Torchy and Vee
quiet talking ginks, with restful ways, such as would fit easy into a
swivel chair and hold down a third vice-president's job for life. Or he
might be a champion chess player.
So when the boss goes on to say how Mr. McCrea is connected with the
Washington sleuth bureau I expect I must have gawped at him a bit
curious. Some relic of the old office force, was my guess; a hold-over
from the times when the S. S. people called it a big day if they could
locate a lead nickel fact'ry in Mulberry Street, or drop on a few Chink
laundrymen bein' run in from Canada in crates. Maybe he was a
thumb-print expert.
"Howdy," says I, glancin' up at the clock to see if the prospects was
good for makin' the 5:17 out to Harbor Hills.
"I am told you know the town rather well," suggests McCrea, sort of
mild and apologetic.
"Me!" says I. "Oh, I can usually find my way back to Broadway even in
foggy weather."
He indulges in a flickery little smile. "I also understand," he goes on,
"that you have shown yourself to be somewhat quick witted in
emergencies."
"I must have a good press agent, then," says I, glancin' accusin' at Mr.
Ellins.
But Old Hickory shakes his head. "I suspect that was my friend, Major
Wellby," says he.
"Oh!" says I. "The one I rescued the wire spools for? A lucky break,
that was."
"Mr. McCrea is working on something rather more important," goes on Old
Hickory, "and if you can help him in any way I trust you will do it."
"Sure," says I. "What's the grand little idea?"
He don't seem enthusiastic about openin' up, McCrea, and I don't know as
I blame him much. After he's fished a note book out of his inside pocket
he stops and looks me over sort of doubtful. "Perhaps I had better say
at the start," says he, "that some of our best men have been on this job
for several weeks."
"Nursin' it along, eh?" says I.
That brings a smothered chuckle from Old Hickory. But Mr. McCrea don't
seem so tickled over it. In fact, he develops a furrow between the eyes
and his next remark ain't quite so soothin'.
"No doubt if they could have had the assistance of your rapid fire
mentality a little sooner," says he, "it would have been but a matter of
a few hours."
"There's no telling," says I. "Are you one of the new squad?"
Here Old Hickory chokes down another gurgle and breaks in hasty with:
"Mr. McCrea, Torchy, is assistant chief of the bureau, you know."
"Gosh!" says I, under my breath. "My mistake, sir. And I expect I'd
better back out now, while the backin's good."
"Wouldn't that be rather hard on us?" asks McCrea, liftin' his eyebrows
sarcastic. "Besides, think how disappointed the major will be if we fail
to make use of such remarkable ability as he has assured us you
possess."
It's a kid, all right, even if he does put it so smooth. And by the
twinkle in Old Hickory's eye I can see he's enjoyin' it just as much as
McCrea. Nothing partial about the boss. His sympathies are always with
the good performer. And rather than let this top-liner sleuth put it
over me so easy I takes a chance on shootin' a little more bull.
"Oh, if you're goin' to feel bad over it," says I, "course I got to help
you out. Now what part of Manhattan is it that's got your
super-Sherlocks guessin' so hard?"
He smiles condescendin' and unfolds a neat little diagram showin' a
Broadway corner and part of the cross street. "It is a matter of three
policemen and a barber shop," says he. "Here, in the basement of this
hotel on the corner, is the barber shop."
"Yes, I remember," says I. "Otto something or other runs it. And on the
side, I expect, he does plain and fancy spyin', eh?"
"We should be much interested to have you furnish proof of that," says
McCrea. "What we suspect, however, is something slightly different. We
believe that the place is rather a clearing house for spy information.
News seems to reach there and to leave there. What we wish to know is,
how."
"Had anyone on the inside?" I asks.
"Yes, that bright little idea occurred to us," says McCrea. "One of our
men has been operating a chair there for three weeks. He discovered
nothing of importance. Also we have had the place watched from the
outside, to no purpose. So you see how crude our methods must have
been."
"Oh, I ain't knockin' 'em," says I. "Maybe they was out of luck. But
what about the three cops?"
"Their beats terminate at this corner," says McCrea, "one from uptown,
one from downtown, and the third from the east. And we have good reason
to suppose that one of the three is crooked. Now if you can tell us
which one, and how information can come and go----"
"I get you," I breaks in. "All you want of me is the answer to a lot of
questions you've been all the fall workin' up. That's some he-sized
order, ain't it?"
McCrea shrugs his shoulder. "As I mentioned, I think," says he, "it was
Major Wellby who suggested your assistance; and as the major happens to
enjoy the confidence of--well, someone who is a person of considerable
importance in Washington----"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "It's a case of my bein' wished on you and you
standin' by with the laugh when I fall down. Oh, very well! I'll be the
goat. But the major's a good scout, just the same, and I don't mean to
throw him without making a stab. How long do I get on this?"
"Oh, as long as you like," says McCrea.
"Thanks," says I. "Where do I find you when I want to turn in a report,
blank or otherwise?"
He gives me the name of his hotel and after collectin' the diagram of
the mystery I does a slow exit to my desk in the next office. I was
sittin' there half an hour later with my hair rumpled, makin' a noise
like deep thinkin', when in walks the hand of fate steppin' heavy on
his heels, as usual.
