by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER XVI
HOW WHITY GUNKED THE PLOT
I knew something or other outside of business was puttin' hectic spotsin Old Hickory's disposition these last few days; but not until lateyesterday did I guess it was Cousin Inez.
I expect the Ellins family wasn't any too proud of Cousin Inez, tostart with; for among other things she's got a matrimonial record.Three hubbies so far, I understand, two safe in a neat kept plot out inLos Angeles; one in the discards--and she's just been celebratin' thedecree by travelin' abroad. They hadn't seen much of her for years;but durin' this New York stopover visit she seemed to be makin' up forlost time.
About four foot eight Cousin Inez was in her French heels, and fairlythick through. Maybe it was the way she dressed, but from just belowher double chin she looked the same size all the way down. Tie aBulgarian sash on a sack of bran, and you've got the model. Inez was abear for sashes too. Another thing she was strong on was hair.Course, the store blond part didn't quite match the sandy gray thatgrew underneath, and the near-auburn frontispiece was another tintstill; but all that added variety and quantity--and what more could youask?
Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time.About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, andmost the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,--carrieson three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string ofhusbands, goes in deep for classical music, and is some kind of a highpriestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe afew bats in her belfry.
But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugatedpreferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makesCousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Threeor four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal wentthrough.
This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though.
I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was astraight call on the carpet. "Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to seeher before she goes out this afternoon," says I, "and wait with thelimousine until she comes."
Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as hesends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he waspeeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floatsin, smilin' mushy as usual.
She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She'ssome flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streakedunder the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams thebrass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before therecomes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. VirgilBunn?"
Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden."Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."
"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound inbaby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophonis a sculptor poet, anyway?"
"Why, it's--it's--well, that's the way the papers always give it," saysI. "Beyond that I pass."
"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this ispoetry. Listen!
"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung About my lady sweet, So do we string our votive area All up and down each street. They shine upon the young and old, The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay; Who gather here from far and near To worship in our Great White Way.'
"Now what's your honest opinion of that, Son? Is it poetry?
"Listens something like it," says I; "but I wouldn't want to say forsure."
"Nor I," says Mr. Ellins. "All I'm certain of is that it isn'tsculpture, and that if I should read any more of it I'd be seasick.But in T. Virgil Bunn himself I have an active and personal interest.Anything to offer?"
"Not a glimmer," says I.
"And I suppose you could find nothing out?" he goes on.
"I could make a stab," says I.
"Make a deep one, then," says he, slippin' over a couple of tens for anexpense fund.
And, say, I knew when Old Hickory begins by unbeltin' so reckless thathe don't mean any casual skimmin' through club annuals for a report.
"What's the idea?" says I. "Is it for a financial rating or a regulardragnet of past performances?"
"Everything you can discover without taking him apart," says OldHickory. "In short, I want to know the kind of person who can cause afifty-five-year-old widow with grown sons to make a blinkety blinkedfool of herself."
"He's a charmer, eh?" says I.
"Evidently," says Mr. Ellins. "Behold this inscription here, 'To dearInez, My Lady of the Unfettered Soul--from Virgie.' Get the point,Son? 'To dear Inez'! Bah! Is he color blind, or what ails him? Ofcourse it's her money he's after, and for the sake of her boys I'mgoing to block him. There! You see what I want?"
"Sure!" says I. "You got to have details about Virgie before you canditch him. Well, I'll see what I can dig up."
Maybe it strikes you as a chesty bluff for a juvenile party like me tostart with no more clew than that to round up in a few hours what ahigh-priced sleuth agency would take a week for. But, say, I didn'tstand guard on the Sunday editor's door two years with my eyes and earsshut. Course, there's always the city and 'phone directories to startwith. Next you turn to the Who book if you suspect he's ever done anypublic stunt. But, say, swallow that Who dope cautious. They let 'emwrite their own tickets in that, you know, and you got to makeallowances for the size of the hat-band.
I'd got that far, discovered that Virgie owned up to bein' thirty-fiveand a bachelor, that he was born in Schoharie, son of Telemachus J. andMatilda Smith Bunn, and that he'd once been president of the villageliterary club, when I remembers the clippin' files we used to have backon Newspaper Row. So down I hikes--and who should I stack up against,driftin' gloomy through the lower lobby, but Whity Meeks, that used tobe the star man on the Sunday sheet. Course, it wa'n't any miracle;for Whity's almost as much of a fixture there as Old Gluefoot, thelibrarian, or the finger marks on the iron pillars in the press-room.
