The Mystery of the Fiddling Cracksman Read online

  Billy Hemple, climbing the short flight of steps, took her in his arms and kissed her. Long and satisfyingly. Then he held her off at arms’ length, surveying her in the soft radiance from the parlor lamp, indulging in the thrill that always came to him at the thought that eventually she was to be his—in a cozy little four-room apartment out in Hyde Park. And now that Mr. Monte Zenda of Graustark was accepted, and he even had orders from Macrae, Macrae and Macrae, to start on another book along the same lines as Mr. Monte Zenda—well—it was all over but the shouting!

  She was a remarkably pretty girl; in fact—as Billy Hemple himself put it, that day he was practising for the time when Hearstmopolitan might order a story by him and pay him by the word—as winsome as she was pretty, and as pretty as she was winsome—a mode of description that utilized 13 words where but two additional ones would suffice. But it seemed to fit Laral Craig, he had to admit. Her eyes were deep brown under their long, dark, curling lashes; her silky hair fell in jet ringlets over her white forehead; her figure, clad tonight simply in a one-piece dress of brown silk, was slim, exquisite, patrician; she seemed no more than twenty years old, and was, in fact, no more than twenty.

  “Gee—but I’m glad you came, Billy!” she said as he released her. “More glad than you can guess.” She held open the door. “Let’s go into the parlor. Out here on the edge of the city it gets terribly chilly this late at night—even if it is nearly the first of June.”

  She led the way into the little front parlor, its simple furnishings neatly and tastily arranged about the gray monotone rug that covered its floor, the tiny grand piano gleaming richly in the corner. Within the circle of glow made by the pink silk lamp on the narrow, polished table, he settled himself in a huge, reed-handled, velvet-upholstered armchair, and waited until she had seated herself on the arm of it.

  “Well,” he began, looking up at her, “I’ve read the papers. And all the items—about the various John Craigs!”

  The girl looked down at him, wide-eyed, serious. “And what do you think about it, Billy? Is it only a coincidence—or is there something underneath it all? When I read the first item, morning before yesterday—that was the day after I’d broken my long newspaper-reading fast which I’m going to explain about in a little while—I thought it was only a coincidence; when I read the second item, next morning, I still thought so—although a peculiar little feeling that I can’t define seemed to creep into my heart. I didn’t get to look at the Morning Compendium at all, this morning—but when I finally did, late today, and read that bizarre account about that burglar on North State Parkway, something came over me that was nothing less than fear. And since you’d wired you’d be home today or tonight—I just kept after you from then on.”

  Hemple paused a moment before he spoke. “No,” he declared slowly, “the mathematical doctrine of chances is utterly against the fact that each of three people by the name of John Craig—and each of ’em minus a middle initial—at least, in the telephone book—should be the recipient of a burglar’s visit three nights running. I don’t wonder you felt frightened, Laral. ’Specially with your own father making the fourth of that group in the phone book listing. As for the police—and newspaper reporters, as well—not taking any particular cognizance of that particular odd fact—which they obviously haven’t—you’ve got to remember that the police thus far notified are at three widely separated stations—South Chicago, Hyde Park and East Chicago Avenue—and when you consider the terrific amount of crime the whole force has to deal with, and all the reporters on each paper, and the editors and sub-editors for fillers, and assistant editors for features, and what not—well—nobody, police or journalist—has even caught the tie-up in those three items. It took a little girl whose own father was named John Craig to note that. Which was to be expected.”

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he went on, “someone who is cracked—someone with a bug in his brain—is trying to find out something—or maybe even secure something—owned by some John Craig. Some John Craig who he knows definitely is not of the other John Craigs in Chicago who have middle names and initials. Though once this some one gets on the ground, he apparently gets to feeling musical and forgets what he’s after. Whether the John Craig on North State Parkway was the right one—or the wrong one—there’s no telling. The paper says the butler scared the bird off; but from the strange story that butler told, the intruder had apparently finished doing whatever he had come to do. Which was merely to play a tune to a safe! And was cussing a bit under his black bag-mask to boot. Crazy as a loon—nothing else.”

  “I don’t think so, Billy,” the girl said, firmly. “I believe the man knows what he’s doing.”

