CHAPTER XIII
How a Talisman Became a Hoodoo!
I stared at him.
“Sciecinski—” I began. “Well,” I amended, “I’ll take the rest of that long name on trust! Polish, eh? And Rozalda—hm!—Rozalda Mardzienski—Polish as well?” I paused. “Listen here, man, are you sure—of what you’re saying?”
“I thought I’d give you a jolt,” he replied confidently. “Now get a load of this, Mr. King. This Rozalda of yours doesn’t exactly hate men—in case you don’t know it—and if you get my meaning, as well? And she—but get me right on this please: I got nothing to say about her—or against her—in a moral sense. A guy that says a word against a woman morally—without any basis—is a rat. And I’m not that! If you ask me, I’d say that your Rozalda can be crazy about a man—but that she’s got enough of a head on her not to—well, lose her head! Marriage is her price. So I think. All right. But nevertheless, as I was saying, she’s a bit man-crazy. Something which I don’t believe you could know—because she isn’t going to try to make you—nor cast sheep’s eyes in your direction—with Mrs. King in the house. Naturally! But I can know things—that you can’t. For, as you certainly should be able to guess, I’ve been following up this skull business for some days now. Checking every clue to its whereabouts—or its movements—that I’ve been able to get hold of—seven ways across the board! And so when I now give you a fact, Mr. King—as a fact!—take it as gospel truth—as something that’s been corroborated by me a dozen ways running. For it’s hard to give you this story sequentially. Try to take the story for the time being, Mr. King, as I give it—until it all falls together like—like a jig-saw puzzle. Which I promise you it will. Perfectly. And to the last jig-piece!”
“All right,” I assured him, “I’ll do just that.”
Steenburg paused a second. Then continued.
“Your Rozalda, Mr. King,” he stated, “knows this Polack doctor I speak of. He has no wife, though whether he’s a bachelor or whether he’s a widower, I can’t say; all I can go by, for that particular detail, is the classification ‘b’ after his name in your Minneapolis telephone directory—standing, I suppose, for ‘single-blessedness’!—and which I understand is part of the new method of tabulation employed here to help distinguish people of the same names a bit from each other. However, there’s only one Dr. Stefan Sciecinskiwicz. And his office and living quarters are together—and are at 4132 Queen Avenue, South, here in this city.”
Steenburg paused again, and then, as before, pressed on with whatever he was trying to present.
“Anyway, Mr. King, to make a long story short—until I completely draw all these threads together for you—your Polish girl has been out a number of times with this Doc. She met him originally by just going to him—to treat for something. Natural enough, isn’t it? Polish girl—goes to Polish doc? And they make a date. Natural: enough, too, for she’s not a bad-looking trick, by a long shot, in the bargain. In fact, from what I’ve found out, I gather they have a date—just for a little harmless talkfest and drinkfest—every off and on. But now for a real bombshell, Mr. King. And here it is: This Sciecinskiwicz is a brother of no less a person than Two-Gun ‘Polack’ Eddy—notorious mankiller—wanted by your police here for killing 3 bluecoats—and being watched for, for weeks and weeks now, at every doctor’s office—in Minneapolis and St. Paul.”
I stared wide-eyed at him.
“You certainly bring plenty tidings tonight,” I commented. “How—which—what—”
“Will you read this newspaper clipping first?” Steenburg said. “I dug this up, while I’ve been here in Minneapolis, when I found that Sciecinskiwicz was mixed up—in the way he was—with the skull—that I was running down. The story happens to be from the Robbinsdale Telegraph—but it carries, as you’ll note, the A-P credit line—and so the facts are just as good as if published in a Minneapolis paper.”
“Been staying—in Robbinsdale?” I inquired.
“No. But when I unearthed a connection between Two-Gun Eddy and Sciecinskiwicz, I asked one of the chambermaids in the hotel where I have been staying—and I’ve been booked there under a different name, Mr. King, than Steenburg—if she could possibly dig me up a whole file of back Minneapolis papers. I’m not a Minneapolisite, of course; and I don’t always get to read the papers every day in Buffalo, either. And so I—But any way, it seems the girl was from Robbinsdale—and got the Robbinsdale Telegraph every day by mail. And she brought me up a whole file—from ’way back when! It seemed to be pretty well up on Minneapolis news—so took a riffle back through it—and, sure enough, I came on the story. A story that helps to corroborate fully a peck of other data. And all of which is now completely clinched. But here it is. I just cut it out—and kept it.”
