PULLING A SLEUTH STUNT
Trust Piddie for workin' up wild suspicions. Say, he can't find a
stray sheet of scribblin' paper on the floor without pouncin' sleuthy
on it and tryin' to puzzle out the hidden meanin'.
So when I get the buzzer call to Old Hickory's private office and finds
him and the main stem waitin' in solemn conclave there, I guesses right
off that Piddie's dug up a new one that he hopes to nail me with. Just
now he's holdin' a little bunch of wilted field flowers in one hand,
and as I range up by the desk he shoots over the accusin' glance.
"Boy," says he, "do you know anything about these?"
"Why, sure," says I. "They're pickled pigs' feet, ain't they?"
"No impudence, now!" says he. "Where did they come from?"
"Off'm Grant's Tomb, if I must guess," says I. "Anyway, I wouldn't
think they was picked in the Subway."
And at this Old Hickory sniffs impatient. "That is quite enough comic
diversion, young man!" he puts in. "Do you or don't you know anything
about how those things happened to get on my desk?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, I never saw 'em before! What's the dope?"
"Huh!" he grunts. "I didn't think this was any of your nonsense: too
tame. And I suppose you might as well know what's afoot. Tell him,
Mr. Piddie."
Did you ever see a pinhead but what just dotes on springin' a
sensation? Piddie fairly gloats over unloadin' it. "This," says he,
holdin' up the wilted bunch, "is the unaccountable. For the fourth
time flowers of this description have been mysteriously left on Mr.
Ellins' desk. It is not done after hours, or during the night; but in
broad day, sometimes when Mr. Ellins is sitting just where he is now,
and by a hand unseen. Watch has been kept, yet no one has been
detected; and, as you know, only a few persons have free access here.
Still the thing continues. At regular periods these absurd bouquets
appear on this desk, seemingly from nowhere at all. Hence this
inquiry."
I'd heard Piddie spout a good many times before, but never quite so
eloquent, and I expect I was gawpin' at him some dazed and admirin'.
"Well," says Old Hickory, squintin' sharp at me from under his bushy
eyebrows, "what have you to offer?"
"It's by me," says I, shruggin' my shoulders.
"Oh, come now!" he goes on. "With that high tension brain of yours,
surely you can advance some idea."
"Why," says I, "offhand I should say that some of them mushy lady
typists out there might be smugglin' in floral tributes to you, Sir."
Old Hickory grins sarcastic. "Without going into the question of
motive," says he, "that suggestion may be worth considering. What say,
Mr. Piddie?"
"It might be that Miss Smicks," says Piddie. "She's quite sentimental,
Sir, and I've thought at times she----"
"Stop!" roars Old Hickory, almost workin' up a blush. "Mr. Piddie, I
am a fat, cross-grained old man, about as attractive personally as a
hippopotamus. Great stuttering tadpoles! Can't you think of anything
but sappy romance? More likely someone wants a raise."
"Very true, Sir; I hadn't thought of that," chimes in Piddie. "Shall
we call them all in, one at a time, Sir, and----"
"And what?" snaps Old Hickory. "Think I'm going to ask all those young
women if they've been leaving flowers on my desk?"
"Couldn't you fake up some job for each one," says I, "and when they
came in be wearin' the flowers conspicuous, and watch if they----"
"Bah!" breaks in Old Hickory. "What driveling tommyrot! Besides, I
don't believe any of them had a hand in this. How could they? Why, I
tell you, there wasn't a soul in this room between noon and twelve
forty-five to-day; and yet, with me facing that door, these things
appear right at my elbow. It--it's getting on my nerves, and, by the
seven sizzling sisters, I want to know what it all means!"
"We could have in the detectives," suggests Piddie.
"If it was a bomb or an infernal machine, I might," says Mr. Ellins
scornful; "but to trace a few dad-blistered flowers--no, thank you!
It's foolish enough as it stands."
"But there is something behind all this, I'm sure," insists Piddie,
"and if you will allow me to do it, I shall send at once for Dr.
Rudolph Bingstetter."
"Who's he?" demands Old Hickory.
