The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “Well, I’ll be — ” The sergeant looked rather blank. “I — I ought to have put two an’ two together — why — o’ course, you’d be one and the same person. Now say — what was the idea in that, my man?”

  “The idea?” repeated Middleton curiously. “The idea?” His voice took on an ill-concealed tone of sarcasm. “Why, no idea other than to catch a gang of men red-handed who were out to kill and assassinate everybody who has a fortune.”

  “H’m.” Gearty looked dumfoundedly at him. He dropped back weakly into his own chair. His voice now took on a friendlier tone. “Tell me, my boy, just what you saw to-night — and what you did.”

  Middleton sighed. It was beginning to look as though the police, as do police the world over, had failed in what should have been a sure undertaking. But he was asked to re-state the occurrences of that evening, and he proceeded to do so very briefly — and without touching at all upon what he was doing in the deserted house at No. 44. Through it all, Gearty listened attentively. At the conclusion Middleton raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “And there you are,” he said. “Did you get them — or didn’t you get them? I did my part.”

  Gearty made no answer. He appeared puzzled. “Where did you get these?” he asked suddenly, producing from a drawer in his desk the spectacles which had been taken from Middleton’s pockets downstairs fifteen minutes before.

  “Haven’t you read in the papers about those?” asked the young man pityingly. “Do you people have to be explained everything? Those, I regret to say, are the famous spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro of Europe, left me by my honoured father.”

  Gearty reflected a moment. He seemed to be a man in a quandary. Then he motioned to the turnkey. “Take him downstairs and lock him up for the present.” He addressed a single sentence to the captive, a sentence neither friendly or unfriendly — but extremely non-committal in tone. “I’ll talk to you later.” And with a brief nod, he left the little room, and Middleton found himself once more being shunted downstairs.

  It was almost a full half-hour before he was again brought upstairs. He was taken to the same room as before. This time there was a young alert man with snapping brown eyes and extremely live bearing sitting with Gearty at the table; also a young woman near-by with pencil poised over notebook. A couple of policemen stood patiently at the rear wall. Again Middleton was motioned to a seat.

  “Mr. Middleton, this is Mr. George Wexney, chief of the Chicago branch of the United States Secret Service,” Gearty said courteously. “I’ve called him in to get into the clear on this anarchist meeting. Will you again relate the details you related a while back?”

  Middleton stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wexney. I’m the man that Fate picked out to uncover this bloodthirsty meeting to-night.” His face fell. “But I gather that the police failed to round them up. Is that correct?”

  The young secret service chief appeared to be a little nonplussed. “Yes, they did fail — at least on the directions that were sent in to them. But suppose we hear the facts once more, and see where the error lay.”

  And so once more Middleton rehearsed the story painstakingly, and as he did so he noted that the girl was taking every detail down in shorthand. The two men heard him through attentively. Then Wexney spoke, friendly.

  “You came near marrying Miss Martindale yourself, didn’t you, eh, Mr. Middleton?”

  “I can only refer you to the engagement announcements of some weeks back,” said Middleton diplomatically. “At least the papers seemed to think I was rather close — to the altar.”

  Gearty leaned forward. His face had grown suddenly black and scowling. “Now, see here, my man, damn me if I’ll fool any longer. You come clean with me. Did Middleton himself pay you for that stunt — or who did?”

  “Did Middleton pay me?” repeated the victim of this verbal onslaught, taken aback. He suddenly laughed aloud. “Did I pay myself, you mean?” He shook his head. “No, not at all.” He leaned forward. “Gentlemen, are you both dead from the neck up? I can see now that you still don’t believe that I’m Jerome Middleton. But let that go. The main question is this: Are you going to let a gang of dangerous radicals get away after what they prepared for to-night? Why — why, they may be there yet, if you didn’t act on that information I sent in to you. Why don’t you get them before it’s too late?”

  Wexney looked at Gearty and Gearty looked at Wexney. A message seemed to flash between them, and for the first time Middleton wondered whether the police themselves could be in the conspiracy that was hatched that night. It was Wexney who broke the silence.

