HOW WHITY GUNKED THE PLOT
I knew something or other outside of business was puttin' hectic spots
in Old Hickory's disposition these last few days; but not until late
yesterday did I guess it was Cousin Inez.
I expect the Ellins family wasn't any too proud of Cousin Inez, to
start with; for among other things she's got a matrimonial record.
Three hubbies so far, I understand, two safe in a neat kept plot out in
Los Angeles; one in the discards--and she's just been celebratin' the
decree by travelin' abroad. They hadn't seen much of her for years;
but durin' this New York stopover visit she seemed to be makin' up for
lost time.
About four foot eight Cousin Inez was in her French heels, and fairly
thick through. Maybe it was the way she dressed, but from just below
her double chin she looked the same size all the way down. Tie a
Bulgarian sash on a sack of bran, and you've got the model. Inez was a
bear for sashes too. Another thing she was strong on was hair.
Course, the store blond part didn't quite match the sandy gray that
grew underneath, and the near-auburn frontispiece was another tint
still; but all that added variety and quantity--and what more could you
ask?
Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time.
About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, and
most the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,--carries
on three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string of
husbands, goes in deep for classical music, and is some kind of a high
priestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe a
few bats in her belfry.
But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugated
preferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makes
Cousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Three
or four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal went
through.
This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though.
I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was a
straight call on the carpet. "Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to see
her before she goes out this afternoon," says I, "and wait with the
limousine until she comes."
Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as he
sends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he was
peeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floats
in, smilin' mushy as usual.
She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's
some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked
under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the
brass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there
comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. Virgil
Bunn?"
Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden.
"Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."
"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound in
baby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon
is a sculptor poet, anyway?"
"Why, it's--it's--well, that's the way the papers always give it," says
I. "Beyond that I pass."
"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is
poetry. Listen!
"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung
About my lady sweet,
So do we string our votive area
All up and down each street.
They shine upon the young and old,
The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay;
Who gather here from far and near
To worship in our Great White Way.'
"Now what's your honest opinion of that, Son? Is it poetry?
"Listens something like it," says I; "but I wouldn't want to say for
sure."
"Nor I," says Mr. Ellins. "All I'm certain of is that it isn't
sculpture, and that if I should read any more of it I'd be seasick.
But in T. Virgil Bunn himself I have an active and personal interest.
Anything to offer?"
"Not a glimmer," says I.
"And I suppose you could find nothing out?" he goes on.
"I could make a stab," says I.
"Make a deep one, then," says he, slippin' over a couple of tens for an
expense fund.
And, say, I knew when Old Hickory begins by unbeltin' so reckless that
he don't mean any casual skimmin' through club annuals for a report.
"What's the idea?" says I. "Is it for a financial rating or a regular
dragnet of past performances?"
"Everything you can discover without taking him apart," says Old
Hickory. "In short, I want to know the kind of person who can cause a
fifty-five-year-old widow with grown sons to make a blinkety blinked
fool of herself."
"He's a charmer, eh?" says I.
"Evidently," says Mr. Ellins. "Behold this inscription here, 'To dear
Inez, My Lady of the Unfettered Soul--from Virgie.' Get the point,
Son? 'To dear Inez'! Bah! Is he color blind, or what ails him? Of
course it's her money he's after, and for the sake of her boys I'm
going to block him. There! You see what I want?"
"Sure!" says I. "You got to have details about Virgie before you can
ditch him. Well, I'll see what I can dig up."
Maybe it strikes you as a chesty bluff for a juvenile party like me to
start with no more clew than that to round up in a few hours what a
high-priced sleuth agency would take a week for. But, say, I didn't
stand guard on the Sunday editor's door two years with my eyes and ears
shut. Course, there's always the city and 'phone directories to start
with. Next you turn to the Who book if you suspect he's ever done any
public stunt. But, say, swallow that Who dope cautious. They let 'em
write their own tickets in that, you know, and you got to make
allowances for the size of the hat-band.
