The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 17
“Oh, no we ain’t,” pointed out the Sheriff. “ ’Caze I ain’t onder nary charges. As you will be—’twell you dig up the $5000! We may both o’ us need to do a little pluckin’ of a measly $5000!—to marry the gals we want pow’ful bad to marry—but, outside o’ that, we ain’t brothers nohow. But yo’re out of consid’ration now, as to charges in this hyar co’te. And—”
“Well, now that I am,” queried the other, “how about turning the beam of judicial investigation on those who aren’t. For after all, you know—”
“Ne’ mind the comments,” said the Sheriff, with come asperity. “Yo’re still, in a manner o’ speaking, in the co’t room—and co’te’s in session.” He was tucking the clipping into the pocket of his own checkered shirt as he spoke, quite forgetful for the moment that though he could ride out that flood in a life belt, the clipping never would. “And co’te,” he added meaningfully, “is now going to continue.”
With which words the Sheriff turned his attention immediately to the other two men—though first to the one—then to the other. Since each sat, in that quadranglelike circle, to either of the Sheriff’s two sides.
“Well,” the Sheriff began, “you’ve both heard Blake elim’nate hisse’f from this co’t of investygation. And by so doing, establishing that one o’ you two is Hart. So—”
“Well, the one isn’t me,” said the man in the tight pants and wallpaper shirt. “For I’m no killer—nor even a—a darned embezz—that is, one under charge of embezzlement.”
The man in the silken neckerchief winced visibly.
“And I,” began the Mexican, haughtily, “am Jose Lopez, who work on the saction gang of the—”
“All right—cut it,” ordered the Sheriff. “We’ve heerd that story befo’! And it’s a danged lie. And, with them white hands o’ yo’rs, is enough in itse’f to brand you as Hart. So ef that’s the best you kin offer, I—”
“Wait, Meester Shereef,” said the other, utter desperation in his voice. “I tall the trooth now—for I no wan’ you to make tereeble mistake—an’ leev’ me here as Act-or Hart.”
“You’ll tell the truth, heh? Well—what is the truth?”
“I—I no am work on saction gang. I am high-class Mexican—born at Monterey, Mexico—though I do moch leeving aroun’ Mex-co Citee—”
“Whar,” the Sheriff pointed out, “we heered today that Hart has put in plenty time, playin’ the hosses. Wall, I ain’t figgerin’ to ask you no questions ’bout the city, fur you won’t have no trouble to answer—”
“Bot wait! You no let me feenish. I try prove I am not Hart. I am, as say I, high-class Mexican—though I do not spik well the Americeen spich. My name she eez Ramon de Montesquez. An’ I am night-clob performer—in New York—I do the play weeth violeen of my native tunes. And—”
“So-o-o,” said the Sheriff sourly, “you play the fiddle, heh? Well, that’s so’thin’ we all heerd also, that Al Hart does! I ’spose yo’re going to prove yo’re p’int by a lecture on music. Wall, you jest ain—but why’d you come hyar—on this island—in yo’re coschume—fur all along I figgered that was a stage coschume. I—”
“I com’ here—to Beeg Reever—straight by air—dooring night. Deedn’ I tall you I catch my yaller lonch at Boggtown?—and ain’t Boggtown that there eez airfiel’ at—yes?—no? Well, I com’ een by that airfiel’—straight from New York—on same sleeper plane you talk ’bout w’ile back—the wan w’at carry New York an’ Cheecago mail for all points in Amereeca’s South w’at eez eas’ from Beeg Reever, plos passengers what going south same like mail—or passengers going direc’ to Hot Spreengs, Arka’saw, to boil salves out fram rhoom’tism. Me, I am las’ passenger on—in New York—before tak’-off. An’ I jomp New York like as I deed—becoze there was moorder las’ night—in Hi-Hat Glob—w’ere I play. Hat-check girl, Juanita, she get boomped off. I theenk she fine girl—yes—but I no lov’ her. But som’body he steeck steeletto in her back. I theenk he New York gangster w’at theenk she love me, Ramon. Bot they say, w’en they see steeletto in Juanita’s back—they say: Ramon he keel her, of course—he j’alous like hell. Though I swear to you, Shereef—by Mother of Jesus—I no was j’alous, and I no keel she. Wall, me I am een toil-et w’en I hear them, outside w’ere I am, say: w’ere een hell eez that goddam’ Mex—the j’alous bastard he ’ave keel the poor girl. And so, minout toil-et she eez emptee, I skeep out—no even get chance to catch my violeen—I skeep out in tax’cab to neares’ airfiel’. But o’ny plane I can get at that late hour, she eez famous ‘Arth—Arth—Arth—’ skeep it!—famous Rhoom’tizm Special!—w’at go to Hot Spreengs, weeth stop-off at Boggtown for to let off mail and catch gas. Bot Hot Spreengs she not so goddam’ good for Ramon—plenty moch reason!—though at leas’ fram Hot Spreengs Ramon can get by train to Leetle Rock, w’ere can get plane that go straight to Mex’co Citee—een fac’, Leetle Rock she is w’ere I com’ een to theeze contree. You know the line—at Leetle Rock? She eez call’ Leetle Rock, Gulf an’ Mexico Citee Air Transp—”
“Yeah, I know it—though that don’t mean you ever seed it. Wall, th’ reason you purr’ntly wound up in Boggtown ev’dently lays in yo’re cur’ous statement that Hot Springs wan’t so good for one Ramon. What did you mean by that?”