  “Of course, Sergeant Gearty, you may really have acted upon what was misinformation. It might pay to check fully up on that. You know yourself the trouble we’re having this year with anti-social activities of all sorts.”

  Gearty ruminated. “Well, tell you what you do then. On your way out fix me up that paper you spoke of and leave it on my desk. I’ll have McGrogan, Cassidy and Wheeney go with him over the exact ground where he saw all this, and we’ll try once more if we can uncover where the mistake was — if mistake there was.” He turned to Middleton. “Now, my man, it’s a strange story you tell to-night about this anarchist meeting and we don’t know how much of it to believe. But we do want you to go over to the Federal bureau, and see if you can pick out from a certain number of well-known radicals this old man that you saw to-night. Would you know that old man if Inspector Wexney here has him brought up for identification?”

  “I’d know him immediately,” declared Middleton, rising. “And if you ever locate this gang and want any help in rounding them up, just give me a gun and let me in on it. God knows I ought to help — considering the bloody devils are after me.”

  Gearty rose. He sighed the sigh of a tired man. “Is the wagon ready, McGrogan? If not, call down for it.”

  And in five minutes Middleton was seated in the patrol-wagon on his way to the Federal bureau on an interesting search.

  Wexney had driven off from the station in a light runabout a minute ahead of the patrol-wagon. He took a different course, evidently to reach the Federal bureau ahead of the others, and start the machinery of the law to bringing in those whose names were registered there as suspicious individuals. The patrol bowled south a block, then turned west, and within a couple of minutes was drawing up in front of the old wooden house where Middleton had changed clothes that night. “Is this the place you referred to — or is it next door?” one of the officers asked.

  “This is the place where I saw the whole thing,” Middleton said slowly. “Now if we can go inside I’ll show you exactly where the place was.”

  The party all climbed out, but Middleton noted that one officer kept directly ahead of him as they went up the steps, one kept to his side with a light hand touch on his arm, and one kept a few steps to the rear. The first indications he found that the house had been visited to-night by the police was the splintered condition of the lock on the front door as the man ahead turned the beam of a powerful electric pocket torch upon it and his companion untangled and untied a length of coarse twine with which the broken-in door had been closed to again. If this was the clumsy way they had made their raid, Middleton reflected ironically, no wonder they had alarmed their prey next door and failed altogether in their quest.

  With the opening of the front door, the bright beam of the torch cut the darkness of the front hall, and by its aid Middleton conducted them down it, past the once barricaded and unsafe stairway that led to the floor above but from which the barricades had been torn ruthlessly away by the searching party, on to that further door of the rear room where he had changed his clothes that night. The bright circle of light emanating from the torch now showed still further evidences of the visit the police had made there that night: the clothing Middleton had doffed had been all taken away by them, likewise the mirror and alarm clock — everything that pointed to even a partial tenancy of the old house, and he might have been in doubt that he had even been in
this room except for the same dank, musty smell, the same enormous pink roses on the wallpaper, and the same bulges where it had failed to adhere to damp walls.

  He pointed across the room to the one tall window. The beam picked it out.

  “The exact point from which I saw this meeting,” he said, “is just about fifteen feet from that closed window, directly opposite and directly on the same level. You could reach the other window by thrusting a good-sized fishpole horizontally across.”

  The man with the powerful torch approached the window and flashed it forth through the pane into the darkness. A moment later he called back: “Then just come over here.” He waited till all three had picked their way across the intervening space. “Now have a look for yourselves,” he commanded. “You see, don’t you, why we didn’t pinch no reds to-night, eh?”

  The torch, pouring its brilliant beam through the darkness outside, illuminated a piece of solid brick wall unbroken by any aperture whatsoever, much less a window. The wall stood about six feet distant, and the mortar in its bricks showed gleaming white in the dazzling light. It was, manifestly, nothing else than the side of a massive building; and that building could be no other than the warehouse adjoining. Middleton’s lower jaw fell in utter perplexity. Had he dreamed it all?

