“Which he—Sciecinskiwicz—did exactly.
“For he told that girl the whole of what I told you—a while back. About the notorious Two-Gun Eddy being in actuality his kid brother—though under another name: and about his deciding to operate on Two-Gun’s nose—and get him out of pain. So he wouldn’t get nabbed. And catch the electric chair. And how Two-Gun, well-heeled with ‘scratch’, was going to give him $1000. And he also told Rozalda about his having that one skull—yes, the one loaned him by that contractor—the one he’d made an experimental drill hole in, through its back—and about that one cadaver head. And how he wanted to make not less than three practice operations before attempting to work on a living patient. And how he asked her if she’d let him take your skull. The existence of which she’d told him about at some time, it seems. And how he’d fix up the chiseled and cut places inside the nose with some kind of stained acid so’s they couldn’t show as recent work. And how—”
“In short,” I put in, to avert a whole lot of repetitive facts, “she told you all you told me—a while back?”
“Correct. Except that she conveyed a further additional few facts, which I haven’t given you thus far: one, that she had sent your skull over to him—wrapped up, of course—next morning—Monday—about 9 in the morning—by some kid she found crossing the prairie here. And that it hadn’t come back yet. And that she didn’t intend to bother ‘Doctor’ for it—hic—till he was done with it. Hic! But I should get in touch with her in a few days—hic—and she’d loan it to me. Hic! And that Mrs. King—hic—would never notice its absence—hic—as she didn’t particularly like the thing—hic—and would only believe that she—Rozalda—had put it away out of sight. After which we sang, I believe, ‘Sweet Adeline’!”
“I see,” I put in. “But she wouldn’t give you this fellow—this Doctor’s name?”
“Right! And not even her half of those two quarts of champagne—coupled up with the few highballs we led off with—could pry that out of her. I believed her story, all right, bleary-eyed as she was when she dished all that dirt; but I was certain that her doctor friend had been all coked up on that marihuana weed—and had been plumb goofy that night in his office—and imagining all he’d told her. Of course she, being Polish, I suspected he was Polish—even though she didn’t at all admit so. She didn’t even tell me, you see, that the supposed ‘Two-Gun’ was a Polack—like herself. But I figured if I only knew who her doctor friend was, I could pull a fast one on him—by moseying over there—and telling him that you, Mr. King, had come home unexpectedly—and that Rozalda must have the skull back immediately—if not faster than that—and that I was to fetch it. That skull which, for some reason best known to him, so I intended to tell him, she had shipped over to him—the previous Monday morning. Yes! But how to find who the devil he was? For the number of Polish doctors in Minneapolis must amount to several hundred, at the very least.
“However,” Steenburg went on, “about this time Rozalda gets well liquidated, and has to go to the ladies’ room to powder her petite nose—or what-have-you. And her purse is lying there on the sticky table. And so I just open it up. And there’s not one—but three cards—all with this Sciecinskiwicz’s address on—4132 Queen Avenue, South. It was plain as day to me: she wouldn’t likely have two doctor boy-friends—and she must have liked him, or she wouldn’t be peddling his name to other Polacks that she met at dances and so forth—in other words, drumming up business for him.
“When she got back, however, she was about ready to pass out. I could see it. I could see, too, that she didn’t scarcely know all she’d just told me. So I had to stick her in a taxicab, and put a two-buck bill in the driver’s hand, and send her home here. And I—but listen here now, Mr. King—you’re sure you aren’t sore?”
“No—no—no,” I assured him. “I’m glad to get the real low-down on matters in my own home for a change. Mrs. King has always implicitly believed that Rozal—” But I broke off. “Go on with the story.”
“Well,” Steenburg said, brightening markedly up, “next morning—Sunday—bright and early, I got hold of that file of Robbinsdale Telegraph. You remember? From the chambermaid—of the hotel—where I was staying? Yes. And by golly—I did find a story about a Two-Gun Eddy. The story, of course, that I showed you a while back, Mr. King. And right there things were, for me, a little bit confirmed. For at the least, both Two-Gun Eddy and this doc were Polish. Though, to be honest with you, I still believed that Sciecinskiwicz had been plumb goofy. And so I stopped off after breakfast—at the library. Yes—exactly as I told you a while back. And found out what I also told you—about the exact kind of operation that would have to be done on ‘Two-Gun.’ And—also!—in a book on narcotics, exactly what marihuana—atop alcohol—will do to the human tongue! And when I left there, Mr. King, I believed absolutely that Sciecinskiwicz had been giving Rozalda the real low-down on real things—and not a lot of hooey.
