The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen Keeler

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СКАЧАТЬ of the captured murderer and burglar. No doubt by express intention of the State’s Attorney himself, who thus would abort completely a possible repetition of that contretemps which had befallen the State’s Attorney in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, three months ago, wherein one of the latter’s catches had been habeased out of jail under designation on the habeas corpus warrant not of the latter’s name—which was unknown even to his attorney—but by use of the suspect’s picture—reproduced in the Pittsburgh Gazette!

      It was, however, the murderer’s fantastic alibi in this Chicago criminal affair, more than anything else, which made the eyes of the odd-looking young man, reading the story, widen. Till he came to the end of the story.

      At which, looking off into space for a few seconds, he exclaimed:

      “By the gods—this is the chance! With him standing mute—for this amnesia tale of his is just something to temporarily block his being questioned—this is where I come in!” He half shook his head, a bit dubiously. “Too bad I was with the gang all night—I might just as well have been with J. D., knocking in that box!—for I couldn’t need sleep more than I do! But no help for that now. For this is the chance, all right. But good only till—”

      He gazed at a clock hanging out over the corner. “Boy!—I’ll have to work fast—mighty fast! For the State’s Attorney’s boys’ll take just about 12 hours of this amnesia hooey from J. D.—and no more!—and then he’ll catch all they’ve got—from fists to rubber hoses!—and will crack and when he does—my play will be up the creek. So now the question is: is that office with the kicked-in box open for business, and running?—and can I get in?”

      He took a last hasty survey of the paper; then tossed it away. And, confirming by the street sign that he was already at Washington Street, he dove across the traffic and hurried a half-block westward. Where he turned into an ancient office building whose entrance was marks by an outmoded soapstone arch on which was chiseled “The Klondike Building,” and inside of whose woodfloored foyer was just a single ancient elevator shaft with iron webbing, the elevator being just now somewhere upstairs.

      He did not ring for the elevator—but took the stair.

      And within exactly 1 minute—a tribute to good wind and heart—was at the 8th landing, and making his way down a dark wood-floored hall and around a bend, happily, from that elevator shaft. And shortly he stood before a door, whose ground-glass panel carried only the digit “806,” and just the words

      LOUIS J. VANN

      Attorney

      This, as had been set forth in the story he had just read, was the old office of the present State’s Attorney, now housed, of course, in the big City and County Building across the street, and an office still being held today for purely sentimental reasons. The office, moreover, described in the story as having been the scene last night of murder and robbery. All was quiet as a grave; no shadows were there on that ground-glass panel to reveal any worker therein. But the young man did not enter, if for no other reason than that the door was held firmly, rigidly, closed by a massive and extremely high-grade padlock which tautly linked together an old ring-bolt that was in the door, and one that was in the jamb—both ring bolts having doubtlessly been installed at some long bygone time when the original occupant of the room had gone on a long vacation—and so neatly did the eye of one bolt lie exact­ly above that of the other—and so snugly did the padlock shaft fill them both—that a fly could not have woven his way inside that office.

      This was the door whose lock—in that story—had been said to have been jimmied. And the marks of that jimmy, moreover, were visible near where the lock was—if one looked hard enough.

      But daunted the young man was, in no wise, by the powerful padlock. Indeed, at the very sight of it, his eyes lighted up with a strange triumphant light to be seen only in the eyes of fanatics, collectors, and speed maniacs. And he proceeded to give it particular attention—especially such words and numbers as would be found etched upon it.

      For, stamped on a generous blank area on the face of the padlock was visible the inscription:

      Official Police Department

      Padlock—Code LBJ

      This appeared of no interest to the young man with the roughed cheeks, for with a decided air of familiarity with such things as padlocks, he tilted up the padlock so that a smaller blank area on its end would be visible to him.

      And there, in extremely fine letters, but letters which were quite readable to him through his pince-nez, were the words

      Waddington Lock, Type C-4

      “And that,” he said, half smiling, “is all I want to know!”

      With which he turned and left the door, and within a few seconds was again taking the stairs to the main floor.

      Once there—and outside, in fact—he proceeded a couple of numbers further westward, where a great sign hung over the sidewalk reading:

      CHICAGO LOCK AND HARDWARE COMPANY

      Every Kind of Lock and Key in the World

      Hardware, Too!

      And into this place he hurried.

      It was an exceedingly capacious store, having an elbow-shaped extension in the rear where a couple of adjoining stores did not require their full depth. And it was—though the young man did not know it—the foremost emporium for locks and keys in the entire Middle West.

      Approaching a blond-moustached salesman at a counter which appeared to be devoted to locks only, he spoke, half inquiringly, and half dogmatically.

      “The Waddington lock is, of course, an individual lock, supplied with one key only—”

      “Oh yes,” the salesman replied, taking the tone of the words as a query instead of a statement—which very shortly it was to prove to be. “They are used for official police purposes because they positively cannot be picked, and are individual. But one key with each lock, and each lock sealed.”

      A faint smile swept over the young man’s rouged face at the statement he had just heard.

      “No doubt,” he said, suddenly, “you carry Copely padlocks?”

      “Indeed we do!” the clerk affirmed. “The Copely line is—”

      “I would like,” the young man interrupted, “a Copely Master Padlock—yes, the kind which can be opened by four different keys. Though I want a Type B padlock.”

      “Right, sir.” And the clerk ran up a ladder, where he looked into a drawer. “I don’t suppose you would mind, would you,” he called down, “if it were a Type A—so long as it’s a Copely Master pa—”

      “Must be Type B,” said the young man, frowning for the first time. “So, if you haven’t—”

      “Wait!” The clerk went nimbly up another step. And took down an open hardware drawer from that level.

      Which he brought all the way down. And from it, surveying it stintingly first, brought out a paper-sealed padlock. On which was printed, “Copely Master—Type B.”

      The young man tore off the paper and inspected, quite critically, the lock inside, and its single key, as one who СКАЧАТЬ