by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER X
THE CASE OF OLD JONESEY
And then again, you can't always tell. I forget whether it was BillShakespeare first sprung that line, or Willie Collier; but whoever itwas he said a whole bookful at once. Wise stuff. That's it. And simple,too. Yet it's one of the first things we forget.
But to get the point over I expect I'll have to begin with thisbond-room bunch of ours at the Corrugated. They're the kind of youngsports who always think they can tell. More'n that they always will,providin' they can get anybody to listen. About any subject you canname, from whether the government should own the railroads to describin'the correct hold in dancin' the shimmy.
This particular day though it happens to be babidolls. Maybe it wasn'tjust accident, either. I expect the sudden arrival of spring hadsomething to do with the choice of topic. For out in Madison Square parkthe robins were hoppin' busy around in the flower beds, couples weretwosing confidential on the benches, lady typists were lunchin' off icecream cones, and the Greek tray peddlers were sellin' May flowers.
Anyway, it seemed like this was a day when romance was in the air, ifyou get me. I think Izzy Grunkheimer must have started it with thatthrillin' tale of his about how he got rung in on a midnight studiosupper down in Greenwich Village and the little movie star who mistookhim for Charley Zukor. Izzy would spin that if he got half an openin'.It was his big night. I believe he claims he got hugged or something.And he always ends up by rollin' his eyes, suckin' in his breath anddeclarin' passionate: "Some queen, yes-s-s!"
But the one who had the floor when I strolls into the bond room justbefore the end of the noon hour is Skip Martin, who helped win the warby servin' the last two months checkin' supplies for the front at St.Nazaire. He was relatin' an A. W. O. L. adventure in which a littleFrench girl by the name of Mimi figured prominent, when Budge Haley, whowas a corporal in the Twenty-seventh and got all the way to Coblenz,crashed in heartless.
"Cheap stuff, them base port fluffs," says Budge. "Always beggin' youfor chocolate or nickin' you for francs some way. And as for looks, Icouldn't see it. But say, you should have seen what I tumbled into onenight up in Belgium. We'd plugged twenty-six kilometers through the mudand rain that day and was billeted swell in the town hall. The messcall had just sounded and I was gettin' in line when the Loot yanks meout to tote his bag off to some lodgin's he'd been assigned five or sixblocks away.
"Maybe I wasn't good and sore, too, with everything gettin' cold and meas a refugee. I must have got mixed up in my directions, for I couldn'tfind any house with a green iron balcony over the front door noway.Finally I takes a chance on workin' some of my French and knocks at ablue door. Took me some time to raise anybody, and when a girl doesanswer all I gets out of her is a squeal and the door is slammed shutagain. I was backin' off disgusted when here comes this dame with thebig eyes and the grand duchess airs.
"'Ah le bon Dieu!' says she gaspy. 'Le soldat d'Amerique! Entrez,m'sieur.' And say, even if I couldn't have savvied a word, that smilewould have been enough. Did I get the glad hand? Listen; she hadn't seenanything but Huns for nearly four years. Most of that time she'd spenthidin' in the cellar or somewhere, and for her I was the dove of peace.She tried to tell me all about it, and I expect she did, only I couldn'tcomprenez more'n a quarter of her rapid fire French. But the idea seemedto be that I was a he-angel of the first class who deserved the bestthere was in the house. Maybe I didn't get it, too. The Huns hadn'tbeen gone but a few hours and the peace dinner she'd planned was only asketchy affair, as she wasn't dead sure they wouldn't come back. Whenshe sees me though, she puts a stop order on all that third-rate stuffand tells the cook to go the limit. And say, they must have dug up foodreserves from the sub-cellar, for when me and the Countess finally sitsdown----"
"Ah, don't pull that on us!" protests Skip Martin. "We admit the vintagechampagne, and the pate de foie gras, but that Countess stuff has beenoverdone."
"Oh, has it?" says Budge. "You mean you didn't see any hangin' 'roundthe freight sheds. But this is in Bastogne, old son, and there was herCountess mark plastered all over everything, from the napkins to themantelpiece. Maybe I don't know one when I get a close-up, same as I didthen. Huh! I'm telling you she was the real thing. Why, I'll bet shecould sail into Tiffany's tomorrow and open an account just on the wayshe carries her chin."
