The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 8
“Three life belts,” corrected the Sheriff grimly. “Not a flock. Jest three! And the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff holding title to ’em with a .38! But pull yo’rese’ves together; the Sheriff ain’t going to deny you men the rights to belts. Except—except—”
“Except,” said the rustic costumed man wildly, “the man who gets no belt—will be drowned like a rat in a trap—once that dam—”
“Right!” said the Sheriff curtly. “And which man ain’t gonna be the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff. For two reasons. Fu’st: I’m armed—and ready to shoot any one of you down like a dog if he even starts for one of those belts. And two: I had business on this island, while you three, goddang it to hell, you three air all trespassers. So one of you three trespassers—one of you three—and that’s ’atween the three o’ you, too—will hatter stand the gaff. In sho’t—stay behind—when those waters come. Ain’t no other way—an’ that’s final!”
The lineman gazed helplessly at the other two men.
“Well,” he said, bitterly, “the Law has spoken. It gets its—one belt!—because it is the Law! While we three—who had an absolute right to turn into a safety island—get 2. Two belts—for 3 men. So what do we do? Play poker? If so—I’ve a miniature deck in my hip pocket. Draw straws? If so—let’s draw—before a million tons of water sweep down here and knock us into the middle of next week.”
CHAPTER VII
WHEN THE DIAL WAS SET
“As fur that,” said the Sheriff curtly, “you kin all do—as you like. And turning abruptly, he strolled down to the water’s edge, withdrawing his convenient pocket handmirror as he did so. Morosely he glanced at the water with one eye, but kept the other on the three men, in his handmirror. They continued to stand, however, exactly where they had risen—and in utter crestfallen silence.
Then the Sheriff returned. Pocketing his handmirror as he turned. And sank down on his boulder again.
“Higher,” was all he said. “Whar that thar gravel-like tongue was—is a inlet now. That—that danged old fool—Philaster McCo’niss—was a double-danged idjit to think his island couldn’t never be su’merged. I’m convinced now, by God—where I wasn’t ten minutes ago that, quite aside from the dam cracking up—’twas in the bag that this island was due to at least be kivered with water.”
The lineman only bit his lips. He seemed to be thinking, deeply, intently, furiously.
“Set down—the hull three o’ you,” the Sheriff now ordered gruffly. “They ain’t no use in standing, became they ain’t no place to run to—and we got to dole out them belts—’co’ding to some fair plan.”
Apparently to expedite such distribution—or at least the quick consideration thereof—all three men dropped like plummets to their own rocks.
At which the Sheriff himself rose again, and walked clear over to the vault, where he coolly buckled on one of the life belts. Loosely, however, the upper strap entirely open, so that access to the gun under his left armpit was still as facile.
Then, looking just a bit like Tweedledee—and realizing that he did, for the Sheriff had once read a copy of Alice—he returned to his own boulder.
“We-ell,” he said, to no one in particular, “the one man who—who had valid and legitymate business on this island is set—and fixed! Fur all the dams going down—and the waters going up. And—but I don’t see no kyards brung out yit—fur to hold a poker game fur them other two belts?”
“I—I—I can’t play poker,” quavered the man in the rustic costume. “And—and if I could, these two fellows here might win on the first hands drawn—that is, might—might cheat me.”
And which of the three reasons were his real reasons for aborting a poker game to settle things, could not be ascertained!
All the Mexican said was: “I—I weeling to play—” There was desperation in his voice. “—weeth my sleeves roll all up.”
“But—I’ll—I’ll not play,” said the man in the rustic costume, “I won’t! I—”
“Well, all I can say,” put in the Sheriff meaningfully, “is that yo’all better figger out some way to assign them belts to two o’ you. Becaze that thar dam, as you heerd, is due to go out any minute.”
“No, Sheriff,” the lineman said suddenly. “That can’t be so. Chances are that they really know it’ll be hours yet before it’ll go—of course it’s going, all right, or they wouldn’t broadcast the fact—but the G has got to put the pressure on these slow hillbillies along the river so’s they’ll jerk their belongings and get the hell out of here to high land. Otherwise, they’ll still be here when the dam does go. Yes,” he nodded, almost as though to confirm himself, “it’ll be, in reality, hours yet. They wouldn’t put it the way they did—if ’twas all ready to crack.”
