The Man with the Wooden Spectacles

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  The least that could be said of Aunt Linda Cooksey was that she had a wide interest in anything and everything in the entire world.

  She instantly pricked up her ears.

  “Wooden specs? Fo’—fo’ lan’s sake. An’ wid a hist’ry? If’n dey got hist’ry ob any kin’, dat fool Saul would gib one ob his laigs fo’ ’em. Whah dey is?”

  “They’re at an exhibition, Aunt, going on at the Fair. Yes, the Fair Department Store. It’s called the Oddities Bazaar. And is showing on the 10th floor. The exhibition, it seems, travels about the country, showing in department stores—a sort of trade puller, don’t you know? But everything shown has a price ticket on it—and is for sale. I asked the man who owned the exhibition—a man named Alfred Opp—how it happens his exhibition doesn’t just melt away; and he said that, for everything that is bought, at least a couple even more unique oddities are brought in. And sold to him cheap. And thus he works his game two ways—and the exhibition never dies!”

  “But dese heah wooden specs? Who on yarth evah used wooden specs? An’ w’y?”

  “Well, it seems they were made, Aunt, by a man for his own use—and he was notorious, at least—if not famous. He was, in short, Jacques Brusseau, the famous’ ‘Bluebeard’ who killed 21 wives in France—and got life on Devil’s Island. And while there on the Island, he whittled the spectacles out of a single block of wood, including even the wooden pins—neatest things you ever saw—that hold the ear-pieces to the frames proper. And of course the spectacles have square rims for the lenses instead of oval rims, since—”

  “But ob co’se dey wuz a fake, eh?” Aunt Linda was plainly a skeptic.

  “No, strange to say, they weren’t,” Elsa returned. “For a lot of documents were in the same exhibition with them—in fact, the exhibit itself was a Devil’s Island handicraft exhibit and Brusseau exhibit combined. And the spectacle themselves were merely one item. One of the exhibits was Brusseau’s own diary, written in broken English, so’s the guards couldn’t read it!—detailing exactly how he had to make the spectacle frames—and showing crude drawings of them. And with a letter from his own oculist, in Paris, telling him how to cut down his old glass lenses—there on Devil’s Island—so they could lie in the new rims. And giving even the formula of the lenses. Oh, they were the McCoy, all right—since they were only minor items in the exhibit.”

  “McCoy? Dat mus’ be law talk. Well, yo’ say dey wuz a price tag on ebaht’ing. An’ how much doze specs wuz!”

  “Fifty dollars!”

  “Whooie! Dey’d a been a high spot a’right, in po’ Saul’s c’lection.”

  “From what you say of it—I think they would have! But from what you also say of Saul—if he’s living in an attic room, and ragged, and unkempt—they’ll not likely join his collection. Even if he hears of ’em. Since—however, we’re a bit off the track, Aunt. You say Saul is crazy—just because he collects spectacles—and hates his father. Well, I don’t agree with you—at least on the former. I have rather technical ideas, myself, you see, on insanity. And—but what was the other—well—neurological defect—you mentioned? About Uncle Silas, I mean? For I think you said, with manifest criticism in your voice, that he was a—a ‘give-upper.’ ”

  “De whole Moffit fambly, Elsa, is ‘give-uppahs.’ An’ haid-fo’gettahs’ to boot! An’ ’hairted it, ob co’se, all ob dem—f’m Grandfathah Moffit, who blowed his brai—”

  “Wait! You’ve sprung still a new term now. What—what on earth is a ‘haid-forgetter’?”

  “W’y,” Aunt Linda said, as though surprised at such ignorance, “dem is peoples whut wu’d fohget dey own haid if’n ’twasn’ fastened on dem. On’y, Elsa, dey is mo’ to haid-fohgettin’ dan dat. A true haid-fohgettah, Elsa, is a puhson what not on’y fohgits his haid, but den cain’t eben ’rembah whah he lef’ it!”

  Elsa smiled faintly. “And you claim that Uncle Silas—and Saul—are that?”

  “Whooie!” Aunt Linda flung up her arms. “Is—dey!”

  Elsa was, to say the least, interested in her family tree even to the branches thereof of which she herself was of “And Grandfather Moffit?” she asked curiously, “he forg—?”

  “Whooie! De man couldn’ ’membah if’n he had his breakfas’—de numbah ob his house—wheddah he had his undehwah’ on—he one plumb example ob one haid-fohgettah!”

  “I see,” Elsa nodded. “Well it looks, Aunt, as though you’re elected keeper of the family inheritance tree. But now what—what do you mean by ‘give-uppers’?”

