The Man with the Wooden Spectacles

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “Manny?” he said hurriedly.

  “Yes. This—this is Popp’n’law?”

  “Yes.” Silas Moffit made a momentary grimace. “Say Manny, get out the D. C. papers from the lockbox at once so they may be immediately put of record, and—”

  “D. C. papers, Popp’n’law? D.—C.? What papers, maybe—do you mean? Now if you mean the ones you signed yesterday—the revised ones we worked out together to disinherit Saul by 101 per cent so’s he won’t have a show in hell to ever get a single penny from your estate, why of course I can get ’em out, and—”

  “No, no, no, no, you imbecile!” put in Silas Moffit irritably. “I mean—but since you have introduced the subject, I want to go all over those papers again with you tomorrow—with a still finer-toothed comb—so that we can be 199 per cent sure, instead of just 101 per cent sure, that he hasn’t a chance in—”

  “But—but he ain’t got a chance,” the man at the other end practically wailed. “He’s cut out now of even inheriting by way of me—or Bella. And—listen, Popp’n’law, have you just seen Saul?”

  “Seen Saul? No I haven’t seen the filthy, lousy, upstart, stinking, dirty son of a bastard bitch—and I don’t want to.”

  “Nor do I—but the papers I’m talking about now—and which I want you to get out at once—are the double-conveyance papers.”

  “Double—double?” the man on the other end queried, as one actually scratching his head.

  “The ‘ring-around-the rosy’ papers, you imbecile. Funny thing you couldn’t keep in mind papers by which you and your father make not less than $10,000 each! The serially numbered papers, in short, constituting the deed from me to you for $110,000—and the deed from you to your father for $2000—and the contract between him and you to pay you $10,000 cash down, and $5,000 a month, assigned back to me—and his $10,000 check to you, endorsed by you back to me.”

  “But—but Popp’n’law, we can’t put papers of record that ain’t validated yet by a prior conveyance from Elsa.

  And—”

  “No? Well, probably not. But the recording office is open all night in the County Building, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—sure, Popp’n’law. But—but Elsa ain’t yet forfeited her rights—”

  “Well, just to chop off all discussion, Manny, she has! Or rather, will have—by about midnight tonight, more or less. A fact! For she’s appointed, Manny! By the court. On a case. And it’s a case that she can’t possibly win. And if she refuses to take it, Manny—she’s to be disbarred!”

  “Oi!” The exclamation from the man on the end was a half-shout—half grunt—of triumph. And with a note of satisfac­tion in it that was exactly that to be found in a hungry wolf’s pleased growl when surveying a luscious field mouse. “And—and in either one of those two cases—by the contingential quitclaim papers she signed—Colby’s Nugget—is yours?”

  “Correct, Manny!” replied Silas Moffit, hungrily. “In either case—her hundred thousand equity is mine. And adds itself to my ten thousand equity! Her part is mine—yes—but minus the $10,000 cut to you—and the same to your father. All right. Get all the papers out, Manny—and see you later!”

  CHAPTER V

  The Busy Young Man

  He was a most odd-looking young man, the young man who stood on the corner of Washington and Clark Streets, reading the sensational murder story that had just been dropped on all the Loop newsstands by the Despatch, in its first issue out for the day. For his cheeks were rouged, and his eyes surveyed the print through dainty rimless eyeglasses held to his vest by a broad, black ribbon; as black, indeed, as was the very lit’ry tie he wore—which was a black Windsor! About 25 years in age, no more, he was small in stature, and slender, and immaculately dressed, the finishing touch to his garb being a tiny yellow flower—carefully selected, obvious­ly, for its pure perfection of petal—in his buttonhole, and the bare corner of a lavender silk handkerchief just peeping from his handkerchief pocket.