As Steenburg had been talking he had been withdrawing, though with less prideful guardedness than he had displayed when he had produced the story that had pertained to himself, a clipping from his outer coat pocket, fumbling first in the one, then in the other. He handed it to me silently. I took it from his fingers. This curious affair seemed to unfold itself almost as much by newspaper stories—as by personal confidences. Yet, however, it was unfolding itself, we did seem to be reaching some vital point in our meeting. The clipping was short, and, as before, I memorized its details as I read it—so that not again would we need to refer back to it. It ran:
POLICE LAY TRAP IN DOCTOR’S OFFICE FOR NOTORIOUS DESPERADO
Minneapolis, Minn. (Oct. 19) A-P: Seven armed policemen, under Captain Charles Schoofeldt, lay in wait tonight in the offices of Dr. Frank Arrowline, an eye, ear, nose, and throat practitioner of 906 West Franklin Avenue, for a patient, aged 33, who had applied to the doctor for relief for a painful pus-impacted sinus. The police believed the patient to be the notorious Two-Gun “Polack” Eddy, killer of 3 policemen during escape from a police trap in South Minneapolis, who is known to be hiding in Minneapolis’ underworld. All Minneapolis physicians, and especially ear, nose, and throat men, have been warned for the past two weeks to notify the police immediately if any suspicious patients apply for relief from severe sinus pain, as Two-Gun “Polack” Eddy—or Eddie Jaworksi, as he is known in police records—is known to have a desperate case requiring surgical intervention, at least an the right-hand side, for complete and permanent relief. In the absence of such operative help he is thought to be subsisting on injections of illicit morphine.
The patient who arrived finally, however, turned out to be George Arthur Birmingham, of 3349 Sheridan Avenue, and easily established his identity. He slightly resembled Two-Gun “Polack” Eddy.
I looked up from the clipping. In fact, handed it back to Steenburg. Who put it back in his side coat pocket.
“I’m up the creek now,” I confessed.
“I don’t wonder,” he said. “Well, let me make it clear. The facts, that is—and not the corroboratory details. which will come later.” He paused. “This fellow Two-Gun ‘Polack’ Eddy—the killer—is the brother of this reputable—or so-so reputable!—physician—on your Queen Avenue, South. Yes! Separated as boys, he and Two-Gun were. And Two-Gun even goes by a different last name today. And nobody in the world—unless, that is, but your Rozalda—and Two-Gun—and Sciecinskiwicz—and now you and I, Mr. King—know what I’ve just told you. And when Two-Gun Eddy, desperate with pain it seems, and all doctors’ offices in Minneapolis warned to notify the police if a case like his came along, went to his brother late at night, some ten days or so ago, and begged Sciecinskiwicz to open up that impacted sinus—and offered him a thousand simoleons to boot—Sciecinskiwicz decided to—to try and do it.”
“If this, what you say, Steenburg,” I mused, “is really true—and I presume it must be, since you say you can prove it all—then I wonder if Scie-what-you-may-call-him’s consent was due to brotherly love—or to the thousand smackers—or to fear of a professional scandal—in case ‘Two-Gun’ got nabbed elsewhere—see
king relief?”
“All three doubtlessly,” said Steenburg promptly. “At least as I would reason it out.” He paused. “However, Sciecinskiwicz was pretty rusty—on intra-nasal work, that is. It seems he’d done a bit of it—yes—after leaving college. But had switched over to obstetrics—and that’s not hard to see why: he doubtlessly thought he could muscle into some of that voluminous Polish midwife business that always flourishes in Minneapolis’ Little Poland. And so he wasn’t sure of himself, Mr. King, on such a delicate operation. As this intra-nasal job. He felt he’d have to practice up a bit—on at least three trial operations!—before even tackling his own brother. Now he had one pickled cadaver head in his possession—a fact. I know all about it! But he was afraid even to try to purchase another, lest it be reported to the police—and they take it into their heads to watch him—and nab his brother. For he being Polish, you see, just like Two-Gun Eddy, that would throw him even more under suspicion. He did have an old skull, too, which he’d used for a simple practice drilling operation. What I mean to say is that he’d had a fracture or concussion case, quite some time back, in some hospital, with all the signs of intracranial pressure, or intracranial hemorrhage, or something like that just below the top of the patient’s head—at the point of the blow, in fact. The blow which caused the concussion, that is. And he’d thought to make a generous drill hole—oh, about a quarter of an inch in diameter—in the top of this patient’s head to let out the pus and the serum. And so he made a practice puncture, with one of these high-speed electric cranial drills, on this old skull first. More to get the feel of the instrument, as I understand it, than anything else. Though, incidentally, the hospital patient’s case cleared up unexpectedly without such operative help. But anyway—about this old skull. It didn’t belong to Sciecinskiwicz, Mr. King; he’d borrowed it, a month or so back, at the time of this hospitalization case, from some friend—or client—some building excavator—whose steam shovel had turned it up in laying the foundations for some downtown skyscraper. And who wanted it back, by gosh! No, I don’t know the fellow’s name. Though I do know his initials. They’re ‘J.R.’ I only know the facts I’ve just stated.” Steenburg paused. “And so, you see Sciecinskiwicz, having that cadaver head and that skull, had a couple of nose apertures, at least, to fiddle around in! And—”
“And,” I said, anger showing in my voice for the first time, “he obtained my skull—for practice operation No. 3—from Rozalda?”
