The Man with the Magic Eardrums

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1939, renewed 1967 by Harry Stephen Keeler.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  and the Black Cat Mystery Community.

  www.wildsidepress.com / bcmystery.com

  DEDICATION

  To Fay Templeton, The Unchangeable

  CHAPTER I

  The Man in the Moonlight

  It was close upon 9 o’clock in the evening when I first met that gifted—and yet pitiful—individual, “The Man With the Magic Eardrums.”

  At least, I shall always think of him by the name: “The Man With the Magic Eardrums!” For, of course, I subsequently learned his right name. As well as many facts in his unusual life history.

  And my meeting with him took place under curious circumstances—to say the least!

  For, at the time we met, he was effecting a most perfect job of—well, had there been a blue-coated police officer near by witnessing the job, he would have been writing painstakingly in his notebook: “Breaking and Entering,” while, had there been instead, near by, a detective from the detective bureau, more technical in his description of things criminal, he would have been writing “Burglarious Entry.” Though whatever the proper description of the job being done by the individual I call “The Man With the Magic Eardrums,” it was being done in front of my very eyes.

  And the doing of which, quite naturally, he would never have attempted had the big room into which he was securing ingress been lighted up!

  And why it was not lighted up was simply because I had not, myself, yet had time, since arriving, to snap those lights on!

  In fact, I was just hanging up my imported black velour hat and English tweed topcoat on the vertical coat hanger which stood at the north side of the huge room’s arched doorway when I first heard the sounds that heralded his entry—received, in fact, the first intimations that there was a man on the outside of the big window which, at least in the daytime, gazed southward over the block and a half of desolate unbuilt Minneapolis prairie lying between the house and Ludlow Street. And fortunately—as I have already remarked—so far as capturing him went, I hadn’t yet snapped on any lights since closing the downstairs door behind me, and coming leisurely up the broad flight of stairs which led to this particular room on the second floor. Indeed, there had been no need to do so, for the moonlight, filtering through the drawn shade of that big south window, not only lighted up—in con­siderable measure—the huge room, but percolated, at least in half-measure, through the arched doorway with its velvet drapes on either side, and down those very stairs to the front door. And so thus, turning quickly about—a full 180 degrees—as I com­pleted the hanging up of my topcoat, I was able to see everything that told plainly what was just about to take place: the silhouetted tops of the uprights of the intruder’s tall 2-story ladder—and it would have had to be at least a 20-foot ladder to reach that isolated window—its equally silhouetted top rung—and the animated shadowgraph of the fellow himself, with his stocky shoulders and his cap, moving against the windowpane.

  For the moment I went no further with the stripping off of my pigskin gloves—which act my discovery had interrupted—interrupted so completely, in fact, that the front door key was still held momentarily between my teeth where I had placed it while unsheathing my fingers from their stiff leather coverings. Indeed, with my right glove but half off, I felt quickly for my back pocket. The hard lump there assured me that my small pearl-handled silver-plated revolver was on my person—and not in my luggage at the depot—as might easily have happened to be the case. Lucky, I told myself grimly then and there, that when I had last packed that luggage I had tossed up a mental coin—and, as a result, had slipped that unobtrusive weapon into my pocket instead of burying it in a lot of clothing!

  The man outside was still fumbling around. So I peeled off my gloves hastily, and let them fall where they might. And slipped the front door key back into the change pocket of my overcoat. And then, divested of all these several incumbrances, stood quietly where I was and watched the individual who was sep­arated from me by only one sheet of glass and one thickness of window shade linen. Even—and to my own surprise!—speculating a bit, as well, while I did so. That ladder—now? Brought by him, undoubtedly, across such of the vacant weed-grown prairieland as lay between this house and that unfinished 2-story bungalow lying dark and skeletal-like, half the distance to Ludlow Street: prairie land someday destined to bloom as the Hobury Heights Development—but today just a 4-square-block blob of outer Minneapolis hemmed in by Ludlow and Weddles Streets on the south and north, and Northdale and Chando Ave­nues on the west and east, and crisscrossed by lonely, narrow new sidewalks which, thanks to the low streetlights installed here and there along them, resembled more white ribbons crossing a black expanse of ocean. Brought from the unfinished bungalow, un­doubt­edly, that ladder. And so this fellow must be—I reasoned on the spot—a professional—who knew well that always—some place on the upper floor of every inhabited house—there is bound to be at least one unlocked window.

  And I was right, in this latter respect, too. Otto—or else Rozalda—had left that window unlocked! For the man outside, pressing outward obviously with his two palms—for his arms seemed now to be horizontally outstretched—against the two narrow wooden edges of the lower sash, and making a peculiar seesawing motion at the same time, was managing to get it slightly raised. And once the fraction of an inch up—he dropped his arms, and seemed to put his fingertips under its lower edge. And up it came still further. And now his hands—and, heavy as it was, it slid upward easily. About a foot—and no further. In fact, his hand slithered in under the now-gently flapping shade-stick—he gave the shade a businesslike jerk—and up it flew clatteringly, clear to the top of the window. And now, since a large and clear-cut oblong patch of moonlight lay athwart the Persian rug—or at least lay half on the rug and half on the polished waxed floor alongside the rug—and acted as a secondary source of illu­mination itself, I drew a bit further back in the shadow of the arched doorway.