  “W’y, what Ah means, Chil’, is folkses whut hab somefin’ ci’culatin’ in dey blood whut, w’en t’ings seem to tuhn ’ginst ’em, cain’t see no way out, nowhah, and immejiately gibs up. An’ dey all has it, de Moffits—b’lieb it o’ not—’cluding Bella. An’ all got it, des’ as Ah say, f’m Grandfathah Mofht. Fo’ dat man, Elsa, weddah yo’ know it o’ not—had his fo’tune all in gold-minin’ stock. And some fool newspapah come out one day—w’en dey ’parently wuzn’ no news o’ nothin’ wuth printin’—with a ahticle sayin’ how two young inventahs had ’parently foun’ a way to mek gol’ out ob clay. Grandfathah Moffit—dey says—wuz standin’ by his bureau w’en he read dat sto’y.

  An’ des reach’ down in de drawah, tuk up a big gun, an’ blowed his brains out. All obah de wall. W’y, Elsa, dey say his brains was hangin’ down in long strings—”

  “Yes,” Elsa said hastily and faintly. “I get you. So that’s a give-upper, eh! Well, there’s sure none of that in you or me, Aunt Linda. For—and you say you can trace it? In all of Grandfather Moffit’s descendants?”

  “Co’se—an’ why not?—sence it cause’ by somefin’ in de blood. Now tek Bella. She a giv’-uppah. Tek de time she try to git in to dat fashionable club o’ lazy sluts lak huhse’f. Dey kep’ huh out by on’y one blackball. An’ nebah ag’in do Bella try! Now tek Saul—he git th’own out, yeahs ago, f’m lawyin’—’kaze he come to coht twice drunk—disbahed, I guess dat would be, hey?—an’ do he ebah go to anothah city an’ staht obah? No, he don’. He drap down—down—down—a—a drunkened bum. It’s de cu’se f’m ol’ Sylvestah, da’s all.”

  “And Uncle Silas,” put in Elsa, a bit fascinated in spite of herself. “What’s his classical example of give-upping?”

  “Prob’ly ain’ nebbah come yit—’case he allus havin’ ebbaht’ing his way. But it will come! Fo’ Ah tells yo’, Elsa, dey is fi’ def’nit’ t’ings ’bout de Uncle behin’ de mask whut is fact: Fus’, he’s crazy—eben if ’tis on on’y one subjec’, Saul. Secon’, he’s a ‘haid-fo’gettah.’ Thu’d—he’s a ‘gib’uppah.’ Fo’th, he wea’in’ a mask whut conceal’ de real man. An’ fif’, de man whut is behin’ de mask is as bad as de one whut’s showed in de mask—see?—an’ don’ you spen’ no time trus’in’ him ebbah, o’ playin’ in his hands.”

  Elsa nodded.

  “Well, all this, Aunt Linda, is enough to at least suggest that I get going! You’ve delineated the set-up for me all right—and now, on top of that, you’ve amplified—and with no softening touches!—the man I’ve got to fear. And so, Aunt, on the basis of all that urgence, I will be go—”

  But Aunt Linda had risen majestically, and Elsa, not completing her sentence, watched the other bewilderedly.

  For from a shelf over the kitchen range, Aunt Linda was taking down a rusty and apparently empty tin can, with curious black and orange crosses painted in it, and several small newspaper-wrapped packets. Elsa continued to watch her in perplexity. As Aunt Linda opened her various packets and into the tin can placed, in turn, what evidently was a dried frog’s leg, a piece of hard-cooked liver, the contents of a bottle half full of mucilage, and the equivalent of about a third of a cup of some bright yellow powder.

  “What—” Elsa ventured to inquire.

  Aunt Linda looked back calmly over one shoulder, the great massive ring in her ear flashing momentarily. “A
h said Ah wuzn’ gonna gib you jes’ advice on’y. No! An’ Ah ain’ on’y goin’ to gib you a dress to tek de place ob dat po’ mouseskin whut you in. No! Ah gonna put a conjuh on de stob’. An’ mek fiah undah it. A real conjuh, Honey—an’ not no phoney lak whut Ah wuhhy Silas an’ Manny wid. And de conjuh will make it dat—” She broke off, unfolding a very tiny packet. And held up a shriveled whitish thing.

  “Know whut dis is?” she demanded. And there was pride and power in her tones.

  “Heavens no, Aunt. What is it?”