  Yet, try as one might, one would still not be able to conclusively place this particular young man in the category of those male individuals who use rouge, for about him were various contradictory suggestions of amazing heterogeneity. One—apparent to perhaps anyone—being that the young man was some peculiar combination of individualist and aesthete—one who, in short, would ruddle his otherwise too-white skin if he so wished and so desired, and those who didn’t like it could take a sweet jump into the lake—and “to hell with ’em” to boot! While the other suggestions which literally radiated from him, as do heat waves from a red-hot stove, would have depended more or less upon the calling of the observer himself. As for instance, the comment of G. Fontenoy Burgette, an accomplished actor—Shakespearean and otherwise—now out of work, and passing the very corner, which comment ran: “A synthetically assembled histrionic front, that whole get-up!—and I’ve a notion to copy it, end write me up a 10-minute vaudeville skit about it.” While Arthur K. Hambury, seasoned managing editor of 4 fiction magazines published in Printingtown, and also passing the corner, was at the same time remarking:

  “That fellow has not one, but several varieties of creative genius within him!”

  Most interesting of all, perhaps, is the comment of a most seasoned observer of men and things, one “Cylinder” Mc­Greavy, hold-up man and burglar, also passing the corner, who actually said: “In the racket, that bird—either coke-peddler, or box-hunter for a gopher-mob!—but wit’ a goddam’ good gang in back of ’im!”

  But be the artificial-looking, and also contradictory-looking young man what he be, the story he was reading was a finely written story, and, from its text and headlines, it was plain that it was a scoop; from its by-line, in fact it was evident that its writer was brother of one person actively named in the story, namely, the State’s Attorney; and it was furthermore obvious that the journals in question had had ample time to write the story, since the murder, taking place during the night —but not discovered until morning, and then only by the State’s Attorney himself!—had not been officially revealed to the police.

  And it was also plain that, after having been completely written, a whole new chapter had been added to the story by virtue of information telephoned in, or hastily written up—for a several-hundred word forestory, in boldface type, describing how the murderer and burglar, self-admitted by certain words he had inadvertently and through error uttered to a harmless pedestrian, had been arrested with presumably the stolen goods on his person—and was now being held incommuni­cado somewhere—presumably in some special lock-up controlled by the State’s Attorney. Where he was wildly and ridiculously claiming—at least to the correspondent who had written the story—‘hypno-mesmeric amnesia’ over his whole stay in Chicago. Which, he averred, had been the last three days.

  A number of photographs embellished and illuminated the story: The State’s Attorney—who, so it seemed, with the State itself, was the despoiled party!—gazed forth so debonairly that it was plain it was a reproduction of a campaign poster; pictures of the inside of the really quaint office where the robbery had taken place were also reproduced, though it was evident, by the very undisturbed condition of the old iron safe in one, that they were photographs taken before the crime in question—indeed, as stated at one point in the story, they had in actuality been taken some time before the case, for a feature article to detail how Chicago’s State’s Attorney had always retained this quaint room—memento of his struggling days—out of sentiment, and which photographs were now being used fortuitously for this bigger and more important tale.

  Such fine photography did the prints embody, that even some of the larger words on a diploma, hanging on one wall in one particular view, were legible. Absent only, in fact, from the photographic layout, was the picture of the captured murderer and burglar. No doubt by express intention of the State’s Attorney himself, who thus would abort completely a possible repetition of that contretemps whic
h had befallen the State’s Attorney in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, three months ago, wherein one of the latter’s catches had been habeased out of jail under designation on the habeas corpus warrant not of the latter’s name—which was unknown even to his attorney—but by use of the suspect’s picture—reproduced in the Pittsburgh Gazette!

  It was, however, the murderer’s fantastic alibi in this Chicago criminal affair, more than anything else, which made the eyes of the odd-looking young man, reading the story, widen. Till he came to the end of the story.

