TORCHY FOLLOWS A HUNCH
It was a case of local thunderstorms on the seventeenth floor of the
Corrugated Trust Building. To state it simpler, Old Hickory was
runnin' a neck temperature of 210 or so, and there was no tellin' what
minute he might fuse a collar-button or blow out a cylinder-head.
The trouble seemed to be that one of his pet schemes was in danger of
being ditched. Some kind of an electric power distributin' stunt it
is, one that he'd doped out durin' a Western trip last summer; just a
little by-play with a few hundred square miles of real estate,
includin' the buildin' of twenty or thirty miles of trolley and
plantin' a few factories here and there.
But now here's Ballinger, our Western manager, in on the carpet, tryin'
to explain why it can't be done. He's been at it for two hours, helped
out by a big consultin' engineer and the chief attorney of our Chicago
branch. They've waved blue-print maps, submitted reports of experts,
and put in all kinds of evidence to show that the scheme has either got
to be revised radical or else chucked.
"Very sorry, Mr. Ellins," says Ballinger, "but we have done our best."
"Bah!" snaps Old Hickory. "It's all waste land, isn't it? Of course
he'll sell. Who is he, anyway?"
"His name," says Ballinger, pawin' over some letters, "is T. Waldo
Pettigrew. Lives in New York, I believe; at least, his attorneys are
here. And this is all we have been able to get out of them--a flat
no." And he slides an envelope across the mahogany table.
"But what's his reason?" demands Old Hickory. "Why? That's what I
want to know."
Ballinger shrugs his shoulders. "I don't pretend," says he, "to
understand the average New Yorker."
"Hah!" snorts Mr. Ellins. "Once more that old alibi of the
limber-spined; that hoary fiction of the ten-cent magazine and the
two-dollar drama. Average New Yorker! Listen, Ballinger. There's no
such thing. We're just as different, and just as much alike, as
anybody else. In other words, we're human. And this Pettigrew person
you seem to think such a mysterious and peculiar individual--well, what
about him? Who and what is he?"
"According to the deeds," says Ballinger, "he is the son of Thomas J.
and Mary Ann Pettigrew, both deceased. His attorneys are Mott, Drew &
Mott. They write that their client absolutely refuses to sell any land
anywhere. They have written that three times. They have declined to
discuss any proposition. And there you are."
"You mean," sneers Old Hickory, "that there you are."
"If you can suggest anything further," begins Ballinger, "we shall be
glad to--"
"I know," breaks in Old Hickory, "you'd be glad to fritter away another
six months and let those International Power people jump in ahead of
us. No, thanks. I mean to see if I can't get a little action now.
Robert, who have we out there in the office who's not especially busy?
Oh, yes, Torchy. I say, young man! You--Torchy!"
"Calling me, sir?" says I, slidin' out of my chair and into the next
room prompt.
Old Hickory nods.
"Find that man Pettigrew," says he, tossin' over the letter. "He owns
some land we need. There's a map of it, also a memorandum of what
we're willing to pay. Report to-morrow."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Want me to close the deal by noon?"
Maybe they didn't catch the flicker under them bushy eyebrows. But I
did, and I knew he was goin' to back my bluff.
"Any time before five will do," says he. "Wait! You'd better take a
check with you."
If we was lookin' to get any gasps out of that bunch, we had another
guess comin'. They knew Old Hickory's fondness for tradin' on his
reputation, and that he didn't always pull it off. The engineer humps
his eyebrows sarcastic, while Ballinger and the lawyer swaps a quiet
smile.
"Then perhaps we had best stay over and take the deeds back with us,"
says Ballinger.
"Do," snaps Old Hickory. "You can improve the time hunting for your
average New Yorker. Here you are, Torchy."
Say, he's a game old sport, Mr. Ellins. He plays a hundred-to-one shot
like he was puttin' money on a favorite. And he waves me on my way
with never a wink of them keen eyes.
"Gee!" thinks I. "Billed for a masked marvel act, ain't I? Well, that
bein' the case, this is where I get next to Pettigrew or tear something
loose."
Didn't need any seventh-son work to locate him. The 'phone book shows
he lives on Madison Avenue. Seemed simple enough. But this was no
time to risk bein' barred out by a cold-eyed butler. You can't breeze
into them old brownstone fronts on your nerve. What I needed was
credentials. The last place I'd be likely to get 'em would be Mott,
Drew & Mott's, so I goes there first. No, I didn't hypnotize anybody.