  “Why — why — I’d have sworn it was from this window I saw it. But I’m wrong, that’s all. I’m wrong. It isn’t the place. Why — why — it can’t be in this room. It must be — ” He stopped. “I say, this must be a double house at back here. Or else there’s another room near-by that’s a duplicate of this. That’s all. Yes — there must be another room up the hall or down it that’s a duplicate of it.” And he knew now that he had solved the enigma — the whole party had strayed into a duplicate room. “Well, say, that’s a jolly good joke on all of us — who would have thought it? No wonder you people couldn’t accomplish anything. I’m no better than you myself. Well — let’s carry on. Let’s find the real room now.”

  But the man with the torch turned from the window. “We’ll have to leave that till later. We’ll call back again.” He was talking more to his brother officers than to Middleton. “Chief Gearty said get to the Federal bureau right away, and not waste but a minute or two here. So come on.” And he peremptorily led the way back to the waiting patrol-wagon, while Middleton once more joined the procession with a helpless shrug of the shoulders.

  Almost a mile and a half the wagon threaded its way through city streets, and at length the Federal building — as was evidenced by its turrets and stout construction of red brick — loomed up. They all got out once more, and again one officer led the way inside while one wound up the rear. A man was evidently expecting them, for he stepped forward from a desk near the entrance and with a few words of greeting to the policeman in front, nodded his head in a most friendly manner to Middleton. “Good evening. Just this way.”

  It was interesting, the extreme care taken in the Federal building to ensure privacy, for the secretary or official had to unlock the door of the suite of offices where the identification, if any, was to be made. Then talking carelessly with the officer who had led the procession, and who had paused to light a cigar, he motioned Middleton with a casual nod of his head to precede them inside.

  Middleton did so. He noted that already they had gathered up quite a group of suspects, and that he was stepping into the identification room itself. It was a dreary-looking place, this place where men were brought to be scanned by other men, for the only seat in evidence was one long uncomfortable-looking wooden bench riveted fast to the wall. And it was an odd looking place in other respects, for every angle between the walls themselves, and the floor as well, was beautifully rounded out in a perfect curve instead of being sharp-edged. The windows were tall and narrow, and bore powerful gratings padlocked both on the inside and outside as well. A steam radiator along one wall was likewise completely covered from top to bottom by a grating. As he paused within the threshold, waiting politely for the rest of the party to follow him, he heard the sharp snap of a spring lock. He turned abruptly, only to see that the door through which he had just entered had shut tightly on him. Then suddenly a gibberish shriek burst forth into the air, and one of the men seated on the long bench turned a somersault across the floor, rose to his feet, and began shouting a stream of foreign language into the air at nothing. And with a sudden tremendous surge of comprehension, it was made clear for the first time to Middleton where he was and what had happened to him.

  The police had not believed his story. They had made the grievous error of considering him demented. And that he was now locked in a detention station of some sort where lunatics were confined before incarceration in an insane asylum was so evident as to require no further confirmation.

  CHAPTER IX

  UNDER THE SCEPTRE OF KINGS KELLY

  UNDECIDEDLY, Jerry Middleton stood where he was. The row of woebegone human figures sprawled on the long bench along the wall seemed to be little interested in his arrival; one or two, particularly one thin-visaged, pasty-faced fellow with twitching lips, dressed in tattered shirt and trousers belted with a piece of clothesline, looked interestedly in his direction, but the most of them appeared lost in the mazes of their own sad reflections. Thus he stood for a quarter of a minute. Then he walked back and tried the knob of the door through which he had come. But it was locked tight; it did not so much as rattle, and this was exactly as he knew it would be.

  But as he turned away from this unsuccessful quest, he suddenly heard a man talking, and became cognisant for the first time as he turned his gaze in that direction, that around a jut in the wall was a small enclosure of some kind — a sort of small office — with a door and a grating through which its occupant could survey at all times this larger room. Indeed, through the grating Middleton espied a huge giant with bullet head and a cauliflowered ear speaking into a simple telephone that appeared to connect with the outside world. A moment later the giant hung up, and a powerful door to the right of the grating opened. The occupant now stood in the doorway, and he was at least six feet six in height, and almost as broad in proportion, so it seemed to Middleton.

