The Case of the Lavender Gripsack

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  He looked at her troubledly, desperately. Then his eyes wavered and fell. She was frightfully bewildered.

  “It’s—it’s the skull of ‘Blinky the Swede,’” he grunted, looking, however, fast at the floor. “For King mentioned on the phone how he’d even recovered the fellow’s expensive glass glim—with the same fine blood veins glazed in it—when he dug him up. And there was a perfect cobweb and a striped spider inside the brain case when he shipped it away—and the same cobweb—and the same striped spider—when it came back.” Now he raised his eyes to hers defiantly. “So that—that makes it final, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh no it doesn’t,” retorted Elsa, with angry sarcasm. “Nothing that comes out of your lips makes anything final! ‘Specially with your ‘glims’ plastered fast on the floor. It—now see here! We’ll do this all over again. And you look at me this time, John Doe, when you answer my questions, or I’ll—yes, you’re darn tootin’ I don’t like the way you kept your eyes down, and—no—this way, this time, with those eyes of yours.”

  His eyes wavered unhappily to hers—and stood thus, seemingly riveted by her own desperate fixing of him.

  “All right,” she began hurriedly. “Now first—” Her voice grew a bit plaintive. “—Do you really love me?”

  “Oh, I do, I do,” he said impulsively, his gaze never waver­ing an iota. “You’re the swee—”

  “All right! Now—and continue to keep those eyes on mine—exactly the way you had ’em when you uttered that truth—truth that it may be. Now, you say you love me? All right. And I say again that if you’ve lied to me on that second story of yours tonight—about what really happened last night in Minneapolis—you’re going to cost me my property, as well as my professional reputation. Whereas, otherwise, I’ve a darned good one in ten chance to save ’em both by a special plea—and maybe a one in fifty chance to land you safely in a State Hospital. Who knows? Anyway—no—keep those eyes right on mine! Now—granting that you do love me, tell me for the last time the true answer to this double question. And weigh every one of my words—and weigh every one of yours, when you answer. All right. Here goes: Is that skull, over yonder there, the skull of Wah Lee? The skull, that is, that was in Lou Vann’s safe last night?”

  “No!” he cried out desperately. And seemed, in his very utterance of the word, like a man on a red-hot stove. He kept his eyes straight on hers, however—though seemingly like a man hypnotized. “No—I tell you,” he repeated. “No!” Now he lowered his voice. “It’s—it’s not Wah Lee’s skull, Elsa. I’m telling you God’s own truth now, because I love you. And I am weighing every word. It’s not Wah Lee’s skull—and it’s not the skull that was in Vann’s pete—and it—”

  “All right,” she said helplessly. “Your eyes sure did put on a good act—if ’twas an act! Well—” She shrugged her shoulders. “There’s nothing more to be said, I guess. It’s on your own head now. And mine as well. And if—”

  But something was happening in back of them—at least in back of him, for his broad form, with his arms now akimbo, thumbs hooked on waistband of his blue serge trousers, completely occluded, for her, nearly the whole courtroom. The buzz of conversation was lessening markedly! And sud­denly came the explanation thereof: the sharp rap of Mullins’ gavel! And his peremptory call: “Semi-recess adjourned—and Court is in session! All—quiet!”

  The buzz died away still more, though here and there a murmuring still persisted.

  Penworth, above the murmuring, was speaking. “Defend­ant will resume his original seat. To hear sentence passed. And–”

  But Elsa, scurrying, like the wind-blown leaf she so much resembled tonight, back to her own seat—and already half­way there—paused, in mid-air, as it were, and spoke. “If Your Honor pleases—I have yet—please remember—my rights to a final address. But I waive that—providing that I may have, in lieu of it, about eight minutes—to introduce further testi­mony—and also further evidence—which I feel sure will induce Your Honor to issue a verdict of ‘Not Guilty as Charged.’” And, in a voice which only Elsa Colby heard, she added: “So I hope—God help Elsa Colby!”

  And now indeed the last vestiges of conversational murmur died completely. And the room was so quiet that the ticks of the big clock back of Penworth’s huge judicial table sounded like rifle-shots in a vast forest!

