“Plainly,” said Elsa, leaning forward, “the kidnaping gang had a perfect tip-off as to Wah Lee’s movements? How—”
“Le’ me do dese fac’s,” demanded Aunt Linda coldly. “An’ dey’ll git did in chron’cal order.” She struggled, apparently, to find her bearings. “Oh—yeah. Well, putty soon come de deman’s—by phone—on Mistah Wah Lung, his papa, fo’ ransom. W’ich, in dis case, wuz set at fifty thousum dollahs. Dey deman’ dat de moneh be drapp’ off a suhtain train—w’en a red light flah up. An’ all dat. Same ol’ stuff, Elsa. And de fathah, he vehy trustin’, and he git de money togeddah. In ol’ bills. And he drap it, lak instrucked. And de boy he don’ yet retuhn.”
“Did Mr. Wah Lung notify the police then?” queried Elsa.
“On’y aftah de gang dey has stringed him along wid fish-sto’y aftah fish-sto’y as to w’y de boy ain’ retuhned. An’ finally he sees he is gettin’ stringed by—by expuhts!—an’ so den he tell de po-leece. An’ de po-leece, investigatin’, fin’ ev’dences dat Wah Lee’s convuhsatin wid his papa, dat day, wuz listen’ in on. An’ dat de gang knew dat way dat Wah Lee wuz goin’ into de pahk ‘roun’ dusk. And so lay fo’ him. An’ dat wuz de end ob dat chapter. Boy gone! Moneh gone! All ovah! Not one man cotched.”
Now Aunt Linda paused, obviously to give due dramatic emphasis to this story she was expounding for a girl who, when it happened, was playing with dolls.
“But th’ee yeahs latah, honey,” she resumed, “or ten yeahs ago, one ob de ransom bills tuhn up at a bank in Wilmette—an’ it tuhn up at de cage ob a tellah whut fix’ up paht ob de ’riginal ransom money fo’ Wah Lung, an’ who had put de numbahs down, suspec’in’ it was ransom money; and he set de bank ’tective on de job, an’ de man what put de bill in, he wuz followed, an’ de bill wuz traced down as comin’ f’om a man name’ Gus McGurk. Who libbin’ as a cahtakah in a desuhted brew’ry on—on Goose Islan’. De Schlitzheim Brew’ry it wuz call’; it ain’ in bus’ness today. Fac’ is, de ruints ob it is still stan’in’ obah dah on Goose Islan’. An’—but gittin’ back to de man whut was follow’, he tuhn out to be on’y some cheap convic’ whut wuz in prison somewhah befo’, du’in’, an’ aftah de kidnapin’. He so clah ob de dirty mess, dat dey aftahwahds let him go. But de man whut dey trace de ownahship ob de bill to, well—dat somp’n else ag’in! Fo’ in his t’ings, whut he got upstaihs, dey fin’ plenty—an’ how! One t’ing bein’ a phone numbah whut Wah Lung had temp’ry on’y one day du’in’ dose negot’ations. An’ dey fin’ a headin’ ob a St. Louis Recohd ob date October 30th, ob de kidnappin’ yeah, wid two Chinese cha’cters on it whut—if dey is genuine—fo’ dey reads ‘Wah Lee’—prove dat Wah Lee, assumin’ he wuz kidnap’ and muhder’, wasn’t muhder’ till a full month aftah he wuz kidnap’. W’ich soht ob indicate’ he musta git shooted w’ile ’scapin’. But an’way, de po-leece foun’ also in McGurk’s t’ings a pahson suit—whut show dat he wuz a membah ob de Pahson Gang.”
“The Parson Gang, Aunt? What—what gang was that?”
