CHAPTER VII

A State’s Attorney Receives Happy News!

Louis Vann, State’s Attorney of Cook County, dismounting, bag in hand, in the Central Passenger Station at Chicago, from the train which had left St. Louis at midnight, noted that his train was right on the dot—for the hands of the gargantuan clock that hung suspended just beyond the gates stood at 7 a.m. exactly. He might, he reflected, as he made his way briskly along the platform, have come back to Chicago by air—in which case he would be starting this day of Wednesday, October 23rd with an upset stomach; and, again, he might have left St. Louis at 2 a.m., and come in on the streamlined Zephyr—with the result that he would have had a beastly headache due to no sleep—the latter being due, in turn, to his not turning in before midnight. As it was, he felt—outside, that is, of the depression engendered in him by the bad news he’d received, just before leaving Chicago, from the party chiefs—like a million dollars—head clear!—step as elastic, for: his 39 years of age, as of a youth in college. And so, bag in hand, he threaded his way through the yawning exit gate to go straight to his office.

But, somewhat to his surprise, standing at the gate just back of the guard’s elbow, was a girl with taffy-colored hair and blue eyes—a girl of about 23—with a very English traveling bag in her hands. No other, in fact, than his office girl, Beryl Burlinghame—the one, that is, who superintended his old office in the Klondike Building where he had started his career with but 4 thick law books, a diploma, an ancient second-hand iron safe, and no clients—and where today he still did his concentrative work on such big criminal cases as he had to prosecute personally.

“Well—well—Beryl,” he said, as he came entirely through the gates. “You’re just leaving, eh—as I’m coming in?”

“Yes, Mr. Vann,” the girl replied. “As I told you I would be, when we talked on the long-distance wire Monday after­noon. My sister Sylvia, down there at Indianapolis, would never forgive me if I failed to appear as bridesmaid at her wedding—which is set for two o’clock today. I stayed on, however, ’til the last minute—so that you would be back—”

“—and holding the fort, eh?” he laughed. He wheeled about and glanced back at the gates. No waiting train—streamlined or otherwise—was drawn up. He turned and surveyed the New Zealand girl curiously. “But you’re a bit early, aren’t you, Beryl? I don’t see any train.”

“Yes, Mr. Vann,” she returned, “I am. Half an hour early. But I came down thus because I knew you were coming in on the Chicago Special—and in that way I would be able to see you for a few minutes anyway—before I left myself.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “Though you didn’t need to have bothered. Nothing important, I take it, has come up—in my absence!”

And without waiting for an answer though taking her bag, he beckoned her off to one side and away from the gate and the waiting guard. And she followed him. Now they stood alone.

“No,” she now said, in answer to his question propounded just before he had drawn them both off to one side, “nothing important has come up, Mr. Vann. Nothing. Except that the skull of some Chinese young man named—what was it now that was told to that Negro?—yer—some Chinese youth named Wah Lee has been found. And—”

“Wah—Lee’s—skull?” ejaculated Vann. “Found?” he repeated unbelievingly. “Found? Why, Beryl—you amaze me. Who found it? Where was it found? I saw nothing in the St. Louis papers.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Vann, its finding doesn’t happen to be a matter of publicity. At least not yet. Nor could I tell you about it when I talked to you on long-distance Monday afternoon because it wasn’t—well—apparently found till around the time I was closing the office at 5 o’clock. Of course I don’t know anything about the case—who Wah Lee was—anything—for I was only a little girl when it probably all happened—”

“1927—and also 1930,” Vann put in hurriedly. “But go ahead.”

“And living in New Zealand, too,” she said, a faint trace of homesickness showing plaintively in her voice.

“But anyway, Mr. Vann,” she went on hurriedly, “a Negro named Moses Klump came to the office late Monday afternoon, and—well, it seems that a couple of weeks ago he had been digging for a gas-main connection or something, in some old—old dismantled beer manufactury—once known as the Schlitzheim Beery—”

“Brewery,” he corrected her hastily. “And—”

“Schlitzheim Brewery, of course,” she amended. “On some place you call Goose Island, and—and have you really an island—right here in Chicago?”

