The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 16
but containing, as the Sheriff knew, from some close acquaintance with a farmer who once used them, not aspirin tablets—but so-called Narcotine Tablets: most powerful—if not deadly—sleep-producers. Tablets which, when even one only was taken, permitted such a thing as a minor surgical operation to be done on the taker, unknown to himself—at least during the middle portion of his drugged sleep: tablets which created not only one dead-to-the-world sleep but, after the taker had emerged for a while, a second “kickback” sleep. All this the Sheriff knew from intimate acquaintance with that farmer-taker of Narcotine, and, from the same experience, knew that this box contained Narcotine Tablets. For they were oval instead of round—and each bore, molded into it, the warning “N,” with radiating bars, that marked them to be Narcotine.
The Sheriff had covertly examined the tablets not long after he had picked the round box up—during, in fact, the few seconds in which the scar-faced man, in his green launch, had been heaving out of the mists. And had been unobserved therefore—the Sheriff—by the other three men who, at that second, were in front of him—and also watching the identical performance. And then and there the Sheriff had dropped them into his pocket. In order to see what was now about to develop on this island. Assuming the tablets to have been something dropped by one of the funeral party.
And now—he prepared to make his experiment! He drew forth the garish orange box, but carefully wrapped in his huge hand.
“By the way,” he growled, “you—who dropped yo’re narc—hrmph—aspirin tablets this mo’nin’—I found ’em—and hyar you air, case yo’re head’s ’ginnin’ to ached you want ’em!” With which, he tossed the box forth, so that it struck the island-marking stone beautifully midway—bounced jovially—momentarily flashing its green label—and then fell, label downward. For anyone to take.
And three torsos suddenly bent forward, even as three right arms reached out—as though subconsciously motivated. Except that—no hand reached the box; for the Sheriff, flinging out his heavily booted foot, lay his heel firmly atop the box.
“This is p’utty interestin’,” he said dryly. “You-all grabbin’ fur a box o’ aspirin tablets put up in Kansas City—whar Hart hangs out—at least pro’bly put up in Kansas City, ’spite o’ a few other stores this ’ticular chain has got. Wall—which ’un o’ you does it ’long to—now?”
The three arms had been withdrawn by seemingly the same motion. The three torsos were erect again. The three owners thereof looked sullen. Sheepish.
“Mex,” the Sheriff demanded, turning leftward, “why’d you grab, jest now—fur that thar box?”
“I—I thought she woz som’theeng drop’ by fun’al partee—and that I get her—for mysalf.”
“Hm? Wall, that’s at least in keepin’ ’ith all the interests yo’ve been showin’ hyar today. Blake—” He looked across from himself. “Why’d you grab out?”
“Because I—I had had a box of aspirin tablets on me, coming towards Big River tod—that is, yesterday—and when you said ‘aspirin,’ I just thought they were mine. Until that is—until I saw the box was orange. By that time, my arm was out. Now, of course, I remember that I lost—”
“—lost yore tablets afore comin’ out hyar. Very good!” He turned rightward. “And, van Harringdale—why’d you grab fur ’em, heh?”
“Because those two did—and my arm just followed subconscious—”
“—sub-consc’ally, eh? Very good, too!”
And sliding the box, with his heel still on it, back across the marking stone toward himself—using a little extra force where the box caught in weather-beaten etched letters—and, by all this, avoiding having to lean out forward, and perhaps get knocked in the head—the Sheriff picked it up as it reached the edge of the flat etched stone.
“Wall,” he declared, “it ’longs to one o’ you three. And—”
“Why?” demanded the man calling himself Blake. “Maybe it was dropped by that funeral party.”
