Torchy and Vee
anything more'n a passing glance in that aggregation. Yet when she shows
up in the mornin' she's lookin' sort of smilin' and chirky.
"Well," said I, "did you back out after lookin' 'em over?"
"Oh, no," says she. "I was tried out with the first lot and engaged
right away. They're rushing the production, you see, and I happened to
fit in. Why, inside of an hour they had twenty of us rehearsing. I'm to
be in the first big number, I think--one of the Moonbeam girls. Isn't
that splendid?"
"If that's what you want," says I, "I expect it is. But how about the
folks back home? What'll they say to this wide jump of yours?"
"I've decided not to tell them anything about it," says she. "Not for a
long time, anyway."
"They might hear, though," I suggests. "Just where do you come from?"
"Why, Saskatoun," says she, without battin' an eyelash.
"Oh, all right, if you don't want to tell," says I.
"But I have told you," says she. "Saskatoun."
"Is it a new hair tonic, or what?" says I.
"It's a city," says she. "One of the largest in British Columbia."
"Think of that!" says I. "They don't care how they mess up the map these
days, do they? And your folks live there?"
"Most of them," says she. "Two of my brothers are up at Glen Bow,
raising sheep; one of my sisters is at Alberta, giving piano lessons;
and another sister is doing church singing in Moose Jaw. If I had stayed
at home I would be doing something like that. We are a musical family,
you know. Daddy is a church organist and wanted me to keep on in the
choir and perhaps get to be a soloist, at $50 a month. But I couldn't
see it. If I am going to make a living out of my music I want to make a
good one. And New York is the place, isn't it!"
"It depends," says I. "You don't think you'll get rich in the 'Tut! Tut!
Marie' chorus, do you?"
"Perhaps they'll not keep me in the chorus," says she. "It's the back
door, I know, but it was the only way I could get in. And I'm going to
work for something better. You'll see."
Yep, I saw. Miss Joyce resigned at the end of the week, and it wasn't
ten days before I gets a little note from her saying how she'd been
picked out to do a specialty dance and duet with Ronald Breen. Mr. Breen
had done the picking himself. And she did hope I would look in some
night when the company opened on Broadway.
"I expect we'll have to go; eh, Vee?" says I when I gets home.
"Surely," says Vee.
Well, maybe you've noticed what a hit this "Tut! Tut!" thing has been
making. It's about the zippiest, peppiest girl show in town, and that's
saying a lot. It's the kind of stuff that makes the tired business man
get bright in the eyes and forget how near the sixteenth of January is.
I thought first off we'd have to put off seeing it until after
Christmas, for when I finally got to the box office there was nothing
doing in orchestra seats. Sold out five weeks in advance. But by luck I
happens to run across Lester Biggs in the lobby and for five a throw he
fixes me up with two places in G, middle row.
"It's a big winner," says he.
"Seen it yourself?" I asks.
"Not yet," says he. "Think I can pull it off tonight, though."
"Good!" says I. "I'll be looking for you out front after the first act."
And, say, when this party who's listed on the program as Jean Jolly
comes boundin' in with Ronald Breen I'll admit she had me sittin' up
with my ears tinted pink. No use goin' into details about her costume.
It's hardly worth while--a little white satin here and there and a touch
of black tulle.
"Well!" gasps Vee. "Is that your little Miss Joyce?"
"I can hardly believe it," says I.
"I should hope not," says Vee. "But she is cute, isn't she? And see that
kick! Oh-h-h-h!"
I was still red in the face, I expect, when I trails out at the end of
the act and discovers Lester leanin' against the lobby wall.
"Say, Torchy," says he husky, "did--did you see her?"
"Miss Joyce?" says I. "Sure. Some pippin in the act, isn't she? Didn't
she send you word she was goin' to be in this with Ronald Breen?"
"Me?" says he. "No."
"That's funny," says I. "She told me weeks ago. I hear she's pulling
down an even hundred and fifty a week. By next season she'll be
starrin'."
"And to think," moans out Lester, "that I passed her up only a few
months ago!"
"Yes," says I, "considerin' your chronic ambition, that was once when
you were out of luck. And the worst of it is that maybe she was only
usin' you to practice on all along. Eh?"
Perhaps it wasn't a consolin' thought to leave with Lester, but somehow
I couldn't help grinnin' as I tossed it over. And me, I'm doping out no
more advice to young ladies from Saskatoun or elsewhere. I'm off that
side-line permanent.
CHAPTER XVI
TORCHY TACKLES A MYSTERY
I'll admit I didn't get all stirred up when Mr. Robert comes in from
luncheon and announces that this Penrhyn Deems person is missing.
"On how many cylinders?" says I.
I might have added, too, that even if he'd been mislaid permanent I
could struggle along. First off, anybody with a name like that could be
easy spared. Penrhyn! Always reminded me of a headache tablet. Where did
he get such a fancy tag? I never could believe that was sprinkled on
him. Listened to me like something he'd thought up himself when he saw
the chance of its being used so much on four sheets and billboards. And
if you'd ask me I'd said that the prospect of his not contributin' any
more of them musical things to the Broadway stage wasn't good cause for
decreein' a lodge of sorrow. Them last two efforts of his certainly was
punk enough to excuse him from tryin' again. What if he had done the
lines and lyrics to "The Buccaneer's Bride"? That didn't give him any
license to unload bush-league stuff for the rest of his career, did it?
Begun to look like his first big hit had been more or less of an
accident. That being the case maybe it was time for him to fade out.
