corridor he had mentioned—and which connected Old Cell Block with Cell Block No. 1.

  A moment later he stood inside a big cement-floored room, fitted with huge faucets, and, on hooks along one wall, mops, brooms, and cleaning paraphernalia of all kinds. And it was but a second later that Educated when his eternal search for Convict No. 1 for the warden—had the run of the entire prison, entered the door. And closed it carefully.

  Gus strode forward and seized him by the arms.

  “What—what t’ hell, Ej’cated? What—what’s this here now news? Spill it—quick?”

  “I will, Gus,” replied the narrow-eyed convict in the chauffeur’s suit. “And here it is: The State’s Attorney—up in Chi—has got the skull of Wah Lee!”

  CHAPTER II

  Concerning a Negro Laborer, a Girl From New Zealand, and a Chinaman’s Skull!

  “Th’—th’—skull—o’ Wah Lee?” gasped Big Gus, Even his ever highly colored bulbous nose turned a deathly pale. “Jee—sus—Gawd!” he added, passing a huge, hamlike hand over his forehead. “An’—an’ the S. A.’s got it? Jesus! Christ! An’ here—me—me due to hit th’ bricks this week—Friday—my 15-year stretch, wit’ th’ even 5 off for good behav’or—up. An’—listen, Ej’cated, are you sure—what you’re telling me?”

  “Am I sure?” replied the other. “Hell, Gus, would I be toting Con No. 1 away from the warden’s office—if I didn’t have some real McCoy to hand you?”

  “Well—well, goddamn it to hell, Ej’cated—you ain’t handed me nothing yet. Hurry, goddamn it—an’ give me the lowdown. Spill it. Where’s the sconce? Who—who dug it up? When was it dug up? Who—”

  “Easy, Gus! Easy! You’re sweating like hell. Plain to see you was in on the bumpoff of the Chink boy all right. As well as the snatch. But that’s your biz—not mine. And I’ll give you the lowdown quick—for if I’m nabbed in here with you, it’ll be the end of my trustyship, and—”

  “Well goddamn it,” bit out Big Gus, frantic for the entire news of which he had just had the gist, “your 5-year bit—with th’ 20 months off—is up in 60 days anyway. So what th’ hell—even if they stick you in th’ hole? Goddamn it—give it all to me. Quick.”

  “All right, Gus. Here it is. And so’s you’ll know it’s the McCoy—and no rumor fakealoo—let me say it comes straight from a lad that’s keeping company with an office girl hired by the S. A.—a girl up from New Zealand only about a year or so, and named Beryl Burlinghame. The lad is Handsome Harry—a new guy in the racket. The Tritt Mob—most of ’em are people new to you, Gus—but there’s a couple of old-timers in the mob who are friends of yours—that’s how comes it this news is reaching you now—anyway, the Tritt Mob sicked this bird Handsome on to this young New Zealand gal so’s he could pick up from her everybody or everything the S. A. might work up against the rackets. Which thi
s Handsome’s been doing regular. The S. A. having a habit, it seems, of explaining things to this girl—she being from the other side of the earth, and a sort of—of protegee of his. No—I know you don’t get me on that, Gus—but what I mean is that her father did the S. A. a big favor once. Yes. So anyway, this Handsome’s been picking up lots of things. And picked up plenty—last night! Though on something else. Entirely. As follows: A nigger laborer—named Moses Klump—living alone at 3733 Vernon Avenue—found this sconce about two weeks ago, when digging—over on Goose Island—for a certain gas main intersection for the People’s Gas Company. It seems, Gus, that the gas pressure all over Goose Island was too low—and the P.G.L.&C. Company figured there was blockage at exactly this point—you know!—crust from gas, oil, and so forth—and they figured to uncover the point and try and dislodge the crust. However the hell they do that! Anyway, account of the problems in laying gas mains on Goose Island, this main has crossed right under a number of the old buildings there. And this particular point lay right underneath the wreck of one particular building. And this coon was set by one of the company’s engineers to dig there—by himself—and the exact point where he was digging, Gus, was under the dirt floor in a big hexagonal—that means six-sided, Gus—room that used to be the testing room of the old Schlitzheim Brewery, where—”

  “Yeah—yeah—yeah,” put in Big Gus, desperately, thinking of the time his mob had whisked the kidnaped Chinese youth to the deserted and out-of-the-way brewery—not to omit mention, either, it is to be admitted, of how he himself had subsequently despatched the youth by a well-directed shot in the back of the latter’s head—and for good and sufficient reasons! “Ne’ mind all the goeometry, and th’ goeography. Go on!”