  CHAPTER XVII

  Lady in the Fish Market

  During the supreme silence which greeted her statement, Elsa regained her position at her end of the lawyers’ table. Moving slightly aside so that her client, clinking majestically along in her rear with his chain still gathered up in his hand, could take up his own seat.

  And, gazing diffidently about herself, Elsa had, at that moment, the illusion that she stood now in a great fish market—so many cold, querying eyes were fastened on her from all directions—frigid, gelid, glassy, intent, silently questioning eyes—eyes which looked but never moved.

  “Your Honor,” Vann was protesting, “the defense stated once tonight it had no witnesses—other than the defendant himself; who himself stated he could put on none. So therefore the defense has no more witnesses, and so—”

  “Oh, yes it has,” expostulated Elsa.

  “It has?” Vann’s voice was ironic. “Well—where are they?”

  “Out yonder.” And Elsa tossed her her head cryptically toward the fish stall of staring eyes.

  Vann turned and himself contemplated the fish stall. It was noticeable, however, that his gaze rested for the most of its time on the portly guest, on the high-ridged beak-like nose of Wah Lung. Then he turned—but addressed himself only to the Bench.

  “Your Honor,” he began again, “Miss Colby was given nine minutes talk with her client on the understanding that final addresses would then be rend—”

  “Wait, Mr. Vann.” And Penworth turned his head and surveyed Elsa curiously. “How does it happen, Miss Colby,” he asked, “that you have witnesses now—and evidence also—which, a few minutes back, you apparently didn’t have?”

  “Why, Your Honor? Well, just that lots has happened since a few minutes ago. For one thing, I’ve held considerably detailed consultation with my client.”

  “But supposedly only as to the points to be employed in your address to me,” said Penworth reprovingly. “That was what the semi-recess was given for.” He studied her puzzled­ly. “But in what way has your consultation now caused you to ask for further time and opportunity to further—ahem—string things out?”

  “Well, I am convinced now, after talking to my client, that he was in Minneapolis last night—in Mortimer King’s library—that that skull yonder is that of a one-eyed Swede gigolo known as ‘Blin—’”

  She stopped, dismayed. For a grin was spreading from one side of Vann’s face to the other. Angrily, she tossed her glance away from the hateful sight. And there—on Pen­worth’s face—she saw not exactly a grin, no, but a most masterful suppression of one in which, by very force of his cheek muscles, he was keeping it from spreading.

  “You actually mean, Miss Colby,” the latter said, “that after I proved this man a consummate liar by no less than mathematical analysis alone—he has turned around and convinced you that he’s told the truth?”

  “He’s convinced me,” said Elsa stubbornly, “that he was in King’s library in Minneapolis last night. And that that skull is the skull of a Swedish gig—”

  “What a man!” broke in Vann. “The defendant—I mean!”

  “‘What a man’ I fear is right!” sighed Judge Penworth.

  “And on the basis of his mere verbal assurances—” he flicked his head toward the defendant “—you now want to put up more witnesses—and evidence besides—to—But where is this—er—evidence?”

  “Well, under the circumstances, Your Honor,” Elsa replied—and a bit uneasily, too—“it’s somewhat hard to answer that question categorically. But I might
say that the evidence is virtually—and to all intents and purposes—right here in my lavender bag. Under the table here. Rather, should I perhaps say—in case my words are being made of official record—my evidence will be definitely such thanks to the contents of my lav—”

  The Judge interrupted her frowningly. “You’re admittedly evasive, Miss Colby! But let it be. But why, let me ask you now, has the alleged evidence in question not been produced before?”

  “Because”—and Elsa now felt that she had best be truthful, since she was, after all, flinging her last coin on the last turn of the wheel as it were—“if my client were guilty, Your Honor, it would have knocked his case into the—the—middle of the—the—deep blue sea. While, on the other hand, were he innocent, my evidence would—I felt no doubt—clear him. But I dared not offer it until I was at least convinced myself that the defendant had told the truth. The truth in essence, you understand.”

  “And if I refuse you the right to string out this trial fur­ther?” questioned Penworth sternly. “What then?”

