The Riddle of the Yellow Zuri

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  Carson changed his position and then went on.

  “So Henry Desmond went to Joliet. He did not serve the ten years, however, for about two years after his commitment he escaped. His escape was somewhat dramatic. He stole the big steel minute hand from a huge clock in the warden’s office. He made a key from it. By means of this key he reached the Drainage Canal near the prison. It is thought that he went down the canal secreted on a stone barge. On the other hand it is possible that he was drowned, for a supposed tramp’s body later recovered from the canal proved actually to be beyond identification. Several years after Henry Desmond’s escape, Crayshaw’s chief henchman turned State’s evidence in some new tangle involving the division of some spoils and among various evidence brought to light, including the interesting fact that the judge in the Desmond trial belonged to the Crayshaw crowd, was the more important fact that Henry Desmond’s overcoat had been measured as it hung in a restaurant, an exact duplicate of it made, and the twelve thousand dollars in bills carefully concealed in its lining. The next time after that when he visited Crayshaw’s office on his business of auditing, the duplicate overcoat had been substituted upon the chair where he had thrown his own coat, and thus he had been railroaded to prison.”

  “More than one moth has been singed by the candle of crooked politics,” said Gordon, shaking his head. “But go ahead, please.”

  “Well,” continued Carson, “the Crayshaw revelations appeared in newspapers far and wide at the time that Crayshaw himself was sent to prison. We thought, once cleared, that Henry Desmond would surely return if he were in the realm of the living. But he did not. Perhaps the Crayshaw revelations after all never reached him. Perhaps he is really dead. Whatever the case, he was, a week ago, unheard of for the period of seven years. And on the same day that his seven years expired, his American cousin, a Mr. Matthias Smock, put in a bill in the Probate Court to have Henry Desmond declared legally dead and the legal declaration of the latter’s death is to be handed down next Friday morning.”

  “But what is this Matthias Smock’s motive for wanting his cousin from Liverpool definitely disposed of?” asked Gordon. “And what is the dilemma that confronts the young lady?”

  “As for Smock’s motive,” replied Carson, “it is one of extreme selfishness and greed. Matthias Smock is a professional money-lender — a loan-shark of the most vicious kind. It happened that he and his cousin, Henry Desmond, were bequeathed some years back a forty-acre tract of rutty, scrubby, rocky land out on the far northwestern outskirts of Chicago in what was then known as Rocky Ridge. The tract was worth very little. The cousin who had bequeathed it to them had died in Australia. In the years that have elapsed since Henry Desmond and Matthias Smock inherited it, the Consolidated Traction Companies have made that unexpected and startling extension of their Ravenswood elevated rapid-transit line. Now, as you know, the old Rocky Ridge section has become, through rapid transit with the heart of the city, the fashionable suburb known as Outer Ravenswood. In other words, every foot of land in the former Rocky Ridge has skyrocketed in value. And if you have not had occasion to ride out there in the last few years, I can tell you that it is becoming solidly built up with the finest of homes and most exclusive of apartment buildings.

  “It is unfortunate,” Carson resumed, “that the Australian cousin left the forty-acre tract of land to Matthias Smock and my foster-father in the form of American ownership known as non-individually-transferable joint-tenancy instead of the one known as joint-ownership. As a lawyer it is hardly complimentary for me to emphasize to you the fact that in joint-tenancy, if either of the two holders die, the remaining holder takes all, and the heirs of the dead holder do not have any rights or title whatsoever in the property thus held. Nor can either party in a non-individually-transferable joint-tenancy will his share to any relative, or deed it to anybody. In fact, the most that either can do individually is to quitclaim all his rights to the other holder for whatever sum he may care to accept. And it is for these reasons that Henry Desmond’s share in this tract of land will automatically and immediately revert to Matthias Smock the moment Henry Desmond has been declared legally dead. And that time has come, for he has been unheard of and from for the legal period of seven years.”

  “What is the value of the formerly worthless forty-acre tract now that it is part of the suburb of Outer Ravenswood?” asked Gordon pointedly.

  “One hundred thousand dollars, according to a certain offer which is open providing the piece is transferred in one huge holding. If broken up, and disposed of in single lots and small parcels, about ninety thousand dollars at current footage values — and such disposition would consume about three years, since the demand for vacant land out there while steady is slow, but yet sure and becoming more so as every piece is sold. The party to whom the tract is worth one hundred thousand dollars, if delivered unbroken, is Whitlock, Spayne, Critchley and Evans, the great financing and building firm who are about to put up another one of their much-featured three million dollar community flat buildings that provide apartments, restaurant service, the services of trained servants, nurseries and nursemaids, playgrounds, private flower beds and gardens, for one thousand well-to-do families. Their stupendous architectural creature — you may have seen their one in Hyde Park — requires a tract of land situated in just such a desirable suburb, and at least thirty-five acres large.

