by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER VII
TORCHY FOLLOWS A HUNCH
It was a case of local thunderstorms on the seventeenth floor of theCorrugated Trust Building. To state it simpler, Old Hickory wasrunnin' a neck temperature of 210 or so, and there was no tellin' whatminute he might fuse a collar-button or blow out a cylinder-head.
The trouble seemed to be that one of his pet schemes was in danger ofbeing ditched. Some kind of an electric power distributin' stunt itis, one that he'd doped out durin' a Western trip last summer; just alittle by-play with a few hundred square miles of real estate,includin' the buildin' of twenty or thirty miles of trolley andplantin' a few factories here and there.
But now here's Ballinger, our Western manager, in on the carpet, tryin'to explain why it can't be done. He's been at it for two hours, helpedout by a big consultin' engineer and the chief attorney of our Chicagobranch. They've waved blue-print maps, submitted reports of experts,and put in all kinds of evidence to show that the scheme has either gotto be revised radical or else chucked.
"Very sorry, Mr. Ellins," says Ballinger, "but we have done our best."
"Bah!" snaps Old Hickory. "It's all waste land, isn't it? Of coursehe'll sell. Who is he, anyway?"
"His name," says Ballinger, pawin' over some letters, "is T. WaldoPettigrew. Lives in New York, I believe; at least, his attorneys arehere. And this is all we have been able to get out of them--a flatno." And he slides an envelope across the mahogany table.
"But what's his reason?" demands Old Hickory. "Why? That's what Iwant to know."
Ballinger shrugs his shoulders. "I don't pretend," says he, "tounderstand the average New Yorker."
"Hah!" snorts Mr. Ellins. "Once more that old alibi of thelimber-spined; that hoary fiction of the ten-cent magazine and thetwo-dollar drama. Average New Yorker! Listen, Ballinger. There's nosuch thing. We're just as different, and just as much alike, asanybody else. In other words, we're human. And this Pettigrew personyou seem to think such a mysterious and peculiar individual--well, whatabout him? Who and what is he?"
"According to the deeds," says Ballinger, "he is the son of Thomas J.and Mary Ann Pettigrew, both deceased. His attorneys are Mott, Drew &Mott. They write that their client absolutely refuses to sell any landanywhere. They have written that three times. They have declined todiscuss any proposition. And there you are."
"You mean," sneers Old Hickory, "that there you are."
"If you can suggest anything further," begins Ballinger, "we shall beglad to--"
"I know," breaks in Old Hickory, "you'd be glad to fritter away anothersix months and let those International Power people jump in ahead ofus. No, thanks. I mean to see if I can't get a little action now.Robert, who have we out there in the office who's not especially busy?Oh, yes, Torchy. I say, young man! You--Torchy!"
"Calling me, sir?" says I, slidin' out of my chair and into the nextroom prompt.
Old Hickory nods.
"Find that man Pettigrew," says he, tossin' over the letter. "He ownssome land we need. There's a map of it, also a memorandum of whatwe're willing to pay. Report to-morrow."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Want me to close the deal by noon?"
Maybe they didn't catch the flicker under them bushy eyebrows. But Idid, and I knew he was goin' to back my bluff.
"Any time before five will do," says he. "Wait! You'd better take acheck with you."
If we was lookin' to get any gasps out of that bunch, we had anotherguess comin'. They knew Old Hickory's fondness for tradin' on hisreputation, and that he didn't always pull it off. The engineer humpshis eyebrows sarcastic, while Ballinger and the lawyer swaps a quietsmile.
"Then perhaps we had best stay over and take the deeds back with us,"says Ballinger.
"Do," snaps Old Hickory. "You can improve the time hunting for youraverage New Yorker. Here you are, Torchy."
Say, he's a game old sport, Mr. Ellins. He plays a hundred-to-one shotlike he was puttin' money on a favorite. And he waves me on my waywith never a wink of them keen eyes.
"Gee!" thinks I. "Billed for a masked marvel act, ain't I? Well, thatbein' the case, this is where I get next to Pettigrew or tear somethingloose."
Didn't need any seventh-son work to locate him. The 'phone book showshe lives on Madison Avenue. Seemed simple enough. But this was notime to risk bein' barred out by a cold-eyed butler. You can't breezeinto them old brownstone fronts on your nerve. What I needed wascredentials. The last place I'd be likely to get 'em would be Mott,Drew & Mott's, so I goes there first. No, I didn't hypnotize anybody.I simply wrote out an application for a job on the firm's stationery,and as they was generous with it I dashes off another note which Itucks in my pocket. Nothing sleuthy required. Why, say, I could havewalked out with the letter file and the safe combination if I'd wantedto.
