The Case of the Murdered Mathematician, page 17
“Afraid you can’t step out yet, Mr. Unwynde!” she was coolly informing him. “For there’s a single man waiting to see you outside—as though it’s most frightfully urgent—just refuses, practically, to go away. And—”
She looked critically around the thickly green-carpeted room which, unfortunately for Mayor-Elects, had no egress except through the reception-room lying two rooms beyond. Went calmly on. “He claims he called you on the telephone again and again last evening—and all evening—clear up to midnight—and got no answer.”
“Well good ’eavens, Nipperhouse,” said Unwynde, dropping an “h” which, had there been a breeze, would have been delicately wafted out of the window and would have fallen 8 stories, “hasn’t a man, bah Jove, a right to take a bloomin’ fishin’-rod, and go out to Desplaines River and angle a bit, by his bloomin’ lonesome, for a night-fish or two? I—”
“Of course—of course, Mr. Unwynde! I’m only relating this to show you how hard the man’s been trying to get to you. And—”
“Yes? Well he can’t be trying very ’ard”—another “h” went a-glimmering!—“to get hold of me when he had all day to do it in. For why, if he couldn’t locate me last night, didn’t he come around today at some decent hour—why this is—” He gazed sourly at a clock on the wall.
“Oh,” the woman explained, “he says he was picked up this morning by the police for vagrancy—held all day, and then released when he showed he wasn’t a vagrant, but was merely without money. He—”
“Good ’eavens! Then it isn’t that he wants me to direct the Chief of Police to remove some charges or something over his head, is it? Well what bloomin’ kind of a bloke is he?”
“He’s a German, sir.”
“A German?” Unwynde stiffened in his chair. Released his watch-chain. His face grew hard. Though no one could have told, contemplating it, whether it was the hardness of a man who hated all Germans because of all they had done to his mother-country, or whether it was merely a profound suspicion that he, as Mayor-Elect, was going to be asked some favour for a race he could not favour. “Well wot in ’ell does he want with me, Nipperhouse?”
“He won’t say, sir.”
“Won’t, heh?” Mr. Unwynde had risen perturbedly from his chair. Puzzled only, however, and not belligerent. “German, eh? And has got to see me and now, eh? Well I’ll be blawsted if every Tom, Dick and ’Arr—listen ’ere, Nipper’ouse, find out from him on—well on the pretext, don’t y’ know, that I see nobody, ever, unless they state their business in some sort of thumbnail sketch like—y’ might even intimate ever so gently that he might find him self back of ba—no—just put it to him politely that—”
“I’ll do it okay, Mr. Unwynde. Leave it to me.” She bowed stiffly, withdrew, sliding to the door. And in a few seconds the sound of the farther door, in the farther wall of the adjoining room, could be heard opening, then closing.
Unwynde dropped back in his chair, scowling blackly at this unwarranted interruption to his movements, at so final an hour of the working day. Particularly by one who seemed to want to make a bally mystery of his call. Unwynde even put a black cigar in his lips, and without lighting it, sucked angrily on it. Finally leaned back, in his comfortable chair, with hands in coat pockets. But still scowling. Because—Damn these old offices in this building where a man couldn’t exit privately—had to pass through his own reception-room to get out, and—
But now Miss Nipperhouse was returning. As was evidenced by the sound of the opening and closing of that farther door; and now the actual sliding open of the door of this room. She slithered snakelike in, and, as one wishing to keep her conversation quite secret, drew it shut, too.
“Well?” he inquired, gruffly, removing his unsmoked cigar, and wheeling about in his swivel chair. “Wot does the bally Teuton want, anyw’y?” Unwynde’s query was worthy of one of the Cockney baggage-handlers in the great Waterloo Station, London!
Miss Nipperhouse made the faintest ghost of a moue, as of one who was a little tired, at times, of such adjectives as “bally” and “bloomin’” But answered calmly. “He wants a favour, sir.”
“Oh he does, heh? Well, if it’s a licence to beg or something, tell him to go to the proper authorities, and not bother–”
“It isn’t that, sir. Though it is a favour you’ll never grant. Because it involves a lot of money.”
