“And,” I put in, “nine years or so later—you got the call?”
“Exactly. That hundred bucks saved the Old Man’s life. And when I got the call—and by God, Mr. King, I’m grateful, whatever else I may be—but as I was going to say when I got the call, I answered it right off—and damn glad to be able to deliver a payback—any kind of payback. But now as to just why I did get the call.” He paused. “Well, the client in this case couldn’t come himself to Wisconsin. Or to Minneapolis. To run down—these certain things. See? Nor to Buffalo. To see me. Nor to any state in the Union. Outside of Illinois. He is, you might say, imprisoned in Illinois—for life!”
“Is he in the pen?” I asked.
“No. It’s a matter of Lumbago—Love—and Law!”
I could not help but laugh. At Steenburg’s combination of terms.
“Lumbago—love—and law? That’s a strange combination—of turnkeys.”
“Well,” said Steenburg, a bit sheepishly, “the lumbago part will pass. Has passed now, as I happen to know. But the other two, Mr. King, are fixed quantities!” He paused. “No, what’s really imprisoning my client for life, there in Illinois, is the so-called Habitual Criminal Act—of Wisconsin. The one, you know, that’s been in existence for some years now—and which provides that anyone convicted of crime in Wisconsin shall get life imprisonment if he’s been convicted twice before—in that or any other state. Exactly, in fact, like the Indiana Habitual Criminal Act. Do you remember, Mr. King, back in 1934, how a small county in Indiana, called Lake County, planted ‘Fur’ Sammons in the Michigan City Indiana penitentiary for life—just for trying to pass a two-hundred-buck bribe to a Hoosier police officer at Cedar Lake who had arrested him for a traffic violation? Put him in the cooler for life, that is—because he’d already served time twice outside of Indiana?”
“Yes,” I nodded, “I do recall that case.”
“Well,” Steenburg said, “my client’s up against a somewhat similar proposition—except that his is very much modified by the fact of the passage, by the Illinois legislature, five years ago—of the law that certain minor crimes shan’t be extraditable crimes in Illinois if they put men under the Habitual Criminal Laws of any other states. Illinois believes, more or less, I guess, in a man paying for what he pays for—as he goes along—and not in his having to pay usurious compound interest—in the way of a life sentence. Straight thinkers, those Illinoisans! And so my client, who—now what the devil shall I call him in this discussion? He—”
“Call him ‘Big-Shoes,’” I suggested facetiously. “Like the ‘X’—in the algebra books.”
“Good enough, I will. And his shoes are plenty big enough at that. That is, with the Illinois cowhide boots he wears today!” Steenburg paused. “All right. ‘Big Shoes’ has been convicted of crime twice in Minnesota here—though in different parts of the state. And under different names. When he 1eft the North here, some seven years or so back—he walked out on bail from a minor crime committed in one of the larger cities of Wisconsin—slugged a Wisconsinite who said something against his mother—open-and-shut case—laid the fellow in the hospital—and so it was a case which meant a sure and certain conviction. Assault with intent to kill. And worse—if by any chance the Wisconsin prosecutor should succeed in digging up his two previous convictions, under different names, in Minnesota. What he did, Mr. King, was to take a Canadian lake boat out of Superior—though understand, I’m not saying Superior was the town in question—nor that it wasn’t—he took a Canadian lake boat out of Superior and went up to Canada. Changed his name, of course. He was afraid—in fact, was certain—that his two convictions in the different parts of the state here would be dug up—found to be that of the same man—and so, if convicted in Wisconsin on that last charge, it would mean life for him in Wisconsin State Prison. And that my client’s fears about those two convictions in Minnesota were well-founded is confirmed by the fact that in the spring of 1935 there was a complete comparison of data on all past convictions in every county of the Lake States here—Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Indiana. Including the case histories of men who had served in chain gangs. With the result, Mr. King, that the necessary data for life sentences, in such states as have habitual criminal laws, for thousands of different felons, are today all correlated and tabulated in the Lake States Division of the American Bureau of Penology.
“My client stayed there in Canada,” Steenburg went on, after a brief pause, “for two years, and then Canada, at behest of the Lake States here, began to issue extradition warrants on the most trivial charges, against men who were classified here in the United States as habitual criminals. While at the same time the Illinois legislature made all minor crimes unextraditable—that is, when they made a No. 3 count on a habitual criminal law of any other state.”
Steenburg paused a moment, and then continued.
“So my client,” he went on, “got out of Canada. A number of people there knew him to be an American—and he began to feel insecure. In fact, he went to Illinois. He simply chartered a private plane—and flew straight from Canada to a private landing field, south of Chicago a hundred miles or so—a landing field known to the pilot. It cost my client plenty—yes—but in that way he arrived safely in Illinois, which state appeared to be his one safe haven now. For the man he had slugged, Mr. King, was still alive—is alive right today!—and had seen to it that the charge against my client was not nolle prossed—in fact had seen to it that my client’s description—and a standing reward for him—was kept in possession of all police chiefs—in all cities.
