by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER X
ALL THE WAY WITH ANNA
Believe me, Belinda, this havin' a boss who's apt to stack you up casualagainst stuff that would worry a secret service corps recruited fromseventh sons is a grand little cure for monotonous moments. Just becauseI happen to get a few easy breaks on my first special details seems togive Old Hickory the merry idea that when he wants someone to do thewizard act, all he has to do is press the button for me. I don't knowwhether my wearin' the khaki uniform helps out the notion or not. Ishouldn't wonder.
Now, here a week or ten days ago, when I leaves Vee and my peacefullittle home after a week-end swing, I expects to be shot up to Amesbury,Mass., to inspect a gun-limber factory. Am I? Not at all. By 3 P.M. I'min Bridgeport, Conn., wanderin' about sort of aimless, and tryin' tosize up a proposition that I'm about as well qualified to handle as aplumber's helper called in to tune a pipe organ.
Why was it that some three thousand hands in one of our sub-contractin'plants was bent on gettin' stirred up and messy about every so often, inspite of all that had been done to soothe 'em?
Does that listen simple, or excitin', or even interestin'? It didn't tome. Specially after I'd given the once-over to this giddy mob of Wopsand Hunkies and Sneezowskis.
The office people didn't know how many brands of Czechs or Magyars orPolacks they had in the shops. What they was real sure of was that athird of the bunch had walked out twice within the last month, and ifthey quit again, as there was signs of their doin', we stood to dropabout $200,000 in bonuses on shell contracts.
It wasn't a matter of wage scales, either. Honest, some of them ginkswith three z's in their names was runnin' up, with over-time and all,pay envelops that averaged as much as twelve a day. Why, some of thewomen and girls were pullin' down twenty-five a week. And they couldn'tkick on the workin' conditions, either. Here was a brand-new concreteplant, clean as a new dish-pan, with half the sides swingin' glasssashes, and flower beds outside.
"And still they threaten another strike," says the general manager. "Ifit comes, we might as well scrap this whole plant and transfer theequipment to Pennsylvania or somewhere else. Unless"--here he grinssarcastic--"you can find out what ails 'em, Lieutenant. But you are onlythe third bright young man the Corrugated has sent out to tell us what'swhat, you know."
"Oh, well," says I. "There's luck in odd numbers. Cheer up."
It was after this little chat that I sheds the army costume and wandersout disguised as a horny-handed workingman.
Not that I'd decided to get a job right away. After my last stab I ain'tso strong for this ten-hour cold-lunch trick as I was when I was new tothe patriotic sleuthin' act. Besides, bein' no linguist, I couldn't seehow workin' with such a mixed lot was goin' to get me anywhere. If Icould only run across a good ambidextrous interpreter, now, one whocould listen in ten languages and talk in six, it might help. And whowas it I once knew that had moved to Bridgeport?
I'd been mullin' on that mystery ever since I struck the town. Just aglimmer, somewhere in the back of my nut, that there had been such aparty some time or other. I'll admit that wasn't much of a clue to startout trailin' in a place of this size, but it's all I had.
I must have walked miles, readin' the signs on the stores, pushin' myway through the crowds, and finally droppin' into a fairly clean-lookin'restaurant for dinner. Half way through the goulash and noodles, I hadthis bright thought about consultin' the 'phone book. The cashier thatlet me have it eyed me suspicious as I props it up against the sugarbowl and starts in with the A's.
Ever try readin' a telephone directory straight through? By the time I'dgot through the M's I'd had to order another cup of coffee and a secondpiece of lemon pie. At that, the waitress was gettin' uneasy. She'd justshoved my check at me for the third time, and was addin' a glass ofwooden tooth-picks, when I lets out this excited stage whisper.
"Sobowski!" says I, grabbin' the book.
The young lady in the frilled apron rests her thumbs on her hipsdignified and shoots me a haughty glance. "Ring off, young feller," saysshe. "You got the wrong number."
