Torchy and Vee
murdered or something."
"Eh?" says Penrhyn. "Then--then the news is out, is it? Did you bring
any papers?"
"Papers?" says Mr. Robert. "No."
"Wish you had," says Penrhyn. "Got everyone stirred up, I suppose? Tell
me, though, how are people taking it?"
"If you mean the public in general," says Mr. Robert, "I think they are
bearing up nobly. But your mother and Betty----"
"By George!" breaks in Penrhyn. "That's so! They might be rather
disturbed. I--I never thought about them."
"Didn't, eh?" says Mr. Robert. "No, you wouldn't. You were thinking
about Penrhyn Deems, as usual. And I must say, Penny, you're the limit.
I've a good notion to leave you here."
"No, no, Bob! Don't do that," pleads Penrhyn. "Disgusting place. And I
dislike that cook person, very much. Besides, I must get back. Really."
"Want to relieve your poor old mother and Betty, eh?" asks Mr. Robert.
"Yes, of course," says Penrhyn. "Besides, I want to try this swing with
my driver. Bob, I'm sure I can put in that wrist snap at last. And if I
can I--I'll be playing in the 90's. Sure!"
He's a wonder, Penrhyn. He has this hoof and mouth disease, otherwise
known as golf, worse than anybody I ever met before. Took Mr. Robert
another ten minutes to get him calmed down enough so he could tell how
he come to be marooned on this island in that rig.
"Why, it was that new press agent of Shuman's, of course," says Penrhyn.
"That Weeks person. He did it."
"You don't mean to say, Penny," says Mr. Robert, "that you were
kidnapped and brought here a prisoner?"
"Not at all," says Penny. "We drove down here at night and came in a
boat just at daylight. Silly performance. Especially wearing this
costume. But he insisted that it would make the disappearance more
plausible, more dramatic. Wouldn't tell me where we were going, either.
Said it was a club house, so I thought of course there would be golf.
But look at this hole! And I've had four days of it. Mosquitoes?
Something frightful. That's why I've kept on the cap and bells. At first
I put in the time working over one of the songs in the new piece. Wrote
some ripping verses, too. They'll go strong. Best thing I've done. But
after I had finished that job I wanted to play golf; practice, anyway.
And I was nearly crazy until I found this old boat-hook and began
knocking oyster shells into the water. That's how it came to me--the
drive. If I can only hold it!"
I suggests how Mr. Weeks is probably plannin' for him to stay lost until
over Sunday anyway, so he can work some big space in the newspapers.
"Oh, bother Mr. Weeks!" says Penrhyn. "I've had enough of this. The new
piece is going to go big, anyway. Come along, Bob. Let's start. I'll
'phone to mother and Betty, and maybe I can get in eighteen holes this
afternoon. Brought some clothes for me, didn't you? I must change from
this rig first."
"I wouldn't," says Mr. Robert. "It's quite appropriate, Penny."
But Penrhyn wouldn't be joshed and makes a dive for his suitcase. We
lands him back on Broadway at 4:30 that same afternoon. My first move
after gettin' to the Corrugated general offices is to ring up Whitey
Weeks.
"This is Torchy," says I. "And ain't it awful about Penrhyn Deems?"
"Eh?" gasps Whitey. "What about him?"
"He's been found," says I. "Uh-huh! Discovered on an island by some fool
friends that brought him back to town. I just saw him on Broadway."
"The simp!" groans Whitey.
"You're a great little describer, Whitey," says I. "Simp is right. But
next time you want to win front page space by losing a dramatist I'd
advise you to lock him in a vault. Islands are too easy located."
CHAPTER XVII
WITH VINCENT AT THE TURN
It was Mr. Piddie who first begun workin' up suspicions about Vincent,
our fair haired super-office boy. But then, Piddie has that kind of a
mind. He must have been born on the dark of the moon when the wind was
east in the year of the big eclipse. Something like that. Anyway, he's
long on gloom and short on faith in human nature, and he goes
gum-shoein' through life lookin' as slit-eyed as a tourist tom-cat four
blocks from his own backyard.
Course, he has his good points, lots of 'em, or else he never would have
held his job as office manager in the Corrugated Trust so long. And
there's at least two human beings he thinks was made perfect from the
start--Old Hickory Ellins and Mr. Robert. The rest of us he ain't sure
of. We'll bear watchin'. And Piddie's idea of earnin' his salary is to
be right there with the restless eye from 8:43 until 5:02, when he grabs
his trusty commutation ticket and starts for the wilds of Jersey,
leavin' the force to a whole night of idleness and wicked ways.
Still, I am a little surprised when he picks out Vincent.
"I regret to say it, Torchy," says he, "but someone ought to have an eye
on that boy."
"Oh, come, Piddie!" says I. "Not Vincent! Why, he's a model youth.
You've always said so yourself--polite, respectful, washes behind the
ears, takes home his pay envelope uncracked to mother, all that sort of
thing. Why the mournful headshake over him now?"
"I can't say what it is," says Piddie, "but there has been a change.
Recently. Twice this week he has overstayed his luncheon hour. Yesterday
he asked for his Liberty bond and war saving stamps from the safe. I
believe he is planning to do something desperate."
"Huh!" says I. "Most likely he's plotting to pay off the mortgage on the
little bungalow as a birthday present for mother."
Piddie won't have it that way, though. "I think there's a woman in the
case," says he, "and I'm sure it isn't his mother."
"A woman; Vincent?" says I. "Ah, quit your kiddin', Piddie. I'd as soon
think it of you."
