The Complete Simon Iff (60 page)

"Adams had gone to lunch immediately after handing the packet to the messenger. The clerks noticed that his face was grey as if with fear, and that his hands were trembling.

"He returned an hour later, still agitated, as if he had partially failed to conjure the peril that awaited him. He had spent the hour, not at lunch, but in a crazy dash up town to the boarding-house, where he had stayed less than ten minutes.

"It being physically impossible for any other person to have committed the theft, he was tackled outright. He met the charge with stubborn denial. He admitted the logic of the situation fearlessly and firmly. He confessed that he could not suggest any alternative to the obvious conclusion. But he stuck stoutly to his statement. It was very striking to observe that his agitation ceased instantly when he heard the accusation. He was frightfully pale, but the calmest man in the office. 'I can't excuse it; I can't explain it. I didn't do it. It's beyond imagination. I am in the hands of God.' They walked him off on those words."

Simon Iff mused awhile over this story. He recognized, despite the wide divergence of form, the almost fanatical faith and firmness of the sister in that of the brother. Her integrity in her infamy was the same as his in his innocence; and the certainty of her candour as a sinner induced him to put confidence in his as a saint!

"This is your first robbery; by the way?"

"Why, no!" cried Lubeck suddenly troubled, without quite knowing why. We've had more than I care to think about, right along for years and years. The fact is, Mr. Iff, I'm what they call an easy mark. I like to trust people; Wall Street is wasted on me. I can't seem to learn sense--the truth is, I guess, that I won't. I'd sooner be a sucker than sour on humanity."

"Mr. Lubeck," said Iff, his eyes very bright, "you're a pretty good man of business, from my point of view. You've had the good sense not to sell your soul to save a few dollars; the power to love and trust is a man's best asset when he balances the books of his life."

"That's about the way I feel," returned the broker, simply. "Do you see any way out for Stephen? I'd give more than a cancelled coupon this hadn't happened."

"May I look at the office?"

"Sure; this way."

"Don't hope enough to hurt yourself," Iff warned him; "I can't see one spark. Yet I feel a sort of feeble flutter somewhere as if something might turn up. Is that the scene of the crime?"

"Yep," answered Lubeck, his hand on the knob of the door.

They went in. Hobbs and Jackson were busy on the books; they stood up respectfully as their employer appeared.

Iff swept the room with his glance. Its walls and roof were of opaque glass, framed in varnished oak. All was spotless and orderly, from the desks to the safe. There was no way to enter the room save the one door; the window had not even a sill, and open on a sheer smooth wall ninety feet above Broadway.

Lubeck, following his guest's eyes, volunteered that on the day of the theft the window had been closed, as a bitter wind was blowing, with sleet.

"Not a place for a rabbit to hide," remarked the broker, sadly.

"Unless in some conjurer's hat," laughed Simon, touching a 'Derby' that hung from a peg behind the door. A thought seemed to strike him; his eyes darted from the hat to the two men.

The second hat was of soft felt, old and much worn, but well kept, while the 'Derby,' though nearly new, bore marks of grease. One might have fancied it begging to be brushed.

There was no need to enquire which of the men owned it. Jackson was dressed in shabby shoddy; it shone where the nap had been rubbed smooth. But the trousers had been carefully pressed, and the cuffs of the cheap cotton shirt were protected by paper.

Hobbs, on the contrary, with far better clothes, was careless about them. His whole appearance was that of some eccentric recluse, too much absorbed in study to pay attention to externals.

Lubeck introduced him as the best cashier in 'little old New York.' "He lives for his work; we have to wake him up to go home."

Iff recognized the eyes of an enthusiast; the man evidently itched to get back to his books. But the magician was not interested in the merits of Hobbs; he was looking for something out of the common, something that nobody had noticed. A trifle might tell him more than a treatise, just as the almost imperceptible aberration of a planet indicates some invisible influence more significant than all the rest of its orbit.

There was only one object in the office which seemed superfluous in that ideally efficient and economical arrangement. Everything was planned for three people, from the chairs and the telephone to the blotters and the hat-pegs. The third man being out, the third peg was vacant; and Iff, as he mentally recorded this instance of the fitness of things, was reminded of a minute matter that meant nothing, that had not aroused any augmented attention. In a recess of the wall near the window there was a fourth hat-peg. Simon swerved sharply from the door, and inspected this intrusive superfluity that insulted the three-ness of the furniture. He pointed an enquiring finger at it as he noted that it looked newer than its rivals for the rapture of being garnished with headgear and overcoats.

