The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 20
The man in the yellow derby flat had again winced a bit visibly, as though a blow had struck him, when the Sheriff had referred to the latter’s own half-brother living in Chicago, but came back gamely: “Yes—yes, I do. Though—though I want to say that I’m not a Chicagoan myself, and don’t know everything about that city, and—”
“And that was a good kyard too,” commented the Sheriff. “Fact is, you don’t know a danged real thing about the city at all—fur you got ever’thing you got on it from maps, and guidebooks, and a perplex on the subjec’, and prob’bly whilst laying in some jail in some state under another name. Fur even that broadcaster feller didn’t know yo’re whole crim’nal hist’ry. And the verdict of this settin’ jedge here and now is that yo’re to get on up to the p’int of the island, and that Blake is to lay out his miniature kyards for a kyard-cutting fur the best of them two belts, and Montesquez here is to fetch down both bel—”
“Wait!” said the other. Desperation was in his tones. “Wait! You can’t drown a man without listening to him. I’ll pit my facts—against any unknown details you may have that are connected with the town of Chicago. Though if my facts don’t cross your details—and you can’t, therefore, confirm or contradict my facts—don’t mark that up against me. I’ll pit my facts, I tell you, against all we all heard today concerning pathological lying—though if I put what you call ‘color’ in them—the color of old Chicago—it’s not my fault. It’s—it’s just Chicago, that’s all! All I ask, Sheriff—” And his voice rose “—is that neither of those two men be allowed to cast any verdict about what I have to say—or to influence you—for one of them is AI Hart—and he’ll—he’ll want me to drown like the rat he is himself. I’m pitting my facts, moreover, Sheriff—with not a locket, nor watch, nor papers, nor ring, nor anything whatsoever, to prove ’em—against your sheer common sense—and yours only. And you must listen. You must!” And the note of desperation in the speaker’s voice was, palpably, either hyper-intense or downright artificial. Though which, no man could have told!
“Yo’re all the actor,” said the Sheriff sadly, “that they claim you to be! As well as poker player. And I’m danged ef—”
“All right. Poker player, am I? All right, I’ll play some poker—here and now. True, I wouldn’t play poker awhile back—because I thought you wanted that fellow Blake there to just lay out three hands face up—small hand to lose out on the life belts. And I didn’t see fit to risk my life on five cards—with not any play or—or anything. But now you’re shoving everything right down my throat. So—all right, we’re playing stud now. 1 card down! And I’m turning up my down-card. And here it is: If Al Hart pops up eventually—as he will if you let those two men get away from here—then the other man you’ve freed with him will tell the whole world how you left me to drown; it’ll be a national newspaper story; and you’ll go down as—”
“That’ll do,” said the Sheriff quickly. “You kin proceed. I’ll give you 15 minutes—and nary a goddanged minute longer. I’ll—” He pulled out his great turnip of a silver watch. Its hands stood at 1 minute to 2. “It’s now 1:59—fur this is Big River Valley, don’t ferget, and not the Eclaw Club in New Yo’k. And I’ll give you ’twell 2:15—and nary one second later. Mark that well! Fo’ it’s ’proximately fo’teen minutes mo’ than I had oughter be settin’ on a hard flat boulder a’listenin’ to some ridic—” But at his own self-suggestion of the boulder, on which he sat, being hard, the Sheriff unloosed, with a hasty motion, the single string holding that soft cork-encased life belt around his midriff, and rising a half dozen inches thrust the life belt under him, which same felt grateful to his anatomy—though he knew that in 15 minutes the blocks of cork in it would feel more painful than the original smooth flat boulder; but now, elevated a half-dozen inches or so, as perhaps a judge of a court should be, the Sheriff was able to sit with more comfort, planting the fronts of his big shoes over the edge of the island-marking stone, his heels against the stone, and clasping his big hands around his knees. And while he had been doing all this, he had been continuing with his warnings. “And ef,” he had been saying, “at any p’int ahead o’ that 15 minutes yo’re story sounds to me in any degree like one o’ them pathical lies—yo’re time is up!—and the co’te’s closed. And ef at any time even ahead o’ that p’int which’ll arrive quick enough, I de’ssay—you spout one danged fact that goes counter to any leetle detail I know ’bout Chy-cago from my half-brother’s letters, yo’re time, ag’in, is up. And the co’te’ll be closed. And last but not least, ef at any time at all that yo’re ro-mancing—fur that’s all it’ll be—the water starts to sizzle right plumb up on land here, meanin’ that the advance wave from the busting o’ that dam is hyar, and meaning also that these two boys who have proved theirse’ves have got to begin tying on their belts, and that I got to git, with mine, over yander and tilt off that vault lid an’ on’pin’ that pin, co’te is again immedi’tely closed—in that case, by God hisse’f, as Chief Bailiff. Which latter injonction may he’p you to make yo’re words snappy—ef not mo’ so. And so—with all the foregoing in mind—pro-ceed.”
