The Case of the Crime King

Chapter 10

11:17 a.m. When Frank and I reported back to the office, we found a teletyped reply from San Francisco to our earlier request. Three relatives and seven known associates of Gerald Federson were listed. The two relatives besides the dead man’s brother, Lester, were married sisters.

I phoned all the names to R & I, and learned that four of the associates had local records. When the clerk at R & I asked if we wanted the packages pulled, I said, “Later, maybe. We’ll be down if we do.”

There was no point in having them pulled before we’d been to Handwriting. All we wanted to know at the moment was which of Federson’s associates had local records, so we could have Handwriting check them out.

As Frank and I walked down the hall toward Handwriting, Frank said gloomily, “Don’t suppose well be lucky enough to have one of them match, do you?”

I shrugged. “We’re about due for a break.”

“Overdue. Shouldn’t we wire Frisco for handwriting samples of those who haven’t got records here?”

“If none of these match,” I said.

But for once we got our break. When Woody checked the second of the four 5.7.’s against the photostated letters, he said, “Bingo.”

“Turn something?” I asked.

“Just your letter writer.” He tossed the card across the desk to me.

Even to my unskilled eye it was apparent that the writing on the card was the same as that in the letters. The suspect was a Maurice (Maury) Wey, aged thirty-one, and the charge listed was armed robbery.

“Even the initial fits,” Frank said in a pleased voice. “The M wasn’t for Martin, it was for Maury.”

We went downstairs to the Golden Horseshoe and pulled Maurice Wey’s package. According to it, he was serving twenty years on four counts of armed robbery, and had already served five.

Maury Wey’s mugg shot showed a handsome, smooth-featured man with a straight nose, clear wide-spaced eyes, and an intelligently high forehead. His description said he was five feet ten and a half inches and weighed one hundred seventy-two pounds.

Frank said dissatisfiedly, “Nothing in here about him being well-educated. He didn’t even finish high school.”

“He’s been five years in the Joint since this was written up,” I said. “Maybe he spent it studying.”

We copied off a list of Wey’s known associates for future reference and turned the package back in. Then we returned to the squad room and went over the letters again in the light of our new knowledge that their writer was an inmate of San Quentin. It now seemed more evident than ever that reference to the “operation” was code for a planned prison break.

“Guess we’d better phone the warden and drop a warning,” I said.

Frank was still examining one of the letters. “Listen to this, Joe. ‘As soon as the chairman of the board completes his vacation — which should be at the end of this month—.’ What do you make of that?”

“That Wey isn’t the boss of the gang. Somebody else is.”

“Yeah. Somebody he’s in close contact with. He writes as though he has frequent conversation with him.”

I thought this over, said slowly, “Which means he’s in San Quentin, too. And up for release at the end of this month.”

“Uh-huh. Fits Big Julie Martin, doesn’t it?”

“It’s an angle,” I admitted. “Little too easy, though.”

Frank hiked his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

I said, “We only looked in Big Julie’s direction in the first place because the letters were so well-written. And he checked out on that. We don’t have a thing to connect him with any of this.”

Frank gave a reluctant nod. “Guess it is a little hopeful. Things don’t come that easy.”

“At least we’ve got a pretty good idea the leader of this gang gets out at the end of the month. When I phone the prison, I’ll ask for a complete list of men up for parole about then.”

12:02 p.m. I phoned San Quentin and got hold of the assistant warden again.

After identifying myself, I said, “I’m calling about another man this time, sir. Got a tip for you.”

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“A Maurice Wey. We have reason to believe he’s planning a break.”

There was a moment of silence, then the voice said wearily, “Wish you’d had that tip when you phoned last night, Lieutenant.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Looked at your bulletin board recently?”

I glanced in the direction of the squad-room bulletin board, said, “About an hour ago.” It’s automatic to check the board whenever you enter or leave the building. Frank and I had glanced it over on our return from Gerald Federson’s rooming house, but hadn’t checked it since.

The assistant warden said, “If you check it again, you’ll probably find an escape bulletin on it. Wey was missing at nose count this morning.”

A feeling of frustration grew in me. We’d missed by so little.

“How’d he swing it?” I asked.

“He was in the hospital section. Supposedly with an appendicitis attack. We assume now it was feigned. How he made it to the courtyard is still under investigation. All we really know is that we found a dummy of rolled-up blankets in his bed this morning. We think he must have had outside help to get over the wall. Probably someone tossed a rope with a grappling hook over to him. There was probably also a car waiting and a change of clothes. It was a carefully planned break.”

I asked if there was any chance that Big Julie Martin had played any part in the escape plan.

“No,” the assistant warden said definitely. “Not only is there no indication of it, Wey wouldn’t have asked his help.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Prison custom. Even convicts have a code of sorts. Men up for parole are never dragged into escape or riot plans. So as not to jeopardize their chances of parole.”

