The Man with the Crimson Box, Page 2

  Big Gus was stroking his pockmarked bulbous nose. A thing he always did, rather than stroke his chin, when his mind was working desperately, intently. And he spoke.

  “So that sconce, Ej’cated—is in Looey Vann’s old office, eh! In the old Klondike Building, heh? Why—that son-of-a-bitch!—I—”

  “You’ve had personal dealings, have you?” inquired Educated, surprised, “with ‘Lock-the-Stable-Door’ Vann?”

  “‘Lock-th’-Stable-Door’—Vann?” echoed Big Gus.

  “Who—what—”

  “Oh, that’s what Jerry the Snake says he’s known as, here and there about Chicago, you know. But only, of course, since he became the S. A.”

  “Yeah—but w’y,” demanded Big Gus, “are they callin’ him that?”

  “Why? Because, as I understand it, he always posts a man somewhere near, or around where, a job—a snitch, or a bump-off—has been pulled, to wait!”

  “To wait! For what! For who?”

  “Why, for the guy, of course,” Educated said, sardonically, “who pulled it—to come back.”

  “Aw!—for Jesus Christ’s sake!” exploded Big Gus, disgustedly. “Comeback—f’r what? His lunch?”

  “The story simply is,” explained Educated patiently, “that years ago, when Vann was a kid, he read some Nick Carter novel in which, somewhere, it said; ‘The criminal always returns to the scene of his crime.’ And it left its ineradicable impress on his consciousness.”

  “Inyradical impress—okay—whatever that is! Well has he ever made a grab based on that beautiful the-ory?”

  “Never, it seems. And that’s why those who are in the know up there in Chicago—and by that I mean the regular cops, on the force—give him considerable of a horse-laugh. Though not to his face. No. But here—you were intimating, when we ran off the track, here, that you once crossed arms with him—and in that same old office.”

  “Exackly,” Big Gus admitted. “I was up in that ident’cal old office years ago—yeah, th’ one in that Klondike Building—when Vann was just startin’ out—I see him as a fast comer-up, an’ I try to slip him a retainer of a C-note to front for me in case of any jim-ups—but he wouldn’t play ball. Th’ white-livered bastard! Said if I had a pedigree—he couldn’t take me on. Which I had. So the deal was off. He—So-o? The sconce is in his office, hey?—in th’ old Klondike Building? An’ in his pete, to boot? Jesus—a plain ord’nary goddamn knobknockin’ job, that pete, if ever in Christ’s world there was such; and—listen?—Jerry told you pos’tive, now, that the sconce was took to that office?”

  “Positively, Gus.”

  “Well—but probably you wouldn’t know this—I wonder did the broad look at it? I—”

  “She told Handsome no, Gus. The thought of the ‘thing inside,’ she said, was ‘disgusting’ to her. She only tore the paper open a little at one point—just enough to make sure that ’twas a sconce—and not a—a pincushion. Or—or a quart of Scotch. If you get me! To make sure the dinge wasn’t screwy—yes. And then she locked it in the safe—wrapped just as he brought it. And took that full deposition from him—everything he could tell or remember. Or that she could think to fish out of him. And had his signature mark witnessed by a couple of punks up the hall. One of whom, by the way, Gus, slightly knew the dinge. Enough so that she was able to notarize the deposition herself. And the deposition, it’s now—”

  “Oh, t’ hell wit’ th’ deposition,” bit out Big Gus. “That don’t mean nothing. Not a goddamn thing. It’s—it’s th’ goddamn sconce—wit’ th’ surg’cal work in th’ snoot. An’ th’ bullet hole in it. An’—so th’ sconce—hm?—is in Looey Vann’s old ofhce—in th’ Klondike Building—an’ Vann not expected back ’til early tomorrow morning? Hm? By Chri—listen—this here now dinge who made this dep’sition—what th’ hell did you tell me the black bastard’s name was?”

  “Moses Klump, I told you. And lives in a cottage at 3733 Vernon Avenue. A down-at-heel street—full of unpainted, rickety cottages, occupied today only by niggers. If now, Gus, you were only in touch with some mob who’d do a bump-off for you, you could—”

  “I—could bump the dinge off? Christ, Ej’cated—that ’twouldn’t do no good—now that he’s made that goddamn dep’sition. In front o’ witnesses. An’ all that. Christ—no! It—but this here dep’sition, Ej’cated? Jus’ where is it? In th’ pete wit’ th’ sconce? If so, I c’n—”

  “No, Gus. The S. A.—according to the girl’s story to this Handsome—has a small $3 lock-box in the Lasalle Day and Night Safety Deposit Vaults—in his and her name—that he instructed her to put any valuable papers in—in case of fire or anything. So she strolled over, after locking up the office, and stuck the deposition in the lock-box.”