"A distinguished scientist who is a friend and neighbor of mine," says
Piddie, swellin' up important. "He was formerly a dentist, I believe;
but now he devotes himself to research and literature. He writes
magazine articles on psychological phenomena, crime mysteries, and so
on. Dr. Bingstetter has a wonderful mind, and is often called on to
unravel baffling cases. It was only a few months ago that he
successfully investigated a haunted house out our way and found----"
"But I'm not accusing ghosts of this," says Old Hickory.
"Of course not, Sir," says Piddie; "but I'm sure Dr. Bingstetter could
find out just how those flowers come here. He's an extremely brilliant
man, Sir, and I'm quite positive he could----"
"Well, well, send for him, then," says Old Hickory. "Only see that you
keep still about it outside there, both of you. I don't care to have
the whole office force chattering and snickering over this affair.
Understand?"
You bet we did; for when the boss gets real peevish about anything it's
not safe to get your signals mixed! I stands guard on the 'phone booth
while Piddie was sendin' the message, and for once we plots away
together real chummy.
"He's coming right over this afternoon," whispers Piddie, as he slides
out of the booth. "You're to take him directly into Mr. Ellins'
office,--a large, impressive looking man, you know, with a full round
face and wearing eye-glasses."
Piddie forgets to mention the shiny frock coat and the forty-four-inch
waist line; but for all that I spots him the minute he hits the brass
gate, which he does about ten minutes before closin' time.
"Dr. Bingstetter?" says I cautious.
"I am he," is the answer.
"S-s-s-s-sh!" says I, puttin' a forefinger to my lips warnin'.
"S-s-s-s-sh!" echoes the Doc, tiptoein' through the gate.
Then up comes Piddie, walkin' on his toes too, and the three of us does
a footpad sneak into Old Hickory's office. There wa'n't any wild call
for me to stay as I knows of; but as long as no one threw me out I
thought I'd stick around.
I must say too the Doc looked and acted the part. First off he sits
there blinkin' wise behind his glasses, and not a sign on his big,
heavy face as he listens to all Piddie and Mr. Ellins can tell him
about the case. Also when he starts askin' questions on his own hook
he makes a noise like a mighty intellect changin' gears.
"M-m-m-m!" says he, pursin' up his lips and studyin' the bouquet
thoughtful. "Six ox-eyed daisies, four sprays of goldenrod, and three
marshmallow blooms,--thirteen in all. And this is the fourth bunch.
Now, the others, Mr. Ellins, they were not precisely like this one,
were they?"
"Blessed if I know!" says Old Hickory. "No, come to think of it, they
were all different."
"Ah, I thought so!" says the Doc, sort of suckin' in his breath
satisfied. "Now, just what flowers did the first one contain, I should
like to know."
"Why, hang it all, man, I can't remember!" says Old Hickory. "I threw
the things into the waste basket."
"Ah, that was careless, very careless," says the Doc. "It would have
helped. One ought to cultivate, Mr. Ellins, the habit of accurately
observing small details. However, we shall see what can be done with
this," and once more he puckers his lips, furrows up his noble brow,
and gazes steady at floral exhibit No. 4, turnin' it round slow between
his fat fingers and almost goin' into a trance over it.
"Hadn't you better take a look around the offices," suggests Old
Hickory, "examine the doors, and so on?"
"No, no!" says Bingstetter, wavin' away the interruption. "No bypaths.
The trained mind rejects everything contributory, subordinate. It
refuses to be led off into a maze of unsupported conjecture. It seeks
only the vital, primogenitive fact, the hidden truth at the heart of
things. And that is all here--here!"
Piddie leans forward for another look at the flowers, and wags his head
solemn, I edges around for a closer view myself, and Old Hickory stares
puzzled.
"You don't mean to say," says he, "that just by gazing at a few flowers
you can----"
"S-s-s-sh!" breaks in the Doc, holdin' up a warnin' hand. "It is
coming. I am working outward from the primal fact toward the
objective. It is evolving, taking on definite proportions, assuming
shape."
"Well, what's the result?" demands the boss, hitchin' restless in his
chair.
"Patience, my dear Sir, patience," says the Doc soothin'. "The
introdeductive method cannot be hurried. It is an exact process,
requiring utmost concentration, until in the fullness of the moment----
Ah, I have it!"
"Eh?" says Old Hickory.