I'd got that far, discovered that Virgie owned up to bein' thirty-five
and a bachelor, that he was born in Schoharie, son of Telemachus J. and
Matilda Smith Bunn, and that he'd once been president of the village
literary club, when I remembers the clippin' files we used to have back
on Newspaper Row. So down I hikes--and who should I stack up against,
driftin' gloomy through the lower lobby, but Whity Meeks, that used to
be the star man on the Sunday sheet. Course, it wa'n't any miracle;
for Whity's almost as much of a fixture there as Old Gluefoot, the
librarian, or the finger marks on the iron pillars in the press-room.
A sad example of blighted ambitions, Whity is. When I first knew him
he had a fresh one every Monday mornin', and they ranged all the way
from him plannin' to be a second Dicky Davis to a scheme he had for
hookin' up with Tammany and bein' sent to Congress. Clever boy too.
He could dash off ponies that was almost good enough to print, dope out
the first two acts of a play that was bound to make his fortune if he
could ever finish it, and fake speeches that he'd never heard a word of.
When he got to doin' Wall Street news, though, and absorbed the idea
that he could stack his little thirty per against the system and break
the bucketshops--well, that was his finish. Two killings that he made
by chance, and he was as good as chained to the ticker for life. No
more new rosy dreams for him: always the same one,--of the day when he
was goin' to show Sully how a cotton corner really ought to be pulled
off, a day when the closin' gong would find him with the City Bank in
one fist and the Subtreasury in the other. You've met that kind,
maybe. Only Whity always tried to dress the part, in a sporty shepherd
plaid, with a checked hat and checked silk socks to match. He has the
same regalia on now, with a carnation in his buttonhole.
"Well, mounting margins!" says he, as I swings him round by the arm.
"Torchy! Whither away? Come down to buy publicity space for the
Corrugated, have you?"
"Not in a rag like yours, Whity," says I, "when we own stock in two
real papers. I'm out on a little private gumshoe work for the boss."
"Sounds thrilling," says he. "Any copy in it?"
"I'd be chatterin' it to you, wouldn't I?" says I. "Nix! Just plain
fam'ly scrap over whether Cousin Inez shall marry again or not. My job
is to get something on the guy. Don't happen to have any special dope
on T. Virgil Bunn, the sculptor poet, do you?"
Whity stares at me. "Do I?" says he.
"Say!" Then he leads me over between the 'phone booth and the cigar
stand, flashes an assignment pad, and remarks, "Gaze on that second
item, my boy."
"Woof! That's him, all right," says I. "But what's a bouillabaisse
tea?"
"Heaven and Virgil Bunn only know," says Whity. "But that doesn't
matter. Think of the subtle irony of Fate that sends me up to make a
column story out of Virgie Bunn! Me, of all persons!"
"Well, why not you?" says I.
"Why?" says Whity. "Because I made the fellow. He--why, he is my
joke, the biggest scream I ever put over--my joke, understand? And now
this adumbrated ass of a Quigley, who's been sent on here from St.
Louis to take the city desk, he falls for Virgie as a genuine
personage. Not only that, but picks me out to cover this phony tea of
his. And the stinging part is, if I don't I get canned, that's all."
"Ain't he the goods, then?" says I. "What about this sculptor poet
business?"
"Bunk," says Whity, "nothing but bunk. Of course, he does putter
around with modeling clay a bit, and writes the sort of club-footed
verse they put in high school monthlies."
"Gets it printed in a book, though," says I. "I've seen one."
"Why not?" says Whity. "Anyone can who has the three hundred to pay
for plates and binding. 'Sonnets of the City,' wasn't it? Didn't I
get my commission from the Easy Mark Press for steering him in? Why, I
even scratched off some of those things to help him pad out the book
with. But, say, Torchy, you ought to remember him. You were on the
door then,--tall, wide-shouldered freak, with aureole hair, and a close
cropped Vandyke?"
"Not the one who wore the Wild West lid and talked like he had a
mouthful of hot oatmeal?" says I.
"Your description of Virgie's English accent is perfect," says Whity.
"Well, well!" says I. "The mushbag, we used to call him."
"Charmingly accurate again!" says Whity. "Verily beside him the
quivering jellyfish of the salt sea was as the armored armadillo of the
desert. Soft? You could poke a finger through him anywhere."