  “But my dear—that sort of thing doesn’t happen except in the hectic brain of a pulp-paper fiction writer. And I ought to know—for I’ve analyzed no less than 2,000 stories in the last six months, ground out by hacks who try to portray life as though life were a hashish dream.”

  “In connection with your book?”

  “Yes. But I’ll go into that later.”

  She shook her petite head, still looking down at him from the chair handle where she was seated. “Billy, you’re using cold reason—and all I’ve got to back myself up with is instinct—woman’s instinct. That man isn’t crazy. I—I feel that. But I can’t explain a mere instinct—even when it’s my own.” She paused. “But aside from that, I think as you do: he’s specializing on John Craigs. And John Craigs possibly—though possibly not, at that—who have no middle initials. There was definitely a man with a violin in one of those three cases, and presumably—if that Hyde Park flat owner didn’t just see things!—a man with a violin in another of the three cases; and the whole three were directed against a John Craig. So the housebreaker is the same man, undoubtedly. I came to that conclusion before supper this evening. And when I thought of the fact that Father, too, has a safe in his study here—even if it is just an ordinary, old-fashioned Lionshead safe—though with some Chinaman’s name painted on it—I—”

  “With—with some Chinaman’s name—on it?” he said, a bit perplexedly. “What—why—of course I know the old Richard Lionshead and Sons Company safes—they were made in Westover, Massachusetts—my uncle had one—as a little kid I used to thrust the tip of my finger daringly into the open jaws of that small lion’s head that’s cast in partial relief on the door, and wonder if I’d get my finger out before the critter bit it off! The Lionshead safe—it’s an old-timer, all right. Even Noah, I understand,” he added facetiously, “had one on the ark!” He became serious again. “But—the Chinaman’s name painted on it? I don’t quite understand.”

  “Well,” she put in, “it’s quite a simple matter after all. Father picked up his safe secondhand, and awfully cheap, too, down in the Ghetto somewhere. Or maybe it was at some junk-dealer’s on Canal Street. He’s had it so many years now—seven, at least—that I’ve actually forgotten. It was locked, when he got it, and the junk dealer—or the secondhand man who sold it to him, promised faithfully to get him the combination from the original white owner that he himself bought it from. It must have belonged originally to a Chinese merchant, or importer, or something, for the first owner’s name, as I said—Hong Hok—is still on it in faded gilt letters.”

  “Curious,” he put. “And all the times I’ve been in the study, I never noted either that, nor even my old friend, the lion’s head.”

  “Silly,” she said. “The safe has always been draped over with that red silk scarf, and piled with Father’s books. Naturally you didn’t see anything of it—unless it was the wheels under its four corners.”

  “Well,” he queried helplessly, “this secondhand dealer—now—who was to get him the combination—from an original white owner, you say?—and not from a Chi—”

  “Yes, but to cut the story short, Billy, this dealer died of pneumonia. He was even buried when Father rode over to get the combination. On top o
f which, Father couldn’t locate any Hong Hok in Chicago’s Chinatown—and no Chicago Chinese who’d ever known him.”

  “And so—so your father got stuck with an empty safe—that he can’t open?”

  “Yes. And it is empty, Billy, because he says that nothing rolled about within it when it was trucked in here. For years, now, he’s been saying he is going to get the Richard Lions-head and Sons Company people—or rather their successors, which I believe are the Westover Safe Company—to send down a man and see whether the old safe could be opened up somehow without demolishing the mechanism—but he never has gotten around to it. You know how dilatory Father is! And besides—as he himself admits—he has nothing to keep in it anyway.”

  She paused and then went on.

  “I’ll show you Mr. Hong Hok’s business ’scutcheon presently—we’ll take the scarf off—but let me get back to the main subject we’re talking about. My feelings, that is, after I read that news story late today. When I thought of Father being one of the four John Craigs without a middle initial—and of his even having a safe—empty or full—Chinese or white—ancient or new—I just knew then and there that I would never dare to spend the night here alone—that is, with only poor old Eliza, decrepit and deaf as she is—and neither would I dare to go to some friend’s and leave the house alone—or with that poor old soul.” She paused, “Added to all of which, Billy, is the matter of—that mysterious telephone inquiry.”

