Torchy and Vee
"Oh, but he couldn't," says Whitey quick. "That is, if he's really lost
or--or anything has happened to him. What makes you think he might show
up, Torchy?"
"Just a hunch of mine," says I. "I was thinking maybe some of his
friends might find him somewhere."
"I'd like to see 'em," says Whitey emphatic. "It--it would be worth a
good deal to us."
"Yes," says I, "I know how you feel about it. Much obliged, Whitey. I
guess that's all we can do; eh, Mr. Robert?"
But we're no sooner out of the office than I gives him the nudge.
"Bunk!" says I. "I'd bet a million of somebody else's money that this is
just one of Whitey's smooth frame-ups."
"I hardly think I follow you," says Mr. Robert.
"Here's the idea," says I. "When 'The Buccaneer's Bride' was having that
two-year run Penrhyn Deems was a good deal in the spotlight. He had
write-ups reg'lar, full pages in the Sunday editions, new pictures of
himself printed every few weeks. He didn't hate it, did he? But these
last two pieces of his were frosts. All he's had recent have been
roasts, or no mention at all. And it was up to Whitey to bring him back
into the public eye, wasn't it? Trust Whitey for doing that."
"But this method would be so thoroughly cold-blooded, heartless,"
protests Mr. Robert.
"Wouldn't stop Whitey, though," says I.
"Then we must do our best to find Penrhyn," says he.
"Sure!" says I. "Sleuth stuff. How about startin' at his rooms and
interviewin' his man?"
"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "We will go there at once."
We did. But what we got out of that pie-faced Nimms of Penrhyn's wasn't
worth taking notes of. He's got a map about as full of expression as the
south side of a squash, Nimms. A peanut-headed Cockney that Penrhyn
found somewhere in London.
"Sure I cawn't say, sir," says he, "where the mawster went to, sir. It
was lawst Monday night 'e vanished, sir."
"Whaddye mean, vanished?" says I.
"'E just walked out, sir, and never came back," says Nimms. "See, sir,
I've 'ad 'is morning suit all laid out ever since, sir."
"Then he went in evening clothes?" puts in Mr. Robert.
"Not exactly, sir," says Nimms. "'E was attired as a court jester, sir;
in motley, you know, sir, and cap and bells."
"Wha-a-at?" says Mr. Robert. "In a fool's costume? You say he went out
in that rig? Why the deuce should he----"
"I didn't ask the mawster, sir," says Nimms, "but my private opinion of
the matter, sir, is that he was on 'is way to a masked banquet of some
sort. I 'appened to see a hinvitation, sir, that----"
"Dig it up, Nimms," says I. "Might be a clue."
Sure enough, Nimms had it stowed away; and the fathead hadn't said a
word about it before. It's an invite to the annual costume dinner of the
Bright Lights Club.
"Huh!" says I. "I've heard of that bunch--mostly producers, stage stars
and dramatists. Branch of the Lambs Club. Whitey would have known about
that event, too. And Alf. Shuman. If Deems had been there they'd have
known. So he didn't get there. I expect he wore a rain coat or
something over his costume, and went in a taxi; eh, Nimms?"
"Quite so, sir," says Nimms. "A long raincoat, sir."
"But," breaks in Mr. Robert, "a man couldn't wander around New York
dressed in a fool's costume without being noticed. That is, not for
several days."
"You bet he couldn't," says I. "So he didn't."
That's a good line to pull, that "he couldn't, so he didn't," when
you're doin' this Sherlock-Watson stuff. Sounds professional. Mr. Robert
nods and then looks at me expectant as if he was waitin' to hear what
I'd deduce next. But as a matter of fact my deducer was runnin' down.
Yet when you've got a boss who always expects you to cerebrate in high
gear, as he's so fond of puttin' it, you've got to produce something
off-hand, or stall around.
"Now, let's see," says I, registerin' deep thought, "if Penrhyn was to
go anywhere on his own hook, where would it be? You know his habits
pretty well, Mr. Robert. What's your guess?"
"Why, I should say he would make for the nearest golf course," says he.
"He's a golf shark, is he?" says I.
"Not in the sense you mean," says Mr. Robert. "Hardly. Penrhyn is a
consistent but earnest duffer. The ambition of his life is to break 100
on some decent course. He has talked enough about it to me. Yes, that is
probably where he is, if he's still alive, off playing golf somewhere."
"Begging your pardon, sir," puts in Nimms, "but that could 'ardly be so,
sir, seeing as 'ow 'is sticks are still 'ere. That's the strange part of
'is disappearance, sir. 'E never travels without 'is bag of sticks. And
they're in that closet, sir."
"Couldn't he rent an outfit, or borrow one?" I suggests.
"He could," says Mr. Robert, "but he wouldn't. No more than you would
rent a toothbrush. That is one of the symptoms of the golf duffer. He
has his pet clubs and imagines he can play with no others. I think we
must agree with Nimms. If we do, the case looks serious again, for
Penrhyn would certainly not go away voluntarily unless it was to some
place where he could indulge in his mania."
"That's it!" says I. "Then he's been steered somewhere against his will.
That's the line! Which brings us back to Whitey Weeks. Who else but
Whitey would want him shunted off out of sight for a week or so?"
"But you don't think he would go so far as to kidnap Penrhyn, do you?"
asks Mr. Robert.
"Who, Whitey?" says I. "He'd kidnap his grandmother if he saw a front
page story in it. Maybe he'd had this disappearance stunt all worked up
when Mr. Deems balked. So he gets him when he's rigged up in some crazy
costume, with all his regular clothes at home, and tolls him off to some
out of the way spot. See? In that rig Penrhyn would have to stay put,
wouldn't he? Couldn't show himself among folks without being mobbed. So
he'd have to lay low until someone brought him a suit of clothes."