A sad example of blighted ambitions, Whity is. When I first knew himhe had a fresh one every Monday mornin', and they ranged all the wayfrom him plannin' to be a second Dicky Davis to a scheme he had forhookin' up with Tammany and bein' sent to Congress. Clever boy too.He could dash off ponies that was almost good enough to print, dope outthe first two acts of a play that was bound to make his fortune if hecould ever finish it, and fake speeches that he'd never heard a word of.
When he got to doin' Wall Street news, though, and absorbed the ideathat he could stack his little thirty per against the system and breakthe bucketshops--well, that was his finish. Two killings that he madeby chance, and he was as good as chained to the ticker for life. Nomore new rosy dreams for him: always the same one,--of the day when hewas goin' to show Sully how a cotton corner really ought to be pulledoff, a day when the closin' gong would find him with the City Bank inone fist and the Subtreasury in the other. You've met that kind,maybe. Only Whity always tried to dress the part, in a sporty shepherdplaid, with a checked hat and checked silk socks to match. He has thesame regalia on now, with a carnation in his buttonhole.
"Well, mounting margins!" says he, as I swings him round by the arm."Torchy! Whither away? Come down to buy publicity space for theCorrugated, have you?"
"Not in a rag like yours, Whity," says I, "when we own stock in tworeal papers. I'm out on a little private gumshoe work for the boss."
"Sounds thrilling," says he. "Any copy in it?"
"I'd be chatterin' it to you, wouldn't I?" says I. "Nix! Just plainfam'ly scrap over whether Cousin Inez shall marry again or not. My jobis to get something on the guy. Don't happen to have any special dopeon T. Virgil Bunn, the sculptor poet, do you?"
Whity stares at me. "Do I?" says he.
"Say!" Then he leads me over between the 'phone booth and the cigarstand, flashes an assignment pad, and rem
arks, "Gaze on that seconditem, my boy."
"Woof! That's him, all right," says I. "But what's a bouillabaissetea?"
"Heaven and Virgil Bunn only know," says Whity. "But that doesn'tmatter. Think of the subtle irony of Fate that sends me up to make acolumn story out of Virgie Bunn! Me, of all persons!"
"Well, why not you?" says I.
"Why?" says Whity. "Because I made the fellow. He--why, he is myjoke, the biggest scream I ever put over--my joke, understand? And nowthis adumbrated ass of a Quigley, who's been sent on here from St.Louis to take the city desk, he falls for Virgie as a genuinepersonage. Not only that, but picks me out to cover this phony tea ofhis. And the stinging part is, if I don't I get canned, that's all."
"Ain't he the goods, then?" says I. "What about this sculptor poetbusiness?"
"Bunk," says Whity, "nothing but bunk. Of course, he does putteraround with modeling clay a bit, and writes the sort of club-footedverse they put in high school monthlies."
"Gets it printed in a book, though," says I. "I've seen one."
"Why not?" says Whity. "Anyone can who has the three hundred to payfor plates and binding. 'Sonnets of the City,' wasn't it? Didn't Iget my commission from the Easy Mark Press for steering him in? Why, Ieven scratched off some of those things to help him pad out the bookwith. But, say, Torchy, you ought to remember him. You were on thedoor then,--tall, wide-shouldered freak, with aureole hair, and a closecropped Vandyke?"
"Not the one who wore the Wild West lid and talked like he had amouthful of hot oatmeal?" says I.
"Your description of Virgie's English accent is perfect," says Whity.
"Well, well!" says I. "The mushbag, we used to call him."
"Charmingly accurate again!" says Whity. "Verily beside him thequivering jellyfish of the salt sea was as the armored armadillo of thedesert. Soft? You could poke a finger through him anywhere."
"But what was his game?" says I.