Course, I didn't favor Mr. Robert with all this. Him and Penrhyn Deems
was old college chums together, and while they ain't been real thick in
late years they have sort of kept in touch. I suspect that since Penrhyn
got to ratin' himself as kind of a combination of Reggie DeKoven and
George Cohan he ain't been so easy to get along with. Maybe I'm wrong,
but from the few times I've seen him blowin' in here at the Corrugated
that was my dope. You know. One of these parties who carries his chest
out and walks heavy on his heels. Yes, I should judge that the ego in
Penrhyn's make-up would run well over 2.75 per cent.
But it takes more'n that to get him scratched from Mr. Robert's list.
He's strong for keepin' up old friendships, Mr. Robert is. He remembers
whatever good points they have and lets it ride at that. So he's always
right there with the friendly hail whenever Penrhyn swaggers in wearin'
them noisy costumes that he has such a weakness for, and with his
eyebrows touched up and his cutie-boy mustache effect decoratin' that
thick upper lip. How a fat party like him could work up so much personal
esteem I never could understand. But they do. You watch next time you're
on a subway platform, who it is that gazes most fond into the
gum-machine mirrors and if it ain't mostly these blimp-built boys with
a 40 belt measure then I'm wrong on my statistics. Anyway, Penrhyn is
that kind.
"This is the third day that he has been missing, Torchy," says Mr.
Robert, solemn.
"Yes?" says I. "Seems to me I saw an item about him in the theatrical
notes yesterday, something about his being a. w. o. l. Kind of joshing,
it read, like they didn't take it serious."
"That's the disgusting part of it," says Mr. Robert. "Here is a man who
disappears suddenly, to whom almost anything may have happened, from
being run over by a truck to robbery and murder; yet, because he happens
to be connected with the theatrical business, it is referred to as if it
were some kind of a joke. Why, he may be lying unidentified in some
hospital, or at the bottom of the North River."
"Anybody out looking for him?" I asks.
"Not so far as I can discover," says Mr. Robert. "I have 'phoned up to
the Shuman offices--they're putting on his new piece, you know--but I
got no satisfaction at all. He hadn't been there for several days. That
was all they knew. Yes, there had been talk of giving the case to a
detective agency, but they weren't sure it had been done. And here is
his poor mother up in New Rochelle, almost on the verge of nervous
prostration. There is his fiancee, too; little Betty Parsons, who is
crying her eyes out. Nice girl, Betty. And it's a shame that something
isn't being done. Anyway, I shall do what I can."
"Sure!" says I. "I hadn't thought about his having a mother--and a girl.
But say, Mr. Robert, maybe I can put you next to somebody at Shuman's
who can give you the dope. I got a friend up there--Whitey Weeks. Used
to do reportin'. Last time I met him though, he admitted modest that
Alf. Shuman had come beggin' him to take full charge of the publicity
end of all his attractions. So if anybody has had any late bulletins
about Mr. Deems it's bound to be Whitey."
"Suppose you ring him up, then," says Mr. Robert.
"When I'm trying to extract the truth from Whitey," says I, "I want to
be where I can watch his eyes. He's all right in his way, but he's as
shifty as a jumpin' bean. If you want the facts I'd better go myself.
Maybe you'd better come, too, Mr. Robert."
He agrees to that and inside of half an hour we've pushed through a mob
of would-be and has-been chorus females and have squeezed into the
little coop where Whitey presides important behind a big double-breasted
roll-top. And when I explains how Mr. Robert is an old friend of
Penrhyn's, and is actin' for the heart-broken mother and the weepin'
fiancee as well, Whitey shakes his head solemn.
"Sorry, gentlemen," says he, "but we haven't heard a word from him
since he disappeared. Haven't even a clue. It's an absolute mystery. He
seems to have vanished, that's all. And we don't know what to make of
it. Rather embarrassing for us, too. You know we've just started
rehearsals for his new piece, 'Oh, Say, Belinda!' Biggest thing he's
done yet. And Mr. Shuman has spent nearly $10,000 for the setting and
costumes of one number alone. Yet here Deems walks off with the lyrics
for that song--the only copy in existence, mind you--and drops out of
sight. I suppose he wanted to revise the verses. You see the hole it put
us in, though. We're rushing 'Belinda' through for an early production,
and he strays off with the words to what's bound to be the big song hit
of the season. Why, Miss Ladue, who does that solo, is about crazy, and
as for Mr. Shuman----"
"Yes, I understand, Whitey," I breaks in. "That's good press agent
stuff, all right. But Mr. Ellins here ain't so much worried over what's
going to happen to the show as he is over what has happened to Penrhyn
Deems. Now how did he disappear? Who saw him last?"
Whitey shrugs his shoulders. "All a mystery, I tell you," says he. "We
haven't a single clue."
"And you're just sitting back wondering what has become of him," demands
Mr. Robert, "without making an effort to trace him?"
"Well, what can we do?" asks Whitey. "If the fool newspapers would only
wake up to the fact that a prominent personage is missing, and give us
the proper space, that might help. They will in time, of course. Got to
come to it. But you know how it is. Anything from a press bureau they're
apt to sniff over suspicious. As if I'd pull one as raw as this on 'em!
Huh! But I'm working up the interest, and by next Sunday I'll bet
they'll be carrying front page headlines, 'Where is Penrhyn Deems?'
You'll see."
"Suppose he should turn up tomorrow, though?" I asks.