The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  To be sure, there was a disquieting factor in his putative affection for Pamela Martindale, for locked away in his memory was an incident which sometimes made him doubt even his ability to know when he loved — an incident comprising but the elusive elements of a soft voice, of a pair of warm lips which for one fleeting instant had been pressed to his — but the face of whose owner he had not even seen! And, because of the very slightness of these elements, he was always able to down the memory when it became too troublesome. As for Pamela Martindale, she was real — whereas the other was fantastic, elusive, shadowy.

  Had he been blessed with the power of seeing and hearing through closed doors that night when, on the Polynesian where he had first met Pamela Martindale, after an impetuous wooing directed by himself, he had asked her to be his wife and had received from her her promise that she would give him her answer to-morrow, he might have seen an illuminating scene in the cabin occupied by the blonde regal beauty and her dowager mother with the white hair and shrewd, calculating grey eyes.

  “He has asked me, mamma — asked me to-night!” the girl had said. “And I have promised to give my answer to-morrow. Now — now — comes the question of what to do.”

  “You are certain, my dear,” the dowager had replied cautiously, “that Carleton van Ware will ask you on your return from Australia to marry him? Remember, my dear, the van Wares are a fine family and Carleton van Ware is worth one million dollars in his own right.”

  “Poor Carleton van Ware,” was the girl’s answer. “He has literally lain about my doorstep like a lovesick calf. No, mamma, there is no doubt; his million is mine for the taking. But now — ” And Pamela Martindale’s blue eyes had gleamed with the strange light of one who saw bigger things than a mere million.

  The older woman had reflected, her own shrewd eyes half closed. “Well, my dear, the situation is up to you with respect to the two of these men. I have scrimped and saved more than you have dreamed to send you to Newport and the various finishing schools you have attended — and after all my efforts to arrange for you to capture the heart of a millionaire, you have, strange to say, met a multi-millionaire on the return from our simple little business trip to Australia. Carleton van Ware would have done nicely had it not been for this new development; but he is only a millionaire, while this boy is the only heir to the entire Middleton fortune, and even now on his way home where, when his father’s will is read, he will be worth ten millions. I gather, somehow, my dear, that he does not realise the extent of his own father’s wealth?”

  “He assuredly does not,” the girl had replied. “He seems strangely in the dark about those things with which you, dear mamma, have already familiarised yourself. But that is evidently because he has always been kept in Australia. Strange, is it not, that this Mr. Middleton senior should have kept his only son so many thousands of miles from him?”

  Her mother had smiled. “My dear, you have much to learn — but you have at least learned, I think, the biggest lesson that life has to offer — marry money; the more the better. Money is absolutely the only thing in life that counts.”

  And thus the two women, in high spirits, had gone to bed, while he, Jerome Middleton, had paced the deck in the surprising knowledge that he had reached a point in his life where he was about to take unto himself a wife. For Pamela Martindale’s blushing attitude had proclaimed only too plainly what her answer would be on the morrow.

  And it had come about exactly in this wise next night. In a secluded corner of the upper deck, the golden-haired girl had told him she would gladly become Mrs. Jerome Herbert Middleton, and on parting with her that night he had gone jubilantly down to the smoking-room of the vessel where the little Jewish diamond salesman, who also was returning from Australia and who talked so loudly and blatantly each night at the table, was holding forth on the qualities of diamonds And going with the latter to his cabin, he had purchased, with the 300 dollars comprising practically the last of the money that had been cabled to him from America, a beautiful sparkling one and one-half carat diamond, flawless, spotless, blazingly blue-white, held in a circlet of purest platinum, which next night, as the moon sank serenely beneath the lapping waves of the Pacific, he had placed on her finger with the laughing statement: “This, my dear girl, is but the first of a long series of diamonds, one for every coming year of our happiness!

  But now, sitting in his father’s home on Astor Street, he was interrupted in his reveries anent those pleasant incidents in crossing the Pacific, by Uncle Jed, the old, bent, woolly-headed negro servant who, with Christina Nelson, a buxom Swedish woman, comprised the two servants who ran the Astor Street house, and to whom he had, seemingly, fallen heir.

