“One, I note,” she commented, “has most freakish handwriting. The one in green ink.”
“Oh, yes, The one with tiny triangles as dots for the ‘i’s. Yes, he was the hungriest.”
“The—the hungriest? What do you mean, Mr. Vann!”
“Why—the first to arrive—and the last to go!”
Miss Jason essayed one of her smileless smiles. And asked a further question.
“Did they—did they talk anarchy? Or communism?”
“Nary a word, so I understood. But—we’ll hold the roster of signatures anyway, as they might eventually become suspicious parties, on this or that matter.”
She folded the fragile napkin gently. “Suspicious, maybe,” she admitted, “but at least—” and stopped.
“At least—what?” asked Vann curiously.
“Well, at least they can’t any of them be accused of helping murder poor Mr. Reibach in your old office across the street, since—”
“—since that took place,” Vann filled in for her, smilingly, “at 10:43 p.m. last night—proven four ways running! Yes,” he nodded, “you’re 100 per cent right on that. But, fortunately for this office, the man who did do that job is fast and tight and incommunicado—in our own special lockup. Just where he belongs! And where—but here, here, Miss Jason, we’re wasting precious minutes!—for don’t forget I’m to try the gentleman tonight. So be off with you. And no more visitors from now on—unless they have a bearing, and a most important one, on the Case of the Man with the Crimson Box!”
CHAPTER IX
The Man With the Three Tables
Aunt Linda, seated in the hair-stuffed rocker in the kitchen-parlor of her rear cottage, screwed her black face into a bewildered frown at Elsa Colby’s point-blank statement as to how the client which the Court was trying to force upon her had actually admitted his crime to witnesses.
“He—he did?” Aunt Linda repeated. “Well, is de witnesses rep’table peoples?” she asked astutely.
“Only an Archbishop—the Archbishop of Chicago,” returned Elsa sardonically. “And the Superintendent of a School!”
“Whooie—dem is big peoples! Well, huccome dis man whut is in dis jam—huccome he shoot his fool mouf off in front ob a extra lis’ner? Huccome he shoot his mouf off in front ob an’body? Whut Ah means, ob co’se, is whut do he tell de po-leece w’y he done admit all dese t’ings bfo’ witnesses?”
“He has the most ridiculous explanation of that, Aunt, ever heard—on land or sea! And one that I, at least, know is—is baloney. Moreover, Aunt, it doesn’t even explain anything. He claims, in short, that he has amnesi—that is, Aunt, loss of memory—over the whole time he’s been here in Chicago. Which, he claims, is some 3 days.”
“Los’ his mem’ry, huh? Well, mebbe he—but what’s de ’bout dat you is know it’s baloney—and de po-leece don’t?”
“Simply,” Elsa explained, “that the fellow claims—at least to the newspaperman who wrote the newsstory—that he always develops amnes—loss of memory, Aunt—over such periods of time as lie between instants when he looks at a revolving lamp. Yes, Aunt, exactly like the one in that drugstore window close by my office there in the Ulysses S. Grant Building. But it also just happens, Aunt, that the very day this fellow claimed to have gazed into the particular lamp, I was talking to old Mr. van Horn, the owner of the drugstore. Who told me his famous lamp had gone to the factory. So today I ran in there and checked up on that. And he told me the lamp had only come back this morning. Undoubtedly, the police—or the State’s Attorney—know this fact now, for old Mr. van Horn had a mysterious phone call, shortly before I came in, from someone claiming to be connected with the Criminal Court. So you see even the fellow’s ridiculous and impossible alibi has collapsed.”
“Ah t’inks,” commented Aunt Linda sagaciously, “dat he done spout all dat ’case he wuz stallin’ fo’ time to t’ink—and some newspapahman he des grab it all wid he tongue in his cheek. Da’s whut Ah t’inks!”
“You may be right.”
