Torchy and Vee
all," says he. "Not a word. Jake, let's hear from you. Where have you
been since night before last after dinner?"
Jake pries himself loose from the billowy embrace and advances sheepish.
"Why--why," says he, "I was locked in that fool lodge house."
"You were, eh?" says Zosco. "But how did that happen? What did you go in
there for?"
"Aw, if you must know, Andy, it--it was pinochle," he growls. "It ain't
a crime, is it, a little game?"
"What about the butler, though, and the others?" insists Zosco.
"Why," says Jake, "they was goin' to be in it, too. Can't play pinochle
alone, can you? And in a place like this where there's nothing goin' on
but silly billiards, or that bridge auction, a feller's gotta find some
amusement, ain't he? Saginaw they comes to the house 'most every
night--Hoffmeyer and Raditz and----"
"Yes, I know," breaks in Zosco. "So that was the plot, was it, Ellery?"
Ellery registers scorn. "Huh!" says he. "Don't let him put over any such
fish tale on you. Ask him about the slow poison in Maggie's coffee, and
stealin' the jewels, and--and all the rest."
"Why, Ellery!" gasps Mrs. Zosco.
"Didn't I catch you snifflin'?" demands Ellery. "And ain't you been
mopin' around?"
"Oh!" says she. "But that was before Andy had promised to let me play
the lead in his new eight-reel feature, 'The Singed Moth.' I've been
chipper enough since, haven't I, Andy, dear?"
"Slow poison!" echoes Zosco. "Jewel stealing! Murder plots! Boy, where
did you get such stuff in your head?"
But Ellery can only drop his chin and scrape his toe.
"I expect I can clear up that mystery," says I. "As a movie fan Ellery
is an ace."
And then it was Zosco's turn to stare. I don't know whether it got clear
home to him then or not. He was just about to separate himself from some
remark on the subject when Mrs. Jake cut loose with another squeal.
"Why, Jake Zosco!" says she. "Look at you! Like a tramp you are."
"Well, why not?" says Jake. "Didn't I sleep last night in a
wheelbarrow?"
And when the folks you're callin' on get to droppin' into intimate
personal remarks like that it's time to back out graceful. I guess even
Mrs. Robert decides this wasn't just the evenin' to play the pipe organ.
Before we'd got out they'd opened up the subject of what to do with
young Ellery Bean and the prospects were that he was due for a quick
return to Shelby, N. C.
"I don't see what good that's going to do," says Vee. "I should say that
he needed some kind of mental treatment. Why, his poor foolish head
seems to be filled with nothing but crime and crooks. I don't understand
how he could get that way."
"You would," says I, "if you'd take a full course of Zosco films."
CHAPTER XIII
TORCHY STRAYS FROM BROADWAY
"I must say it listens kind of complicated," says I, after Vee has
explained how I am to arrive at this country house weddin' fest.
"Why, Torchy, it's perfectly simple," says she.
And once more she sketches out the plan, how I'm to take the express to
Springfield, catch a green line trolley that's bound northwest, get off
at Dorr's Crossing, and wait until this Barry Crane party picks me up in
his car.
You see this friend of Vee's who's billed for the blushin' bride act has
decided to have the event pulled off at Birch Crest, the family's summer
home up in the hills of old N. H. Vee has promised to motor up the day
before with the bridesmaid, leavin' me to follow the next mornin'. But
when we come to look up train schedules it develops that the only way to
get to Birch Crest by train is via Boston.
"How about runnin' up to Montreal and droppin' down?" I suggests
sarcastic.
And then comes the word that this organist guy will be on his way up
across lots, after an over-night stop in New Haven, and will take me
aboard if I can make the proper connection.
"Suppose I make a slip, though?" says I. "There I'll be stranded up in
the pie belt with nothing but my feet to ride fifty miles on. Sorry,
Vee, but I guess your old boardin' school chum will have to break into
matrimony without my help."
Maybe you think that settled it. If you do you ain't tried being
married. Inside of half an hour we'd agreed on the usual compromise--I'm
to do as Vee says.
So here at 11:15 on a bright summer mornin' I'm dumped off a trolley car
way out on the upper edge of Massachusetts. It's about as lonesome a
spot as you could find on the map. Nothing but fields and woods in
sight, and a dusty road windin' across the right of way. Not a house to
be seen, not even a barn.
"You're sure this is Dorr's Crossin', eh?" I asks of the conductor as I
hesitates on the step.
"Oh, yes," says he, cheerful.
"Don't seem to be usin' it much, does he?" says I.
"Ding, ding!" remarks the fare collector to the motorman, and it was a
case of hoppin' lively for me.
There's nothing left to do but hoist myself conspicuous onto a
convenient wayside rock and hope that this Barry Crane person was
runnin' somewhere near on time. About then I begun to wish I knew more
about him, his general habits and so on. Was his memory good? Could he
be depended on to keep dates with strangers? Would he know Dorr's
Crossing when he saw it?
Vee hadn't touched on any of these points when she was convincin' me how
simple it would be for him and me to get together. Course, she'd given
me a chatty little sketch of Mr. Crane, but mostly it had been about
what a swell organist he was. Played in a big church. Not only that, but
made up pieces, all out of his own head. Also she'd mentioned about his
hopeless romance with a certain Ann McLeod.
Seems Barry had been strong for Miss McLeod for five or six years. She'd
kind of strung him along at first, too. Couldn't help likin' Barry some.
