THE MYSTERY OF THE THIRTY-ONE
If I knew how, you ought to be worked up to the proper pitch for this
scene. You know--lights dimmed, throbby music from the bull fiddle and
kettle drums, and the ushers seatin' nobody durin' the act. Belasco
stuff. The stage showin' the private office of the Corrugated Trust.
It's a case of the big four in solemn conclave.
Maybe you can guess the other three. Uh-huh! Old Hickory Ellins, Mr.
Robert, and Piddie. I forget just what important problem we was
settlin'. But it must have been something weighty and serious. Millions
at stake, most likely. Thousands anyway. Or it might have been when we
should start the Saturday half-holidays.
All I remember is that we was grouped around the big mahogany desk; Old
Hickory in the middle chewin' away at the last three inches of a
Cassadora; Mr. Robert at right center, studyin' the documents in the
case; Piddie standin' respectful at his side weavin' his fingers in and
out nervous; and me balanced on the edge of the desk at the left, one
shoe toe on the floor, the other foot wavin' easy and graceful. Cool
and calm, that's me. But not sayin' a word. Nobody was. We'd had our
turn. It was up to Old Hickory to give the final decision. We was
waitin', almost breathless. He'd let out a grunt or two, cleared his
throat, and was about to open in his usual style when--
Cr-r-rash! Bumpety-bump!
Not that this describes it adequate. If I had a mouth that could imitate
the smashin' of a 4x6 foot plate glass window I'd be on my way out to
stampede the national convention for some favorite son. For that's
exactly what happens. One of them big panes through which Old Hickory
can view the whole southern half of Manhattan Island, not to mention
part of New Jersey, has been shattered as neat as if someone had thrown
a hammer through it. And havin' that occur not more'n ten feet from your
right ear is some test of nerves, I'll say. I didn't even fall off the
desk. All Old Hickory does is set his teeth into the cigar a little
firmer and roll his eyes over one shoulder. Piddie's the only one who
shows signs of shell shock. When he finally lets out a breath it's like
openin' a bottle of home brew to see if the yeast cake is gettin' in its
work.
The bumpety-bump noise comes from something white that follows the crash
and rolls along the floor toward the desk. Naturally I makes a grab for
it.
"Don't!" gasps Piddie. "It--it might be a bomb."
"Yes," says I, "it might. But it looks to me more like a golf ball."
"What?" says Old Hickory. "Golf ball! How could it be?"
"I don't know, sir," says I, modest as usual.
"Let's see," says he. I hands it over. He takes a glance at it and
snorts out: "Impossible, but quite true. It is a golf ball. A Spalldop
31."
"You're right, Governor," says Mr. Robert. "That's just what it is."
Piddie takes a cautious squint and nods his head. So we made it
unanimous.
"But I don't quite see, sir," goes on Piddie, "how a----"
"Don't you?" breaks in Old Hickory. "Well, that's strange. Neither do
I."
"Might it not, sir," adds Piddie, "have been dropped from an airplane?"
"Dropped how?" demands Old Hickory. "Sideways? The law of gravity
doesn't work that way. At least, it didn't when I met it last."
"Certainly!" says Piddie. "I had not thought of that. It couldn't have
been dropped. Then it must have been driven by some careless golfer."
He's some grand little suggester, Piddie is. Old Hickory glares at him
and snorts. "An amazingly careless golfer," he adds, "considering that
the nearest course is in Englewood, N. J., fully six miles away. No, Mr.
Piddie, I fear that even Jim Barnes at his best, relayed by Gil Nichols
and Walter Hagen, couldn't have made that drive."
"They--they never use a--a rifle for such purposes, do they?" asks
Piddie.
"Not in the best sporting circles," says Old Hickory.
"I suppose," puts in Mr. Robert, "that some golf enthusiast might have
taken it into his head to practice a shot from somewhere in the
neighborhood."
"That's logical," admits Old Hickory, "but from where did he shoot? We
are nineteen stories above the sidewalk, remember. I never saw a player
who could loft a ball to that height."
Which gives me an idea. "What if it was some golf nut who'd gone out on
a roof?" I asks.
"Thank you, Torchy," says Old Hickory. "From a roof, of course. I should
have made that deduction myself within the next half hour. The fellow
must be swinging away on the top of some nearby building. Let's see if
we can locate him."
Nobody could, though. Plenty of roofs in sight, from five to ten stories
lower than the Corrugated buildin', but no mashie maniac in evidence.
And while they're scoutin' around I takes another squint at the ball.
"Say, Mr. Ellins," I calls out, "if it was shot from a roof how do you
dope out this grass stain on it?"
"Eh?" says Old Hickory. "Grass stain! Must be an old one. No, by the
green turban of Hafiz, it's perfectly fresh! Even a bit of moist earth
where the fellow took a divot. Young man, that knocks out your roof
practice theory. Now how in the name of the Secret Seven could this
happen? The nearest turf is in the park, across Broadway. But no golfer
would be reckless enough to try out a shot from there. Besides, this
came from a southerly direction. Well, son, what have you to offer?"
