The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 11
“And there, folks—is your story. Red hot—one hundred per cent exclusive—as fresh as a Columbia River salmon rushed to New York by plane—atop ice. Just exactly where Hart, the Sheriff, and the two unknowns are at this moment we can only guess. They remained, we do know, on the island full 40 minutes after ‘Rat’ Glover shoved off. And—what’s that, Alfonse? A telegram? Yes—sure—give it here. It may be connected with this very broadcast.
“Aha!”
“Well, it’ll be ‘no dice,’ folks, on the quartette landing at Griffinstown—or, to be exact, Griffin’s Landing Stage. For they’ve passed Griffins—stage—and town back of stage—definitely—in the fog. And their engine and tiller, moreover, are out of commission—the former completely—the latter partly. So that they’re having to ‘ride current’—as river people term it. How do I know all this? Because I am T. Topkins!—who knows all—hears all—sees—but I’ll take you into my confidence. Here’s how:
“This wire is from O’Dengrave, at Shelby’s Bluff, who has just talked by phone, via Roosevelt Bridge on the far upper river, to the Sheriff of Webb City—to get an idea of the degree of the artificial lighting there, and to what degree the stage can be seen today from out in the river. And the Sheriff himself has just had a wire, traveling God knows how many hundred miles around northward just to cross that stream, from a place called Robinson’s Knoll, on the east bank. Where a German, named Adolph Krankmeier, was just pulled out of the river a brief while ago—minus boat—minus nearly everything but the thick spectacles he wore!
“Anyway, Krankmeier sighted today the red launch and its four occupants. And talked in person to the Sheriff. And was specifically asked by the Sheriff to—
“But here, in brief, is how it came about!
“Krankmeier left Griffin’s Stage an hour and a half ago in a tiny cockleshell of a one-cylindered launch, taking a long chance on somehow reaching the east side of Big River. He was due, it seems, in County Court on the east bank railroad to give testimony this afternoon calculated to knock out certain bankruptcy claims of a man who owed him much money. And Krankmeier had to appear today—or see the man fraudulently adjudged a bankrupt. So he took a German’s chance—and tried to cross. And, out in the river—and in the fog—though, folks, for a nearsighted man the fog means quite nothing since such are perpetually in a fog!—anyway, ’way out on the river he sighted the red launch. He didn’t get closer to it than 20 feet, but was able to read the big black letters on it reading POLICE: SHELBY’S BLUFF; and could see, against the fog-covered sky, that it held 4 men. He shut off the engine of his cockleshell and drifted with them. Parallel, that is, with them. And, all in all, for about 1 full minute. A man who assumed the leadership—and who we may presume, beyond doubt, must have been Sheriff Brister, asked Krankmeier just where they were. And Krankmeier told him he was definitely past and below Griffins. The Sheriff—for the latter did all the talking—then told Krankmeier his propeller was fouled, and that his tiller was practically out for any marked left-hand steering. Krankmeier told him he couldn’t possibly tow him with his own tiny boat—even if he had a tow line, which he didn’t—but asked the other why he didn’t steer rightward, and land in the swamplands between Griffins and Webb City. The Sheriff said no—he required to get to a city—containing banks and all. We know, of course, folks, why that was: he had that butterfly pin on his person—and wanted to slap it into safe deposit. Mayhap he was even distrusting the three men. Who knows? The two boats were now drifting apart, and Krankmeier asked the leader in the red boat if he could do anything for them—once on the east bank. The Sheriff then said that Krankmeier could—that he was, he said, going to ‘ride current’—with such steering as he could do—and drive in towards land the minute he saw the lights of Webb City. And he begged Krankmeier to get word to the Sheriff there to have men stand by—in case of a smash-up—or a capsizing. The two boats now became separated by the fog—and Krankmeier, throwing on his engine, drove off desperately eastward—to make it—yes!—but to capsize in a whirlpool caused by a promontory in that shore. And was pulled out, at Robinson’s Knoll, by men who were watching for wreckage. But Krankmeier did get the message to Webb City—from where O’Dengrave himself just plucked it—and wired it on here.