So when I rings the bell up at Mr. Pettigrew's I has something besideshot air to shove at Perkins. He qualifies in the old fam'ly servantclass right off, for as soon as he lamps the name printed on theenvelope corner he swings the door wide open, and inside of two minutesI'm bein' announced impressive in the library at the back: "From yourattorneys, sir." Which as far as it goes is showin' some speed, eh?
Yea-uh! That's the way I felt about it. All I asked was to be putnext to this Pettigrew party. Not that I had any special spell to workoff on him; but, as Old Hickory said, he must be human, and if he was,why-- Well, about then I begun to get the full effect of this weird,double-barreled stare.
Now, I don't mind takin' the once-over from a single pair ofshell-rimmed goggles; but to find yourself bein' inspected through twosets of barn windows--honest, it seemed like the room was full ofspectacles. I glanced hasty from one to the other of thesesolemn-lookin' parties ranged behind the book barricade, and then takesa chance that the one with the sharp nose and the dust-colored hair isT. Waldo.
"Mr. Pettigrew?" says I, smilin' friendly and winnin'.
"Not at all," says he, a bit pettish.
"Oh, yes," says I, turnin' to the broken-nosed one with the wavy blackpompadour effect. "Of course."
He's some younger than the other, in the late twenties, I should judge,and has sort of a stern, haughty stare.
"Why of course?" he demands.
"Eh?" says I. "Why--er--well, you've got my note, ain't you, there inyour hand?"
"Ah!" says he. "Rather a clever deduction; eh, Tidman?"
"I shouldn't say so," croaks the other. "Quite obvious, in fact. Ifit wasn't me it must be you."
"Oh, but you're such a deucedly keen chap," protests Waldo. Then heswings back to me. "From my attorneys?"
"Just came from there," says I.
"Odd," says he. "I don't remember having seen you before."
"That's right," says I. "You see, Mr. Pettigrew, I'm reallyrepresentin' the Corrugated Trust and--"
"Don't know it at all," breaks in Waldo.
"That's why I'm here," says I. "Now, here's our proposition."
And say, before he can get his breath or duck under the table, I'vespread out the blue-prints and am shootin' the prospectus stuff intohim at the rate of two hundred words to the minute.
Yes, I must admit I was feedin' him a classy spiel, and I was justthrowin' the gears into high-high for a straightaway spurt when all ofa sudden I gets the hunch I ain't makin' half the hit I hoped I was.It's no false alarm, either. T. Waldo's gaze is gettin' sterner everyminute, and he seems to be stiffenin' from the neck down.
"I say," he breaks in, "are--are you trying to sell me something?"
"Me?" says I. "Gosh, no! I hadn't quite got to that part, but my ideais to give you a chance to unload something on us. This Apache Creekland of yours."
"Really," says Waldo, "I don't follow you at all. My land?"
"Sure!" says I. "All this shaded pink. That's yours, you know. Andas it lays now it's about as useful as an observation car in thesubway. But if you'll swap it for preferred stock in our powercompany--"
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p; "No," says he, crisp and snappy. "I owned some mining stock once, andit was a fearful nuisance. Every few months they wanted me to paysomething on it, until I finally had to burn the stuff up."
"That's one way of gettin' rid of bum shares," says I. "But look; thisis no flimflam gold mine. This is sure-fire shookum--a sound businessproposition backed by one of the--"
"Pardon me," says T. Waldo, glarin' annoyed through the big panes, "butI don't care to have shares in anything."
"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll settle on a cash basis, then. Now,you've got no use for that tract. We have. Course, we can get otherland just as good, but yours is the handiest. If you've ever tried towish it onto anyone, you know you couldn't get a dollar an acre. We'llgive you five."
"Please go away," says he.
"Make it six," says I. "Now, that tract measures up about--"
"Tidman," cuts in Mr. Pettigrew, "could you manage to make this youngman understand that I don't care to be bothered with such rot?"
Tidman didn't have a chance.