  “Ah begs yo’ pardon, sah, but Mistah Lockwood is on de ‘phone.” Always polite, ever courteous, Uncle Jed withdrew.

  Middleton strode to the ‘phone in its little niche in the outer hallway. It was indeed Andrew Lockwood on the wire, and his thin tones suggested only too strongly the frail old man that some day soon would be carried off by some rigorous blast of the weather.

  “Herbert?” he asked. Then receiving Jerome Middleton’s greeting, he went on; “I called up to tell you, my boy, that last night your father’s will was put into the probate court for probate, and, as you know, you are living now in a land where publicity is rife. By the time the record clerk glances over the document for the purpose of entering it up, some reportorial friends of his will be notified — and the provisions of the will will be in the hands of the newspapers. Now, my boy, you will be bothered with reporters — annoyed to death — and I am afraid that the best thing you can do is to see them, and get it over. Otherwise they will never leave your trail.”

  “I see,” Middleton replied slowly, endeavouring to digest this phase of his new life. And then he added: “Very well, I’ll take your advice.”

  “Getting along all right, my boy?” inquired Lockwood with solicitousness.

  “Yes, perfectly,” was the younger man’s reply. “Seeing a bit of the city and trying to get Americanised as rapidly as possible. Also looking in your newspapers under the help-wanted advertisements, for I’ve got to have a berth. All right, Mr. Lockwood, I’ll watch for the avalanche of journalists, and take your advice about seeing them and getting over with it altogether.”

  He left the ‘phone, and as it was getting close on to one o’clock, he prepared to dress for his visit that day to the girl with whom he was to spend his life. Hardly had he finished dressing and completed the resultant survey of himself in the glass, than the bell rang loud and long. Uncle Jed again appeared in the library, a troubled expression on his black face.

  “ ‘Scuse me, Mist’ Jerome, but dey’s a gemmun — two of dem — downstayahs — and dey’s got a big camera wid dem. Dey looks like dem fresh newspapah repohtahs. Dey gives me dese heah two cahds, and neider one wants to let de odder get closter to de do’ dan himse’f.”

  Middleton glanced down at the two cards which Uncle Jed had punctiliously brought in on a silver tray. He bit his lip. Then he turned to the black servitor. “Just show them both in, Uncle Jed. And if any more gentlemen of the Press come, show them in also.”

  Mr. Harry G. Gilfoil of the Chicago Morning Despatch was a young alert looking fellow with a black soft felt hat on, who looked like the journalist the world over. His companion was an older man with a huge camera and paraphernalia slung over his shoulder. Gilfoil advanced cordially.

  “Welcome to our shores, Mr. Middleton. Gilfoil’s my name. With the Despatch. Meet Mr. Krop here. Mr. Krop, like myself, is an early bird. We — ”

  But at this juncture the doorbell again rang, and the sound of a taxicab bowling away from the house was audible. Gilfoil looked at Krop, and Krop looked at Gilfoil. Each shook his head amusedly. “There’ll be no early birds in this game,” the man with the camera remarked dryly.

  Uncle Jed appeared. “Dey’s mo’ ob dem repohtahs,” he said, sniffing at the visitors. “Two ob dem come togedder in a taxicab, and jus’
as I takin’ dey names, up comes anodder man on a motohcycle. Dey’s all out in de vestybule now.”

  “Show them all in,” ordered Middleton grimly. And while Gilfoil and Krop drummed uneasily on the arms of the chairs they had taken, three other young men, two carrying cameras, came in the room piloted by Uncle Jed.