“I mean I work’ leetle wh’ile in beeg Arleengton ’otel in Hot Spreengs, w’en first I com’ in Amereeca by Leetle Rock. And—”
“Oh-ho—so you worked in a town whar, as we heerd today, Hart’s tuk the baths a coupla times? And yo’re all ready to answer questions ’bout it, heh? Wall—”
“Bot wait! I no can halp eef my historee she is same like Hart’s historee. She is joos coin—coinci—coinci—skeep it!—eet joos happens—that eez all. I work, as I ’ave say, leetle while in beeg Arleengton ’otel in Hot Spreengs, w’en first I rom’ in Amereeca by Leetle Rock. And I’ave leetle ron-in weeth Chief Po-lice. He theenk I breeng in marijuana—what they catch all over town. Is lie—I deedn’t—so help me Mother of Jesus! But we ’ave rows I show him latter from Hi-Hat Clob New York w’at say they can use me—and I tall heem I gat to hall out of heez goddam’ town—and go. Wall, theez’ man he alway’ watch planes w’at com’ een at Hot Spreengs. “Specially that one fram New York called the ‘Arth—uh—Rhoomtism Special’—yes. And so after my plane—w’at I have pay my fare on clear to Hot Spreengs—land at Boggtown, I lay in berth while some passengers get out and some others they get in, and I get to theenking—why, that Chief he weel be on Hot Spreengs air-fiel’ w’an I land—and he’ll say what-hell theez goddam’ Mexican doing back here without no bag-gage and no violeen?—he in som’ tro’ble aroun’ that Hi-Hat Glob w’ere he go—by God, I hold heem and wire. And then—for Ramon—the cat weel be een the fire. So w’en I hear porter calling ‘Feefteen meenute before tak’-off’ I drag on my clo’s’—hop out—and let her go weethout me. After weech, I feex salf up—I ’ave tol’—to get across reever, to catch me train queeck to Leetle Rock. And out theez goddam’ contree. And thoz eez my story.”
“Which story,” commented the Sheriff, “—ef ’twas true—true, that is, from A to Izzard—means that ’stid o’ thar being one man on this island onder crim’nal yes, they’s two—in fact, ef yo’re story was as true as Blake’s, then it’d mean, i-God, that they’s more men on this island onder crim—” The Sheriff sighed wearily. It was beginning to seem that he had all the “wanted men” in America clustered about him! And he felt, somehow, as he once had felt in a dream where he had been surrounded by luscious melons—but, in the dream, had had no knife to cut them—or arms to wield the knife! “Wall, all this,” he continued, “is very beautiful, Lopez-Montesquez but the p’int is—what real proof have you got? That’s the p’int!”
“I got proof. I got salaree check—w’at I catch las’ night. For my week that eez clos’. Sheez—sheez dated las’ night, too. I joos’ woz about to cash her weeth cashier in clob w’en som’body he call cashier aside—now I know he woz telling cashier that Juanita she woz keel’ or som’teeng. So I take back my check—an’ go to toi-let. W’ere steel more I hear—then skeep. Bot check she weel show I woz in New York, an’—”
But saying no more he fumbled inside a curious slit, with braided edges, in the edge itself of his brown corduroy jacket, and withdrew a folded piece of white paper.
And stretching out his arm and rising halfway, passed it to the Sheriff, over the corner of the island-marking stone.
Who, in turn, opened it and surveyed it carefully—holding it sufficiently up so that with one eye he could still keep in view its tender, lest its very profference be some sort of trick.