  “Oh yeah—yeah, I get it. Couldn’t stick no sconce in no $3 lock-box, eh? An’ anyway—in case of a fire—th’ sconce wouldn’t burn inside th’ pete anyway. Yeah—I get it. But the sconce is in th’ pete, eh? Jesus—le’ me get my lousy brains together. I’m—I’m dizzy. I’m—” Big Gus commenced thinking hard again, helping it along this time by passing a blue denim sleeve over his entire face. Suddenly he looked up.

  “Ej’cated—you’re a frien’ o’ mine, ain’t you?”

  “Certainly am, Gus. You did plenty for me—back in those days when I was a stockyards kid—and you were in the money—and my old man was bumped off on that job you and he were on. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have got through high school; though,” Educated added, bitterness dripping from his tones, “damn little good it did me—for I hate the goddamned Law today worse than you do—for bumping the Old Man off the way it did. Without his even having a chance to take it on the lam—and serve a short stretch. And—but enough of that! I’m your friend. So—even though your snatch wasn’t pulled by my mob—I’ll do anything for you. Personal. See?”

  “Okay, Ej’cated. Now when you goin’ up to town t’ Moundsville—next—wit’ the Head-Gee?”

  “Up to town? Hell—I’m going right in to Chi today, with him.”

  “Into—Chi? Th’—th’ hell you are! And he’ll maybe leave you alone—wit’ th’ car—once or twice?”

  “Hell—yes! A half dozen times. While he runs in here and runs in there. He knows I’m not going to lam—with only 60 days left—and take a chance on coming back and serving all my g. b. off time. I’ll be alone a half dozen times—from 10 minutes to a half hour each time.”

  “Jesus—if that—if that ain’t the berries! It—Ej’cated, will you call a certain number in Chi—on th’ phone—and tell that there party—but all condensed-like—exact what you just told me?”

  “Sure—sure—sure, Gus. Glad to. I’ll condense the whole thing on the way up to Chi in my, mind, so’s I can say it all quickly. And I—but who’s the party, Gus?”

  And now, for the first time, Big Gus became regretfully silent. For never had he revealed what now he was going to have to reveal. But hopelessly scattered was his old mob—two serving The Book—life sentences—one in an Eastern stir, and one in a Western stir: two knocked off—killed—by G-men, and the remaining man’s whereabouts unknown—at least to him, Big Gus. And out of touch, moreover, he had been himself, now, for 10 long years, with other criminals—other, that is, than those who got stuck in here at Moundsville and became, for the time being, quite impotent beings. He shook his head. It was his only chance. And he surveyed Educated Brink curiously, as he spoke.

  CHAPTER IV

  “Wanted—One ‘Kite’”

  “Ej’cated,” Big Gus began, “you was on’y a snot-nose kid back w’en there was snatching in Chi. Back w’en Big Al had the alky racket all sewed up for hisself. So I wonder if—I wonder if you ever hearn anything about—about Big Gus’ mob—havin’ an inside wire—to the Law?”

  Educated nodded gravely. “Yes, Gus. I did. Kid though I was. It was common knowledge that you had somebody—in the po
lice department—or, so some said, on the law staff at the City F-Hall—and some even said ’twas in the Detective Bureau—from whom you used to get red-hot info as to what was doing, on running down some snatch—and that it was practically that guy’s info that made you local Snatch King—for a while.”

  “Local Snatch King, hey?” commented Gus, dryly.