"Course she was a Countess," says Izzy. "I'll bet it was some dinner,too. And what then?"
"It didn't happen until just as I was leavin'," says Budge. "'Sis,' saysI, 'vous etes un-un peach. Merci very much.' And I was holdin' out myhand for a getaway shake when she closes in with a clinch that makesthis Romeo and Juliet balcony scene look like an old maid's farewell.M-m-m-m. Honest, I didn't wash it off for two days. And, countess ornot, she was some grand little lady. I'll tell the world that."
"Look!" says one of our noble exempts. "You've even got old Joneseysmackin' his lips."
That gets a big laugh from the bunch. It always does, for he's one ofour permanent jokes, old Jones. And as he happens to be sittin' humpedover here in the corner brushin' traces of an egg sandwich from hismouth corners, the josh comes in kind of pat.
"Must have been some lady killer in his time, eh?" suggests Skip Martin.
That gets across as a good line too, and Skip follows it up withanother. "Let's ask him, fellers."
And the next thing old Jones knows he's surrounded by this grinnin'circle of young hicks while Budge Haley is demandin': "Is it so,Jonesey, that you used to be a reg'lar chicken hound?"
I expect it's the funny way he's gone bald, with only a fringe ofgrayish hair left, and the watery blue eyes behind the dark glasses,that got us callin' him Old Jones. Maybe the bent shoulders and hisbeing deaf in one ear helps. But as a matter of fact, I don't think he'squite sixty. To judge by the fringe, he once had a crop of sandy hairthat was more or less curly. Some of the color still holds in thebristly mustache and the ear tufts. A short, chunky party with a stubbynose and sort of a solid-lookin' chin, he is.
But there never is much satisfaction kiddin' Jonesey. You can't get hisgoat. He just holds his hand up to his ear and asks kind of bored: "Eh,what's that?"
"How about them swell dames that used to go wild over you?" comes backSkip.
Old Jones gazes up at Skip kind of mild and puzzled. Then he shakes hishead slow. "No," says he. "Not me. If--if they did I--I must haveforgot."
Which sets the bunch to howlin' at Skip. "There! Maybe that'll hold you,eh?" someone remarks. And as they drift off Jonesey tackles a slice oflunch-room pie placid.
It struck me as rather neat, comin' from the old boy. He must haveforgot! I had a chuckle over that all by myself. What could Jonesey haveto forget? They tell me he's been with the Corrugated twenty years ormore. Why, he must have been on the payroll before some of them youngsports was born. And for the last fifteen he's held the same oldjob--assistant filin' clerk. Some life, eh?
About all we know of Old Jones is that he lives in a little back roomdown on lower Sixth Avenue with a mangy green parrot nearly as old as heis. They say he baches it there, cookin' his meals on a one-burner oilstove, never reportin' sick, never takin' a vacation, and never gettin'above Thirty-third Street or below Fourteenth.
Course, so far as the force is concerned, he's just so much dead wood.Every shake-up we have somebody wants to fire him, or pension him off.But Mr. Ellins won't have it. "No," says he. "Let him stay on." And youbet Jonesey stays. He drills around, fussin' over the files, doingthings just the way he did twenty years ago, I suppose, but nevergettin' in anybody's way or pullin' any grouch. I've got so I don'tnotice him any more than as if he was somebody's shadow passin' by. Youknow, he's just a blank. And if it wasn't for them bond-room humoristscuttin' loose at him once in a while I'd almost forget whether he wasstill on the staff or not.
It was this same afternoon, along about 2:30, that I gets a call fromOld Hickory's private office and finds this picturesque lookin' birdwith the three piece white lip whiskers and the premature Panama li
dglarin' indignant at the boss.
"Torchy," says Mr. Ellins, glancin' at a card, "this is Senor Don PedroCassaba y Tarragona."
"Oh, yes!" says I, just as though I wasn't surprised a bit.
"Senor Don Pedro and so on," adds Old Hickory, "is from Havana, and forthe last half hour he has been trying to tell me something veryimportant, I've no doubt, to him. As it happens I am rather busy on someaffairs of my own and I--er--Oh, for the love of soup, Torchy take himaway somewhere and find out what it's all about."