“Dat wuz a gang, honey, whut all use’ pahson suits w’en dey is gotta move aroun’ in public eye. At de time ob de writin’ ob dat ahticle by Mist’ St. Geo’ge, dat Pahson Gang wuz scattered highah dan a kite—some ob de membahs daid—an’ some in prison fo’ life. Again, dey wuz one man who nebbah wuz cotched. Dat wuz a Australian crim’nal whut got out ob a Australian pen’tent’y once just befo’ he wuz gonna git hanged—an’ pop up in Chicago. At leas’ so de po-leece knowed—f’om a phone convuhsation dey acc’dentally bus’ed in on. Dat man he wuz call’ ‘Venus Baldy,’ an’ he—”
“Venus—Baldy? Why on earth—”
“Cause, fo’ one t’ing, Elsa, he wuz bald; an’ for de secon’ t’ing, he hab a nude Venus tattooed on his scalp. De—de nasty t’ing! An’way he wuz knowed to be in Chicago, an’ wuz knowed to be in dat gang. He ain’ nebbah wuz cotched. Neiddah wuz de man—some man ’dentity unknowed—an’ nebbah wuz got to be knowed, neidah!—whut use’ to tip de gang off to all whut dain’ in po-leece an’ coht cuhcles to cotch ’em, an’ all dat. De po-leece, dey call dat man de ‘inside wiah.’ ”
“Oh yes, Aunt. Inside Wire. That is a criminal term. Just as there are other terms for other people—in such gangs. Such as, for instance, the fingerman—”
“Yes, Ah remembered dat tuhm. But Mist’ St. Geo’ge, whut wrote de ahticle, he say dat dis crime wuz diff’ent dan is mos’—’kaze it plainly hab no fingah-man in it. Fo’ de gang in dis case got dey prey by lis’enin’ in on a phone cuhcuit, f’om a ol’ hotel neah de Chinese rest’ant, and fin’ out dattaway. An’—”
“The police—know that—positively?”
“We-ell—dey foun’ some ins’lation rub off one ob de wiahs whut go to de res’ant—des whah it go undahneaf a window in dat hotel—and dey fin’ dat a man wid skin lak he had lib’ in de t’opics, o’ in de O’ient, wuz libbin’ in dat room on dat date—man whut prob’ly kin speak Chinese!—an’ dat he wuz gone de nex’ day. So—”
“All that, in a pure legal sense, Aunt, is no more proof of the hypothesis in question than it is that—that Cleopatra carved the Rosetta Stone.”
“Cle’patra? Ah don’ know who she is. An’ Ah ain’ probin’ nuffin’ mahse’f. Des relatin’ de fac’s—so’s you kin mebbe git some light on dis man whut de cohts tryin’ to drap in yo’ lap.” And Linda paused, a bit wrathfully.
“Well, de po-leece dey tuk a chance, an’ dey dug down in de big duht-flo’ed six-sided room ob de brew’ry above whah dis Gus McGurk lib. An’ at de exack centah ob de room—’bout th’ee feet below de su’face—dey foun’ a headless co’pse—des a skelington, ’count dat w’en it wuz bu’ied, quicklime had been put in wid it. An’ de skelington de po-leece wuz suhtain mus’ be de co’pse ob de kidnap’ Chinaman. On’y, de haid wuzn’t dah, an’—”
“Oh, oh! The gang shot Wah Lee—but hid his head because the bullet hole in it—and the operative work done inside his nose—would serve as corpus delicti for a charge of murder. Today’s story, Aunt, says that the skull in this case was dug up about 6 feet below the center of that hexagonal room, which shows that—now exactly what would that indicate?”
“W’y,” declared Aunt Linda emphatically, “it mean dat to git a li’l hole ’way down deep to buhy de Chinaman’s haid in, de gang had to staht wid a great big hole—if’n yo’ ebbah has do any diggin’ Elsa, yo’d know whut Ah means—and dey plant de haid—den dey pahtly fill de hole up—and den dey say, tikhed lak, ‘whut de use ob diggin’ anoddah hole now dat we has one?’—an’ dey puts de haidless body in above whah de haid is res’in’, and—well, da’s all dat means.”
“You’ve doubtlessly got it right, Aunt. And—but do go on with your story. Was this Gus McGurk tried, then, on the basis of the headless body only?—and acquitted?—of the murder part?”