“My client,” Steenburg continued, “arriving in Illinois, bought a small farm. Yes—within no more than a hundred miles of Chicago, I don’t mind telling you—since Illinois is bigger than some European countries. I won’t even say what town it’s near. He avoided settling in any of the bigger cities. Lest he did get picked up. By some sharp-eyed metropolitan detective—with a memory for old wanted faces in the old police bulletins. And then have to go through an extradition fight. He married a woman, in fact. Right off the bat. And had a kid—right off the bat—well no! I forget—about the laws of biology. He had a kid. A girl kid. Crazy about her—too. He took up a correspondence course—improved his English—his mind—his scanty education—tremendously. Took another correspondence course—in short-story writing—and—”
“Short-story writing?” I put in, curiously. “I thought you said he bought a small farms?”
“Yes, he did. But nothing so big, Mr. King, that it didn’t give him long winter days and nights with nothing to do—but think of improving conditions for his wife and kid. Yes, he took a correspondence course in short-story writing. And by God, Mr. King, he has, I believe, the stuff—to make eventually a fair side income in writing. He’ll probably never be a top-liner—no!—but there’s no reason why he hasn’t the same chance that thousands of others, men younger than he, have—a chance to skim some of the financial cream from the magazine fiction field. I’ve here—in my pocket now—” Steenburg pointed towards his breast pocket, “—a script of his which I’m taking back to Buffalo—something he wrote, unknown to the wife and kid, to sort of surprise ’em if it went over—something I promised maybe to clean up a bit in my spare moments—and try and market it for him—maybe to put it in the hands of some agent. And these things I tell you, Mr. King, to show you that he’s done with crime. And is content to remain a small farmer for the rest of his days—and to write fiction on the side. He’s done—absolutely done, Mr. King—with all the rackets.”
“But there is a law,” I warned Steenburg, tapping my finger on the table, “that all criminals—are recidivists.”
“Yes,” he admitted. And added: “But every law has its exception, Mr. King. And you must believe me, when I tell you this guy has quit crime. He’s—but I want to tell you now, if you don’t mind, the matter of the crime which put that skull in Henry Speevy’s field there in Wisc
onsin. Because—”
But Steenburg’s words were shattered by the single sharp ring of the telephone bell.
And I say “single ring” because, just before its first reverberation pierced the room, I was leaning over tying my shoelace which had become untied. And before ever the second ring had been reached, Steenburg had the instrument off its cradle and to his lips, for I heard him saying:
“Yes, he’s here—and hold the wire!”
And rising up from my shoelace tying, my head warm with suffused blood, I found myself confronting Steenburg’s outstretched hand with the instrument in it.
It truly seemed as though tonight I was destined—whether I wished it or not—to be put willy-nilly onto all phone callers, thanks to the celerity with which all persons sitting across from me answered that phone!
“Man or woman?” I asked Steenburg, taking the proffered instrument.
“Neither—so far as I know!” Steenburg replied, with a half laugh. “I just forestalled ’em—before they asked—and said I’d put you on.”
“It’s probably for Otto,” I returned reflectively. “Since, after all, I’m not known to be at home. And Mrs. King, likewise, is known to be away.”
I spoke into the transmitter end of the instrument. To get contact with the calling party, tell him curtly “Not here,” and get back to matters with Steenburg.
“Yes?” I said.
There was a protractedly long silence indicating rather plainly, in view of the just-distinguishable circuit noises, that someone had temporarily laid his instrument down, the while he confirmed, in the telephone book, the phone number he was calling, or else obtained pencil, spectacles, or what-had-he; and I continued to wait patiently, tapping my fingertips on the tabletop. At last, after what seemed an interminable time, the calling party—having evidently taken up his instrument again—spoke.
And in a brisk clear-speaking masculine voice which was unknown to me.
“Skip at once,” were his surprising words, the one tumbling fast on the other, “if you’re guilty! The Minneapolis Morning Bugle has enough of some kind of a lead to what the Cobb woman is going to reveal on the gallows that—well, on the managing editor’s table right now stands the linotype slugs for a complete front-page story, already written up, and naming you—headline type blocks the same, with your name in ’em—and an electro-cut full 4 columns wide, made from some candid camera snapshot of yourself—all ready to be locked in the forms the minute the trap drops in London, and the cable news naming you gets across—and the edition containing the story to be gotten onto every doorstep in Minny by dawn. So if you’re guilty—skip now—and skip fast!”
A sharp click followed. The decisive click that only a deposited telephone instrument can give. And I slowly returned to its cradle the instrument in my hand. And turned to Steenburg.
“And you—were saying?” I asked.
CHAPTER XV
How Blinky Went A-Riding!
“Oh yes,” Steenburg resumed. “Well, as I was saying—but,” he broke off, “I hope, Mr. King, you didn’t catch some bad news—just now?”
“Do I look—as though—I did?” I countered.
“Yes—or no—that is, on second thought, you—you look frightfully bewildered. Some friend—give you surprising news—of any nature?”