“Yes, yes,” he returned. “A huge island—caused by the North Branch of the Chicago River parting and then coming together again later. A vast area, full of dark, unpaved roads—without lamp posts, many of them, and without names, many others—the whole dotted with great towering warehouses—sunbaked mud flats—gloomy-looking tanner­ies and foundries—crazy shacks occupied by Russians—and what-not. So—so the Negro uncovered a skull there, did he? Hm! But the question is—exactly where? And the bigger question likewise is—hm?—was it uncovered deep? Was—he—”

“Mr. Vain,” the girl put in, “I made him tell me every detail possible about its finding: the shape and location and description of the particular room in the building under the dirt floor of which he turned it up, the depth where he found it, and when. And by questioning him I’m sure that I brought out many other things that he would not have thought of. And I read the entire deposition to him and had him sign it—that is, unfortunately, Mr. Vann, he couldn’t write—but he made his mark on it in front of Mr. Peabury down the hall, and Mr. Selzner, up the hall, and the latter, Mr. Vann—as luck would have it!—knew him personally. And thus I was enabled to notarize the deposition in the bargain. And I put it safe against fire in the little lock-box that’s in your and my name—over there in the LaSalle Day and Night Vaults.”

“Ah—good girl, Beryl! You’re catching on to American legal ways like—like nobody’s business. Witnesses die—and they change their testimony—and all kinds of strange things happen. And—but now concerning this skull, where was it fou—but first—this Moses Klump—where does he live?”

“At 3733 Vernon Avenue, Mr. Vann. He’s a bachelor. And though living alone, and a poor man, he has a cheap telephone—and it’s listed—so that he can get jobs from building foremen.”

“Fine! I’ll be in touch with him the minute you take your train. And—but go on. This skull. Where is it right now?”

“Well, you can jolly well be assured, Mr. Vann,” the girl said half jokingly, “that it’s still in the same tied-up paper package that he brought it in!” And added quickly: “Oh, locked safe and tight—yes—of course—the way you’d want it to be—surely—but I confess I didn’t undo the package he brought in, other than to just—just tear the paper open at one side and confirm definitely that a skull was in there. Ugh!” she gave a little shiver. “No, I didn’t make a doorstop out of it, if that’s what you think—but treated it like valuable evidence which, however, I take it it isn’t—at this late date?”

Vann nodded with satisfaction, though not answering her question. And he was pleased to note how this girl from the Antipodes, to whom—when she and her sister had arrived in Chicago just short of a year before—he had given that position out of obligation to her father, was adapting herself to the requirements of, at least, his personal office; and, quite assured that she had taken the precious package promptly over to his suite in the City Hall, and had it locked in the high-powered burglarproof, fire-proof vault by Retired Detective Sergeant Tom McFee, custodian there for the last 5 years, Vann’s lean face radiated pleasure.

“Here,” he said, “your train isn’t due yet for some time, Beryl—so come into the waiting room there—and let me get all this information.” And he led the way into the big waiting room, and the two dropped down on a high-ladder the—and how deep? he queried, his smile fading.

“Six feet,” the girl told him. “Couldn’t, however, be deeper, it seems, because a half-foot further, and this big gas main would have been uncovered.”

“The hivvins be praised,” Vann said, jocularly, rubbing his hands. “Found then, within the legal 6 feet of the body desired to be offered as the corpus delicti. It’s it—all right. By—the gods! Lying 3—3 feet—under that very body. Plain as day, now. They aimed to plant that identifiable skull where it could never possibly see the light of day again—but had to dig a huge hole in order to get a small one 6 feet down. And then, when filling up—they were tired—and they undoubtedly said—‘why dig another hole for the body itself?’—and just put the body in at a higher level of the same hole. Crafty, at that, that mob! For if the body ever were found—the entire place would be dug up at the level of the body only.” Vann surveyed the girl curiously. “What—if anything—did the Negro tell you about the general appearance of the skull, Beryl?”

“Well,” she said, “he looked into its nose aperture—after another Negro had told him about the old case and this brewery; for this fellow, Mr. Vann, had been in South America back 10—13 years ago—and knew quite nothing. And he found where bone had been cleared away inside—on the right side. Where—as he put it—’de li’l shingle didn’ hang down lak as on de odder side.’ ”

“Capital!” Vann commented. “A 10-strike—for the State’s Attorney’s office. And what else?”