“No, he wuzn’t. No! Fo’ plenty ob unnawu’ld cha’cters come fo’wu’d to sabe McGurk. Dey ’splain away de body fo’ him. An’ he ’splain away evaht’ing else! Co’se, he cain’t ’splain away de ransom money, so he des claim dat he muscled in—as he put it—on a kidnapin’ whut he heahed some oddah gang had pull—but on whom de boy had died. An’way, he ’splain ’way evaht’ing—”
“Oh, he did, eh?” Elsa bridled, instinctively angry at the cool effrontery of a criminal whom she had never seen or known; angry—it is to be admitted!—with herself that she had elected to defend members of that sinister world of which he was a part. “Well, just how, Aunt, did McGurk explain the brush-made Chinese signature reading ‘Wah Lee,’ made on a St. Louis newspaper heading of October 30th, of the kidnapping year, and proving conclusively that Wah Lee had been near and around him—and alive all the way up to October 30th, of the kidnapping year?”
“Oh,” declared Aunt Linda, making an airy-fairy gesture, with one black hand, “he des claim dat some Jap made dem cha’cters fo’ him—to use, if necessary, in his negot’ations wid
de ol’ man—some Jap, Elsa, whut was knowed by de po-leece to be mix’ up in crim’nal activity—but who wuz now daid.”
“Cunning—to say the least. To me—who’s no detective—those characters indicate, at the least, that the gang did intend to return the boy—otherwise they wouldn’t have held him so long; but that he did make a near-escape—and got shot. But go ahead, Aunt? And how did the underworld take care of the headless body for McGurk!”
“Well, a high-up cluhgyman name’ Rev’end Mylrea in San Francisco, he come fo’wahd an’ swo’ dat he talk to Wah Lee in ’Frisco aftah de date ob de suppose’ kidnapin’—aftah, eben, de date de ransom money was paid—after, eben de date on dat St. Louis papah whut had de Chinese chac’ters on it; an’ dat Wah Lee wuz on his way to Mexico, an’ mad ’kaze his papa wouldn’ let him pay coht to a w’ite gal. But five yeahs latah, Elsa, w’en dat man die—he confess’ dat he wuz a dope fien’—an’ dat de unnahwuhld got to him wid promises to keep him in dope if’n he tell dat sto’y. But—gittin back ag’in to de time de body wuz foun’, a ol’ ’ooman on Goose Islan’ come fo’wuhd an’ swo’ dat it wuz huh son, Dolf Grubbs, a sailah. An’ dat his brothah, Brunkah, in a fight, had blowed his haid off wid a elephant gun in de yeah ob de kidnappin’. An’ dat she an’ Dolf’s papa—who wuz now daid—had tuk de boy’s body obah in de night an’ bu’ied it undahneath de duht flo’ ob dat ol’ brew’ry.”
“And she long later confessed?”
“No, Elsa. She des got boosted one night obah a bridge on Goose Islan’ into de ribber—to shut huh mouf. An’ dey foun’ dat shohtly aftah McGurk’s arres’, she pay off a $5000 mohgage she hab on a flat buildin’ she own in Hyde Pahk—and dey fin’ ev’dences dat bof huh sons wuz prob’ly drown, undah oddah names, on a boat call’ De City oh Duluth whut wen’ down in Lake Mich’gan dat same yeah.”
“Well, even if these things did only come up long after McGurk went to prison for—well, evidently, Aunt, he didn’t go there for either kidnaping or murder—it must have been a weak prosecutor who would have let the underworld bluff him in this way. Now if I had been State’s Att—”
“Da’s whut it seems wuz said, Elsa, by lots ob peoples. Fum de ahticle Mist’ St. Geo’ge writ an’ read me, it seem lak dis Mist’ Fostah Emmons wuz kin’ ob weak—an’ sence he wuz daid w’en de ahticle wuz writ’, Mist’ St. Geo’ge could say an’t’ing he wanted!—an’way, Mist’ St. Geo’ge say a strong man wouldn’ nebbah hab did whut Mist’ Emmons did. W’ich wuz to negot’ate wid McGurk’s lawyah an’ fin’ly let McGurk take 15 yeahs in de pen’tent’ry fo’ exto’tion only.”