“And so naturally,” Steenburg continued, “I made tracks for Sciecinskiwicz’s place on Queen Avenue, South. For both his card—and the entry in the Minneapolis telephone book showed that his office and residence were in the same place. Evidently, in fact, a left first apartment in an apartment building, for just preceding the street number in the phone entry was the prefix 1-B. So—Sunday or no Sunday!—I figured I would catch my man. Well, it was only a little after 10 a.m. When I reached there. And, tacked on the door of apartment 1-B, was a typewritten card reading: ‘Gone out of town. Back by next Wednesday.’ And nary wife, maid or servant answered my repeated knocks at the door.
“I dropped swiftly down to my knees and peered under the door. The skull was somewhere, I knew, inside that place. I could make out the legs of, obviously, a desk in some room—the bottom of, plainly, a metal filing cabinet. And—what proved to be later of prime importance—apparently no claw feet or wheels of any iron safe.
“Which was all I could get, for I had to jump up as I heard feet outside in the vestibule. The owner of the feet came on it—and proved to be only a kid. With whom I proceeded to talk. Darned kid, Mr. King, couldn’t have been over 2 years old. But was as bright as a 3-year-old—no, by gosh, as bright as a 4-year-old child.
“‘Doctor mans live there,’ he informed me, gravely.
“‘Oh yes, sonny,’ I nodded. ‘And you live here too—in this building?’
“‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I des live in nay’hood—’ And he waved a tiny hand in a great expansive are. ‘I des come in—to try fin’ penny in halls. People they pull out keys—sometimes drop pennies.’
“‘But you know the doctor mans here, eh, sonny!’ I asked him.
“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He nice to me. Show me dead man’s heads—and tell me I got des same in my head.’ And he put his fist to his tiny head.
“‘Dead man’s heads, sonny?’ I asked him. ‘How many dead man’s heads did Doctor man show you, sonny?’
“‘He show me two,’ he said promptly.
“‘Two, eh’ And what color were they, sonny? I’m going to give you a penny in a minute. What color—were those heads?’
“‘Sort’ white like,’ he told me childlike. ‘Des like—bone what my dog chews.’ And he paused, thinking. And added: ‘An’ both got stickum plaster und’ chin so—so mouths don’ fall off.’”
“Then,” I put in, to and for Steenburg, “you knew that my skull—and that contractor fellow’s skull—were both there? By the fact that the child described them as ‘bony’—and described adhesive tape holding lower jaws to sconces?”
“Right, Mr. King. Right.” Steenburg paused, then continued. “Well I tried to get more from the kid. But got nothing more. Except that ‘Black mans come sometimes—scrub floor for Doctor mans.’
“But he had no idea what the ‘Black mans’ name was—or where he could be found. In fact, it seemed that the ‘Black mans’ apparently didn’t live around there at all.
&nbs
p; “So I paid off the child—with a cautious single penny so that he wouldn’t be likely to remember the conversation at some later time—and with the ‘Black mans’ as a clue, I went down and out on Queen Avenue. And up—or maybe it was down!—the street a short ways—to the first drugstore. Figuring that always, around in front of a drugstore, is hanging one or more persons with voluminous information about that neighborhood. But I found one fellow only, lounging outside, a typical ‘drugstore cowboy’—as I’m sure, Mr. King, you’ve heard such called—these chaps, you know, who loaf outside of drugstores with their hands in their pockets, eyeing the trade—at least the feminine trade going in and out!—and wishing they had the price of another double chocolate malted milk! Well, this chap knew of Sciecinskiwicz—but didn’t know of any Negro, and didn’t even know, in fact, that Sciecinskiwicz was out of town. Had even seen Dr. Sciecinskiwicz, near that very corner, at 10 p.m. the night just gone. Which fact, Mr. King, subsequently helped me to reconstruct various certain events that must have happened. But an older man who had been inside the store buying a cigar, and just coming out, biting off the end of it, heard part of our conversation—and inserting himself in it, as it were, told me that he lived just a short ways from Sciecinskiwicz, and knew of a limping Negro who came every Tuesday, around 4 p.m., to clean the doctor’s office and flat. More than once, in fact, he’d seen the Negro washing the doctor’s windows. And the Negro came, moreover, from—he knew definitely—St. Paul, because he’d asked the black man one day if he could work an hour a day for him, and the Negro had said he couldn’t do that little work daily, because he’d have to come too far—all the way from St. Paul. And as the fellow pondered, Mr. King, over this Negro, he remembered how the Negro came just the same—even when the Doctor was away at Medical conventions, and on vacations, and what not. Had a key or something to the doctor’s flat and office.