"Sure!" says I. "This way, Seenor."
"Perdone," says he. "Say-nohr."
"Got you," says I, "only I may not follow you very far. About all theSpanish I had I used up this noon orderin' an omelet, but maybe we canget somewhere if we're both patient. Here we are, in my nice cozy cornerwith all the rest of the day before us. Have a chair, Say-nohr."
He's a perky, high-colored old boy, and to judge by the restless blackeyes, a real live wire. He looks me over sort of doubtful, stroking thezippy little chin tuft as he does it, but he ends by shruggin' hisshoulders resigned.
"I come," says he, "in quest of Senor Captain Yohness."
"Yohness?" says I, tryin' to look thoughtful. "No such party around herethat I know of."
"It must be," says he. "That I have ascertained."
"Oh, well!" says I. "Suppose we admit that much as a starter. What abouthim? What's he done?"
"Ah!" says the Senor Don Pedro, spreadin' out his hands eloquent. "Butthat is a long tale."
It was, too. I expect that was what had got him in wrong with OldHickory. However, he tackles it once more, using the full-arm movementand sprinklin' in Spanish liberal whenever he got stuck. Course, thisfallin' back on his native tongue must have been a relief to him, but itdidn't help me out much. Some I could guess at, and when I couldn't I'dget him to repeat it until I worked up a hunch. Then we'd take a freshstart. It's surprisin', too, how well we got along after we had thesystem doped out.
And accordin' to the Hon. Pete this Cap. Yohness party is an Americanwho hails from New York. Don't sound reasonable, I admit, with amonicker like that, but I let the old boy spin along. Yohness had goneto Cuba years ago, way back before the Spanish-American war. I take ithe was part of a filibusterin' outfit that was runnin' in guns andammunition for the Cubans to use against the Spaniards. In fact, hementions Dynamite Johnny O'Brien as the leader of the crowd. I thinkthat was the name. Listens like it might have been, anyway.
Well, he says this Senor Yohness is some reckless cut-up himself, for henot only runs the blockade of Spanish warships and lands his stuff, butthen has the nerve to stick around the island and even take a littletrip into Havana. Seems that was some stunt, too, for if he'd beencaught at it he'd have found a swift finish against the nearest wall.
Course, he had to go in disguise, but he was handicapped by havin' redhair. Not so vivid as mine, the Senor assures me, but red enough so hewouldn't be mistaken easy for a Spaniard. He'd have gotten away with theact, too, if he hadn't capped it by takin' the wildest chances anybodycould have thought up.
While he's ramblin' around Havana, takin' in all the sights and rubbin'elbows every minute with men who'd ask no better sport than giving him apermanent chest puncture if they'd known who he was, what does he do butget tangled up in a love affair. Even if his head hadn't been speciallypriced for more pesos than you could put in a sugar barrel, this was ahot time for any American to be lallygaggin' around the ladies in thatparticular burg. For the Spanish knew all about where the reconcentradoswere getting their firearms from and they were good and sore on us. Butlittle details like that don't seem to bother El Capitan Yohness a bit.When he gets in line with an oh boy! smile from behind a window grill hesmiles back and comes around for an encore. That's the careless kind ofa Yank he is.
What makes it worse, though, is the fact that this special windowhappens to be in the Governor's Palace. And the lady herself! TheHonorable Pedro shudders as he relates it. She is none other than laSenorita Mario, a niece of the Governor General.
She must have had misbehavin' eyes and a kittenish disposition, for sheseems to fall for this disguised New Yorker at first sight. Most likelyit was on account of his red hair. Anyway, after one or two longdistance exchanges she drops out a note arranging a twosome in thepalace gardens by moonlight. It's a way they have, I understand. Andthis Yohness guy, he don't do a thing but keep the date. Course, he musthave known that as a war risk he'd have been quoted as payin' about athousand per cent. premium, but he takes the chance.
It ain't a case of bein' able to stroll in any time, either. In order tomake it he has to conceal himself in the shrubbery before sundown, whenthe general public is chased out of the grounds and a guard set at thegates. Perhaps it was worth it, though, for Don Pedro says the SenoritaDonna Mario is a lovely lady; at least, she was then.