"Not so, Clarice," says I. "His first name is Anton, and he used to runa shine parlor in the arcade of the Corrugated buildin', New York, N. Y."
"It's a small world, ain't it?" says she. "You can pay me or at thedesk, just as you like."
Clarice got her tip all right, and loaned me her pencil to write downAnton's street number.
A stocky, bow-legged son of Kosciuszko, built close to the ground, andwith a neck on him like a truck-horse, as I remembered Anton. But thehottest kind of a sport. Used to run a pool on the ball-games, and madea book on the ponies now and then. Always had a roll with him. He'd takea nickel tip from me and then bet a guy in the next chair fifty tothirty-five the Giants would score more'n three runs against the Cubs'new pitcher in to-morrow's game. That kind.
Must have been two or three years back that Anton had told me about someopenin' he had to go in with a brother-in-law up in Bridgeport. Likely Ididn't pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he was missin' soonafter; and if I hadn't been in the habit of callin' him Old Sobstuff I'dhave forgotten that name of his entirely. But seein' it there in thebook brought back the whole thing.
"Anton Sobowski, saloon," was the way it was listed. So he was runnin' asuds parlor, eh? Well, it wasn't likely he'd know much about labortroubles, but it wouldn't do any harm to look him up. When I came totrail down the street number, though, blamed if it ain't within half ablock of our branch works.
And, sure enough, in a little office beyond the bar, leanin' backluxurious in a swivel-chair, and displayin' a pair of baby-blue armletsover his shirt sleeves, I discovers Mr. Sobowski himself. It ain't anybrewery-staked hole-in-the-wall he's boss of, either. It's the WarsawCafe, bar and restaurant, all glittery and gorgeous, with lace curtainsin the front windows, red, white, and blue mosquito nettin' drapedartistic over the frosted mirrors, and three busy mixers behind themahogany bar.
Anton has fleshed up considerable since he quit jugglin' the brushes,and he's lost a little of the good-natured twinkle from his wide-seteyes. He glances up at me sort of surly when I first steps into theoffice; but the minute I takes off the straw lid and ducks my head athim, he lets loose a rumbly chuckle.
"It is that Torchy, hey?" says he. "Well, well! It don't fade any, doesit?"
"Not that kind of dye," says I. "How's the boy?"
"Me," says Anton. "Oh, fine like silk. How you like the place, hey?"
I enthused over the Warsaw Cafe; and when he found I was still with theCorrugated, and didn't want to touch him for any coin, but had justhappened to be in town and thought I'd look him up for old times'sake--well, Anton opened up considerable.
"What!" says he. "They send you out? You must be comin' up?"
"Only private sec. to Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he chases me around agood deal. We're busy people these days, you know."
"The Corrugated Trust! I should say so," agrees Anton, waggin' his headearnest. "Big people, big money. I like to have my brother-in-law meetyou. Wait."
Seemed a good deal like wastin' time, but I spent the whole evenin' withAnton. I met not only the brother-in-law, but also Mrs. Sobowski, hiswife; and another Mrs. Sobowski, an aunt or something; and Miss AnnaSobowski, his niece. Also I saw the three-story Sobowski boardin'-housethat Anton conducted on the side; and the Alcazar movie joint, anotherSobowski enterprise.
That's where this Anna party was sellin' tickets--a peachy-cheeked,high-chested young lady with big, rollin' eyes, and her mud-colored hairwaved something wonderful. I was introduced reg'lar and impressive.
"Anna," says Anton, "take a good look at this young man. He's a friendof mine. Any time he comes by, pass him in free--any time at all. See?"
And Anna, she flashes them high-powered eyes of hers at me kittenish."Aw ri'," says she. "I'm on, Mr. Torchy."
"That girl," confides Anton to me afterwards, "was eating black breadand cabbage soup in Poland less than three years ago. Now she buys highki
d boots, two kinds of leather, at fourteen dollars. And makes goo-gooeyes at all the men. Yes, but never no mistakes with the change. NotAnna."