  At which, looking off into space for a few seconds, he exclaimed:

  “By the gods—this is the chance! With him standing mute—for this amnesia tale of his is just something to temporarily block his being questioned—this is where I come in!” He half shook his head, a bit dubiously. “Too bad I was with the gang all night—I might just as well have been with J. D., knocking in that box!—for I couldn’t need sleep more than I do! But no help for that now. For this is the chance, all right. But good only till—”

  He gazed at a clock hanging out over the corner. “Boy!—I’ll have to work fast—mighty fast! For the State’s Attorney’s boys’ll take just about 12 hours of this amnesia hooey from J. D.—and no more!—and then he’ll catch all they’ve got—from fists to rubber hoses!—and will crack and when he does—my play will be up the creek. So now the question is: is that office with the kicked-in box open for business, and running?—and can I get in?”

  He took a last hasty survey of the paper; then tossed it away. And, confirming by the street sign that he was already at Washington Street, he dove across the traffic and hurried a half-block westward. Where he turned into an ancient office building whose entrance was marks by an outmoded soapstone arch on which was chiseled “The Klondike Building,” and inside of whose woodfloored foyer was just a single ancient elevator shaft with iron webbing, the elevator being just now somewhere upstairs.

  He did not ring for the elevator—but took the stair.

  And within exactly 1 minute—a tribute to good wind and heart—was at the 8th landing, and making his way down a dark wood-floored hall and around a bend, happily, from that elevator shaft. And shortly he stood before a door, whose ground-glass panel carried only the digit “806,” and just the words

  LOUIS J. VANN

  Attorney

  This, as had been set forth in the story he had just read, was the old office of the present State’s Attorney, now housed, of course, in the big City and County Building across the street, and an office still being held today for purely sentimental reasons. The office, moreover, described in the story as having been the scene last night of murder and robbery. All was quiet as a grave; no shadows were there on that ground-glass panel to reveal any worker therein. But the young man did not enter, if for no other reason than that the door was held firmly, rigidly, closed by a massive and extremely high-grade padlock which tautly linked together an old ring-bolt that was in the door, and one that was in the jamb—both ring bolts having doubtlessly been installed at some long bygone time when the original occupant of the room had gone on a long vacation—and so neatly did the eye of one bolt lie exact­ly above that of the other—and so snugly did the padlock shaft fill them both—that a fly could not have woven his way inside that office.

  This was the door whose lock—in that story—had been said to have been jimmied. And the marks of that jimmy, moreover, were visible near where the lock was—if one looked hard enough.

  But daunted the young man was, in no wise, by the powerful padlock. Indeed, at the very sight of it, his eyes lighted up with a strange triumphant light to be seen only in the eyes of fanatics, collectors, and speed maniacs. And he proceeded to give it particular attention—especially such words and numbers as would be found etched upon it.

  For, stamped on a generous blank area on the face of the padlock was visible the inscription:

  Official Police Department

  Padlock—Code LBJ

  This appeared of no interest to the young man with the roughed cheeks, for with a decided air of familiarity with such things as padlocks, he tilted up the padlock so that a smaller blank area on its end would be visible to him.

  And there, in extremely fine letters, but letters which were quite readable to him through his pince-nez, were the words

  Waddington Lock, Type C-4

  “And that,” he said, half smiling, “is all I want to know!”

  With which he turned and left the door, and within a few seconds was again taking the stairs to the main floor.

  Once there—and outside, in fact—he proceeded a couple of numbers further westward, where a great sign hung over the sidewalk reading:

  CHICAGO LOCK AND HARDWARE COMPANY

  Every Kind of Lock and Key in the World

  Hardware, Too!

  And into this place he hurried.

  It was an exceedingly capacious store, having an elbow-shaped extension in the rear where a couple of adjoining stores did not require their full depth. And it was—though the young man did not know it—the foremost emporium for locks and keys in the entire Middle West.

  Approaching a blond-moustached salesman at a counter which appeared to be devoted to locks only, he spoke, half inquiringly, and half dogmatically.

