The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 18
“Now lissen here! I’ve seed Jedge Holly, up to the County Seat, send men to prison fur years on proofs far less’n what I’ve seed here today. I’ve seed men hanged on far less. They ain’t no greater proof of identity than what I’ve confronted here today. So—however, to cut sho’t yo’re fool argument, have you got any doc’ments that’ll prove yo’re Mr. Montmorency van Harringdale—of Boston?” The Sheriff’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he uttered that name.
“You ought to know I haven’t any such proofs,” the other returned bitterly. “You searched me from A to Izzard when I stepped aboard this island here.”
“All right. Then yo’re the one man here who cain’t prove hisse’f to be in the clear. So—”
“But wait! Wait! It may be possible to prove that Hart’s not on this island at all. In which case—”
“Now that’s ’nough! Yo’re trying now to postylate the poss’bility of that Rat feller identifyin’ you t’day as Hart—by mistake. Which is ‘out’! Fur I never seed a face nowhar near like yo’res in my life—and nobody else never did, nuther. ’Sides, we know that Hart’s b’en livin’ in that woman’s attic in th’ Bluff, and cal’clated to come hyar. Her—brother!” And the Sheriff snorted. “ ’Sides, they was a signal give—oh yes—yes—I know yo’ll claim that that Rat made that up—but the p’int remains that—oh,” the Sheriff broke off; in sheer disgust, “we threshed all this out a’ready today; and in the face of ever’thing meshin’ together like a mo—mo—mosaic, it cain’t no more be proved that Hart ain’t on this island than it kin be proved that the moon is made of green chee—however, what is the way?” The least that could be said for the Sheriff was that he had an ever-curious mind.
“As—as follows: though it all hinges on the diamond-studded butterfly pin. Rather, that is, on whether you’ve retrieved it yet for the McCorniss Estate. If you have, then my suggestion is of no use. But, if you haven’t, let us all tilt back the vault lid, and remove the loose cover of that paperoid coffin he’s in; and if, by some chance, the pin isn’t there on McCorniss’ body, then that means that Hart got to this island in the night—got the pin—and so can’t be here—and therefore—”
The Sheriff raised a hand wearily. “To settle that argiment, I’ll so much as say that I ain’t retrieved the diamont pin—yit know it hain’t b’en retrieved by nobody else—includin’ this particler Mis-ter Hart who came hyar in the night! Fur ’twas you—bearin’ down on this island this mo’nin’ in that rowboat of yo’rn—that put a temp’ry end—at least in a manner o’ speaking—to my retrievin’ that pin off’n Philaster McCo’niss. Th’ loose lid o’ whose pap’roid coffin-box I’d even a’ready slid off, as you bore in sight. But, as I said, you put a end to my retrievin’ the pin. Fur ’ithout even replacin’ the kivver, I promp’ly drawed down the nicely balanced lid o’ that vault—and waited fur you instid. And all of which you couldn’t see, ’caze, rowin’ a boat, yo’re back ’uz to this island—at least outside o’ sho’tly later when you kept yo’re face p’inted over yo’re shoulder so’s to make a landin’. P’int is, that before I did draw down the stone lid on that pore man, sleepin’ his last sleep in that paper box like a marble imige, I’d moved his cold heavy hands off his heart, a bit, and felt—through his one gyarment—the outlines o’ that butt’fly pin. So Mis-ter Hart ain’t b’en hyar, and in that vault, befo’ me, I’m glad to say! Though atter I do retrieve that pin—atter distribootin’ the two remainin’ life belts—and atter I leave hyar myse’f in the belt that’s on me—Mis-ter Hart kin go in the vault all he wishes!”
“He—he’ll not likely be wanting to,” said the other hurriedly. “But see here, he may have come here in the night—substituted a piece of butterfly-shaped tin under the garment—and then departed. With the result that he’s not on the is—”
“Tha’ll do! When it comes to comin’ out hyar in the night, they ain’t no man kin reach this island at night ’thout no moon; or in daytime—with fog; and when it comes to buckin’ both o’ them things, they ain’t no man livin’ could find this is—”
“But—but how do you know? Hart’s a master criminal, from all we heard. A man desperate enough to take extreme chances—and extreme chances sometimes win out. A man who, if it only involved cutting a butterfly out of an old tin can with a pair of scissors, to make a country Sheriff, who might be checking up on things, think that—”
“And that’ll do too,” said the Sheriff wearily. Realizing vividly, at this moment, something he had only hitherto in his life dimly scented: that desperately prolonged arguments were best settled by complete statements of facts, rather than by partial ones. And so now rendered one containing the inescapable fact that his own eyes had viewed that jeweled butterfly pin on Bleeker’s Island.