“So then, folks, we’ve got the answer to our self-propounded riddle. And the riddle now facing the authorities of Shelby’s Bluff—Griffin’s—and Webb City. The quartette is hopelessly past Griffin’s—riding current—and the Sheriff won’t turn in to the bad lands. So it will be hours and hours yet before, riding current only, they’ll reach Webb City. At which point they’ll undoubtedly be able to make a landing—with those powerful lights full on—and plenty of men and ropes standing by. And when that landing does take place, I wonder—I wonder!—who’ll be the most surprised. The Sheriff—to learn that he’s had a $22,500 prize package—or, say, a $20,000 package, if we subtract ‘Rat’ Glover’s legal cut—in his mitts for a good part of the day; or Al Hart himself, who, thanks to O’Dengrave’s having phoned down river to all the stations, will step off into the hands of the local gendarmerie—armed with shotguns, cowbells and whatnot else.
“And that’s the sheer drama, folks, in the exclusive story that T. Topkins has delivered today—the sheerest drama, I think, found in any of the dramatic radio newsstories I’ve delivered to my critical customers—sich as yersilves!—in the last 40 days.
“And because, folks, though my time is up, the orchestra—including your next two entertainers, Silver-Throated Jimmy Galvane, and Billy Hump, the comic—all of whom filed up street to the Golden Slipper Club, at the last intermission, to wet its whistles—you all know, of course, the new New York law which provides a thousand-dollar fine for any club providing a drink to any employee?—yes!—well because the orchestra is now anchored up street in the Golden Slipper by a heavy cloudburst outside—hear it, folks?—that means, therefore, that you’re all anchored here in the Eclat Club at the same time, till it lets up—well because of all this, I’m going to pinch-hit for Conductor Struthers, and Jimmy, and Billy, and add a few more touches to my yarn. Pictures! That’s right. But because television isn’t here yet—they’ll have to be word-pictures. And—but whose ‘pic’ should we present first? Al Hart’s—of course!”
CHAPTER XI
PORTRAIT OF ONE AL HART
“A character picture most of all, however—rather, a character and biographical picture combined! But since character, my friends, is a derivative of age—we can do no better than to first posit Al Hart as to that age. Which, according to this green-tinted ‘public-enemy circular’ I have here—one of thousands or more such, of every possible tint and hue, gotten out by our good friend Uncle Sam, and setting forth the physical descriptions of certain men he desires to see eventually behind bars!—is 30 years and 7 months. Plus, to be exact, such months or fraction of a month as—let’s see when it was printed—published—issued—or what-have-you!—and incidentally, folks, whilst I’m on the subject of such things, here’s an interesting sidelight on these circulars: Uncle Sam, according to a detective friend of mine I was talking with last week, uses a different tint for these descriptive bulletins each year, this year’s crop being green, whilst last year’s were pink, the year previous yell—ah!—here’s what I’m looking for!—Uncle Sam’s imprint of issuance—just leave it to Uncle to be specific chronologically as well as chromatically!—well, since the solar component of the said date is this year of our lord, but the lunar component is last month—and the 27th thereof!—that, then, fixes Hart’s age still at 30 years and 7 months, though about to become 30 years and 8 months.
“How I happen to have this circular, with Hart’s actual picture, in halftone, on it, his fingerprints, his physical description, and such details of his history and personality as may markedly affect or govern his physical appearance, happens to be just that, being a newspaperman myself, I know where to get things! And so, heading up here to the Eclat Club in my taxi, I stopped off in that peculiar little office I think I spoke of a while back to you all—I wish you could see it, my friends—it’s known only as ‘Office G’—and has nary sign or lettering on its door. But is, in one sense, one of the most important offices in America. For here, under Dane Gale, veteran G-man, are filed all the descriptive circulars and posters on all the bad men—bankrobbers and so forth—in the United States. Available—for instant and immediate obtainance. Fortunately for me, Gale’s office girl was there though Gale himself wasn’t—and new to her job as she was, she was able to dig out for me—the while I got an important long-distance connection—she dug out for me, as I say, from a file labeled ‘Al—alias “Actor”—Hart,’ and containing a couple of dozen of this green circular, the very one I now have here at the mike. And, Gale—if you’re listening in right now, from the office—as I told your girl to have you do if you returned—I want you to know I appreciate your telling a brand-new girl such as Miss Danley is that anything T. Topkins ever wanted in a hurry was T. Topkins’—and I want to apologize, at the same time, for running up a long-distance cross-continent charge on your official phone with the warden of Folsom Penitentiary, California. I’ll remit, Gale—the minute the charges are sent in.