  “This way,” the giant commanded gruffly.

  It was not a particularly coaxing tone, but Middleton followed the directions nevertheless. With eyes that took in every detail of the other’s powerfully-built form, he surveyed the giant — and waited politely. At back of the other, under an electric bulb, was a small desk covered with records of some sort, and even as he spoke he consulted a pad in his hand on which he had evidently been taking notes on the telephone.

  “ ‘Tis Doe is y’r name, ain’t it?” were his first words.

  “No,” replied the young man briefly. “Middleton is my name.”

  “Yes, but ‘tis Doe that ye are entered in here as. Jon — Jon — Jonathan Doe. Well, no matter what y’r name is, do ye know where ye are?”

  “I can gather,” replied Middleton, “that I’m in some sort of a place of detention where lunatics are confined. How about it?”

  “Right ye are, on the first guess. ‘Tis in the Cook County Detintion Station ye are. And some calls it the Psycopathic Hospital. Well, we’ll lave thot be. Now, me man, a fri’ndly wurr’d or two to ye. ‘Tis looney they thinks ye are, and ‘tis sane ye thinks ye are, as does iverybody else who comes in here. Whether ‘tis looney ye are or ‘tis sane ye are is determined by the county coort which will hear your case.”

  “The county court will never hear my case,” said Middleton with a curt laugh, “for the reason that I’ll be out of here within just about three hours.”

  “ ‘Tis not the first time I have heard that story,” said the giant sagely. “But we’ll lave thot rest. Now Doe, ye are in prison so to speak, f’r th’ time bein’, and in prison ye must remain. For ye are here on th’ order of a doctor’s signed certif’cate.”

  “A doctor’s signed certificate?” echoed Middleton wonderingly. “And whose is the doctor’s name signed to that certifi
cate, I’d like to ask.”

  “Ye are locked up on a commitment certif’cate signed by Dr. George Wexney.”

  “Dr. — George — Wexney?” repeated Middleton, aghast at the duplicity that had been practised on him that night. “Doctor — Wexney! Chief of the secret service — bah — that bunch of rotters back there in the police-station. I’d like to tell them what I think of them.”

  The giant shrugged his shoulders. He spoke again. “Now, me bye, ‘tis not me that’s here alone takin’ care of the lunytics in th’ Detintion Station to-night. There be a dozen push-bells — on every wall, if I do be needin’ help, but it’s thinkin’ I am that I can handle anny three of ye, do ye all incline to start any rough-house. If anny if ye do — or if ye do alone — ye will find yourself in a strait jacket and strapped into a chair f’r th’ rest o’ th’ night. I am here to keep order and see that each man of ye stays put. Now is it fri’nds we’re goin’ to be — or do ye incline to a bit o’ rough-house?”

  “Well, your term rough-house is a little new to me,” said Middleton, “but I believe we may as well be friends considering that we are going to be together such a short while. So I won’t start anything.”

  “ ‘Tis good,” said the giant paternally. “Remimber, me bye, I make a report of y’r conduct here which is submitted before the coort which tries ye for your mind. Now my name is Kelly — Big Kelly, I am called. In th’ mornin’ my brother comes on to take th’ day shift. His name is Little Kelly. He will continny with this report that I have started. Is there anny questions ye will ask?”

  Middleton shook his head. “Only one: what arrangements can I make with you to get a letter out to a friend?”

  Kelly shook his head. “ ‘Tis only by the permission o’ th’ doctor who will examine ye to-morrow that I can send out anny letters. ‘Twould be letters for kings an’ emp’rors an’ the Pope hisself we would be mailin’ out did we send the letters that the patients here gives us. So advise ye I will to write no letters. ‘Tis only to the doctor or to the wastebasket they will go.”