"But what was his game?" says I.
"It wasn't a game, my son," says Whity. "It was a mission in life,--to
get things printed about himself. Had no more modesty about it, you
know, than a circus press agent. Perfectly frank and ingenuous, Virgie
was. He'd just come and ask you to put it in that he was a great
man--just like that! The chief used to froth at the mouth on sight of
him. But Virgie looked funny to me in those days. I used to jolly him
along, smoke his Coronas, let him take me out to swell feeds. Then
when they gave Merrow charge of the Sunday side, just for a josh I did
a half-page special about Virgie, called him the sculptor poet, threw
in some views of him in his studio, and quoted some of his verse that
I'd fixed up. It got by. Virgie was so pleased he wanted to give a
banquet for me; but I got him to go in on a little winter wheat flier
instead. He didn't drop much. After that I'd slip in a paragraph
about him now and then, always calling him the sculptor poet. The tag
stuck. Other papers began to use it; until, first thing I knew, Virgie
was getting away with it. Honest, I just invented him. And now he
passes for the real thing!"
"Where you boobed, then, was in not filin' copyright papers," says I.
"But how does he make it pay?"
"He doesn't," says Whity. "Listen, Son, and I will divulge the hidden
mystery in the life of T. Virgil Bunn. Cheese factories! Half a dozen
or more of 'em, up Schoharie way. Left to him, you know, by Pa Bunn; a
coarse, rough person, I am told, who drank whey out of a five-gallon
can, but was cute enough to import Camembert labels and make his own
boxes. He passed on a dozen years ago; but left the cheese factories
working night shifts. Virgie draws his share quarterly. He tried a
year or two at some Rube college, and then went abroad to loiter.
While there he exposed himself to the sculptor's art; but it didn't
take very hard. However, Virgie came back and acquired the studio
habit. And you can't live for long in a studio, you know, without
getting the itch to see yourself in print. That's what brought Virgie
to me. And now! Well, now I have to go to Virgie."
"Ain't as chummy with him as you was, I take it?" says I.
Whity shrugs his shoulders disgusted. "The saphead!" says he. "Just
because we slipped up on a few stock deals he got cold feet. I haven't
seen him for a year. I wonder how he'll take it? But you mentioned a
Cousin Inez, didn't you?"
I gives Whity a hasty sketch of the piece, mentionin' no more names,
but suggestin' that Virgie stood to connect with an overgrown widow's
mite if there wa'n't any sudden interference.
"Ha!" says Whity, speakin' tragic through his teeth. "An idea! He's
put the spell on a rich widow, has he? Now if I could only manage to
queer this autumn leaf romance it would even up for the laceration of
pride that I see coming my way tonight. Describe the fair one."
"I could point her out if you could smuggle me in," I suggests.
"A cinch!" says he. "You're Barry of the City Press. Here, stick some
copy paper in your pocket. Take a few notes, that's all."
"It's a fierce disguise to put on," says I; "but I guess I can stand it
for an evenin'."
So about eight-thirty we meets again, and' proceeds to hunt up this
studio buildin' over in the East 30's. It ain't any bum Bohemian
ranch, either, but a ten-story elevator joint, with clipped bay trees
on each side of the front door. Virgie's is a top floor suite, with a
boy in buttons outside and a French maid to take your things.
"Gee!" I whispers to Whity as we pushes in. "There's some swell mob
collectin', eh?"
Whity is speechless, though, and when he gets his breath again all he
can do is mumble husky, "Teddy Van Alstyne! Mrs. Cromer Paige! The
Bertie Gardiners!"
They acted like a mixed crowd, though, gazin' around at each other
curious, groupin' into little knots, and chattin' under their breath.
Bein' gents of the press, we edges into a corner behind a palm and
waits to see what happens.
"There comes Cousin Inez!" says I, nudgin' Whity. "See? The squatty
dame with the pearl ropes over her hair."
"Sainted Billikens, what a make-up!" says Whity.