That brings the pink to his ears and he stiffens indignant. But in a
minute or so he gets over it enough to explain that he's noticed Vincent
fussin' with his necktie and slickin' his hair back careful before
quittin' time. Also that Vincent has taken to gettin' shaved once a week
reg'lar now, instead of every month.
"And he seemed very nervous when he took away his savings," adds
Piddie. "Of course, in my position I could ask for no confidences of a
personal nature; but if someone else could have a talk with him.--Well,
you, for example, Torchy."
"What a cute little idea!" says I. "What would be the openin' lines for
that scene? Something like, 'Come, my erring lad, rest your fair,
sin-soaked head on my knee and tell your Uncle Torchy how you are
secretly scheming to kidnap the rich gum profiteer's lovely daughter and
carry her off to Muckhurst-on-the-Marsh.' Piddie, you're a wonder."
I was still chucklin' over the notion as I breezed out to lunch, but as
I pushes out of the express elevator and starts across the arcade toward
the Broadway exit I lamps something over by the candy booth that leaves
me with my mouth open. There is Vincent hung up against the counter
gazin' mushy into the dark dangerous orbs of Mirabelle, the box-trade
queen.
Course, we all know Mirabelle in the Corrugated buildin', for she's been
presidin' over the candy counter almost as long as the arcade shops have
been open. She's what you might call an institution; like Apollo Mike,
the elevator starter; or old Walrus Smith, the night watchman. And I
expect there ain't a young hick or a middle-aged bookkeeper on all them
twenty-odd floors but what has had his little thrill from gettin' in
line, some time or another, with a cut-up look from them high voltage
eyes. She's just one of the many perils, Mirabelle is, that line the
path of the poor working man in the great city. That is, she looks the
part.
As a matter of fact, I've always had Mirabelle sized up as a near-vamp
who had worked up the act to boost sales and cinch her job. Anyway, I
never knew of her lurin' her victims into anything more desperate than a
red-ink table d'hote dinner or a six-dollar orgie at a cabaret. And
somehow they all seem to wriggle out of the net within a week or so with
no worse casualties than a feverish yearnin' for next pay day and a wise
look in the eyes. I've watched some of them young sports from the bond
room have their little fling with Mirabelle and not one of 'em has come
out a human wreck.
Maybe they discover that Mirabelle has turned thirty. I'll admit she
don't look it, 'specially under the pink-shaded counter light when she's
had a henna treatment lately and been careful to spread the make-up
artistic. The jet ear danglers helps some, too. Then there are them
misbehavin' eyes. Also when it comes to light and frivolous chat
Mirabelle is right there with the zippy patter. Oh my, yes! Try shootin'
anything fresh across when she's wrappin' a pound of mixed chocolates
and you'll get a quick one back from Mirabelle. Probably a quizzin',
twisty smile, too that sends you off kiddin' yourself that you're quite
a gay bird when you really cut loose, and where's the harm once in a
while? You know the kind.
But to think that Vincent should be fallin' for Mirabelle. Why, he sits
there all day behind the gate in plain sight of a battery of twenty lady
typists, some of 'em as kittenish young things as ever blew a week's
salary into a permanent wave and I've never even seen him so much as
roll an eye at one. Besides, he's as perfect a specimen of a Mommer's
boy as you could find between here and the Battery. Not that he's a male
ingenue. He's just a nice boy, Vincent, always neat and polite and ready
to admit that he has the best little mother in the world. I don't blame
him for thinkin' so either, for I've seen her a couple of times and if
I'm any judge she fits the description. She's a widow, you know, and she
and Vincent are strugglin' along on the life insurance until they make
Vincent general manager or vice-president or something.
So, as I was telling you, it gives me more or less of a jolt to see
Vincent flutterin' around Mirabelle. There's no mistakin' the motions,
either. He's draped himself careless over the end of the counter and
them big innocent blue eyes of his are fairly glued on Mirabelle, while
a simple smile comes and goes, dependin' on whether she's lookin' his
way or not. Just as I stops to gawp at the proceedin's he seems to be
askin' her something, real eager and earnest. For a second Mirabelle
arches her plucked eyebrows and puckers her lips coy as if she was
lettin' on to be shocked. Then she glances around cautious to see if the
coast is clear, reaches out and pats Vincent tender on the cheek and
whispers something in his ear.
A minute later Mirabelle is smilin' mechanical at a fat man who's
stopped to buy a box of chocolate peppermints and Vincent is swingin'
past me with his chin up and his eyes bright. It don't take any seventh
son work to guess that Vincent has made a date. If it had been anybody
else that wouldn't have meant nothing at all to me, but as it is I can't
help feelin' that this was my cue. Just how or why I don't stop to
figure out, but I falls in behind and trails along.
Vincent should have been headin' for the dairy lunch, but he starts in
the other direction and after followin' him for five blocks I sees him
dive into a jewelry store. Maybe that don't get a gasp out of me, too.
Looks like our little Vincent was some speedy performer, don't it? And
sure enough, by rubberin' in through the door, I can see a clerk haulin'
out a tray of rings. Think of that! Vincent.
He must have been in there before and looked over the stock, for inside
of ten minutes out he comes again. And by makin' a quick maneuver I
manages to bump into him as he's leavin' the front door with the little
white box in his fist.
"Well, well!" says I. "What's all this mean, old son? Been buyin' out
the spark shop? I expect somebody's going to get a weddin' present, eh?"