  “But,” Carson continued, “Smock cannot deed this piece of land legally until next Friday, when Henry Desmond is declared dead and Smock takes full title thereby. And this big firm that I speak of, who are willing to buy the tract and pay cash for it, must take title, if they take title at all, to it before tomorrow noon, for the simple reason that they do not wish to be in the identical position of the famous dog in Aesop’s fable who had a large bone in his mouth and who dropped it off a bridge into a river in order to get hold of a bigger bone, which turned out to be only a reflection, and thus the dog lost both bones! That is to say, they now hold a highly valuable option out there in Outer Ravenswood on a thirty-acre tract which has been held on to all these years by a far-seeing old Swede truck-gardener, and that option expires tomorrow noon, and the old Swede, who is already wealthy, has refused to renew it. So this firm dare take no chances on losing out altogether on a tract of this size. Unless Smock can deliver them a deed to his tract before tomorrow noon — not next Friday — they must close with the Swede truck-gardener, as their contracts are let for the construction of their huge building, material and men and derricks are already out there, and everything practically waits on the sound of the starting whistle.”

  “They are afraid, of course,” the lawyer interpolated, “that if they let their present option expire, Smock may back out or change his mind before Friday. And an option from Smock himself, unfortunately, cannot give them any assurance, because he is not full owner till next Friday, and Desmond himself could conceivably show up and render such an option worthless.” Gordon nodded. “No, he can’t give them anything — option or title.”

  “Yes,” said Carson slowly, “title could be given these people, this very minute — if this young girl of whom I’ve spoken, and her brother give the word. For just before Henry Desmond left prison so suddenly, a small inconsequential deal involving the sale of that whole tract for twenty-five hundred dollars was pending, and he drew up a quitclaim — in favor of his co-holder — of all his interest in that piece, and sent it to his children and father so that they could put the deal through with Smock, and without him, Desmond, if it came to a head. It fell through — perhaps it was a good thing it did, considering how the price has recently skyrocketed — but the main point is that they still have that old quitclaim made out in Smock’s favor and duly notarized. And if they turned that over to Smock, he could convey title immediately to Whitlock, Spayne, etc.”

  “Of course he could,” said the lawyer, “and therefore it ought to be a mighty valuable paper to Smock. He makes an immediate sale, instead of a dragged-out affair; the
sale is for one hundred thousand dollars instead of ninety thousand dollars in dribs and drabs. And how much, therefore, is he willing to pay the two children for this paper?”

  Carson laughed bitterly. “A paltry thousand dollars apiece. To Marcia, who is almost the whole support of her grandfather and herself, a thousand dollars means a great deal.” He paused. “You see, if Smock waits till Friday, he doesn’t need the quitclaim at all. All he requires it for is to rush this particular deal through. If it wasn’t for that deal, he wouldn’t pay a copper cent — let alone a thousand to each kid.”

  “And can’t you get more than a meagre thousand apiece out of him?” asked Gordon.

  “No. He refuses stubbornly to raise his offer one penny,” Carson returned. “He gets a huge estate out of having his cousin declared dead, yet begrudges anything to the very children who make it possible for him to immediately turn that estate into a fortune.”

  “Hm. How are the brother and grandfather situated with respect to money?” asked Gordon. “Tell me something about them.”

  “Marcia’s brother, Cary Desmond, is a teller at the Mid-West Trust and Savings Bank on upper Michigan Avenue. He is a boy who is pretty good at heart, but a bit of a high flier. He’s the impatient kind — I think you’ve seen the type — won’t live at home because of fancied restrictions put on his life by his sister and grandfather — purely imaginary restrictions, I can assure you. He is of a pronouncedly inventive turn of mind, and should never be working in a bank. He is quite the opposite of his sister, who works stoically from 10 P.M. to 6 A.M. as a supervising operator on the Kildare automatic exchange to take care of herself and her grandfather.”

  “And about the grandfather?”

  “He is a very old man today, but in his time was one of the most brilliant zoologists on the faculty of the University of Edinburgh; later he joined the faculty of Chicago University to be near his son, and was with Chicago-U for many years. He has been for about a decade retired on a very small pension from the latter school, a pension really not sufficiently large to keep him and Marcia properly. Three years ago — that is, four years after my foster-father disappeared — they moved into a little brick and wood residence out on St. Giles Lane — over in the northwest part of the city — a little inexpensive cottage which was left to the old man by a faculty confrere of his, and this fortunately puts them in a position in which they have no rent to pay.”

  Nothing was said for a moment. Then Gordon spoke.

