Torchy and Vee
party a man could forget easy, if he'd ever really known her. Specially
a gink like Ernie who'd had such a limited experience. Nor she wasn't
the type that would go out cruisin' in a cab after perfect strangers.
Not her. Besides, hadn't she recognized Ernie on sight? Then there was
the quick clinch. No discountin' that. Whoever it was it's somebody who
don't hesitate to hug Ernie right in public. And yet he sticks to it,
right up to the last, that he don't know her. Well, I gave it up.
"Either he's a foxier sport than we've been givin' him credit for,"
thinks I, "or else the lady has made the mistake of her life. If she has
she'll soon find it out and Ernie will be trailing back on the hunt for
me."
But after walkin' up and down the block three times without seeing
anything that looked like Ernie I dodges into a chop-house and has a
bite all by my lonesome. Then I wanders back to the general offices and
tries to wind up what we'd been workin' on. But I couldn't help
wondering about Ernie. Had he just plain buffaloed me, or what? If he
had, who was his swell lady friend? And how did she come to be waitin'
there in the taxi? By the way she was costumed she might have been on
her way to some dinner dance on Fifth Avenue. That was a perfectly
spiffy evening dress she had on, what there was of it. And I could
remember jewels sparklin' here and there. Course, she was no chicken;
somewhere under thirty would have been my guess, but she sure was easy
to look at. Such eyes, too! Yes, a little starry maybe, but big and
sparkly. No wonder Ernie didn't care to look at any of our lady typists
if he had that in the background.
So I wasn't gettin' ahead very fast untanglin' them dockage contracts,
and before 11 o'clock I was yawning. I'd just decided to quit and loaf
around the station until the theater train was ready when I hears an
unsteady step in the outer office and the next minute in blows Ernie.
That is, it's somebody who looks a little as Ernie did three hours
before. But his derby is busted in on one side, one end of his wing
collar has been carried away and is ridin' up towards his left ear, his
coat is all dusty, and his face is flushed up like a new fire truck.
"For the love of soup!" says I, gaspy. "Must have been some party?"
Ernie, he braces himself by grippin' a chair-back and makes a stab at
recoverin' his usual stiff-neck pose. But it's a flat failure. So he
gives up, waves one hand around vague, and indulges in a foolish smile.
"Wha'--wha' makes you think sho--party?" he demands.
"I got second sight, Ernie," says I, "and it tells me you've been
spilled off the wagon."
"You--you think I--I've been drinkin'?" asks Ernie indignant.
"Oh, no," says I. "I should say you'd been using a funnel."
"Tha's--tha's because you have 'spischus nashur'," protests Ernie.
"Merely few glasshes. You know--bubblesh in stem."
"Champagne, eh?" says I. "Then it was a reg'lar party? Ernie, I am
surprised at you."
"You--you ain't half so shurprised as--as I am myshelf," says he,
chucklin'. "Tha's what I told Louishe."
"Oh, you mentioned it to Louise, did you?" says I. "I expect that was
the lovely lady who carted you off in the taxi?"
He nods and springs another one of them silly smiles. "Tha's ri'," says
he. "The lovely Louishe."
"Tell me, Ernie," says I, "how long has this been going on?"
And what do you suppose this fathead has the front to spring on me? That
this was the first time he'd ever seen her. Uh-huh! He sticks to that
tale. Even claims he don't know what the rest of her name is.
"Louishe, tha's all," says he. "Th' lovely Louishe."
"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll let it ride at that. And I expect she
picked you out all on account of your compelling beauty? Must have been
a sudden case, from the fond clinch I saw you gettin' as the cab
started."
Ernie closed his eyes slow, like he was goin' over the scene again, and
then remarks: "Thash when I begun to be surprished. Louishe has most
affec-shanate nashur."
"So it would seem," says I. "But where did the party take place?"
That little detail appears to have escaped Ernie. He remembered that
there were pink candles on the table, and music playing, and a lot of
nice people around. Also that the waiter's head was shiny, like an egg.
He thought it must have been at some hotel on Fifth Avenue. Yes, they
went in through a sidewalk canopy. It was a very nice dinner,
too--'specially the pheasant and the parfait in the silver cup. And it
was so funny to watch the bubbles keep coming up through the glass stem.
"Yes," says I, "that's one of New York's favorite winter sports. But
who was all this on--Louise?"
"She insists I'm her guesh," says Ernie.
"That made it very nice, then, didn't it?" says I. "But none of this
accounts for the dent in your hat and the other rough-house signs.
Somebody must have got real messy with you at some stage in the game.
Remember anything about that?"
"Oh!" says Ernie, stiffenin' up and tryin' to scowl. "Most--most
disagreeable persons. Actually rude."
"Who and where?" I insists.
"Louishe's family," says Ernie. "I--I don't care for her family. No.
Sorry, but----"
"Mean to say Louise took you home after dinner?" says I.
Ernie nods. "Wanted me to meet family," says he. "Dear old daddy,
darling mother, sho on. 'Charmed,' says I. I was willing to meet anyone
then. Right in the mood. 'Certainly,' says I. Feeling friendly. Patted
waiter on back, waved to orchestra leader, shook handsh with perfect
stranger going out. Went to lovely house, uptown somewhere. Fine ol'
butler, fine ol' rugsh in hall, tapeshtries on wall. And then--then----"
Ernie slumps into a chair, pushes the loose collar end away from his
chin fretful, and indulges in a deep sigh. I expect he thinks he's told
the whole story.
"I take it," says I, "that you did meet dear old daddy?"