“Well, Mr. King, I had all I wanted! I’m not a burglar, you know. And I wasn’t going to try to enter that place—and rifle the drawers of Sciecinskiwicz’s desk—and his filing cabinet—and all that. No! But I didn’t need even to think of such a thing as that. For everything stood apparently hunky-dory for me. The skull was out of Rozalda’s hands—and the Doctor gone—for a half week yet to come. Nothing—no one—to deal with but that nigger. I could flash my detective badge on him, I realized—and get away with the skull. And so—nothing to be done but abandon the chase for the moment—and wait for Tuesday—today—4 p.m.
“So I boarded a train—at noon that day—and went up to a town near Duluth. To take care of something that had to be done on that Soo Ching case. The clipping concerning which you just read. I had to dig up some proofs—see?—of death on the parts of certain other relatives of Soo Chong, Soo Ching’s father. And on the way I doped out completely what took place in Sciecinskiwicz’s life, between the arrival of your skull in his hands that Monday morning at 9 a.m.—and the present moment.
“I believe, Mr. King, he operated on either your—or the other skull—that Monday night. I figure then that he let 24 full hours go by—to get the stiffness out of his fingers—and operated on the other skull—by the next night, Tuesday. I figure then that he let another 24 hours pass—and that he then operated on the cadaver head by Wednesday night. Getting close now to the real live head, see? And I believe that he operated on ‘Two-Gun’ Eddy sometime Thursday morning. Early. Or maybe in regular office hours. I don’t know.
“I believe,” Steenburg continued, “that he then held over 3 full days. The medical book I read says that such an operative case will have to be watched approximately that length of time to make sure that no traumatic infection, as it’s termed, starts up. I believe that Two-Gun was coming along O.K. Friday morning—24 hours after the job was done. And was O.K. Saturday morning, 48 hours after the job. And O.K. Sunday morning, 72 hours after the job. After which, if it so happened that the operation was done on Queen Avenue, South—Eddy was whisked back to his hideout, wherever that may be. Before the police started raiding Polish doctors’ offices—on general principles! Or, if done in Eddy’s own hideout—he was then declared okay Sunday—with nothing to do but syringe out his nose with salt and water. After which the doctor—Sciecinskiwicz—blew town; blew it, in fact—as I subsequently learned—around midnight Sunday. Probably wanting, so I thought then, to spend some of that thousand smackers.”
“Or,” I put in, “in view of the appearance of that story about a raid on another Doctor’s office—dated October 18th—that was Saturday—maybe Sciecinskiwicz got a bit scared—and blew?”
“You’ve got a good memory, Mr. King, to recall the date of that story.”
“I could practically repeat that story to you, word for word,” I told him. “For I’ve made it a point since childhood to memor—but that’s neither here nor there. You were now, as I recall it, on your way to Duluth. Figuring, I suppose, that ‘Cokey’—there in New York—wouldn’t be likely to break—right in the interim?”
“That’s right,” Steenburg added. “Neither I nor ‘Big Shoes’ looked for an immediate crack-up of ‘Cokey.’ But the same might easily come any minute. For judging from what the New York tramp told ‘Big Shoes’, ‘Cokey’s’ pick-up by the police there was inevitable and certain, in view of the way ‘Cokey’ had thrown off all guardedness in his piddling narcotic dealing. So as I say, ‘Cokey’s’ pick up—and then his crack-up—could come any minute, However, I was whipsawed and hamstrung—down here in Minneapolis.