  “Well—I never took the rap, though—if you’ll notice—on no snatches. An’ I—but as for that guy, Ej’cated, there was such a guy. And I slipped him plenty of dough. An’ though I ain’t never counted him as one of my 6-man mob, he got as fat a cut on every job—as any other guy. An’ sometimes more—when things was hot—and he was deliverin’ the goods! And he took goddamn few chance. In fac’, none at all—as he thought. And he—However, Ej’cated, I’m gonna entrust you now wit’ a name, see? This guy’s name—yes. I dunno just what his phone number is—but his name’s in the Chi phone book, for I checked on it myself, on’y a couple of weeks back, w’en I was up in the Head-Gee’s office explainin’ about the loss of them mop-tightenin’ wires what Beany McMew snitched. For w’ile th’ Head-Gee was gassin’ on th’ phone—I riffled over the book, see? An’ I—but anyway this guy’s handle is in the book—an’ I’m giving it to you complete—even to the middle I-nitial And so the minite you git into Chi today, Ej’cated—and the Head-Gee there lopes up into some love-nest of his’n to rassle with some broad, or whatever the hell he does in Chi—I want you to call this here name, and—but first you’ll hafta ident’fy yourself as 100 per cent okay—wit’ a introduction containin’ two names all in itself. Key names, see? The one bein’ the name of a guy—see?—an’ the other the name of a certain mag’zine what’s been published up there in Chi for the last million years or so—a mag’zine what prints on’y jokes and hoomor. In short, Ej’cated, the key names is ‘Szüd,’ an’ ‘Harlequinade’; and so, to keep yourself from maybe getting hung up on, you’ll have to introduce yourself—right off the bat!—by saying: ‘This is Mr. Szüd—of Harlequinade.’ Now say that,” he ordered.

  “‘This is Mr. Seed—of Harlequinade,’” repeated Educated, puzzledly, at least pronouncing with absolute correctness the name of the magazine in question which Big Gus, it is to be admitted, had pronounced “Harleyquinnade.”

  “So far so good,” commented Big Gus grimly. “All okay—yes!—so far as the comb’nation goes. But now spell that first name. As you’ll be asked—right off the bat—to do. And if you don’t spell it right, you’re a phoney—see?—and you’ll catch a blank wall.”

  Educated Brink may have thought he was a well-founded crook, but he was to find differently, even though he had heard the key name at exceedingly close range. “S-E-E-D, of course,” he spelled out scornfully.

  “Not by a goddamn sight,” declared Big Gus firmly.

  “It’s—”

  “I get you,” Educated put in hurriedly. “Z-E-E-D—of course.”

  “No!” was Big Gus’ retort. “It’s—”

  “’Nuff said, Gus,” Educated put in hurriedly. “It’s either S-I-E-D or Z-I-E-D.”

  “No, it ain’t neither o’ them ways,” returned Gus.

  “It’s—”

  “Then by God,” declared Educated, manifestly in a huff, “it’s got to be T-S-I-E-D.”

  “Well it ain’t got to be,” was Gus’ answer. “An’ you could go on guessing for the next million years. It’s—” and he spelled it triumphantly out, “It’s S-Z-U with two dots over it!-D. Now you spell that out the way I done.”

  Educated, miffed, did so. Complete to the “u with two dots over it!”

  “Where in hell, Gus,” he asked disgustedly, “did a name like that ever come from? And how the hell, moreover, did two names like that ever get strung together—the way you have ’em—for this identifying business?”

  “How? I’ll tell you how! The day this here thing was cooked up—years an’ years ago—this scheme, Ej’cated—by w’ich, in case of a jam or somethin’—me and this guy you’re to call could stamp the McCoy an any message or’ anything that would hafta pass between us—a copy of that there Chicago hoomer an’ joke mag’zine—Harlequinade—was layin’ close by us. So that was made part o’ th’ comb’nation. An’ as for the name Szüd, that was a guy I usta play poker wit’, years an’ years ago, in a joint in Chi, on th’ near nort’ side. Dead now, o’ course. And nobody—abs’lutely nobody—could never spell his goddamn name right. So that got stuck in too! And so the whole comb’nation—includin’ the spellin’ of that first name—was, so me an’ this guy that you’re to call figgered, a goddamn perfec’ test. An’ never—’til this day, Ej’cated—have I used it. An’—but you got it now, hey? All right. Let’s get going.”

  “Yes, let’s!” agreed Educated, heartily. “Before one of the screws wanders in here—and spells our names out—in his black book.”

  Big Gus threw a cautious glance over his shoulder. But Educated’s words presented, thus far, only a purely hypo­thetical situation!