“Oh—yeah? ’Twas too dry, when I picked it up, fur to have b’en out hyar all night. It ’longs to one o’ you three—a’right. And that ’un is Hart. And it’s on’y too danged bad that its owner hadn’t a’ready t’uk one, befo’ or ’bout the time he come aground—’caze the clerk who put these up, he done made a hell of a mistake, in some fool hurry he ’uz in—or maybe on’y that woman thar at the Bluffs, who ain’t sech good eyesight, as I recall it, dumped the contents o’ one of her guest’s pillboxes, bought from this comp’ny, into another—or mebbe some sody-fountain clerk tipped over a couple o’ boxes as was a’ready put up—and placed the contents back in wrongwise. P’int is, however, that a big mistake was made, so that, inst’d o’ these tablets bein’ some kind o’ fancy aspirin, molded oval, and havin’ “N” stomped in ’em, they’re Narcotine Tablets. One of which, alone, is jest about the nearest thing to a mule’s kick into slumberland, that they is on 7 continents. Ef’n the one of you that these ’longed to had on’y t’uk one, he’d a dove—inside o’ no mo’n 20 minutes—headfu’st into a sleep that ’ud a-lasted jest ’bout 6 hours—little more, mebbe—little less. And tharby proved his ownership o’ the tablets. And then, in turn, ’count of their label, and the broadcast, branded hisse’f as Hart.”
Three pairs of eyebrows had raised at the very instant when the Sheriff had revealed that a serious pharmaceutical mistake had been made—sometime—somewhere. And, if he had expected to jolt one of them by the news of the latter’s closeness to a dive into a deep, helpless, overpowering sleep, the Sheriff had failed. All were surprised! One, no doubt, at his own closeness to taking a nose-dive into unconsciousness—the others, that such a serious mistake could happen for any man.
“Wall,” the Sheriff sighed, “that ’speriment is no failure—it’s jest triply soccessful, that’s all!” And he tossed the dangerous and unacknowledged pill-box back of his shoulder enough so that—even though he couldn’t see it—the river current, lapping hungrily on the edge of the island where it fell, caught it—swirled it away.
There was a deep sullen silence lasting, however, for but a few seconds. Then—
“W’y,” asked the Mexican now, his eyes becoming slitlike, “you no take off, Shereef, now?—and leeve os three to work out who Al Hart eez?”
“Why? Becase I told you once, Mex, that I’m taking off when the water starts sweepin’ over hyar—and not ontil. This island ain’t su’merged yet, even by the flood itse’f. And the dam ain’t busted yit, neither! So—”
“She gonna bost eef Oncle Sam he say she gonna bost,” returned the Mexican lugubriously.
“But might I ask, Sheriff,” said the man in the rustic costume, with most apparent native innocence, “suppose you are left—with the last man? And he happens to be Hart? And he tries to take your belt? What will you do?”
“Don’t be a goddanged fool. I’ll shoot him down like a dog, of co’se. And mebbe when his body winds up at New O’leans ’ith my bullet in it—and ain’t et up ’nough by the garfish that it cain’t yet be identyfied—Shelby’s Bluff’ll at least git credit fur removin’ one of America’s public en’mies—even ef its Sher’ff don’t qualify fur the reward. Yes—mebbe ’twill! And mebbe whichever’n o’ you is Hart will be jest foolish ’nough to give me a good excuse, durin’ that last minute, fur pluggin’ him. Two mebbes—yes!—but a poss’bility. Anyway, you got ’nother good answer as to why I’ll be stayin’ on hyar ’twell the last minute.”
And the Sheriff lapsed into lugubrious silence, his lugubriousness being occasioned, of course, by the conditions circumscribing and inherent in that confounded reward, the fact that he had yet correctly to work out the problem of which two of these three men were entitled to life belts, and that—if and when he did work it out he would receive, for such solution, not one red copper penny. Let alone $5000 or so which, confound it, any man had a right to have for correctly solving a problem of life and death; $5000 which, by Godfrey, would make it possible at last to—
But since he could do quite nothing about all these things—let alone a reward posted down in Texas a thousand miles away, the Sheriff shook himself out of his slump and took up the cudgels again.
“All—right!” he said abruptly. “It seems as though I’m jedge of an enpromptoo court of investygation—and you three air defendants therein an’ thereto. All right! Well, we’ve jest had words, an’ lots of ’em, tendin’ to elim’nate one o’ you three defendants from, and out of, sospicions entirely as bein’ Al Hart. But—they wuz words only. So—has the man in question—any proof!”
“Yes,” said the man to whom the Sheriff had referred—he of the silken neckerchief. “I can prove my allegations. And will.”
“All right,” directed the Sheriff, though a bit reluctantly, “let’s see yo’re proof. For ef yo’ve got it, yo’re discharged from this co’te. And the bench’ll direct itse’f to finding which of yo’re two companions is Al Hart!”