"It wasn't a game, my son," says Whity. "It was a mission in life,--toget things printed about himself. Had no more modesty about it, youknow, than a circus press agent. Perfectly frank and ingenuous, Virgiewas. He'd just come and ask you to put it in that he was a greatman--just like that! The chief used to froth at the mouth on sight ofhim. But Virgie looked funny to me in those days. I used to jolly himalong, smoke his Coronas, let him take me out to swell feeds. Thenwhen they gave Merrow charge of the Sunday side, just for a josh I dida half-page special about Virgie, called him the sculptor poet, threwin some views of him in his studio, and quoted some of his verse thatI'd fixed up. It got by. Virgie was so pleased he wanted to give abanquet for me; but I got him to go in on a little winter wheat flierinstead. He didn't drop much. After that I'd slip in a paragraphabout him now and then, always calling him the sculptor poet. The tagstuck. Other papers began to use it; until, first thing I knew, Virgiewas getting away with it. Honest, I just invented him. And now hepasses for the real thing!"
"Where you boobed, then, was in not filin' copyright papers," says I."But how does he make it pay?"
"He doesn't," says Whity. "Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hiddenmystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn. Cheese factories! Half a dozenor more of 'em, up Schoharie way. Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; acoarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-galloncan, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his ownboxes. He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factoriesworking night shifts. Virgie draws his share quarterly. He tried ayear or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter.While there he exposed himself to the sculptor's art; but it didn'ttake very hard. However, Virgie came back and acquired the studiohabit. And you can't live for long in a studio, you know, withoutgetting the itch to see yourself in print. That's what brought Virgieto me. And now! Well, now I have to go to Virgie."
"Ain't as chummy with him as you was, I take it?" says I.
Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted. "The saphead!" says he. "Justbecause we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet. I haven'tseen him for a year. I wonder how he'll take it? But you mentioned aCousin Inez, didn't you?"
I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin' no more names,but suggestin' that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow'smite if there wa'n't any sudden interference.
"Ha!" says Whity, speakin' tragic through his teeth. "An idea! He'sput the spell on a rich widow, has he? Now if I could only manage toqueer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration ofpride that I see coming my way tonight. Describe the fair one."
"I could point her out if you could smuggle me in," I suggests.
"A cinch!" says he. "You're Barry of the City Press. Here, stick somecopy paper in your pocket. Take a few notes, that's all."
"It's a fierce disguise to put on," says I; "but I guess I can stand itfor an evenin'."
So about eight-thirty we meets again, and' proceeds to hunt up thisstudio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any bum Bohemianranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay treeson each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with aboy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things.
"Gee!" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. "There's some swell mobcollectin', eh?"
Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all hecan do is mumble husky, "Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! TheBertie Gardiners!"
They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each othercurious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath.Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm andwaits to see what happens.
"There comes Cousin Inez!" says I, nudgin' Whity. "See? The squattydame with the pearl ropes over her hair."
"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!" says Whity.
And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for thefray, as you might say. And if the dinky shoulder straps held it wasall right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call forfour yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy,though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in theback of the room.
Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and insteps the hero of the evenin'. Dress suit? Say, you don't knowVirgie. He's wearin' a reg'lar monk's outfit, of some coarse brownstuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck.
"For the love of beans, look at his feet!" I whispers.
"Sandals," says Whity, "and no socks! Blessed if Virgie isn't goingthe limit!"
There's a chorus of "Ah-h-h-h's!" as he steps out, and then comes abuzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not. Butit don't faze Virgie. He goes bowin' and handshakin' through the mob,smilin' mushy on all and several, and actin' as pleased with himself asif he'd taken the prize at a fancy dress ball. You should have seenCousin Inez when he gets to her!
"Oh, you utterly clever man!" she gushes. "What a genuine genius youare!"
"Dear, sweet lady!" says he. "It is indeed gracious of you to say so."
"Help!" groans Whity, like he had a pain.
"Ah, buck up!" says I. "It'll be your turn soon."
I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to passWhity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind wordsand comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it.
"Ah, Whity, my boy!" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. "Charming ofyou to look me up once more, perfectly charming!"
"Rot!" growls Whity. "You know I was sent up here to do this bloomingspread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?"
"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on theshoulder. "But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea--well,one of my little affairs, you know,--just a few friends droppingin--feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know howto put it. Don't forget my costume--picked it up at a Trappistmonaste
ry in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had takenin it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?" and he glances inquirin' atme.