“Which 15 years,” commented Elsa, “cuts down to an easy 10—on good behavior. Who achieved that, Aunt?”
“A—a Mist’ Flemin’ Wiles.”
“Oh—Fleming Wiles? Well, as a criminal lawyer myself Aunt I do have to express my admiration of his putting over a great triumph. That is to say, the very bottom of the criminal lawyer heap in Chicago—Elsa Colby!—heaps a plaudit on the head of the top of the heap—Mr. Wiles!”
“Well at leas’,” Aunt Linda said, obviously not quite gathering whether Elsa was complimentary or critical, “it seem dat one good p’int ’bout Mist’ Emmons’ compr’mise wuz dat it 1ef’ open de chanct to pros’cute Gus McGurk again some day—maybe!—on muhder an’ kidnapin’—sence he on’y go to prison fo’ extohtion only.”
“Hm?” Elsa’s eyes narrowed. “I can see now, Aunt, why Mr. Vann, the State’s Attorney, will move heaven and earth tonight to convict this man who was caught with this skull—for by a decision rendered today, by the Illinois Supreme Court, in an analogous case, that skull can’t be evidence against McGurk—even for an indictment—unless the thief is convicted. Indeed, Aunt, I understand—from a political friend of mine—that Mr. Vann’s only chance to get re-elected—renominated, that is, since, if renominated, his election is assured—is to get his hands on the goods for a big spectacular conviction. To be launched just before election. And such, plainly, would be the conviction of this McGurk. Yes, Aunt, the cards are stacked against me in this case of today more than ever—for this case is one that Mr. Vann can’t afford to lose.”
She sat quietly.
“My God!” she burst out. “And this client shoved down my throat by Judge Penw—he—he had on his person a skull tallying, at every point whatsoever, with the one put in that safe by that girl—or at least, according to that deposition, dug up and fixed up by that Negro—and—and he’s admitted having it. And admitted doing the job on Mr. Vann’s safe besides. My—God! My—God! Of—of all the cases! Of—well, thanks, anyway, Aunt Linda, for giving me all these vital highlights on the older case that, 13 years, and 10 years later, has obviously brought about this case. Thanks for—”
“Ah don’ know des whut highlights is,” retorted Aunt Linda. “But Ah knows whut advice is. An’ dat you is come to me today fo’ advice. Isn’t dat so?”
“Yes, Aunt. It is—and I have!”
“Well, considahin’ de way de cahds is stack’ agin you, advice yo’ needs—an’ advice yo’ is gonna git. But fus’—fus’—Ah’s got a bone to pick wid you. An’ de question is—kin you take it?”
CHAPTER XI
Black Woman’s Advice
Elsa Colby stared at Aunt Linda Cooksey.
“I—I think I can take almost anything,” she replied bitterly.
“All raght! At leas’ Ah brunged you up, w’en you wuz li’l, to take a bang on de haid an’ not bawl all obah de lan’scape—an’ Ah is glad yo’ is still retainin’ dat quality. An’ whut Ah is gonna tek you obah de coals about, Elsa, is dis heah conjuh’ bus’ness. Whut aw’ile back you say you don’ take na’y stock in. Now dat got a rise out ob me, Elsa. Fo’ conjuhin’—but whut w’d you say if Ah wuz to tell you dey ain’t a niggah in Chicago whut don’ b’lieb dat a man kin change his whol’ fate an’ futah by touchin’ de hump ob a hunchback’ man, in a grabeyahd, du’in’ de dahk ob de moon, an’—”
“But, Aunt—what every negro in Chicago believes doesn’t make anything so.”
“It don’? Don’ ’spose you has ebbah huhd ob de preshuh on t’ings made by thousums ob peoples thinkin’ de same thought, has you?”