And, believe me, Cousin Inez was dolled for fair. She'd peeled for the
fray, as you might say. And if the dinky shoulder straps held it was
all right; but if one of 'em broke there'd sure be some hurry call for
four yards of burlap to do her up in. She seems smilin' and happy,
though, and keeps glancin' expectant at the red velvet draperies in the
back of the room.
Sure enough, exactly on the tick of nine, the curtains part, and in
steps the hero of the evenin'. Dress suit? Say, you don't know
Virgie. He's wearin' a reg'lar monk's outfit, of some coarse brown
stuff belted in with a thick rope and open wide at the neck.
"For the love of beans, look at his feet!" I whispers.
"Sandals," says Whity, "and no socks! Blessed if Virgie isn't going
the limit!"
There's a chorus of "Ah-h-h-h's!" as he steps out, and then comes a
buzz of whispers which might have been compliments, and might not. But
it don't faze Virgie. He goes bowin' and handshakin' through the mob,
smilin' mushy on all and several, and actin' as pleased with himself as
if he'd taken the prize at a fancy dress ball. You should have seen
Cousin Inez when he gets to her!
"Oh, you utterly clever man!" she gushes. "What a genuine genius you
are!"
"Dear, sweet lady!" says he. "It is indeed gracious of you to say so."
"Help!" groans Whity, like he had a pain.
"Ah, buck up!" says I. "It'll be your turn soon."
I was wonderin' how Virgie was goin' to simmer down enough to pass
Whity the chilly greetin'; for he's just bubblin' over with kind words
and comic little quips. But, say, he don't even try to shade it.
"Ah, Whity, my boy!" says he, extendin' the cordial paw. "Charming of
you to look me up once more, perfectly charming!"
"Rot!" growls Whity. "You know I was sent up here to do this blooming
spread of yours. What sort of fake is it, anyway?"
"Ha, ha! Same old Whity!" says Virgil, poundin' him hearty on the
shoulder. "But you're always welcome, my boy. As for the tea--well,
one of my little affairs, you know,--just a few friends dropping
in--feast of reason, flow of wit, all that sort of thing. You know how
to put it. Don't forget my costume--picked it up at a Trappist
monastery in the Pyrenees. I must give you some photos I've had taken
in it. Ah, another knight of the pencil?" and he glances inquirin' at
me.
"City Press," says Whity.
"Fine!" says Virgie, beamin'. "Well, you boys make yourselves quite at
home. I'll send Marie over with cigars and cigarettes. She'll help
you to describe any of the ladies' costumes you may care to mention.
Here's a list of the invited guests too. Now I must be stirring about.
_Au revoir_."
"Ass!" snarls Whity under his breath. "If I don't give him a roast,
though,--one of the veiled sarcastic kind that will get past! And we
must find some way of queering him with that rich widow."
"Goin' to be some contract, Whity, believe me!" says I. "Look how
she's taggin' him around!"
And, say, Cousin Inez sure had the scoopnet out for him! Every move he
makes she's right on his heels, gigglin' and simperin' at all his sappy
speeches and hangin' onto his arm part of the time. Folks was nudgin'
each other and pointin' her out gleeful, and I could easy frame up the
sort of reports that had set Old Hickory's teeth on edge.
T. Virgil, though, seems to be havin' the time of his life. He
exhibits some clay models, either dancin' girls or a squad of mounted
cops, I couldn't make out which, and he lets himself be persuaded to
read two or three chunks out of his sonnets, very dramatic. Cousin
Inez leads the applause. Then, strikin' a pose, he claps his hands,
the velvet curtains are slid one side, and in comes a French chef
luggin' a tray with a whackin' big casserole on it.
"_Voilà_!" sings out Virgie. "The bouillabaisse!"
Marie gets busy passin' around bowls and spoons, and the programme
seems to be for the guests to line up while Virgie gives each a helpin'
out of a long-handled silver ladle. It smells mighty good; so I pushes
in with my bowl. What do you guess I drew? A portion of the tastiest
fish soup you ever met, with a lobster claw and a couple of clams in
it. M-m-m-m!
"He may be a punk poet," says I to Whity; "but he's a good provider."
"Huh!" growls Whity, who seems to be sore on account of the hit
Virgie's makin'.