“I—I will—yes.”
And with a troubled glance at the grumbling water sweeping past the island in back of the Sheriff, the man in the rustic costume did proceed. Proceeded to set forth a series of swift and curious incidents which, under the unusual circumstances of their setting forth, must perforce convince their judicial hearer as to their own actuality without recourse to deed or document, telephone call or telegraph message—and which, did they even succeed in doing thus, could still only mean but one of two different things: either that a master liar, a master actor, and a master poker-player had this day exerted all his talents and successfully “checked the biggest bet” in his whole career—a bet of life and death; or else that certain proofs of identity offered this day were somehow and someway false, and that Al Hart, definitely and unquestionably on this little island, had not at all yet been identified.
A truly ticklish problem for the teller, were he—whoever he was to claim himself to be! or were he—“Actor” Hart himself!
Yet a far, far more difficult problem for the Sheriff, self-delegated to hear and pass on the incidents—with an incomplete knowledge of their locale.
But, be that as it may, the man in the rustic habiliments—with, perhaps, a due appreciation of the fact that 15 minutes were only 900 seconds after all!—immediately began his tale—a tale which almost in its opening words was to contain the undoubted distinctive color of a great city which was new as well as old—old as well as new—a city in which—
Indeed, even as he began, the words of that world-traveler who had, but an hour or so before, spoken authoritatively in the Eclat Club, New York, came back—if not to the two men who had just offered so-called “proofs” of their own identities, and who now sat with slightly uneasy looks on both their faces—to the Sheriff’s own mind:
“—a $2 taxicab ride in which—in any direction—proves it to be myriad-eyed—myriad-sided—myriad-tuned—a veritable London-of-the-West!”
A tale which, however, at its very inception, was literally and boldly to fling a gauntlet squarely into the face of every man who heard it, for it purported to establish—at least in the manner and order in which its presumed “facts” were set forth—that the real name of its teller, clad in costume and accouterments of country hick, was—of all possible names in the Universe!—
CHAPTER XXII
HEIR—TO WHAT?
—Abner Ezra Hick paid off the yellow taxicab from which he had just dismounted, and gazed upward, through the darkness, at the Gargantuan office building that threatened to leap upon him—or at least, if not upon him, then clear over him into the Chicago River which lay back of him by exactly the width of North Bank Drive and its esplanade. Hundreds of windows in the huge building were lighted, despite the hour. And which, by a clock above the main doors, was 8:30 o’clock. So this, Abner reflected, was the giant honeycomb from one tiny cell of which would come, in a minute or two, the official information as to whether he had just inherited one hundred dollars—or one thousand! Or, so far as that went, even much, much less than a hundred—or even much, much more than a thousand! Which window, he wondered, marked that cell?
But as he strode across the sidewalk toward the doorway, the figure of a grizzled old man, with wide-brimmed soiled grey hat, and homespun shirt minus tie, and face weather-beaten by countless suns and winds, detached itself from one of the huge columns at the side of the door and advanced toward Abner.
“Yo’ve jest been gazin’ at—and are now about to enter,” he began, didactically, “th’ largest office buildin’ in the hull wu’ld: th’ Merchandise Mart! And at the same time yo’re lookin’ at the best goddanged guide they is in all Chy-cago. Kin I he’p yo’, stranger, to see this hyar town?”