It was a check, all right, on the Upper Broadway Bank of New York City, and dated, with a green dating stamp, the day—or it could have been even the evening—before. And that it had at least not been given out before its own date the Sheriff was certain, if for no other reason than that issuing post-dated checks would be the worst kind of advertisement for whoever issued this. The “whoever” being, in this case, one R. E. Trottwell. The check was for $40, the sum being typed in; while the name of its payee—plus certain other information in connection therewith—was put in obviously with a stencil. Was obviously, therefore, an employee’s check. The payee-space contained, in fact, three lines, and was evidently hyper-complete so as to form some sort of defence against, or compliance with, New York employment laws. For the first line read just “Ramon de Montesquez.” The second read “Member No. 4446 N. Y. Entertainer’s Union.” While the third led off with a date which was just about, so the Sheriff calculated, six months back of today and was followed by the words “to date.”
He turned it over.
It had been endorsed on the back—in green ink—with the name Ramon de Montesquez; but what was of interest to the Sheriff was the fact that the endorsement had been overtopped quite definitely, on the lower part, by a rubber stamp endorsement reading
HI-HAT CLUB
New York, N. Y.
[For deposit only]
The Sheriff fastened his eye dubiously on the Mexican.
“Well, while this is payable to a Mex,” he pointed out, “and yo’re a Mex, it still—but wait!—”
And fumbling in the pocket of his hickory shirt he found the stub of a pencil he now remembered to have put there before leaving Shelby’s Bluff that morning. He held them forth without rising.
“Endorse that thar check, Montesquez-Lopez! Onderneath the other one.”
The Mexican, rising, literally grabbed them. And kneeling on the damp earth in back of the flat boulder where he had been sitting, laid out the check and hastily wrote something underneath the endorsement.
Then rising again, he approached the Sheriff and tendered them.
The Sheriff examined the check.
He had, in his life, made a study of handwriting. For possible use in his vocation. But it needed no handwriting knowledge to see that the newly made pencil signature was identical, in every stroke, with the one in green ink above.
And the Sheriff heaved a gargantuan sigh of relief.
Two men who were not Al Hart had been, in but a few minutes, beautifully and completely eliminated. In the elimination, they had, to be sure, been self-proven to be men under charges—or at least suspicion—of some sort. But the crimes of which they were under charge—or suspicion—were, the Sheriff had to admit to himself, lily-white compared to some of the deeds he had this day heard broadcasted under the general subject “Al Hart, Bankrobber!” The point was, however, so far as the Sheriff was concerned, that two men had been eliminated.
And all that remained to be done now was to order the third to the nose of the island—and warn him to start praying to the Almighty on High!
CHAPTER XVIII
“START PRAYING, HART”
The Sheriff’s first words, however, as he folded up the new piece of evidence and put it in his pocket with that other proof of identity, were to the Mexican.
“All right, Montesquez. You c’n—no, ne’ mind makin’ a beeline fur them belts yit—one is as big as this ’un I got on me, and ’together is smaller and lighter—the smaller’ll do its work a’right, but the p’int is: the two o’ you will have to draw fur the bigger and newer ’un—take yo’re seat now—this co’te is still in session—and the water ain’t lapping yo’re feet yit!”
With alacrity, the Mexican dropped down again on his rock, as though desiring to speed all court procedures on the island. The Sheriff continued. “As I was jest about to say, Montesquez, I can see now why you were skeered to tell me the real facts about yo’rese’f in the fu’st place. Of co’se, yo’re a danged fool fur runnin’ away from a murder what you didn’t do, sence—”
“Bot—bot I no got thousand dollar what she cost to hire the fam-ous Meester Randygr—”
“—graff,” put in the Sheriff dryly. “So that’s what Randygraff, the famous crim’nal lawyer of New York axes for a fee, is it? Wall, it’s plenty cheap, I guess; fur he don’t hardly never fail to clear ’em when they’re guilty—let alone when they’re innocent.”
He shook his head.