“So all right, friends and guests here in the club—and listeners on N-Y-Y-N—and incidentally, I trust that those of you in whose actual view I now stand, will overlook my fumbling around, as I talk, with these scraps of notes—all jotted down in shorthand, English and Choctaw, whilst talking, for fully 20 minutes, to the warden of Folsom Penitentiary, California, who has, on Hart’s conviction card, all there is about Hart. More, far more, even, than I can give you here—as I fear I’ve more gaps in his career than highspots! Though, again, maybe not. For—
“But who is Al Hart? Actor—and bankrobber?
“None of you here in our so-called effete East have, in all likelihood, ever heard of Hart—unless perchance you read his name as being among some 30 or so men who escaped Folsom prison some months back, or in connection with a certain reward posted by a private individual—and more or less unobtrusively—for Hart’s recapture; rather, his delivery—alive!—to such authorities as can place him back in Folsom; and payable only when Folsom’s doors—as a result of such capture and such delivery—re-clang back on Hart. And the reason you haven’t heard of Hart as Hart during the period when Hart operated actively as a criminal and bankrobber, is that he operated under such an amazing variety of names that, coupled with the equally amazing variety of guises and personalities he assumed, it was not until his final conviction for life that his life-history and his criminal history became co-ordinated in the Criminological Department at Folsom—and under his real and correct name: Al Hart. Just how such departments achieve such things is not given to a layman such as myself to know; they do so, so I gather, by studying the many unsolved crimes that have a similar technique; by comparing fingerprints found in unsolved crimes with that of men serving time; by using tips from other convicts who want small favors; by co-ordinating revelations of other criminals who have worked with the subject whose life they are co-ordinating. The Criminological Department at Folsom was even, I understand, aided considerably by plentiful admissions from Hart himself, for he was, so far as he then knew, washed up for good. At any rate his biography lies written today in Folsom—where it was destined to lie quietly between the covers of a thick file until—well, until a certain breezy radio-news broadcaster in far New York City panhandled the warden by long-distance phone for the highspots of that biography!
“And Al Hart, I would say—if one can dissociate from him his innate cruelty and cunning—is a more interesting criminal than our own New York City has ever spawned. A criminal, indeed, so far more interesting than the general rank and file of criminals—and even screen criminals!—and with so far more of a colorful and curious life history—that it seems to me that he should eventually be A. No. 1 meat for the movies. For a man who might portray Hart’s fictionized biography would be enabled to take a dozen juicy parts; or, conversely, a man who might set out, in a movie story, to capture Hart, might likewise have to take a dozen parts to do so. Do actors like that?—or do actors like that? Indeed, I know of one fav-or-ite of America’s screen-going public whose name isn’t exactly Tarke Claylor, but werry much like it!—who would eat such a part alive. Providing, of course, ’twasn’t written into a story done by some mere hack. But, speaking of hacks, makes me think of writing geniuses—and, speaking of geniuses, if my good fran’, Risdon Rudell, the one natural drama-writing genius that America can really boast of today—is perchance languidly listening in right now to my broadcast, out there in Hollywood—for he does say, the rascal he, that he tunes in religiously on my stuff, whether he be at his shoemaker’s or in his golf-club locker room—anyway, if Risdon is listening in right now, I shan’t need to point out to him how much Hart’s very life history, which I am now about to skeletonize, is biography that’s right up Risdon’s al—how about that, Risdon?—are you listening in—or are you trying to figure out how to spend all that filthy lucre you’ve taken away in royalties from our New Y’awk stage?
“But—back to Actor Hart!
“A more than just-interesting criminal, to say the least.