Abner gazed at him. “Guide? But you’re no Chicagoan, I take it? You must—”
“Hell-fire, no, stranger! I’m f’um down Big River way—not fur f’m Memphis. That thar deestrict whar they be havin’ floods—of a so’t. Though them thar floods won’t prob’ly be nothin’ like the ones I’ve knowed—becaze o’ this hyar newfangled flood control. But I b’en hyar in this man’s town now fur 10 long y’ars—mebbe yo’ wouldn’t b’leeve it f’m the way I talk—but we’uns from aroun’ Big River talks jest allus so—and we cain’t never change our talk no mo’n kin anybody evah im’tate us.” He paused. “I come hyar w’en I was younger’n I be now, to ack as armed guard on one o’ them Brings Armored Money Transportin’ cars—and so I know this hyar town from Izzard to A! And ’sides, though I’m too old to work thataway now, I still got my license to tote a wicked shootin’ iron on my pu’sson—which same I’ll do ef’n yo’ hire me to take yo’ ’round Chy-cago.”
Abner smiled. Being from a small town he liked the strange-speaking old man.
“Well, friend,” he said, “I’m on my way upstairs now to collect an inheritance. Which might be 1 cent—might be a hundred dollars—or might be a thousand—so far as I’d know now. And so my use of guides will all depend—on circumstances. What and where could you take me to, anyway?”
The old man cackled superiorly. “Whar couldn’t I take yo’, heh? I kin take you an’whar that the size of yo’ inhairtence dictates. Ef’n yo’ onlp inhairits two bits—ah’ll take yo’ ’round fo’ nothin’—danged if I won’t!—an’ we’ll use the two bits fo’ carfare. Ef yo’ inharit a hund’ed dollars, an’ mebbe want wimmen—well, I kin take yo’ all right to whar wimmen is at! Fine-lookin’ wimmen, too! Ef it’s a thousand yo’ mebbe inhairt—an’ mought want a lettle gamblin’—I kin take yo,’ raht plumb in th’ Loop, an’ no mo’n half block f’m th’ State S’reet subway, whar a leetle ball rolls in a big roulette wheel. Or, ef it’s bubbly water—or strange drinks—you’d be wantin’, I kin take you to a place whar all the rare imported likkers of the world air on tap—but not a danged drap o’ domestic stuff! Or, ag’in, ef’n you don’t drink nothin’ stronger than tea—I kin take you to a brand-new place in Chycago whar nothin’ but tea is sarved—and nothin’ else—no fooling, stranger!—it’s the Circus Tent Café—and you ain’t seed nothin’ like it in yo’re whole life—fur it’s in a big stripet circus tent on West Lake Street—’ith canvas booths—and it’s got 12—count ’em—psychics o’ ev’ry kind, from—from a brilliant’y colored gypsy to even a old Afr’can witch—though, ’tween you an’ me, I think they’re all jest spoorious—actors like, see?—an’way, they’re thar to read yo’re tea leaves fur you—and to read ’em ’codin’ to 12 diff’ent systems ef’n you ain’t sotisfied ’ith one. And, to continoo on, ef’n by some chanct yo’ inhairts a hund’ed thousand dollars—and so has to be respect’ble!—and ’sides, don’t hatter have no tea leaves read fur a fortune, ’kaze you a’ready got the fortune!—” He cackled. “—I kin take you to whar ever’ park an’ museum is at. That’s what I kin do. So name yo’re pizen?”
“My ‘pizen’ would be, I might say in advance,” declared Abner Hick, “this Circus Tent Café. Because I like circuses—I like tea—and I like to be amus—though here—here!—I haven’t even connected up yet with that inheritance.”
“So you ain’t—fur a fact. Wall now, Stranger, yo’ve heered whar I kin take you. And now I’m going home, ’caze thar ain’t goin’ to be no mo’ prospecks around hyar t’night—but home, fo’ me, happens to be that thar dis-a-used tool shed up yander—see it?—whar th’ Elyvated Road crosses both this street an’ No’th Wells?—y’ see, we’uns f’m down Big River way is self-reliant folkses, an’ we don’t take no relief or ol’ age pensions long’s somebody, like th’ Elyvated Road’s night watchman ’round hyar, gin’s us a tool shed to sleep in—or as long’s we kin a’rn our living—guidin’—or what have ye! So, ef yo’re inhairtance is an’thing f’m two bits to a hund’ed thousand dollars—jest ask yo’re cabman, as he’s ’bout to crost th’ bridge, to knock at that tool-shed door—an’ I’ll be with ye. Good night!”