  “I’m giving you the geometry and the geography, Gus,” said Educated, coldly, “so’s you’ll know absolutely they got the evidence.” He paused. “Well, this dinge Klump dug up the sconce about an even 6 feet under the surface of the dirt—and right at the center of that room—for the company engineer had laid out two strings, crossed, from two angles of the hex, to guide the dinge in reaching that gas main intersection. Anyway,” Educated went on hurriedly, “the dinge said nothing to his boss about having found the sconce, and took it home. Together with the loose lower jaw that was with it. He scraped ’em off, Boiled ’em clean. Fixed the lower jaw to the sconce by some tape or wire or string or something. And had a sort of sweet piece of brickabrack for the dump where he baches. Figuring—so it’s known he said—that if and when his luck in the crap game would bust, he’d chop off a chunk from the skull, carry the chunk around in his poke, and when that chunk wasn’t any good any more, take another chunk, and—you know coons, Gus, how they—”

  “Yeah—yeah—yeah. Go on, will you? How in hell did the S. A. git it?”

  “Well, the dinge, it seems, had been working on a construction job in South America, when that famous snatch case busted, Gus—and the same, 3 years later, when you were tried—and he didn’t know anything about the history of that old Schlitzheim Brewery there on Goose Island. And yesterday morning—while working on another job somewhere on the South Side—for it seems, Gus, he isn’t even a regular laborer for the gas company—he happens to tell another dinge how he had been working over there on the Island, and where; and of course the other dinge up and tells him the whole story of that brewery—of that very testing room—and how the headless corpse of Wah Lee was dug up there—rather, the eaten-off headless corpse, since—because of the quicklime—there wasn’t—”

  “Yeah—go on,” ordered Big Gus peremptorily, sweating profusely.

  “Okay! Well, the other dinge told this Klump dinge all about how Wah Lee’s corpse had been found there—buried only two—or three—feet under—and right at the center of that room—the old testing room—and how the state hadn’t been able to prove at all that ’twas the snatched Chink, because the head, the only thing that would have identified it, wasn’t there—and because that San Francisco person testified the way he did, and that old woman, Mrs. Mary Grubbs, testified that—”

  “Yeah,” almost screamed Big Gus, “go on! I know all about them things. Since I was virt’ally tried for the snatch. Go on. About this here dinge?”

  “Well,” continued Educated helplessly, “the dinge—the Klump dinge, I’m referring didn’t say anything to the other dinge about having found the sconce. It was home in his pantry okay—and he’d never even chopped a chunk off it yet. But he’d heard enough to realize that he’d uncovered—maybe!—the famous sconce that would have sent that snatch case to trial, and—”

  “—an’ settled me,” said Big Gus, morosely—a safe enough statement, since the two were alone together. “Go on.”