I made haste to dispose of Steenburg’s inward queries.
“’Twas just—just some practical joker—having a little fun,” I said. But realized that I did look hopelessly dumfounded.
“I see,” Steenburg replied politely. “Well, as I was about to tell you—”
But now I interrupted him.
“Though before you do resume, Steenburg, what, might I ask, as a purely academic question—and this is the second such kind of question I’ve asked tonight!—but I don’t often, you see, get the companionship of a criminal attorney!—what could a man collect, on libel, from a newspaper which set up a story slandering him? But—but didn’t publish it?”
“Quite nothing, Mr. King—viz Paxton versus the New York Register—adverse decision confirmed by United States Supreme Court. Only can the plaintiff in such case collect libel damages if the paper actually publishes—officially publishes—the story. But not if, on the basis of hearsay, rumor, tip, suspicion, or what-have-you, the paper merely writes the story up, or sets it up, or anything else. The story must be printed and sent forth in regular distribution and sales channels. But of course,” explained Steenburg, “when a slanderous story about someone isn’t confirmed—no paper ever publishes it!”
“No,” I admitted musingly. “No—if not confirmed—the story never gets published. True.” I was silent. “But you were about to tell me of the crime which put my skull in Henry Speevy’s field there in Wisconsin.”
“Yes.”
Steenburg paused a second, as a man collecting his facts. And then began:
“Eight years ago, Mr. King, ‘Big Shoes’—as you suggest calling my client—was associated—here in Minneapolis—with a gang of hoodlums amongst which were—now again, I’ve got to avoid names. You understand? One was a drug runner. Cocaine and morphine. Fellow that didn’t touch the stuff himself. One was an asocial gang killer—if you get my meaning. And one was a one-eyed ex-gigolo.”
“A one-eyed gigolos’“ I said, in frank surprise. “He couldn’t have been much of a lady-killer—with only one eye!”
“No? Well as I understand it, Mr. King, this bird was as handsome as—well—he looked like a moving living collar ad! Very blond, you know—and blue-eyed; a Swede, in fact. And he had one of these glass eyes that the victim—patient—whatever you call a one-eyed man—can move about in his head—some clever surgeon had bunched up the muscles in some certain way when they took his bum optic out—so’s the knobs on the muscles could push the specially built artificial eye around and about. To a certain extent, that is, understand me. It’s called—I think—eye-muscle scarification. It’s really done, you know. My client tells me that that eye was said to have just—well—hypnotized the fat old ladies who hired this fellow, from some gigolo agent or agency, to squire ’em around. In fact, this bird—the gigolo chap, I mean—had more dope on rich old ladies—and their jewelry—and their inside lives—than all the gangs themselves. And you know how it was back in the last days of Prohibition? The illicit alky traffic had been so completely organized and sewed up that, to keep gangsters busy, new sources of illicit money had to be dug up. The gangsters, organized as they were for liquor hijacking—but with damned little liquor now being run in by outsiders—had to start hijacking commercial goods—and dope running, and selling—and blackmail—and even kidnaping. Well, my client had been a decent whiskey runner up to the time I speak of. And things had gotten so sewed up in the alcohol field that, with some others, he was hijacking commercial goods. And what little time he spent in the racket after the time I’m speaking of was sort of—well—‘holdover’—while he was trying to orient himself to a new world where beer and wine being legitimate, thanks to Roosevelt’s election, had virtually made hard liquor legal too. Now this other bird, the gigolo, came in on the gang stuff just at the end of Prohibition. He got drawn into the gang world for two reasons. One, because he’d never been bertillioned nor fingerprinted. Had no police record; in other words, he was pristine stuff—see? And valuable for that reason. And the other was all the dope he had on rich old ladies, from actual blackmail to the location of their pearl earrings or their diamond stomachers. However, now what am I going to call these birds—for I’ve got to refer to them all?”
“Well,” I said, half amusedly, “call the dope-traffic fellow ‘Cokey.’ Call the official gang assassin ‘The Killer.’ And call the one-eyed gigolo ‘Blinky.’ Now we’ve got all the algebraic symbols.”
Steenburg laughed. “Those names’ll do—fine.” He paused.
“Well, ‘Blinky,’” he went on, a second later, “made
the egregious mistake, it seems, of taking a five-hundred-dollar bill—to tip off where his gang chief was to be at a certain hour—of a certain date. To a man in a rival gang. Which gang wanted to put ‘Blinky’s Big Chief on the spot. It seemed that ‘Blinky’ palled around quite a big with the chauffeur for the Big Chief—see?—and so really had this vital inside info—and so, when he was approached, by the chap from the rival gang—he delivered the goods! But this gang—‘Blinky’s’ gang—had a spy in the other gang—see?—and so what Blinky had done came right back, pronto, to ‘Blinky’s’ superior—and so it was ordained that ‘Blinky’ would have to die. No, he didn’t know his perfidy had been discovered. Nor that he was going for a ride. The night he did go!
The Man with the Magic Eardrums Page 11
