The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “Howard,” he began, “I have been thinking very deeply about your predicament and mine. You tell me, of course, that there has never been a successful escape from this place without money or help from the outside. But there is always a first time to everything, you know. In fact, suppose I should tell you that I believe my mind is more keen than was the mind of those who designed this big sarcophagus of masonry and iron? That some day, some way, I will accomplish an escape. What would you think?”

  “I wish you could,” replied the other. “My best wishes would go with you.”

  “But suppose I should, old fellow? I could not bear to go from this land of lost hopes and leave you behind. Six years you say you have spent in this hellhole. God, Howard, this is no life for you. You have a right to start out once more in the world — under a new name — the crime for which you were sent here forgotten. Howard, I — I have a few friends on the outside. And I want you to join me when I have perfected my plans.”

  Hyde sat thinking for a long time. At last he spoke. “It would be impossible, Jonathan,” he said. “Much as I would like dearly to go out into that big outside world and have my freedom, my liberty, my fate is here — here in the wards of an insane asylum.”

  “But you are not insane.”

  “No, I am not. But I seldom parade that sentiment around here. What is the use?”

  “And the crime which causes you to remain here — you are innocent of it?”

  “In God’s name — yes. Absolutely innocent of it,” the other averred, deeply moved.

  “Then, why must you stay? Why — why?” persisted Middleton.

  The other was silent for a long time. Then he spoke. “You, dear Jonathan, shall know the truth. I will not longer keep you in the dark.” He paused. “Look out there.” He pointed far across the green lawns to the fringe of trees just barely visible at the edge of the grounds. “That is freedom for you, yes; but not for me. For they are there. And they will remain there until I am carried to the little State burying ground that lies near this institution.

  “They — they? Who are they, Howard?”

  “The French.”

  “The French?”

  “Yes, the French.” Hyde paused. “It is so easy and yet so hard to tell you. My father, as you are quite aware, fled to Holland. And in that he showed wisdom. But I, in the panic that seized me in those last wild days, fled to a submarine and came to the shores of America. I fled on — on — westward, trying, hoping that I could get to the Orient. But there — in Chicago — they found me. On every side I saw them, the cursed French spies, waiting, waiting, waiting to strike — to kill me. And I was desperate. For the world — and even the French — have never known the truth. Why, the world says that my father and I were the prime movers in the war! But we were against it, both, I tell you, from the very beginning. It was von Ebberling, von Kroch, von Zippermach, the grand war council who wanted that conflagration. We — father and I — hated the whole thing; but we were only pawns. Well, in Chicago, I knew when I saw the hundreds of faces of members of the French secret service that I was doomed — that I must work fast if I were to save my life. So I fled here to quiet Birkdale and I begged them to take me in, to save me. And they did so. But I can never leave. For they are there — everywhere — working as track labourers, as gardeners, in every capacity whatsoever for miles around this institution, every man of them with his stiletto, his bomb, his gun, waiting, waiting, waiting day and night, waiting for the moment when I shall fatuously step forth, waiting to strike me down and avenge the crime against Belgium!”

  A note of terror had crept into the speaker’s last words, and he turned a frightened gaze on Jerry Middleton. And in his eyes came momentarily a peculiar staring look — a look so elusive that it almost defied detection.

  Middleton rose suddenly. “I will be back in just a moment, Howard. Wait here.” He hurried from the little room and sped down the ward. Without even knocking he thrust open the door of old Pop Claggett’s room. Pop was busily engaged on the manuscript of his Universal Philosphy, but he looked up quickly. And Jerry Middleton lost no time. “Pop, who is Howard Hyde? Why was he sent here?”

  Pop raised his shaggy eyebrows in surprise. “Don’t ye know, lad?”

  “No.”

