The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb by Harry Stephen Keeler

Author:Harry Stephen Keeler [Keeler, Harry Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery;crime;sheriff;classic;western
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2018-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIV

SHOWDOWN

There was a profound silence after the Sheriff’s dictum. And when it was broken, it was broken by the man in the lineman’s costume.

“All right,” he said bitterly, “you win! I’ll confess.”

“Yo’re—yo’re Actor Hart?” the Sheriff confronted him.

“Actor Hart? Hell, no! I’m Gilbert Blake—cashier of the hard Trust and Savings Bank of Indianapolis, Indiana—who fled $5000 short in his accounts. Not much of a defalcation as defalcations go—no!—but a hell of a lot when you can’t replace it. And outside of being an A. No. 1. Amateur Ham Wireless Operator—even licensed as such!—all I know about electrical lineman’s work is that a lineman’s belt is always threaded through with copper loops the way I’ve threaded this one—and that he wears a scarlet bandanna around his neck.” And, with a challenging note, the speaker added: “And if anybody wants to ask me a question about Ham Operating, that’ll prove I’m not Hart.”

The Sheriff grimaced at that argument.

“That’d prove nothin’,” he said gruffly. “With all the two-bit booklets they is on am’teur operatin’—a man ’ith Hart’s brains could master any of ’em in 2 nights. At least, ’nough to talk like billy-hell ’bout coils and whatnots. ’Specially to three men who’ve showed by the fact that not one of ’em has ever mentioned ham-operatin’ ’r wireless today that thar hain’t one of ’em knows nothin’ ’bout the subject. And besides, I, who s’arched you a while back, didn’t see no license.”

“Naturally. I don’t carry it about with me. And for good reasons—in my case! But anyway, the point is that I’m not a lineman.”

The Sheriff stroked his chin.

“Wall—you look plenty like a lineman. And that Topkins feller said that jest sich a part as that—that is, a steelmill lineman!—was Hart’s greatest—and best. Yes, by God, you shore look like a lineman—”

“A little while ago,” sneeringly put in the man in the high flexible black leggins-like boots and the brilliant silk neckerchief, “I didn’t look to you like one at all! And now—I do! That’s what a little radio police infor does to a well-meaning sheriff. Well, the nearest I’ve ever been to a steel mill has been to pass one on a train—and the nearest I’ve ever been up a pole is to reach up and light a match on one. However, Sheriff—since this has got to be showdown for Hart—I’m going to at least speak up and tell you that one of these two men who came on here with me—though the one in question can speak for himself—pulled a gesture awhile back this morning that was that of a man who carries his tools hung from his belt—in short, a lineman!—or else a man who’s played the part so damned many times that—”

“Which of yo’re two companions was it?” the Sheriff demanded. “And what was the gesture? I think I seed ever’­thing—”

“Well, you didn’t see this,” gruffly replied the man who had admitted to being Gilbert Blake, embezzler. “And—but it’s between the two of you.” He paused. “Awhile back,

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