“Yeah?” said the Sheriff. “Well, I don’t think yo’ve proved yo’ p’int. Though I hope you have. But—’spose it really was ready to go?—what then would they have said—on the raddio?”
The Mexican seemed suddenly to grasp the idea back of the argument.
“W’y—w’y,” he burst in, “in soch case they w’ud castbroad on’y the words: Run for your lives! That ees fac’. Dam she no ready go yet for hours!”
Immediately the terrible suspense that pervaded the island seemed to relax.
“It—it may even never go,” said the man in the rustic costume, in an apparent burst of confidence.
“Don’t fool yourself, tow-mop, on that,” said the lineman. “The G isn’t putting its own misdeeds on the air—unless the G is already caught with its pants down. And that dam is one of its misdeeds. Its Republican misdeeds, incidentally.”
“I’m a Republican,” announced the Sheriff coldly. “And I cain’t say as I like yo’re cracks ag’in the party,”
“It’s easy,” sneered the lineman, “for you to sit, and be Jesus the 2nd. With a snug nice life belt on—all ready to sail out to sea—if and when that wall of water does come down. But it’s a diff—”
“Well,” the Sheriff ironically consoled, “ef you three would fix up some way ’atween yo’rese’ves to dole out them two belts—two of you, at least, wouldn’t have to worry no more. Same’s me!” He made an airy-fairy gesture with his sunburned hands.
There was a sullen silence, now, that seemed to betoken that never would these three men be able to agree on any method of drawing or assigning those 2 precious belts.
Then the Mexican broke the silence.
“Bot I say—’twas joos’ 13—14—minootes ago—that we learn impo’tent news-annonzement she gonna come out of Eagle-Lah eat clob—New Yoke City. About us four—spose’ly in boat—going down reever. W’y not we tune in on same—and learn what is annonzement?”
“But what good’ll that do you?” queried the Sheriff. “Ef, I mean, a wall of water starts suddenly climbing up on this island? You’ll—”
“But,” put in the man in the rustic costume, “we might gain a clearer idea of how bad off we really are—if we knew what the story about us is.”
“The story,” said the Sheriff, “appears to be that yo’re all three in a boat with me—going down river! And the only perdicament you’re in is that you ain’t in sich boat. That’s all.”
“Van Harringdale,” expostulated the lineman, “is right! The story may at least give a hint as to where along the river they’re expecting to turn us off—or intercept us—or pull us out. And when the dam does break—”
“When the dam does break,” the Sheriff pointed out, “—ruther, to be exac’, when the full tonnage o’ water released by its breakin’ gits down river here to whar we all are right now—you mebbe won’t have no more than jest time to wrap around yo’re midriff one o’ them belts that prob’ly you’ll have won by dealing aces often the bottom o’ that deck o’ yo’res. Fur I ain’t even going to ref’ree yo’re game, see? All I can say, lineman, is that when that dam breaks—when, that is ag’in, all o’ th’ released waters from its breakin’ gits here—yo’ll be lucky ef’n you can grab out for a belt—and go out with, it. Yo’ll—”
“But see here,” demanded the lineman, “the matter ef our boat supposedly going down river—and where they expect to intercept it—has a lot to do with us. And if you, squatting like a comfortable toad with that lifesaver on, are going to deny us the right to know what chance we got, then we’ll all do the rush act—and see that we do get a chance—”
“If any of yo’all,” proclaimed the Sheriff, “figger to do any rush act to’ds me—or them belts—one o’ you’ll be laying daid. Atter which, they won’t be no more problems about belts!”
“That’s okay with me,” said the lineman. “Better one of us be dead than hamstrung by a stubborn pup like you who’s running the death show. Come on, men! We might as well get a bullet as—”
“Hold it!”
Like lightning the Sheriff had his gun out. His wrist stood firm against his cork-encased life belt.