“Wall, I still say as how yo’re a double-danged fool fur runnin’ away from any kind o’ murder charges, sence you can—and will be!—brung back—even from Mexico—onder the extrydition laws now existin’. But, ’side from that, yo’re a triple-danged fool fur runnin’ away from a murder did ’ith a—oh, I ’spose, bein’ a furriner in a strange town, and no friends, and no thousand fur a lawyer like Randygraff, you would have some jestification in beatin’ it—but still, sich a case as a dagger-murder ’d be duck soup fur Randygraff—who, o’ co’se, you hain’t got!—sence a dagger-murder is allus a hotblood murder—and hot-blood murderers don’t never stop to don gloves in them kinds o’ killin’s; and so, whoever done that’un, left his fingerprints on the dagger; and with his on it, and yo’re’s not, it means yo’re on’y blackenin’ yo’rese’f in runnin’ away. Besides, the gal mebbe didn’t even die; in which case, Mr. Randygraff—who you cain’t hire, as it seems!—wouldn’t have nothin’ to defend but a case of assault—and nothin’ to do ’cept to pertect you ’twell th’ flat-check gal got to whar she could talk. Ef’n you skipped out on no ma’ info’mation than the oxcited words o’ two men falutin’ in a backhouse-or whatever kind o’ toilet a nightclub has—you skipped on mighty slender jestification. It’s on people like you, Montesquez—’ceptin’ as that they have the thousand dollars fee!—whose cases contain nothin’ much fur to be did, that the Randygraffs o’ th’ world makes thar money—and makes up fur the really tough cases o’ the guilty people whar real hard work has gotter be did. Why—skippin’ right back, as yo’ air, to the very place yo’ came fr—but why did you come hyar to America fur, anyway?”
“I com’ becoze I lov’ leel gal who liv’ ’bout honderd mile out fram Mex-co Citee—she name Pepita Torreverde—bot her father, he beeg man—he say I no can marry she teel I catch me four thousand U.S.A. pesos—so I come to Amereeca to catch ’em.”
“And to j’ine the brotherhood, I ’spose, o’ Blake & Brister, who hatter have a little mo’n that sum befo’ they kin marry the wimmen they love? Though, come to think of it, sence you need $4000 fur to sweeten the gal’s pappy—and ’bout $1000 fur a Randygraff, ’r a man jest as good, to cl’ar you o’ this mess in New York—you need ’bout the same sum, all in all, that Blake and I need?” The Sheriff shook his head. “ ’I-God—it seem’s though all the men in America what needs $5000 fur to solve their fool love lives, and clear their honor—fur even my honor’s involved in my p’oblem—all these hyar men—bar none!—has to congregate t’day on Bleeker’s Island. But kin be moughty glad—all three of ’em—that they’re going to git their lives—instid a’ the filthy lucrish what they b’en foolishly thinkin’ they wanted most in the world. Yes—sir!” The Sheriff paused. “And so you—” And he gazed helplessly at the Mexican. “—so you came hyar to America—jest like that!—” And he made an airy-fairy motion of his big hand. “—to catch yo’rese’f a few thousand dollars—a’most five, in round numbers? Hell—fire, man—you cain’t jest come into a strange kentry—reach out—and corral yo’rese’f sev’ral thousand dollars. Blake, here cain’t corral the five he needs—so he’s skippin’ to another state. I cain’t do it—or I’d be married to that Hawkins gal, with her red cheeks and her jolly ways, and runnin’ a neat farm ’stid o’ cotching drunks and bad niggers, fur $60 a month. Why—Blake and me—born hyer in America—an’ white men, both o’ us—cain’t cotch oursevves the small five-thousands we need. But you—a danged stranger—’ith a darkish skin—come blith’ly hyar, thinkin’ to do pra’tically what them as is born here cain’t do—yit would give their guts to be able to do. It do beat hell!” And the Sheriff again shook his head helplessly. “Wall, anyway, yo’re cl’ared o’ bein’ the dirty red-handed murderer I thunk you was. And which Hart is. Which is the princ’ple thing, hyar and now.”
And now, his face stern, the Sheriff turned to the shockheaded yellow-haired member of the trio. Who had sat, during this whole episode, with lips tightly compressed.
“Well, Hart,” the Sheriff said curtly, “the showdown’s over! And you kin begin to figger on a prayer. Fur soon’s them belts is distribooted—before, in fact—yo’re going up to the p’int of the island. And stay there ’twell yo’re fate overtakes you. And ef yo’re a wise man, Hart, you’ll use yo’re time in making peace with yo’re Maker; fur this is one jam that you cain’t git out of. Yo’re going to—”
“Now wait,” the other came back suddenly. “I’m not Hart. So—”
“Oh, yo’re not, heh?” The Sheriff’s voice was wrathy.
“No, I’m not. Though of course you don’t know that. You’re up against stalled ‘proofs,’ consisting of downright documents, and—”
