The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen Keeler
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 photography did the prints embody, that even some of the larger words on a diploma, hanging on one wall in one particular view, were legible. Absent only, in fact, from the photographic layout, was the picture 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