  “Wall — I thunk evv’ybody knowed why Howard was here. Young lawyer down in Mattoon, Howard was. Defended some o’ them ‘ere draft dodgers — folk began callin’ him the Kaiser’s son — it preyed on his mind — an’ fus’t thing they knowed he thunk he was the Crown Prince o’ Gurrmany, an’ that th’ French ‘uz after him. He — ”

  “The Crown Prince!” replied Middleton aghast. Castles had been tumbling fast in the last moment. “The Crown Prince — of Germany?” he repeated dazedly.

  “Yes, sirree. But fine lad, Howard, fine bright lad. Never brings his idees up afore folkses.”

  “Thanks, Pop.” He left Pop’s room, closing the door silently on the old man. He walked slowly back to where he had left his friend. The latter still sat, with sad eyes gazing out on that distant freedom. Middleton, came quickly up to him. He took the other’s hand. “Howard, I am in a position to know exactly how you feel about all these things.” He pressed the other’s hand silently. “Yes, Howard, I understand. I understand — only too well.”

  And he turned sadly away. A wonderful friend had come into his life, and then had gone as by the icy hand of death.

  CHAPTER XXII

  HERR DOCTOR VON ZERO

  JERRY MIDDLETON had studied the peculiar structure of the bars on each of the windows in Birkdale carefully. Each vertical bar was made with four vertical ridges, each ridge spaced exactly ninety degrees apart around the bar; and having worked in the Newcastle steel mills in New South Wales among such things as channel irons, angle irons and I-beams, he knew that these ridges, even though a bar were cut entirely through at one end, would make it almost impossible to bend it out or in because of the fact that they converted the bar into a miniature I-beam in four directions. This meant that the ridges themselves would have to be nicked, if not cut through, at the desired bending point.

  When the bedtime call came that night and the ward was quiet, he began his work, standing by his open window in the dark. At times he stepped back to his door and peeped down the hall. Svenson, the giant Swedish night-watch, remained seated under his solitary light playing stolidly away at his game of solitaire as though he, too, were but an inmate.

  Middleton first wrapped his shirt and two of his socks around the frame of the hacksaw so that it could not vibrate. Many dozens of times, during that year of estrangement from his father, he had used such a tool in the plant of the Broken Hill Company at Newcastle, and the putting together of the two segments of the frame and the adjusting of the saw blade in it had been almost second nature to him.

  He got through the first rib at last, but the going became much harder as his saw entered the thickest part of the bar. If not to rest himself alone, he went every few minutes to his door and peeped down the hall. But Svenson was still playing away, making long agonising studies of each card before he laid it down. In turn Middleton heard the big clock in the tower of the institution strike eleven and twelve. At the twelfth stroke he had got through the bar entirely. He knew now that he had seriously misjudged those bars; that this was going to be no simple hour’s labour. Indeed, he perceived only too plainly that he was going to work for the bigger part of the night. He sighed deeply, and mopped off his damp forehead. And with but this slight rest, he started on the second bar.

  It was three in the morning when he got through the second bar. The faintest suggestion of the coming day was visible, the dark just turning into a faint murky sort of grey. He took hold of one of the cut bars and tugged at it gently. But as he had anticipated, it was unbendable, almost immovable. The ribs, all eight of them, would have to be cut, for they were what gave the bar its tremendous strength.

  He knew now that he must work faster than he had. And so swiftly did h
e manipulate his saw that he broke his next two blades in succession, and at the sharp twanging snap of each one his heart beat like a trip-hammer. But his hurried trip to the door each time revealed Svenson still wrapped up in his efforts to build up his four piles to the aces. But as he was about to go back to his trying task, he saw the nightwatch suddenly rise and start out on one of those tours of inspection which were more to relieve the monotony of things than for any other cause. Whereupon Middleton popped into bed, saw and all, drew up the covers to his chin and in short order was lying with closed eyes and blank face.

  Svenson looked in, withdrew, and his feet continued to go clumping up one side of the ward and then back down the other. When Middleton tiptoed to his door and peered out Svenson was back at his card-table. And then the clock struck four. Middleton groaned. He must work fast now, faster than he had worked yet to-night. It took approximately two hours to get through a bar, and the ribs of both of these were yet to be cut.

