The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen Keeler

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СКАЧАТЬ is a—a futurist. His canvases, so I thought, were awful! And they explained why he lives in a garret room off Bughouse Square, with not even a telephone, and has to serve spaghetti and red wine at a party, instead of capons and champagne, as his old man is said to do.”

      “But which verdict as to van der Zook Junior’s canvases,” Vann commented, “you no doubt kept to yourself? As did the rest! Well, was there anybody there at all suspicious acting, or looking?”

      “Sorry, Mr. Vann—but positively not. In the way, that is, that you mean. A bunch of Bohemians—if ever there were any—and I don’t believe anybody there knew that Schletmar and Brosnatch were the dangerous birds they really are. Fact is, I don’t think anybody there had the least idea that Brosnatch had served time on Alcatraz.”

      “But, suspicious or not, I presume you made a mental listing of the guests?”

      “A mental listing? Why, say, Mr. Vann, I got a written listing—with them signing their own signatures to it.”

      “Oh come, come, Bardell—you didn’t arouse Schletmar’s suspicions—nor Brosnatch’s—by asking either of them to sign anything?”

      “Why, I didn’t have to, Mr. Vann, for when the first feed was over—you see there were two feeds during the night, the first being regular, and served around a big table—the later one being buffet—and God, but the wine was rank at that second one!—but anyway, as I started to say, there was an early main feed put on to—to sort of oil up the hungry geniuses, I guess!—and when that feed was over, which was at 10:40, everybody signed everybody else’s paper napkin—clear around the table. And with addresses, to boot—in case anybody wanted to get in touch later with anybody else.”

      And Bardell, fishing in his breast pocket, brought up a rectangularly folded paper napkin, which, as he unfolded it, showed that it contained a list of signatures in ink, or in pencil, and, in one place, red crayon—bold and flourishing, all of them, as done by such as had drunk red wine—and deeply!

      “Well, I’ll certainly say,” Vann commented, “that you brought home the roster! And—how!” He took the napkin, and laid it on his desk, signatures uppermost. “And who’ve we got here? Oh—Harman Ochs, the cubistic sculptor? That fellow has something new—but the world will never admit it. And—well, well, well, here’s Schletmar himself—and I note he even sets down the address on Portage Park where he’s rooming. That shows conclusively, Bardell, that you and Koncil got across okay. And who else have we? Lon Annyman. Now where on earth have I hear—”

      “Oh,” put in Bardell helpfully, “he’s—”

      “Right!” said Vann, the answer coming suddenly to him. “The inside-page cartoonist who got bounced off the Tribune because he was found inserting hidden caricatures of well-known Chicagoans in his backgrounds.

      Damn fool! He should have—but let’s see who else we have? Jerry Ames. Good American name. And—but who—who on earth—is this?”

      And Vann pointed to a very eccentric signature, made in green ink, with tiny triangles used for dots over the ‘i’s and two capital ‘V’s interlaced, to constitute a capital ‘W.’

      It read, Piffington Wainwright, N. W. Corner Superior Street and North State Street.

      Bardell gazed over Vann’s shoulder, the better to see which signature the State’s Attorney was pointing to.

      “Oh—that?” he said. “That’s the bird I spoke of who was first to arrive—since he came before even Koncil and myself—and last to go. For he went with us. In Koncil’s car, south. And we dropped him off near Water Tower Square. A weird-looking bird all right. Wore rouge on his cheeks, and—”

      “Fairy, eh?” nodded Vann. And then added dryly:

      “You ought to officially mail me in his name for that police roster of Chicago pansies, and earn your $10 out of that fund put up by—well, I’m not allowed to give the donor’s name, but—”

      “Yes, Mr. Vann, I know all about that. But such names have to be confirmed as such. And this name, I’d say, can’t be. For, rouge or no rouge, the fellow is no nancy. I know, because he sat next to me all during the dinner. And I had plenty chances to chin personally with him. He told me all about his going to get married shortly to some girl who works in some coal office, and you know yourself that no fair—”

      “Yes, but—but the rouge?”

      “I know. Well, a couple of the guests there twitted him about that. He just laughed, and said that if he didn’t like his own white skin, it was his own goddamned business—those were his words!—if he wanted to color his skin up a bit. And that if he didn’t own his own carcass, to do with as he pleased, he might as well jump in the lake right now.”

      “I see. Well, if he really has marriage in view, and didn’t make even a pass at you, then he probably has nothing against his manliness than perhaps a mother who didn’t let him play with the other bad boys.” Vann looked down at the napkin. “But this—this N. W. Corner of Superior and State Streets? What—”

      “Oh, he says he lives on a vacant lot there, back of some billboards, in an abandoned trailer. Some property tangle—where he gets the use of the site—for making occupancy.”

      “Oh yes—that William Juggenberry Junior Estate, I’ll wager. Which had some provisions like that tied up in it. For—but what does this Wainwright fellow do?”

      “We-ell—he does imitations—he did a number of ’em while we were eating. And he’s not bad, either. Can change his voice like nobody’s business, and can—but to give you an idea, Mr. Vann, he put on one of Einstein, figuring out a new relativ—hrmph—theory—and one of Mae West.”

      “Then of course he’s an actor. So—”

      “No, he isn’t. For I asked him exactly that. The imitations-giving is just his av—avocation. Actually, he’s some kind of a writer.” Bardell frowned. “What kind, I wasn’t able to get. But I knew he was, because of his stance against editors. They were half-wits, all of them. The radio editors included! Besides,” added Bardell, “he had green ink stains on his right fingertip.”

      “Just an eccentric Bohemian creative artist then,” sighed Vann. And ran his eyes speculatively down the rest of the names. Finding nothing more of interest. “Well,” he said,.

      “I’ll keep this signed-up napkin—in the file on Schletmar. And with a cross entry for Brosnatch.”

      “You won’t need to do that,” said Bardell mildly. “For Koncil also has one of these napkins—and will be barging in with it any time—after which you’ll have two!”

      “Okay, Bardell. Well, I guess you can go.”

      “Thanks—and I will. For I want to catch some more sleep. That party—all night, you know? And then going out tonight at 7 on the Merkise Case.”

      “Beat it then—and hit the hay. And I’ll arrange for Miss Jason to head off Koncil and his napkin! And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      “Okay, Mr. Vann.” And Bardell, with a bow to his superior, retired. Letting himself out of the private office.

      Vann rang hastily for Miss Jason. Who entered precisely on the СКАЧАТЬ