“Now see hyar,” he said plaintively, “I don’t like fur to kill no man ’caze he’s a fool. As fur this hyar news-story—and the raddio here—I’m on’y thinkin’ of the preogytives of two of you who should right now be determinin’ yo’ own rights to two of them belts. I jest don’t like fer you to be losin’ valyable time—in case mebbe the dam is due to crack up. But—I ain’t no motive nor desire to keep you three fools from setting in a swanky New York lunch club, with a jazz band, and a news announcer, and all that—ef the cold seepin’ into yo’re behinds this very minute from them boulders don’t show you how damn fur yo’ really air from New York. In sho’t, it’s on yo’re own haids; so set down—fur the luvva God—and here’s yo’re story.”
And turning slightly leftward on his rock, he snapped on the radio again—and again swung the dial in the direction to bring, opposite the lighted arrow, the same inked calibration which about a quarter of an hour ago had stood there.
As the two neared juxtaposition, and came into such, the loud blare of a swing band flared forth—so clear, with respect to some of the instruments that were nearest the leader’s microphone, that it seemed the music rose straight out of the earth between the four men. The band was plainly just nearing the end of its rendition. A dance piece, plainly, and, if so—
And all four men waited tensely, to hear the simple story of themselves—putatively on the bosom of Big River in a red police launch—heading supposedly for one place—being looked for, perhaps, at places beyond. And wondering, all of them—if, that is, the Sheriff’s own wonder was any criterion—what there could be about such a simple story that could be of interest to the effete East.
And, within less than a minute, all were to learn. For it was to be brought out by the announcer—the famous Tommy Topkins!—conclusively, and beyond any doubt—that a certain not altogether unknown, though indeed long-missing Actor Hart, consummate and skilled Thespian—master both of disguise and verbal line—age, as given in a United States Government printed circular concerning him, 30 years and 7 months; description—but it was, as has been said, to be conclusively brought out that Actor Hart was amongst these 4 men putatively in that red police boat—and therefore, in actuality, on this island, And because of that broadcast, every man on this island, before the broadcast should come to an end, was destined to gaze suspiciously at every other man whose age was palpably around 30.
For “Actor” Hart—rightful and legal name, Al Hart—was, in addition to being actor supreme, and master of disguise, bankrobber, murderer, and escaped convict; and had, on his head, a price of $22,500!
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE ECLAT CLUB
The music of the band came to a crashing stop. The burst of handclapping that followed showed that Mlle. Fanchon had indeed put on an effective act. And now a typical master-of-ceremony’s voice came on.
“I now give you, ladies and gentlemen of the Eclat Luncheon Club of New York City—and the great audience of Station N-Y-Y-N—Mr. Tommy Topkins—famous Daily-Radio-News-Story-Beat Tommy!—in his much-discussed daily 15-minute radio feature: The Exclusive Radio News-Story Beat of the Day. Mr. Topkins.”
Another burst of handclapping. And a change in the voice. The voice now being that of a younger man—an alert, enthusiastic, breezy young man who loved his work and loved his very existence.
“Good aft—that is, good ten-minutes-to-1 o’clock, New York Time—ladies and gentlemen—and all the listeners on N-Y-Y-N—I’m here again—bless God!—and I bless God because once again He’s laid, right in my humble mitt—and no irreverence meant!—laid in my humble mitt another exclusive dramatic news-story—and, by gosh, in the nick of time, and no more—for my daily stint. Folks, oh folks, oh folks, oh folks—if you only knew what a gink in my position goes through—in order to deliver on time—and daily! If someday they report that I accidentally skidded—en route to the Eclat Club—and went clear into the Hudson River—’twas no accident, my good fran’s. ’Twas just poor Topkins—on a day when absolutely nothing would break—nowhere—nohow. And he just didn’t feel up to giving either of his fam—that is, infamous imitations that he’s now held in reserve for months and months.
“But folks, I won’t have to give either one today—my rank imitation of the Swede who got into the wrong Pullman berth—nor that of the Injun who ate his first erster!—equally as terrible, I assure you—for I got it—I got it!—a news-story that has broken—that is, the concluding developments which make it a complete story—between the very time you’ve sat down to your caviar appetizers and the time T. Topkins, Esquire, stepped nay, staggered—puffed! —to this shining mike.