  “Ah there, Ramsey. Ah there, Leahy. Ah, there, Burke,” said the nonplussed Gilfoil. “I see you’re losing no time.” He turned to Middleton. “Mr. Middleton, I guess you’re entertaining all the papers to-day. This is Mr. George Ramsey” — indicating a red-haired fellow with a wide grin — ”of the Morning Times. And this is Mr. Dan Leahy of the Scimitar, one of our evening papers.” Mr. Leahy was a heavy-set, considerably older man than the others, and wore a white carnation in his buttonhole. “And this is Teddy Burke who captured the interview with Prime Minister Danton of Australia — your country — when he passed through here two years ago. Teddy is one of our leading journalists, aren’t you, Teddy? Without him the Evening Courier couldn’t exist. Also, please note Teddy’s official badge of journalism.” And as he pointed at Mr. Burke’s flowing black silk Windsor tie, Mr. Burke himself blushed a brick red.

  Middleton found, somewhat to his surprise, that he rather liked these breezy young men of the Press, and he motioned the three newcomers to seats. “Glad to meet all of you,” he said quietly. “My attorney — or, rather, my father’s attorney — just notified me that I would probably receive a visit from you all now that his will is probated. Well, we might as well get it over. Can I answer any questions?”

  “Hooray for Mr. Middleton of Australia,” said Ramsey of the red hair, of the Morning Times. “If they were all like you, Mr. Middleton, we fellows wouldn’t have any jobs.”

  A silence fell and then Gilfoil took the reins by directing his next remark to the rest of the crowd. “Now, you fellows are, of course, after the same facts that I’m after, and so, if it’s agreeable to you, I’ll proceed to ask Mr. Middleton here a number of questions. If anyone here wants to ascertain some additional fact, let him hop to it. As to the photographs, we’ll have to divvy them up or draw lots for them. Is this O.K.?”

  Several assents showed that the plan was acceptable to the other newspapermen.

  “Mr. Middleton,” began Gilfoil, turning to the former, “with respect to this will of your father’s, have you any idea or explanation why he cut you off with only a pittance for life?”

  “It seemed to be my father’s wishes. You can draw your own deductions exactly as I have had to do.”

  “I see.” Gilfoil paused. “Are you satisfied with the appointment of Luther Fortescue, your father’s former secretary, as general manager of the estate?”

  “I think,” said Middleton, “that you’ll find on close scrutiny of the will that I was given no choice in the matter. Mr. Fortescue evidently seemed a desirable man to my father, who drew the will, and that is perhaps sufficient.”

  “Do you consider him overpaid?” put in the red-haired reporter Ramsey.

  “Well, I have heard that fifty thousand dollars is not an unnaturally large salary in this country for executives who manage large properties. At any rate, it can make little difference to me whether his salary is a million per year or a thousand, for the amount alloted to me is, as I figure it, just about the interest on fifteen thousand dollars.”

  Dan Leahy, the heavy-set reporter with the white carnation in his buttonhole, here put in a question. “Are you going to attempt to break the will, Mr. Middleton?”

  “Suppose I ask you a question?” put in Middleton: “What results have usually occurred in this country when attempts have been made to break wills in which there was a clause, such as in this document, providing that anyone contesting it shall forfeit all his rights under it?”

  “Well,” was the newspaperman Leahy’s response, “they have been successful where it has been proven that the drawer of the will was of unsound mind, but where that could not be established, the contestant has generally lost out altogether on what little was allotted to him.”

  “Well, I think that answers your question,” replied Jerome Middleton. “There are plenty of people who can testify that my father was of mighty sound mind — and, to be frank, I don’t particularly want to lose the pittance of seventy-five dollars per month that was granted to me. I am, you see, to be married — and it will keep the wolf partially from the door — out on the threshold, anyway.”

  “You are to marry Miss Pamela Martindale, are you not?” replied Gilfoil, who was evidently quite up on the news of the day. “The announcement was cabled in to our paper some ten days back.”

  Middleton nodded, a bit reluctantly. This was the second time he had been made aware by outsiders of the fact that his engagement was public property.

  “Do you think Mr. Fortescue would testify that your father was of unsound mind?” It was Krop, the man whose business it was to take pictures only, who asked this question.

  Middleton laughed. “No. He states quite otherwise.”

  “He has a fifty-thousand-dollar conviction on the subject, eh?” Krop put in dryly.

