The Case of the Lavender Gripsack

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  And with a beaming nod from Adlai, and a cryptic half-smile back from Wah Lung himself, both men left, almost immediately flagging a taxicab which must have drawn up hopefully in front of this much lighted-up house.

  Now more people were leaving. And still more. And Elsa and Parks Wainright, several times unceremoniously divided apart, succeeded in drawing together once more to the safe side of the front doors.

  “Well, Elsa,” he said, “I’m glad my mere telling you I loved you tonight convinced you that you were warranted in playing the joker-ace. And thereby winning your case. And saving your fortune. But I can’t take money for that as you just suggested a couple of minutes back—really! And so—well—you asked me quite a while back just what you could do for me. And so I’ll tell you frankly what you can do—and which will be quite all I’ll accept. Try, Elsa, to love me—just the same as I do you—to love me enough to marry me eventually—a lug who’ll have to live by his writing wits for the rest of his days, and perhaps drag his wife all over the U.S.A. wherever a radio station wants material, or a magazine short of material has to close its forms. For in the few hectic hours of yesterday, Elsa—and all last night—that we’ve been together, I’ve realized that I’ve met the only girl I ever wanted—or ever thought I want—”

  And again they were interrupted!

  This time by Silas Moffit, who, on his lone way out, his umbrella under his arm, grouchily beckoned the girl over—a half dozen feet from the man who had been talking to her.

  “Well,” he said grumpily, “I’m leaving this place. And if you’ll drop into Manny’s office tomorr—rather, this morning, at eight, you can have back that assignment-contract that bothers you so much—in exchange, of course, for one just like it—but without the clause that seems to trouble you. Since—what’s that?—the Ft. Wayne man? Oh—hrmph—I’ll fix that up by phone. The clause that bothers your fool red head is quite dead now, anyway, since you’ve won your first criminal case. And furthermore, I tell you, ’twas only put in there originally to—hrmph—keep you on your toes. Which it’s done. And you can thank me, there­fore—and nobody else—for the winning of your case tonight. So stop by in the morning—and get your fool contract.” His hand now on the doorknob, he eyed her even more grumpily. “And I suppose now,” he added—and bitterness, utter defeat and frustration dripped from the tones of his voice, “I suppose,” he repeated—and now, obviously unable to control his tongue, downright biting sarcasm leaped—flayed—through his words, “you’re going to settle down to becoming a famous criminal lawyer, heh? This—this case having made our Elsa! Going to become famous, eh—in the courts of law?”

  “Not at all, Uncle,” the girl replied, gazing into his hard eyes. “You’re quite wrong there. I shan’t ever be practising any more—in Chicago or elsewhere. For, you see—” and she waved her freckled hand toward Parks Wainright, who stood off, a silent auditor to the conversation “—I’ve found the man I intend to make a home for. And there he stands, Uncle.”

  Silas Moffit, having now opened the front door for his own departure, turned, hand still on the knob, and gazed gelidly at Parks Wainright.

  “So?” he commented sourly. “And so he’s to be the father of the—the pack of inevitable red-headed brats who’ll—”

  “—play marbles, and air their dolls, on Colby’s Nugget—value, a hundred grand!” Parks Wainright replied urbanely.

  “No doubt! And later use it as a base from which to make hold-up forays. Their parents having both been connected with crime.” Silas Moffit paused. “Well, you’re both going to get married, eh? And probably blow every cent of my poor dear half-brother’s hard-earned money before even your first brat comes pewling forth. And so what—what,” he inquired caustically, “am I now supposed to do? To render my blessings—or what?”

  “You now depart violently from the scene, Uncle,” Parks Wainright explained courteously, “and, like the defeated villain in every perfect melodrama, you hurl back the single word ‘Curses’.”

  But, just as there is a glaring flow in every pattern of artistry, did Silas Moffit now fail to live up precisely to the matter or his own specified part in the Drama which had been played out here tonight. For the single word he hurled back, as he exited from the door, going out with a loud resounding slam, was:

  “Bah!”

  And once more the two stood alone, though sounds of feet and talking within the drawing-room far down the big hall showed that more persons would shortly be emerging.

  Elsa faced her ex-client. “In view of the fact,” she said archly, “that you know so darned much about how meller­drammers should end, howsabout—”

  “Right!” he said smilingly. And took her into his arms, and kissed her red upturned lips.

  THE END