“And here ’tis, my friends—and you, Billy Corrigan of the Evening Blade—and you, Jim Galloway of the Evening Dispatch—and Massie of the Evening Ledger—and Tom Swagg, of the Evening Bulletin, all listing with your earphones and an open spot in your 1:30 editions—here it is—and let me say that it’s costing me 100 berries—out of the 500 I get, weekly,—and you, you lugs!—you get it for nothing!—except that you get it second-handed—but here ’tis. Dripping fresh—packed in ice and not one of John Q. Public’s myriad eyes has seen it yet. But here ’tis: Al Hart, aged 30 years and 7 months, according to this green-tinted circular in my palpitating hand, and which same was gotten out by our own Department of Justice—Al Hart—alias ‘Actor’ Hart—Far Western bankrobber and escaped California convict—master of disguise and ex-player of a hundred theatrical parts—has been nabbed. Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that exactly—for he’s not nabbed this very minute. No! But he’s in a power launch, with 3 other men—one, the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff—hurtling down Big River. Neither the Sheriff nor Hart’s two companions know who Hart is—and just who Hart’s companions themselves are, is not known at this moment, for thus far only Hart himself and the Sheriff have been definitely and conclusively identified by the one man able to place both on the river. Now the launch, which the Sheriff is trying and expecting to moor at Griffin’s Landing Stage on Big River—if he can make it!—for all of you know that Big River is in a heck of a state this day of our Lord—much too much H2O floating down it towards that ultimate destination of all Midwest American rivers, the Gulf of Mexico—and heap more plenty and how, to roar down the minute that Cooperstown Dam goes, as go it must!—well anyway, this launch is likely to pass Griffin’s Landing Stage entirely, for the fog is said to be so thick on Big River today that the stage itself, even when lighted with such few lights as it has, can’t be seen from 30 feet off, while the town itself—Griffinstown is its name—capable of at least being lighted up—and is lighted up—lies too far off from the landing stage proper for its lights to be of any guidance. If the Sheriff, who is guiding the launch, does overshoot the mark in the fog—then the only next possible landing stage on either side of the river will be Webb City—far, far, far down the river—hours and hours down—where the landing stage is provided with powerful batteries of lights for both fog and night landings and can at least mark its own general location—is doing so right at this moment for the boats of luckless refugees. But regardless of where the Sheriff will effect his landing—Griffin’s Stage—or Webb City—all the armed men necessary are waiting. Waiting—to take into their arms a man who has, on his head, the neat price of $22,500 berries—more than lots of you folks make in a whole week!
“But now, folks, I’ll give you the facts in—as an old tramp, who used to panhandle me near the Times Building, used to say when he wanted to tell me his tale of woe—in ‘chromatic’ order. Or, to such of you folks as has been to Oxford, chronological order—there, I thought I could pronounce that word! And the which giving, in the said chron—well, skip it!—will show pretty well—at least in due course of the giving!—how T. Topkins, Esquire, got ’em—and laid ’em across the line after the manner in which he never fails—in short, the why and wherefore and what of it all.
“And if, folks—folks right here in the club, that is!—I refer now and again to this white card in my left tentacle—pliz understand that T. Topkins, having once been a newspaperman before he got catapulted by Fate onto the raddio!—still has the old predilection for getting the names of everybody—bar none!—in a story—and laying them across the board.
“All right!
“Al Hart, my friends, who has been for some months listed amongst the vanished—though not forgotten—lesser criminals of America—and by gosh, when I consider his unique criminal history, which has been made available to me in the last three-quarters of an hour, I marvel that he hasn’t received the publicity that much lesser men have—anyway, as I started out to say, Al Hart was seen today—at the hour of 9:40 this morning—on no less than Bleeker’s Island—that island about which many of you read in your last night’s papers—yes, where that Midwest retired millionaire insisted on being interred late yesterday. Al Hart was seen in the company of the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff—same town where the millionaire lived—and two other men. Hart’s identity is—was, at least, at that moment—would have to be, moreover, right now—unknown to the Sheriff because, until the hour of 9:40 today, nobody in the world could know that Al Hart was on this island. With the possible exception of one person who at least knew he was going there—a person to all intents and purposes, in custody, since the individual in question is a partial cripple and the said individual’s place of abode—with the said individual in it!—is now under surveillance.