  Though still watching every move of the man with the cap.

  Now that the shade was out of his way, he shoved the window up the rest of the distance. And rising a rung or two on the ladder, thrust one leg over the sill, and drew in the rest of his body. For an instant he stood, glancing with some uncertainty at the raised window in back of him.

  Then it was that I slid my right hand carefully along the wall to the left of the arched doorway, until my fingers came in contact with the electric-light switchbutton. While at the same time, with my left hand, I drew out that tiny revolver.

  “Put ’em u
p!” I grunted. And snapped on the lights.

  Transferring the gun to my right hand before he could blink.

  He was no sluggard in thought, that was certain. At least where his life was concerned. He thrust his hands instantly above his head, and stood blinking in the sudden flood of light from the bright ceiling fixture. And I had opportunity then, for the first time, to survey him from head to foot.

  He was a somewhat undersized—at least so far as height went—individual, though rather stockily built; he was clad in an ill-fitting brown suit with bags at the knees. About 45 years of age; no more. His face, I would say, could be aptly described by the phrase rolypoly. And though it had no bristle peeping from its coarse florid skin, there was yet a darkness about the hairline which proclaimed that he could do with a once-over shave! On his head reposed a checked and more or less crumpled wool cap, and dropping from his collar—which was a bit too low even for his thick neck—was a flaming red tie that lent the final touch to his uncouth appearance.

  “Well,” I remarked, advancing a few steps toward him. with my weapon still extended, “what’s the idea, old boy?”

  He seemed to be dazed by the sudden turn of affairs for him. And stood with eyes staring first at me—then wandering rightward of me—and even leftward once back of me as well. It occurred to me—a few minutes later, that is—that he was perhaps more dazed by the room into which he had climbed than the fact that he had been caught squarely doing it! For, at least where he stood, a few feet from the window, the room presented truly the barnlike appearance almost of a small convention hall; and, by comparison with it, the library table in its center—the swivel chair drawn up to it, its back toward him—the huge safe far, far back of me across the room, cemented into the fancy red brickwork that made up that particular wall—gave forth the illusion, in spite of their size, that they were actually undersized. As for the phone on the table—and the silver trophy cup, too—the former must have seemed, from that window, like a Wool­worth toy phone, and the latter like some sort of an ornate paperweight; a child’s plaything of some sort; while the oak closet door in that brick wall containing the safe, and some ten feet or so to the side of the safe—must have seemed no larger than the door of a telephone booth. As for the skull, perched on the brick mantel protruding from that wall between safe and closet door, it must truly have seemed no larger than a papier-mâché match-tray ornament. And, in turn, the onyx clock along­side it must have resembled a dainty boudoir timepiece!

  Thus ran my reflections later as to the cause of his first daze; but whatever, at the instant, was the cause, I had to jar him back to the world of reality.

  “Snap out of it,” I said. “Speak up—no!—arms above head there—that’s right!—well—what’s your game!”

  Now he found his tongue.

  “My—game? Well—t’tell you th’ truth—I—I don’t—just know. Minute ago, I was sliding in that window back o’ me—and now—I seem to be—well—just waiting—for somep’n to hap­pen.”

  “Which, of course,” I told him grimly, “will happen! In the shape of a wagonload of bluecoats from the Northwest Min­neapolis Police Station.” Gun still extended, I traversed part of the distance between the arched doorway and the table, which itself stood halfway between him and the walled safe, watching him curiously all the while. He didn’t blink an eye. Cool, all right. So I stopped.

  “I suppose,” I said, “you’re one of these fly-by-night birds they call ‘second-story men,’ eh?” And I daresay my voice, at that juncture, grew a bit sarcastic. “Or perhaps,” I added, “you’re just walking in your sleep? Eh? And in a few minutes you’ll wake up and tell me it’s an old habit of yours—from childhood? Or—or possibly you’ve stumbled into the wrong house by error? How about it?”

  But his upraised arms, long held aloft, were losing their rigidity, crooking quaintly like the arched legs of negro children who have rickets. To satisfy myself as to how much he was armed, I stepped over to him.

  “Turn around. Back to me. Arms higher again.”

  He turned obediently, making a last upward thrust of his arms.

  I kept my gun muzzled into his spine. Pressed my hand into each of his coat pockets in turn. Reached around in front and patted his breast pocket. The same, his trousers pockets. And particularly his hip pockets. He had no weapons.