"Washn't so very old, at thash," says Ernie. "No. Nor such a dear.
Looksh like--like Teddy Roosh'velt. Behavesh like Teddy, too.
Im--impeshuous. Very firsh thing he says is, 'And who the devil are
you?' 'Guesh?' I tells him. 'Give you three guesshes.' He--he's no good
as guessher, daddy. Grabsh me by the collar. 'You, you loafer!' says he.
Then the lovely Louishe comes to rescue. 'Can't you see, daddy?' she
tells him. 'It's Ernie. Found him at lash.' 'Ernie who?' demandsh daddy.
'I--I forget,' says Louishe. 'Bah!' saysh daddy. 'Lash time it was
Harold, wasn't it?' 'Naughty, naughty!' saysh I. 'Mustn't tell talesh.
Bad form, daddy. Lessh all be calm now and--and we'll tell you about
dinner--bubblesh in the glass, 'n'everything. Louishe and I. Lovely
girl, Louishe. Affecshonate nashur.' And thash as far as I got.
Different nashur, daddy."
"I gather that he didn't insist on your staying?" says I.
No, he hadn't. As near as I could make out dear old daddy took a firm
grip on Ernie in two places, and while the fine old butler held the
front door open he got more impetuous than ever. As Ernie tells me about
it he rubs himself reminiscent and gazes sorrowful at his dented derby.
"Mosh annoying," says he. "Couldn't even shay good night to lovely
Louishe."
"Oh, well," says I. "You can make up for that when you pay your dinner
call. By the way, where was this home of the lovely Louise?"
Ernie doesn't know. When he'd arrived he was too busy to notice the
street and number, and when he came out he was too much annoyed. Also he
didn't remember having heard Louise's last name.
"Huh!" says I. "Except for that everything is all clear, eh? It strikes
me, Ernie, as if you'd worked up a perfectly good mystery. You've been
kidnapped by a lovely lady, had a swell dinner, with plenty of fizz on
the side, been introduced to a strong-arm father, and finished on the
sidewalk with your lid caved in. And for an assistant auditor who
blushes as easy as you do that's what I call kind of a large evening."
Ernie nods. Then he chuckles to himself, sort of satisfied, and remarks
mushy: "Lovely girl, Louishe."
"Yes, we've admitted all that," says I. "But who the blazes is she?"
Ernie rumples his hair thoughtful and then shakes his head.
"But during all that time didn't she say anything about herself, or give
you any hint?" I goes on.
Ernie can't remember that she did.
"What was all the chat about?" I demands.
"Oh, everything," says Ernie. "She--she said she'd been looking for me
long timesh. Knew me by--by my eyesh."
"How touching!" says I. "That must have been during the clinch."
"Yes," says Ernie. "But nexsh time----"
"Say," I breaks in, "if you don't know what her name is, or where she
lives, how do you figure on a next time?"
"Thash so," says Ernie. "Too bad."
"Still," says I, "the kiss stringency in your young career has been
lifted, hasn't it? And now it's about time I fixed you up and towed you
out to a hotel where you can hit the feathers for about ten hours. My
hunch is that a pitcher of ice water is going to look mighty good to you
in the morning. And maybe by tomorrow noon you can remember more details
about Louise than you can seem to dig up now."
You can't always tell about these birds who surprise you that way. I was
only an hour late in getting to the office myself next day, but I finds
Ernie at his desk looking hardly any the worse for wear, and grinding
away as usual. He looks a little sheepish when I ask him if Louise has
'phoned him yet.
"S-s-sh!" says he, glancin' around cautious. "Please!"
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Trust me. I'm no sieve. But I'm wondering if
you'll ever run across her again."
"I--I don't know," says Ernie. "It all seems so vague and queer. I can't
recall much of anything except that Louise---- Well, she did show rather
a fondness for me, you know; and perhaps, some time or other----"
"Yes," says I, "lightnin' does occasionally strike twice in the same
place. But not often, Ernie."
He's a wonder, Ernie is. Seems satisfied to let it go as it stands,
without trying to dope anything out. But me, I can't let anybody bat a
mystery like that up to me without going through a few Sherlock Holmes
motions. So that evening finds me wandering through Forty-fifth Street
again at about the same hour. Not that I expected to find the same
lovely lady ambushed in a cab. I don't know just what I was looking for.
And then, all of a sudden, I gets my eye on this yellow taxi. It's an
odd shade of yellow, something like a pale squash pie; a big, lumbering
old bus that had been repainted by some amateur. And I was willing to
bet there wasn't another in town just like it. Also it's the one Ernie
had stepped into the night before, for there's the same driver wearing
the identical square-topped brown derby. Only there's no Louise waiting
inside.
They're a shifty bunch, these independents. Some you can hire for a
bank robbing job or a little act with gun play in it, and some you
can't. This mutt looked like he'd be up to anything. But when I asks him
if he remembers the lady in the evening dress he had aboard last night
he just looks stupid and shakes his head.
"Oh, it's all right," says I. "No come-back to it."
"Mebby so," says he, "but my big line, son, is forgettin' things."
"Would this help your memory any?" says I, slippin' him a couple of
dollars.
He grins and stows it away the kale. "Aw, you mean the party with the
wild eyes, eh?" he asks.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "I was just curious to know where you picked her up."
"That's easy," says he. "She came out of there, third door above. I get
most of my fares from there."
"Oh," says I, steppin' out for a squint. "Looks like a private house."
"It's private, all right," says he, "but it's a home for dippy ones. You
know," and he taps his head. "She's a sample. I've had her before. They