“Well, he knew that it was a young man because it had practically all of its teeth, upper and lower.”

“Ah—our Senagambian is a budding detective! But that’s fine. The presence of the teeth, I mean. For that will knock out, one hundred per cent, one last possible forlorn contention a desperate defense may offer.”

Beryl Burlinghame looked at her employer puzzledly. “Why, Mr. Vann—isn’t this old, old case all disposed of—and everything—”

“Heavens no, Beryl. Not at all. It—but what else did he tell you?”

“Well, he said the skull had a bullet hole—in its back, and the back of its left eye-socket was all shattered, showing that the bullet had come out there.”

“The dirty dogs!” Vann ejaculated, referring not, however, to well meaning Negroes—but to a criminal outfit now today pretty badly scattered. “But that’ll knock out also any defense that the Chinese lad died a natural death. Not that that would help a certain defendant very much—no!—since the kidnaping charge is plenty. Puh-lenty! But go on, Beryl.”

“Yes, I will. Gladly—since it interests you so, Mr. Vann. Well, this Negro took the skull home after he found it—he was all alone, incidentally, when he did find it—except that some child thereabouts—some little Russian boy who’d said his name was Vadisclov, and who was about 6 years old—did see him uncover it—anyway, Mr. Klump took it home, cleaned it, and scraped it, and boiled it, and taped its lower jaw to its head proper by a long strip of some white adhesive tape—and then put it religiously away.”

“Superstitious, Beryl?”

“Yes. He figured, he says, that possession of the thing would favorably effect his luck in some game called—yes—crappers—and—”

“Craps,” Vann chuckled. “He wanted a ‘reversed Jonah’—if needs be! But go ahead?”

“Yes, Mr. Vann. But—but I’ve told you all now, virtually, that he told me. For as soon as he found, from what some Negro on some other job told him about the Schlitzheim Beery, that he must surely have something that was connected with some case where some man was convicted of kidnaping years ago—”

“No,” corrected Vann. “Convicted only of collecting $50,000 ransom money. Not for kidnaping—no! And for mighty good reasons, the crafty sharks. A man today in Moundsville Penitentiary, down in Illinois about 60 miles or so—but go ahead, Beryl?”

“Well,” she said undecidedly, “You have all the facts now, Mr, Vann. Mr. Klump lettered his initials—M. K.—in black India ink, on the back of the skull, near the bullet hole—for he was an intelligent Negro—and he wrapped it up and brought it straight down to your office, which he found, of course in the telephone book. And thus it came to me. And I took that full deposition of all he could tell me, and all I could think to ask him, which I am sure was everything. And then fulfilled the necessary legal qualifications of the paper—and locked it safe against fire.”

“And the skull the same,” commented Vann triumphantly. “Good girl, Beryl! We’ll be in court now, sometime during the next few months—in fact, just before next election!—with a real kidnaping case. And will be writing finis—or practically so—on what was once known as the Parson Gang. And a certain ‘Muscle-In’—getting an easy reward for murder, kidnaping, extortion, and a half-dozen other crimes never brought to light—will now get what he really deserves. The electric chair! Fine—fine—double Fine! Beryl girl, do you realize that this little ‘routine matter’—as you plainly regarded it!—which you just took care of, means my saving my home—squaring up my father’s notes—and God knows what else?”

The girl looked embarrassed.

“Well, Mr. Vann,” she said, “I—I couldn’t help but gather from what those men said last week, in the office, that unless you could assemble the necessary elements for a—a sensational and sure conviction to launch just before election, they—they weren’t going to—renominate you. And of course, Mr. Vann, I naturally knew what your bank balance was—nearly zero, after paying off that last note—from keeping your accounts for you. And of course—I knew about the mortgage coming due out there in Oak Park. And the way you’ve been turned down by the loan companies on a renewal. Though one, at least, did say that if you were renominated, they’d make a new loan. But all in all, Mr. Vann, I did, yes, know—even if I am a New Zealander—just what you were up against. The only thing I didn’t know, of course, was that this skull could constitute the elements of a case that—that would save you.”

