TORCHY SHUNTS A WIZARD
I'd hardly noticed when Mr. Robert blew in late from lunch until I hears
him chuckle. Then I glances over my shoulder and sees that he's lookin'
my way. Course, that gets me curious, for Mr. Robert ain't the kind of
boss that goes around chucklin' casual, 'specially at a busy private
sec.
"Yes, sir?" says I, shoving back a tray full of correspondence I'm
sortin'.
"I heard something rather good, at luncheon, Torchy," says he.
"On red hair, I expect," says I.
"It wasn't quite so personal as that," says he. "Still, I think you'll
be interested."
"It's part of my job to look so, anyway," says I, givin' him the grin.
"And another item on which you specialize, I believe," he goes on, "is
the detection of book agents. At least, you used to do so when you were
head office boy. Held a record, didn't you?"
"Oh, I don't know," says I tryin' to register modesty. "One got past the
gate; one in five years. That was durin' my first month."
"Almost an unblemished career," says Mr. Robert. "What about your
successor, Vincent?"
"Oh, he's doing fairly well," says I. "Gets stung now and then. Like
last week when that flossy blonde with the Southern accent had him
buffaloed with a tale about having met dear Mr. Ellins at French Lick
and wantin' to show him something she knew he'd be just crazy about. She
did, too. 'Lordly Homes of England,' four volumes, full morocco, at
fifty a volume. And I must say she was nearly right. He wasn't far from
being crazy for the next hour or so. Vincent got it, and then I got it,
although I was downtown at the time it happened. But I'm coachin'
Vincent, and I don't think another one of 'em will get by very soon."
"You don't eh?" says Mr. Robert, indulgin' in another chuckle.
Then he spills what he overheard at lunch. Seems he was out with a
friend who took him to the Papyrus Club, which is where a lot of these
young hicks from the different book publishin' houses get together
noon-times; not Mr. Harper, or Mr. Scribner, or Mr. Dutton, but the
heads of departments, assistant editors, floor salesmen and so on.
And at the next table to Mr. Robert the guest of honor was a loud
talkin' young gent who'd just come in from a tour of the Middle West
with a bunch of orders big enough, if you let him tell it, to keep his
firm's presses on night shifts for a year. He was some hero, I take it,
and for the benefit of the rest of the bunch he was sketchin' out his
methods.
"As I understood the young man," says Mr. Robert, "his plan was to go
after the big ones; the difficult proposition, men of wealth and
prominence whom other agents had either failed to reach or had not dared
to approach. 'The bigger the better,' was his motto, and he referred to
himself, I think, as 'the wizard of the dotted line.'"
"Not what you'd exactly call a shrinkin' violet, eh?" I suggests.
"Rather a shrieking sunflower," says Mr. Robert. "And he concluded by
announcing that nothing would suit him better than to be told the name
of the most difficult subject in the metropolitan district--'the hardest
nut' was his phrase, I believe. He guaranteed to land the said person
within a week. In fact, he was willing to bet $100 that he could."
"Huh," says I.
"Precisely the remark of one of his hearers," says Mr. Robert. "The
wager was promptly made. And who do you suppose, Torchy, was named as
the most aloof and difficult man in New York for a book agent to--"
"Mr. Ellins," says I.
Mr. Robert nods. "My respected governor, none other," says he. "I fancy
he would be rather amused to know that he had achieved such a
reputation, although he would undoubtedly give you most of the credit."
"Or the blame," says I.
"Yes," admits Mr. Robert, "if he happened to be in the blaming mood.
Anyway, young man, there you have a direct challenge. Within the next
week the inner sanctum of the Corrugated Trust is to be assailed by one
who claims that he can penetrate the impenetrable, know the unknowable,
and unscrew the inscrutable."
"Well, that's cute of him," says I. "I'm bettin', though, he never gets
to his man."
"That's the spirit!" says Mr. Robert. "As the French said at Verdun,
'Ils ne passeront pas.' Eh?"
"Meaning 'No Gangway', I expect!" says I.
"That's the idea," says he.
"But say, Mr. Robert, what's he look like, this king of the dotted
line!" says I.
Mr. Robert shakes his head. "I was sitting back to him," says he.
"Besides, to give you his description would be taking rather an unfair
advantage. That would tend to spoil what now stands as quite a neat
sporting proposition. Of course, if you insist--"
"No," says I. "He don't know me and I don't know him. It's fifty-fifty.
Let him come."