  “And what—what was that?”

  “Well—it may have been quite legitimate, Billy—but on the other hand—maybe—maybe it wasn’t. It was a man who rang up. About 2:30 in the afternoon. He asked for Mr. John Craig. I told him Mr. Craig was out of town. And had been for nearly a week. Then he said he was just a special night electrical inspector searching for a—a ground leak, he called it, in this neighborhood, and wanted to know how late we were likely to be up tonight, in case he would want to come in here when he was in this neighborhood, and inspect our wiring. When he said that, strangely, I—I got a bit afraid; and in order—as I thought then—to shunt him off, I said that there would be nobody here tonight after 11 p.m.—that we were all starting by car, about that time, for Lake Winnebago, Wisconsin, for the morning fishing; and that he would have to defer his call, anyway, till Mr. Craig—as I termed Father—returned.”

  “Hm. Rather depicted a clear field for any potential intruder, crazy or sane, didn’t you, Laral?”

  “I’m afraid I did, unless perhaps the man really was a legitimate electrical inspector.” She paused. “But remember, Billy, when I got that call, I hadn’t yet read that last Compendium article: nor did I know either, for sure, whether you would be back in Chicago or not. And I certainly didn’t intend to let a stranger in the house unless at least somebody like yourself for instance—was here. Nor did I want to argue about it with the man. So—so that’s exactly why I handled him the way I did.”

  Hemple said nothing. He was thoughtful for a minute or so. Then he looked up at the girl curiously. “When did your father leave the city, Laral? And where did he go—this time?”

  An unfathomable look flashed over the girl’s face. She paused a long time before she answered. At length she replied to his pointed question: “He—he went last Saturday morning to St. Louis on some private business, Billy. He told me not to worry about him, and that he didn’t know how long he might be gone. Judging by the length of his previous trips, he should have been back this morning or yesterday. He left me money for myself and ’Liza to run the house on, and told me to enjoy myself while he was gone.”

  “I see.” Hemple nodded. “He should have been back this morning or yesterday? Tomorrow morning is Saturday, so he’ll surely be back by then, let’s hope.” He paused, thinking awhile. Then he suddenly broke the silence. “And has he said any more about the question of our marriage, Laral? For he knows that I’m wanting to marry you—I told him so myself—and if that book of mine were accepted, and I got properly sewed up with Macrae, Macrae and Macrae, that I wasn’t going to hold off any longer. So—” he stopped.

  She gazed at him with a peculiar sadness in her brown eyes, a tender sadness, to be sure, but one which perturbed him somehow. Then she spoke.

  “He doesn’t seem to want to make up his mind about our marriage, Billy, which marriage you feel now is so fully assured. Although I can say that the mere matter of your book doesn’t have any bearing at all with him. Or even what you do for a living—or how much you make. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to make up his mind. He always seemed to care more for my happiness than anything else in the universe, and your obvious intention to marry me seems to have thrown him into the greatest despondency. He actually broods about it, to tell you the truth.”

  “Well—did you tell him that he could live with us? That we could get a 5-room apartment in Hyde Park as well as a 4-room one?”

  Laral nodded. “Yes I did—on the theory that conditions—both sides—would permit that marriage.” She paused embar-rassedly, as one realizing that her peculiar words must be hopelessly puzzling her hearer. Then she went hurriedly on. “But that didn’t seem to change the aspect a bit. He just seems—for some reason—unable to make up his mind to let you have me, and I’d sure hate, Billy, to marry you without his saying ‘yes.’ He’s been such a wonderful father to me—he’s lived his whole life for me. If ever a man made up for the absence of a mother—he certainly has.”

  “Yes,” Hemple returned, “your father is a unique personality. There isn’t a selfish or narrow bone in his body. But to say ‘yes’ to my question actually seemed to stick in his throat.”

  “Well—let’s not worry about it, Billy. You know—a daughter can always win a father over—but there are other problems in life—that conflict with marriages.”

  “What—what do you mean?” he asked, alarmed.

  But his question was not just now to be answered, for at this juncture the blue drapes separating the parlor from the little hall parted, and an old negro woman, about 60 years of age, with a cane in her hand, though spotlessly clean in red-figured white calico that actually creaked, so starched and stiffly ironed it was, peered into the parlor.