  “The Waddington lock is, of course, an individual lock, supplied with one key only—”

  “Oh yes,” the salesman replied, taking the tone of the words as a query instead of a statement—which very shortly it was to prove to be. “They are used for official police purposes because they positively cannot be picked, and are individual. But one key with each lock, and each lock sealed.”

  A faint smile swept over the young man’s rouged face at the statement he had just heard.

  “No doubt,” he said, suddenly, “you carry Copely padlocks?”

  “Indeed we do!” the clerk affirmed. “The Copely line is—”

  “I would like,” the young man interrupted, “a Copely Master Padlock—yes, the kind which can be opened by four different keys. Though I want a Type B padlock.”

  “Right, sir.” And the clerk ran up a ladder, where he looked into a drawer. “I don’t suppose you would mind, would you,” he called down, “if it were a Type A—so long as it’s a Copely Master pa—”

  “Must be Type B,” said the young man, frowning for the first time. “So, if you haven’t—”

  “Wait!” The clerk went nimbly up another step. And took down an open hardware drawer from that level.

  Which he brought all the way down. And from it, surveying it stintingly first, brought out a paper-sealed padlock. On which was printed, “Copely Master—Type B.”

  The young man tore off the paper and inspected, quite critically, the lock inside, and its single key, as one who knows that goods within wrappers often belie the words printed thereon.

  “I rather take it,” said the clerk, puzzledly, “that you are a little familiar with padlocks?”

  The young man looked up. There was an amused light in his eye.

  “A little—familiar’ Did you ever hear of Pepperduff Wainwright?”

  “Pepperdu—Why Lord, yes! He was the greatest expert on padlocks and padlock mechanism in—in the world. And invented many. In fact, come to think of it—he—he invented this Copely lock. And—yes, by George, he evolved the Paddington lock too, if I’m not mistaken. For they’re both in the same category. And—but did you know him?”

  “He was my grandfather,” said the young man simply. “And virtually brought me up, I lived padlocks day and night—had ’em at every meal!—had to undergo catechization on ’em every night before I could even go to bed. And I—but here, you can throw this in the junk box.”

  “In—in the junk box? But here, sir, isn’t—”

  The young man raised a hand patiently.

  “The key of it is all I want,” he s
aid. And because, evidently, of the extreme mystification on the clerk’s face, he added, “You see I’ve a trunk at home that I bought at auction—and it’s padlocked with an old Paddington police lock of—of certain type and number—anyway, this key, I happen to know, will open it.”

  “Sa-ay—it’s a handy thing at times to know locks, isn’t it? I—”

  “Do you wait on that counter yonder where those sledges stand?”

  “I can—yes.” And the clerk started around the end of the counter and was almost immediately back of another counter across the narrow store space, the young man following. “But I don’t quite understand,” the clerk was saying. “A sledge, now?—well, why would you want to smash the lock if—”

  “The trunk happens to have two padlocks on it,” said the young man wearily. “One, as I say, positively can be unlocked with this key. The other is a—a Zylline lock—unpickable and unremovable. I’ll take that short sledge over yonder. How much is it?”

  “That one? It’s $4.50.”

  “Wrap it, please, if you will.”

  It was wrapped, right there at the counter. And the young man was outside within 9 minutes after he had entered, so swift had been the two transactions.

  He hurried on toward Clark Street, passing the Klondike Building without even a sidewise glance. His eyes were fixed ahead of him in intent thought.

  But no further from the Klondike Building in that direction than was the Hardware Store from it in the other, was a tiny watch-repair shop, no more than about 7 feet wide. It carried prominently in its narrow window a sign reading, “Second-hand and Uncalled-for Watches Cheap.” And so many of which did it apparently have that they filled the whole upper part of the window.

  The young man stopped short.

  Swiftly he cast his eyes over the battery of watches which hung, many of them, backs outward. Then he went in. The proprietor, an old man with a white head and an engraving tool in his hand, turned to the tiny wooden rail cutting off his work bench.