"City Press," says Whity.
"Fine!" says Virgie, beamin'. "Well, you boys make yourselves quite athome. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll helpyou to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention.Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about._Au revoir_."
"Ass!" snarls Whity under his breath. "If I don't give him a roast,though,--one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And wemust find some way of queering him with that rich widow."
"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!" says I. "Look howshe's taggin' him around!"
And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move hemakes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappyspeeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin'each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up thesort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.
T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. Heexhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mountedcops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded toread two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. CousinInez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands,the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chefluggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.
"_Voila_!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"
Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programmeseems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin'out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushesin with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiestfish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams init. M-m-m-m!
"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."
"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hitVirgie's makin'.
Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of beencrowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.
"Isn't this just too unique for words?" she gushes. "And is not dearVirgil perfectly charming tonight?"
"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right," says Whity, "thisand making cheese."
"Cheese!" echoes Cousin Inez.
"Sure!" says Whity. "Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories?Ask him."
"But--but I understood that--that he was a poet," says she, "a sculptorpoet."
"Bah!" says Whity. "He couldn't make his salt at either. All just apose!"
"Why, I can hardly believe it," says Cousin Inez. "I don't believe it,either."
"Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups," goes on Whity.
"But he's such a talented, interesting man," insists Inez.
"With such an interesting family too," says Whity, winkin'.
"Family!" gasps Cousin Inez.
"Wife and six children," says Whity, lyin' easy.
"Oh--oh!" squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers.
"They say he beats his wife, though," adds Whity.
"Oh!--oh!" squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever. Iexpect she'd been more or less keyed up before; but this adds thefinishin' touch. And she lets 'em out reckless.
Course, everyone stops chatterin' and looks her way. No wonder! You'dthought she was havin' a fit. Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand.
"My dear Inez!" says he. "What is it? A fishbone?"
"Monster!" she bowls. "Deceiver! Leave me, never let me see your faceagain! Oh--oh! Cheese! Six children! Oh--oh!" With that shetumbles over on Whity and turns purple in the face.
Say, it was some sensation we had there for a few minutes; but afterthey'd sprinkled her face, and rubbed her wrists, and poured a coupleof fingers of brandy into her, she revives. And the first thing shecatches sight of is Virgie, standin' there lookin' puzzled, stillholdin' the soup ladle.
"Monster!" she hisses at him. "I know all--all! And I quit youforever!"
With that she dashes for the cloakroom, grabs her opera wrap, and beatsit for the elevator. Course, that busts up the show, and inside ofhalf an hour everybody but us has left, and most of 'em went outsnickerin'.
"I--I don't understand it at all," says Virgie, rubbin' his eyes dazed."She was talking with you, wasn't she, Friend Whity? Was it somethingyou said about me?"
"Possibly," says Whity, "I may have mentioned your cheese factories;and I'm not sure but what I didn't invent a family for you. Just as ajoke, of course. You don't mind, I hope?"
And at that I was dead sure someone was goin' to be slapped on thewrist. But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times;and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beamsmushy.
"Mind? Why, my dear boy," says he, "you are my deliverer! I owe youmore than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous oldperson has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. Shehas fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and--disturbed megreatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it.Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyonewho--er--who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that Iwould--ah--marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousandtimes, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have twowives, a dozen. And have some cigars--oh, fill your pockets, my boy.And here--the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to dropin at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!"
He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on theback as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on thesidewalk.
"Double crossed!" groans Whity. "Smothered in mush!"
"As a plotter, Whity," says I, "you're a dub. But if you gunked it oneway, you drew a consolation the other. At this stage of the game Iguess I'm commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a smalltoken of his esteem."
"Eh?" says Whity. "Twenty? What for?"
"Ah, go bull the market with it, and don't ask fool questions!" says I.
Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie's bouillabaissefunction on today's society page, double-column half-tone cut and all.I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins.
"Were you there, young man?" says he, eyin' me suspicious.
"Yep!" says I.
"I thought so," says he, "when Cousin Inez came home and began packingher trunks. I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet isall off??'
"Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.," says I. "Your twotenspots went with it."
"Huh!" he snorts. "That's as far as I care to inquire. Some day I'mgoing to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck theadministration."