The Man with the Crimson Box by Harry Stephen Keeler

Author:Harry Stephen Keeler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, murder, crime, detective, sleuth
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2017-11-07T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIX

“No Talkee”

State’s Attorney Louis Vann, just back at his City Hall Suite by no more than to minutes from a speedy trip by auto to the South Chicago Police Station, raised the furthest of his four desk phones as it rang. For when that particular phone rang, Vann knew that important information was to come to him. Since only a few persons had that number.

And the call was important—for on the other end was no other than Leo Kilgallon, his special assistant.

“Leo speaking, Mr. Vann,” the youthful voice on the other end said.

“Oh yes, Leo. And where are you speaking from?”

“I’m right here in the same building with you, Mr. Vann. The public booth—in the corridor of our private lockup. But I thought I’d ring first—to see whether you were back yet.”

“Yes, I am, Leo. By—” Vann glanced from the tail of his eye at the small gilt clock facing him across his desk. “It’s 1:10 now—so I’m back from South Chicago by 10 full minutes at least. Of course that boxman, Pinky McHarg—with the inflamed optic—that Chief Scuttleman picked up out there was a dud. He was even in the Illinois Eye, Ear and Nose Hospital all last eight—and because of the very eye that caused his pickup! However, in view of what you phoned me, out there, the McHarg pickup was all wet, anyway. And—but enough of him. Have you interviewed this fellow yet—as I instructed you to do on the wire, when you caught me just as I was leaving South Chicago?”

“Yes, Mr. Vann, I have. And—but have you given the skull the once-over yet?”

“I’ll say I have! It’s Wah Lee’s of course—to a T—exactly as per the description in our deposition. White surgical tape—bullet hole—initials ‘M. K.’—surgical work inside nose. I’m no oral surgeon, of course, but I can at least see plainly that operative work’s been done inside on the nose’s right side. Moreover, I just talked, myself, to Daniel Kilgallon—that is, I should say, your father—and got a further confirmation of what he gave you on the phone: i. e. the real lowdown of what Morgan, of the squad car, tried to render you. More than that, Leo, I just talked to Archbishop Pell—over at St. Hubert’s Grill where he’d mentioned, before your father, he was going. And got, direct, the full of this pickup’s reply to the Archbishop’s question. Why-y—the fellow, Leo, he’s—but what name does he give you?”

“Just John Doe, Mr. Vann. Refuses to give his right name.”

“Reason enough. Well, what kind of a bird is he? Distinct crook type, I suppose?”

“Yes—well, that is, yes and no. That is, he’s got the debonair air of all hoods, but, on the other hand, he uses good English—quite correct English, moreover. A bit breezy, perhaps, here and there—yes. That is, Mr. Vann, he strikes me as a bird who’s at least been around in his day. Rubbing elbows all the way from gutter to palace! If you get me.”

“Yes. I do. Well, what does he say about having cracked my old cheesebox? He admits it, I hope?”

“No, Mr.

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