I never have asked any odds of book agents, so why begin now? But, you
can bet I didn't lose any time havin' a heart to heart talk with
Vincent.
"Listen, son," says I, "from this on you want to watch this gate like
you was a terrier standin' over a rat hole. It's up to you to see that
no stranger gets through, no matter who he says he is; and that goes for
anybody, from first cousins of the boss to the Angel Gabriel himself.
Also, it includes stray window cleaners, buildin' inspectors and parties
who come to test the burglar alarm system. They might be in disguise. If
their faces ain't as familiar to you as the back of your hand give 'em
the sudden snub and tell 'em 'Boom boom, outside!' In case of doubt keep
'em there until you can send for me. Do you get it?"
Vincent says he does. "I shouldn't care to let in another book agent,"
says he.
"You might just as well resign your portfolio if you do," says I.
"Remember the callin' down, you got from Old Hickory last week."
Vincent shudders. "I'll do my best, sir," says he.
And he's a thorough goin', conscientious youth. Within the next few
hours I had to rescue one of our directors, our first assistant Western
manager, and a personal friend of Mr. Robert's, all of whom Vincent had
parked on the bench in the anteroom and was eyein' cold, and suspicious.
He even holds up the Greek who came luggin' in the fresh towels, and
Tony the spring water boy.
"I feel like old Horatius," says Vincent.
"Never met him," says I, "but whoever he was I'll bet you got him
lookin' like one of the seven sleepers. That's the stuff, though. Keep
it up."
I expect I was some wakeful myself, too. I worked with my eyes ready to
roll over my shoulder and my right ear stretched. I was playin' the part
of right worthy inside guard, and nobody came within ten feet of the
private office door but what I'd sized 'em up before they could reach
the knob. Still, two whole days passed without any attack on the first
line trenches. The third day Vincent and I had a little skirmish with a
mild-eyed young gent who claimed he wanted to see Mr. Ellins urgent, but
he turns out to be only a law clerk from the office of our general
solicitors bringin' up some private papers to be signed.
Then here Friday--and it was Friday the 13th, too--Vincent comes
sleuthin' in to my desk and shows me a card.
"Well," says I, "who does this H. Munson Schott party say he is?"
"That's just it," says Vincent. "He doesn't say. But he has a letter of
introduction to Mr. Ellins from the Belgian Consul General. Rather an
important looking person, too."
"H-m-m-m!" says I, runnin' my fingers through my red hair thoughtful.
You see, we'd been figurin' on some big reconstruction contracts with
the Belgian government, and while I hadn't heard how far the deal had
gone, there was a chance that this might be an agent from the royal
commission.
"If it is," says I, "we can't afford to treat him rough. Let's see, the
Hon. Matt. Dowd, the golf addict, is still in the private office givin'
Old Hickory another earful about the Scotch plague, ain't he?"
"No, sir," says Vincent. "Mr. Ellins asked him to wait half an hour or
so. He's in the director's room."
"Maybe I'd better take a look at your Mr. Schott first then," says I.
But after I'd gone out and given him the north and south careful I was
right where I started. I didn't quite agree with Vincent that he looked
important, but he acted it. He's pacin' up and down outside the brass
rail kind of impatient, and as I appears he's just consultin' his watch.
A nifty tailored young gent with slick putty-colored hair and
Maeterlinck blue eyes. Nothing suspicious in the way of packages about
him. Not even a pigskin document case or an overcoat with bulgy pockets.
He's grippin' a French line steamship pamphlet in one hand, a letter in
the other, and from the crook of his right elbow hangs a heavy
silver-mounted walkin' stick. Also he's wearin' gray spats. Nothing book
agenty about any of them signs.
"Mr. Schott?" says I, springin' my official smile. "To see Mr. Ellins, I
understand. I'm his private secretary. Could I--"
"I wish to see Mr. Ellins personally," breaks in Mr. Schott, wavin' me
off with a yellow-gloved hand.
"Of course," says I. "One moment, please. I'll find out if he's in. And
if you have any letters, or anything like that--"
"I prefer to present my credentials in person," says he.
"Sorry," says I. "Rules of the office. Saves time, you know. If you
don't mind--" and I holds out my hand for the letter.
He gives it up reluctant and I backs out. Another minute and I've shoved
in where Old Hickory is chewin' a cigar butt savage while he pencils a
joker clause into a million-dollar contract.
"Excuse me, sir," says I, "but you were expectin' a party from the
Belgian Commission, were you?"