"One moment," says the Doc. "A trifling detail is still missing,--the
day of the week. To-day is Wednesday, is it not? Now, on what day of
last week did you receive a--er--similar token?"
Old Hickory finally reckons up that it must have been last Wednesday.
"And the week before?" goes on the Doc. "The bunch of flowers appeared
then on Wednesday, did it not?"
Yes, he was pretty sure it did.
"Ah!" says Bingstetter, settlin' back in his chair like it was all
over, "then the cumulative character is established. And such exact
recurrence cannot be due to chance. No, it has all been nicely
calculated, carried out with relentless precision. Four Wednesdays,
four floral threats!"
"Threats?" says Mr. Ellins, sittin' up prompt.
"You failed to read them," says the Doc. "That is what comes of
neglecting minor details. But fortunately I came in time to decipher
this one. Observe the fateful number,--thirteen. Note the colors
here,--brown, golden, pink. The pink of the mallow means youth, the
goldenrod stands for hoarded wealth, the brown for age. And all are
bound together by wire grass, which is the tightening snare. A
menacing missive! There will come another on Wednesday next."
"Think so?" says Old Hickory.
"I am positive," says the Doc. "One more. We will allude to it for
the present, if you choose, as the fifth bouquet. And this fifth token
will be red, blood red! Mr. Ellins, you are a marked man!"
"The blazes you say!" snorts Old Hickory. "Well, it won't be the first
time. Who's after me now, though?"
"Five desperate men," says the Doc, countin' 'em off on his fingers.
"Four have given evidence of their subtle daring. The fifth is yet to
appear. He will come on Wednesday next, and then--he will find that
his coming has been anticipated. I shall be here in person. Now, let
me see--there is a room connecting with this? Ah, very well. Have
three policemen in readiness there. I think it can be arranged so that
our man will walk in among them of his own accord. That is all. Give
yourself no uneasiness, Mr. Ellins. For a week you will be
undisturbed. Until then, Sir, au revoir."
With that he bows dignified and motions Piddie to lead the way out. I
slides out too, leavin' Old Hickory sittin' there starin' sort of
puzzled and worried at the wall. And, honest, whether you took any
stock in the Doc's yellow forecast or not, it listens kind of creepy.
Course, with him usin' all that highbrow language, I couldn't exactly
follow how he gets to it; but there's no denyin' that it sounds mighty
convincin'.
And yet--well, I can't say just what there was about Bingstetter that
got me leery; but somehow he reminds me of a street faker or a museum
lecturer. And it does seem sort of fishy that, just by gazin' at a
bunch of flowers, he could dope out all this wild tale about five
desp'rate men. Still, there was no gettin' away from the fact that he
had hit it right about the bouquets appearin' reg'lar every Wednesday.
That must mean something. But why Wednesdays? Now, what was there
that happens on Wednesday that don't----
Say, you know how you'll get a fool hunch sometimes, that'll seem such
a nutty proposition first off that you'll almost laugh at yourself for
havin' it; and yet how it'll rattle around in your bean persistent,
until you quit tryin' to get rid of it? Well, this one of mine strikes
me about as I'm snugglin' down into the hay that night, and there was
no gettin' away from it for hours.
I expect I did tear off a few chunks of slumber between times; but I
was wide awake long before my regular hour for rollin' out, and after
makin' three or four stabs at a second nap I gives it up, slips down
for an early breakfast, and before eight A.M. I'm down in the basement
of the Corrugated Buildin' interviewin' the assistant superintendent in
his little coop of an office. I comes out whistlin' and lookin' wise.
And that night after I'd made a trip over to Long Island across the
Queensboro Bridge I looks wiser still. Nothin' to do until next
Wednesday.
And when it comes it sure opens up like it's goin' to be a big day, all
right! At first Old Hickory announces that he ain't goin' to have any
cops campin' around in the directors' room. It was all blithering
nonsense! Hadn't he lived through all sorts of warnin's before? And
he'd be eternally blim-scuttled if he was goin' to get cold feet over a
few faded flowers!