“It is, Beryl!” he said jubilantly. “And not just the elements of a case, either—but the case itself! And with that case in my portfolio—as now it is!—I’m renominated! And renominated, I’m the same as re-elected. And re-elected, my dear girl, I can get all in the clear, during the next four years, by the State’s Attorneyship’s salary. Beryl, Beryl—you taffy-haired Antipodean!—you helped Fate herself to put me back on terra firma. And at the same time determine the name of Chicago’s next State’s Attorney as L. Vann, Esquire.”

“Have I?” she said. “I’m glad. But I suppose that, Mr. Vann, no matter how many times you get re-elected, and hold office, you will always—to your dying day—be known as—” and she stopped short, with a little gasp, as one realizing she had let something slip.

“As what, my dear girl?” Van asked surprised.

“Well—” reluctantly, “as—as ‘Lock-the-Stable-Door’ Vann.”

Vann felt his face and neck turn to a deep cherry.

“Where—where did you hear that?” he inquired, a bit gruffly.

“I shouldn’t have spoken,” the girl said impulsively. “It—it just slipped out. But I happened to be riding on a streetcar the other night, behind a blue-coated policeman and obviously a plainclothesman. And they spoke of you. And it made me awfully angry. The tone, that is, in which they referred to you. And both spoke of you as—”

“Yes, I know. ‘Lock-the-Stable-Door’ Vann.” He paused. “And, being a New Zealander, you are curious?”

“Well, no, no,” she lied loyally. “I’m—”

“Yes, you are! Well, it’s simply, my dear girl, that I really believe that a murderer, or a thief, does tend to return to the scene of his crime. And so I often—not always, no, but often—have the scene of a crime covered, on that supposition.”

“But why, Mr. Vann,” she asked helplessly, “would a criminal do that?”

“Alas,” he chuckled, getting back his good spirits, “and you too joining the army of skeptics! But the answer to your question is, God knows—I just read it years ago—in a Nick Carter dime novel. And added it to my armamentarium of psychological facts.”

The girl nodded, but looked pained, as though she still remembered the two policemen discussing her employer.

“Forget it!” he said, interpreting her feelings. “One doesn’t get office in Chicago without having one bitter nickname amongst the police, another amongst the criminals, and plenty more. ‘Lock-the-Stable-Door’ Vann is sitting very pretty this morning. Thanks to certain help from you in the last few days. And so now what can I do for you?”

“Well,” she said, a bit undecidedly, “you can, if you want—but Mr. Vann, just how does it come that you know so much about this case? For I take it you were—you were just a struggling barrister—when it transpired?”

“I’ll say!” was his genial rejoinder. “Sitting in that old Klondike Building—waiting for clients who didn’t come. And having that ancient safe, we’ve got there, to indicate the voluminousness of my cash receipts!” He shook his head. “Well, it’s easy to tell you how I and that case met! Foster Emmons—State’s Attorney back in 1930, when the thing really came to a head—was a brilliant man, Beryl, but a drunkard, and a friend of mine. And he hired me, Beryl, to draw up a certain proposed bill of indictment—one which however never got used!—and to make it absolutely attack-proof. He even hired me—” Vann chuckled, “—to write an opening speech for him—to the jury. One also never used! I did him a pretty flowery speech, I fear—though Lord knows my bill of indictment had hard facts a-plenty. Indeed, from the way I went over that case—preparing it for him—I believe that every name, person, date and fact of it is burned on my brain—to remain forever.”

“Then,” the girl said, spiritedly, “I’ll answer the question you just asked me a moment ago: namely, what you can do for me. You can, Mr. Vann—if you will—tell me the actual circumstances of this kidnaping. For I do so want to be au fait—on American criminological matters.”

“Gladly—little New Zealander!” Vann said easily. “For I’m, after all, in no vast hurry. And your train hasn’t even drawn up yet. Though—let’s keep our eye on the gates there—just the same! All right. Well, here, in brief, are the circumstances of that famous and very unusual case which first broke 13 years ago in Chicago. The Wah Lee Kidnaping Case!”