  “Smart boy, eh?” I commented. “Turn around now.” I started off again. “Robbery with a gun—” I remarked, as he slowly pivoted about—“10 years. Robbery without a gun—only 5. Brains!”

  He coughed, almost appreciatively, it would seem, at my veiled allusion to his sagacity.

  “All right,” I said, “Let ’em down.” I went over to the window now in his rear again, though keeping his back in sight, by my own turned head, all the time; and shoving the window down, drew down the shade as well, the string being still in reach in spite of the way it had clattered itself up a minute or so previous.

  And back past him again, past the table too. Ever keeping my eye on him. And over to the wall next the archway, where I requisitioned the gilt-legged red velvet-seated Louis Quatorze chair which seemed too dainty for him, though its seat certainly did match his flamboyant tie! I placed it across the table from the swivel chair.

  “Over here. No—around the other side. Sit down. Before I turn you over to the Minneapolis police, I want to have a talk with you.”

  He came obediently around the end of the table, opposite to the one nearest me, while I rounded that one; we were, in truth, like a couple of geldings running in a length-handicap race—one of us with exactly half a track handicap on the other! The race was a draw, however, for we both sank into our respective chairs at the same moment, the table between us, he diffidently, hands on knees, on the gilt-legged chair, myself into the more comfortable swivel chair facing him. And well out of arms’ reach, too—thanks to the table and the margin between it and each chair—of those chunky arms of his which looked as though they might contain steel muscles. I confess that at the time I should have kept in mind the idea of a possible confederate coming up that ladder—right in the rear of myself in that swivel chair—but I didn’t—and, as it eventuated, I had no need to fear that.

  “Well,” I began, sliding over to the right edge of the table—and out of the line of our mutual vision—the silver trophy cup that threatened slightly to keep us dodging about in our chairs, “before I call the police—might I ask, do you know where you are?”

  I placed my gun carefully in my right-hand coat pocket, but kept my right hand on my thigh so that, long before he could say Jack Robinson—or scratch his ear—or do whatever one might do before lunging at an adversary—I could have my hand on it and shoot him dead, right through the pocket.

  He made no answer to my question, but turned his head about and swept his eyes across the entire room—including the skull on its brick shelf far in back of him—and the big safe door, almost ash with that brickwork wall. Then he replied to me.

  “Well,” he countered, “I’m in a room, ain’t I? A big room?”

  “Come off it,” I ordered him peremptorily. “Cut the shenan­iging. Before I call the police—do you know where you are? And no more foolish answers now—like that one.”

  He surveyed me gloomily.

  “Well—I’m in a house, ain’t I?” he said belligerently. “And it says on the mailbox outside—in the entrance—King—Mort’mer King. So—I s’pose I’m in the home o’ Mort’mer King.”

  “Right,” I said. “Though your rendition of my first name is a bit sloppy. A fact! The ‘i’ in Mortimer is, as a rule, pronounced! Likewise,” I added sardonically, “aren’t you being a little bit informal?—just tossing aside, willy-nilly, the part of my handle that makes me one definite person out of all of America’s 130,000,000 people? Yes—that middle initial Q?” I paused. “Pick my house—just at random?”

  The sudden crafty look that f
lashed across his face made me change my tack.

  “Sa-ay—you weren’t hired by any chance, were you, by that new association of bookmakers to place a pineapple in my place, were you!” I wrinkled up my own brows. For of pineapple bombs, the fruit so common on the Minneapolis industrial tree, there had certainly been none on him.

  “I ain’t placing no pineapples—on anybody,” he said. “And don’t you figure to plant none on me, neither.”

  “Well—I have none to plant,” I told him. “But I think, at that, that after you’re locked up—I’d like to look into your connections. What’s your name?”

  He remained obdurately silent.

  “Come on. Come on. I’ll only get it from the police—who’ll beat it out of you.”

  “Peter Givney.” And he spelled it out.

  “Where do you live?”

  “2375 South Humboldt Street.”

  “Oh—South Humboldt Street, eh? I know that district—around the 2700’s. Married?”

  “No. I live in a room.”

  “Rooming house, eh?”

  “Yes. Cheap one.”

  “Got a phone there?”

  “Who wants to know?” he inquired belligerently.

  “I,” I told him. “And the Northwest Minneapolis police. Who can find out, in one minute, the phone that corresponds to that South Humboldt Street address.”

  “All—right. You win. But if you want to make any inquiries about me, you’ll have to look up the phone yourself. I live in the dump, yes, but Christ knows I don’t have occasion to call myself up! The Workers’ Rest is the name o’ th’ place.”

  With my foot I shoved over towards his feet the big Twin-Cities telephone directory lying on the footrest of the table.

  “Look your number up,” I commanded him.

  He took up the book disgruntledly from the floor, and with it on his knee leafed over its pages, following its fine-type columns with a pudgy forefinger. “All—right,” he said glumly. “Workers’ Rest. Colonial 0329. So—What?”