There was Piddie, though, with his say. His idea is to have the
reserves from two precincts scattered all over the shop, and he lugs
around such a serious face and talks so panicky that at last the boss
compromises on havin' two of the buildin' specials detailed for the
job. We smuggles 'em into the big room at eleven o'clock, and tells
'em to lay low until they gets the word. Next comes Bingstetter,
blinkin' mysterious, and has himself concealed behind a screen in the
private office. By that time Old Hickory is almost as nervous as
anybody.
"Fine state of affairs, things are at now," he growls, "when a man
isn't safe unless he has a bodyguard! That's what comes of all this
political agitation!"
"Have no fear," says the Doc; "you will not receive the fifth bouquet.
Boy, leave that door into the next room slightly ajar. He will try to
escape that way."
"Ajar she is," says I, proppin' it open with a 'phone directory.
"'Tis well," says the Doc. "Now leave us."
I was goin' to, anyway; for at exactly noon I had a date somewhere
else. There was a window openin' off the bondroom that was screened by
a pile of cases, and out from that was an iron fire escape runnin'
along the whole court side on our floor. I'd picked that window out as
bein' a good place to scout from. And I couldn't have been better
placed; for I saw just who I was expectin' the minute he heaves in
sight. I'd like to have had one glimpse, though, of Old Hickory and
the Doc and Piddie while they was watchin' and listenin' and holdin'
their breath inside there. But I'm near enough when the time comes, to
hear that chorus of gasps that's let loose at twelve-twenty-six exact.
"Ha!" says the Doc. "As I told you--a red rose!"
"Well, I'll be slam-whizzled!" explodes Old Hickory.
"But--but where did it come from?" pants Piddie. "Who--who could
have----"
And that's just when little Willie, after creepin' cautious along the
fire escape, gives his unsuspectin' victim the snappy elbow tackle from
behind and shoves him into view.
"Here's your desperado!" says I, givin' my man the persuadin' knee in
the small of his back. "Ah, scramble in there, Old Top! You ain't
goin' to be hurt. In with you now!"
"Look out!" squeals Piddie. "Police, police!"
"Ah, can that!" I sings out, helpin' my prisoner through the window and
followin' after. "Police nothin'! Shoo 'em back, will you? He's as
harmless as a kitten."
"Torchy," calls Old Hickory, recoverin' his nerve a little, "what is
the meaning of this, and who have you there?"
"This," says I, straightenin' my man up with a shoulder slap, "is the
bearer of the fifth bouquet--also the fourth, and the third, and so on.
This is Mr. Cubbins of the Consolidated Window Cleanin' Company. Ain't
that right, eh, old sport?"
"'Enery Cubbins, Sir," says he, scrapin' his foot polite and jerkin'
off his old cap.
"And was it you who just threw this thing on my desk?" demands Old
Hickory, pointin' to the red rose.
"Meanin' no 'arm at all, Sir, no 'arm at all," says Cubbins.
"And do I understand that you brought those other flowers in the same
way?" goes on Mr. Ellins.
"Not thinkin' you'd mind, Sir," says Cubbins; "but if there's henny
hoffense given, I asks pardon, Sir."
And there couldn't be any mistakin' the genuine tremble in that weak,
pipin' voice, or the meek look in them watery old eyes. For Cubbins is
more or less of a human wreck, when you come to size him up close,--a
thin, bent-shouldered, faded lookin' old party, with wispy, whitish
hair, a peaked red nose, and a peculiar, whimsical quirk to his mouth
corners. Old Hickory looks him over curious for a minute or so.
"Huh!" he grunts at last. "So you're the one, eh? But why the
blue-belted blazes did you do it?"
All Cubbins does, though, is to finger his cap bashful.
"Well, Torchy," says Mr. Ellins, "you seem to be running this show.
Perhaps you'll tell us."
"That's further'n I've got," says I. "You see, when I traced this
floral tribute business down to a window washer, I----"
"In the name of all that's brilliant," breaks in Old Hickory, "how did
you ever do that?"'
"Why, I got to thinkin' about it," says I, "and it struck me that we
had our glass cleaned every Wednesday, and if there was no way of
anyone smugglin' flowers in through the doors, the windows was all
there was left, wa'n't it? Also who's most likely to be monkeyin'
around outside, fifteen stories up, but a window washer?"
"Ha!" says Old Hickory through his teeth. "And did you do that by the
introdeductive process, may I ask?"
