Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 3, No. 4, September 1942

The Compliments of the Chief by Lincoln Steffens

In this issue we begin our own C.I.D. — Curiosities in Detection. Our researches have turned up numerous discoveries in the field of detection, mystery, and crime literature; but occasionally we make a discovery so astonishing that it requires a separate classification altogether.

Such a discovery is “The Compliments of the Chief,” by Lincoln Steffens, venerated author of “The Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens” — newspaper veteran, wit, and man of American letters.

We dug “The Compliments of the Chief” out of Ainslee’s Magazine, issue of July, 1900!

Judged purely on its merits, of course, Mr. Steffens’s 42-year-old tale can scarcely bear comparison with modern detective stories. Yet it has a significance out of all proportion to its value as a story. In it lie buried the tiny seeds of that school of detection literature best exemplified — a whole generation later! — by the work of Dashiell Hammett and other exponents of so-called “modern” realism. Mr. Steffens paints a truly remarkable picture of real-life crime detection in the City of New York — a quaint city it seems! — at the very tail of the 19th Century. His Chief of Police Reilly shows you how policemen of the year 1900 went about solving crimes... in an era in which Sherlock Holmes and his multitudinous imitators of the romantic school dominated detective fiction.

Therefore Mr. Steffens’s yarn is authentic Americana, and as such we pass it on to you to be cherished and preserved.

The Chief of Police lay on the great, leather-covered sofa in his office alone. He wasn’t tired. His barber had shaved him and gone; the mail was attended to; routine business was over for the day. It was pleasant to lie there that way in his shirt sleeves, his collar, cuffs and boots off, and be comfortable. Everything was all right, and for an hour, until noon, the Chief was not to be disturbed.

A light tap at the door and his sergeant came in, a smooth-moving little man, with eyes sometimes light blue and innocent, sometimes dark blue and sharp. The Chief knew no one else would enter then, so he did not look up.

The sergeant showed a card, “Mr. Wayland Morrison Ball,” but the Chief wouldn’t read.

“Who is it, Mac? What does he want?”

“It’s a squeal, Chief, about a gold watch.”

“Well, why don’t it go to the detective bureau?”

“Just read the name, Banker Ball.”

The Chief rose to his feet, hastily pulled on his boots, put on his collar, cuffs, and snapped on his cravat, while the sergeant held the coat. When the Chief had wound down into that, he went to a glass, buttoned up the uniform, touched his hair and went to his roll-top desk. When he was seated, he leaned his head on his hand, put on a dreamy, far-away look, and the sergeant nodded.

“All right, then, send him in,” said the Chief.

And so Mr. Ball found him, pondering and absorbed. The sergeant retired.

“Chief Reilly?”

No answer.

“Mr. Reilly, I believe.”

The Chief nodded and waved the gentleman to a chair. A minute more of brown study, and the Chief pushed a button three times.

A detective came in and stood beside the desk at attention, till the Chief came out of his pre-occupation.

“Where are the men who are working on that jewel robbery now?”

“They are shadowing the thief along the water-front.”

“At this moment?”

“At this moment.”

“Well, you warn them that the thief will take the Pennsylvania ferry and buy tickets in Jersey City for Washington. Arrest him on this side.”

The man saluted and went out.

The Chief seemed satisfied that that case was disposed of. He rose, thought a moment more, and nodded approval. His hand was playing with the banker’s card; his eye happened to catch it, read it, then turned slowly up under his heavy brows at the banker who had got up on his feet with the Chief.

“Mr. Ball?”

“Wayland Morrison Ball.”

“Banker?”

“Eleventh National Bank.”

“Right,” the Chief said, slowly nodding his head. “Eleventh National Bank.” He went to the window, his back to the banker, then he came about, leaned against his desk.

“Did you ever get back,” he said, indifferently, “the bonds — three, I think, yes, three C. B. & Q.’s — stolen two years ago?”

“No.”

“Might just as well. They were negotiated in Chicago a week before you missed them, got into circulation, and were soon in reputable hands.”

The banker was amazed. That case had never been reported to the police. A detective agency was called in, and though its men worked hard, they never got the slightest clew to the thief or the property till the railroad company’s transfer clerk caught the bonds at dividend time.

“The boy made a fool mistake, didn’t he, taking bonds?” asked the Chief, still rather absently. “Never stole again, I suppose?”

“Why, we never knew who took them,” the banker said. “Do you mean to say the thief was an employee? Is an employee?”

“He will never do it again, I think,” the Chief said. “I should dismiss all thought of it. Take that chair.”

The Chief sat down at his desk, leaned his head in his hand, but this time he set his eyes keenly on the banker’s face, all alert and attention.

“Now,” he said, “what is the trouble today?”

The banker had gathered himself and was taking the chair indicated. It was near the desk and the light fell on the banker’s face; the chief’s was in the shadow.

“Robbed?”

“Yes, of a gold watch, given me by my father, and as a present from him I treasure it beyond its true value. But—”

The Chief lifted his hand deprecatingly.

“Where were you and how did it happen?”

“I was crossing the bridge, and—”

“One moment, Mr. Ball. Which way were you going?”

