CHAPTER XL

“Now You Tell One!”

Several times Carr Halsey awoke in the night. But the single immense window which looked out in the day time on that pleasant park, its upper sash down from the top tonight and locked with its cunning brass spike thrust through its frame into a socket in the lower sash, its outer stone sill a good eight feet from the ground, remained unsilhouetted by any troupe of shaven-headed Orientals ready to provide the greedy Baxter with the story of stories, much less any paunched or goatee-ed gentlemen ascending sillward via a short ladder. There fell only occasional flickering shadows on the frame of the window, as the one low street lamp down Tower Court a short distance, or the reflected illumination from the old Water Tower in the Square across the way, lightened or darkened in intensity with shiftings in the voltage of the city current supply. No sound of a stealthy key trying to turn in the lock of his door, barred against everyone tonight by its additional steel bolt, marred his half-sleep; only the hum of an occasional late motorcar, on the boulevard a short ways east, carrying its occupants home from some night club or cabaret filtered into him. His long-barrelled pigeon-shooting revolver with which he had more than once broken up 12 clay disks in 13 shots remained where it was, cool, silent and resourceful, under his pillow, and practically at his fingertips.

Nor did any ring whatsoever come on that ever-waiting phone containing the five convenient twos in its exchange number.

And eventually, on his last wakening, the light from the street lamp was gone—the red glow on the stone tower across the way had vanished—the gray misty dawn had come—and he heard the thump of four tightly rolled newspapers bang against the front door of 810½ Tower Court, and the departing clump, clump, clump of the news carrier down the street. One of those papers belonged to him.

He tiptoed forth in the hall in his pajamas, reached out into the vestibule, and rescued it.

He took it in his room and drawing down his shade to within a foot of the sill, turned on the small reading light clamped to the rear of that fourposter bed. Climbing back in, he examined its first few pages with some interest. Baxter’s John Yertz taxi-spotting story, an obvious beat, was on page one, underneath a cartoon showing about a hundred and twenty shoestring and gimcrack peddlers, the foremost ones wearing visages suspiciously like those belonging to various American trust magnates, lined up at a rickety barred gate which Mexico, bleary-eyed and beaten, with wide flopping hat, was preparing to fling open to them. In like manner, the Bush Bourse murder had been moved in to where it now properly belonged, at least with respect to chronology, for it was presented modestly on page 3. Baxter had written up everything that he might have written up had he never come to Tower Court. He had not written up a single fact, or presented a single theory, that could have emanated from his visit there. He had evidently designated what photographs should be obtained, or the city editor had used his own discretion, for there were pictures a-plenty, of the laboratory, of Proctor himself, and last but not least a 2-column enlargement of the death message found scrawled on the laboratory floor. The paper, as Halsey well knew, at least this close-in North Side edition, had gone to press at 3:30 in the morning. That meant then that the blaring of millions of radio loudspeakers to three times as many listeners in Chicagoland had produced no Clifford X. Hemingway, nor clue to him, up to that hour. The fact would have been phoned in instanter by the bureau Sun man had anything developed—and would have been incorporated in Baxter’s story by a re-write man, with a brand new lead paragraph. Nor had the close watching of all depot train gates and flying fields for the departing murderer of an unobtrusive prosaic North Side chemist, as detailed in the story in a statement by Captain Lanfrey, of the Fugitive Apprehension Division, produced a single fugitive. The late evening papers, filtering into thousands of homes and hotels and boarding-houses—had produced nothing. Nor had the countless photos, taken by countless squad cars, to countless registered hotels, rooming-houses and Y.M.C.A.’s elicited a single clue. It was beginning indeed, Halsey reflected gravely, to look as though the coming hour of 9 a.m. was more important than it had been considered at any time thus far.

Tossing the paper on the floor between the bed and the wall, he extinguished the small light and lay back on his pillow, arms under head, thinking deeply. And tired out from the half-broken sleep he had had the whole night just gone, if not the previous bumping jolting sleep in the ancient North Woods Pullman coach that had brought him down to civilization the morning before, all tension relieved now by the arrival of dawn, he dropped suddenly off. And when next he opened his eyes—day had come full blown. Beneath that nearly drawn shade, flapping gently in the morning breeze oh the lake, the grass of Tower Square carried the golden mantle of the morning sun. And the electric clock on his mantel said five minutes of 9.