“But you ain’ answahed mah two ques’ions. Fus’: what do de po-leece—not him—claim as to huccome he shoot his fool mouf off today in front ob a extra lis’ner? An’ secon’, huccome he shoot his fool mouf off in front ob an’body?”
“Well, Aunt, in belated answer to your latter question, it was a case, obviously, of mistaken identity. And in answer to your first question, the extra man happens to be the superintendent of a West Side deaf-and-dumb school—it seems he stood off a short distance—he’d just talked with his fingers to some pupils passing the corner—”
“Ah see,” Aunt Linda broke in. “An’ de man w’ut is now arrest’, he mussa t’ought dis sup’tendant was a deefndum man. Hm? A Archbishop an’—an’ a sup’tendant! Well dem is big peoples, a’right.”
“And they’ll be the star witnesses at that trial, too,” declared Elsa. “They—and plenty others! And all of which, Aunt, means that if I should appear in that courtroom to night, I’d lose my case sure—make my quitclaim to Uncle Silas valid—and—”
“An’ in de twinklin’ of a gnat’s eye,” proclaimed Aunt Linda sagaciously, “dat Uncle ob yours will gonna convey dat proputty quick to dem rasc’ly in-laws ob his’n—fo’ Manny’s fathah, as Ah done tol’ you, Elsa, is intrested in acquiahin’ no’thwes’ side proputty. An’ do yo’ Uncle once convey it, dey won’ be no ma’ chance ob you ebah gittin’ it back dan oh—ob a one-laiged man growin’ a new laig. Yassah! Fo’ ’twas des dattaway Ah lose mah own cottage yeahs ago—lot ob people conveyin’ away f’m me lak as if dey wuz playin’ ball! Hm?” Aunt Linda lapsed momentarily into gloomy thought. Then asked a further question. “Well, whut you den did nex’, huh?”
“Why—I came straight to you, Aunt. To tell you all—and to ask your advice.”
“Even if Ah is a ig’nant black ’ooman, eh, Elsa? An’—an’ a conjuh ’ooman’ sides.”
Elsa laughed in spite of herself. “Well, Aunt, I don’t let the ‘conjure’ part influence me—because I don’t believe in it at all!”
“You don’, eh? Well, whut wud you say if Ah wuz to tell you—but heah—Ah’ll git back to dat subject in a min’—an’ Ah’ll say plenty! Point is, des now, dat you is come heah fo’ some advice. Wedder you b’lievs in conjuhs—o’ wedder yo’ doesn’. An’ p’int equally is dat Ah cain’t gib no advice till Ah knows still ma’ about dis heah man whut is been cotched. Or raddah, whut soht ob crime dey is accusin’ him ob. So—fus’—whut wuz dese stoldened goods whut wuz foun’ on him?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you that, did I? Well it seems to have been—from what I can make out—extremely vital evidence—required by the State of Illinois—for successful prosecution in some old kidnaping and murder trial.
Nothing, however, of intrinsic value. In short, Aunt, it was a skull! The skull of—to be exact—some Chinaman named—named Wah Lee.”
“Wah—Lee? Well, fo’ hebben’s sake! His skoll? Yo’ don’ say? Wah Lee’s—skoll?”
“Why, Aunt, you talk as though you knew this Wah Lee.”
“Well, it seems moughty neah lak as if Ah did! But no—Ah didn’ know Wah Lee hes’ef—no!—but Ah suah know all ’bout his kidnappin’ an’ his mu’der—an’ all dat. Ebery las’ fact an’ detail.”