"Excuse me," says I, flashin' Old Hickory's ten thousand dollar check,"but if there's anything overripe about that, just let me know. That'sreal money, that is. If you want it certified I'll--"
"Stop," says T. Waldo, holdin' up his hand like I was the cross-towntraffic. "You must not go on with this silly business chatter. I amnot in the least interested. Besides, you are interrupting my tutoringperiod."
"Your which?" says I, gawpin'.
"Mr. Tidman," he goes on, "is my private tutor. He helps me to studyfrom ten to two every day."
"Gee!" says I. "Ain't you a little late gettin' into college?"
Waldo sighs weary.
"If I must explain," says he, "I prefer to continue improving my mindrather than idle away my days. I've never been to college or to anysort of school. I've been tutored at home ever since I can remember.I did give it up for a time shortly after the death of my father. Ithought that the management of the estate would keep me occupied. ButI have no taste for business--none at all. And I found that by leavingmy father's investments precisely as they came to me my affairs couldbe simplified. But one must do something. So I engaged Mr. Tidman.What if I am nearly thirty? Is that any reason why I should give upbeing tutored? There is so much to learn! And to-day's period isespecially interesting. We were just about getting to Thorwald theBitter."
"Did you say Biter or Batter?" says I.
"I said Thorwald the Bitter," repeats Pettigrew. "One of the old NorseVikings, you know."
"Go on, shoot it," says I. "What's the joke?"
"But there's no joke about it," he insists. "Surely you have heard ofthe Norse Vikings?"
"Not yet," says I. "I got my ear stretched, though."
"Fancy!" remarks T. Waldo, turnin' to Tidman.
Tidman stares at me disgusted, then hunches his shoulders and grunts,"Oh, well!"
"And now," says Pettigrew, "it's nearly time for Epictetus."
Sounded something like lunch to me, but I wasn't takin' any hints. I'ddiscovered several things that Waldo didn't care for, money being among'em, and now I was tryin' to get a line on what he did like. So I wasall for stickin' around.
"Possibly," suggests Tidman, smilin' sarcastic, "our young friend is anadmirer of Epictetus."
"I ain't seen many of the big games this year," says I. "What leagueis he in?"
"Epictetus," says Waldo, breakin' it to me as gentle as he can, "was aGreek philosopher. We are reading his 'Discourses.'"
"Oh!" says I. "Not so close, was I? Now, what was his line ofdope--something like the Dooley stuff?"
Waldo and Tidman swaps grins, sort of sly and sheepish, like theywasn't used to indulgin' in such frivolity. They seemed to enjoy it,though, and the first thing I know I'm bein' put through a sort ofhighbrow third degree, the object being to show up what an empty loft Iwear my pink thatch on.
Course, they didn't have to dig very deep into back-number hist'ry orB. C. best sellers to prove their case, and when an extra chuckle wasneeded I admit I played up my part for all it was worth. Honest, theydevelops into a pair of reg'lar cut-ups, and seems to be havin' thetime of their lives discoverin' that I thought Cleopatra must be one ofthe Russian ballet and Francis Bacon a new movie star.
"And yet," says Waldo, inspectin' me curious, "your employers intrustyou with a ten thousand dollar check."
"They've never got onto me, the way you have," says I.
"As I have always contended," puts in Tidman, "the commercial mind ismuch over-rated. Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and endswith a percentage fraction. In England, now, we--"
"Well, Peters?" breaks in T. Waldo, glancin' annoyed towards the doubledoors, where the butler is teeterin' back and forth on his toes.
"If you please, sir," says Peters, registerin' deep agitation, "might Ihave a word with you in--er--in private, sir?"
"Nonsense, Peters," says Waldo. "Don't be mysterious about sillyhousekeeping trifles. What is it? Come, speak up, man."
"As you like, sir," goes on Peters. "It--it's about the laundress,sir. She's sitting on a man in the basement, sir."
"Wha-a-at?" gasps Waldo.
Tidman takes it out by droppin' a book.
"A dangerous character, we think, sir," says the butler--"most likelyone of a gang of burglars. Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in thecoal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir. Then she grappled him,sir."
"Oh, dear!" groans Tidman, his face goin' putty-colored.
"The deuce!" says Waldo. "And you say the laundress has him--er--"
"Quite secure, sir," says Peters. "Both hands in his hair and shesitting on his chest, sir."
"But--but this can't go on indefinitely," says Waldo. "I supposesomething ought to be done about it."
"I should suggest sending for the police, sir," says Peters.
"Bother!" says Waldo. "That means my going to police court, and havingthe thing in the papers, and-- Why, Tidman, what's the matter?"