"No," snaps Old Hickory. "Nor from the Persian Shah, or the Sultan of
Sulu, or the Ahkoond of Swat. All I'm expecting, young man, is a half
hour of comparative peace, and I don't get it. There's Matt. Dowd in the
next room waiting like the Ancient Mariner to grip me by the sleeve and
pour out a long tale about what he calls his discovery of psychic golf.
Say, son, couldn't you----"
"I've heard it, you know, sir," says I.
Old Hickory groans. "That's so," says he. "Well then, why don't you find
me a substitute? Suffering Cicero, has that inventive brain of yours
gone into a coma!"
"Not quite, sir," says I. "You don't happen to know a Mr. Schott, do
you?"
"Gr-r-r!" says Old Hickory, as gentle as a grizzly with a sore ear. "Get
out!"
I took the hint and trickled through the door. I was just framin' up
something polite to feed Mr. Schott when it strikes me I might take a
peek at this little note from the Belgian consul. It wasn't much, merely
suggests that he hopes Mr. Ellins will be interested in what Mr. Schott
has to say. There's the consul general's signature at the bottom, too.
Yes. And I was foldin' it up to tuck it back into the envelope
when--well, that's what comes of my early trainin' on the Sunday edition
when the proof readers used to work me in now and then to hold copy.
It's a funny thing, but I notice that the Consul General doesn't spell
his name when he writes it the way he has it printed at the top of his
letterhead.
"Might be a slip by the fool engraver," thinks I. "I'll look it up in
the directory."
And the directory agreed with the letterhead.
"Oh, ho!" says I. "Pullin' the old stuff, eh? Easy enough to drop into
the Consul's office and dash off a note to anybody. Say, lemme at this
Schott person."
No, I didn't call in Pat, the porter, and have him give Mr. Schott a
flyin' start down the stairs. No finesse about that. Besides, I needed a
party about his size just then. I steps back into the directors' room
and rouses Mr. Dowd from his trance by tappin' him on the shoulder.
"Maybe you'd be willin', Mr. Dowd," says I, "to sketch out some of that
psychic golf experience of yours to a young gent who claims to be
something of a wizard himself."
Would he? Say, I had to push him back in the chair to keep him from
followin' me right out.
"Just a minute," says I, "and I'll bring him in. There's only one thing.
He's quite a talker himself. Might want to unload a line of his own
first, but after that--"
"Yes, yes," says Dowd. "I shall be delighted to meet him."
"It's goin' to be mutual," says I.
Why, I kind of enjoyed my little part, which consists in hurryin' out to
the gate with my right forefinger up and a confidential smirk wreathin'
my more or less classic features.
"Right this way, Mr. Schott," says I.
He shrugs his shoulders, shoots over a glance of scornful contempt, like
a room clerk in a tourist hotel would give to a guest who's payin' only
$20 or $30 a day, and shoves past Vincent with his chin up. Judgin' by
the name and complexion and all there must have been a lot of noble
Prussian blood in this Schott person, for the Clown Prince himself
couldn't have done the triumphal entry any better. And I expect I put
considerable flourish into the business when I announces him to Dowd,
omittin' careful to call the Hon. Matt, by name.
Schott aint wastin' any precious minutes. Before Dowd can say a word
he's started in on his spiel. As I'm makin' a slow exit I manages to get
the openin' lines. They was good, too.
"As you may know," begins Schott, "I represent the International
Historical Committee. Owing to the recent death of prominent members we
have decided to fill those vacancies by appointment and your name has
been mentioned as----"
Well, you know how it goes. Only this was smooth stuff. It was a shame
to have it all spilled for the benefit of Matthew Dowd, who can only
think of one thing these days--250-yard tee shots and marvelous mid-iron
pokes that always sail toward the pin. Besides, I kind of wanted to see
how a super-book agent would work.
Openin' the private office door easy I finds Old Hickory has settled
back in his swing chair and is lightin' a fresh Fumadora satisfied. So I
slips in, salutes respectful and jerks my thumb toward the directors'
room.
"I've put a sub. on the job, sir," says I.
"Eh?" says he. "Oh, yes. Who did you find?"
"A suspicious young stranger," says I. "I sicced him and Mr. Dowd on
each other. They're at it now. It's likely to be entertainin'."
Old Hickory nods approvin' and a humorous flicker flashes under them
bushy eyebrows of his. "Let's hear how they're getting along," says he.