“I don’t hanker,” he said, in the direction of the man at his right elbow, “to mix truck with a man like you; but, to stop all yo’re smooth and un-endin’ argiments, I’ll so much as tell you that when you—Mister Hart-van Harringdale!—bore down hyar, I’d a’ready unkivvered the diamont pin that you’d come fur—and onkivvered it lays right now, on Philaster McCo’niss’ breast, waitin’ o’ny to be onpinned at most. And which it’ll be, the minute this co’te is adjo’rned—though by me—and not you! And which fact, I’d say, ruther demolishes and ends all them slipp’ry argiments yo’ve b’en ladelin’ out solely to delay yo’re rightful fate. And which in tu’n fetches us right back to whar we wuz: that yo’re the one man on this island who cain’t prove hisse’f to be who he says he is—or anybody else, fur that matter!—and sence yo’re plainly thutty years old—and Hart’s thutty years old—and Hart’s hyar on this island—why—”
And the Sheriff did not even bother to complete his obvious syllogism. Until, at least, he presented it in a somewhat different way.
“—why, any jedge who was o’ny a danged halfwit would hatter deem you to be Actor Hart, and give you th’ zero end o’ them life belts. And I—who figger I got three-quarters of a man’s right wits anyway—deem you the same—and give you the same. And so git up now, fram whar you air, and git up thar on the island’s p’int. And,” the Sheriff added, feeling somehow that with such a verdict certain words were somehow morally and legally necessary: “—may God ha’ mercy on yo’re soul!”
CHAPTER XIX
AMERICA’S HERO
Izzy Wilnatsch, President of Goldmeyer-Metric-Super Films, knocked very gingerly on the dressing-room door of America’s Screen Hero No. 1, Clarke Taylor. Though president of a $25,000,000 corporation, Izzy Wilnatsch rubbed his shiny bald head nervously, and plucked uneasily at his quaint imported Bond Street woolen plus-fours which—the plus-fours part anyway—all male Hollywood essayed. For Izzy Wilnatsch, one of the great men of America, was now about to have a fleeting moment with—should the other so permit it—America’s Greatest Man!
The door opened ever so slightly, and a gray-sideburned man in swallowtail coat—the great Clarke Taylor’s dressing-room Cerberus and general factotum—peered freezingly out.
“I voot like to speak to Cl—hrmph—Mr. Taylor,” begged Izzy nervously.
“I will see,” proclaimed the other with extreme dignity, “whether Mr. Taylor can see Mr. Wilnatsch.” And the door closed firmly against Izzy Wilnatsch.
Izzy felt a bit aggrieved. Here he was paying this man Taylor one of the fattest salaries in America, yet being forced to stand outside the other’s dressing-room like a poodle-dog. It was downright unfair. For two cents he’d cancel Clarke Taylor’s contract, at the end of this picture, as permitted G.M.S. under their options, and would—but here Izzy ceased indulging in utter nonsense. For Izzy was making money on Clarke Taylor; the fellow, quite aside from his status as a member of the acting profession, had something in that face of his which got the women; he was the best asset that Goldmeyer-Metric-Super ever had; he—
The door of the dressing-room again opened.
“Mr. Taylor will see you, Mr. Wilnatsch, for 5 minutes only.”
Izzy Wilnatsch hastened to save his ego.
“Four minutes,” he said gruffly, “is all I want.”
And passed grumpily in.
The Great Clarke Taylor sat, to the left side of the room, and entirely out of line with the opening edge of that door, at a make-up table, ringed about just now with brilliant electric bulbs. A make-up expert stood by, with a whipped look on his face as though he had just had the verbal lashing of all lashings, and a stick of lip intensifier in his hand, for Clarke Taylor was today not using any special make-up other than to accentuate his own natural qualities which made women rave and men curse. For he was the typical matinee idol of the 90’s—raised to the n2 power—quite and utterly indeterminate as to age, so that flapper or maiden spinster could easily visualize him as her mate—his black hair crinkly at the temples—his eyes shaded by those unusually long lashes that never had to be artificially lengthened. He was smoking a jeweled cigarette holder fully one foot long, and containing a Russian cigarette, for Izzy, who had come to this country years ago from Russia as a penniless emigrant boy, knew well the smell of the smoke of those cigarettes used by those who had clouted him and his father with lead-encased knouts.
“Ah dere, Clarke,” he said jovially. “I chust sdopped in a second to tell you soch goot news!”
Languidly the great actor took from his lips his jeweled cigarette holder. “Make it snappy then,” he ordered.