“Every last fact—and detail? From the newspapers of that time, I suppose? But—but that was all pretty long ago, wasn’t it, when it broke? From what I gather, from that newsstory—for the newsstory today, you see, kept pretty close to today’s crime—and today’s matters—that Chinese kidnaping case, even in the both times which I somehow surmise, from one allusion in the story, it broke into print—took place when I was in my early ‘teens. And so I don’t see how you, Aunt, who never, never reads newspapers—”
“Des hol’ it, Elsa gal. An’ Ah’ll tell you ’zac’ly how Ah happens to be so close to all dis Wah Lee business. Fah as de newspapah
s ob dat time goes, Ah don’ know nuffin. Outside ob a li’l whut Ah heah. But Ah has been closeter to dat case, Elsa, dan lots ob peoples—an’ ma’ recenter, too—an’ in dis heah way: Ah had de job, Elsa, th’ee yeahs ago, ob cleanin’ up de apahtmen’ ob a man whut write up de whol’ Wah Lee case fo’ a mag’zine what is call’ Famous Crime Sto’y Mag’zine. Dey ain’ a bit ob use ob me cluttahin’ up dis heah discussion wid names an’ facks ’bout de man hisse’f, ’cept to say he wuz a pote—a moughty good pote—an’ he write pomes fo’ mag’zines lak Hahpahs an’ de Fo’am—”
“For Harper’s Magazine—and Forum? Good heavens, Aunt—and you mean to say he wrote for that lurid Famous Crime Story Magazine besides?”
“Fo’ Crime Sto’y Mag’zine besides? Hah! W’y, Elsa, dat man wuz a geneyous. He wuz two jackals an’ a Mistah Hide.”
“Two Jack—oh, two Jekylls and one Hyde? What do you mean?”
“I mean dat he usta could do mos’ evaht’ing whut is did in de writin’ line. Fo’ instance: he usta int’view peoples whut udder peoples lak to know all ’bout. Does yo’ membah once, honeh, w’en some flagpole sittah in Clebeland sat fo’ weeks an’ weeks atop de highes’ flagpole on de highes’ buildin’ in dat city?”
“Why yes—yes, I do. His name was ‘Shipwreck Casey.’ ”
“Da’s right! Well, dis man Ah wukked fo’ see’d a sto’y in dat—an’ he went to Clebeland—an’ he had hisse’f hauled up to de vehy top ob dat pole an’ he int’viewed dat Mistah Casey, de top ob de pole—so he tell me latah—swayin’ back and fo’th a good th’ee feet—mah God!”
Aunt Linda interrupted herself, putting her black hands to her temples, “it—it mek me sick to mah stommick, Elsa, eben to t’ink about it; ifn ’twoulda been me up dab dain’ de int’viewin’, Ah’d hav been th’owin’ up ebbahting Ah’d et fo’ breakfus’; Ah’d—Ah’d hab been w’ite as a ghos’; Ah wouldn’ hab been able to axe Mistah Casey a single wuhd. But dis pote, he had nu’ve, see, Elsa?—an’ he swayed back an’ fo’th till he got de int’view. An’ den come down an’ writ it up. An’ got whol’ hund’ed dollahs fo’ it. An’ he wuzn’ lyin’, eidah, ’case Ah not on’y hab seed de vehy int’view—but he gib me a clippin’ ob it. Wi’ch acc’dental Ah buhn up one day, on’y few months ago, lightin’ dis range.”
“Well,” was Elsa’s comment, “—poet—and interviewer—I’ll say he was a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Well, Ah said,” corrected Aunt Linda imperturbably, “dat he wuz two doctah Jeekulahs an’ a Mr. Hyde. Fo’ he usta write true confessiums, also, fo’ True Confessiums Mag’zine. All ’bout how some po’ gal come to de wickid city, an’ how de mens all try to get huh vuhtue. He libbed all alone, dis man did, an’ w’en Ah knowed him, he wuz in de money—fo’ he had a flat wid th’ee special rooms in it fo’ his th’ee ‘moods,’ as he call ’em. Dat is, Elsa, w’en he writin’ a pome fo’ Hahpahs, he des sat in a li’l room at a spindly-laigged table, an’ in front ob him on’y a ho’nshell bottle containin’ ink, an’ wid a quill pen in it. An’—an’ a raddio—yes—playin’ sweet moosic. But w’en he do de confessiums, he sit at a mahog’ny han’ca’ved table in anoddah room all fu’nish up wid rich hanging’s—an’ a divan suggestin’ all de divans in the wuhld on w’ich all de virgins in de wuhld has los’ dey vuhtue—an’ incense—pew!—whut incense!—rollin’ out ob a brass urn. An’ my oh my—whut palp’tatin’ confessiums dat man did write.
