The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen Keeler

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СКАЧАТЬ yes!—and the fellow just said to him; ‘No spik Inglize.’ And how, halfway up Dearborn Street, Kilgallon—troubled because of the answer, and the fact that the crossword puzzle the fellow was working was one with English words—encountered an old friend of his boyhood—rather, his mother’s earlier days—no less a person, in fact, than Archbishop Stanley Pell of Chicago, who was coming down the post-office steps, in company with a—a—yes—a Professor Andre Mustaire, head of some well-known West Side deaf and dumb school; and how Kilgallon told the Archbishop about the incident in question, and how the Archbishop—because he was a linguist, and also a good fellow—agreed to step around the corner and question the reddish-haired man in various languages. Depending on what Archbishop Pell’s judgment of the fellow’s dialect was.

      “And which,” Silas Moffit went on, “Archbishop Pell did, accompanied by this Mustaire. At a distance, that is.

      For it seems that Mustaire stayed in the Archbishop’s wake—and drew up some distance off—on the curb. At which instant some ex-pupil of his hove up and asked for some directions to some building in the Loop—all in sign language—and which Mustaire gave him—in the same language—”

      “With the result,” Penworth nodded, “that the reddish-haired man, now defendant in this case, must have presumed that Mustaire was a deaf-mute?”

      “That,” admitted Silas Moffit, “is the theory which the story sets forth. And which common sense dictates too, I’d say. But anyway, the Archbishop questioned the reddish-haired man. And—well, as a mere layman in such matters, Judge, I would say that that conversation between them will be the whole pivot of this case tonight.”

      The Judge looked reflective, but rendered no ex-officio comment. Saying instead: “Well, just repro—er—set it forth. The hasty version I got from Mr. Vann on the phone may well have been garbled.”

      “Well,” Silas Moffit declared, “the Archbishop, drawing up to the fellow, said: ‘I’m Archbishop Pell. What have you in the box?”

      The Judge straightened up interestedly on his bed. “And am I correct in assuming,” he asked, “that the fellow did admit having the goods in question—and of having committed the crime? It seems almost too unbeliev—”

      “Well, Judge,” Silas Moffit broke in, “it seems the fellow replied as follows:”

      And licking a lip appreciatively—no doubt for reasons known best to himself!—Silas Moffit read off the answer which the paper stated the reddish-haired defendant had given: “‘Wah Lee’s skull; I cracked Vann’s pete!’”

      “Which reply” Silas Moffit commented dryly, “it ought to be interesting to hear him explain—in court!—in view of—” He gazed down at the paper again. “—in view, Judge, of the State’s Attorney’s own statement here—right in quotes!—that even the very fact of his safe having been robbed last night—much less of what had been in it—wasn’t known to anybody—outside, that is, Judge, of the burglar, and perhaps those who put him on the job!—known to anybody,” Silas Moffit repeated, “but Vann himself—Inspector Rufus Scott—Vann’s own brother, Hugh Vann—and Vann’s own personal assistant, Leo Kilgallon; for it seems, Judge, that the fellow with the crimson box was already in position at the Old Post Office corner at the time Patrolman Kilgallon caught part of the facts from his son Leo. Yes, indeed, Judge, it’ll be interesting to hear the defendant explain away that answer!”

      “Well, what,” inquired the Judge, “did he—hrmph—that is, does the paper say—he did, after he gave the Archbishop that answer?”

      “Well the paper says,” declared Silas Moffit, “that after he saw he’d literally floored the Archbishop, he said hurriedly, ‘Pardon me, Your Reverence, I took you for somebody else. Just skip it, will you?’ ”

      And now Silas Moffit laid the paper atop the Judge’s bed. Indicating that the rest of the story was brief, to say the least.

      “The State’s theory of the crime,” he said, “is that the presence of that skull in that old safe leaked to the underworld—in fact, Judge, the story indicates that the State will show in court exactly how!—and that the underworld got this fellow to pull this job, and snitch that skull out; and that he was scheduled to make a criminal ‘meet’ there on that cor­ner with the skull, and turn the goods over, but thought that Archbishop Pell was a criminal, and a confederate, and—”

      The Judge nodded. “Yes. A member of the old Parson Gang, doubtlessly. Which was known to have been mixed up in that Wah Lee Kidnaping. Its members, you know, all had ecclesiastical costumes. For just such occasions. And—but go ahead.”

      “Well, that concludes the story,” Silas Moffit declared.

      “For Kilgallon immediately notified the squad car, who took the fellow up—found out, in the very car, he had a skull in that box—and, because Kilgallon had intimated that he had inside information that the State’s Attorney was especially interested in some case of a stolen skull—it seems, Judge, Kilgallon’s own son is Vann’s own assistant, and had con­fided things to his father—well, the squad hustled the reddish-haired fellow straight to the State’s Attorney’s special lockup in the City Hall sub-basement. And that,” he finished, “is the whole story, condensed.”

      The Judge shook his head thoughtfully.

      “My God,” he said, “but the defendant is badly involved all right.”

      “Involved, Judge? I’d say he’s sewed fast and tight across the board. And, on that as a postulate—plus the fact that he’s apparently broke, and can’t, for some reason, command money—I think I can predict, to a T, his play tonight. Which play won’t be worth two whoops in—well—in Hades—so far as the ultimate outcome goes.”

      Silas Moffit paused. “My belief is, Judge,” he said slowly, “that he’ll try to involve some other person—in any wild weird way possible—but just so that he involves the person!—so that, in short, if he—yes, the defendant—catches the chair, that person will later put up the hundred dollars or so to habeas corpus him for a pre-execution insanity hearing—just, you see, to clear that individual’s own skirts of even the bare stigma lying in this fellow’s charges. And the fellow will, of course—as in all those pre-execution insanity hearings—lose his plea—but he’ll thus have had his chance of chances—which is all these crooks ever try to get. That, in rough, Judge, I’d say, will be his play tonight. Sewed as he is, fast and tight across the board. And if he doesn’t wind up in the old electric ch—but excuse me, Judge, I keep forgetting that I’m talking to the trial judge in the case himself. And of course—ahem—the rascal hasn’t been tried yet.”

      “Tried he has not been,” declared Penworth, a bit reprovingly. “Though tried he will be—and fairly. Though perchance he won’t consider it so! For they—they never do. Hm? I suppose drastic efforts will be made today—by the underworld—to reach the defendant. To change his story. Or to instruct him in one. Even to—by Jove—to divert his prosecution.”

      “Do—do you think so?” asked Silas Moffit, plainly, for some reason, worried.

      “We-ell,” the Judge qualified, “I rather think Mr. Vann will keep his defendant where the latter will be reached by no one not entitled to get to him! But I do think it possible—yes—that some sort of dodge may be sprung by the underworld—that great heterogeneous world, Mr. Moffit, which encompasses every possible type of anomalous citizens from the safeblowers and confidence men at its top, down to the pansies—ahem—hrmph!—inverts at its bottom—to try to divert Mr. Vann. СКАЧАТЬ