Anyway, the two of 'em pulled it off successful, and they was snuggledup on a marble bench gettin' real well acquainted--maybe callin' eachother by their first names and whisperin' mushy sentiments in themoonshine--when the heavy villain enters with stealthy tread.
It seems that Donna Mario had been missed from the Palace. Finally theword gets to Uncle, and although he's a grizzly old pirate, he canremember back when he was young himself. Maybe he had one of his sportysecretaries in mind, or some gay young first lieutenant. However itwas, he connected with a first-class hunch that on a night like this, ifthe lovely Donna Mario had strayed out anywhere she would sooner orlater camp down on a marble bench.
Whether he picked the right garden seat first rattle out of the box, ormade two or three misses, I don't know. But when he does crash in hefinds the pair just going to a clinch. He ain't the kind of an uncle,either, who would stand off and chuckle a minute before interruptin'with a mild "Tut--tut, now, young folks!" No. He's a reg'lar movie dramauncle. He gets purple in the gills. He snorts through his mustache. Hegurgles out the Spanish for "Ha, ha!". Then he unlimbers a sword like acorn-knife, reaches out a rough hairy paw, and proceeds to yank ouryoung hero rudely from the fond embrace. Just like that.
And here again I missed a detail or two. I couldn't make out if it wasthe pink thatch of Yohness that gave him away, or whether Uncle couldtell an American just by the feel of his neck. But the old boy got wiseright away.
"What," says he, like he was usin' the words as a throat gargle. "Acurs-ed Gr-r-ringo! For that you shall both die."
Which was just where, like most movie uncles, he overdid the part.Yohness might not have been particular whether he went on livin' ornot. He hadn't acted as though he cared much. But he wasn't going tolet a nice girl like the Donna Mario get herself carved up by animpulsive relative who wore fuzzy face whiskers and a yellow sashinstead of a vest.
"Ah, ditch the tragic stuff, Old Sport, while I sketch out how it wasall my fault," says he, or words to that effect.
"G-r-r-r!" says Uncle, slashin' away enthusiastic with his sword.
If our hero had been a second or so late in his moves there would belittle left to add. But heroes never are. And when this Cap. Yohnessparty got into action he was a reg'lar bear-cat. The wicked steel merelyswished through the space he'd just left and before Uncle could get inanother swing something heavy landed on him and he was being gripped infour places. Before the old boy knew what was happening, too, thatyellow sash had been unwound and he'd been tied up as neat as an expresspackage. All he lacked to go on the wagon was an address tag and a"Prepaid" label gummed on his tummy.
"Sorry," says Yohness, rollin' him into the shrubbery with his toe, "butyou mustn't act so mussy when the young lady has a caller."
"Ah! Eso es espantoso!" says Donna Mario, meaning that now he hadspilled the beans for fair. "You must fly. I must--we must both flee."
"Oh, very well," says Yohness. "That is, if the fleeing is good."
"Here! Quick!" says she, grabbin' up the long cloak Uncle had beenwearing before he started something he couldn't finish. "And this also,"she adds, handin' Yohness a military cap with
a lot of gold braid on it."We will go together. The guards know me. They will think you are myuncle. Wait! I will call the carriage, as if for our evening drive."
"Now that," says I, as Don Pedro gets to this part of the yarn, "waswhat I call good work done. Made a clean getaway, did they?"
He nods, and goes on to tell how, when they got to the city limits, ElCapitan chucked the driver and footman off the box, took the reinshimself and drove until near daybreak, when he dropped the fair DonnaMario at the house of an old friend and then beat it down the pike untilhe saw a chance to leave the outfit and make a break into the woods.
"And I expect he was willin' to call it a night after that, eh?" says I."Reg'lar thrill hound, wasn't he? What became of him?"
"Ah!" says Don Pedro. "It is for that I come to you."