"No such bunk as that," says I. "Just used my bean, that's all. Then
I got Mac, the assistant buildin' super, to put me wise as to who had
the windows on our floor, and by throwin' a bluff over the 'phone I
made the Consolidated people locate Mr. Cubbins for me. Found him
putterin' round in his garden over in Astoria, and pumped more or less
out of him; but when it come to gettin' him to explain why it was he'd
picked you out, Mr. Ellins, as a mark for his bouquets, I fell down
complete. Mr. Cubbins is English, as maybe you noticed by his talk,
and he used to be a house painter before his health got so bad. Now he
lives with his son-in-law, who tells me that the old gent----"
"'E's a bit of a liar, my son-in-law is," pipes up Cubbins; "a bally
Socialist, Sir, and I'm ashymed to s'y 'as 'ow 'e's fond of abusin' 'is
betters. Thet's 'ow it all come abaht, Sir. Alw'ys tykin' on over the
rich, 'e is; and 'e's most fond of s'yin' wrong things abaht you
special, Sir; callin' you a bloodsucking predatory person, Sir, and
himpolite nimes like thet. 'Ah, stow thet, Jimmy!!' says I. 'All
bloomin' lies, they are. There ayn't a finer man lives than Mr.
Ellins,' says I. ''Ow do you know?' says 'e. ''Ow?' says I. 'Don't I
wash 'is hoffice windows?' But 'e keeps at it of evenin's, s'yin' as
'ow you do this and that, an' 'e fair talks me down, Jimmy does. But I
know w'at I knows; so to relieve my feelin's a bit I've been bringin'
you the flowers on the sly, Sir; meanin', as I says before, no 'arm at
all, Sir."
"Well, I'll be dashed!" says Old Hickory, squintin' at Cubbins
humorous. "So you think I'm a good man, eh?"
"I'm quite sure of it, Sir," says he. "As I was tellin' Jimmy only
last night, 'W'y, at 'ome 'e'd be a Lord!' And so you would, Sir.
But, as I sees it, you're just as much 'ere, Sir. You build things up,
and keep things goin',--big things, such as the likes of me and Jimmy
mykes our livin' from. And it ayn't just your money mykes you a gryte
man; it's your brains and your big 'eart. I know w'at I knows, Sir,
an' I 'opes as 'ow you'll tyke no hoffense at the flowers, Sir."
"Not a bit, Cubbins," says Old Hickory, smilin' grim. "In fact, that's
a first rate idea of yours. We ought to have some sort of flowers here
all the time. Got many left in your garden, have you, Cubbins?"
"Plenty, Sir," says Cubbins. "The roses'll be gone soon now, Sir; but
there's golden glow, and hasters comin' on, and zinnias, and----"
"Then you're engaged, Cubbins," says Old Hickory, "to supply the office
with fresh ones every day. When yours give out we'll have to buy some,
I suppose. And you'll give up this window cleaning job at once. It's
too dangerous. I can't afford to have the only man in the United
States who holds a good opinion of me risking his neck like that."
"Thankee kindly, Sir," says Cubbins, beamin' grateful. "And we'll see
w'at Jimmy 'as to s'y to that, so we will!"
"Report that in full," says Old Hickory. "And, Mr. Piddie, see that
Mr. Cubbins' name goes on the payroll from today. But, by the way,
where is your distinguished friend, the scientific investigator?"
"Why--er--why----" says Piddie, flushin' up and swallowin' hard, "Dr.
Bingstetter left a moment ago."
"Did, eh?" grunts Old Hickory. "He should have stayed awhile and
allowed Torchy to give him a few pointers on evolving things from
primal facts."
"Ye-e-e-es, Sir," says Piddie, his face all tinted up lovely.
Which winds up, as you might say, the Mystery of the Fifth Bouquet.
But, believe me, there ain't any tamer party around the shop these days
than this same J. Hemmingway Piddie. And if the old habits get to
croppin' out any time, all I got to do is shut one eye, put my finger
to my lips, and whisper easy, "Ah, go tell that to Doc Bungstarter!"
That gets him behavin'.
And Cubbins, why--he's blossomed out in a new fall suit, and he stops
at the desk every few days to tell me how he put it all over Jimmy the
night before. So that was some stroke, what?