Torchy and Vee
I could see her face quite plainly. More than that, she could see me. Of
course, I wasn't quite sure, with all those others around. That's why I
spoke to you. I wanted to see what you'd say about her. And now she's
disappeared."
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Most likely, too, she was hauled head first through
that door in the back and if you stick around long enough maybe you'll
see her shoved in again, with a different dress on. Say, Mr. Rhodes, no
wonder you're skirt-shy if you never looked 'em over close enough not to
know the dummies from the live ones. Believe me, there's a lot of
difference."
But the josh don't seem to get him at all. He's still gawpin' puzzled
through the plate glass. Finally he goes on: "If this was the first
time, I might think you were right. But it isn't. I--I've seen her
before; several times, in fact."
"As bad as that, eh?" says I. "Then if I was you I'd look up a doctor."
"Now listen," says he. "I don't want you to think I'm foolish in the
head. I'm giving you this straight. Only you haven't heard it all yet.
You see, I've been walking past here nearly every day since I've been in
town--almost three weeks--and at about this time, between twelve-thirty
and one, getting up a luncheon appetite. And about ten days ago I got a
glimpse of this face in the mirror. Somehow I was sure it was a face I'd
seen before, a face I'd been kind of day dreaming about for a year or
more. Yes, I know that may sound kind of batty, but it's a fact. Out in
the big woods you have time for such things. Anyway, when I saw that
reflection it seemed very familiar to me. So the next day I stopped and
took a good look. She was there. And I was certain she was no dummy. I
could see her breathe. She was watching me in the glass, too. It's been
the same every time I've been past."
"Well," says I, "what then?"
"Why," says he, "whether it's someone I've known or not, I want to find
out who she is and how I can meet her for--for--Well, she's the girl."
"Gee!" says I, "you're a reg'lar Mr. Zipp-Zipp when it comes to romantic
notions, ain't you?" And I looks him over curious. As I've always held,
though, that's what you can expect from these boys with chin dimples.
It's the Romeo trade-mark, all right, and Crosby had a deep one. "But
see here," I goes on, "suppose it should turn out that you're wrong;
that this shop window siren of yours was only one of the kind with a
composition head, a figure that they blow up with a bicycle pump, and
wooden feet? Where does that leave you?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I wish you could have seen her," says he.
"What sort of a looker?" I asks. "Blonde or brunette?"
"I don't know," says he. "She has a wonderful complexion--like old
ivory. Her hair is wonderful, too, sort of a pale gold. But her eyebrows
are quite dark, and her eyes--Ah, they're the kind you couldn't
forget--sort of a deep violet, I think; maybe you'd call 'em plum
colored."
"Listens too fancy to be true," says I. "But they do get 'em up that way
for the trade."
There's no jarrin' Crosby loose from his idea, though, and he's just
proposin' that I meet him there at twelve-thirty next day when Vee
drifts out and I has to break away. "I'll let you know if I can," says I
as I walks off.
Course, Vee wants to know who my friend is and all about it, and when
I've sketched out the plot of the piece she's quite thrilled. "How
interesting!" says she. "I do hope he finds out it's a real girl Some of
those models are simply stunning, you know. And there is such a thing
as a face haunting you. Oh, by the way! Do you remember the Stribbles?"
"Should I?" I asks.
"The janitor's family in that apartment building where we used to live,"
explains Vee.
"Stribble?" says I. "Oh, yes, the poddy old party who did all the hard
sitting around while his wife did the work. What reminded you of them?"
"I'm sure I don't know," says Vee. "But a month or so ago I saw the name
printed in an army list of returned casualty cases--there was a boy, you
know, and a girl--and I thought then that we ought to look them up and
find out. Then I forgot all about it until just a few moments ago. Let's
go there, Torchy, before we go out home tonight?"
I must say I couldn't get very much excited over the Stribbles, but on
the chance that Vee would forget again I promised, and let her tow me
into one of those cute little tea rooms where we had a perfectly punk
lunch at a dollar ten per each. But even after a three hour session
among the white goods sales Vee still remembered the Stribbles, so about
five o'clock we finds ourselves divin' into a basement that's none too
clean and are being received by a tall, skinny female with a tously mop
of sandy hair bobbed up on her head.
It seems Ma Stribble was still shovelin' most of the ashes and
scrubbin' the halls as well; while Pa Stribble, fatter than ever and in
the same greasy old togs, continues to camp in a rickety arm chair by
the front window, with a pail of suds at his right elbow. Yes, the one
mentioned in the casualty list was their Jimmy. Only he hadn't come back
a trench hero, exactly. He'd collected his blighty ticket without being
at the front at all--by gettin' mixed up with a steel girder in some
construction work. A mashed foot was the total damage, and he was having
a real good time at the base hospital; would be as good as new in a week
or so.
"Isn't that fortunate?" says Vee. "And your daughter, where is she?"
"Mame?" says Ma Stribble, scowlin' up quick. "Gawd knows where she is. I
don't."
"Why, what do you mean?" asks Vee. "She--she hasn't left home, has she?"
"Oh, she sleeps here," goes on Ma Stribble, "and comes home for some of
her meals, but the rest of the time----" Here she hunches her shoulders.
"Huh!" grunts Pa Stribble. "If you could see the way she togs herself
out--like some chorus girl. I don't know where she gets all them flossy
things and she won't tell. Paint on her face, too. It's bringin' shame
on us, I tell her."
