The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen Keeler

N. W. Corner Superior Street and North State Street.

      Bardell gazed over Vann’s shoulder, the better to see which signature the State’s Attorney was pointing to.

      “Oh—that?” he said. “That’s the bird I spoke of who was first to arrive—since he came before even Koncil and myself—and last to go. For he went with us. In Koncil’s car, south. And we dropped him off near Water Tower Square. A weird-looking bird all right. Wore rouge on his cheeks, and—”

      “Fairy, eh?” nodded Vann. And then added dryly:

      “You ought to officially mail me in his name for that police roster of Chicago pansies, and earn your $10 out of that fund put up by—well, I’m not allowed to give the donor’s name, but—”

      “Yes, Mr. Vann, I know all about that. But such names have to be confirmed as such. And this name, I’d say, can’t be. For, rouge or no rouge, the fellow is no nancy. I know, because he sat next to me all during the dinner. And I had plenty chances to chin personally with him. He told me all about his going to get married shortly to some girl who works in some coal office, and you know yourself that no fair—”

      “Yes, but—but the rouge?”

      “I know. Well, a couple of the guests there twitted him about that. He just laughed, and said that if he didn’t like his own white skin, it was his own goddamned business—those were his words!—if he wanted to color his skin up a bit. And that if he didn’t own his own carcass, to do with as he pleased, he might as well jump in the lake right now.”

      “I see. Well, if he really has marriage in view, and didn’t make even a pass at you, then he probably has nothing against his manliness than perhaps a mother who didn’t let him play with the other bad boys.” Vann looked down at the napkin. “But this—this N. W. Corner of Superior and State Streets? What—”

      “Oh, he says he lives on a vacant lot there, back of some billboards, in an abandoned trailer. Some property tangle—where he gets the use of the site—for making occupancy.”

      “Oh yes—that William Juggenberry Junior Estate, I’ll wager. Which had some provisions like that tied up in it. For—but what does this Wainwright fellow do?”

      “We-ell—he does imitations—he did a number of ’em while we were eating. And he’s not bad, either. Can change his voice like nobody’s business, and can—but to give you an idea, Mr. Vann, he put on one of Einstein, figuring out a new relativ—hrmph—theory—and one of Mae West.”

      “Then of course he’s an actor. So—”

      “No, he isn’t. For I asked him exactly that. The imitations-giving is just his av—avocation. Actually, he’s some kind of a writer.” Bardell frowned. “What kind, I wasn’t able to get. But I knew he was, because of his stance against editors. They were half-wits, all of them. The radio editors included! Besides,” added Bardell, “he had green ink stains on his right fingertip.”

      “Just an eccentric Bohemian creative artist then,” sighed Vann. And ran his eyes speculatively down the rest of the names. Finding nothing more of interest. “Well,” he said,.

      “I’ll keep this signed-up napkin—in the file on Schletmar. And with a cross entry for Brosnatch.”

      “You won’t need to do that,” said Bardell mildly. “For Koncil also has one of these napkins—and will be barging in with it any time—after which you’ll have two!”

      “Okay, Bardell. Well, I guess you can go.”

      “Thanks—and I will. For I want to catch some more sleep. That party—all night, you know? And then going out tonight at 7 on the Merkise Case.”

      “Beat it then—and hit the hay. And I’ll arrange for Miss Jason to head off Koncil and his napkin! And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      “Okay, Mr. Vann.” And Bardell, with a bow to his superior, retired. Letting himself out of the private office.

      Vann rang hastily for Miss Jason. Who entered precisely on the very departing heels of Bardell.

      “Miss Jason,” Vann directed her, “place this napkin here in the file on Hugo Schletmar.” And he held it forth to her.

      She gazed at it, astonished.

      “A—a napkin, Mr. Vann? Well, surely—but—but do you mind telling me why—”

      Her eyes, however, were now resting on the names.

      And she changed her interrogative. “That is, what it contains?”

      He looked up at her curiously.

      “No, not at all. It contains, in their own handwritings—and with their own private addresses—the names of 11 possible anarchistic connections of Hugo Schletmar and Andrew Brosnatch—if or ever the Post Office gets bombed! Or the Federal Attorney-General gets assassinated. Or anything like that. All the said names having been obtained last night be­tween the witching hour of 10 p.m. and the equally witching hour of 11 p.m.—at, to be precise, Miss Jason, 10:40 p.m.!—whilst the owners of the names were stoking the fires of mortal man with red wine and spaghetti. The dinner being the highspot of a party which ran—with all in attendance at it—from about 7:30 in the evening till 5 this morning. And the said names being, moreover, obtained in duplicate since Koncil will be barging in here later on with another such napkin. And which you can put in Brosnatch’s file.”

      She had taken it gingerly, and was apparently riveting her eyes on one signature in particular.

      “One, I note,” she commented, “has most freakish hand­writing. The one in green ink.”

      “Oh, yes, The one with tiny triangles as dots for the ‘i’s. Yes, he was the hungriest.”

      “The—the hungriest? What do you mean, Mr. Vann!”

      “Why—the first to arrive—and the last to go!”

      Miss Jason essayed one of her smileless smiles. And asked a further question.

      “Did they—did they talk anarchy? Or communism?”

      “Nary a word, so I understood. But—we’ll hold the roster of signatures anyway, as they might eventually become suspicious parties, on this or that matter.”

      She folded the fragile napkin gently. “Suspicious, maybe,” she admitted, “but at least—” and stopped.

      “At least—what?” asked Vann curiously.

      “Well, at least they can’t any of them be accused of helping murder poor Mr. Reibach in your old office across the street, since—”

      “—since that took place,” Vann filled in for her, smilingly, “at 10:43 p.m. last night—proven four ways running! Yes,” he nodded, “you’re 100 per cent right on that. But, fortunately for this office, the man who did do that job is fast and tight and incommunicado—in our own special lockup. Just where he belongs! And where—but here, here, Miss Jason, we’re wasting precious minutes!—for don’t forget I’m to try the gentleman tonight. So be off with you. And no more visitors from now on—unless they have a bearing, and a most important one, on the Case of the Man with the Crimson Box!”