  He climbed up on the broad windowsill now, and, gritting his teeth, started in. With the saw first to the right of the bar, then to the left, and finally in front of him, he cut in turn the whole four ribs on one of the bars, in momentary trepidation when he was cutting the outside one that he would drop the hacksaw, in which case it would surely be found next morning lying on the ground in direct line with the window. Placing it now to one side, and lowering his body, with feet still braced on the window-sill, he tried very cautiously the bendability of the bar. From the “give” of it now he knew that it could be bent inward, at least; but he did not attempt this, knowing that he had no leverage to get it back into its correct position, once cut. With this much seen to, he regained his saw and started on the other bar.

  The ribs of this he cut in turn, and so furiously did he work that it was four-thirty when he finished. He heard stirrings of carts, and sounds in the big kitchen that was some distance off from the main building of the institution, and he knew that he must work fast now. He got out his soap and stuffed up the cracks in the bars, and then, untangling the saw from all the articles of clothing which he had attached to it, he slipped into bed, waiting for the first light of dawn in which to do the more delicate work of applying the lamp-black.

  And when that first grey light did finally creep in, he arose once more. A glimpse down the hall showed him Svenson sitting back in his chair, hands thrust deep in pockets, no doubt exultant that his long watch was over. Blowing hard, Middleton disseminated all of the fine grey iron dust that lay scattered over the windowsill and lower cross-bar, sending it out into the damp outside air. Then with deft fingers he smoothed the crudely soaped cracks so well that soap and iron presented continuous surfaces. This done he dipped thumb and index finger of his right hand into the precious lamp-black and coated the soaped cracks until all evidences of the soft white filling within them was removed. The job was perfect. True, he had not had a moment’s sleep all night, but liberty — precious liberty — was now assured. He crawled back into his bed, his mind at rest, and settled himself into the sheets with a satisfied sigh.

  At breakfast that morning Jerry Middleton looked longingly on the plates of the other diners. Now that the suspense was over, as well as eight hours’ hard work, he could have eaten all four portions of the liver stew that stood on his table this morning — but he had to confine himself to one.

  Shortly after he had made up his ten beds that morning, Joe Blake came to him. “I have news for you, Jonathan,” he said. “You are to go before the clinic to-day.”

  “Clinic?” ejaculated Middleton blankly. “Clinic?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” said Blake. “I have just been telephoned to from downstairs. A famous doctor by the name of von Zero. from Austria, is spending three days here in this institution. He is scheduled to hold a number of clinics on several patients about the place. You are the first patient whom he will see. And I hope, Jonathan,” he added kindly, “that he can restore you to your true self, for I have heard somewhat of your case.”

  “Where — where is the clinic to be held?” Middleton queried.

  “Right here in the ward,” replied the attendant. “Now I want you to get yourself well washed and brushed up to-day. This is not shave day, but you will come to my office in a few moments and get shaved anyway. And I think I will trim your hair a bit around the ears.”

  Middleton changed his shirt, and he changed the saw with it. That saw was getting exceedingly tiresome. He threw the remainder of the soap piece by piece down one of the washbowls in the washroom, and ran hot water after it. Then he followed it with the lamp-black, which was carried away quickly by the stream. There was no disposing thus of that steel incubus beneath his arm, however. He carried it with him even while he was being shaved, and he carried it with him all the rest of the morning.

  It was just after the noon meal that Blake began to prepare the ward for the impending clinic. The inmates were all herded down the ward toward the end occupied by the large dormitory and a rope was tied entirely across the corridor from one of the spurious doorknobs on one side to one of the like kind on the other. The inmates were then warned that during the clinic no man could pass beyond that rope, and that absolute quiet must be maintained.

  There was general dissatisfaction expressed, and much grumbling, and Jerry Middleton suddenly found himself an object of interest when they learned that he was to be the subject of the clinic and of the famous visiting Austrian psychiatrist.