"Me?" says I, stallin' around a bit and lookin' surprised. "Oh, I
didn't know I'd been assigned to the case of the mysterious golf ball."
"You have," says Old Hickory. "You seem to be so clever in deducing
things and the rest of us so stupid. Here take another look at the ball.
I presume that if you had a magnifying glass you could tell where it
came from and what the man looked like who hit it. Eh?"
"Oh, sure!" says I, grinnin'. "That is, in an hour or so."
That's the only way to get along with Old Hickory; when he starts
kiddin' you shoot the josh right back at him. I lets on to be examinin'
the ball careful.
"I expect you didn't notice the marks on it?" says I.
"Where?" says he, gettin' out his glasses. "Oh, yes! The fellow has
used an indelible pencil to put his initials on it. I often do that
myself, so the caddies can't sell me my own balls. He's made 'em rather
faint, but I can make out the letters. H. A. And to be sure, he's put
'em on twice."
"Yes," says I, "they might be initials, and then again they might be
meant to spell out something. My guess would be 'Ha, ha!'"
"What!" says Old Hickory. "By the Sizzling Sisters, you're right! A
message! But from whom?"
"Why not from Minnie?" I asks winkin' at Mr. Robert.
"Minnie who?" demands Old Hickory.
"Why, from Minnehaha?" says I, and I can hear Piddie gasp at my pullin'
anything like that on the president of the Corrugated Trust.
Old Hickory must have heard him, too, for he shrugs his shoulders and
remarks to Piddie solemn: "Even brilliant intellects have their dull
spots, you see. But wait. Presently this spasm of third rate comedy will
pass and he will evolve some apt conclusion. He will tell us who sent me
a Ha, ha! message on a golf ball, and why. Eh, Torchy?"
"Guess I'll have to sir," says I. "How much time off do I get, a couple
of hours?"
"The whole afternoon, if you'll solve the mystery," says he. "I am going
out to luncheon now. When I come back----"
"That ought to be time enough," says I.
Course nine-tenths of that was pure bluff. All I had mapped out then was
just a hunch for startin' to work. When they'd all left the private
office I wanders over for another look from the punctured window. The
lower sash had been pushed half-way up when the golf ball hit it, and the
shade had been pulled about two-thirds down. It was while I was runnin'
the shade clear to the top that I discovers this square of red cardboard
hung in the middle of the top sash.
"Hah!" says I. "Had the window marked, did he?"
Simple enough to see that a trick of that kind called for an inside
confederate. Who? Next minute I'm dashin' out to catch Tony, who runs
express elevator No. 3.
"Were the window washers at work on our floor this mornin'?" says I.
"Sure!" says Tony, "What you miss?"
"It was a case of direct hit," says I. "Where are they now?"
"On twenty-two," says Tony.
"I'll ride up with you," says I.
And three minutes later I've corralled a Greek glass polisher who's
eatin' his bread and sausage at the end of one of the corridors.
"You lobster!" says I. "Why didn't you hang that blue card in the right
window?"
"Red card!" he protests, sputterin' crumbs. "I hang him right, me."
"Oh, very well," says I, displayin' half a dollar temptin'. "Then you
got some more comin' to you, haven't you?"
He nods eager and holds out his hand.
"Just a minute," says I, "until I'm sure you're the right one. What was
the party's name who gave you the job?"
"No can say him name," says the Greek. "He just tell me hang card and
give me dollar."
"I see," says I. "A tall, thin man with red whiskers, eh?"
"No, no!" says he. "Short thick ol' guy, fat in middle, no whiskers."
"Correct so far," says I. "And if you can tell where he hangs out----"
"That's all," says the Greek. "Gimme half dollar."
"You win," says I, tossin' it to him.
But that's makin' fair progress for the first five minutes, eh? So far I
knew that a smooth faced, poddy party had shot a golf ball with "Ha,
ha!" written on it into Old Hickory's private office. Must have been
done deliberate, too, for he'd taken pains to have the window marked
plain for him with the red card. And at that it was some shot, I'll say.
Couldn't have come from the street, on account of the distance. Then
there was the grass stain. Grass? Now where----
By this time I'm leanin' out over the sill down at the roofs of the
adjoinin' buildings. And after I'd stretched my neck for a while I
happens to look directly underneath. There it was. Uh-huh. A little
green square of lawn alongside the janitor's roof quarters. You know
you'll find 'em here and there on office building roofs, even down in
Wall Street. And this being right next door and six or seven stories
below had been so close that we'd overlooked it at first.
So now I knew what he looked like, and where he stood. But who was he,
and what was the grand idea? It don't take me long to chase down to the
ground floor and into the next building. And, of course, I tackles the
elevator starter. They're the wise boys. Always. I don't know why it is,
but you'll generally find that the most important lookin' and actin'
bird around a big buildin' is the starter. And what he don't know about
the tenants and their business ain't worth findin' out.
On my way through the arcade I'd stopped at the cigar counter and
invested in a couple of Fumadoras with fancy bands on 'em. Tuckin' the
smokes casual into the starter's outside coat pocket I establishes
friendly relations almost from the start.
"Well, son," says he, "is it the natural blond on the seventh, or the
brunette vamp who pounds keys on the third that you want to meet?"