  “It de lef’ big toe-nail ob a hunchbacked niggah whut wuz kill’ in a alley in de full light ob de moon. De greates’ conjuh, Elsa, ebbah knowed in—”

  “A—a toenail—of a murdered hunchback—” Elsa shivered a bit. “Where on earth—oh, from the undertaker—up front?”

  “Raght! He gib it me. Fo’ scrubbin’ out de place whah he keep his co’pses—dat is, w’en he got any!” Aunt Linda chuckled. “Ah ben keepin’ it fo’ ’muhgency—an’ heah ’muhgency is! Mah own li’l gal—whut Ah brunged up as do’ she wuz mah own—facin’ huh fus’ real case—an’ su’ounded by rascals. Now we has got a conjuh! Ob cos’, no tellin’ exackly how conjuh wu’k—but mah best guess is, Honey, dat w’en you sees you man, he is gonna show you dat he got half a dozen alibis—ebery one des as good as de odder!—and dat Silas Moffit is lick’ befo’ de case even staht.”

  Elsa rose hurriedly. She knew, from a faint memory of seeing Aunt Linda use that yellow powder once in the long ago, that an awful putrid stench would be filling the room within a minute or so. And she did not have to try to imagine the kind of smell that would come from that toenail! And on top of all of which—according to the little cheap watch on her wrist—she must delay not another minute. Not that she did not have time a-plenty to beat the deadline which the irate Judge Penworth had given her—no. But because that trial would be opening up within less than 4 hours. And some preparation she must have, even if—

  “I’m leaving, Aunt Linda,” she said abruptly. “At—at once. And will see my client. And will see you, too—tomorrow.”

  “Do dat, Elsa.” Aunt Linda’s tones were calm and confident, and as she spoke she stirred the ingredients of her conjure with a wooden stick whose end looked very much as though it had been dipped into blood of some kind.

  “On’y huhhy, Chil’. Fo’ de conjuh musn’ git all ’vaporated fo’ you gits dah.”

  So Elsa, depositing, unknown to Aunt Linda, a thin silver quarter on the arm of the chair Aunt Linda had occupied, turned toward the door. The while Aunt Linda was busily lighting some wood and paper already laid out inside her stove, and repeating, in a weird toneless monotonous voice, some Africa-like incantations. And even as the fire crackled up under the waiting tin can, a stench started to pour forth into the room. At which Elsa left hastily. Smiling grimly as she hurried back through the dark passageway towards South State Street and its carline.

  CHAPTER XII

  “My Name Is Now ‘S. Moffit’—If You Please!”

  But Elsa was not destined to board her car without a brief deviation. A meeting up, in other words, with no less than—

  She was, in fact, just about to pass the entrance of a narrow passageway near the end of the block—a passageway between a negro herb emporium, and a secondhand furniture store containing the most rickety furniture she had ever seen in her life—the passageway in turn. showing, at its further end, some kind of a crumbling brick cottage—and was all in readiness to veer then over to the curb to wait for her car, when a man suddenly emerged from the mouth of the dismal corridor. Almost on her feet.

  She jumped back. And then her mouth fell open.

  For once again—the omen of a black-footed white horse—was completely proven!

  The man’s mouth, likewise, fell open.

  He was a white man, and—according to certain knowledge, which Elsa happened to have about him, since she knew him!—only 40 years of age; but, due to drink—and the indisputable signs of the heavy lone drinker were indeed to be seen in his pitted nose, his obviously bloodshot eyes, and the hanging grayish flesh under the eyes—he looked to be at least 50. His face was indisputably that of a one-time handsome man, but that fact appeared to be of little interest to him today, for his black hair was carelessly and raggedly trimmed about his temples—and was prematurely gray, to boot. Unlike, however, most men with the signs of the drunkard, he was dressed most neatly—in a newish, though apparently cheap, suit, for its cut was too extravagant, and its greenish stripe far too flamboyant.

  His tie was neat—but too loud. His shoes were new—but made of an amazing pattern of tan and black leathers.

  And his gray hat, while clean, was too rakish.

  “Saul!” Elsa exclaimed. “What on earth—”

  “Stop!”

  And from the eyes of the man flashed, momentarily, danger.

  “Stop?” echoed Elsa. “But—why on earth, Saul, should I—”

  “Stop!” he ordered again. “That—that is not my name.”

  “Not your name? For God’s sake, man, are you drunk, or—”

  “My name, Elsa,” he said, unbending a trifle, “is now S. Moffit. Just—S. Moffit.”