I simply wrote out an application for a job on the firm's stationery,
and as they was generous with it I dashes off another note which I
tucks in my pocket. Nothing sleuthy required. Why, say, I could have
walked out with the letter file and the safe combination if I'd wanted
to.
So when I rings the bell up at Mr. Pettigrew's I has something besides
hot air to shove at Perkins. He qualifies in the old fam'ly servant
class right off, for as soon as he lamps the name printed on the
envelope corner he swings the door wide open, and inside of two minutes
I'm bein' announced impressive in the library at the back: "From your
attorneys, sir." Which as far as it goes is showin' some speed, eh?
Yea-uh! That's the way I felt about it. All I asked was to be put
next to this Pettigrew party. Not that I had any special spell to work
off on him; but, as Old Hickory said, he must be human, and if he was,
why-- Well, about then I begun to get the full effect of this weird,
double-barreled stare.
Now, I don't mind takin' the once-over from a single pair of
shell-rimmed goggles; but to find yourself bein' inspected through two
sets of barn windows--honest, it seemed like the room was full of
spectacles. I glanced hasty from one to the other of these
solemn-lookin' parties ranged behind the book barricade, and then takes
a chance that the one with the sharp nose and the dust-colored hair is
T. Waldo.
"Mr. Pettigrew?" says I, smilin' friendly and winnin'.
"Not at all," says he, a bit pettish.
"Oh, yes," says I, turnin' to the broken-nosed one with the wavy black
pompadour effect. "Of course."
He's some younger than the other, in the late twenties, I should judge,
and has sort of a stern, haughty stare.
"Why of course?" he demands.
"Eh?" says I. "Why--er--well, you've got my note, ain't you, there in
your hand?"
"Ah!" says he. "Rather a clever deduction; eh, Tidman?"
"I shouldn't say so," croaks the other. "Quite obvious, in fact. If
it wasn't me it must be you."
"Oh, but you're such a deucedly keen chap," protests Waldo. Then he
swings back to me. "From my attorneys?"
"Just came from there," says I.
"Odd," says he. "I don't remember having seen you before."
"That's right," says I. "You see, Mr. Pettigrew, I'm really
representin' the Corrugated Trust and--"
"Don't know it at all," breaks in Waldo.
"That's why I'm here," says I. "Now, here's our proposition."
And say, before he can get his breath or duck under the table, I've
spread out the blue-prints and am shootin' the prospectus stuff into
him at the rate of two hundred words to the minute.
Yes, I must admit I was feedin' him a classy spiel, and I was just
throwin' the gears into high-high for a straightaway spurt when all of
a sudden I gets the hunch I ain't makin' half the hit I hoped I was.
It's no false alarm, either. T. Waldo's gaze is gettin' sterner every
minute, and he seems to be stiffenin' from the neck down.
"I say," he breaks in, "are--are you trying to sell me something?"
"Me?" says I. "Gosh, no! I hadn't quite got to that part, but my idea
is to give you a chance to unload something on us. This Apache Creek
land of yours."
"Really," says Waldo, "I don't follow you at all. My land?"
"Sure!" says I. "All this shaded pink. That's yours, you know. And
as it lays now it's about as useful as an observation car in the
subway. But if you'll swap it for preferred stock in our power
company--"
"No," says he, crisp and snappy. "I owned some mining stock once, and
it was a fearful nuisance. Every few months they wanted me to pay
something on it, until I finally had to burn the stuff up."
"That's one way of gettin' rid of bum shares," says I. "But look; this
is no flimflam gold mine. This is sure-fire shookum--a sound business
proposition backed by one of the--"
"Pardon me," says T. Waldo, glarin' annoyed through the big panes, "but
I don't care to have shares in anything."
"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll settle on a cash basis, then. Now,
you've got no use for that tract. We have. Course, we can get other
land just as good, but yours is the handiest. If you've ever tried to
wish it onto anyone, you know you couldn't get a dollar an acre. We'll
give you five."
"Please go away," says he.
"Make it six," says I. "Now, that tract measures up about--"
"Tidman," cuts in Mr. