“How?” And I thought back, over the years, to what Jemimah Cobb had told me in that long ago, while I lay, convalescent and weak, in her canopied bed on Quarter Moon Road.
“If ebah Ah gits into trubble, Honeh Man f’um Amurriky—trubble lak a hangin’—Ah’s gonna tell Scotland Yahd an’ de Po-leece dat Ah has a brutthah somewhah dot prob’ly is ashame’ ob me—but dat Ah hopes will relent an’ come to see me fo’ Ah dies.”
“Oh—you’re too smart to ever get into trouble,” I had told her weakly. “But, granting all that, why would you invent such a brother?”
“W’y? So dat somebuddy whut is frien’ to me git into mah deaf cell on dat—as mah brutthah—an’ slip me, in de hug o’ in de han’shake, a deafpill, o’ one ob dem p’ison viles wid snek p’ison in it.”
“Good God, woman,” I told her. “If you ever got into trouble like that, you’d find you didn’t have a friend on earth. And—but a deathpill?” I broke off curiously. “Are you afraid—of the English form of—‘trouble’?”
“’Fraid? Good God, Honeh Man f’um Amurriky. Ah’ mo’ ’fraid ob de rope what dey has obah heah in Englan’ dan Ah w’ud be ob one ob yo’ Murrikan lynchin’s whah dey po’ petrol obah de victim an’—an’ set fiah! Wy, Ah’d kill mahse’f wid any kin’ ob p’ison—swaller an’ting dat eben had a chance to do it—’fo’ Ah’d ebah go to de rope. Ah’s—Ah’s in terroh ob dat, Ah tells you. Sooner Ah’d sit in twenty ob dem ’lectric chaihs whut you got obah dah in Murriky. But rope—Good Gawd!—rope!” And her coarse black pockmarked face had actually turned a shade paler. “W’y, Ah’d swaller all de p’isons whut dey is in de w’uld befo’—but see heah, Honeh Man f’um Amurriky, dis heah talk don’t set well wid you—you jus’ comin’ out ob sickness de way you is—an’ if Jemimah spec’, lak she do, to dress huh Honeh-Man up lak a millyun poun’s stuhlin’—wid all de fines’ clothes whut is mak’ on Bon’ St’eet—her’ll hab to git out dah now an’ cuss out dem goddam’ w’ite sluts fo’ lazy nogoods. Fo’ ifn dey don’ mek de money, Honeh-Man, us don’ gonna mek it neider!”
And then my mind, glad to leave the nauseating incident, leaped forward across the years to the single “human interest item” in the story I’d read that day in Roosevelt Park. Jemimah Cobb had claimed to have a brother somewhere in London! But he’d never yet shown up to say good-by. Ashamed! But if, so the story ran, the brother were man enough to show—the penal authorities would give him audience with his sister.
“We’ll skip the full details of my plan,” I said harshly. “Sufficient it is, I tell you positively, that a death potion can be passed to Jemimah Cobb. A full hour before the death march. And she’ll take it. Gladly. Forgetting completely all her intentions on that gallows trap. And fulfill, in the very taking of it, the very thing the British law is going to give her. All this I know. But the price for the consummate nervy black actor to do it—is at least a thousand bucks. And promises of a few thousand more—of course. But a thousand down—for ‘earnest money.’ So now do you see why, in addition to all the reasons I already gave you, why I want to get into my wife’s safe?”
He sat studying the table.
“An’—an’ you say you can raise the one-grand cash—in the next 30 minutes?”
“I said so—yes,” I retorted.
“Well, how long,” he asked critically, “since you knew this old guy lived—where he does?”
“How long? Oh—several years.”
“Sev’ral years? Hell—he mayn’t be there now at all. He may be in—in Floridy. And if so—what? Again you say he’s ‘old.’ Then maybe he’s dead! If so—what?”
I sighed. And probably because of the ever-growing dubiousness in my own heart about those very things.
“We’ll settle that definitely—and at once,” I said. “By way of a certain married woman who lives in St. Paul. And whose husband—a queer duck named Joe Bird—once worked for me. For a while, anyway. And she knows this old gent and all about him, for the simple reason that—well, for a couple of years in her younger life, he brought her up!”
“Listen,” he said suddenly, “did this Joe Bird, by any chance, have one brown glim—and one blue glim?”
“He did. Why?”
“Was th’ left glim th’ brown one—an’ the right one th’ blue?”
“Again yes. And why?”
“Well, I met him about a year ago. Living in a river Hophouse—where I was kipping for a couple of days after a drunk.”
“Living in a river flophouse—Joe Bird?” I shook my head. “Impossible.”
“The hell it’s impossible. I say—”
“Well, it is impossible,” I broke in. “For he’s married—been married, moreover, for some years—and living with his wife in St. Paul; so how could he be—”
“Well, I tell you I met him a year ago, living in a flop—listen, was this Joe Bird a gentleman?”
“Yes. Whatever the devil he may have been, he was that.”
“All right. There couldn’t be but one Joe Bird in the entire world that’s a gent, and had one brown glim and one blue one; in fac’, I never before, in my whole life, nor since, met a guy with both a brown an’ a blue glim; and so I say I met your Joe Bird—and he was down and out—an’ livin’ in the lousiest flop on the whole Minneap’lis river front.”
I stared at him puzzledly. Then drew over the telephone. And dialed that certain St. Paul number which, because of its combination of digits, had remained prominent in my mind—even though I hadn’t talked to anybody on it for several years.
And realizing too, as I did dial it, that what the man across from me had said, a few moments back, was only too true. If the old boy with the insatiable yen for emeralds was under the sod—then no power on earth could stop Jemimah Cobb’s revelation!
CHAPTER XXV
The Emerald Collector
I knew I had my party by the unmistakable tones of her answering “hello.” But before identifying myself further, I curiously tried out her memory.
“Ahem!” I said, half facetiously. “And do you know, Madam—who this is?”
And she did know me—immediately I spoke—even though I hadn’t rung her place, I am sure, for at least 4 years.
“Mr.—King!” she ejaculated. “For—for heaven’s sake! Know you? I couldn’t mistake your absolutely unmistakable voice—if I hadn’t heard it for 10 years.”
“Well, Mr. King is it,” I admitted. “And how is—yourself?”
“Oh, I am just fine,” she replied. “But what are you doing in Chicago, Mr. King?”
“In Chic—what do you mean—that is, how did you—” I broke off.
“How did I know?” she laughed. “Well, I’d like to pretend that I’m Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, but unfortunately—Central told me.”
“Central told you? But—but—”
“Yes. Just a few seconds before you came on the wire, Central had said, ‘I have a call for you—from Chicago—just hold the wire, please,’ and as I held the wire—well—then, of a sudden, you were on!”
I saw I had barged squarely into another person’s long-distance connection. And decided then and there, in view of the circumstances underlying my presence in Minneapolis, to take full advantage of that concatenation of events.
“Yes,” I said, “I am in Chicago. On business. But needed some information from you. And—but first, Mrs. Bird, now that you’re on the line, tell me about yourself?”
“Oh, there’s nothing much to tell. I’m re-married—and have a sweet baby about 2 years old.”
“Remarried?” I said in surprise. And deep satisfaction, too, considering all I knew about that girl’s husband. Or, as it appeared now, ex-husband. “Well,” I added helplessly, “do—tell!”
And now I did hear a child’s high piping voice somewhere near her, or in back of her.
“But you seem surprised, Mr. Ki
ng?” she asked curiously.
“Well, I’m not surprised at all,” I assured her, “that a nice girl like you gets a good husband and has a baby—but—but how about Number 1?”
“Oh, I divorced Number 1 about 3 years ago.”
“Naturally! Or you couldn’t have remarried. Get your divorce in St. Paul?”
“No, I went all the way back to my home town to get it.”
“But listen here—how about—the old religion? Your being a Catholic—and all that? I thought—”
“So always did I, Mr. King. But you see I embraced another religion finally. A—a new one. One that included all that is good in Catholicism, and that which is good in others—”
“Bahaism, I’ll bet?” I ventured.
“Who knows?” she retorted archly. “But anyway—I was thus left free, at last, to get my divorce.”
“Are you happy, Mrs. Bird? But here—I can’t very well call you Mrs. Bird now, I suppose?”
“No, go ahead, Mr. King. It seems more natural, at that. Yes, I am so, so happy.”
“And your husband?” I asked. “What does he do?”
“Say—say, Mr. King—if I tell you everything—and satisfy your curiosity—you’ll never come near—to find out! And I want you to drop in, when you can, and meet him—and the baby. Sufficient to say, anyway, that he owns a curious little private business—so private, Mr. King, that not one of our friends even know we own it—a sort of a—a—a confidential reporting service, I don’t mind telling you, which just now I’m running for him—a service where we get long-distance calls galore nightly from all over the U.S.A.—including many, oh so many, from Chicago every night. Although I will admit that the parties who call this number, continuously and regularly, don’t really know who owns it. But make their remittances, monthly, for what they get—to a different address.”
I was puzzled. But half suspected it was one of the many, many overnight stock-market forecast services. Based on the relative positions of all stocks at the day’s close of market. And following some successful formula that, no doubt, her new husband had originated and worked out. At least, it must have been successful more times than unsuccessful, else the calls wouldn’t keep coming in!
“But anyway,” she was continuing, “when your Chicago call started coming in, I just thought it was another one of our many Chicago clients—calling for his nightly confidential report.”
Plainly, I saw now, one of those “inquiries” had just been coming in—when I sailed in on the connection. And would be—probably with several accumulated ones—coming in, once I hung up.
“But you say,” I asked curiously, “that you’re running the business just now? Your husband—ill?”
“Oh no, no, Mr. King. He’s on a freighter—taking a sort of vacation. Nobody—not even our friends know it—because we don’t want the validity of the service, as run by me, questioned. I call it a vacation. It was a doctor’s prescription, however—the doctor has since died, but the prescription is still going on!—for it read: ‘2 months of upper deck—one freighter.’”
“I see,” I laughed. “I once crossed the ocean that long, long way—only I had to check freight—to earn my passage.” I paused. “Well I know, Mrs. Bird, I shouldn’t bother you tonight—with all these long-distance inquiries to handle—with personal questions. But tell me about your divorce—from Number 1, will you? For I’m glad you untied from that fellow. I never exactly liked him, you know. And I don’t think you’d ever have gotten anywhere, if you’d stayed with him. Did you have to show the bruises he gave you—or what?”
“Heavens no, Mr. King! As a matter of fact, I couldn’t have gotten my divorce—if I’d told in open court—how I felt about him. But I did tell the Judge, in chambers, privately, the whole story. Poor old Judge—he died the day after my divorce was granted. But anyway, I told him all. How I’d met my husband when we were both just on a masquerade party—and not even knowing each other. And how we’d had, I feared, a few too many drinks—of some spiked punch. And how somebody dared us to get married. And how we drove off in the dawn—to some Gretna Green around there—and did get married. And how he stayed on with me for a couple of weeks, troubledly. And then learned I had $25,000—the which since, Mr. King, has gone into my new husband’s business—and how he then bowed himself out, saying he realized I didn’t love him—which, of course, Mr. King, I didn’t—and knew he didn’t love me—which again, Mr. King, was true—and that he at least wasn’t going to stay on and spend my money. Which, if you knew anything about me, Mr. King, is quite what he could have done! Only he wouldn’t do it, you know.”
“I see,” I commented. “Well, maybe I’ve done him wrong. I never quite got him myself. Now you, of course, were married to him, and could—”
“Yes,” she returned, “but remember, Mr. King, I never learned who he was—rather, who his people had been.”
“You never learned—even that?” I said in surprise.
“No.”
“Well,” I told her, “then we’re both somewhat in the same boat about him. For I myself have never been able to figure whether he was a scamp or a right fellow. That brown left eye of his I thought was a scamp’s eye—and his right one that of a—a ‘right fellow,’ as it’s termed.”
She laughed gaily at my concept. But her laugh faded over the wire.
“No,” she said, with that peculiar loyalty which only a woman can show, “he was a hundred per cent white. And I’m glad you rang up today—because I’d like to ask if you can tell me what he’s doing today?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” I replied truthfully. “Much as I’d like to.”