“Money?—not trying to cadge money is he, out of the Mayor of Chi—that is, the Mayor-to-be-in-a-few-days of Chicago, is he? Well tell the blighter to get the hell out of here fast, or I’ll call the pol—is that all he’d tell you?”
“No, Mr. Unwynde. I maneuvered his whole story out of him. He’s not even a Chicago German. He’s a German, recently from Berlin. Has a passport and everything. His name is Ruckstahl—Hans Ruckstahl. And—”
“Ruckstahl?” Unwynde swung sharply forward in his chair, his face hard.
“You—you perhaps know him, sir?” Miss Nipperhouse inquired troubledly.
“No. That is—the name sounds faintly famil—probably is some other Ruck-something that I’ve heard or read abou—well what does he want—go on?”
“Well, he was quite frank with me, sir. At least on this second session. Told me that he once was one of the high men under Hitler. Though not in any capacity, he explains, as to later make him a war criminal. For he was in the field of general education only. Was even delegated, he says, at one time, to work with Hitler’s own Representative of the New Education, one Rudolph Pfankuch, to secure special textbooks in all subjects that might preach Nazism in the very lessons, and problems, and rules. Now, today, however, he’s broke and smashed. The war having turned out as it did. And Hitler having suicided and all. Only now, in fact, he says, did he manage finally to get out of Berlin, and was on his way to Japan. Where an opening—though a very modest opening—has been made for him by a distant relative in a new post-war German-Japanese banking house. He’s been travelling thence, however, via the United States, for the reason that he had a German sea-captain friend who was willing to bring him as far as New York, a Japanese captain friend who would take him, without charge, from Seattle to Japan, and an uncle out in Berwyn who, he was certain, would finance him ’cross country. He landed in Chicago yesterday afternoon broke. Found the uncle dead—yes, the man living out in Berwyn was a distant American-born cousin with the same name—and who threw him out as—well as, Ruckstahl says a ‘damned Nazi dog!’ And here now, the man tells me the Tagu-Maru, on which he can sail free, is leaving Seattle in exactly 48 hours. His only chance to board it being if he leaves Chicago tonight. And he can’t be on that Tagu-Maru, he says—because he can’t leave—because he—but that’s his story, Mr. Unwynde. And he has, I’ll admit some letters confirming his statements, but particularly one from the Japanese captain saying he’ll take him, free, on the Tagu-Maru.”
Unwynde had listened to this whole tale, his own face a mask.
“And why,” he now asked grimly, “does he come to me? Since I’m—English, and he’s—”
“He explained even that, Mr. Unwynde. He says that the—er—British are very sporting people where their enemies are concerned—that a Britisher can be a hard fighter and a bitter hater, but that, when he’s downed his enemy, he can be, and more often than not is, very magnanimous. He frankly says he was an ardent Nazi, was of Hitler and a Hitler helper, and that he realized that the man in Chicago most likely to help him would be a Britisher himself.”
“Um,” replied Unwynde sourly, his “um” giving no indication of the nature of his inner comments. He even sat reflecting.
“Wants passage money, I suppose—to the coast?”
“Oh yes, of course. I dare say I neglected to say that. Wants it, however, merely as a loan. Which he’ll repay.”
“Quite a loan, eh? With the borrower—in Japan?” He laughed mirthlessly.
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Miss Nipperhouse commented. “A rather technical loan—to say the least! For—but that’s his story, anyway. Now would you like me to give him a flat unequivocal ‘no’? It will be easy enough for me to do. For we’re not under obligation here to furnish every foreign Tom, Dick and—”
“Now wait,” pleaded Unwynde. And sat, lost in thought. “He’ll only be back again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. Still wanting to see me—wanting the money—figuring to wash dishes or something across the Pacific on some American vessel. These damned Germans never give up an idea, once they get it—and they never know, either, when they’ve been tossed out on their—y’ say,” he now asked, almost pleadingly, “that he comes to me only because of my—hrmph—putative British magnanimity?”