  “In that case, Your Honor,” she said quietly, “I could do nothing else than take up my brief-case, and my lavender bag, and so forth, and walk out of this trial—and let the news­papers print the facts: how my client was denied, on pure technicalities, the right to put in testimony and evidence—and before even its very nature was known. To be sure, I would, in such a case, before even I had left the courtroom, be dis­barred by you! But at least, when the facts were printed, some rich eccentric with a passion for adjusting legal inequities would doubtlessly come forward and, quite aside from the moral aspects of the situation, appeal my client’s case to a higher court on the mere point of human rights.”

  Judge Penworth frowned. “This sounds very much like a threat to the court,” he commented.

  “Oh no, Your Honor,” Elsa returned blandly. “It is, at most, just a prediction of a likely eventuality that would cause opprobrium to fall on us all: the Court, Mr. Vann, and me—most particularly.”

  “How many—hrmph—witnesses—hrmph—how much evidence—hrmph—have you?”

  “Only two witnesses, Your Honor,” said Elsa hurriedly. “And just a very few items of evidence.”

  “And—hrmph—in your estimation it will require, to present all—”

  “Only eight minutes, more or less, Your Honor.”

  “And you expect, in those eight minutes, to prove your client’s story?”

  “Either that,” said Elsa quite boldly, “or to prove him a dam—excuse me—the King of Liars.”

  Penworth’s eyes opened wide. Then he turned to Vann.

  “Well, Mr. Vann, I’m sure I thought this trial was prac­tically at an end—as I’m sure you did too; but it seems that the peculiar combination of a youthful feminine attorney and a not unhandsome masculine client with a persuasive tongue—hrmph—it rather behooves us, though, don’t you think, Mr. Vann—at least in this particular case, with such an important later case dependent on its outcome—to—well—lean over backward, and see that the defendant gets his full meed of legal rights? Or-rhmph—what do you think?”

  Vann turned to Elsa Colby. “Bring ’em on, Miss Colby,” he said with suspicious graciousness.

  “For you to badger, huh?” countered Elsa, and not at all without seriousness.

  “Miss Colby”—Vann bowed “—since you’ve so magnan­imously conveyed to us all the interesting information that if your client is guilty, your evidence and testimony will lock him safe and tight in the chair—far be it from little me to interfere with your putting the rope around his neck. Indeed, I am going to settle down here on my—chair—sit down, that is—after a very hard evening’s work talking and drawing many facts from witnesses, and let you put the finishing touches on my work. So lead on—and here settles Louis J. Vann!”

  Elsa already was opening her portfolio and, from two books therein—one dog-eared and old, one bright and new—extracting the latter, the very jet-black varnish on its binding, and the brightness of its gilt letters showing it had been published but recently. She placed the book, however, so that its identifying backbone lay next to her own midriff. This done, she proceeded to extract from the portfolio three folded papers: one white, one ochre, and one a slate gray. And, that done, she leaned over and swung her lavender carpetbag up to the table top from underneath, showing again by the very ease with which she did it that, though it bulged, it was very, very light.

  But Penworth was speaking.

  “All right, Miss Colby. Let’s make it snappy. We’ll dispense with Clerk Mullins’ doing the calling. And you call your own witnesses. So—whom do you wish first?”

  “I wish,” said Elsa, raising her voice so that it would carry to the witness in question, who happened to be none other than the ebony-black negress in the back row, “Miss Rebecca Cohenstein!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Calling Miss Cohenstein

  The District Attorney, seated comfortably back in his chair, arms folded, brought his chair forward sharply.

  “Miss Cohenstein,” he said, without, however, rising, “hap­pens to be a State’s witness, Miss Colby.” There was a puzzled—though assuredly not worried—look on his face. “Even though the State hasn’t found it necessary to use her. So—”

  Elsa was gazing contemplatively upon him. “I really do happen to know enough about trial procedure, Mr. Vann,” she retorted, “to know that I can’t call any of your witnes­ses—as mine—unless I call them to establish points radically other than what you have elicited from them. But you never ques­tioned this witness at all, you’ll remember. So, if you care to use her first, I’ll gladly wait. Or even take her on cross-examination solely.”

  “Oh no—no,” Vann returned, obviously still puzzled, though plainly not disconcerted. “I’m sure I don’t know what you could possibly want Miss Cohenst—but carry on! I can elicit anything from Miss Cohenstein on cross-examination that I could on direct. Carry on!” And he tilted slowly back in his chair again, quite at sea.