  “For pity’s sake,” she said. “Am I supposed to stand here and—and call my own half-cousin just—just ‘S. Moffit’?”

  “Yes,” he replied, harshly. “You are. For I had my name legally changed, 4 months ago—and actually recorded—with the county recorder—in Blue Island—which is Cook County, don’t forget, where we’re standing now! Changed, let me say, Elsa, to—to S. Moffit.”

  “To—to S. Moffit? Well, what—why—how—well that is, what the billy heck does the ‘S’ stand for?”

  “Nothing. My name’s now just S. Moffit—no more—no less.”

  “Well, for the good God’s sake, Sau—um—I mean—S. Moffit—listen, I don’t know how long I can keep that fool procedure up—calling my own cousin by just—just an alphabetical letter—but do you mind telling me two things: First, why in hell’s bells you ever did that?—and second, what in hell’s bells you’re doing here in Niggertow——ne’ mind that last one. Answer the first one first.”

  “Why? Well you ought to know, Elsa. It’s simply that I don’t want anything on earth that that filthy, dirty, stinking, lousy viper—yea!—that’s the word!—viper—bestowed on me.”

  “Oh yeah,” Elsa said faintly. “Yeah—of course! I—I heard you weren’t so warm for your father. And—but that’s a new one on me, Sau—er—S. Moffit. Getting your name legally changed—to shuck off all remnants of what the man who brought you into the wor—”

  “The cockroach of hell—yes?—go on.”

  “For pity’s sake, Sau—er—S. Moffit, can’t we talk together—without going into personalities? Okay. Well second—what on earth are you doing over here in—in Niggertown?”

  And Elsa’s heart fell. For she had heard some strange, strange rumors about Saul.

  Which rumors were confirmed—or not at all confirmed—depending entirely on how one looked at it!—by the way Saul Moffit, drunkard, was dressed. For studying his flamboyant clothes closer, Elsa found that, while they were, to be sure, all new—or at least newish—they were cheap. The suit was thin and hard of weave. The shoes were so cheap they squeaked when he changed position. The hat felt was plainly molded—not shaped. Either they had all been gotten for very little out of a pawnshop where some newly attired individual had had to pawn them—or else—or else—

  And again those rumors trickled into Elsa’s heart.

  But they were not to be confirmed, however, by Saul’s own account of what he was doing in this block. For extracting gently from a side coat pocket a pair of little old rickety gold-rimmed spectacles, a badly cracked lens in one side, he held them proudly—even exultantly—up.

  “Look and breathe—gently! No. 331—of the rarest collect
ion of historical and unusual spectacles ever collected.”

  “Yeah,” she said, unenthusiastically, “I—I heard about that, too.” She stared unfriendly at them. “I’m looking—and all I see is a pair of old specs which probably cost you as much as—”

  “Only $10, Elsa! Think of it! $10—for these!”

  His gaze, fastened on them, was positively worshipful.

  “Hell’s bells, Saul—er—S. Moffit. When I pay out 10 bucks these days, it’s for—a whole outfit, darned near. Seems to me you’re lolling in the filthy lucre to be handing out as much as—but anyway—whose and what be they?”

  “They belonged originally, Elsa,” he said, reverently—and holding them off for her to gaze with equal reverence upon, “to no less than Robert E. Lee’s personal Negro slave, Cal Hudge. And who remained on voluntarily with Lee after Lee got rid of all his slaves. Cal Hudge’s grandson, Ija Hudge, lives back there in that red brick shack—old and paralyzed—and this was amongst a bunch of Robert E. Lee relics he advertised recently in the papers. I got there first. And grabbed off these specs. The other things—and relating more definitely to Lee himself—aren’t of interest to me.”

  “But—but are you sure, Saul—”

  “Stop!” he ordered. “I’ll not be called, I told you, by anything that putrid old rat ever gave me.”

  “Okay! You win! Well are you sure, S, that the specs are genuine?”

  “Oh—absolutely, Elsa. Hudge has a daguerreotype of his grandfather wearing ’em. And plenty of other documents and letters confirming all the stuff. Anyway, Elsa, don’t you see, nobody fakes historical spectacles, because there’s absolutely no market for such things—and when you do come on a pair that’s unusual, odd, bizarre, historical, or what-have-you—it’s genuine.”

  His eyes, which a moment before had flashed warning fire, were gazing as tenderly at the spectacles as a mother at her child.

  “Well, I dunno about all that,” Elsa was saying. “But if people learn that S. Moffit’s in the market, and paying out as much as ten bucks for a pair—spectacles’ll soon be faked.”