The tutor sure was takin' it hard. His thin, bony fingers areclutchin' the chair arm desperate, clammy drops are startin' out on hisbrow, and his narrow-set eyes are starin' at Peters.
"She's such a heavy female--Mrs. Flynn," groans Tidman. "Right on hischest, too!"
"Better that than having him wake us up in the middle of the nightflourishing firearms and demanding valuables," says Waldo.
"Ugh! Burglars. How--how silly of them to come here! It's sodisturbing, and I do dread having the police in. I wish you wouldn'tlook so ghastly over it, Tidman. Come, suggest something."
But Tidman don't seem to be a good suggester. "Both hands in his hair.Oh!" he mutters.
"It's not your hair," sputters Waldo. "And saying idiotic things likethat doesn't help. Not a bit. Must I call the police, or what?"
"The police!" whispers Tidman, hoarse and husky.
"But what else can I do?" demands Waldo. Then he turns to me. "I say,can you think of anything?"
"Seems to me I'd have a look at the gent first," says I. "Mistakessometimes happen, you know, in the best regulated basements. Might bejust a man takin' the meters, or a plumber, or something like that."
"By George, that's so!" says T. Waldo, chirkin' up. "But--er--must Igo down there? Suppose he should be a burglar, after all?"
"We'd be three to one, not countin' Mrs. Flynn," says I.
"Would you help, really?" he asks eager. "You see, I'm not verystrong. And Tidman--well, you can't count much on him. Besides, howdoes one know a burglar by sight?"
"They don't wear uniforms, that's a fact," says I; "but I might ask himwhat he was doin' down there and call for proof. Then, if he was onlytakin' the meter, why--"
"Of course," says Waldo. "We will--er--you'll do that for me, will younot? Come along, Tidman. You too, Peters. We'll just find out whothe fellow is."
I must say, it's kind of a draggy rush line they formed, Tidman havin'to be almost pushed, and Peters keepin' well
in the rear. I findsmyself leadin' the assault, with Waldo a bad second, but tellin' mewhich turns to make and urgin' Tidman to follow close.
Sure enough, though, there on the laundry floor we discovers thevictorious Mrs. Flynn, a wide, husky party, with something flattenedunderneath. About all that's visible is a pair of run-over shoes andpart of a coat sleeve that's been ripped off. She seems glad to see us.
"Thanks be!" says she, sighin' grateful. "It's faint and wake I amstrugglin' with this murderous little shrimp. Ah, squirm, will ye!There's men to handle ye now, and the coppers'll soon be here. Will yetake charge of him, Mr. Pettigrew?"
"No, no! Please, Mrs. Flynn!" protests Waldo. "You are doingexcellently. Don't let him up just yet."
"O-o-o-o!" moans the flattened gent. "My poor back!"
"If you could ease up a bit, so we might get a look at him," Isuggests. "We want to see if he's really a burglar."
"He's that, all right," says Mrs. Flynn. "Didn't I catch himred-handed prowlin' about? But if ye want to see what his ugly muglooks like, ye may. There! Sit ye up and face the gintlemen!"
She's a shifty party with her hands and feet, for with a couple of bodytwists Mrs. Flynn is on her knees behind him with his arms pinned tothe small of his back.
"There, thief of the wor-ruld!" says she. "Tell 'em whatever you cameto steal."
"Go on," says I. "Mind the lady."
"I--I'm no thief; really, gentlemen," says he. "You can see that, Itrust."
"Sure!" says I. "Just mistook the basement for the drawin'-room,didn't you? And you was about to leave cards on the fam'ly. What namedid you say?"
"I--I'd rather not give my name," says he, hangin' his head.
"It's being done in the best circles," says I. "These calls incog. aregettin' to be bad form. Isn't that right, Mr. Pettigrew?"
"If he is a gas man or a plumber," says Waldo, "why doesn't he say soat once?"
"There's your cue," says I. "Now come across with the alibi."
"I--I can't explain just how I happen to be here," says the gent,"but--but there are those who can."
"Eh?" says I. "Oh-ho!"
It was only a quick glance he shot over, but I caught who it was aimedat. Also, I noticed the effect. And just like that I had a swifthunch how all this ground-floor mix-up might be worked in useful.
"Mr. Pettigrew," says I, "suppose I could Sherlock Holmes this laundrymystery without callin' in the cops?"