Hardly had he clambered out of bed, raised his shade, put the Japanese box in full view, and splashed water on his face than, glancing obliquely southward through the window he saw a yellow Chicago Avenue street car lumber up to the crossing, and a figure step off—a figure with a cane. He recognized that slightly bent, young-old figure. It was no other than the honorable Mr. Sumiko, his visitor of nearly 24 hours before. The Jap had shown!

He watched him but a moment. He noticed that in addition to the cane, Mr. Sumiko carried a capacious but apparently light and empty, tan handbag, no doubt intended for the transportation of his property. Fair enough! Halsey turned his head hastily and looked along Tower Court in the opposite direction. A green round-nosed disc-wheeled Edselette chaseabout was in evidence, although its owner—who should be Artemus Baxter—was himself at the moment keeping somewhere out of sight. So far so good. He gave his attention again to the Jap, who was making his way slowly along the street. Finally the latter ascended the steps. The front door bell rang sharply. Halsey rose from his chair, and in the faded blue bathrobe which he had hastily donned, answered it.

“How do you do, Mr. Sumiko,” he said pleasantly. “I see you are back again on time.”

“I am, sair,” said the Jap, smiling his strangely bitter smile. “An’ I troos’ I now ’ave plasure to recover goods los’ in espress company.”

“Yes. Just step in.” Halsey led the way to his parlor room. The Japanese shipping box was now in full sight on the mantel. The face of the Oriental visitor, even in spite of its sunken eyes and its hair touched with gray, reflected the emotion of great pleasure, of exceeding satisfaction.

“By the way, Mr. Sumiko, I should like to ask you a question,” began Halsey in friendly mien. “And do sit down—no need to remain standing.” The Jap dropped into the closest chair, a straight-backed uncomfortable affair, and looked toward him politely. “You’ll pardon my appearance, won’t you? Got in very, very late this morning, and overslept.”

“You have moch night beesness per’aps?” inquired Sumiko, with more politeness, it seemed, than interest.

“Well, I had a frightfully hectic day yesterday. Er—hectic means—er—busy. For one thing, I walked into a chemical laboratory some blocks west of here, only to find a friend of mine dead. Murdered. Or I guess he was. I gave my name in as witness, and had to blow. That is, had to vamoose—go some place. See? To Evanston, in fact, where I got mixed up with friends, and thence out to a roadhouse on Kenosha Road—and this morning I’ve got a bad head on me. Feels—feels like a balloon. I’m just on my way out to tank up on black coffee—drink some, that is, and get a morning paper and read all about my friend’s death. Or maybe you’ve read the morning papers yourself and know something about it. His name was Proctor.”

“I do not r’id Englize ver’ well,” said Mr. Sumiko, gazing at him searchingly. “Shap’nese, yes—but we don’t nott hav’ Shap’nese papers in Chycago. Too ver’ bad about your fr’en’. I hope you learn moch more when you get papairs.”

“I probably shall. But what I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Sumiko—” Halsey braced himself. Now was the perfect piece of finessing. The Jap could answer—and yet have a perfect “out.” Or he could play possum—with equal facility. It would remain to be seen.

“Mr. Sumiko, yesterday you were kind enough to describe your goods over there, and thus identify yourself for all practical purposes. But the reverse side of the card you used for that purpose—so sorry that I’ve thrown it away—bore a name printed out in ink by hand, Clifford X. Hemingway.” The Jap was watching him with face as impassive as a mummy. Only the eyes showed a slight quickening in their black depths. “By a strange coincidence, that name is the name of a fellow who was in Dartmouth University—a freshman—that means a first year chap—yes—when my dead friend Proctor and I were seniors—yes, graduating.” Was the Jap reflecting now how perfectly was accounted for, although in a somewhat as yet obscure manner, to be sure, the name written on that tiled floor? Was he reflecting that his hearer was lying? Or mistaken? What? Whatever his reflections, he maintained a courteous silence. Perfect! Halsey forged grimly ahead. “I’ve often wondered what became of old Cliff Hemingway—Gad!—I never thought to ask my friend if he had ever run across him; but anyway, Cliff proceeded to pop up on your card. Where is he living now, Mr. Sumiko?”