“Yes, Mr. Unwynde. I am certain of that. He says—well, he says if he can but see you for five minutes, he will convince you that the finest, noblest thing you can do for a repentant Nazi is to loan him the money. But never mind, I’ll tell him we don’t hand out interviews and—”
“Now wait,” put in Unwynde. “I know the damned Germans, I tell you. They’re—they’re lunatics, all of ’em. And never give up a bug idea. And this idea of appealing to the Mayor-Elect—and of—of opposite nationality—is the buggiest, nutziest of all. Unless”—he looked gloomy—“it’s founded on some—hrmph—deep-lying motivation not clear to me which—” His words trailed off. “Yes,” he resumed suddenly, “no sooner has he slept on his idea overnight, than he’ll be back, with an elaborated argument. For me to listen to, that is. For some bally reason I’m the goat—because I’m a Britisher in the local public eye. And well to do. Yes, he’ll be back. Waiting even outside the offices to see me, and—y’ say, Nipper’ouse, the Tagu-Maru sails—”
“At 6 p.m., sir, two nights from now. He showed me a sailing list—checked, and confirmed by a pair of initials—from the travel bureau up the street. But surely you’re not thinking—”
He cut her brusquely off.
“And he can make it, via some train going out tonight?”
“So he says, Mr. Unwynde. Indeed, he has with him a time-table on some line from the Depot across the way. Could have beautifully made it, he says, had he been aboard the train which goes out now in”—she glanced over at the clock—“well, in but ten minutes—but of course, for him that’s O—U—T—out! But, as he blithely indicates, he can still make it on the one going out at 9 tonight.” She shook her head as marvelling at such consummate optimism.
Unwynde was reflectively speaking.
“And he has—no ties here?”
“Says he hasn’t even a hotel room, Mr. Unwynde. But surely you—”
“For heaven’s sake, Nipper’ouse, don’t ‘surely’ me so much. I’ve a sort o’ ’unch, down’t y’ know, in the back o’ my ’ead, that this fellow might—hrmph—be my—hrmph—lucky—y’see, I once helped a blawsted Heinie with a tenner—in a burst of—er—good fellowship—and got such bloomin’ good luck through it that—well, I’ve ’alf a notion now—”
“But—but Mr. Unwynde, this is no matter of a mere—a mere ten-dollar bill, you know. Why—passage alone to the Pacific coast is—is $50. And if one adds sleeper accommodations, meals en route—Surely—”
She stopped short, actually biting off, with her thin lips, that last “surely!”
“And I,” pronounced Mr. Unwynde sonorously, and in a tone of voice that defied any arguments, “am going to help the damned blighter. Though don’t you let me catch you ever letting it get to the papers, Nipper’ouse. Don’t let me. Yes, I’m going to help him. For I—”
“Then,” she said, turning hurriedly to the door, “I’ll fetch him in. For—”
“Stop!”
Mr. Unwynde had actually risen to his feet. His face contorted with something.
“I—I don’t wish to see the blighter at all, Nipper’ouse. For I’ll ’ave to listen to a lot of thanks and promises to—anyway, I—I might get angry—down’t y’ know?—hrmph—arguing about those damned Nazis—he, having been one, might defend ’em—we might wind up in a hot argument—even have a fight, maybe—and that’d make a scandal on the very eve of my taking the mayoral chai—no, Charity—hrmph—should not be done in an obtrusive way, you know, nor—Here—” He had pulled from his hip pocket his hand-tooled leather wallet. From which, nipping it open with the hand that held it, he extracted a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “Here!—here’s twenty guineas in—that is, a C-note—yes, a C-note—only—don’t give it to him—by no means! He might get drunk—might stay over—might spend or gamble it all—might then return tomorrow and ’arrow our feelin’s all over again!—no, what I want you to do, Nipperhouse, is to take him right now across the street to the depot—” He was glancing at the clock. “Grab him a through ticket—don’t waste time on Pullman accommodations—he can fix them aboard the train—get him aboard that train, and as it pulls out give him the change. Yes, put him aboard and see that he goes. For I—I feel now, more and more, as though if he gets aboard that Tagu-Maru all sorts of good luck will start coming my way—that is, I shall make a great mayor, and—”
“You’re the doctor!” was all Miss Nipperhouse said. And said it as one frankly disapproving. “I don’t believe in luck at all. I—”
“Get going!” ordered Unwynde harshly. “Get going. Explain to him, however, that I’m closeted with—say—my Chief of Police—who came in by some other door—will be for hours—just let him think that I was the magnanimous Britisher he thought—of course I am, Nipperhouse,—I am!—only let him know that—yes—although pretend—hrmph—pretend you expect to get the money back. Not that you ever will, but—”
He stopped. For she was glancing appraisingly at the clock.