CHAPTER XVI
“PROOFS!”
There was a sudden additional loud purling sound from the water at the edge of the island nearest where they all sat, which sound thus far had not been of the congeries of other incessant continuous water noises. All four heads turned toward the source. A protruding piece of coruscating green rock—obviously something that had been transplanted to the island to give the island “naturalness”—with a flat face that had faced up river, was now bulwarking water off the outer side of that face, the drops cascading down the inner edge. They all looked gravely at each other.
“Sheez—sheez higher yet,” said the Mexican, half rising, his palms on the ground. “Maybe dam’s she bost’, and by God I going to—”
“Set—back,” ordered the Sheriff. “The dam ain’t busted at all. When she busts, the water around us’ll rise—rise!—not just creep up on land. It’s crep’ up all right, whilst we’ be’n talking—but o’ny because the gen’al flood is higher. Though, ef you want to worry a bit, Mex, I’ll so much as say that at the rate it’s done got higher, it ’twon’t take the busting of no dam to eventually cover this island. But the dam itse’f—”
“But the dam itself,” put in the man in the scarlet neckerchief, “has hundreds of tons of additional pressure against it—every time the water here goes higher. Which means that if it was due awhile back to go eventually—it’s more due now than it was then.”
“Correct!” conceded the Sheriff. “And which means,” he continued further, “that it behooves them as is on this island—and ain’t crim’nals—to establish the’rse’ves as not being—an’ the quicker the better.”
“Those who aren’t criminals?” echoed the last speaker. “Listen—because I’m wanted for embezzlement, does that put me in the same class with this Hart, who murd—”
“Now hold it!” the Sheriff ordered. “I ain’t putting no man in the same class as this Hart except rats and dirty skunks and still dirtier snakes. Compared to him, yo’re a snow-white lily. But here’s the p’int. If yo’re to be elim’nated from this co’te of inquiry—completely and entirely—it’s now up to you to do more than jest say yo’re Gilbert Blake—of Indi’nap’lis. Yo’ll have to prove it. But you say you have proof? What is it?”
“Well, it’s—but when I give it, will you let me put one of those belts around my waist—”
“No! We’ll distriboot them belts atter this co’te investygation is over, an’ not ontil. And—but come on—what’s yo’re proof?”
The man in the brilliant neckerchief threw a hard angry glance at the Sheriff.
“Well, my proof, Sheriff,” he said, “is as follows: The Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff will go down as the greatest sap in all history if he hands Al Hart, murderer and bankrobber, one of those belts—and leaves Gilbert Blake here—to drown! And so, as a result, the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff is going to rivet all his abilities on establishing which of the two men who are not Gilbert Blake is Al Hart. And there’s proof based on sheer logic.”
The Sheriff stroked his chin puzzledly.
“From a p’int of view of logic, it’s—it’s danged funny proof! For it don’t seem to establish nothing. It—now wait—I’m sunk p’fessionly ef I give Hart a belt and let you drown. Yes—that’s right. And I’m going to rivet all my conce’tration on establs’ing which of them two—van Harringdale and the Mex—ain’t you—is Al Hart. That’s true. Well b’ God, both o’ your premises is true—so your p’int of logic must be correct. Still—” And the Sheriff scratched his head again. For he realized he had heard, just now, one of the most specious pieces of logic in all his career. One which hopped like a frog—flew like a bird—and galloped like a horse.
And then, of a sudden he realized that a handful of dust had, literally, been tossed into his eyes. Intellectual dust—the dust of sophistry, had the Sheriff but known what the word “sophistry” meant—but dust, nevertheless! And he felt that he knew now, at least, to the extent of 99 per cent certainty, which of these three men was not going to receive a life belt. And he laughed throatily as he answered.
“Wall, Mis-ter Blake, ef’n you’d give’ me no proof at all, the sityation on this hyar island would-a jest become a case o’ three men—one of whom is Actor Hart. But, ’ith that what you jest give as yo’re proof, it’s a case ag’in of three men—etcetery—except that one of ’m is so danged slipp’ry-tongued and slipp’ry-idee’d, that he’s Act—”
“Hold, Sheriff! I was just curious, that’s all, whether I was a logician. My logic, which was fuller of holes than a cheese, appears to have made you wrinkle your cerebrum all right—but it didn’t sell you! And selling—and on commission—is the only kind of a job I’ll ever be able to get—in that state yonder where I can’t be locked up—if I ever get there. But I’ll certify myself now.”