“Except,” said the rustic costumed man wildly, “the man who gets no belt—will be drowned like a rat in a trap—once that dam—”
“Right!” said the Sheriff curtly. “And which man ain’t gonna be the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff. For two reasons. Fu’st: I’m armed—and ready to shoot any one of you down like a dog if he even starts for one of those belts. And two: I had business on this island, while you three, goddang it to hell, you three air all trespassers. So one of you three trespassers—one of you three—and that’s ’atween the three o’ you, too—will hatter stand the gaff. In sho’t—stay behind—when those waters come. Ain’t no other way—an’ that’s final!”
The lineman gazed helplessly at the other two men.
“Well,” he said, bitterly, “the Law has spoken. It gets its—one belt!—because it is the Law! While we three—who had an absolute right to turn into a safety island—get 2. Two belts—for 3 men. So what do we do? Play poker? If so—I’ve a miniature deck in my hip pocket. Draw straws? If so—let’s draw—before a million tons of water sweep down here and knock us into the middle of next week.”
CHAPTER VII
WHEN THE DIAL WAS SET
“As fur that,” said the Sheriff curtly, “you kin all do—as you like. And turning abruptly, he strolled down to the water’s edge, withdrawing his convenient pocket handmirror as he did so. Morosely he glanced at the water with one eye, but kept the other on the three men, in his handmirror. They continued to stand, however, exactly where they had risen—and in utter crestfallen silence.
Then the Sheriff returned. Pocketing his handmirror as he turned. And sank down on his boulder again.
“Higher,” was all he said. “Whar that thar gravel-like tongue was—is a inlet now. That—that danged old fool—Philaster McCo’niss—was a double-danged idjit to think his island couldn’t never be su’merged. I’m convinced now, by God—where I wasn’t ten minutes ago that, quite aside from the dam cracking up—’twas in the bag that this island was due to at least be kivered with water.”
The lineman only bit his lips. He seemed to be thinking, deeply, intently, furiously.
“Set down—the hull three o’ you,” the Sheriff now ordered gruffly. “They ain’t no use in standing, became they ain’t no place to run to—and we got to dole out them belts—’co’ding to some fair plan.”
Apparently to expedite such distribution—or at least the quick consideration thereof—all three men dropped like plummets to their own rocks.
At which the Sheriff himself rose again, and walked clear over to the vault, where he coolly buckled on one of the life belts. Loosely, however, the upper strap entirely open, so that access to the gun under his left armpit was still as facile.
Then, looking just a bit like Tweedledee—and realizing that he did, for the Sheriff had once read a copy of Alice—he returned to his own boulder.
“We-ell,” he said, to no one in particular, “the one man who—who had valid and legitymate business on this island is set—and fixed! Fur all the dams going down—and the waters going up. And—but I don’t see no kyards brung out yit—fur to hold a poker game fur them other two belts?”
“I—I—I can’t play poker,” quavered the man in the rustic costume. “And—and if I could, these two fellows here might win on the first hands drawn—that is, might—might cheat me.”
And which of the three reasons were his real reasons for aborting a poker game to settle things, could not be ascertained!
All the Mexican said was: “I—I weeling to play—” There was desperation in his voice. “—weeth my sleeves roll all up.”
“But—I’ll—I’ll not play,” said the man in the rustic costume, “I won’t! I—”
“Well, all I can say,” put in the Sheriff meaningfully, “is that yo’all better figger out some way to assign them belts to two o’ you. Becaze that thar dam, as you heerd, is due to go out any minute.”
“No, Sheriff,” the lineman said suddenly. “That can’t be so. Chances are that they really know it’ll be hours yet before it’ll go—of course it’s going, all right, or they wouldn’t broadcast the fact—but the G has got to put the pressure on these slow hillbillies along the river so’s they’ll jerk their belongings and get the hell out of here to high land. Otherwise, they’ll still be here when the dam does go. Yes,” he nodded, almost as though to confirm himself, “it’ll be, in reality, hours yet. They wouldn’t put it the way they did—if ’twas all ready to crack.”