Elsa ran her hand helplessly through her flaming red hair. For she knew that Aunt Linda had actually upearthed a profound philosophic and mystical concept.
And one too vast to be discussed in that ramshackle kitchen.
“An’ how ’bout,” Aunt Linda pressed her triumphantly, “yo’ own b’lief dat if’n you sees a w’ite hoss wid one black laig, yo’ll gonna see, wid’in one houah, somebuddy whut—”
“Yes, I know,” retorted Elsa, hastily. “But—but—well, I don’t really believe it at all, Aunt; it—it just always seems to come out that way, that’s all. And I always amuse myself—don’t you know?—by—by checking on it. That’s all. And all I can say, Aunt, is that I’m sorry—but I don’t believe, either, in people’s power to change their luck by dragging poor hunchbacks into graveyards on moonless nights, and touching those humps, and I don’t believe in ‘conjures’ either.”
“You don’ belieb in conju’hs, den? Well, Ah moughty quick tell you’, Chile, dat wedder you does or doesn’—yo’ Unc’ Silas an’ dat Manny, dey bof does, an’—how!”
“They do? Why?”
“W’y? ’Cause Bella she drag’ ’em bof recent’ to a se’ies of lectuahs downtown call’ de Powah ob de Voodoo. Give’ by a famous mys—myst—”
“Mystic?”
“Yas, da’s raght. Some East Injun p’offessah dat hab study’ up deep on it. An’ who hah—”
“Wait, Aunt! Nine-tenths of those ‘East Indian’ professors who give lectures on mystical subjects are just racketeers—with Turkish towels tied around their heads. And as for Voodoo, good heavens, Aunt, for one thing alone, it hasn’t even an all-powerful God like the one in the Christian relig—”
�
�Elsa!” Aunt Linda radiated a condition of indignation and profound hurt. “Ah don’ know whut kind ob ejjication dey has been gibbin’ yo’ in dem collidges, but dey mos’ suhtinly is a all-pow’ful God back ob Voodoo. An’—how!” She shook her turbaned head mysteriously.
“There is? Well, what’s he called? Buddha? Mohammed? Confuc—”
“No. He—” Aunt Linda looked all around herself almost as though to make sure that some partially embodied spirit wasn’t hovering over her shoulder. Then she leaned close to Elsa. Her lips first moved in some kind of prayer or ritual. And then, in a half reverent whisper, rendered the name of the great deity of Voodooism:
“Mumbo-Jumbo.”
“Mum—”
“No—no! Don’—don’ call on him,” Aunt Linda warned her desperately, “less’n you fus’ issues a prayah an’ a wish. Nobuddah mus’n’ ebbah say dat name idle-lak. Fo’ dat god git vehy angry onless, w’en yo’ says his name, yo’ recognize His powah by axin’ him somet’ing—an’t’ing—an’ yo’ cain’t ax him nuffin’ direc’ mo’ dan once in one yeah. An’ once you has axed him som’ting direct wid yo’ lips, den yo’ cain’ commun’cate wid him no mo’ dat yeah. ’Cept by sen’in’ up a conjuh—whut is same as axin’ him.
“Yo’ got me so ‘cited des now wid yo’ skeptism, dat Ah wen’ an’ says his name; an’ in de absence ob any clah thoughts ’bout yo’ an’ yo’ p’oblems, Ah des axed him dat he mek yo’ lib long enuf to be a ol’, ol’ ’ooman—an’ now—f’m now on, dat is—we cain’t do no mo’ direc’ axin’. Not, however, dat dat mattah partic’lar. Seein’ we has conjuhs. But—”
“All right, Aunt,” Elsa interrupted with a smile. “I get the idea! I mustn’t utter Mr. Don’t-do-it’s name without honoring his supreme power with a request! And—if I believe in him!—I get one request each calendar year! All right. I’ll not profane the holy name, I promise you, till I get a just super-perfect wish to couple it up with! But see here—what is this, now, about Uncle Silas and Manny believing in conjures?”
The Man with the Wooden Spectacles Page 10