Torchy and Vee
singin' a patriotic chorus at us. On the strength of which Barry makes
two more trips down to the cafe. Not that he gets primed enough so you'd
notice it. Nothing like that. Only he grows more enthusiastic over the
idea of being useful in the great cause.
"Remember, lieutenant," says he as we drifts out with the midnight push,
"I'm under orders. Eh?"
"Sure thing," says I. "You're about to get 'em, too. Did you ever do
such a thing as steal a barber's pole?"
Barry couldn't remember that he ever had.
"Well," says I, "that's what you're goin' to do now."
"Which one?" asks Barry.
"Otto's," says I. "From the joint where we were just before dinner."
"Right, lieutenant," says Barry, givin' his salute.
"And listen," says I. "You're dead set on havin' that particular pole.
Understand? You want it bad. And after you get it you ain't goin' to let
anybody get it away from you, no matter what happens, until I give the
word. That's your cue."
"Trust me, lieutenant," says Barry, straightenin' up. "I shall stand by
the pole."
Sounds simple, don't it? But that's the way all us great minds work,
along lines like that. And the foolisher we look at the start the deeper
we're apt to be divin' after the plot of the piece. Don't miss that.
What's a bent hairpin in the mud to you? While to us--boy, page old Doc
Watson.
How many times, for instance, do you suppose you've walked past the
Hotel Northumberland? Yet did you ever notice that the barber shop
entrance was exactly twenty paces east on Umpteenth Street from the
corner of Broadway; that you go down three iron steps to a landin'
before you turn for the other 15; or that the barber pole has a gilt top
with blue stars in it, and is swung out on a single bracket with two
screws on each side? I points out all this to Barry as we strolls down
from the theater district.
"By jove!" says Barry. "Wonderful!"
"Ain't it?" says I. "And all done without a change of wig or a jab of
the needle. Now your part is easy. You simply drift down the side
street, step into the shadow where the cab stand juts out, and when
nobody's passin' you work the screws loose. Me, I got to drop into the
writin' room and dash something off. Here we are. Go to it."
Course, he could have bugged things. Might have dropped the screwdriver
through a grating, or got himself caught in the act. But Barry has
surrounded the idea nicely. He couldn't have done better if he'd been
sent out to a listenin' post. And when I strolls out again five minutes
later there he stands with the pole tucked careful under one arm.
"Fine work!" says I. "But we don't want to hide it altogether. Carry it
careless like, with your overcoat unbuttoned, so both ends will show.
That's the cheese!"
It ain't one of these big, vulgar barber poles, you know; not over four
feet long and about as many inches thick. But it's a brilliant one, and
with Barry in evenin' dress he's bound to be some conspicuous luggin'
it. Yet I starts him straight up Broadway, me trailin' 25 or 30 feet
behind.
If it had been further up town he might have collected quite a mob of
followers, but down here there's only a few passing at that time of
night. Most of 'em only turns to look after him and smile. One or two
gives him the merry hail and asks where the Class of 1910 is holdin' the
banquet.
He'd done nearly five blocks before a flatfoot steps out of a doorway
and waves a nightstick at him.
"Hey, whaddye mean, pullin' that hick stuff?" demands the cop.
"Sir!" says Barry, wavin' him off dignified.
Then I mixes in. "It's perfectly all right, officer," says I. "I know
him."
"Oh, do you?" says the cop. "Well, some of you army guys know a lot; and
then again some of you don't. But you can't get away with any such
cut-up motions on my beat."
"But listen," I begins, "I can explain how----"
"Ah, feed it to the sergeant," says he. "Come along, you," and he takes
Barry by the arm.
Being a quiet night in the precinct the desk sergeant had plenty of time
to listen. He'd just decided against Barry, too, when I sprung my scrap
of paper on him. It's a receipt in full for one barber's pole, signed by
Otto Krumpheimer. I knew it was O. K. because I'd signed it myself.
"How about that?" asks the sergeant of the cop.
And all the flatty can do is gaze at it and scratch his head.
"No case," says the sergeant. "Beat it, you."
Then I nudges Barry. He speaks up prompt, too. "I want my little barber
pole," says he.
"Ah, take it along," says the sergeant, disgusted.
"Sorry, officer," says I, as we drifts out, and I slips him a five
casual.
"Enjoy yourselves, boys," says he. "But pick out another beat."
Which we done. This time we starts from the Northumberland and walks
east. Barry had got almost to Madison Avenue before another eagle-eyed
copper holds him up. He does it more or less rough, too.
"Drop that, now!" says he.
"Certainly not," says Barry, lyin' enthusiastic. "It's my pole."
"Is it, then?" says the cop. "Maybe you can show the sergeant yet? And
maybe I don't know where you pinched it. Walk along, now."
You should have seen the desk sergeant grow purple in the gills when we
shows up in front of the rail the second time. "Say, what do you sports
think you're doin', anyway?" he demands.
"I'll make a charge of petty larceny and disorderly conduct," says the
cop, layin' the evidence on the desk.
"Will you, Myers?" says the sergeant sarcastic. "Didn't ask him if he
had a receipt, I suppose? Show it to him, lieutenant."
I grins and hands over the paper.
"Hah!" grunts Myers. "But Otto Krumpheimer don't sign his name like
that. Never."
"How do you know?" says I.
"Why," says Myers, scrapin' his foot nervous, "I--I just know, that's
all. I've seen his writin', plenty times."