All of which was interestin' enough, but it didn't seem to help any. Younever can tell, though, can you? You see, it was kind of hard, breakin'away from Anton once he'd started to get folksy and show me what animportant party he'd come to be. He wanted me to see the Warsaw when itwas really doin' business, about ten o'clock, after the earlypicture-show crowds had let out and the meetin' in the hall overhead wasin full swing.
"What sort of meetin'?" I asks, just as a filler.
"Oh, some kind of labor meetin'," says he. "I d'know. They chin a lot.That's thirsty work. Good for business, hey?"
"Is it a labor union?" I insists.
Anton shrugs his shoulders.
"You wait," says he. "Mr. Stukey, he'll tell you all about it. Yes, anear-full. He's a good spender, Stukey. Hires the hall, too."
Somehow, that listened like it might be a lead. But an hour later, whenI'd had a chance to look him over, I was for passin' Stukey up. For hesure was disappointin' to view. One of these thin, sallow, dyspepticparties, with deep lines down either side of his mouth, a bristly, juttylittle mustache, and ratty little eyes.
I expect Anton meant well when he brings out strong, in introducin' me,how I'm connected with the Corrugated Trust. In fact, you might almostgather I _was_ the Corrugated. But it don't make any hit with Stukey.
"Hah!" says he, glarin' at me hostile. "A minion."
"Solid agate yourself," says I. "Wha'd'ye mean--minion?"
"Aren't you a hireling of the capitalistic class?" demands Stukey.
"Maybe," says I, "but I ain't above mixin' with lower-case minds now andthen."
"Case?" says he. "I don't understand."
"Perhaps that's your trouble," says I.
"Bah!" says he, real peevish.
"Come, come, boys!" says Anton, clappin' us jovial on the shoulders."What's this all about, hey? We are all friends here. Yes? Is it thatthe meetin' goes wrong, Mr. Stukey? Tell us, now."
Stukey shakes his head at him warnin'. "What meetin'?" says he. "Don'tbe foolish. What time is it? Ten-twenty! I have an engagement."
And with that he struts off important.
Anton hunches his shoulders and lets out a grunt.
"He has it bad--Stukey," says he. "It is that Anna. Every night he mustwalk home with her."
"She ain't particular, is she?" I suggests.
"Oh, I don't know," says Anton. "Yes, he is older, and not a stronghearty man, like some of these young fellows. But he is educated; oh,like the devil. You should hear him talk once."
But Stukey had stirred up a stubborn streak in me.
"Is he, though," says I, "or do you kid yourself?"
I thought that would get a come-back out of Anton. And it does.
"If I am so foolish," says he, "would I be here, with my name in goldabove the door, or back shining shoes in the Corrugated arcade yet? Hey?I will tell you this. Nobodies don't come and hire my hall from me,fifty a week, in advance."
"Cash or checks?" I puts in.
"If the bank takes the checks, why should I worry?" asks Anton.
"Oh, the first one might be all right," says I, "and the second;but--well, you know your own business, I expect."
Anton gazes at me stupid for a minute, then turns to his desk and fishesout a bunch of returned checks. He goes through 'em rapid until he hasrun across the one he's lookin' for.
"Maybe I do," says he, wavin' it under my nose triumphant.
Which gives me the glimpse I'd been jockeyin' for. The name of thatbank was enough. From then on I was mighty interested in this MortimerJ. Stukey; and while I didn't exactly use the pressure pump on Anton, Imay have asked a few leadin' questions. Who was Stukey, where did hecome from, and what was his idea--hirin' halls and so on? While Antoncould recognize a dollar a long way off, he wasn't such a keen observerof folks.
"I don't worry whether he's a Wilson man or not," says Anton, "or whichmovie star he likes best after Mary Pickford. If I did I should askAnna."
"Eh?" says I, sort of eager.
"He tells her a lot he don't tell me," says Anton.
"That's reasonable, too," says I. "Ask Anna. Say, that ain't a badhunch. Much obliged."