  “So the dinge—Klump—soon’s he gets home yesterday afternoon—for the job he was on came to an end about 3 bells in the afternoon—took a pike up inside the nose of the sconce—and, lo and behold, Gus, he saw where bone had been cleared away on one side only of the nose—the operating, you see, that was done just before you—well—snatched the Chink, Gus; and so he knew then, all right, all right, that he had the long searched-for sconce of Wah Lee. Yes! And so, after printing his initials, M. K.—Moses Klump, see?—it seems he couldn’t write, but could print—in black ink on the back of the skull, just close to the bullet hole—now hold yourself together, Gus, I’m giving it all to you as fast as I can—soon as he does set those letters down—for he was a sort of wise coon and even knew he’d have to identify those letters in court someday—he looked up the S. A.’s name in the telephone directory and marched straight down to the latter’s office with the sconce—wrapped and tied up, of course, in a paper package. Well anyway, the S. A. was out of town—he’d had to go to some funeral of some relative down in St. Louis—and damn lucky for you, Gus, for otherwise this info probably never would have reached you—so the dinge turned over to the S. A.’s office girl what he’d found, told her where he’d found it, and how, and about a central bullet hole in the back of the sconce, and how the bullet must have come out by way of its left eye, shattering the back wall of the eye—hold yourself together, Gus; I’m trying to give you everything—and how some kind of cutting had been done inside the sconce’s nose on the right side—yes—and how he’d stuck the two initials of his John Hancock on it in ink—and to all of which things, Gus, after she stuck the sconce pronto in the S. A.’s safe, she took a full deposition for the dinge. Something, evidently, that the S. A. had always instructed her to do wherever legal evidence was concerned—or wherever somebody would later have to testify to something. And—but I guess that’s all, Gus. The sconce was turned in yesterday afternoon late—the girl passed the whole tale to this Handsome last night—helped, naturally, by Handsome’s foxy questionings—and the S. A. is due back in Chicago tomorrow morning early from his brother-in-law’s planting in St. Louis—got to be back positively, it seems, Gus, for he’s to go in court personally tomorrow morning and buck banker Claussen’s appeal for bail—after which you’ll have to look to see yourself indicted before the day’s out—and tried this time for murder and snatch—instead of, as that other time, conspiracy to snitch ransom coin.”

  And Educated, finishing his long exposition of facts, made a helpless gesture with his two hands as much as to say, “Sorry—but I’ve done my part.”

  As for Big Gus, he was breathing hard. But he managed somehow to speak.

  “I’ll say,” he bit out savagely, “that you brung me bad news. Goddamn bad news! And if ever I hadda think, I gotta think now. Yes, by Jesus Christ—I do!”

  CHAPTER III

  “In a Safe—in the Klondike Building”

  Educated turned towards the doorway.

  “I wish you luck,” was all he said.

  But Big Gus reached out a hamlike hand—detaining him.

  “Listen—Ej’cated—I know you feel you oughta beat it out of here now—but don’t. For—for Cri’ sakes! Nobody ain’t comin’ in
here. And I gotta ask a few questions. I gotta. First: the gal spilled all what you’ve just told me, to this new gaycat—this Handsome Harry?”

  “Right! Last night, Gus. She’s in love with him. And doesn’t dream he isn’t legitimate. A regular collar ad, I was told he is—and knows how to shove the salve—dish out the flattery—see? What she gave him wasn’t info, of course, such as the Tritt Mob is trying to get—or need; but, having got it, he passed it on to ’em—and by midnight; and one of ’em—Limpy Blaine, who’s a friend of yours—passed it on, even before dawn today, to a guy who’s a friend of yours as well as a friend of mine—Jerry the Snake. And—”

  “Jerry—the Snake? Good old Jerry—but listen, Jerr—”

  “He knew, Gus,” Educated put in quickly, “that ’twas going to mean the hot seat for you; so he came straight to Moundsville here—only an hour ago—knowing I was a trusty, and that he could get to speak to me privately, the warden being a pretty good guy, you know, and not making us trusties talk through the screen grating in front of the screws. Jerry’s got no pedigree, you know—and he said he was my mouthpiece, come to tell me about a big estate I was to catch a cut of. And the warden let me be with him a half hour. Alone. And Jerry gave me the whole story—quick—but not leaving a single fact out. He—”

  “Now wait, Ej’cated,” begged Big Gus, passing a hand over his forehead. “Wait! Where—where is the sconce right now? In the City Hall, you say?”

  “Oh no, Gus. No! All this happened in the S. A.’s old office—in some ancient building called the Klondike building—across the street from the City Hall. I told you the dinge looked his name up in the phone directory—and that brought the dinge there, you see. No, this is some office, Gus, in which Louis Vann—he’s the present S. A., though of course you’d know that, I guess—in which Louis Vann started his law practice years ago, and which, it seems, he still keeps today out of sentiment. And with everything in it exactly like it used to be. To the last piece of furniture—and the last picture on the wall, including, incidentally, the old diploma! Yes! And this young New Zealand broad—the one I told you whose old man did Vann some favor—well, she just takes care of this old office—she’s not his regular secretary in the City Hall. No! Though she knows all what to do—about evidence and all that.”