Everybody did. He was that kind--good natured, always sayin' clever
things. You know. But when it came to hitchin' up with him permanent,
Miss McLeod had balked. Nobody knew just why. Bright girl, Ann. Brainy,
too, and with lots of pep. She was secretary for some big efficiency
expert. Maybe that was why she couldn't stand for Barry's musical
temperament. She thought 9 a.m. was absolutely the last call for pushin'
back the roll-top and openin' the mornin' mail, while Barry's idea of
beginnin' a perfect day was for someone to bring in a breakfast tray
about eleven o'clock and hand him a cigarette before he tumbled out of
the straw. So while he'd qualified as a Dear Old Thing and she'd got to
the point where she'd let him call her Playmate Mine, that's where the
romance hung on the rocks. Also he'd been described as a chunky party
with a round face decorated with a cute little mustache and baby blue
eyes.
All of which don't help me dope out how long I'm due to lend a human
note to an otherwise empty landscape. And there's more excitin' outdoor
sports than sittin' on a rock waitin' to be rescued by someone who
hasn't even seen a snapshot of you. I'll tell the world that. During the
first twenty minutes I answered two false alarms. One was a gasoline
truck going the wrong way and the other turns out to be an R. F. D.
flivver with a baby's go-cart tied on the side. It was good and hot on
the perch I'd picked out and I could feel the sun doing things to the
back of my neck and ears, but I didn't dare climb down for fear I'd be
missed.
Where was this musical gent and his tourin' car? Or would it be a
limousine? Somehow from the way Vee had talked, sayin' he was bugs on
motorin', I sort of favored the limousine proposition. Uh-huh. Most
likely one lined with cretonne, and a French chauffeur at the wheel. But
nothing like that was rollin' past Dorr's Crossing. Not while I was
watchin'.
The rock wasn't gettin' a bit softer, either. Once a bluejay balanced
himself on a nearby bush and after lookin' me over curious screeched
himself hoarse tryin' to say what he thought of a city guy who didn't
know enough to get in the shade. It got to be noon. Still no Barry
Crane. I was just wonderin' when that trolley car was due for a return
trip and was workin' up a few cuttin' remarks to hand Vee when I got her
on the long distance, when I hears something approachin' from down the
road. First off I thought it might be one of these hay mowers runnin'
wild, but pretty soon out of a cloud of dust jumps a little roadster. It
sure was humpin' itself and makin' as much noise about it as a Third
Avenue surface car with two flat wheels. Didn't look very promisin' but
I got up and stretched my neck until I saw there was two people in it.
Next thing I knew though one of 'em, a young lady, is motionin' to me,
and with a squeal of brake bands the little car pulls up opposite the
rock. And sure enough the young gent drivin' has a sketchy mustache and
baby blue eyes.
"What ho!" he sings out cheerful. "Torchy, isn't it? Sorry if we've kept
you waiting, but Adelbaran wasn't performing quite as well as usual this
morning. Stow your bag on the fender and climb in."
"In where?" says I, glancin' at the single seat.
"Oh, really there's plenty of room for three," says the young lady. "And
for fear Barry will forget to mention it, I am Miss McLeod. He persuaded
me at the last minute to come with him in this crazy machine."
"Oh, I say, Ann!" protests Barry. "Not so rough, please. You've no
notion how sensitive Adelbaran is to unkind criticism. Besides, he's
brought us safely so far, hasn't he?"
Ann shrugs her shoulders and moves over to make room for me. "If you can
make another fifty miles in it I shall almost believe in miracles," says
she.
"And in me too, I trust," says Barry. "Hearest thou, Adelbaran? Then on,
on, pride of the desert! The women are singing in the tents and--and all
that sort of thing. Ho, ho! for the roaring road!"
He's some classy little driver, Barry. Inside of a hundred yards he has
her doin' better than twenty-six on an up grade over a dirt road
sprinkled free with rocks and waterbreaks. Slam bang, bumpety-bump,
ding-dong we go, with more jingles and squeaks and rattles than a junk
cart rollin' off a roof.
"Don't mind a few little noises," says Miss McLeod. "Barry doesn't. A
loose fender or a worn roller bearing means nothing to him. Why, he
started with a cracked spark-plug that was spitting like a tom-cat, the
carburetor popping from too lean a mixture, and a half filled radiator
boiling away merrily. It was stopping to get those things fixed up, and
having some air pumped into the spare tire, that made us so late."
"You see!" says Barry. "She admits it. Wonderful girl though, Ann. She
can tell at a glance just what's the matter with anything or anyone.
Take me, for instance; she----"
"Sharp curve ahead, Barry," breaks in Ann.
"Right-o!" says he, takin' it on two wheels and then stepping on the gas
button to rush a hill.
"Lucky we're wedged in tight," says I, "or some of us might be spilled
out."
"Yes," says Miss McLeod, "and Barry never would miss us."
"Cruel words!" says Barry. "How often have I said, Ann, that I miss you
every hour?"
"He's off again," says Ann. "But if you must be sentimental, Barry, I
shall insist on doing the driving myself."
"Squelched!" says Barry. "I'll be good."
Say, they made a great team, them two, when it came to exchangin'
persiflage. It was snappy stuff and it helped a lot towards taking my
mind off Barry's jazz-style drivin'. For he sure does bear down heavy
with his foot. If he plays the organ the way he runs a car I should
think he'd raise the roof. And the speed he gets out of that dinky
little roadster is amazin'. Might have been all right on smooth macadam,
but on this country road he had her jumpin' around on that short
wheel-base like a jackrabbit with the itch. We might have been so many
kernels of pop-corn being shaken over a hot fire. Barry seems to be