It wasn't so easy, though, with Stukey on the job, to get near enough toask Anna anything. When they came in, and Anton invites me to join thefam'ly group in the boardin'-house dinin'-room while the cheesesandwiches and pickles was bein' passed around, I finds Stukey blockin'me off scientific.
As Anton had said, he had it bad. Never took his eyes off Anna for asecond. I suppose he thought he was registerin' tender emotions, but itstruck me as more of a hungry look than anything else. Miss Sobowskiseemed to like it, though.
I expect a real lady's man wouldn't have had much trouble cuttin' in onStukey and towin' Anna off into a corner. But that ain't my strong suit.The best I could do was to wait until the next day, when there was noopposition. Meantime I'd been usin' the long-distance reckless; so bythe time Anna shows up at the Alcazar to open the window for the evenin'sale, I was primed with a good many more facts about a certain partythan I had been the night before. Stukey wasn't quite such a man ofmystery as he had been.
Course, I might have gone straight to Anton; but, somehow, I wanted totry out a few hints on Anna. I couldn't say just why, either. The lineof josh I opens with ain't a bit subtle. It don't have to be. Anna wastickled to pieces to be kidded about her feller. She invites me into thebox-office, offers me chewin' gum, and proceeds to get quite frisky.
"Ah, who was tellin' you that?" says she. "Can't a girl have a gentlemanfrien' without everybody's askin' is she engaged? Wotcher think?"
"Tut-tut!" says I. "I suppose, when you two had your heads together soclose, he was rehearsin' one of his speeches to you--the kind he makesup in the hall, eh?"
"Mr. Stukey don't make no speeches there," says Anna. "He just tells theothers what to say. You ought to hear him talk, though. My, sometimeshe's just grand!"
"Urgin' 'em not to quit work, I suppose?" says I.
"Him?" says Anna. "Not much. He wants 'em to strike, all the timestrike, until they own the shops. He's got no use for rich people. Calls'em blood-suckers and things like that. Oh, he's sump'n fierce when hetalks about the rich."
"Is he?" says I. "I wonder why?"
"All the workers get like that," says Anna. "Mr. Stukey says that prettysoon everybody will join--all but the rich blood-suckers, and they'll bein jail. He was poor himself once. So was I, you know, in Poland. But wegot along until the Germans came, and then---- Ugh! I don't like toremember."
"Anton was tellin' me," says I. "You lost some of your folks."
"Lost!" says Anna, a panicky look comin' into her big eyes. "You call itthat? I saw my father shot, my two brothers dragged off to work in thetrenches, and my sister--oh, I can't! I can't say it!"
"Then don't tell Stukey," says I, "if you want to keep stringin' himalong."
"But why?" demands Anna.
"Because," says I, "the money he's spendin' so free around here comesfrom them--the Germans."
"No, no!" says Anna, whisperin' husky. "That--that's a lie!"
"Sorry," says I; "but I got his number straight. He was workin' for aGerman insurance company up to 1915, bookkeepin' at ninety a month. Thenhe got the chuck. He came near starvin'. It was when he was almost inthat he went crawlin' back to 'em, and they gave him this job. If youdon't believe it's German money he's spendin' ask Anton to show you someof Stukey's canceled checks."
"But--but he's English," protests Anna. "Anyway, his father was."
"The Huns don't mind who they buy up," says I.
She's still starin' at me, sort of stunned.
"German money!" she repeats. "Him!"
"Anton will show you the checks," says I. "He don't care where theycome from, so long as he can cash 'em. But you might hint to him that ifanother big strike is pulled it's apt to be a long
one, and in that casethe movie business will get a crimp put in it. The Warsaw receipts, too.I take it that Stukey's tryin' to work the hands up to a point wherethey'll vote for----"
"To-night they vote," breaks in Anna. "In two hours."
I lets out a whistle. "Zowie!" says I. "Guess I'm a little late. Say,you got a 'phone here. Would it do any good if you called Anton upand----"
"No," snaps Anna. "He thinks too slow. I must do this myself."
"You?" says I. "What could you do?"