  “Well,” Big Gus went on, “after you’ve got this guy hisself on the wire—and he knows from them key names—an’ your spellin’ out the first one, w’en he asts you to—that your message is the hundred per cent McCoy—an’ that you’re fronting on th’ wire for nobody but Big Gus hisself—I want that you should spiel him ever’thing that th’ Snake spieled to you to tell me—see I—boil it down, yes, as much as you can—but give him all the fac’s. All! Partic’ly, Ej’cated, w’ere that sconce is—see? And that Big Gus hisself says that the pete is nothing but an ol’ can—a knockin’ job, at the least. An’ be special sure to tell him also, Ej’cated, that the S. A. hits Chi tomorrow morning early—an’ that the sconce’ll be stuck dam’ quick after that into the big b. p. vaults in the City Hall. W’at Christ hisself couldn’t get into. And then, Ej’cated, blow back to your bus—an’ wait for your Head-Gee. For your work for Big Gus is did—for good an’ forever—an’ you’ve paid back anything Big Gus has ever did f’r you. And when I get out of here Friday, Ej’cated—you’ll git paid back more.”

  Educated appeared just a bit puzzled. As one who knew that Big Gus would never be getting out Friday, if—But he asked a further significant question.

  “Of course,” he said, “this guy isn’t going to spill his guts to me—over the wire—a stranger—key names or no key names! He won’t—in all probability—even say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to what I tell him. And any chances of my contacting you again, to let you know concerning his—his attitude, are problematical, to say the least, Gus—for they all depend on whether Con No. 1 is missing—and whether the warden wants him—and whether the warden sends me out over the stir to find him. All of which may not happen again for several days, you know. So—will you be wanting this guy, perhaps, to post you any kind of a kite—a phoney kite, of course, such as can be read and passed up in the front office—saying it’s all jake—and the box will be cracked?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Big Gus eagerly. “Exactly that! In fact, Ej’cated, them key names is all arranged for jist such a reply. And jist such a kind o’ jam as I’m in now. F’r instance, Ej’cated, if he wants to reply ‘okay’—a phoney kite, using them names in straight order—first ‘Szüd’ and then ‘Harlequinade’ means ‘okay.’ Which in this case would mean that he can get the box cracked all right. And—will! And—tonight! In fac’, Ej’cated, by the time I would get such a kite—which’d be tomorrow morning—the job should already be did.”

  “Then why,” asked Educated, puzzledly, “bother with the phoney kite? The job’ll either be done by then—or it can’t be done—and in either case the kite won’t alter things.”

  “Well, I want it,” insisted Big Gus desperately. “And you tell him that! For I’ll—I’ll be sittin’ on red-hot needles an’ pins. Wit’ no goddamn way o’ gettin’ no goddamn news from nowhere about nothing.”

  “Okay!” agreed Educated hastily, to this barrage of negative
s. “I’ll tell him precisely that. But—” He stopped. “I take it, Gus, that, by your agreed-upon system, if those key names come back to you reversed—‘Harlequinade’ first—then ‘Szüd’—it would mean ‘Nothing doing’—or ‘No can do’—or ‘Won’t attempt.’ Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” assented Big Gus. “To the dot.” But a sinister tone came into his voice. “On’y them key names better not come back to me that way, that’s all I’ll say!”

  To which remark, Educated only stared. The stare, translated, manifestly saying: “And what will you do—and what can you do—if he doesn’t?”

  But as it was to transpire within a few seconds, Big Gus was to detail exactly what he would do—and what he could do!—if that “kite” came back with those key names reversed—or, worse, never came back at all!

  CHAPTER V

  “Honest Lou”

  “Well,” Educated commented verbally, “you seem pretty sure you’ll be taken care of—and by experts!—and so all I can say, Gus, is that I hope you will be. And incidentally, Gus, if you are—if that box is knocked in—and that sconce snitched—the S. A. is out of office—loses his home in Oak Park—and goes back to scrubbing at law in that two-by-four office.”

  “Whaddye mean, Ej’cated? Loses his job—an’ his home—an’ all that? ’Count o’ me havin’ that ev’dence snitched?”

  “Just, Gus,” Educated explained patiently, “this Vann is—from what Jerry the Snake told me—one of those rare birds—an honest politician. ‘Lock-the-Stable-Door’ Vann is his monicker only to the cops. The grifters, however, call him ‘Honest Lou!’ For he can’t be reached with mazuma. Nohow—no time! And he’s badly involved financially—so the girl told Handsome—through paying off a series of notes that he was once ass enough to sign with his old man. For the old man. For the old man kicked off—and left him nothing but these signatures—to square up. Anyway, Gus, it seems Vann badly needs 4 more years in office to get well in the clear—2 years to clear off the remaining notes and his home—and a couple of years to stick something by. For his kids and all that.