  “Well, you’re in a quandary — it’s easy to see that. And you hate to take the responsibility of advocating a step that might hurt this Henry Desmond. But I’ll tell you what I’d do. If these two young people can’t bluff Smock or work on his better self sufficiently to get any more than the amount you state, they’d better take that and call it a day. Of course, you hate to practically sell Henry Desmond out of his own valuable property by the use of a quitclaim issued years ago for a small inconsequential deal. But remember — when next Friday comes, Smock won’t need your quitclaim or anything else. Of course, I’ll admit, if he is thick-witted enough to hold on to the tract after Friday, and Henry Desmond should return later, the law permits the complete setting aside of the declaration of legal death, and allows Henry Desmond to participate once more in the tract — or in as much of it as is still left unsold. Curious thing the law, isn’t it? But any parts conveyed to third parties are non-regainable by Henry Desmond. And there’s what you’re up against, you see. Smock has undoubtedly good legal advice himself. About Friday afternoon he’ll be transferring the property to his wife — a thousand legal tricks — say even to a Trust, payable to his wife or himself and if Henry Desmond returns after that, he’s whipsawed out of his rights forever anyway. Personally I don’t think he’s ever going to return, either between now and the date of his declaration of death — nor after, for if the publicity of the Crayshaw revelations hasn’t brought him back, he must be dead. I agree with you that a highly sensitive professional man such as he was would be likely to remain hidden and keep all possible clues as to his identity and whereabouts concealed, rather than risk going back to the horrors of a penitentiary. But it seems that he would assuredly have seen something in the newspapers about his vindication — and I doubt not that you people have advertised for him as well, the width and breadth of the country.” Carson nodded emphatically. “And I would gamble, therefore, that he was dead,” Gordon went on firmly, “I’ve seen too many people in prospective real estate deals lose something by killing the deal simply because they were too angry at somebody else making a lot more out of the same deal. I would close my eyes to Smock’s profits — look at my own interests — advise my sweetheart and her brother to grab their respective thousand dollars — more, of course, if by any chance they can get it from Smock. I would not keep on protecting Mr. Desmond’s title from a false sense of loyalty, when in four short days he will have lost out anyway.” He stopped.

  As for Carson, he sat back in his chair for several long minutes, thinking deeply. It looked as though Ramsey Gordon had crystallized, in his words, the common-sense point of view of the thing which he yearned himself to maintain. But that common-sense viewpoint was at conflict with a peculiar moral problem. Henry Desmond had befriended him in the dark, dark years of his young boyhood — it was due to him to advocate and advise only such a course as would protect Henry Desmond right up to the very last possible moment of his return. The latter had not issued that quitclaim to be used in a deal of this magnitude; it had been issued only for an inconsequential deal involving but twenty-five hundred dollars. It was a question whether it was morally right to use that paper now, to sell Henry Desmond out — if he were alive! Ah — that was it — if he were alive! As for Marcia — well, Marcia and himself, Carson reflected, were to be married in a few weeks now, and the little girl on St. Giles Lane had even picked out a little bungalow upon which she said she was going to pay the thousand dollars she was to secure from the sale of her share of the quitclaim. This, she had told him, was to be her contribution to their marriage. Carson was not interested in what a woman could bring to his marriage — particularly this pittance. Nor was he greatly concerned with Cary’s interests, for he knew that Cary Desmond, reckless as he was, would undoubtedly invest the money from his share into some kind of a gaudy looking newfangled monoplane, and, insufficiently trained in flying as he was, and as he undoubtedly would be before he would begin to try to cut aerial capers, drop into a nice crash at some outlying Chicago flying field within twenty-four hours — a crash in which, with the modern foolproof parachutes, he no doubt would save his skin, but in which his thousand dollars would wind up as splintered metal and canvas. Indeed, it was common sense vs. ethics; it was summed up in the question: were they protecting a man who was dead and needed no protection, or one who was alive and could yet return within four days and claim his share of his own estate? If he, Carson, persuaded Marcia that Henry Desmond’s interests should be guarded to the last possible moment, it meant the end of a thousand dollars. And a thousand dollars was not to be lightly thrown over one’s shoulder. Yet suppose that, after all, the unidentifiable body found in the Drainage Canal had been Henry Desmond; or, as even Gordon’s words suggested, Desmond had been lying dead all these years in some potter’s field? Then by their course they would be deliberately foregoing a sum of money which took a long, long time to save. He sighed and shook his head. Oh — for some clue, any kind of a clue, a clue from anywhere, that would indicate whether Henry Desmond were alive or dead!

  The clock on Gordon’s wall striking aroused him from his abstractions. He reached over to the coat-holder and took his hat. “Well, Mr. Gordon, I’m not going to keep you any longer. Your opinion is about all we can go by — in the absence of anything tangible about Henry Desmond being alive or dead. I’m going to think away further on the proposition, however, before I let the two children turn over that quitclaim to Smock. He’ll have to worry a little in the next few hours.” He rose and Ramsey Gord
on too arose.

  The latter conducted his visitor courteously to the door of his office where the younger man, with a few words of friendly leavetaking, took his departure. Once outside, Carson boarded a car immediately that would take him out northwest to the little cottage on St. Giles Lane where Marcia and Grandfather Desmond resided. And as he dropped into a seat for the long ride, he had still not reached a decision whether, perhaps, to sell the living Henry Desmond out of his estate for two thousand paltry dollars, or whether, possibly, to fatuously protect a man who already lay dust and ashes, in his grave.

  If he had but known, however, as he rode northwestward, that before many hours that day he was going to receive one of the strangest communications he had ever received in his life, a communication the precise like of which had never gone sailing under a two-cent stamp through the mails before, he might have thought less upon the problem of Henry Desmond, once Convict 9317, and more upon the amazing twists to Fate which Uncle Sam, in the capacity of a mere letter-carrier, may give!