He heard Hobbs chuckle, and Jackson giggle, over his shoulder.

"A painful subject," said the cashier. "I hate to think of it. That hook was put up to humour a fad of poor old 'Sterilized Stephen.' I guess you've heard the story. Goldurn it, I'd give a month's pay to think we all got it wrong."

Jackson was angry with himself for having laughed, and murmured something about how horrible was temptation.

"Temptation, hell," growled Hobbs, "must have known he'd be spotted straight off. My belief is he went plumb crazy, didn't know what he was doing. Seems to me that fool fad of his about dirt and germs was a sign he had bats in his belfry. Wouldn't hang his things up with ours, what d'ye know about that?"

Simon Iff had turned to face the speaker.

"Mr. Hobbs, let me thank you most heartily for your remarks. I believe in my soul that you have thrown very full light on the case. I must go off now--but I hope to see you again very soon--perhaps to thank you for helping me to get an innocent lad out of prison."

Five minutes later, Simon Iff was on his way to apply for a permit to visit the convicted cashier.

III

It was three days later when the magician stepped from his automobile across the threshold of the gaol where Stephen Adams was serving the first weeks of his sentence. He had taken unusual pains with his toilet. "Mollie, my dear, I must look as if I had sprung out of a bandbox," he had insisted, and Mollie had been made to assure him over and over, with the most terrific oaths, that she had removed the last obstinate staphylococcus from the last square millimetre of his coat.

His first act was to hand the governor of the prison an order to permit an investigation of the mental condition of the convict Stephen Adams. "It would be charming if you and the prison doctor would agree to witness my little experiment," he purred, "it's a bit out of the usual line." The governor assented cordially enough, and sent for the medical officer. The three men found Adams in his cell. He appeared exhausted as if by severe mental strain, but stood up readily enough at the summons.

"I prefer not to explain the object of my enquiry at present," began Iff; "I merely beg that you gentlemen will make careful notes of the prisoner's reactions to what I say or do."

He then approached the convict, and began a conversation with him, cheerful in tone, and trivial in subject. As he talked he made violent gestures, touching the boy several times. Once he dropped his note book; it was instantly picked up and returned to him. After some ten minutes of this, Iff turned suddenly to the witnesses, and asked if they had remarked anything unusual. Both shook their heads. They seemed surprised that Iff showed no disappointment.

"Perfectly sane? Perfectly normal?" Iff asked.

"As any of us."

"Quite perfect," came the answers.

"Every faculty in full free function?"

"Certainly," the governor nodded.

"Much above the average all around," affirmed the doctor.

Iff turned again to the prisoner, and resumed the thread of his previous remarks. His manner was in all respects unchanged; yet after a few seconds Stephen started back, as if he had received a blow. His face paled; his eyes glared in horror; he shrank back trembling from the magician as if he saw a ghost. He struggled to answer Iff's questions, but did so at random, either misunderstanding what was said or replying irrationally. The magician worried him twice round the cell, and then left him shuddering in a corner. He next proceeded to execute a fantastic war-dance, with howls, ending in a double somersault. He then returned to the door, and requested the doctor to ask Adams to describe what had taken place.

The convict made a powerful effort to control himself. As he spoke, he recovered little by little. He gave a more or less connected account of the conversation, but omitted to report the majority of Iff's actions. The doctor prompting him, he acknowledged with apologies that he had "somehow forgotten;" but he denied positively that the final dance had ever taken place.

The officials signalled their bewilderment.

"What does it mean?" cried the governor.

"May I tell you in your room?"

The governor nodded; the visitors retired, Iff waving his hand to the prisoner, and bidding him count confidently on being out in a month at most.

"First of all, gentlemen," said Simon Iff, settling himself in a huge leather chair, "I may assume that you have no doubts as to the genuineness of the behaviour of that boy?"

"Barring your having put him up to it, which is absurd, it's impossible. It would be senseless."

"He had no idea of your object," chimed in the governor: "nor, for that matter, have we!"

"Next," pursued Simon. "Will you please examine me closely? Am I in any way altered since I was last in this room?"