"I don't know," says Anna. "But I must try. And quick. Hey, Marson!You--at the door. Come here and sell the tickets. Put an usher in yourplace."
With that she bounces down off the tall chair, shoves the substituteinto her place, and goes streamin' out bare-headed. I decides to follow.But she leaves me behind as though I'd been standin' still.
At the Warsaw I finds Anton smokin' placid in his little office.
"Seen Anna?" I asks.
"Anna!" says he. "She should be selling tickets at the----"
"She was," says I; "but just now she's upstairs in the hall."
"At the meetin'?" gasps Anton. "Anna? Oh, no!"
"Come, take a look," says I.
And, for once in his life, Anton got a quick move on. He don't ask me tofollow, but I trails along; and just as we strikes the top stair wehears a rousin' cheer go up. I suppose any other time we'd been barredout, but there's nobody to hold us up as we pushes through, for everyonehas their eyes glued on the little stage at the far end of the hall.
No wonder. For there, standin' up before more than three hundred yellin'men, is this high-colored young woman.
Course, I couldn't get a word of it, my Polish education havin' beensadly neglected when I was young. But Anna seems to be tellin' some sortof story. My guess was that it's the one she'd hinted at to me--abouther father and brothers and sister. But this time she seems to bethrowin' in all the details.
"Quick as a flash, Anna turns and points to Stukey. Icaught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow,slumps in his chair."]
There was nothin' frivolous about Anna's eyes now. It almost gave me acreepy feelin' to watch 'em--as if she was seein' things again thatshe'd like to forget--awful things. And she was makin' those threehundred men see the same things.
All of a sudden she breaks off, covers her face with her hands, andshivers. Then, quick as a flash, she turns and points to Stukey. Icaught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow,slumps in his chair. Another second, and she's turned back to the menout front. She is puttin' something up to them--a question, straightfrom the shoulder.
The first to make a move is a squatty, thick-necked gent with one eyewalled out. He jumps on a chair, shouts a few excited words, waves hislong arms, and starts for the stage businesslike. The next thing I knewthe riot was on, with Mortimer J. Stukey playin' the heavy lead andbein' tossed around like a rat.
It must have been Anton that switched off the lights and sent for thepolice. I didn't stop to ask. Bein' near the door, I felt my waydownstairs and made a quick exit. Course, the ceremonies promised tocontinue interestin', but somehow this struck me as a swell time for meto quit. So I strolls back to the hotel and goes to bed.
Yes, I was some curious to know how the muss ended, but I didn't hurryaround next mornin'. As a matter of fact, I'd enjoyed the society of theSobowskis quite a lot durin' the past two days, and I thought I'd betterstay away for a while. They're a strenuous bunch when they're stirredup--even a kittenish young thing like Anna.
About noon I 'phoned the works, and found that all was serene there,with no signs of a strike yet.
"No, and I got a hunch there won't be any, either," says I.
I was plannin' to linger in Bridgeport another day or so; but when theafternoon paper came out I changed my mind. Accordin' to thepolice-court reporter's account, there'd been some little disturbance inWarsaw Hall the night before. Seems a stranger by the name of Stukey hadbutted into a meetin' of the Pulaski Social Club, and had proceeded toget so messy that it had been found necessary to throw him out. Half adozen witnesses told how rude he'd been, includin' the well-knowncitizen, Mr. Anton Sobowski, who owned the premises. The said Stukey hadbeen a bit damaged; but after he'd been patched up at the City Hospitalhe'd been promised a nice long rest--thirty days, to be exact.
So I jumps the next train back to Broadway.
"Ah, Lieutenant!" says Mr. Ellins, glancin' up from his desk. "Findanything up there?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "His name was Stukey. Another case of drawin' his payfrom Berlin."
"Hah!" grunts Old Hickory, bitin' into his cigar. "The long arm again.But can't you recommend something?"
"Sure!" says I. "If we could find a pair of gold boots about eighteenbuttons high, we ought to send 'em to Anna Sobowski."