Mrs. Stribble sighs heavy. "And we was tryin' to bring her up decent,"
says she. "I got her a job, waitin' in a lunch room up on' the Circle.
But she was too good for that. Oh, my, yes! Chucked it after the first
week. And then she began bloomin' out in fine feathers. Won't say where
she gets 'em, either. And her always throwin' up to her father about not
workin', when he's got the rheumatism so bad he can hardly walk at
times! Gettin' to be too much of a lady to live in a basement, she is.
Humph!"
It looked like Vee had started something, for the Stribbles were
knockin' Mame something fierce, when all of a sudden they quits and we
hears the street door open. A minute later and in walks a tall, willowy
young party wearin' a near-leopard throw-scarf, one of these snappy
French tams, and a neat black suit that fits her like it had been run on
hot.
If it hadn't been for the odd shade of hair and the eyes I wouldn't have
remembered her at all for the stringy, sloppy dressed flapper I used to
see going in and out with the growler or helping with the sweepin'. Mame
Stribble had bloomed out, for a fact. Also she'd learned how to use a
lip-stick and an eyebrow pencil. I couldn't say whether she'd touched up
her complexion or not. If she had it was an artistic job--just a faint
rose-leaf tint under the eyes. And I had to admit that the whole effect
was some stunnin'. Course, she's more or less surprised to see all the
comp'ny, but Vee soon explains how we've come to hear about Brother Jim
and she shakes hands real friendly.
"I suppose you are working somewhere?" suggests Vee.
Mame nods.
"Where?" asks Vee, going to the point, as usual.
Miss Stribble glances accusin' at paw and maw. "Oh, they've been
roastin' me, have they?" she demands. "Well, I can't help it. What they
want to know is how much I'm gettin' so I'll have to give up more. But
it don't work. See! I pay my board--good board, at that--and I'm not
goin' to have paw snoopin' around my place tryin' to queer me. Let him
get out and rustle for himself."
With that Mame sheds the throw-scarf and tosses her velvet tam on the
table.
"I'm so sorry," says Vee. "I didn't mean to interfere at all. And I've
no doubt you have a perfectly good situation."
"It's good enough," says Mame, "until I strike something better."
"What a cunning little hat!" says Vee, pickin' up the tam. "Such a lot
of style to it, too."
"Think so?" says Mame. "Well, I built it myself."
"Really!" says Vee. "Why, you must be very clever. I wish I could do
things like that."
Trust Vee for smoothin' down rumpled feathers when she wants to. Inside
of two minutes she had Mame smilin' grateful and holdin' her hand as she
says good-by.
"Poor girl!" says Vee, as we gets to the street. "I don't blame her for
being dissatisfied with such a father as that. And it's just awful the
way they talk about her. I'm going to see if I can't do something for
her at the shop."
"Eh?" says I. "She didn't tell you where she was working."
"She didn't need to," says Vee. "The name was in the hat lining--the
Maison Noir."
"Say, you're some grand little sleuth yourself, ain't you?" says I.
"And that explains," Vee goes on, "why I happened to remember the
Stribbles today. I must have seen her there. Yes, I'm sure I did--that
pale gold hair and the old ivory complexion are too rare to----"
"Why!" I breaks in, "that's the description Crosby Rhodes gave me of
this show window charmer of his."
"Was it?" says Vee. "Then perhaps----"
"But what could she have been doing, posin' in the window?" I asks.
"That's what gets me."
It got Vee, too. "Anyway," says she, "you must meet that Mr. Rhodes
tomorrow and tell him what you've discovered. He's rather a nice chap,
isn't he?"
"Oh, he's all right, I guess," says I. "A bit soft above the ears,
maybe, but out in the tall timber I expect he passes for a solid
citizen. I don't just see how I'm going to help him out much, though."
"I'll tell you," says Vee. "In the morning I will 'phone to Madame
Maurice that I want you to see the frock I've picked out, and you can
take Mr. Rhodes in with you."
So that's the way we worked it. I calls up Crosby, makes the date, and
we meets on the corner at twelve-thirty. He's more or less excited.
"Then you think you know who she is?" he asks.
"If you're a good describer," says I, "there's a chance that I do. But
listen: suppose she's kind of out of your class--a girl who's been
brought up in a basement, say, with a janitor for a father?"
"What do I care who her father is?" says Crosby. "I was brought up in a
lumber camp myself. All I ask is a chance to meet her."
"You sure know what you want," says I. "Come on."
"See!" he whispers as we get to the Maison Noir's show window. "She's
there!"
And sure enough, standin' back to, over in the corner facin' the mirror,
is this classy figure in the zippy street dress, with Mame Stribble's
hair and eyes. She's doin' the dummy act well, too. I couldn't see
either breath or eye flutter.
"Huh!" says I. "It's by me. Let's go in and interview Madame Maurice."
We had to waste four or five minutes while I inspects the dress Vee has
bought, and I sure felt foolish standin' there watchin' this young lady
model glide back and forth.
"I trust Monsieur approves?" asks Madame Maurice.
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Quite spiffy. But say, I noticed one in the window
that sort of took my eye--that street dress, in the corner."
"Street dress?" says the Madame, lookin' puzzled. "Is M'sieur certain?"
"Maybe I'd better point it out."
But by the time I'd towed her to the front door there was nothing of the
kind in sight.
"As I thought," says Madame. "A slight mistake."
"Looks so, don't it?" says I, as we trails back in. "But you have a Miss