Inspection gave negative results.

"Tut," cried Iff, "your old gaol wants a wash! Just look at my coat! These cuffs were clean this morning! How did that spot get on my shirt? My nails are simply disgraceful!"

"Search me," laughed one, to conceal his sense of shame.

"Modern psychology offers numerous alternative explanations of the phenomenon," pronounced the other, to smoke-screen his ignorance.

"All I ask you to do is to write a report of the facts as you saw them, and send it to the District Attorney. You'll hear the results in a few days--excuse me, won't you now. I'm hot on a trail, and ever so many thanks for your kindness and assistance."

He bowed and smiled himself out of the gaol, and told Dobson to 'step on it' all the way back to Gotham. A telephone call secured him the company of Mr. Lubeck at dinner, where he proposed a programme which pleased, even while it puzzled, the kind-hearted old broker.

IV

Stephen's sister came back from Atlantic City with colour in her cheeks instead of on them; Simon Iff wasted no time in telling her the results of his week's work.

"The hard half has been done, my dear; we know Stephen didn't do it, and we know who did. We know how it was done, what's more; and for that we must blame--you'll never guess--your Aunt Dorcas!"

"Aunt Dorcas!" echoed the girl blankly.

"Nobody else. Let me tell you the whole story as it happened. Here's a boy, kept away from danger (damn the fools) till he is afraid of every mortal thing he hears or sees. It's sin or sickness, hell or hospital, lying in ambush for everything he does! He is never allowed a chance to find out for himself that most of these horrors are bogies. He never faces his fears; they occupy his whole outlook; he devotes himself heart and soul to dodging them. As it happens, he reads a lot of exaggerated rubbish about germs, and his mind is obsessed about them. He becomes 'Sterilized Stephen.' The approach of 'infection' terrifies him clean out of his wits, so that he is unable to see what is in front of his eyes. A cowardly thief is cunning enough to make a plan to take advantage of this. He threatens to touch the boy with some unusually dirty object, knowing that his senses will be paralysed with fear; while Stephen is in this state, he substitutes forged bonds for genuine in the packet on the desk. Your brother sees nothing; ten seconds, and the thief is away. Stephen picks himself up still dazed, with no thought, no reason to think, to examine the bonds. He seals up the packet..."

The girl's teeth were clenched with rage; her breath came hissing through them.

"But why did he bolt uptown?" she asked as Iff paused.

"I suppose he went to his coat for some patent disinfectant he favoured--and that the thief had stolen it, judging that Stephen would rush home for more. He's a good psychologist, the skunk; it all panned out according to schedule."

"How can I ever thank you--I feel frightfully bad about it."

"Nothing done yet, my dear, I'm sorry to say. The last half looks a pretty tough proposition. It's not a soft job to put one over on friend Hobbs--and that's where you come in!"

"I? How?" cried the startled girl.

V

The gift--or the achievement--of concentration upon the work in hand is a two-edged sword. Having deliberately shut oneself off from full attention to one's surroundings, there remains a penumbra of vague consciousness of what is presented to the senses. As long as everything passes normally, there need be no disquietude, still less disturbance; but when the routine of nature (as it seems to the worker) is disorganized; a very curious and distinctly unpleasant phenomenon takes place. One cannot remain perfectly absorbed in contemplation of the 'bright spot in one's mind'--so to call it. At the same time, the habit of concentration persists, and prevents one from turning one's searchlight upon the moving shadows of the background. One realizes dimly that something is going on which is unusual, and demands immediate attention; but one cannot awake sufficiently--unless the disturbance is very serious indeed--to feel sure that one's impressions are justly apprehended. The feeling of uneasiness is on such occassions not that which we associate with straightforward doubt as to what is happening; there is a touch of some equivalent of "a bad conscience" connected with it. One feels that one ought to be able to describe events accurately, as one could in normal conditions: and the inability to do so takes the form of a sort of timid reproach to the observer. He feels himself somehow an inferior--to himself as he naturally is. Against this the will to concentrate reacts, often with violence: knowing (as one thinks) that whatever it is cannot be of any real importance, and therefore ought not to be allowed to interfere at all with one's work, one pushes it away with tempestuous anger as a weakness. The degree of concentration habitually attained in any case determines the degree of success in this process.