We were mutually silent now.
“Well now, Mrs. Bird,” I said, businesslike, “that we’ve exchanged brief salutations, I’m going to ask you a question or two about something—and not hold this wire open any longer, and block all your incoming long-distance calls. And someday still later I’m coming over to see the baby—if I may.”
“You must. And I hope that you’ll be bringing with you—Mrs. King?”
“Thank you! And so now to business, Mrs. Bird. Is the old gentleman—you know?—who secretly collects emeralds—still alive’”
“Oh, yes—yes. Very much so. More so than ever! And still trying to add to his collection.”
“Good! And does he live in the same place?”
“Yes. The same place exactly. Have you got anything of interest to him?”
“I think so—yes. Something I took in—in my own game.”
“Well, just wave it in front of his nose—quote him a bargain price—and he’ll offer you cash on the nail for it.”
“Good! Well it seems I’ve found all I want to know. And so now I’m going to hang up.”
And saying good-by, we both did so. At the same time. She thinking she was terminating a Chicago connection with Chicago.
The little man across from me was the first to speak.
“Well, I see you located your em’rald collector.”
“Right!” I said. “As probably even you determined—from my end of the phone connection.”
“Oh,” he said, airy-fairily, “I could get the other end too—I’m only a few feet away from you, don’t forget. Coulda’ so far, as that goes, even without these magic eardrums—as you call ’em.”
I frowned, but made no comment. “Then all’s set now,” I said curtly, “So get busy—with those magic eardrums—and let’s see you do your stuff.”
But he made no move to comply with my demand. For, as it turned out, I had not cleared up for him, in the long talk I had first given him concerning those events in Frisco, one single point that very much perplexed him. And clearing up which, as I subsequently did—well, had I then expected any sympathy concerning my own position—or that of the woman I had married—I was to fail woefully in my expectation. For he was to become no
w, as I was shortly to find, as coldly calculating as an adding machine sitting on the North Pole.
CHAPTER XXVI
The Hard Bargainer
But first he stroked his chin.
“Well,” he said, “before we get down to the matter of your needing me—which it cert seems you do!—there’s one thing, King, that puzzles me.”
“And what is it?” I asked. For, having revealed so much, I was naturally willing to clear up anything else for him.
“It’s this,” he said. “Since Mrs. King was in the habit o’ writing to you—and telling you about such uni’portant things like as hiring gardeniars—she’d cert have told you, so I think, about her having blowed a grand and a half—and having a big new safe put in. And woulda cert have sent you all th’ litachure on it. In w’ich case—”
I smiled, and interrupted him.
“You don’t know Mrs. King,” I told him saliently. “She spent two pages, yes, telling me about her gardener’s peculiarities—but condensed the mere thousand and a half dollars expenditure into the single sentence: ‘I have made some changes in the library, Mortimer, that will surprise you when you return.’ Making me merely think,” I added, “that she had shifted the furniture about a bit—no more.”
He passed a hand over his forehead.
“But—but—it don’t make sense to me yet. For there’s the matter o’ protecting you on getting in the box—in case she’d kick off. Now you must have some things of your own that she’d be keeping in that safe, yes—no?”
“Right,” I affirmed. “From my baby shoes—to legal papers. So what?—
“Well, all right. Now I onct was married myself—in the long ago—my woman is long since kicked off, but, under like circumstantials, King, she would have writ me pronto. And she would have said—”
“Yes? Would have said—what?”
“She’d have writ: ‘Dear Petie: I’ve put in a new burglar-proof vault whilst you be’n hiding there. An’ I enclose the litachure. And the vault people they tells me as how it can’t be blowed with a ton o’ dynamite. I’ve put all yo’r pers’nal things an’ papers, Petie—to the last item—on a shelf in the new vault, jest as they was on yo’r shelf in the old one, and have tried to disturb nothing. But because, Petie, o’ that there safe not being able to be blowed or nothing, if anything happens to your old woman—and you need your private papers an’ other stuff—and so forth—in a hurry—you must got to remember that the combo is “two-double-o-thus-and so”—or what ever, Mr. King, it was. And that,” he finished, “is what my wiff—any wiff—would have done.”
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