The Jap perched his head on one side and gazed warily at Halsey. His sunken eyes burned their way into the younger man. The latter sat smiling under the tense scrutiny. “That, sair,” pronounced his visitor after a lengthy pause, “eez too bad. ‘Cleeford Hem’way’ you say name on back of card was?” He shook his head. “I am sorry to say that card was one I peeck up on steet-car seat, w’ere some one drop it. Indeed, sair, chance is strange theeng—eez she not? And to think than I shood not be able to render to you soch kin’ assistance so like as you are to me.”

Halsey nodded his head. Baxter’s guess in the matter had been perfect. This wily Oriental was not divulging one single fact that might lead to the giving up of Clifford Hemingway, nor was he stupid enough to create any ponderous unsubstantiatable lies when a simple one magically solved the entire situation. As for his having picked up the card on a street-car seat, or a bus seat, or any other kind of a seat, that was entirely out of the question, as Halsey well knew; that would have been coincidence, not chance at all. But he said nothing. Except to himself, which unspoken remark consisted of: “Just for that, my fine friend, you get Tweedledee—and nothing else.”

“Too bad,” he commented briefly, at length. “But it doesn’t matter vitally. I was in hopes that I could locate the youngster. Promising chap he was.” He rose and brought over the box. “Here’s what you came for, I believe, Mr. Sumiko. Box and all. Sorry I had to even pull your cork, but after I bought it, you see, I didn’t even know about it’s being a dye. I—I half hoped I might have a bottle of good Japanese liquor! Anyway, here you are at last. Now I’ve got to be on my way down town presently to answer a lot of questions, I guess, and fill out affidavits maybe—and get myself a morning paper if I haven’t slept myself out of luck.”

The Jap’s eyes brightened appreciably. He opened the cover of the skull-box and peered inside, scraping aside a few strands of moss that partly covered the bottle. He lifted the latter very slightly with one lean yellow finger, as though either testing its heaviness, or else estimating the amount of the precious liquid that had been left with the Bush Bourse chemist. Exactly what he was trying to verify there was no telling. But a faint sigh of satisfaction did escape him. He transferred the big bottle gently, as one might a baby, to his empty satchel, hedging it down a bit with some of the moss, but leaving far more than he took. He clicked the satchel lips together, and fumbled in his back pocket. From it he withdrew a black leather wallet, full to bursting with crisp American money. He pulled from it a yellow 10-dollar bill and tendered it to Halsey. “There, sair, will you fin’ amount you hav’ pay for bottle,” he declared. “An’ I lik’ for you joos’ to kip change for tro’ble.”

Halsey fingered the ten-dollar bill undecidedly.

“The box—” he began. “Ver’ nize box if to sheep anything leequid,” said the Jap, with a wave of his hand. “Joos’ kip him—or burn him up. And do—do kip change, pliz.”

Halsey pocketed the bill with sufficient reluctance to appear genuine. “Thank you,” he said embarrassedly. “As you will.” He glanced at the clock and back to his visitor again. The Jap took up his cane, and with the grip hanging from his other hand turned to the door. Halsey hurried to precede him, opening both the room door and the outer vestibule portal. “Good day, Mr. Sumiko,” he said pleasantly to the Oriental.

The other nodded back to him on the small stome porch. “Good day, sair. My bes’ weeshes to you.” And he was feeling his way eagerly down the steps.

Once back in his room Halsey leaped to the front wall which contained his large window, and took up a position just to the north of the left window jamb, where, back flattened against the wall itself, he watched his departing visitor and the whole southward extension of the short block. The Jap proceeded to make his way laboriously toward the corner street car line. He did not once look back. At the northward end of Tower Court, as Halsey saw, with a quick glance through the pane in that direction, the Edselette chaseabout was still drawn up to the curbing, but its owner, though quite invisible, was now tinkering away at the rear of it. The Jap reached the corner just in time to board a Chicago Avenue car going west. But no sooner had he climbed up on the steep step and tendered his fare to the blue-clad conductor, than the chaseabout at the end of Tower Court became suddenly and miraculously repaired; its owner sprang into the seat, and stepped on its starting lever. In an instant the low car shot past Halsey’s window toward Chicago Avenue.

The younger man turned away with a smile of satisfaction as he noted the checks in the suit worn by the driver. “Artemus is on the job,” he commented to himself. “And with a red plaid cap to boot! No Hemingway, therefore, captured up to within an hour or so ago. Well, we may find daylight in this mystery yet.”