“Were they friends?” I asked.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. They were in the same cell block. But Wey escaped from the hospital, not his cell block, so Martin could hardly have had anything to do with it. What makes you think he might have?”

I told him about the letters, and our suspicion that the boss of the proposed robbery gang was a San Quentin inmate about due for release.

“Sure you’re interpreting those letters right?” the assistant warden asked dubiously. “Maury Wey isn’t the sort of man to let anyone else be boss.”

“Oh?” I said.

“He’s a real bad one. Not at all amenable to discipline. And among his prison associates he was always a leader, not a follower.”

“Maybe this guy he refers to as ‘chairman of the board’ has a stronger personality,” I suggested.

“It would take more than that. Wey seemed to have a sort of contemptuous attitude for most of his prison associates. He’s the sort of man who has to respect another man before he permits him to boss any operation he’s a part of. Mere toughness wouldn’t he enough. They don’t come any tougher than Maury Wey. I doubt that he’d be afraid of any man on earth.”

“He respect Julie Martin?” I asked.

“Possibly,” the assistant warden said reluctantly. “Most of the prisoners do, as a matter of fact. Martin’s not only highly intelligent, he has a tremendously outgoing personality, you know. He’s a born leader. But he can’t possibly be the man Wey referred to in the letters.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too intelligent to get involved in anything like that,” he said. “I told you how well he’s done. It would be stupid for him to go back to robbery, when he can make an adequate living writing crime stories.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But he was stupid once before.”

“How’s that?”

“He was making an adequate living ghosting speeches when he picked up a gun last time.”

We talked for some minutes more, during which the assistant warden gave me some background on Maurice Wey. He described him as a “brilliant but warped personality.” He said Wey had devoted himself to the study of law during the five years he had been in prison, and knew as much about it as any lawyer.

“It must show in those letters how extremely well-educated he is,” he said. “And all as a result of his studies in prison.”

“Yeah, it shows,” I told him.

“Incidentally, is there any information in the letters as to how he smuggled them out? They certainly couldn’t have passed the prison censor.”

“No,” I said. “Sorry.”

“One of our worst problems,” the assistant warden said. “With the security system we have, you’d think it would be impossible to smuggle anything in or out. But they figure new ways as fast as we break up the old. Can you mail me copies of those letters?”

I said I would, and asked in return if he’d mail me a list of the inmates scheduled for release during the next few weeks.

When I hung up, Frank said, “Bad news, huh?”

Instead of answering, I took his elbow and steered him over to the bulletin board. The escape bulletin had been posted since we last looked. It was headed Escape Bulletin Number 42, California State Penitentiary, San Quentin, California. It didn’t have any information in it that I hadn’t already gotten from the assistant warden.

After reading it over, Frank said, “Where’s that leave us?”

“With a job to do,” I said. “Let’s get busy.”

“Before lunch?” he asked. “It’s getting chafed.”

“What is?”

“My stomach,” Frank said. “From rubbing against my backbone.”

Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearly twelve thirty. “We’ll take a twenty-minute break,” I decided.

1:07 p.m. We addressed copies of the photostated letters to the police chiefs of the state’s larger cities and towns, and enclosed a covering letter to each explaining them. I also mailed one to the assistant warden at San Quentin.

An APB and a local were already out on Maurice Wey. Since the letters indicated the suspect had intended to meet Gerald Federson in Los Angeles after his break, we got out a supplemental containing this information. We also arranged for Federson’s rooming house to be staked out, as it was possible Wey did not know of his death and might show there.

Then we had another conference with Captain Peters.

As a result of this conference, it was decided to put under surveillance all local known associates of the deceased Gerald Federson and to request the San Francisco police to cover his friends in that city. Orders had already been issued to cover Maurice Wey’s associates.

Captain Peters said, “Between the two of them, maybe we can get a lead on who the other members of this proposed gang are. The only one we know for sure is this Maurice Wey.”

“And Gerald Federson,” I said.

He looked at me. “We won’t worry about dead men.”

Frank said, “We know the leader is still in the Joint.”

“Which leaves three besides Wey on the loose,” the skipper said. “If we can finger them from among Federson’s and Wey’s friends, maybe we can break this up before it starts.”

I said, “It’s possible none of them are on the loose.”

“Huh?” the captain said.

I said, “Federson had been out of the Joint only six months when he was killed. In the records Wey isn’t listed as a friend until they met in prison. And until now Wey hasn’t been out since they met.”

“Yeah,” the captain said thoughtfully. “I see what you’re getting at. This whole thing could have been whipped up in prison.”

“We know the proposed leader’s still there,” I said. “We can be pretty sure Wey and Federson were recruited there. There’s at least a good chance the other three were, too.” Frank said, “If they were, they must all be guys up for release. Or already released.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

Frank hiked his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Wey wasn’t up for release. Maybe there’s another break in the works.”