"Hear that, sergeant," says I. "Just jot that down, will you?"
"Night court," says the sergeant.
"Never mind, Barry," says I. "Line of duty. And I'll be on hand by the
time your case is called."
"Right-o!" says Barry cheerful.
Myers, he was ambitious to lug us both along, but the sergeant couldn't
see it that way. So while Barry's bein' walked off to police court, I
jumps into a taxi and heads for McCrea's hotel. If he'd been in bed I
meant to rout him out. But he wasn't. I finds him in his room havin' a
confab with two other plain clothes gents. He seems surprised to see me
so quick.
"Well?" says he. "Giving up so soon?"
"Me?" says I. "Hardly! I've got the crooked cop."
McCrea gives a gasp. "You--you have?" says he.
"Yep!" says I. "But he's got my assistant. Can you pull a badge or
anything on the judge at the night court?"
Mr. McCrea thought he could. And he sure worked the charm, for after
whisperin' a few words across the bench it's all fixed up. Barry gets
the nod that he's free to go.
"May I take my little barber pole?" demands Barry.
"No, no!" speaks up Myers. "Don't let him have it, Judge."
"Silence!" roars the Justice. Then, turnin' to a court officer he says:
"Take this policeman to Headquarters for investigation. Yes, Mr. Wales,
you may have your pole, but I should advise you to carry it home in a
cab."
"Thank you kindly, sir," says Barry. But after he gets outside he asks
pleadin': "Don't I get arrested any more?"
I shakes my head. "It's all over for tonight, Barry," says I. "Objective
attained, and if you don't mind I'll take charge of this war loot. Drop
you at your club, shall we?"
So I still had the striped pole when we rolled up at McCrea's hotel. I
was shiftin' it around in the taxi, wonderin' where I'd better dump it,
when I made the big discovery.
"Say," I whispers husky to McCrea, "there's something funny about this."
"The pole?" says he.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "It's hollow. There's a little trap door in one side."
"Hah!" says McCrea. "Bring it up."
And you'd think by the way him and his friends proceeded to hog the
thing, that it was their find. After I'd shown 'em where to press the
secret spring they crowded around and blocked off my view. All I got was
a glimpse of some papers that they dug out of the inside somewhere. And
some excited they are as they paws 'em over.
"In the same old code," says McCrea.
But finally he leads me to one side. "Myers is the man, all right," says
he.
"Course he is," says I. "If he wasn't why would he be so wise as to
whose pole it was, or about Otto's handwritin'?"
"Ah!" says McCrea, noddin' enthusiastic. "So that was your system in
having your friend arrested? You tried out the officers. Very clever!
But how you came to suspect that the barber's pole was being used as a
mail box I don't understand."
"No," says I, "you wouldn't. That's where the deep stuff comes in."
McCrea takes that with a smile. "Lieutenant," says he, "I shall be
pleased to report to Major Wellby that his estimate of you was quite
correct. And allow me to say that I believe you have done for the
Government a great service tonight; though how you managed it so neatly
I'll be hanged if I see. And--er--I think that will be all." With which
he urges me polite towards the door.
But it wasn't all. Not quite. I hear there's something on the way to me
from the chief himself, and Old Hickory has been chucklin' around for
three days. Also I've had a hunch that one boss barber and one New York
cop have done the vanishing act. Anyway, when I was down to the
Northumberland yesterday for a shave there was no Otto in sight, and the
barber pole was still missin'. That's about all the information that's
come my way.
Barry Wales don't know even that much. But when he comes in to report
for further orders, as he does frequent now, he has his chest out and
his chin up.
"I say, lieutenant," he remarks confidential this last trip, "we put
something over, didn't we?"
"I expect we did," says I.
"But what was it all about, eh?" he whispers.
"Why," says I, "you got pinched twice without losin' your amateur
standin', and one of the stripes opened in the middle. When they tell me
the rest I'll pass it on to you."
"By George! Will you, though?" says Barry, and after executin' another
Boy Scout salute he goes off perfectly satisfied.
CHAPTER IV
A FRAME-UP FOR STUBBY
I expect I shouldn't have been so finicky. I ain't as a rule. My usual
play is to press the button and take whoever is sent in from the general
office. But the last young lady typist they'd wished on me must have
eased in on the job with a diploma from some hair-dressin'
establishment. She got real haughty when I pointed out that we was using
only one "l" in Albany now, but nothing I could say would keep her from
writing Bridgeport as two words.
And such a careless way she had of parking her gum on the corner of my
desk and forgettin' to retrieve it. So with four or five more folios to
do on a report I was makin' to the Ordnance Department, I puts it up to
Mr. Piddie personally to pick the best he can spare.
"Course," says I, "I don't expect to get Old Hickory's star performer,
but I thought you might have one of the old guard left; one that didn't
learn her spellin' by the touch method, at least."
Piddie sighs. Since so many of his key-pounders has gone to polishin'
shell noses, or sailed to do canteen work, he's been having a poor time
keeping up his office force. "Do you know, Torchy," says he, "I haven't
one left that I can guarantee; but suppose you try Miss Casey, who has
just joined."
She wouldn't have been my choice if I'd been doin' the pickin'. One of
these tall, limber young females, Miss Casey is, about as thick as a
drink of water, but strong on hair and eyes. She glides in willowy,
drapes herself on a chair, pats her home-grown ear-muffs into shape, and
unfolds her note book business-like. And inside of two minutes she's