So I steps over sleuthy and swings the connectin' door half way open,
which not only gives us a good view but brings within hearin' range this
throaty conversation which Mr. Schott is unreelin' at high speed.
"You see, sir," he's sayin', "this monumental work covers all the great
crises of history, from the tragedy on Calvary to the signing of the
peace treaty at Versailles. Each epoch is handled by an acknowledged
master of that period, as you may see by this table of contents."
Here Mr. Schott produces from somewhere inside his coat a half pound or
so of printed pages and shoves them on Dowd.
"The illustrations," he goes on, "are all reproduced in colors by our
new process, and are copies of famous paintings by the world's greatest
artists. There are to be more than three hundred, but I have here a few
prints of these priceless works of art which will give you an idea."
At that he reaches into the port side of his coat, unbuttons the lining,
and hauls out another sheaf of leaves.
"Then we are able to offer you," says Schott, "a choice of bindings
which includes samples of work from the most skilful artisans in that
line. At tremendous expense we have reproduced twelve celebrated
bindings. I have them here."
And blamed if he don't unscrew the thick walkin' stick and pull out a
dozen imitation leather bindings which he piles on Mr. Dowd's knee.
"Here we have," says he, "the famous Broissard binding, made for the
library of Louis XIV. Note the fleur de lis and the bee, and the
exquisite hand-tooling on the doublures. Here is one that was done by
the Rivieres of London for the collection of the late Czar Nicholas, and
so on. There are to be thirty-six volumes in all and to new members of
the Historical Committee we are offering these at practically the cost
of production, which is $28 the volume. In return for this sacrifice all
we ask of you, my dear sir, is that we may use your indorsement in our
advertising matter, which will soon appear in all the leading daily
papers of this country. We ask you to pay no money down. All you need to
do, sir, to become a member of the International Historical Committee
and receive this magnificent addition to your library, is to sign your
name here and----"
"Is--is that all?" breaks in Dowd, openin' his mouth for the first time.
"Absolutely," says Schott, unlimberin' his ready fountain pen.
"Then perhaps you would be interested to hear of a little experience of
mine," says Dowd, "on the golf course."
"Charmed," says Schott.
He didn't know what was comin'. As a book agent he had quite a flow of
language, but I doubt if he ever ran up against a real golf nut before.
Inside of half a minute Dowd was off in high gear, tellin' him about
that wonderful game he played with Old Hickory when he was under the
control of the spirit of the great Sandy McQuade. At first Schott looks
kind of dazed, like a kid who's been foolin' with a fire hydrant wrench
and suddenly finds he's turned on the high pressure and can't turn it
off. Three or four times he makes a stab at breakin' in and urgin' the
fountain pen on Dowd, but he don't have any success. Dowd is in full
swing, describin' his new theory of how all the great golfers who have
passed on come back and reincarnate themselves once more; sometimes
pickin' out a promisin' caddie, as in the case of Ouimet, or now and
again a hopeless duffer, same as he was himself. Schott can't get a word
in edgewise, and is squirmin' in his chair while Old Hickory leans back
and chuckles.
Finally, after about half an hour of this, Schott gets desperate. "Yes,
sir," says he, shoutin' above Dowd's monologue, "but what about this
magnificent set of----"
"Bah!" says Dowd. "Books! Never buy 'em."
"But--but are you sure, sir," Schott goes on, "that you understand what
an opportunity you are offered for----"
"Wouldn't have the junk about the house," says Dowd. "But later on,
young man, if you are interested in the development of my psychic golf,
I shall be glad to tell you----"
"Not if I see you first," growls Schott, gatherin' up his pile of
samples and backin out hasty.
He's in such a hurry to get away that he bumps into Mr. Robert, who's
just strollin' toward the private office, and the famous bindings, art
masterpieces, contents pages and so on are scattered all over the floor.
"Who was our young friend with all the literature?" asks Mr. Robert.
"That's Mr. Schott," says I, "your wizard of the dotted line, who was
due to break in on Mr. Ellins and get him to sign up."
"Eh?" says Old Hickory, starin'. "And you played him off against Matt.
Dowd? You impertinent young rascal! But I say, Robert, you should have
seen and heard 'em. It was rich. They nearly talked each other to a
standstill."
"Then I gather, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, grinnin', "that the king of
book agents now sits on a tottering throne. In other words, the wizard
met a master mind, eh?"
"I dunno," says I. "Guess I gave him the shunt, all right. Just by luck,
though. He had a clever act, I'll say, even if he didn't get it
across."