“Yeah?” said the Sheriff. “Well, I don’t think yo’ve proved yo’ p’int. Though I hope you have. But—’spose it really was ready to go?—what then would they have said—on the raddio?”
The Mexican seemed suddenly to grasp the idea back of the argument.
“W’y—w’y,” he burst in, “in soch case they w’ud castbroad on’y the words: Run for your lives! That ees fac’. Dam she no ready go yet for hours!”
Immediately the terrible suspense that pervaded the island seemed to relax.
“It—it may even never go,” said the man in the rustic costume, in an apparent burst of confidence.
“Don’t fool yourself, tow-mop, on that,” said the lineman. “The G isn’t putting its own misdeeds on the air—unless the G is already caught with its pants down. And that dam is one of its misdeeds. Its Republican misdeeds, incidentally.”
“I’m a Republican,” announced the Sheriff coldly. “And I cain’t say as I like yo’re cracks ag’in the party,”
“It’s easy,” sneered the lineman, “for you to sit, and be Jesus the 2nd. With a snug nice life belt on—all ready to sail out to sea—if and when that wall of water does come down. But it’s a diff—”
“Well,” the Sheriff ironically consoled, “ef you three would fix up some way ’atween yo’rese’ves to dole out them two belts—two of you, at least, wouldn’t have to worry no more. Same’s me!” He made an airy-fairy gesture with his sunburned hands.
There was a sullen silence, now, that seemed to betoken that never would these three men be able to agree on any method of drawing or assigning those 2 precious belts.
Then the Mexican broke the silence.
“Bot I say—’twas joos’ 13—14—minootes ago—that we learn impo’tent news-annonzement she gonna come out of Eagle-Lah eat clob—New Yoke City. About us four—spose’ly in boat—going down reever. W’y not we tune in on same—and learn what is annonzement?”
“But what good’ll that do you?” queried the Sheriff. “Ef, I mean, a wall of water starts suddenly climbing up on this island? You’ll—”
“But,” put in the man in the rustic costume, “we might gain a clearer idea of how bad off we really are—if we knew what the story about us is.”
“The story,” said the Sheriff, “appears to be that yo’re all three in a boat with me—going down river! And the only perdicament you’re in is that you ain’t in sich boat. That’s all.”
“Van Harringdale,” expostulated the lineman, “is right! The story may at least give a hint as to where along the river they’re expecting to turn us off—or intercept us—or pull us out. And when the dam does break—”
“When the dam does break,” the Sheriff pointed out, “—ruther, to be exac’, when the full tonnage o’ water released by its breakin’ gits down river here to whar we all are right now—you mebbe won’t have no more than jest time to wrap around yo’re midriff one o’ them belts that prob’ly you’ll have won by dealing aces often the bottom o’ that deck o’ yo’res. Fur I ain’t even going to ref’ree yo’re game, see? All I can say, lineman, is that when that dam breaks—when, that is ag’in, all o’ th’ released waters from its breakin’ gits here—yo’ll be lucky ef’n you can grab out for a belt—and go out with, it. Yo’ll—”
“But see here,” demanded the lineman, “the matter ef our boat supposedly going down river—and where they expect to intercept it—has a lot to do with us. And if you, squatting like a comfortable toad with that lifesaver on, are going to deny us the right to know what chance we got, then we’ll all do the rush act—and see that we do get a chance—”
“If any of yo’all,” proclaimed the Sheriff, “figger to do any rush act to’ds me—or them belts—one o’ you’ll be laying daid. Atter which, they won’t be no more problems about belts!”
“That’s okay with me,” said the lineman. “Better one of us be dead than hamstrung by a stubborn pup like you who’s running the death show. Come on, men! We might as well get a bullet as—”
“Hold it!”
Like lightning the Sheriff had his gun out. His wrist stood firm against his cork-encased life belt.