Not that I suspected at the time this Barry Wales could be anything much
more than a good natured pest. He didn't used to be even that. No, the
change in Barry is only another little item in the score we got against
the Kaiser; for back in the days before we went into the war Barry was
just one of Mr. Robert's club friends who dropped around casual to date
up for an after-luncheon game of billiards, or tip him off to a new
cabaret act that was worth engagin' a table next to the gold ropes.
Besides, holdin' quite a block of Corrugated stock, I expect Barry
figured it as a day's work when he got me to show him the last
semi-annual report and figure out what his dividends would tot up to.
Outside of that he was a bar-hound and more or less of a window
ornament.
But the war sure had made a mess of Barry. I don't mean that he went
over and got shell shocked or gassed. Too far past thirty for that, and
he had too many things the matter with him. Oh, I had all the details
direct; bad heart, plumbing out of whack, nerves frazzled from too many
all-night sessions. He was in that shape to begin with. But he didn't
start braggin' about it until so many of his bunch got to makin'
themselves useful in different ways. Mr. Robert, for instance, gettin'
sent out in command of a coast patrol boat; others breakin' into Red
Cross work, ship buildin' and so on. Barry claims he tried 'em all and
was turned down.
But is he discouraged? Not Barry. If they won't put him in uniform, with
cute little dew-dads on his shoulder, or let him wear $28 puttees that
will take a mahogany finish, there's nothing to prevent him from turnin'
loose that mighty intellect of his and inventin' new ways to win the
war. So when he's sittin' there in his favorite window at the club,
starin' absent minded out on Fifth Avenue with a tall glass at his
elbow, he ain't half the slacker he looks to the people on top of the
green buses.
Not accordin' to Barry. Ten to one he's just developin' a new idea.
Maybe it's only a design for a thrift stamp poster, but it might be a
scheme for inducin' the Swiss to send their navy down the Rhine. But
whatever it is, as soon as Barry gets it halfway thought out, he has to
trot around and tell about it.
So when I glance up and see this tall, well tailored party standin' at
my elbow, and notice the eager, excited look in his pale blue eyes, I
know about what to expect.
"Well, what is it this time, Barry?" says I. "Have you doped out an
explosive pretzel, or are you goin' to turn milliner and release some
woman for war work?"
"Oh, I say, Torchy!" he protests. "No chaffing, now. I'm in dead
earnest, you know. Of course, being all shot to pieces physically, I
can't go to the front, where I'd give my neck to be. Why, with this
leaky heart valve of mine I couldn't even----"
"Yes, yes," I broke in. "We've been over all that. Not that I'd mind
hearing it again, but just now I'm more or less busy."
"Are you, though?" says Barry. "Isn't that perfectly ripping! Something
important, I suppose?"
"Might be if I could pull it off," says I, "but as it stands----"
"That's it!" says Barry. "I was hoping I'd find you starting something
new. That's why I came."
"Eh?" says I.
"I'm volunteering--under you," says he. "I'll be anything you say; top
sergeant, corporal, or just plain private. Anything so I can help. See!
I am yours to command, Lieutenant Torchy," and he does a Boy Scout
salute.
"Sorry," says I, "but I don't see how I could use you just now. The fact
is, I can't even say what I'm working on."
"Oh, perfectly bully!" says Barry. "You needn't tell me a word, or drop
a hint. Just give me my orders, lieutenant, and let me carry on."
Well, instead of shooin' him off I'd only got him stickin' tighter'n a
wad of gum to a typewriter's wrist watch, and after trying to do some
more heavy thinkin' with him watchin' admirin' from where I'd planted
him in a corner, I gives it up.
"All right," says I. "Think you could stand another manicure today?"
Barry glances at his polished nails doubtful but allows he could if it's
in the line of duty.
"It is," says I. "I'm goin' to sacrifice some of my red hair on the
altar of human freedom. Come along."
So, all unsuspectin' where he was goin', I leads him down into Otto's
barber shop. And I must say, as a raid in force, it was more or less of
a fizzle. The scissors artist who revises my pink-plus locks is a
gray-haired old gink who'd never been nearer Berlin than First Avenue.
Two of the other barbers looked like Greeks, and even Otto had clipped
the ends of his Prussian lip whisker. Nobody in the place made a noise
like a spy, and the only satisfaction I got was in lettin' Barry pay the
checks.
"I got to go somewhere and think," says I.
"How about a nice quiet dinner at the club?" says Barry.
"That don't listen so bad," says I.
And it wasn't, either. Barry insists on spreadin' himself with the
orderin', and don't even complain about havin' to chase out to the bar
to take his drinks, on account of my being in uniform.
"Makes me feel as if I were doing my bit, you know," says he.
"Talk about noble sacrifices!" says I. "Why, you'll be qualifyin' for a
D. S. O. if you keep on, Barry."
And along about the _baba au rhum_ period I did get my fingers on the
tall feathers of an idea. Nothing much, but so long as Barry was anxious
to be used, I thought I saw a way.
"Suppose anybody around the club could dig up a screwdriver for you?" I
asks.
Inside of two minutes Barry had everybody in sight on the jump, from the
bus boy to the steward, and in with the demi tasse came the screwdriver.
"Now what, lieutenant?" demands Barry.
"S-s-s-h!" says I, mysterious. "We got to drill around until midnight."
"Why not at the Follies, then?" suggests Barry.
"Swell thought!" says I.
And for this brand of active service I couldn't have picked a better man
than Barry. From our box seats he points out the cute little squab with
the big eyes, third from the end, and even gets one of the soloists