“Good night, old-timer,” said Abner with a smile. “We can only see—what we shall see!”
And he went inside.
He might as well have been entering one of the great trail-less, uncut virgin forests that dotted the part of Michigan whence he’d just come, as this maze of modern civilization. Consisting, apparently, of corridors—cross-corridors—drugstores with show windows fronting inside, and filled with neon lights—banks of elevators—information desks; most, however, untenanted at this hour—booths selling railway tickets and air transportation—more information counters—turnstile entrances to upstairs rapid transit stations—white marble stairways going down—white marble stairways going units to cab exits to side streets—exits to rear streets—entrances to soft-drink shops—to grills—to taverns—more elevators—more corridors—
But at last, by dint of asking not less than 4 times, and each time being maneuvered closer to his goal, he stood in front of that goal: a door on whose panel were the letters:
Roswell Gray
Attorney-at-Law
Abner opened the door and stepped inside. An empty anteroom richly carpeted with plum-colored carpet and fringed, along the walls, with law books, greeted him. No stenographer sat at the lone stenographer’s desk. But through an open door, leading to a room beyond, Abner caught a glimpse of a man moving about—a man in a gray suit. Through a mirror or something, the latter must have caught a glimpse of Abner’s door-opening, for a kindly voice boomed out:
“Right in this way—to the sanctum sanctorum!”
Abner crossed the moat provided by the deserted anteroom, and entered that larger room. A room, high-ceilinged and generous in all directions, and which looked out via capacious windows—as Abner saw immediately—over that drive where he had just dismounted, and upon the river itself, for Abner could see the red and green lanterns that were attached to a vessel or something moored on the opposite dock—and the moving, spark-illumined smoke from a low tug going up river. The room itself, lighted by a brilliant overhung fixture, was furnished with gray monotone rug and had, like the outer one, one entire wall filled with one complete set of books all bound identically; its lone occupant, a man of about 53, was not only clad in gray, with gray tie, but was gray of hair—and thus, with rug, completed the very thesis set forth by his name!
He advanced toward Abner, hand outstretched.
“I don’t need to ask,” he said genially, “who you are. You’re Abner Hick?”
“Yes,” Abner admitted, “but how—these duds I’m wearing? If so, it might interest you, Mr. Gray, to know that they were all made in New York sweatshops. So—”
The lawyer raised his brows surprised. “In New York swea—however, Hick, I knew you conclusively by the bright yellow color of your hair. Your Uncle Barnwell once told me that the particular sister of his who settled up in Michigan was the original platinum blonde—antedating even the famous—though now deceased—Jean Harlow. And only from such a person, I figure, could such hair as you’ve got be inherited.”
“Yes,” Abner acquiesced. “And that hair happens to be in bad need of cutting! And was, even several weeks ago—when I left Bad Axe to go to Canada. But our one and only village barber was laid up with one illness when I left—with another when I returned—and so—”
“Well,” laughed the lawyer, “we have some 6000 barber shops here in Chicago. So your troubles, in that respect, will be over, I fancy. Well—well—so the 10th of the 10 nieces and nephews of Barnwell Cobb is now visiting my office?”
“Yes,” Abner admitted. “Though sorry I came so late. The train from Bad Axe, however—which should have been in at 7 was more than an hour and a half late. But remembering, just the same, from your letterhead, that you maintain evening hours from 7:30 to 9:30 twice a week—and that this was one of the two nights!—I just came on to the office here anyway—on the tail end of your day.”
“And glad you did,” the other assured him. “And glad, also, your train wasn’t still later. For I leave for Washington tonight—and won’t be back for 3 days. In fact—” Gray glanced at a gold clock on one wall. And Abner, glancing too at the clock, saw, atop a little table beneath it, a half-open traveling bag into which a shirt had been stuffed, as well as some briefs and a couple of law books. “—in fact, I leave in two hours.”