“Right! Though it wasn’t intended that you could ever know the least thing about it, Mr. King. For Sciecinskiwicz proposed to coat the chiseled-off places back inside the nose with some kind of an acid and permanent stain that would make his cutting work seem old. That was in case you, Mr. King, ever did get the least bit suspicious. And gave the skull a complete once-over—inside its different apertures. See? And then put Otto and Rozalda on the pan.” He paused. “And so—while you, of course, were in that sanitarium—and Mrs. King was away for a few days—a week or so back—in Rochester, Minnesota, I believe—Rozalda loaned that skull to Sciecinskiwicz.”
“Damn the fellow!” I said. “And what did he do? Or—do you know?”
“I told you, Mr. King,” Steenburg said with firm assurance, “that I do know—everything I speak of. However, you probably mean what did Sciecinskiwicz specifically do? Eh? Well, I dropped in at the public library—at a time when I was temporarily blocked in a certain direction—yes, I’ll come to that later—and from a book on one of the open shelves of the Medical Division learned just what would have to be done in the case of a chap like this Two-Gun ‘Polack’ Eddy whom I’d read about. In that Robbinsdale Telegraph—loaned to me by that chambermaid! Yes. And which, naturally, Mr. King, is the exact thing that would be done in a purely practice operation, preparatory to a case like Two-Gun’s. And so—when next you get that skull in your hands, Mr. King—from the party in Evanston, Illinois—yes—turn it around, it’s face up to the light—and look straight into its nose cavity. And receive the final and complete confirmation of what I’m giving you here tonight. You’ll see—at least according to the way I learned things in this medical book—an almost cardboard-thin segment of bone hanging down—well—in your skull, it will be on the skull’s left side. That will be what’s known as the left middle turbinate. But there’ll be none on the right. No right middle turbinate, that is. No—sir! Because that will have had to be chiseled off—by this Polack doctor—to reach what’s known as the right sphenoid sinus. Yes—in the experimental operation—which would naturally be a right-sided affair so as to conform exactly with the technique required for Two-Gun’s case. You’ll see a sort of cavern, however, far back on the right, whose floor has been removed. You’ll see the roof of the nose gone—on that side—too—further up in front, however, and clear to the bony wall of the eye socket. For this book says that the severe pain attributable to a case like that attributed to Two-Gun in the newspapers could only emanate from what is called sphenoidal and ethmoidal involvement. In short,” Steenburg went on, “now that Sciecinskiwicz has made that difficult practice operation—made it three times, in fact—I know this, Mr. King, just as much, even, as I know that that skull has come back into this house!—now, as I was about to say, that he has made that difficult practice operation, which he intended, by the way, to make on both the skull and the cadaver head while such were locked in a vise, and leisurely spending all the time he needed to get the exact hang of the necessary difficult procedure—then that operation was undoubtedly complete and perfect. ‘Beautiful’—as a surgeon would put it! And having made the operation on that skull of yours—and on the other skull, too—and on the cadaver head likewise—Sciecinskiwicz undoubtedly lost no time after that in operating on the live Two-Gun Eddy—his brother—while he still retained the facility, you see, with his chisels and cutting forceps—in which case Two-Gun is now out of pain—and forever safe from the police, probably—his sphenoid and ethmoid caverns, as they are called, on that affected side, no longer able to hold pus—and drive him half insane.”
