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. Vann. Quite on the contrary. Says he did not.”

“Oh, he does, eh? Well—who, according to his sobstory, gave him that skull, then?”

“Nobody, he says.”

“Nobody? Well, good God—why did he tell Archbishop Pell—thinking he was some confederate—thinking, by God, Leo, that Pell was some member of the Parson Gang, now, beyond doubt, using the gang’s old clerical costume dodge—why did he tell Pell that he’d broken into my safe?”

“I asked him that. For my father, of course, had told me exactly what the Archbishop had told him this fellow had said. And so I asked him that—but by degrees, you understand. For first I asked him why he was ‘passing’ the skull of Wah Lee?”

“And he said—what!”

“He said, Mr. Vann, ‘Who the hell is Wah Lee?’”

“Oh, he did, eh? Well, what did you say then?”

“I said: ‘Well, why did you crack Mr. Vann’s safe?’”

“And what did he say?”

“He said: ‘Who the hell is Mr. Vann?’”

“That’s good! And you, Leo—what did you say?”

“I said: ‘Mr. Vann is the man who’ll send you to the chair.’”

“And he—?”

“Then I sprang it on him, out of the clear sky, that we had a witness to his words. Just one. I didn’t tell him, of course, about the other.”

“And what did he have the supreme gall to say?”

“He said, ‘I don’t like to contradict a member of the Church, but I’m—I’m quite certain, in my own mind, I said nothing of the kind!’”

“Oh—he did, eh? Does he know there was a further confirmatory witness there?”

“No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t dream that. If you ask me, he figures this is a case of one man’s word versus another’s. And therefore a perfect legal set-off. He ‘regrets,’ he says, that no witnesses were present to prove that he didn’t say all that.”

“Oh, he does, eh? Well, the man he thought was a deaf-and-dumb man will be present at this fellow’s trial. And will talk a-plenty.” Vann paused. “Well, what the devil does he say, Leo? About the whole set-up that caused him to be picked up?”

“Well, all he says, Mr. Vann, to my brief rehearsal of that, is that he’ll talk when he gets to court—and not before!”

“Oh, he will, eh? Well, that’s the kind of a bird I like,” added Vann. “How much money was on his person?”

“Not a dime. And literally—not figuratively, Mr. Vann. Not a dime.”

“Exactly the amount of money,” commented Vann, “that was always kept in my old safe across the street. Not a dime! Well—does he holler for a ‘mouthpiece’?”

“No. When I asked him—purely as a stall, of course—if he wanted a ‘mouthpiece’ right off, he said ‘no thanks’—he didn’t want any of the State’s attorney’s stool pigeons pumping him in his cell.”

“Oh he did, eh? Well that baby is just about the softest snap this office has every had. Or ever will have! why—we got him with the goods actually on his person—plus his own admission as to the identity of the goods, his knowledge as to the identity, and what he’d done to get ’em. All backed up by two witnesses who are absolutely unimpeachable. And last but not least—we’ve got the goods themselves! Say—he may as well plead guilty—take the rap—and call it a day!”

“That’s exactly what I told him. Naturally. And he said—well, he said: ‘Why should I take a rap for doing something I never did? And stealing something I never stole? And saying nothing I ever said? Nix! I’ll go to trial on it.

“Planning a legal battle, eh? Well, that’s our avocation around here, eh boy? We hand ’em legal battles aplenty, don’t we—when they want legal battles, eh?”

“Yes,” said the other. “But—”

“But? But—what?”

“Listen, Chief, have you stopped—to think?”

“No, Leo. I never think! If I ever had, I’d never have gotten to be State’s Attorney.”

“Oh come—Chief! I—I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was this: This lug apparently intends to go to bat.”

“What for God’s sakes on?”

“Only God knows that, Mr. Vann. Maybe some clever cock-and-bull yarn that he hasn’t worked out yet in his own mind. But—”

“Well, cock-and-bull it sure will be!” commented Vann grimly. “And with plenty of accent on the last!”

“Well,” declared Leo, undecidedly, “be that as it may, he does, I’m certain, intend to go to bat. And so—have you stopped to figure that until he does—and until he’s actually convicted—that skull found on him isn’t legally the State’s property—isn’t even legal evidence by which to convict Big Gus?”

“That, my dear boy,” pronounced Vann confidently, “‘be’ a ‘werry’—a most ‘werry’—moot point! As yet, anyway. However, to answer your question, let me say I haven’t given a thought to fine legal distinctions—since the news came in from you that the fellow was nabbed 100 per cent dead to rights. I simply figured we’d have a signed confession before sundown.”

