“Yes,” Penworth nodded, “That skeleton which the underworld worked hard to establish as another body.”
“And—succeeded!” added Silas Moffit meaningfully.
“Yet would not have done so,” pointed out Penworth, “if the skull had been found with it. In view of the surgical work that had been done so recently in Wah Lee’s head. And—but go ahead, Mr. Moffit. After all, the story you have there deals with one case—homicide and burglary of today. While the Wah Lee Case is, after all, another case—kidnaping and murder—of another day. And the two cases are connected only by virtue of the single item—Wah Lee’s skull. For, patently, this must be Wah Lee’s skull which has at last been unearthed.” He paused.
“Now as I understand it, the Negro who brought it in, finally, to Mr. Vann’s office—after he surmised, that is, from hearing from some other Negro something about the history of the old Schlitzheim Brewery—”
“Yes, Judge. He hadn’t been in America at the time of the old Wah Lee Case.”
“I—see. Well, as I understand things, he brought this skull in, wrapped and tied in paper, and the girl herself never actually viewed it. Is that right?”
“Yes,” affirmed Silas Moffit. “And which fact, I can see plainly, Judge, intrigues your—your legal sense. Yes, that is exactly the situation. It seems that she put it in that safe without examining it—she checked its identity as a skull, yes, by tearing open a bit of the paper and making certain it was a skull, and not—not—well, not a cantaloupe!—and she took a deposition from the Negro, embodying such vital facts as to how he’d unearthed it; how he’d boiled and scraped and cleaned it; how he’d fixed the lower jaw to the sconce proper with white surgical tape; how he’d put his initials, ‘M. K.’ on the rear of it before bringing it in—his name, it seems, Judge, was Moses Klump; how it had a bullet hole in its back, and a shattered rear wall in its left eye-socket; and how some kind of surgical work, anyway, had been done inside its nose.”
“Some—kind?” commented the Judge judicially, putting his fingertips reflectively together. “That, too, can make an interesting legal point tonight. For we know, of course, precisely what surgery was done in Wah Lee’s nose. And—but go ahead, Mr. Moffit. For I’m still anxious to approximate the number of witnesses Mr. Vann essentially is bound to have tonight.”
“Well, there’s one he won’t have, Judge,” commented Silas Moffit. “The Negro! Which you may or may not know. For he was killed yesterday in a warehouse accident.”
“So I understand—yes. And,” added Penworth, “it is fortunate—that is, for Mr. Vann’s case!—that the girl took that deposition. Which, I’m emboldened to say, will be State’s Exhibit Number One tonight! But here—I’m delaying things. Go ahead, Mr. Moffit.”
“Yes, Judge.” Silas Moffit glanced at the paper again.
“Well, the upshot of Inspector Scott’s examination was that the murder of Reibach was done with a sledge—the same sledge, in fact, that was used to crack open the safe—and done brutally, moreover—for the German’s skull had obviously been smashed in after he’d already been knocked unconscious by a prior blow. In fact, Judge, Scott’s derivations in the matter—as given briefly here—seemed to be that it was plainly and patently a one-man job altogether—and that the one man was distinctive enough—red-haired or something!—that he found it best to kill Reibach off after knocking him out, rather than let the watchman recover and broadcast his—the murderer’s—description. And the murder itself, Scott maintains, was done at 10:43 p.m. last night. And is established definitely by four different and distinct time confirmations. First, a smashed watch on Reibach’s wrist—done by a first glancing sledge blow. Second, a tilted glassed-in pendulum wall clock, that was stopped at the same hour, and with some of Reibach’s hairs—obviously from a gash found in his scalp—stuck on one of its lower corners. And showing how he’d reeled backwards from that first blow which smashed his wrist watch. It seems, moreover,” added Silas Moffit, squinting at the paper, “that both watch and clock can be proven—though by factors not given here—to be correct. And that the clock, moreover, couldn’t have been reset by the murderer—because the only key to its glassed-in box—a special Yale key—was in Louis Vann’s own pocket. There are, moreover—so the story says—still two more confirmations of the murder hour, which at the least rivet it to the hour from 10 to 11 last night—and based on the dead watchman’s time sheet and—”
“If Scott,” Penworth put in, “sets the time of the murder as of 10:43 last night, then 10:43—or closely thereabouts—is the hour. Quite regardless of who did it—or how.”
“I see,” nodded Silas Moffit. And paused. “One thing is certain anyway, Judge. Namely, Mr. Vann wouldn’t have let the hour of the murder be set forth in this story, as it is, if it hadn’t been that at press time of the story—and long before, in fact—he was 100 per cent convinced he had the man who did the job. And—” But Silas Moffit lowered his gaze to the paper again. “Anyway,” he continued, “it seems that—according to the story here—sometime around noon today, some patrolman named Daniel Kilgallon noticed a reddish-haired man, of about 34 or 35 years of age, standing on Adams Street—at the northeast corner of the Old Post Office, in actuality—waiting for a streetcar—yet not taking any. The fellow had a crimson box under his arm—just a shoebox, it says here, Judge, inked over with crimson fountain pen ink—and was working a newspaper crossword puzzle atop the box, As though putting in time.
“And,” Silas Moffit went on, tossing his eyes up to the top of another column, “it tells how Kilgallon questioned him casually as to what sort of a pet he might have in the box—for it seems the box, Judge, had holes punched in each end—camouflage, as later appears, yes!—and the fellow just said to him; ‘No spik Inglize.’ And how, halfway up Dearborn Street, Kilgallon—troubled because of the answer, and the fact that the crossword puzzle the fellow was working was one with English words—encountered an old friend of his boyhood—rather, his mother’s earlier days—no less a person, in fact, than Archbishop Stanley Pell of Chicago, who was coming down the post-office steps, in company with a—a—yes—a Professor Andre Mustaire, head of some well-known West Side deaf and dumb school; and how Kilgallon told the Archbishop about the incident in question, and how the Archbishop—because he was a linguist, and also a good fellow—agreed to step around the corner and question the reddish-haired man in various languages. Depending on what Archbishop Pell’s judgment of the fellow’s dialect was.
“And which,” Silas Moffit went on, “Archbishop Pell did, accompanied by this Mustaire. At a distance, that is.
For it seems that Mustaire stayed in the Archbishop’s wake—and drew up some distance off—on the curb. At which instant some ex-pupil of his hove up and asked for some directions to some building in the Loop—all in sign language—and which Mustaire gave him—in the same language—”
“With the result,” Penworth nodded, “that the reddish-haired man, now defendant in this case, must have presumed that Mustaire was a deaf-mute?”
“That,” admitted Silas Moffit, “is the theory which the story sets forth. And which common sense dictates too, I’d say. But anyway, the Archbishop questioned the reddish-haired man. And—well, as a mere layman in such matters, Judge, I would say that that conversation between them will be the whole pivot of this case tonight.”
The Judge looked reflective, but rendered no ex-officio comment.