“From Brooklyn here. I hardly ever go to Brooklyn.”

“What time did you reach the bridge?”

“Eleven-fifty-five. I know that because I looked at my watch as I took the bridge car. That’s how I know I lost it on the bridge. You see—”

“When did you miss the watch?”

“As I stepped off the car on this side.”

“The car was crowded, ladies and gentlemen and some workmen. The watch was taken from the chain and the clasp and the chain was put back in place. This was last night?”

The banker was nodding affirmatively to each statement, and his eyes flattered the Chief as he loved to be flattered, by astonishment and wonder shown as a child shows these emotions.

“Your name was on the case inside, and your father’s?”

“Yes. ‘John Henry Ball to his son, Wayland Morrison Ball. Dec. 3, 1879.’ It is a heavy hunting case Geneva watch—”

The Chief got up and walked to the window.

“Everybody in the car — except the working people — was talking—”

“Talking and laughing in the several groups—”

Chief Reilly turned back, thinking again.

“Can you be in your office to-morrow at 12:30 o’clock?” he asked at length.

“Yes.”

“The watch will be delivered to you then.”

The banker knew how to behave in most of the crises of life, but he was uncomfortable now. He would have liked to ask some questions, to express some thanks, to praise the official a little frankly; but the Chief seemed to be absorbed already in something else, so Mr. Ball stepped back, bowing.

“I shall be obliged, Chief Reilly, for this service, I assure you. Good-day.”

The Chief dropped his head as if mechanically bowing, and the banker reached the door. It opened before him, and he went out to his carriage, which bore him swiftly away to his office.

“Mac,” said the Chief, when the sergeant returned to him, “who’s working the bridge now?”

“I don’t know, unless it’s the Keg Kelly mob; but no, you told them to haul off, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and after that I warned the Hen and Chickens off.”

“Maybe they’ve gone back.”

“Send Thompson in.”

Thompson came, hurrying up from court. He was a fat, but clean man of forty, and he looked more like a thief than an actor, for his face, though square and smooth shaven, was red and irregular, with small, damp pink eyes. His “plain clothes” were a bit “tough” in style.

The Chief eyed the detective up and down, slowly, angrily.

“Some of your friends on the bridge have been robbing a friend of mine, Banker Ball. A fine, big gold watch, with the man’s name on it.”

Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other, he rolled his hat around his hand — and he hung his head. He glanced up shiftily twice, as if he thought of an answer, but he made none.

“I want it,” said the Chief. “I want you and the watch here at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

The detective went out. The Chief pulled off his boots, coat and collar and lay down on the lounge.

When Thompson left the Chief’s office, he went down in the basement where half a dozen detectives were lounging about. He spoke to them, asking first the same question the Chief put to the sergeant, “Who is working the bridge?” All offered suggestions, and Thompson discussed them with his friends. Then he walked down to the Criminal Court building, where his “side-partner,” Tarney, was. Tarney was on the witness stand, so Thompson moved about among the lawyers in the court-room. He spoke to each alone, earnestly, inquiring first, then saying something emphatic. They all seemed to answer in about the same way, each shook his head, lifted his hands helplessly and then nodded. When Tarney was told to “step down,” Thompson drew him out into the corridor, and they held a long consultation leaning up against a pillar. They whispered, speaking eagerly, then silent, then enthusiastically again, till they separated.

Tarney, following one clew, visited each court-room in the building and talked with every likely lawyer he saw. He went out into the street and called on other criminal law firms in the neighborhood. Sometimes he met men on the sidewalk with whom he talked. Now and then he stepped into saloons, looked around and either left with a shrug or jumped at some man to whisper to him. This part of his work done, Tarney spent the rest of the day dashing into and out of pawnshops. He never stayed long in a place; just long enough to say a few stern words, make a few gestures, and to write down the one word “Ball.”

“The old man wants it, see?” That was the only sentence he spoke aloud.

Thompson went to the bridge. At the New York end he spoke to a man who stood idly watching the crowd, then to a policeman. Each told him something that interested him, but he went on across the bridge afoot, stopping twice on the way over to address ordinary-looking persons. At the Brooklyn end also he addressed men who knew him. A short, swift tour of the pawnshops in lower Brooklyn, and he rode back to New York. He called at several saloons and a few more pawnshops.

“And the old man wants it back,” was the way Thompson closed the interviews.

At five minutes to six, Tarney emerged from the crowd in Twenty-third Street and approached the southeast corner of Sixth Avenue. A big policeman was standing there, but at sight of Tarney, he moved off without a sign of recognition. The detective leaned against the corner. At three minutes to six Thompson arrived. They turned off at once to a restaurant, where Thompson led the way to a corner table, and taking the chair which commanded a view of the whole room, he sat down. Tarney sat opposite him. They ordered a course dinner, with wine, and, saying nothing, ate it. Over the cigars, they exchanged a few words.

“Been to the Hen and Chickens?” Thompson asked.

“Nope. Everywhere else. Left that till tonight. You stop at Kelly’s?”

“Nope. No use till to-night.”