"That would be an ingenious way of doing it," admits Mr. Robert.
"Believe me, Whitey has that kind of a mind," says I, "or else he
wouldn't be handling the Alf. Shuman publicity work."
"But where could he have taken him?" asks Mr. Robert.
"We're just gettin' to that," says I. "Where would he? Now if this was a
movie play we was dopin' out it would be simple. He'd be taken off on a
yacht. But Whitey couldn't get the use of a yacht. He don't travel in
that class, and Shuman wouldn't stand for the charter price in an
expense bill. A lonesome farm would be a good spot. But Penrhyn could
borrow a rube outfit and escape from a farm. A lighthouse would be a
swell place to stow away a leading librettist dressed up in a fool's
costume, wouldn't it? Or an island? Say, I'll bet I've got it!"
"Eh?" says Mr. Robert.
"He's on an island," says I. "High Bar Island. It's a place where
Whitey goes duck shootin' every fall. He belongs to a club that owns it.
Anyway, he did. Used to feed me an earful about what a great gunner he
was, and what thrillin' times he had at the old shack. Down somewhere in
Barnegat Bay, back of the lighthouse. Yep! He's there, if he's
anywhere."
"Sounds rather unlikely," says Mr. Robert. "Still, you seem to have an
uncanny instinct for being right in such matters. Perhaps we ought to go
down and see. Come."
"What, now?" says I. "Right away?"
"There is his mother, almost in hysterics," says Mr. Robert, "and his
sweetheart. Think of the suspense, the mental strain they must be under.
If we can find Penrhyn we must do so as quickly as possible. Let's go
back to the office and look up train connections."
Well, if we'd started half an hour earlier we'd been all right. As it
was we could hang up all night at some dinky junction or wait over until
next morning. Neither suited Mr. Robert. He 'phones for his tourin' car
and decides to motor down into Jersey. Also he has a kit bag packed for
two of us and collects from Nimms a full outfit of daylight clothes for
Penryhn.
We got away about five o'clock and as Mr. Robert figures by the Blue
Book that we have only a hundred and some odd miles to run he thinks we
ought to make some place near Barnegat Light by nine o'clock. Maybe we
would have, too, if we'd caught the Staten Island ferries right at both
ends, and hadn't had two blow-outs and strayed off the road once. As it
is we finally lands at little joint that shows on the map as Forked
River about 1 a.m. There wasn't a light in the whole place and it took
us half an hour to pry the landlord of the hotel out of the feathers.
No, he couldn't tell us where we could get a boat to take us out to High
Bar at that time of night. It wasn't being done. Folks didn't go there
often anyway, and when they did they started after breakfast.
"It'll be there in the morning, you know," says he.
"That's so," says Mr. Robert. "Have a motor boat ready at nine o'clock.
Not much use getting there before 10:30. Penrhyn wouldn't be up."
That sounded sensible to me. When I go huntin' for lost dramatists I
like to take it easy and be braced up for the day with a good shot of
ham and eggs. This part of the program was carried out smooth. And it's
a nice little sail across old Barnegat Bay with the oyster fleet busy
and the fishin' boats dotted around. But the native who piloted us out
was doubtful about anybody's being on High Bar.
"I seen some parties shootin' around on Love Ladies yesterday," says he,
"an' a couple more was snipin' on Sea Dog, but I didn't hear nary gun
let off on th' Bar."
"Oh, my friend doesn't shoot, anyway," says Mr. Robert.
"Ain't nothin' else for him to do on High Bar," says the native, "less'n
he wants to collect skeeter bites."
When we got close enough to see the island I begun to suspicion I'd
missed out on my hunch, for there ain't a soul in sight. We could see
the whole of it, too, for the highest part isn't much over two feet
above tide-water mark. Near the boat landing is the club house, set up
on piling, with a veranda across the front. The rest of High Bar is only
a few acres of sedge and marsh.
"Yea-uh!" says the native. "Must be somebody thar. Door's open. Yea-uh!
Thar's old Lem Robbins, who allus does the cookin'. Hey, Lem!"
Lem waves cordial and waddles down to meet us. He's a fat, grizzled old
pirate who looked bored and discontented.
"Got anybody with you, Lem?" asks the native.
"Not to speak of," says Lem. "Only a loony sort of gent that wears
skin-tight barber-pole pants and cusses fluent."
"That's Penrhyn!" says Mr. Robert. "Dressed as a fool, isn't he?"
"You've said it," says Lem. "Acts like one, too. Hope you gents have
come to take him back where he belongs. Needs to be shut up, he does."
"But where is he?" demands Mr. Robert.
"Out back of the house, swingin' an old boat-hook and carryin' on
simple," says Lem. "I'll show you."
It was some sight, too. For there is the famous author of "The
Buccaneer's Bride," rigged out complete in a more or less soiled
jester's costume, includin' the turkey red headpiece with the bells on
it. He's standing on a heap of shells and waving this rusty boat-hook
around. Course, I expects when he sees Mr. Robert and realizes how he's
been rescued he'll come out of his spell and begin to act rational once
more. But it don't work out that way. When Mr. Robert calls out to him
and he sees who it is, he keeps right on swingin' the boat-hook.
"Glory be, Bob!" he sings out. "I've got it at last."
"Got what, Penny?" demands Mr. Robert.
"My drive," says he. "Watch, Bob. How's that, eh? Notice that carry
through? Wouldn't that spank the pill 200 yards straight down the
fairway? Wouldn't it, now?"
"Oh, I say, Penny!" says Mr. Robert. "Don't be more of an ass than you
can help. Quit that golf tommyrot and tell me what you're doing here in
this forsaken spot when all New York is thinking that maybe you've been