  The young man with the drooping black Windsor tie put in a query. “Regarding those twenty-two building sites which he left, to give you any choice of them when you are married. Are you and Miss Martindale going to build?”

  “Oh, I say — ” began Middleton. “I wish you fellows would just stay off my personal affairs.”

  “That’s enough from you,” Teddy, said one of the others.

  “Perfectly legitimate question,” asserted Teddy Burke. “Perfectly legitimate. Again I ask it: have you decided which one of the twenty-two to take?”

  Middleton found it difficult to persist in his stand. “No, I haven’t. Perhaps if bungalows can be put up cheap — and payments made at — well — seventy-five dollars a month and nothing down, I’ll pick one out. Does that answer your question?”

  “Quite.”

  Gilfoil now took the floor again. “Now we are all pretty interested in the question of those spectacles — those spectacles your father picked up in Austria — the ones he claimed belonged to Count Cagliostro of the eighteenth century. And this in turn suggests the debt of honour which your father referred to. Are you going to pay this debt of honour?”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t decided that as yet,” declared Middleton. “I’m still trying to get over the fact of being cut off with such a pittance.”

  “Does Fortescue, the man with whom he made the bet, insist on your wearing the spectacles?”

  Jerome Middleton shook his head. “On the contrary, he advises me not to pay any attention to this feature of the will, and says under no conditions does he wish to enforce it. So I am left purely with the problem of whether I care to live up to my father’s wishes or not.”

  “These spectacles were the only material part of his estate which you received, were they not?”

  “Yes — it seems that they were, considering the whole affair. They were the only thing that came directly into my own hands.”

  “And now to look ‘em over.” It was George Ramsey, he of the friendly grin and the red hair that spoke.

  Middleton rose from his chair with a sigh. All this, he knew, had ultimately to be gone through with. Stepping to a desk in one corner of the room, he opened one of its many drawers and withdrew the case that contained his legacy. He opened it up. The newspapermen all arose and crowded about him. It was apparent that this was the crux of the story they were weaving about his affairs. The spectacles with their clumsy soft lead pins holding the heavy leaden bows to the equally heavy leaden frames, and with their oblong windows of blue glass, passed from hand to hand, each man shaking his head amusedly. It was Krop, the photographer from the Inter-continental News Service, who first looked up.

  “I want to take a few snaps of you, Mr. Middleton,” he said. “Particularly a close-up of the spectacles themselves.”

  “Better still,” said Gilfoil, “I want you, Mr. Middleton
, to give Mr. Krop a picture of yourself standing in that English suit of yours, bowler, cane, gloves and all, as dressed for the street, and then another picture in the same clothes with the spectacles on.” He turned to Krop. “Exclusive rights, Krop, on that one for the Despatch.”

  “I say,” protested Middleton, “I allowed you fellows to come up here to interview me, but I didn’t agree to put on any moving-picture acts.”

  “Nary moving-picture necessary, Mr. Middleton,” said Gilfoil, smiling. “This is one of the really choice stories of the day, and you don’t have to move a bit. All you do is to stand quite still.”

  Whereupon Middleton, with a sigh, wondering just how far one had to accede to the wishes of these news-hungry young men of the Press, proceeded to pose, dressed for the street, with cane in hand, hat on head, and English coat buttoned tightly across his front; and then to repeat the identical pose with the hideous spectacles on his face. Both Ramsey of the red hair and Burke of the Windsor tie had cameras with them, and they in turn repeated this rather odd feature, the former taking close-ups of Middleton’s face, both with and without the spectacles and the latter taking his bust under the same duplication. With this done, the spectacles themselves came in for a share of the photographing, Krop snapping them at a short focus. After what seemed a veritable battery of flashlights and a barrage of clicking camera shutters, the cameras were put away and the men, with much looking at their watches, prepared to go — with the valuable stuff known as news which they had come without.

  “Do the managers of the estate see any way to break that part,” asked Leahy with the white carnation, tucking his notebook away, “about your being employed by the Middleton estate?”