"Oh, yes, so you have," says I. "I'd most forgotten. Yes, yes! You stillhave the idea I can trace out Yohness for you? Suppose I could, though,how would you be sure it was the same one, after so many years? Got anymark on him that----"
"Listen," says Don Pedro. "El Capitan Yohness possesses a ring ofpeculiar setting--pale gold--a large dark ruby in it. This was given himthat night by the Senorita Donna Mario. He swore to her never to partwith it until they should meet again. They never have, nor will. She isno more. For years she lived hidden, in fear of her life. Then the warcame. Her uncle was driven back to Spain. Later her friend died, but sheleft to Donna Mario her estate, many acres of valuable sugar plantation,and the house, Casa Fuerta. It is this estate which Donna Mario in turnhas willed to her valiant lover. I am one of the executors. So I ask youwhere is El Capitan Yohness?"
"Yes, I know you do," says I. "But why ask me? How do you hook up theCorrugated Trust with any such wild----"
"See," says Don Pedro, producin' a yellow old letter. "This came toDonna Mario just before the war. It is on the note paper of your firm."
"Why, that's so!" says I. "Must have been when we were in the oldbuilding, long before my time. But as far as--Say, the name ain'tYohness. It's Jones, plain as day."
"Yes, Yohness," says Don Pedro, spellin' it out loud, "Y-o-n-e-s. Yousee, in Spanish we call it Yohness."
He don't say it just like that, either, but that's as near as I can getit. Anyway, you'd never recognize it as Jones.
"Well," I goes on, "I don't know of anybody around the place now whowould fit your description. In fact, I don't believe there's anybody bythe name of--Yes, there is one Jones here, but he can't be the party. Heisn't that kind of a Jones."
"But if he is Senor Jones--who knows?" insists Don Pedro.
Then I has to stop and grin. Huh! Old Jonesey bein' suspected of everpullin' stuff like that. Say, why not have him in and tax him with it."Just a sec.," says I. "You can take a look yourself."
I finds Jonesey with his head in a file drawer, as usual, and withoutspillin' anything of the joke I leads him in and lines him up in frontof Don Pedro.
"Listen, Jonesey," says I. "This gentleman comes from Havana. Were youever there?"
"Why, ye-e-e-es. Once I was," says Jonesey, sort of draggy, as if tryin'to remember.
"You were?" says I. "How? When?"
"It--it was a long time ago," says Jonesey.
"Perdone," breaks in Don Pedro. "Were you not known as Senor ElCapitan?"
"Me?" says Jonesey. "Why--I--some might have called me that."
"Great guns!" I gasps. "See here, Jonesey; you don't mean to say you'vegot the ring too?"
"The ring?" says he, tryin' to look blank. But at the same time I noticehis hand go up to his shirt front sort of jerky.
"The ring of the Senorita Donna Mario," cuts in Don Pedro eager.
That don't get any hysterical motions out of him, though. He just standsthere, lookin' from one to the other of us slow and dazed, as ifsomething was tricklin' down into his brain. Once or twice he rubs adingy hand over his bald head. It seemed to help.
"Donna Mario, Donna Mario," he repeats, half under his breath.
"Yes," says I. "And isn't that something like the ring you're coverin'up there under your shirt bosom? Let's see."
Without a word he unbuttons his collar, slips a looped string over hishead, and holds out a ring. It's a big ruby set in pale gold.
"That is the ring of Donna Mario," says Don Pedro.
"Hal-lup," says I. "Jonesey, do you mean to say you're the same one whosailed with Dynamite Johnny, risked your neck to go poking aroundHavana, made love to the Governor General's niece, trussed him up like aroasting turkey when he interfered, and escaped with her in the palacecoach through whole rafts of soldiers who'd have been made rich forlife if they'd shot you on sight? You!"
"That--that was a long time ago," says Jonesey.
And if you will believe me, that's about all he would say. Wasn't evenmuch excited over the fact that a hundred thousand dollar sugarplantation was about to be wished on him. Oh, yes, he'd go down with DonPedro and take possession. Was the grave of Donna Mario there? Then hewould go, surely.
"I--I would rather like to," says Old Jonesey.
"Huh," says I. "You better stick around until tomorrow noon. I want youto hear what I've got to feed to that bond-room bunch."
Jonesey shakes his head. No, he'd rather not. And as he shuffles back tohis old files I hears him mumblin', sort of soft and easy: "Donna Mario.Ah, yes! Donna Mario!"
Which proves, don't it, that you can't always tell. Even when the partyhas such a common name as Jones.