“While Sciecinskiwicz,” I put in, “is richer by a thousand dollars, eh? And I now have a worthless fetish which would bring me bad luck—and without my ever even knowing it!—instead of good? For by Jupiter, Steenburg, it did bring me good luck—damned good luck!—up until, that is, that I temporarily neutralized its powers by letting my picture get taken. Yes. That’s a story in itself—and we won’t go into that. But that skull brought me as good luck, Steenburg, as did that other murdered man’s tooth you’ve heard about—the tooth which fell into pieces and immediately blew up entirely—as a luck fetish. Sounds crazy, eh? Too occult for you, eh? All right. Laugh this off—if you can! On Saturday, January the 11th, 1934, back in New-Deal Roosevelt’s day, all the priests of India lighted sacrificial fires to avert a stupendous earthquake which had been predicted for several years by astrologers who found that the convergence of a certain 7 planets in Capricorn, due by that date, foretold it. And on Monday, January the 15th, that same year, all India was rocked by one of the worst and most catastrophic quakes in all history. Refer to the newspapers of both of those dates—if you don’t believe me. And—” I stopped. “But anyway—it appears that I now have a worthless fetish—and all due to bring me rank bad luck. And—” I shook my head wearily. “Though what I can’t understand yet, Steenburg, is how you know all the things you’ve been relating here? And moreover, what first set you on the trail of this skull?”
“Well,” the man across from me replied, with a helpless shrug of his shoulders, “it is a matter of criminal law—into which I have been dragged temporarily back after being out of the field for a full seven years. And I am representing the man who was present—though without advance knowledge or guilt—at the time and place where the man whose skull you own was murdered. And unless, Mr. King, you consent to give up that skull—my man will have to go to the electric chair. And an innocent girl-kid’s life be blasted in the bargain. Or a bloo
dy gang war started in New York City to boot. All three things—most likely—as I see it!” Steenburg paused. “Now, Mr. King, have I—or haven’t I?—put my cards—fair and square-on the table?”
CHAPTER XIV
A Message From Nowhere!
“It rather looks,” I told Steenburg, “as if you have put your cards on the table. And now if you’ll go the rest of the way—and give me the whole low-down—I may enter into some arrangement with you for turning that skull back. If—as you claim—it’s been demolished as a fetish.”
“It positively has,” he said grimly. “I happen to know that! It’s a dead dog—according to your belief—and all the East Indian caramels—karmal, I guess it was you said?—in the world. No, I’m not scoffing, Mr. King, at the hidden laws under the universe. I even incline, myself, to Christian Science—that says there isn’t any matter. Though I’d never take it up—for I love the Old Man too much to go against the laws of Moses. The hard rod—you know?—that hit the hard rock—and let wet water come through! Yes.” He paused. “Well, now for the facts. And following which, I’ll give the details of my follow-up of ’em. Here, in and around Minneapolis, that is. And those facts—those initial facts—they—but you won’t expect me to give actual names, of course?”
“Not if you’re an attorney for somebody. No, of course not.”
“Good. You’re a right guy, Mr. King. So here goes.” Steenburg paused. “Well, the client who I’m representing—the man who sent for me clear from Buffalo—is—but suppose I just tell you, in a dozen words, exactly why I’m handling this client’s case.” Steenburg paused again. “Nine years ago, Mr. King—I was practicing criminal law in Buffalo—or trying to, anyway—and pretty much down on my luck. The Old Man was coming down with pneumonia—at least, on the particular day I’m about to speak of, he actually had pneumonia, in fact—and I just couldn’t seem to be able to rustle the coin together to get him into Sinai Hospital. I was sitting in my office that day, blue as hell, when a bird came in—he had ex-whiskey-runner written all over him—and said he was ‘in the racket’—as the crooks used to call all criminal activity—and wanted to retain me to represent him in any jams he might get into in Buffalo—you know, Mr. King?—pull him out on a habeas corpus writ if he got picked up—and all that sort of stuff. I took him on—for that was my business. He wanted to know what the retainer would be. I told him, a bit hesitantly $50—and said I was sorry—but that my old man was coming down with pneumonia—and I had to have a fair piece of ‘mouthpiece money’—as it was called then. Well, this fellow laid a century note—a hundred-dollar bill!—down on my desk—and said to me, he said: ‘There’s your retainer, youngster—get your dad into a hospital right off. Only—don’t forget me—if I ever send for you. I’m retaining you—just remember that!’”
The Man with the Magic Eardrums Page 10