  Most of the fifty-four members of Ward A-i had retired to the dormitory by this time, for the big windows gave a cheerful daylight here, at least. Men were sitting grumbling on beds and floor and on window-sills, in ill humour at being deprived of their accustomed chairs and card-tables. At last Blake appeared in the dormitory and nodded his head to Middleton. All card games ceased instantly.

  “You will take your place among the doctors now, Jonathan,” he said. “Take the big chair in the middle of the circle — the one with the arms. Duck under the rope as you pass.”

  With some trepidation with respect to this experience, which only a few days ago he would have greeted with interest, Middleton made his way under the rope barrier, to the gap between the two screens, and stepped within. He saw perhaps twenty doctors, with undoubted professional air, many of them young, all of them serious, seated around in a more or less lackadaisical attitude; among them Dr. Odza with his tortoise-shell spectacles. Many notebooks were in evidence here and there.

  As he had been directed to do, Jerry Middleton took the unoccupied chair with handles in the middle of the circle. There was little interest, however, displayed in his arrival on the scene. He perceived plainly that in this clinic he was not the large frog.

  Hardly had he taken his seat, than the front door of the ward again opened and closed. Footsteps came down the broad corridor. And through the gap in that pair of screens appeared Stonecipher, at his elbow a man with a peculiarly shaped leather case in his hand.

  “Gentlemen — and ladies,” Stonecipher declared, “I have the great pleasure of introducing to you Herr Doctor Meister-Professor Hugo von Zero, of Austria, the discoverer of von Zero’s psychosis, or Auto-Hypnotic Pseudo-Paranoia.”

  The great scientist who stood at Stonecipher’s side, towering a head above him, and bowing generously in every direction to the craning necks of these younger members of the school of psychiatry, was of undoubted German type. His hair, like Stonecipher’s, was thin on top, but what there was was combed rigorously.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” he said perfunctorily, bowing once more in every direction.

  Stonecipher again took the floor. “Now, Doctor von Zero, this is the patient whose case-history we ran over together this morning.” He opened the bulky manilla folder at one of the pages containing pasted newspaper clippings. “To refresh your mind,” he explained. “The patient’s face is undoubtedly similar, do you not think, to the published pictures of Jerome Middleton? Take for instance this picture minus the spectacles — ” He handed the cas
e-history to von Zero.

  “I would say yes,” said von Zero enthusiastically, moving his eyes from Middleton’s face to the clippings in the case-history, and then back again. “And I will say that the chances are exceedingly great that we have here a genuine case of Auto-Hypnotic Pseudo-Paranoia. Well, we will have to look into this.”

  He handed back the case-history to Stonecipher, and stepping over to Middleton looked into the pupil of each of the latter’s eyes sagely.

  “How do you feel, my man?” von Zero said, with sudden officiousness.

  There was, in his cold scientific voice, a lack of real human solicitude — a tone that instantly caused Middleton to resent instinctively the other’s whole attitude. “I do not feel so well as I might,” he replied curtly and coolly.

  “Ah,” said von Zero, “but the day may come, my man, when you shall bless the name of von Zero. Well, we shall see.”

  He sat down easily on the broad arm of a chair near Middleton. Stonecipher had taken up a seat in the circle.

  “My man,” said von Zero suddenly, “do you dream?”

  Middleton nodded. This drama was very serious to these people, but to him it was a farce. “I do,” he replied quietly.

  “Yes — what do you dream?” asked von Zero. “Recite to me, if you will, your last dream?”

  Middleton made no reply for a moment. Then he mentally shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “in the last dream which I had — and the only one which I can remember — I seemed to be, as the dream opened, in a giant forest where the trees were so thick that they barred my progress. It seemed that I dipped down into a pool in the forest where I was — a pool where fishes were sporting about — and seized the snout of a sword-fish which came easily to hand, and with that I proceeded to touch each tree. And, as I touched the trees, they seemed to fall apart and make a gap — a sort of forest path.”