  “Ebenin’, Mist’ Billy,” she said. “You lookin’ happah-like dis ebenin’.”

  “Evening yourself, ’Liza,” he half shouted, cupping his hands. “How’s your rheumatism?”

  She cupped her own ear at his words. “Whut da’ you is say?”

  “Your j’ints,” he shouted. “How’s your j’ints?”

  “Ain’ j’inin’ nuffin’ now, sense I j’ined wid de Mefodists.”

  The girl smiled. “It’s no use, Billy. She just guesses at everything—and even that was closer than she usually gets.”

  The negro woman turned her eyes toward the girl. “Missy L’al, Ah gonna tek mahse’f up to bed now in de attick. Ah done tuk de scissahs an’ cut mahse’f a hunk ob wiah f’um a stretch of ol’ wiah w’ut Ah foun’ unna’neaf de kitchen sink, an’ Ah wiahed up dat slidin’ bolt on de side kitchen do’—de bolt, dat is, whut ain’ got no knob, an’ de do’ whut ain’ got no key!—des lak as you saiz. Ain’ noboddah, L’al, c’d evah get dat do’ open now. So you quit you wuhyin’ ’bout booglahs. An’ if’n you wants me in de night, L’al, you des call fo’ me.”

  The girl smiled. And nodded. And the negro woman vanished. “A lot of good it would do to call for ’Liza,” she said. “She’d sleep right through the battle of Gettysburg, I believe.” She half shook her head. “Father bought a most wonderful electric eardrum for her—the most scientifically sound one, he said, that was being offered by the medical instrument makers—a sort of hard-rubber plug-like affair to insert in her ear—the dry batteries to ride around in her apron pocket—but she won’t put it in. Because it’s electrical, you see, and she’s scared it will electrocute her! Then he made her a simple horn trumpet himself that acts like magic because it’s as huge as Gabriel’s own
trumpet—but she positively never can find it. But she’s a jewel. Faithful and industrious—and asks but little for her services, because she is deaf.”

  “Though she does hear over the telephone at that,” he offered.

  She shook her head, “Quite on the contrary, Billy. She doesn’t. She hears the telephone bell—that is, she claims she feels it buzz—but she doesn’t hear conversation coming out of the receiver.”

  “But,” he put in puzzledly, “whenever I call up here and happen to get her on the phone, and you are here—she always says—”

  “‘Yassuh,’” the girl mimicked. “‘De pahty is ra’ght heah—so hol’ de wiah.’”

  “But—” he queried.

  “That’s her formula answer,” the girl explained. “Till she can get Father—or me—to the phone to find out what it’s all about. As a matter of fact she practically always calls me—because Father is too much of a recluse ever to get any calls.”

  “I see,” he nodded, “I see.”

  “Well—where were we, Billy?” she asked. “When we got sidetracked by Eliza?”

  “Well, we were talking about your father,” he stated. “I’m sure he’ll be back by tomorrow—for he’s not likely to prolong his trip over Sunday, whatever the cause. And after that, you and he can figure whether to ask for police protection—and bring down a lot of notoriety on yourselves—which I don’t imagine he, of all persons, would like—or whether to watch and wait. But tonight—have you given any thought to that?”

  The girl nodded slowly. “I had of course thought of asking the Ravenswood Police Station for protection; but I was afraid, just as you say, of drawing a lot of publicity down on our heads out here. Which I didn’t want to do without Father’s consent. So I decided to call you up and ask you what you’d do. And here you are. So—what?”

  He used up but few seconds in considering the subject. “I’ll tell you what,” he said promptly. “I can’t go back home tonight and leave you here alone in the lonely outskirt district. You may be sure of that. On the other hand—I don’t think I’d uselessly stir up a nest of publicity for myself and the pater if this fiddle-playing nut has finally satisfied himself as to what he wants to do—at this third John Craig’s, whose house he busted into last night. And so—so far as I can see—there’s just one simple way out of it.” He paused. “Have you your father’s old blunderbuss handy—I mean the old pistol you showed me once? The old antediluvian 5-shot affair?”