"Ah, come, Captain!" says I. "Do I look like a Gladys-hound? Nay, nay!
I'm simply takin' a sport census."
"Eh!" says he. "That's a new one on me."
"Got any golf bugs in your buildin', Cap?" I goes on.
"Any?" says he. "Nothing but. Say, you'll see more shiny hardware lugged
out of here on a Saturday than----"
"But did you notice any being lugged in today?" I breaks in.
"No," says he. "It's a little early for 'em to start the season, and too
near the first of the week. Don't remember a single bag goin' in today."
"Nor a club, either?" I asks.
He takes off his cap and rubs his right ear. Seems to help, too. "Oh,
yes," says he. "I remember now. There was an old boy carried one in
along about 10 o'clock. A new one that he'd just bought, I expect."
"Sort of a poddy, heavy set old party with a smooth face?" I suggests.
"That was him," says the starter. "He's a reg'lar fiend at it. But,
then, he can afford to be. Owns a half interest in the buildin', I
understand."
"Must be on good terms with the janitor, then," says I. "He could
practice swings on the roof if he felt like it, I expect."
"You've said it," says the starter. "He could do about what he likes
around this buildin', Mr. Dowd could."
"Eh?" says I. "The Hon. Matt?"
"Good guess!" says the starter. "You must know him."
"Rather," says I. "Him and my boss are old chums. Golf cronies, too.
Thanks. I guess that'll be all."
"But how about that sport census?" asks the starter.
"It's finished," says I, makin' a quick exit.
And by the time I'm back in the private office once more I've untangled
all the essential points. Why, it was only two or three days ago that
the Hon. Matt broke in on Old Hickory and gave him an earful about his
latest discovery in the golf line. I'd heard part of it, too, while I
was stickin' around waitin' to edge in with some papers for Mr. Ellins
to sign.
Now what was the big argument? Say, I'll be driven to take up this
Hoot-Mon pastime myself some of these days. Got to if I want to keep in
the swim. It was about some particular club Dowd claimed he had just
learned how to play. A mashie-niblick, that was it. Said it was revealed
to him in a dream--something about gripping with the left hand so the
knuckles showed on top, and taking the turf after he'd hit the ball.
That gave him a wonderful loft and a back-spin.
And I remember how Old Hickory, who was more or less busy at the time,
had tried to shunt him off. "Go on, you old fossil," he told him. "You
never could play a mashie-niblick, and I'll bet twenty-five you can't
now. You always top 'em. Couldn't loft over a bow-legged turtle, much
less a six foot bunker. Yes, it's a bet. Twenty-five even. But you'll
have to prove it, Matt."
And Mr. Dowd, chucklin' easy to himself, had allowed how he would. "To
your complete satisfaction, Ellins," says he, "or no money passes. And
within the week."
As I takes another look down at the little grass plot on the roof I has
to admit that the Hon. Matt knew what he was talkin' about. He sure had
turned the trick. Kind of clever of him, too, havin' the window marked
and all that. And puttin' the "Ha, ha!" message on the ball.
I was still over by the window, sort of smilin' to myself, when Old
Hickory walks in, havin' concluded to absorb only a sandwich and a glass
of milk at the arcade cafeteria instead of goin' to his club.
"Well, young man," says he. "Have you any more wise deductions to
submit?"
"I've got all the dope, if that's what you mean, sir," says I.
"Eh?" says he. "Not who and what and why?"
I nods easy.
"I don't believe it, son," says he. "It's uncanny. To begin with, who
was the man?"
"Don't you remember havin' a debate not long ago with someone who
claimed he could pull some wonderful stunt with a mashie-niblick?" says
I.
"Why," says Old Hickory, "with no one but Dowd."
"You bet him he couldn't, didn't you?" I asks.
"Certainly," says he.
"Well, he can," says I. "And he has."
"Wha-a-at!" gasps Old Hickory.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "It was him that shot in the ball with the Ha, ha!
message on it."
"But--but from where?" he demands.
"Look!" says I, leadin' him to the window.
"The old sinner!" says Mr. Ellins. "Why, that must be nearly one hundred
feet, and almost straight up! Some shot! I didn't think it was in him.
Hagen could do no better. And think of putting it through a window.
That's accuracy for you. Say, if he can do that in a game I shall be
proud to know him. Anyway, I shall not regret handing over that
twenty-five."
"It'll cost him nearly that to set another pane of plate glass," I
suggests.
"No, Torchy, no," says Old Hickory, wavin' his hand. "Any person who can
show such marksmanship with a golf ball is quite welcome to---- Ah, just
answer that 'phone call, will you, son?"
So I steps over and takes down the receiver. "It's the buildin'
superintendent," says I "He wants to speak to you, sir."
"See what he wants," says Old Hickory
And I expect I was grinnin' some when I turns around after gettin' the
message. "He says somebody has been shootin' golf balls at the south
side of the buildin' all the forenoon," says I, "and that seventeen
panes of glass have, been smashed. He wants to know what he shall do."
"Do?" says Old Hickory. "Tell him to send for a glazier."