It was eight o’clock when Thompson, walking alone in the shadow of the tenements on a dark side street, turned suddenly into a noisy saloon. He pushed open the swinging fly doors and stood still between them, holding off a wing in each hand. The room was full of men, some at tables, others at the bar, others again in a back room. All stopped whatever they were doing, and looked at Thompson. There was silence. They stared, and half raised glasses were put down on the bar. The bartender was the first to recover.

“ ’Lo, Tom,” he said. “Have something?”

A man in the back room went quickly out of the side door. Another followed him slowly.

“Keg here?” Thompson asked.

“Yes,” said a voice, and a short, well-dressed man came out of the back room. His face was hard, though the skin was soft and pale, and his hands were long and very fine.

“Want me?” he asked.

Thompson came in and let the doors swing shut.

“No, I don’t ‘want’ nobody,” the detective said, smiling a little.

The whole atmosphere of the room changed. The crowd relaxed. Interrupted drinks were swallowed, and liquor flowed, everybody laughed.

“Come here,” said Thompson.

He caught Keg Kelly by a buttonhole and drew him into the corner, and Thompson talked for one minute with great firmness.

“And the old man wants it back again,” he said at last. “Good night.”

The next morning at 9 o’clock Thompson stood on the corner of Mott Street and Houston, Tarney at Mott and Bleecker, with the rear entrance of police headquarters between them. They seemed to be holding receptions. Queer old foreigners, dilapidated loafers, “sports,” out-and-out “toughs,” went up to them one at a time. Most of them made apologetic gestures, were cursed, and slunk away; a few smiled, spoke a few words and delivered small parcels.

The detectives left their corners simultaneously, and approaching police headquarters, went together down into the basement. There they looked over “the stuff,” as they called it, eleven watches of all sizes and shapes. Thompson took off Tarney’s hat and held it out while Tarney put his watches in, then he gave it to Tarney while he “unloaded.”

“ ‘Wall,’ ” he said, “Microwitz wasn’t sure of the name. Take it back to him.”

Tarney put it in his pocket.

“ ‘Ball.’ Maybe that’s it,” said Thompson, looking at the next watch, “but it’s pretty small. I’ll let the old man see it.” He kept that. “And here’s another ‘Ball.’ I guess that’s it. Keg sent both of these. Beaut’, ain’t it? Here’s a ‘Call.’ Take it, and this, too, ‘Wahl.’ Say, here’s a ‘Hall.’ It is a haul, sure enough; regular poem. What’s this, another ‘Hall.’ Those other little ones are n. g. Keep ’em. I’ll let the old man take his pick of these two ‘Balls.’ But I guess this big fellow is the one he passed the word for.”

Mr. Wayland Morrison Ball had a few friends in to lunch with him in his office at noon that day. He had promised to show them something interesting, and had explained enough to make them all very much interested to hear more. They looked at the clock when they came in.

“Exactly 12:20, he said,” Mr. Ball repeated, “on the minute. He’s a remarkable man. Why, I tell you he told me things I didn’t know myself — who were in the car, what they did, which ones sang, which ones talked, and—”

A shrewd little broker smiled.

“Well, he did,” Mr. Ball insisted. “He even described how the watch was taken off the chain, exactly. And that other case of ours here, you know. He asked me about that, but he thought I knew more than I did. He knows who took the bonds.” Mr. Ball lowered his voice. “And we don’t know that to this day. He told me what the thief did with them, where they went, through whose hands they passed. It was the most astonishing thing.”

The bankers and brokers didn’t half believe Ball. They ate of the lunch, drank a sip of tea or water or wine, and glanced up at the clock. Some of them tried to tell detective stories they had read, but Ball said such tales were all rot.

“This is the real thing,” he insisted. “Chief Reilly — you ought to have seen the way he looked at me, and the questions he asked — sharp, keen. He’s a wonderful man, wonderful. Everything right to the point, every word, every gesture, every glance—”

It was 12:20, and everybody knew it. They were silent, watching the clock or looking at their watches. Some of them stopped eating. The next ten minutes dragged, but they passed, 12:25, 12:26, 27. The men were all nervous now, and serious. At last it was 12:28. There was no sign, and Mr. Ball was anxious, but he smiled confidently. “It isn’t time yet,” he said.

A minute more crept by; you could hear the clock tick above the ticker. The long hand on the clock moved on slowly till it was against the figure VI; not a sign. It was over the VI.

A rap at the door. Everybody started, and the company laid down their napkins to look, but remembered, and turned their eyes away.

“Come in,” said Mr. Ball, rising expectantly.

“Two... two men — gentlemen to see you—”

“Show them in.”

The clerk slipped aside. Thompson and Tarney entered side by side, as solemn as undertakers.

“Mr. Ball?” said Thompson, looking at the banker.

“I am Mr. Ball.”

“The compliments of Chief Reilly,” the detective said. He laid the watch on the table. Then he and Tarney turned and went out.

The watch lay there on the table, every eye fixed upon it. No one moved. The gentlemen glanced around at one another, then up at their host. Mr. Ball smiled a little, rather proudly.