“Now see hyar,” he said plaintively, “I don’t like fur to kill no man ’caze he’s a fool. As fur this hyar news-story—and the raddio here—I’m on’y thinkin’ of the preogytives of two of you who should right now be determinin’ yo’ own rights to two of them belts. I jest don’t like fer you to be losin’ valyable time—in case mebbe the dam is due to crack up. But—I ain’t no motive nor desire to keep you three fools from setting in a swanky New York lunch club, with a jazz band, and a news announcer, and all that—ef the cold seepin’ into yo’re behinds this very minute from them boulders don’t show you how damn fur yo’ really air from New York. In sho’t, it’s on yo’re own haids; so set down—fur the luvva God—and here’s yo’re story.”
And turning slightly leftward on his rock, he snapped on the radio again—and again swung the dial in the direction to bring, opposite the lighted arrow, the same inked calibration which about a quarter of an hour ago had stood there.
As the two neared juxtaposition, and came into such, the loud blare of a swing band flared forth—so clear, with respect to some of the instruments that were nearest the leader’s microphone, that it seemed the music rose straight out of the earth between the four men. The band was plainly just nearing the end of its rendition. A dance piece, plainly, and, if so—
And all four men waited tensely, to hear the simple story of themselves—putatively on the bosom of Big River in a red police launch—heading supposedly for one place—being looked for, perhaps, at places beyond. And wondering, all of them—if, that is, the Sheriff’s own wonder was any criterion—what there could be about such a simple story that could be of interest to the effete East.
And, within less than a minute, all were to learn. For it was to be brought out by the announcer—the famous Tommy Topkins!—conclusively, and beyond any doubt—that a certain not altogether unknown, though indeed long-missing Actor Hart, consummate and skilled Thespian—master both of disguise and verbal line—age, as given in a United States Government printed circular concerning him, 30 years and 7 months; description—but it was, as has been said, to be conclusively brought out that Actor Hart was amongst these 4 men putatively in that red police boat—and therefore, in actuality, on this island, And because of that broadcast, every man on this island, before the broadcast should come to an end, was destined to gaze suspiciously at every other man whose age was palpably around 30.
For “Actor” Hart—rightful and legal name, Al Hart—was, in addition to being actor supreme, and master of disguise, bankrobber, murderer, and escaped convict; and had, on his head, a price of $22,500!
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE ECLAT CLUB
The music of the band came to a crashing stop. The burst of handclapping that followed showed that Mlle. Fanchon had indeed put on an effective act. And now a typical master-of-ceremony’s voice came on.
“I now give you, ladies and gentlemen of the Eclat Luncheon Club of New York City—and the great audience of Station N-Y-Y-N—Mr. Tommy Topkins—famous Daily-Radio-News-Story-Beat Tommy!—in his much-discussed daily 15-minute radio feature: The Exclusive Radio News-Story Beat of the Day. Mr. Topkins.”
Another burst of handclapping. And a change in the voice. The voice now being that of a younger man—an alert, enthusiastic, breezy young man who loved his work and loved his very existence.
“Good aft—that is, good ten-minutes-to-1 o’clock, New York Time—ladies and gentlemen—and all the listeners on N-Y-Y-N—I’m here again—bless God!—and I bless God because once again He’s laid, right in my humble mitt—and no irreverence meant!—laid in my humble mitt another exclusive dramatic news-story—and, by gosh, in the nick of time, and no more—for my daily stint. Folks, oh folks, oh folks, oh folks—if you only knew what a gink in my position goes through—in order to deliver on time—and daily! If someday they report that I accidentally skidded—en route to the Eclat Club—and went clear into the Hudson River—’twas no accident, my good fran’s. ’Twas just poor Topkins—on a day when absolutely nothing would break—nowhere—nohow. And he just didn’t feel up to giving either of his fam—that is, infamous imitations that he’s now held in reserve for months and months.
“But folks, I won’t have to give either one today—my rank imitation of the Swede who got into the wrong Pullman berth—nor that of the Injun who ate his first erster!—equally as terrible, I assure you—for I got it—I got it!—a news-story that has broken—that is, the concluding developments which make it a complete story—between the very time you’ve sat down to your caviar appetizers and the time T. Topkins, Esquire, stepped nay, staggered—puffed! —to this shining mike.