“Fo’ ’twas on de confessiums and de true fack stuff dat he mek his money. Pomes—” Aunt Linda waxed contemptuous. “—dey don’ pay.”
“That’s true. And—but what was his crime-story room like?”
“Oh, dat room? Well, dat wuz de pra’tical room! An’ look lak a train despatchah’s office. It consis’ ob a room wid des oilcloth on de No—two kitchen tables set back to back—an’ all cuvuh obah—w’en he wuhkin’, wid newspapah clippin’s got f’m all obah de country—photographs got f’m photograph bu’eaus—an’ a foldin’ screen, pinned all obah wid notes and t’ings. He had maps ob all de big cities on de walls—an’ sco’s ob st’eet guides; an’ he hab a phone in dat room—to check t’ings wid newspapah offices, an’ oddah so’ces. Fo’ ebbah he put ’em down. He nevah hab to leab de room—bein’ ve’y retiahin’—but he do plenty checkin’ by phone an’ mail—check ebber’ting th’ee ways!—an’ he so accu’ate, Elsa, on whut he wrote, dat he get seberal ob dem Famous Crimes to write up. ’Cose, Ah dessay he ain’ doin’ so good today—now dat dat mag-zine is gone bus’ed—an’ de gov’min is mek de confessium mag’zines prove up dat ebbery one ob dey confessiums is true.”
“I dare say not. But let me in at least, Aunt, on a deep literary secret. Who was he? As a poet, I mean? Appearing in Harper’s and Forum?”
“Well, his name wuz Rich’d St. Geo’ge.”
“Richard—St. George? Why, for heaven’s sake, Aunt, I’ve read many of his poems. They are beautiful, and as—as colorful little bits as—well as Maxfield Parrish’s lithographs are colorful.”
This was too deep for Aunt Linda. And she frowned.
“Well, is we discussin’ Wah Lee—o’ is we gonna go into de life hist’ry ob Rich’d St. Geo’ge?”
“No, no, Aunt, Wah Lee, of course. And the point is, I take it, that you worked for Mr. St. George right while he was writing up this Wah Lee Case?”
“Da’s exack de p’int! An’ ebbery bit he write up, he read to me. Wu’d fo’ wu’d. An’ obah an’ obah too!”
“Why, Aunt? I don’t just underst—”
“ ’Cause, Honeh, as he say, ‘Linda, if Ah kin get it all up to de lebel ob yo’ undahstandin’, ebberybuddy, clah down to de maroons, will undahstan’ it.”
“Up to the level of your unders—ahem—that is—but maroons—what, Aunt, are—”
“—maroons? Why, dey’s dem peoples whut has dey wits cut in half.”
“Oh—I get it.” And Elsa passed her hand feebly over her forehead. “Yes. If he could get it down to—that is—ahem—up to—that is, to your intellectual level, it—”
“Da’s right.” And Aunt Linda straightened proudly up.
“He say dat if he mek it so dat Ah kin git ebery wu’d raght—an’ ebery idea in it—den de whol’ wuhld, bah nobuddy, is boun’ to undahstan’ it. Soht ob a complincated compliment—but one Ah alluz ’preciated.”
Elsa managed to keep an immobile face.
“Then do tell me, Aunt, the highlights of the Wah Lee Case! For it’s quite obviously tied up lock, stock and barrel with this case that’s trying to get itself thrust upon me. But hasn’t yet, by gosh! And—but can you condense the Wah Lee Case?”