"Oh, I should be so grateful!" says T. Waldo.
"That ain't the answer," says I. "Would it make you feel differentabout sellin' that land?"
"Oh, I say, you know!" protests T. Waldo, startin' to stiffen up.
For a two-by-four he lugs around a lot of cranky whims, and it lookedlike this was one of his pets. There's quite a mulish streak in him,too.
"All right," says I, startin' towards the basement stairs. "Settle ityour own way."
"But, really, I--I don't know what to do," says Waldo. "I--I'm allupset. Of course, if you insist on the land--"
"That's talkin'!" says I. "My guess is that it won't take long.Suppose you and Peters go back upstairs. You can leave Tidman, though."
"You--you're sure it is safe?" asks Waldo.
"Look at that grip of Mrs. Flynn's," says I.
After one skittish glance, Waldo does a quick exit. At that, though,Peters beat him to it.
"Tidman," says I, when they're gone, "we'll step out towards the back aways and consult. Hold him a minute longer, Mrs. Flynn."
"I--I don't see why I should be dragged into this," whines Tidman, as Ileads him towards the rear.
"Never mind," says I. "We're goin' to clear this all up right away.Now, who is he, Tidman? Black-sheep brother, or what?"
Got a jump out of him, that jab did. But he recovers quick.
"Why, he's no relative at all," says Tidman. "I assure you that Inever saw the--"
"Naughty, naughty!" says I. "Didn't I spot that peaked beak of his,just like yours? That's a fam'ly nose, that is."
"Cousin," admits Tidman, turnin' sulky.
"And sort of a blot on the escutcheon?" I goes on.
Tidman nods.
"Booze or dope?" I asks.
"Both, I think," says Tidman. "He--he has almost ruined my career."
"Pulls the Black Hand stuff on you, eh?" says I.
Tidman groans.
"I lost two positions because of him," says he. "It is only when hegets desperate that he hunts me up. I hadn't seen him for over twoyears until this morning. I'd been out for a walk, and he must havefollowed me. We were in the front vestibule, and he was begging, asusual,--threatening, too,--when I saw Mr. Pettigrew coming in. So Ihurried Ralph through the hall and downstairs. I thought he could staythere until I was through tutoring; then I could give him something andsend him off. But that Mrs. Flynn--"
"She's a swell short-stop," says I. "Doin' extra duty, too. Got acouple of fives on you?"
"Why, ye-e-es," says Tidman; "but what--"
"You're goin' to reward her for sittin' on Cousin Ralph so long," saysI. "Give her one of the fives. You can slip the other to him as weshoo him through the back door. Now, let's go relieve Mrs. Flynn."
From the rough way we collared Ralph and led him off, she must havethought we was headin' him straight for Sing Sing. Anyway, thatfive-spot kept her mind busy.
Our remarks to Ralph were short but meaty. "You see the bally muss yougot me into, I hope," says Tidman.
"And just remember," I adds, "when the fit strikes you to call again,that Mrs. Flynn is always on hand."
"She's a female hyena, that woman," says Cousin Ralph, rubbin' his backbetween groans. "I--I wouldn't get within a mile of her again for afortune."
Couldn't have been more'n ten minutes before the three of us--Waldo,Tidman, and me--was all grouped in the lib'ry again, just as thoughnothing had happened.
"My hunch was right," says I. "He wasn't a burglar. Ask Tidman."
Tidman backs me up hearty.
"Then who the deuce was he," demands Waldo, "and what was he--"
"Now, say!" says I. "You've been let out, ain't you? He's gone; nopolice, no court proceedin's, no scandal in the servants' quarters.Ain't that enough?"
"You're quite right," says Waldo. "And we still have time for thatchapter of--"
"So you have," says I; "only you got to ditch this Toothpicketus workuntil you sign an order to your lawyers about sellin' that land. Here,lemme draft it off for you. Twelve words. Likely they'll want an O.K. on the 'phone, too; but you won't mind that. Now your signature.Thanks. And say, any time you and Tidman need a crude commercial mindto help you out, just send for me."
Uh-huh! By three o'clock next day we owned the whole of that ApacheCreek tract and had the goods to shove at Ballinger.
Was it a smear? It was--a smear plus. Tickled? Why, Old Hickory cameso near smilin' I was afraid that armor-plate face of his was goin' tocrack.
But say, don't tell the National Real Estaters' League about thatcommission check he slipped me. I might lose my amateur standin'.