“I’ll do all of that, Mr. Unwynde,” she said, “just as soon as I can clap my bright red toque on. And I’ll come up and let you know how—”
“Don’t need to come back up,” he assured her grandiloquently. “Go on home. I’ll watch down from here. And if you come out from the depot with that hat on—and by yourself!—I’ll know definitely he got off okay. Go on.”
“At once, Mr. Unwynde.”
And she was gone, to the tune of doors sliding and closing behind her.
The minute she was, he posted himself at the window. His very nose against the glass. So that he could direct his eyes upon the broad sidewalk below, at least where a flood of illumination poured forth from the foyer entrance of the Threak-Kuad-Wrangles Building. And thus he stood and continued to stand, his hands clasping and unclasping behind him, almost supported in his stiff and forward bending position by his very compressed nose!
And it was scarcely a minute before, far below, he saw Miss Nipperhouse—rather, her bright red hat, with a fleck of orange to one side that was that of the orange feather affixed thereto—emerge from the building, with, bobbing alongside it, a round green spot representing, no doubt, a green derby hat. The two spots kept rigidly together as though invisibly linked—almost bobbed in unison like two persons in step!—moved forward off the sidewalk and into the street between the very traffic.
Once, he caught the two spots as they seemed to press forward across the bright lights of a truck which plainly had brought itself to sudden stop to give them passage. And still again he caught them as they seemingly came up on the broad sidewalk in front of the depot, thanks of course to the depot illumination pouring forth there. Saw them, in fact, move into the very depot entrance and vanish. As spots—hats—persons!—whatever they might be.
No longer now having to compress his nose against that glass, he withdrew himself slightly, felt the nose gingerly with his left hand, reached over to his desk with his right, and took up his black unlighted cigar. Which he thrust into his mouth and on which he proceeded to chew savagely—the while he waited.
Waited while, half-minute after half-minute, through the ventilator at the window’s base, came all the sounds that arise in a big train shed on the eve of the departure of an important trans-continental train—the hissing of steam—bells ringing—cries of porters, baggage handlers, whatnot; and finally, as he even was certain, he heard the faintish cries of “A-a-a-all aboh-hord!” repeated along a long train like elephants with tails in trunks and—yes, he was right!—for down the line of the big translucently roofed train-shed, visible beyond the roof of the depot, and lighted to show all wandering airplanes that it was no airplane landing field!—he saw a jet of combined smoke and steam trail along it—a jet indicating plainly a train pulling out—a train that—and now, indeed, just beyond the far end of that gigantically arched structure, the train itself was visible, pouring forth like some curious slender waterfall—though weaving through and into the switchlamp-dotted yards like a sinuous snake—then being gone utterly into the night.
Now he quickly brought his gaze to bear on the entrance of the depot. Withdrawing his cigar from his lips so that he could plant his very forehead against the glass. And scarcely had he done so for more than a dozen seconds, than he saw that bright red patch, with the affixed flick of orange, and representing all-in-all Miss Nipperhouse’s hat, come out of the depot.
Alone!
Bobbing along now—with no other patch.
Toward, indeed, the streetcar stop at the corner.
And he gave vent to one exultant exclamation.
“Made it!” he said triumphantly. And shook his head almost in disbelief of his own admission. “Made it!” he repeated. “Got rid of him—without his ever glimpsing me or—or talking to me. Donnervetter!—and who would have dreamed that that hund would ever have crossed my path again, or—” He laughed mirthlessly. Though quite satisfiedly.
CHAPTER XX
Whether This!—Whether That!
Quiribus Brown, giant, ruefully facing the necessity of answering specifically whether a certain curve, drawn by a dying murdered mathematician, was a spiral or an unwind—comprehending, and with considerable distress, at the same time, that what he was now about to say was something that must of necessity put a man on trial for his life—even, no doubt, in the electric chair!—took a deep, almost reluctant breath.