Izzy winced—with dignity.
“I’ll efen make it sneppier,” he declared, again saving his ego. “Unt here iss—by a nudshell: Clarke, no less dan Risdon Rudell, der gread blaywright—unt der greadest sgreen-sdory wrider in all Ameryca—unt eff’ry vun of whose scripts hass been as much uf a vinner as his blays haf been successful—has come out of a year’s gomplete inactivity unt consented to do a script apout you—unt for you alone. ’Dough he mages it a condition that unless you blay in it—iss all off!”
“I don’t doubt that!” said America’s greatest screen attraction. “Since I’m the only screen actor in the world who can insure the script not laying a box-office egg! Rudell, after having done a Gene Tunney, can’t afford to have chalked against him as his last work a ‘phht.’ ” And the great man made a queer derisive sound with his lips to attain that “phht.”
“But, Clarke,” expostulated Izzy, “dot Rudell takes adwantage uf dot clause in your condract vot sais dot you can turn t’umbs down on any screen story, issn’t chust brodecting by him but iss gompliment to you. I vish somebody gompliment me by saying he gif me a piece of his cheenius—but dot eef I von’t blay in it, everyding iss all off.”
“Maybe somebody will someday,” said the great actor wryly. “But just what has stimulated this world’s greatest hibernator who, because of a few paltry millions or so salted away from his successes, doesn’t have to write scripts, and so—well, what stimulated him to do a script about—and for—the great Clarke Taylor?”
“He vass sdimulated,” explained Izzy, “by dot radio newsstory vot broke chust a leedle teeny vile ago apout dot—vell, vass diss vay: Rudell, he voss sidding in mein private office vaiting for me, to sdraighten aud a little matter uf his royalties on der re-run, in der 5-cent houses, uf dot old screen play uf his—Der Ghost Comes Home—unt—but dot’s got notting to do vit diss. Point iss, he vass vaiting for me—unt Rudell, it seems, he alvays tunes in each day on some feller in New York named Topkins—”
“Yes, I know who he is. He’s some news-beat announcer. Once or twice I’ve come in on his stuff. All right. So Rudell, at the witching moment—Los Angeles time!—that his Topkins was due to come on, reached up to that solid gold and mother-of-pearl inlaid radio above your desk, and tuned in on Topkins—and—so what?”
“Vell, vait dill you get diss all clear. Vile Rudell vass doing chust vot you chust sait, me, I—” And Izzy beamed “—I vass in Goldmeyer’s office at same time—mit feet on desk—lisdening in on der same proadcast. Ain’d Life strange?”
“The people in it are stranger,” said the great man cryptically. “But go on.”
“Yes. Vell, you unt me vass discossing vot sdimulated Rudell today—unt I drying to show you, Clarke, vat diss newssdory vass vich bote him—unt me—vass listening to by her same dime. All—right. Vell, as Goldmeyer often says to me—”
“Pull yourself down to earth, will you?” the great actor demanded curtly. “What was the story about, that it stimulated the great Rudell, master hibernator, to der think to do—a script?”
“Vell, diss sdory, Clarke, vass apout dot colorful crim’nal—now as deat as a doornail, unt so can’t pring no suits for libel!—an’vay vass, as I sait, apout dot crim’nal Al Hart—”
“And who, might I beg to ask, is Alart?”
“Der name,” explained Izzy patiently, “iss Al Hart—H—A—R—T—who iss known as Acdor Hart—”
“Actor Hart? That sounds interesting. From Hollywood here—or from Broadway?”
“Ach Gott, Clarke—neider. He ain’d a reg’lar acdor—dot’s chust his alias, see?—pecause he blays so many parts. He’s a bankropper—unt murterer—unt der ain’t nodding vot he ain’t. Anyvay, he popped up today, after being missink from some pen, on a island in Big River, back two dousand miles east of us, but got drownt.”
“Drowned, eh? Well I saw one ‘drowned man’ once pop up in court with a $100,000 libel suit against you!”
“But diss man vass drownt,” pointed out Izzy, with great satisfaction, “so def’nitely, dot he cootn’t pring no lipel suits iff a dousand sdories—all dam’ lies—vase now wrote apout his life.”
“ ‘Def’nitely drowned’ then,” the great man corrected himself. And blew a ring of smoke. “And an actor—of sorts! Well, that’s a beneficent Nature, I must say—releasing us histrions from further competition. Now, indeed, we can all breathe easier—all of us.”