“If you ask me, Mr. Vann, I’d say you won’t. And, in case I’m right on that, then our skull—as found on him—isn’t legal evidence. In re, I mean, State of Illinois Versus Gus McGurk. For though you and I know it to be the one that was put, wrapped, in your safe by Beryl—and passed to her, wrapped, by the Negro—it still isn’t legally ‘identifiable’ as that one—unless we cinch it as having been taken from your safe by the defendant. Through conviction of him. Have you considered at all, Chief, that the case of this lug is similar to the Bothwell case, down at Ottawa?”

“Now, now, Leo,” Vann chided, “you think you’re delivering news to your doddering old chief, don’t you, boy? So what would you say if I told you that on the way back from South Chicago I compared the two cases in my mind, element by element, and found that they’re not just similar, Leo; they’re identical.”

“You—you did?” For some reason not known to Vann, Leo Kilgallon appeared a bit staggered. “Well, then,” he asked, helplessly, “in view of the Supreme Court decision today on the Both—”

“Leo!” Vann’s voice was dumbfounded. “You don’t mean to say—”

“Listen, boss—have you read any papers today since the morning paper?”

“Devil, no, Leo! I’ve been busier today than the armless paperhanger with the seven-year itch. And—”

“Well,” put in Leo helplessly, “they ruled today—on the famous Filched Attested Evidence Case.”

Vann was silent. Then—

“Negatively, eh?”

“Right!”

“Well—I’ll be damned!” was all Vann said. “It was said to be 50-50—yet I was betting on the wrong fifty. Well—I’ll—be!”

“And so there,” Leo pressed on, “you are. Big Gus—as you told me—gets out Friday. Day after tomorrow. All right. Then I certainly don’t need to point out to you now, Chief, that if you try to take that skull before the grand jury tomorrow, to get an indictment against Big Gus his attorney will easily prove it isn’t evidence for an indictment, since it isn’t evidence for a trial—at least, can t be until this reddish-haired peterman we’ve got is convicted. And will quote that Illinois Supreme Court decision.”

There was a long pause. Vann was perturbed, for he knew full well that Leo Kilgallon spoke the truth. “Well, what you say,” he declared at length, “is true, of course—only too true. I was quite carried away, I’ll admit, by the fact that we’d recovered the goods—and had witnesses to an admission on the part of the boxman. However, Leo,” he added, “the warden down there at Moundsville wouldn’t let Gus go out Friday, I’m thinking, if—”

“Mandamus, chief! You know it. And I know it! And Big Gus would walk out. I’ll bet my month’s salary on that. Why, Chief, Big Gus has a million ways to get info out of that pen to his ‘mouthpiece.’ It’s even my humble belief, moreover, that Fleming Wiles—who, I understand, handled the old case so slick for McGurk—will come forward of his own volition, and front for Big Gus. For after all, Chief, it’s only by Wiles’ pulling slick—but easy—ones like that—yes, a mandamus!—that he holds his criminal trade. And if Gus’s written record there at Moundsville shows ‘good behavior’ and his time with ‘time off’ is up—well, you’ll never hold him. The warden, who’s a down-state man, will say it’s Chicago’s problem—not his.”

“Oh yeah? Well we can nab Big Gus at the gates on some phoney charge.”

“Oh sure, Chief—sure. But a charge that will be blown up by a habeas corpus inside of 24 hours. While this reddish-haired fellow’s case, if it follows customary procedure—with his ‘mouthpiece’ figuring every way to beat his rap—will be 3—maybe even 6—months coming to trial. After which—where would Big Gus be?”

Vann scratched his chin troubledly.

“It sure always did take you, Leo,” he said disgruntledly, “to find flaws—in everything.”

“And that,” said Leo Kilgallon boldly, “is why, I trust, you keep me on—as your assistant! And—but where shall I report now? Back to you—or to that Rogers Park matter?”

“You’d better go on to Rogers Park, boy. And get that deposition. Yes. For McMinster is going to New York by plane at 6—and not returning.”

“Okay, Chief. I’ll be back as promptly as I can make it.” And they hung up together.

And Vann sat chin in hand. His thin scrawny woman-secretary entered, diffidently.

He looked up. “Miss Jason,” he said suddenly, “hold the fort here—please. For I’m leaving. But will be back in—oh, thirty minutes at most.”

“Yes, Mr. Vann. But where—in case something important breaks—could I get you?”

“Where? Why, on the unlisted number—Dearborn 999—which is that of the lockup keeper in our incommunicado cells in the sub-basement. Yes—the State’s Attorney’s special lockup. For I’m going downstairs, Miss Jason, to interview one of the most important captures this department has ever made. The Man with the Crimson Box. Yes—that’s exactly what I’m going to do!”