The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [81]
“Would you look at that,” he exclaimed, and brought the lantern closer.
The opening, which was only about one foot square, masked an alcove at least twice that size. Turk had cut and then reinforced the joists to create a storage area. Inside were five packages of different sizes, each wrapped in oilcloth and tied with string. We removed them and brought them to the table.
Haggens reached to the largest of the five, but I held up my hand to stop him. Our positions had become reversed. Haggens now deferred to me, a phenomenon attributable to the almost superstitious dread that had come over him at the sight of the stained cloth on the table. As inured to common violence as he was, I ventured that the sight of that oilcloth was the first time he had ever had occasion to imagine abortion in its grisly reality—fetus and placenta wrenched out, with sera gushing forth, as a helpless woman, her legs spread, lay moaning, debased, and miserable.
I was interested in the smallest of the packages and opened it first. Inside was what I had hoped to find: a small notebook, which, on cursory examination, appeared to hold records of Turk’s transactions. I was beginning to know Turk and, from the moment I realized that there were no such documents in his rooms, I expected to find them here. He was far too opportunistic to leave no records at all. The entries were categorized by individual letters, or small combinations, and I would be quite shocked if some of them were not related to his associates or contacts, perhaps even to Halsted himself. And, if I could confirm that what I suspected about the entries was true, I would have proof of the motive for Turk’s murder.
I slipped the notebook into my coat and we opened the other four packages. The first three each held a tin container bearing a stamp identifying it as the property of the Bayer Company of Wuppertal, Germany. There was other writing on the tins, but my knowledge of German was restricted to those terms that had entered medical terminology, so I could not decipher the meaning. One word I did understand was verboten—forbidden—and it appeared at the top of each of the tins.
The fifth package contained a revolver, a derringer, and a supply of ammunition for each.
We returned our attention to the tins and, when we opened them, discovered that each contained a white powder encased in two additional layers of oilcloth around a sheath of waxed paper. No moisture or foreign substance would penetrate such elaborate wrapping. I had taken the precaution of bringing with me a small specimen jar, which I removed from my pocket and filled with the powder.
I whispered to Haggens that we must return the room to precisely the state in which we had found it—so, when the police arrived, there would be no sign of our presence. I was surprised that he acceded so readily in repacking the white powder and returning it to the cutout, but he was so anxious to leave that room that he likely would have agreed to any request. It took only a few minutes to complete the task and, after a quick walk about with Haggens’ lantern, we closed the door behind us. It was not until we had reached the street that Haggens began to regain his usual sinister demeanor.
Even Mike had been affected by the surroundings. “What took you so long?” he wanted to know, glancing up and down the alley with quick jerks of his head, his voice between a challenge and a wail. It was the longest speech I had ever heard from him. Seeing Mike afflicted with nerves caused me to experience a wave of nerves of my own, and I realized that this errand had been far more dangerous, even with my escort, than I had imagined. Without anyone saying another word, we made our way quickly but cautiously up the alley and back to The Fatted Calf.
When we arrived, Haggens told Mike to get a drink at the bar and then led me into his office. He poured us each a glass of “the real stuff,” and this time I did not object. I had not lost my wits