And with a weary sigh he inserted his left hand into his left-hand coat pocket, withdrawing the lining inside out. Then, looking downward to see what he was doing, he ripped, with the index fingers of both hands, a tear that showed in it—a tear about 2 inches wide. Thrusting his two long fingers of his left hand through the now much-widened hole, he shoved the whole lining back in, and proceeded to fish gingerly—far down in what was manifestly the corner of the coat. Evidently he got hold of something—for out came his hand, with, between the fingertips, what was evidently a folded newspaper clipping: a clipping that had been folded down to just narrow enough dimensions that it had fallen through that first hole, and he had known that fact. He unfolded it to its full dimensions, revealing it to be some 5 inches or so wide and some 6 inches deep—or vice versa; and then, half rising from his boulder, passed it across and over the island-marking stone, to the Sheriff.
Who took it bewilderedly.
And found—the moment that he had fixed his eyes on it—that he held conclusive and final documentary proof in his hands that this man was not “Actor” Hart—documentary proof, in the face of the existence of which, he must now put the complete searchlight on these other two men.
CHAPTER XVII
SEARCHLIGHTS
For the clipping was a halftone newspaper picture—not just a mere column wide—but two columns wide, and therefore almost as big in area as the original photograph from which it must have been made. And it was not only—to every last detail of feature—the man who had quietly handed it to the Sheriff, but, in addition, bore underneath it the caption:
GILBERT BLAKE
Missing Cashier of the 3rd Trust and
Savings Bank of Indianapolis, Who
Balanced his Accounts with
Punched-Out Counterfeit Money!
And no mere cutting was it, the Sheriff perceived plainly—as he took in all the physiognomical elements on it—scissored, either amusedly or designedly, from some newspaper by a double of Gilbert Blake’s, fascinated or intrigued by the cutter’s resemblance to the cuttee! This picture, the Sheriff saw—as he screwed his brows together, the better to focus on all its minutiae—was indisputably and beyond all doubt that of the man who sat across from him. Not merely alone in the peculiar set of the jaw—which was identical in photograph and man; nor in the fact that the eyebrows of man and picture were identical in apparent lengths and peculiar angles. Nor in the striking upper lip—quite the same in both. But it was in such things as that the lips, slightly parted in the photograph, revealed a slight vertical gap between the two upper middle teeth—exactly as had shown in this man on the rock in the one or two times he had smiled, even though sardonically—as his smiling had been. And a squarish gold filling in the tooth one removed from the gap showed in the photograph even as it had showed on the real man—a filling which the Sheriff had fancied, somehow—even when he had first glimpsed it—had been put in in a prison, or jail, or something like that. Now, of course, he knew better. For a mole on the photograph-sitter’s left cheek, dark enough apparently that it had not even had to be retouched by the newspaper or news-syndicate artist, or else brought out by the screen of this reproduction, was on the real man’s cheek—and was a real mole too, for once that morning, when the Sheriff had been close to the other, he had seen a stub of a hair protruding from that mole. And last, but not least, a small scar that gleamed whitishly on the real man’s face near the corner of his mouth as though he recently had had a cold sore there which had caused his mouth to split temporarily, and then to heal with scar tissue, gleamed just as whitishly, in the photograph, where the bright studio lights had fallen obliquely upon it. The same—undeniably!—photographic sitter—man on rock. Indeed, the Sheriff was 101 per cent satisfied.
He looked up.
“Well, yo’re out of it, anyway,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “And—”
“I knew that all the time,” the other said wearily. “But couldn’t very well spring it today—before, that is, I did—in view of the fact that I was almost in shouting distance of my haven—but that an officer of the Law was right in front of me! And I’ve hated to confirm it—but confirm it now I have. And now you know that I am—what I am. Just an unlucky gink heading for a haven—yonder state—simply because $5000, to make up the stealings he didn’t steal—and grab the girl he can’t grab—doesn’t grow on every bush—on no damn bush. That’s all. You and I, Sheriff, are brothers.”
