The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen Keeler

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СКАЧАТЬ Silas Moffit made a momentary grimace. “Say Manny, get out the D. C. papers from the lockbox at once so they may be immediately put of record, and—”

      “D. C. papers, Popp’n’law? D.—C.? What papers, maybe—do you mean? Now if you mean the ones you signed yesterday—the revised ones we worked out together to disinherit Saul by 101 per cent so’s he won’t have a show in hell to ever get a single penny from your estate, why of course I can get ’em out, and—”

      “No, no, no, no, you imbecile!” put in Silas Moffit irritably. “I mean—but since you have introduced the subject, I want to go all over those papers again with you tomorrow—with a still finer-toothed comb—so that we can be 199 per cent sure, instead of just 101 per cent sure, that he hasn’t a chance in—”

      “But—but he ain’t got a chance,” the man at the other end practically wailed. “He’s cut out now of even inheriting by way of me—or Bella. And—listen, Popp’n’law, have you just seen Saul?”

      “Seen Saul? No I haven’t seen the filthy, lousy, upstart, stinking, dirty son of a bastard bitch—and I don’t want to.”

      “Nor do I—but the papers I’m talking about now—and which I want you to get out at once—are the double-conveyance papers.”

      “Double—double?” the man on the other end queried, as one actually scratching his head.

      “The ‘ring-around-the rosy’ papers, you imbecile. Funny thing you couldn’t keep in mind papers by which you and your father make not less than $10,000 each! The serially numbered papers, in short, constituting the deed from me to you for $110,000—and the deed from you to your father for $2000—and the contract between him and you to pay you $10,000 cash down, and $5,000 a month, assigned back to me—and his $10,000 check to you, endorsed by you back to me.”

      “But—but Popp’n’law, we can’t put papers of record that ain’t validated yet by a prior conveyance from Elsa.

      And—”

      “No? Well, probably not. But the recording office is open all night in the County Building, isn’t it?”

      “Yes—sure, Popp’n’law. But—but Elsa ain’t yet forfeited her rights—”

      “Well, just to chop off all discussion, Manny, she has! Or rather, will have—by about midnight tonight, more or less. A fact! For she’s appointed, Manny! By the court. On a case. And it’s a case that she can’t possibly win. And if she refuses to take it, Manny—she’s to be disbarred!”

      “Oi!” The exclamation from the man on the end was a half-shout—half grunt—of triumph. And with a note of satisfac­tion in it that was exactly that to be found in a hungry wolf’s pleased growl when surveying a luscious field mouse. “And—and in either one of those two cases—by the contingential quitclaim papers she signed—Colby’s Nugget—is yours?”

      “Correct, Manny!” replied Silas Moffit, hungrily. “In either case—her hundred thousand equity is mine. And adds itself to my ten thousand equity! Her part is mine—yes—but minus the $10,000 cut to you—and the same to your father. All right. Get all the papers out, Manny—and see you later!”

      CHAPTER V

      The Busy Young Man

      He was a most odd-looking young man, the young man who stood on the corner of Washington and Clark Streets, reading the sensational murder story that had just been dropped on all the Loop newsstands by the Despatch, in its first issue out for the day. For his cheeks were rouged, and his eyes surveyed the print through dainty rimless eyeglasses held to his vest by a broad, black ribbon; as black, indeed, as was the very lit’ry tie he wore—which was a black Windsor! About 25 years in age, no more, he was small in stature, and slender, and immaculately dressed, the finishing touch to his garb being a tiny yellow flower—carefully selected, obvious­ly, for its pure perfection of petal—in his buttonhole, and the bare corner of a lavender silk handkerchief just peeping from his handkerchief pocket.

      Yet, try as one might, one would still not be able to conclusively place this particular young man in the category of those male individuals who use rouge, for about him were various contradictory suggestions of amazing heterogeneity. One—apparent to perhaps anyone—being that the young man was some peculiar combination of individualist and aesthete—one who, in short, would ruddle his otherwise too-white skin if he so wished and so desired, and those who didn’t like it could take a sweet jump into the lake—and “to hell with ’em” to boot! While the other suggestions which literally radiated from him, as do heat waves from a red-hot stove, would have depended more or less upon the calling of the observer himself. As for instance, the comment of G. Fontenoy Burgette, an accomplished actor—Shakespearean and otherwise—now out of work, and passing the very corner, which comment ran: “A synthetically assembled histrionic front, that whole get-up!—and I’ve a notion to copy it, end write me up a 10-minute vaudeville skit about it.” While Arthur K. Hambury, seasoned managing editor of 4 fiction magazines published in Printingtown, and also passing the corner, was at the same time remarking:

      “That fellow has not one, but several varieties of creative genius within him!”

      Most interesting of all, perhaps, is the comment of a most seasoned observer of men and things, one “Cylinder” Mc­Greavy, hold-up man and burglar, also passing the corner, who actually said: “In the racket, that bird—either coke-peddler, or box-hunter for a gopher-mob!—but wit’ a goddam’ good gang in back of ’im!”

      But be the artificial-looking, and also contradictory-looking young man what he be, the story he was reading was a finely written story, and, from its text and headlines, it was plain that it was a scoop; from its by-line, in fact it was evident that its writer was brother of one person actively named in the story, namely, the State’s Attorney; and it was furthermore obvious that the journals in question had had ample time to write the story, since the murder, taking place during the night —but not discovered until morning, and then only by the State’s Attorney himself!—had not been officially revealed to the police.

      And it was also plain that, after having been completely written, a whole new chapter had been added to the story by virtue of information telephoned in, or hastily written up—for a several-hundred word forestory, in boldface type, describing how the murderer and burglar, self-admitted by certain words he had inadvertently and through error uttered to a harmless pedestrian, had been arrested with presumably the stolen goods on his person—and was now being held incommuni­cado somewhere—presumably in some special lock-up controlled by the State’s Attorney. Where he was wildly and ridiculously claiming—at least to the correspondent who had written the story—‘hypno-mesmeric amnesia’ over his whole stay in Chicago. Which, he averred, had been the last three days.

      A number of photographs embellished and illuminated the story: The State’s Attorney—who, so it seemed, with the State itself, was the despoiled party!—gazed forth so debonairly that it was plain it was a reproduction of a campaign poster; pictures of the inside of the really quaint office where the robbery had taken place were also reproduced, though it was evident, by the very undisturbed condition of the old iron safe in one, that they were photographs taken before the crime in question—indeed, as stated at one point in the story, they had in actuality been taken some time before the case, for a feature article to detail how Chicago’s State’s Attorney had always retained this quaint room—memento of his struggling days—out of sentiment, and which photographs were now being used fortuitously for this bigger and more important tale.

      Such fine СКАЧАТЬ