“Now, now, Clarke,” chided Izzy, “don’t be sarcastical. Der point iss dot der golorful hisdory of diss man—chust such as come ofer der radio only—raised someding in der soul of Risdon Rudell. Unt he at vunce tore oud, mid pencil, a plot vich, five minutes later or so ven I come in mein office—he hanted to me. Vit conditions, howefer! Unt dot plot, Clarke, dough it contains only two hun’ert unt fifty vorts, iss goot, ven defeloped by der scenario debartment, for a beeg super-length hour-unt-a-haluf film.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’ve always claimed that the real test of a possible successful film feature is that it can be set forth in 200 words!”
“Iss right! Vell, now I show dot plot to you—for I dismissed Rudell, afder bostponing der otter matter vot he come to see me apout, unt come straight here, mitt der plot, to Sdage 7, so dot—” And Izzy started to fumble in his breast pocket.
But the other stayed the search. “Never mind. I don’t care to see it.”
“No?” Izzy arrested his hand. “Vell, maype you vill ven I say iss a pippin—so far as iss.”
“I doubt that not. Rudell, though he’s not 100 per cent sure of himself—like many geniuses of types somewhat different from myself—is sure-shot on anything he ever does.”
“I’m glad you concede dot,” averred Izzy Wilnatsch. “Since you are in der sdory.”
“So I gathered I was to be. Though—what was I to play? Hard Al—or Al Hard, as I think you put it?”
“For der dousand’ time,” Izzy said plaintively, “der name iss Hart—ending in T—nod Hard. Not dot he ain’d blenty hard!”
“Well, I suppose I’m not lined up to play him, for—”
“Gott—no, Clarke! You vill blay a chee-man—”
Clarke Taylor winced visibly. He always did when Izzy Wilnatsch spoke of a G-man in the Izzian pronunciation.
“A chee-man,” went on Izzy, “who runs diss willain finally to eart’. Der title—let me say first, Clarke—will be Troupers Two. Announcink, thus, der t’eme, vich is der diff’rence in der lifes unt destinies uf two leedle poys—each von der son uf an acdor unt an acdress—but not der same acdor unt acdress, no, because de leedle poys are not prutters—anyvay, bot leedle poys vass prought up in a dravelingk deadrical droupe—but same droupe. Dot’s vere der cheenius uf Rudell comes in: he dakes der real unt true life-sdory uf dis Al Hart—who vass born on a prop trunk—unt vass brought up in a deadrical droupe—unt he veaves in mitt it der ficdidious sdory vot gifs der—der—der—”
“Yes—dramatic contrast. That’s one of the secrets of Rudell’s invariable hitting of the bull’s-eye. But go on—what?”
“Vell, der sdory hass der dwo leedle poys, see? In der vandering droupe. Soch like Al Hart himseluf really growed up in. Vun leedle poy alvays blays all der peautiful parts, like—”
“Eva, going to heaven in a wig and filmy skirts?”
“Yes—unt dot leedle poy durns out to be der bad man! Vile der leedle poy vot blays all der naughty parts, like Topsy, unt—unt Peck’s Bad Boy, unt—unt Huck Finn—vell, he durns aud to be der chee-man, rep’sentive of Law unt Orter. Unt—to cut a sdory short—on Bleeker’s Islant, in a great floot—unt Gott vot a floot, Clarke, ve vill make!—’twill be der greadest floot in all hisdory!—vill show real houses goink past—mid men glinging to der rooftops, unt vimmen screamink—maybe ve even show a couple of dams pusting eef our hydraulic enchineers can feegur out how to condrol a big mess uf San Francisco tank vater!—anyway, der chee-man meets face to face, mitt hees leedle friend of drouper days, after all der years, on dees islant. Vere Hart iss come for some skolldoggery—uf moch bigger nature dan der piddling business vot really put him today on dot islant. Unt, sorry dot Al vass sdarded wrong by all dose sveet child barts, der chee-man changes clothes mitt him—becomes der hunted outlaw—to go down unter a Sheriff’s bullet—unt lets der willain escape as himseluf—unt sdard life anew in Australia. Gott, Clarke, iss a great part, I dell you. Mid hooman sacrifice unt all dot. Unt der fact dot iss Rudell’s first script since he wirtually retired means publicity all ofer der vorld. Apout you, ve’ll built up a huge colorful fictious sdory—for der vass, in Hart’s troupe, no leedle boy vot blayed such parts; unt about Hart, der real character, ve dig up, mid our histerical department, his endire life from der prop trunk to Bleeker’s Islant—fusing some of der elements—unt incorborating everydink—daking all adwantage uf der publicty dot vill now sprink up today apout him. So, dit I or ditn’t I pring you goot news today?”