Next thing I knew along drifts Cousin Inez, who has sort of been
crowded away from her hero, and camps down on the other side of Whity.
"Isn't this just too unique for words?" she gushes. "And is not dear
Virgil perfectly charming tonight?"
"Oh, he's a bear at this sort of thing, all right," says Whity, "this
and making cheese."
"Cheese!" echoes Cousin Inez.
"Sure!" says Whity. "Hasn't he told you about his cheese factories?
Ask him."
"But--but I understood that--that he was a poet," says she, "a sculptor
poet."
"Bah!" says Whity. "He couldn't make his salt at either. All just a
pose!"
"Why, I can hardly believe it," says Cousin Inez. "I don't believe it,
either."
"Then read his poetry and look at his so called groups," goes on Whity.
"But he's such a talented, interesting man," insists Inez.
"With such an interesting family too," says Whity, winkin'.
"Family!" gasps Cousin Inez.
"Wife and six children," says Whity, lyin' easy.
"Oh--oh!" squeals Inez in that shrill, raspy voice of hers.
"They say he beats his wife, though," adds Whity.
"Oh!--oh!" squeals Inez, again, higher and shriller than ever. I
expect she'd been more or less keyed up before; but this adds the
finishin' touch. And she lets 'em out reckless.
Course, everyone stops chatterin' and looks her way. No wonder! You'd
thought she was havin' a fit. Over rushes Virgil, ladle in hand.
"My dear Inez!" says he. "What is it? A fishbone?"
"Monster!" she bowls. "Deceiver! Leave me, never let me see your face
again! Oh--oh! Cheese! Six children! Oh--oh!" With that she
tumbles over on Whity and turns purple in the face.
Say, it was some sensation we had there for a few minutes; but after
they'd sprinkled her face, and rubbed her wrists, and poured a couple
of fingers of brandy into her, she revives. And the first thing she
catches sight of is Virgie, standin' there lookin' puzzled, still
holdin' the soup ladle.
"Monster!" she hisses at him. "I know all--all! And I quit you
forever!"
With that she dashes for the cloakroom, grabs her opera wrap, and beats
it for the elevator. Course, that busts up the show, and inside of
half an hour everybody but us has left, and most of 'em went out
snickerin'.
"I--I don't understand it at all," says Virgie, rubbin' his eyes dazed.
"She was talking with you, wasn't she, Friend Whity? Was it something
you said about me?"
"Possibly," says Whity, "I may have mentioned your cheese factories;
and I'm not sure but what I didn't invent a family for you. Just as a
joke, of course. You don't mind, I hope?"
And at that I was dead sure someone was goin' to be slapped on the
wrist. But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times;
and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beams
mushy.
"Mind? Why, my dear boy," says he, "you are my deliverer! I owe you
more than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous old
person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. She
has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and--disturbed me
greatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it.
Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone
who--er--who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that I
would--ah--marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousand
times, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have two
wives, a dozen. And have some cigars--oh, fill your pockets, my boy.
And here--the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to drop
in at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!"
He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on the
back as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on the
sidewalk.
"Double crossed!" groans Whity. "Smothered in mush!"
"As a plotter, Whity," says I, "you're a dub. But if you gunked it one
way, you drew a consolation the other. At this stage of the game I
guess I'm commissioned by a certain party to hand over to you a small
token of his esteem."
"Eh?" says Whity. "Twenty? What for?"
"Ah, go bull the market with it, and don't ask fool questions!" says I.
Say, it was a perfectly swell story about Virgie's bouillabaisse
function on today's society page, double-column half-tone cut and all.
I had to grin when I shows it to Mr. Ellins.
"Were you there, young man?" says he, eyin' me suspicious.
"Yep!" says I.
"I thought so," says he, "when Cousin Inez came home and began packing
her trunks. I take it that affair of hers with the sculptor poet is
all off??'
"Blew up with a bang about ten-thirty P. M.," says I. "Your two
tenspots went with it."
"Huh!" he snorts. "That's as far as I care to inquire. Some day I'm
going to send you out with a thousand and let you wreck the
administration."