“For it seems that, as actor alone, he’s veteran of hundreds of difficult parts. Including several difficult ones played only off the boards. Either to save his life! Or to advance his criminality. Viz—the time he got the entire layout and workings of a Western country bank while atop a soap box out in front of it, in an Indian wig and frock coat—no, no, not at all purporting to be an Indian, but merely a simulator of an Indian—if you folks get the subtlety of that histrionicism!—in shorter words, selling some claptrap Indian remedy and using a medical spiel for it that was far better than its own originator—one, old Doc Humbleberry—who, subsequent to the successful bank robbery which took place that night—was found tied and gagged in the woods near by.
“Or viz—when Hart was actually caught once, in an automobile, with burglar tools, garbed as a crude rural hick, with peroxided hair and tight-fitting clothes—he actually succeeded in talking two town marshals into letting his car go, convincing them that the tools which they found in his car had been dropped into it on its way through the town. And not until they checked his supposed destination—and found that he didn’t exist—not till, in fact, following him, he shot one through the intestines—no, the man didn’t die—did they know that their naïve-looking yaller-haired ‘hick’ was a hard and dangerous criminal;—was, as they were to know still much later, the hardest and most dangerous criminal in the Mid- and Far West.
“Or still again—as an aftermath of that same killing—when Hart was closely questioned up in Canada, by Mounties, where he was camping on some turbulent river with an Indian guide—those Mounties suspecting that the mild gold-spectacled ‘Dr. Glenwood Jamison’ of Oxford, England, with his perfect Oxonian accent, who was learning to fish, and to ride rapids in canoe, and do the things that a red-blooded Englishman might want to learn to do, might be some American criminal hiding till the ‘heat was off.’ And he convinced those red-coated lads, who’d never been out of Canada in their lives, that he was the gen-uine McCoy! Enough, at least, to get rid of them—to send them back to their lonely outpost—where they could radio Toronto for more complete confirmation. Though, alas, before they did—before they ever returned—he’d shot the rapids out of his camp—leaving his Injun behind—and, incidentally, unpaid!—and was gone; and that was the time, my friends who read magazines, that the Mounties didn’t get their man!
“The foregoing but a few of ‘Actor’ Hart’s parts—adopted for expediency, pure and simple.
“While, again, considering Hart as to his actual stage parts, they’ve been too numerous to list. He’s played, and effectively, it seems, such parts as Count Dracula—in Dracula; of Lord Essex—in an early version of Queen Elizabeth’s life called Her Majesty; of Lord Arthur Dilling—in The Last of Mrs. Cheyney; of Slim, the Lineman, in Strike; of a hundred more.
“And how, it may be asked, did a man who subsequently was destined to be a criminal and bankrobber ever become an actor—and an effective one?
“Well, he was born, my friends—this Hart—of an actor and an actress—and virtually on a prop trunk. Destined—by very Fate itself!—to be the actor, for a brother, born from the same genes and chromosomes—but at a time when pere and mere were ‘resting’—a naïve euphemism, that, known only to Thespians!—and left, said brother, because of some fragility of corporeal structure, with some aunt in the Far West, became eventually an honest carpenter. Bearing Aunt’s honest name. So, at least, relates even Hart himself. Both of Hart’s progenitors are now dead for many, many years, and fortunately never lived to see what they had spawned. And I refer now to Hart—and not the honest carpenter, wherever he way now be nailing nails into planks—even if he knows of his now-famous relative ‘Actor’ Hart. And so, referring again to Hart’s parents, mayhap Heywood Broun, over there at Table 9—that is, if, as I suspect, the gentleman there whose back is to me is Heywood Broun!—has something on them, in his voluminous files of the American Theatre. For they were Lionel Hart—and Henrietta Hart. Veteran troopers—both. Al, as he grew up, played child parts in the cheap traveling companies in which his parents then traveled—for a while, even, played Little Eva—in a skirt and wig. Until the death of both of his parents in a railroad wreck outside of Des Moines—and the refusal of the Far-Western aunt to take on any more boys to rear up—resulted in the Des Moines probate court placing Al, then 5, in a monastery just outside of the city run by the Brothers of the Holy Grail.