“ ’Cose Ah kin comdense it! Do you t’ink Ah wud keep you heah lissenin’ to fo’ty thousum wuhds lak dat ahticle Mistah St. Geo’ge writ contain, an’ he’p Silas MofFit dattaway to git title to yo’ proputty? No, Ah’ll tell you all dat Mistah St. Geo’ge writ—but in one hund’ed wuhds. Fo’, if’n he ain’ read dat ahticle to me, in bits, fifty times—he ain’ nebbah read it at all!”
And Aunt Linda, putting her fingertips together reflectively, began her hundred-word recountal of that world-famous case, The Wah Lee Kidnaping.
CHAPTER X
The Kidnapping of Wah Lee
“Wah Lee,” Aunt Linda began, “wuz de on’y son oh dat rich Chinaman, Wah Lung, whut raght t’day owns de Gol’en Dragon Inn on Randolph Street. ’Bout 23 yeah’ ol’ Wah Lee wuz. An’ widout no mama—his papa bein’ a widowah. An’ in collige Wah Lee wuz. All dis bein’, you unahstan’, Elsa, thu’teen yeahs ago. An’way,” Aunt Linda continued, “de kidnapin’ gangs oh dat day, dey had dey eyes on him. His papa bein’ so rich, y’ know? Fo’ once—befo’ de time he ac’ually wuz kidnap’—dey made one pass at him, an’ cotched nothing but aih! So he an’ his papa, dey wuz pretty cahful how dey watch deyse’ves.
“An’ so come de day,” Aunt Linda declared, with all the drama of an o
ld silent motion picture, “w’en Wah Lee he hadda go to de horspital to hab a lil op’ration puffom’ in his nose. Raddah, ’way back unda’ his brains—dey wuz a little cabern dah dat wuz fill’ wid puss—and dey had to chop lots ob bone away, an’ mak a passage so dat cabern kin drain itse’f—oh, de op’ration Ah guess, wuz vehy complimcated an’ vehy diff’cult.
“So he go to dis horspital. Whut wuz call’, den, de Ingl’side Horspital. Fo’ it was buhn’ down de day aftah de kidnapin’—no, no crim’nal stuff, Elsa; ’twas a legit’mate fiah—an’ all de Axe-Ray plates an’ ebberyting wuz all go up in smoke. Do’ it seem to me lak Ah heah dat de hist’ry cahd in he case lucky wuz in Wah Lee’s papa’s han’s to show his Chinese doctah.”
“That history card will be one of the foremost State’s Exhibits tonight,” commented Elsa wearily. “But go ahead, Aunt.”
“Well, Wah Lee he go to dis horspital. And aftah some obsuhvation an’ mo’ tests, and so fu’th, de op’ration was puffohm’. An’ den, a few days o’ so latah, dey say he kin go home nex’ aft’noon. And so, dat nex’ aft’noon—’bout a coupla houhs befo’ he go—w’ich was at th’ee o’clock—he ’phone his papa in Chinese dat sence de horspital wuz so clost to Jackson Pahk, he wuz des goin’ to step obbah dah and study de Jap’nese Bridge, whut goes ’crost de neck ob watah connectin’ two of de lagooms, so’s to git some p’ints on some theoris whut he wuz writin’ in collige on Jap’nese Aht.
“An’ so he leab de horspital dat day at th’ee o’clock. An’ dat wuz de las’ ebbah seed ob Wah Lee.
“Cept,” Aunt Linda qualified, “by dem whut kidnap him—and de boy whut seed it did!
“Fo’ a boy sailin’ a boat in de lagoom dah, dat late fall day—an’ de on’y pusson in de wicinity—he see Wah Lee come up. On foot. An’ he see fo’ men whut had been waitin’ in a cah fo’ neah two full houhs, run de Chinee boy into de cah. At leas’, de boy see Wah Lee git into de cah, lak as if dey had guns in dey pockets on him.”
The Man with the Wooden Spectacles Page 9
