Behind That Mask by Harry Stephen Keeler

Author:Harry Stephen Keeler [Keeler, Harry Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 1938-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIII

Miss Jones Comes to the Rescue

The silence continued for the fraction of a minute, and was then broken by a feminine voice, very honest sounding, and very straightforward.

“Laura Jones speaking, Mr. O’Rourke. That is—this is Mr. O’Rourke—of the Chicago Police Department, I believe?”

“Yes, ’tis, Miss Jones. Miss Jones, do you—oh, what’s your full name and address, Miss Jones? Now that I’m talkin’ to white people, I’ll make a note or two.” O’Rourke sniffed audibly into the telephone system.

“Laura Bartlett Jones, Mr. O’Rourke. 225 West Pratt Str—well, no, it’s called West Ninth Street now. 225 West Ninth Street.”

“Um. Yes. Now Miss Jones, you know this fellow Yin Yi?”

“Oh yes—very, very well. I taught him music for years. He’s from this city, you know.”

“So I understand. Well you know he’s in a murder jam here in Chicago? Or was—up to about five minutes ago!” I could almost hear O’Rourke scratching his head.

“So I understand, yes. That is why I got up out of bed, and dressed, and came over here at Mr. O’Connor’s request.”

“Well, Miss Jones, I’ll try to make this brief—so that you can get back to bed. I understand this fellow called you up tonight?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“What time, about?”

“Oh—about 9 o’clock. I naturally didn’t bother to go look at the clock because of a mere telephone call, but it was just about at 9.”

“What did he say?”

“Well he said he had been in Indianapolis—had expected to stay longer, but had suddenly received news that called him back to Chicago, and regretted that he could not see me. He–”

“Listen, Miss Jones, do you know you were talking to him?”

“Well—I’m sure I couldn’t mistake his voice. He has a very, very distinctive voice—you can’t mistake it.” She paused, helplessly. “Please remember, Mr. O’Rourke, I’ve seen him off and on—or gotten a phone call from him—when he’s been visiting in Indianapolis. So I couldn’t mistake his voice.” She paused again. “But besides this, Mr. O’Rourke, he—he jokingly asked me whether I’d ever yet gotten the circular white stain off my grand piano where he set the glass of water down. Also—he asked me a purely technical question about piano-playing—that was quite typical of him.”

“How do you mean—typical of him, Miss Jones?”

“Well now, that’s a long story, Mr. O’Rourke. And as I understand—the costs of long-distance connect—”

“No—go ahead, Miss Jones. We’ve the whole night. This is our business here—to clear people—or to indict ’em. But when you get done, I may tell you some interesting stuff about how ev’ry amateur murderer does just the thing this fellow did—and in the same way he done it. But gettin’ back to our topic—what did you mean—typical of him?”

“Well, I mean typical of his queer-acting brain. For he was always a queer character, Mr. O’Rourke. He thought in channels altogether different from other people. At least he did, when a boy. And I say boy because he still seems like that to me. I met him, you see, first in his latter teens. And he proceeded to grow up, while we here in Indianapolis watched him.

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