  The powerfully built negress, of forty-two or thereabouts, who had been sitting alone all evening in that back row, was already bustling out of the row with a vigor that suggested she felt it was about time somebody called her—after nearly everybody else in the room had had his few minutes in the public eye. And a second later she was creaking, with huge steps, across the room on red patent-leather shoes that were both new and cheap, and taking the elevated witness chair. Now, a bit closer to the lights, she seemed, under her pancake hat of brilliant green, blacker than ever—her shirtwaist plaids screamed louder—and her long glass earrings were even more blood red.

  Elsa faced her, smiling reassuringly with at least a halfsmile. To which Miss Cohenstein returned one comprised by two rows of huge white teeth.

  “As witness now for the defense, Miss Cohenstein,” Elsa began, “and not the State—kindly give your name and address.”

  “Well, mah name, Miss Co’by, is Rebecca Cohenstein. Unma’ied. An’ ah libs wid mah two chillun on Souf Deah­bo’n St’eet—Numbah 2228—des on de eas’ fringe ob Chinatown.”

  “And where do you work, Miss Cohenstein?”

  “Well, Miss Co’by, Ah has th’ee payin’ jobs. Fus’, Ah is a scrub’ooman in de City Hall—nights. Den, two mohn’ins a week Ah washes up de office an’ libbin’ quatahs ob a dentist name’ Doctah Sun Chew Moy, in Chinatown, des a flea’s hop wes’ ob mah place ob res’dence. Fac’ is, Ah inhe’ted Doctah Sun f’m anoddah niggah ’ooman whut ma’ied an’ retiahed. And thud, Ah’s a p’fess’nal weepah.”

  “And since,” said Elsa dryly, “that will have considerable to do with your testimony tonight, perhaps you’d better explain to the Court just what that is?”

  “Well!—thought eb’raboddah knowed whut a weepah wuz, Miss Co’by. Ah weeps at Fun’als. In de Black Belt. An’ gits th’ee dollahs for a fun’al. Dat is, fo’ thutty minutes’ wee
pin’ at de su’vices—an’ fifteen minutes whilst de co’pse gittin’ lowahed into de grabe. Dey calls me—” And now she sat proudly erect, visibly glowing. “Dey calls me, in de Black Belt, de Queen ob de Weepahs!”

  “Meaning—”

  “Dat Ah kin th’ow de mostest teahs—an’ wid de quickes’ release—ob any ob dern ’fessional snifflahs.” She sniffed contemptuously.

  Judge Penworth leaned forward. “I don’t think, Miss Cohenstein,” he said, “that I quite fully understand several things. Now first, you say you are unmarried—yet speak quite freely of your two children. Meaning—”

  “Ho! Dem? Well, Ah put it to dem, yeahs an’ yeahs ago, Yo’ Honah, weddah Ah should ma’y dey wufless daddy. An’ dey bof say, ‘No, Maw, we don’ want de man ’round. So we all put de man out.”

  “I see,” said Penworth dryly. “Divorce by acclamation! But where did you get the name of Rebecca Cohenstein?”

  “Oh dat? Well, Yo’ Hannah, mah mammy, two days aftah huh fus’ husbum died, ma’ied old Jake Cohenstein—de wite man whut runned de fam’us ‘Black Man’s Pawnshop’ on State, neah Thutty-fus’. He axe huh dat if’n dey fus’ chil’ ’uz a boy, it’ll git call’ Isaac—or if it’s a gal, it’ll git call’ Rebecca. But when Ah commed, Ah—well, Yo’ Honah, dey wuzn’ a bit ob w’ite in me—’twuz plain dat Ah wuz de chil’ ob mah mammy an’ huh daid hushum—but my maw hab ’greed wid ol’ Jake dat de fus’ gal would git call’ Rebecca, an’ so Rebecca Ah wuz named. An’ is, today, ’count ob all dat: Miss Rebecca Cohenstein.” And Miss Cohenstein sat proud and erect, flashing a smile over the whole courtroom.

  “Well, the minor mysteries seem all cleared,” pronounced Penworth, with a faint smile at the corners of his own mouth, and settled back patiently in his chair.

  “Miss Cohenstein,” Elsa now asked, “when did you first become acquainted with me?”

  “Wid yo’? W’y—Ah come see you kase my son wuz in trouble.”