“And here ’tis, my friends—and you, Billy Corrigan of the Evening Blade—and you, Jim Galloway of the Evening Dispatch—and Massie of the Evening Ledger—and Tom Swagg, of the Evening Bulletin, all listing with your earphones and an open spot in your 1:30 editions—here it is—and let me say that it’s costing me 100 berries—out of the 500 I get, weekly,—and you, you lugs!—you get it for nothing!—except that you get it second-handed—but here ’tis. Dripping fresh—packed in ice and not one of John Q. Public’s myriad eyes has seen it yet. But here ’tis: Al Hart, aged 30 years and 7 months, according to this green-tinted circular in my palpitating hand, and which same was gotten out by our own Department of Justice—Al Hart—alias ‘Actor’ Hart—Far Western bankrobber and escaped California convict—master of disguise and ex-player of a hundred theatrical parts—has been nabbed. Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that exactly—for he’s not nabbed this very minute. No! But he’s in a power launch, with 3 other men—one, the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff—hurtling down Big River. Neither the Sheriff nor Hart’s two companions know who Hart is—and just who Hart’s companions themselves are, is not known at this moment, for thus far only Hart himself and the Sheriff have been definitely and conclusively identified by the one man able to place both on the river. Now the launch, which the Sheriff is trying and expecting to moor at Griffin’s Landing Stage on Big River—if he can make it!—for all of you know that Big River is in a heck of a state this day of our Lord—much too much H2O floating down it towards that ultimate destination of all Midwest American rivers, the Gulf of Mexico—and heap more plenty and how, to roar down the minute that Cooperstown Dam goes, as go it must!—well anyway, this launch is likely to pass Griffin’s Landing Stage entirely, for the fog is said to be so thick on Big River today that the stage itself, even when lighted with such few lights as it has, can’t be seen from 30 feet off, while the town itself—Griffinstown is its name—capable of at least being lighted up—and is lighted up—lies too far off from the landing stage proper for its lights to be of any guidance. If the Sheriff, who is guiding the launch, does overshoot the mark in the fog—then the only next possible landing stage on either side of the river will be Webb City—far, far, far down the river—hours and hours down—where the landing stage is provided with powerful batteries of lights for both fog and night landings and can at least mark its own general location—is doing so right at this moment for the boats of luckless refugees. But regardless of where the Sheriff will effect his landing—Griffin’s Stage—or Webb City—all the armed men necessary are waiting. Waiting—to take into their arms a man who has, on his head, the neat price of $22,500 berries—more than lots of you folks make in a whole week!
“But now, folks, I’ll give you the facts in—as an old tramp, who used to panhandle me near the Times Building, used to say when he wanted to tell me his tale of woe—in ‘chromatic’ order. Or, to such of you folks as has been to Oxford, chronological order—there, I thought I could pronounce that word! And the which giving, in the said chron—well, skip it!—will show pretty well—at least in due course of the giving!—how T. Topkins, Esquire, got ’em—and laid ’em across the line after the manner in which he never fails—in short, the why and wherefore and what of it all.
“And if, folks—folks right here in the club, that is!—I refer now and again to this white card in my left tentacle—pliz understand that T. Topkins, having once been a newspaperman before he got catapulted by Fate onto the raddio!—still has the old predilection for getting the names of everybody—bar none!—in a story—and laying them across the board.
“All right!
“Al Hart, my friends, who has been for some months listed amongst the vanished—though not forgotten—lesser criminals of America—and by gosh, when I consider his unique criminal history, which has been made available to me in the last three-quarters of an hour, I marvel that he hasn’t received the publicity that much lesser men have—anyway, as I started out to say, Al Hart was seen today—at the hour of 9:40 this morning—on no less than Bleeker’s Island—that island about which many of you read in your last night’s papers—yes, where that Midwest retired millionaire insisted on being interred late yesterday. Al Hart was seen in the company of the Sheriff of Shelby’s Bluff—same town where the millionaire lived—and two other men. Hart’s identity is—was, at least, at that moment—would have to be, moreover, right now—unknown to the Sheriff because, until the hour of 9:40 today, nobody in the world could know that Al Hart was on this island. With the possible exception of one person who at least knew he was going there—a person to all intents and purposes, in custody, since the individual in question is a partial cripple and the said individual’s place of abode—with the said individual in it!—is now under surveillance.