“Well, I got to Duluth late that afternoon. God!—such a crawl by steam—my rickety train carrying two freight cars between two old passenger coaches! So tired—I had to go to bed. And next day started on my Soo Chong stuff. And which kept me busy all day. And I never got out till late in the afternoon. Getting back late last night here to Minneapolis—just in time to sleep, in fact, and get up today—and get ready to catch that nigger—who had the precious key to Sciecinskiwicz’s office.
“I went out there right after breakfast, and hung around in the neighborhood all day. So as not to possibly miss him. For—”
“Did the Negro show up?” I asked, riveting Steenburg’s story down to essentials.
“Yes. But only at 4 p.m. On the dot. Like clockwork. And one look at him—and I knew he probably paid Doc Sciecinskiwicz more money than Doc paid him. Cokehead, Mr. King. His eyes showed it.
“So I determined to pull a fast one first—and then, if necessary, to flash the badge. And I cornered him inside the hallway.
“‘I’m Doctor’s friend,’ I told him. ‘He wants to loan me a certain one of those two skulls he’s got. And told me this morning, on the long-distance wire, to see you.’
“If he’d asked me, Mr. King, where Sciecinskiwicz had been talking from—I’d have had to say that Sciecinskiwicz had called me—and didn’t say! But he was a very simple-minded nigger. And apparently questioned nothing. ‘Das’ too bad, boss,’ he told me. ‘But I done hab alreddy deliber’ bof uf dem skolls back to dem peoples whut’s to git ’em.’
“‘Delivered—’em back?’ I queried.
“‘Yessah,’ he affirmed. ‘Doctah he come to mah house—obah in Sain’ Paul—late Sunday night. Wid a trabbelin’ bag in he han’—on his way to leavin’ Minn’ap’li. Ah ain’ no phone—so he hab to come in pusson. An’ he gib me de key to de cab’net in he desk—see, heah it is—’ And he held up a key, Mr. King, ‘—an’ he say he gwine see some gal in de Midwes’ whut crazy ’bout him. He hab a big roll ob money. Man, oh man, whut a roll dat wuz! An’ he gib me fi’ dollah ob it, too. An’ he say Ah should go obah to his office, nex’ day, wid’out fail, an’ wrap up dem two skolls whut’s in de desk cab’net, an’ deliber ’em to two diff’ent folks’ houses heah in Minn’ap’lis. An’ dat de ol’ daid pickled med’cal collige haid whut wuz in wid ’em Ah wuz to bring to mah house in Sain’ Paul, an’ buhy it. All of whut Ah is done, sah.’
“‘Then,’ I said flabbergasted, ‘you
delivered the skulls—yesterday?’
“‘Yassuh,’ he affirmed. ‘Didn’ hab nuffin to do yes’day—so Ah des git it all obah wiv. But mebbe, sah, you lak to go to de peoples whut has de skolls, heh?’ He was fumbling in his pocket now, and bringing out a piece of paper. ‘Doctah, sah, he say bof dem skolls done got a hole in de back of dey haid—lak a auger hole. An’ so dat I is to go on’y by de Injia ink letters he hab done lettah on de backs.’ He was looking at his paper. ‘An’ de one whut say on it “M.K.” I is to deliber at a house ’way out on de prairies—sixty-fo’ fo’hty Yukon Street—own’ by a man named Mort’mer King—and I will hab to ask ’roun’ dah, w’ere it’s call’ “Hobury Heights,” how to git to dat house. And I is to gib it on’y to a suhvant gal what say she name is Rosy. An’ dat lessen she is dah, I ain’ to gib it in, but is to come back again. An’ de odder skoll, whut is got lettahed on its back “J.R.” I is to deliber to de house ob a man by name ob—’ And there I shut him off, Mr. King, for I was not interested in the contractor himself.
“So I got away from the Negro. Sore as the devil at myself. Such a simple-minded creature. I could have wangled that skull out of him with no trouble at all.
The Man with the Magic Eardrums Page 14
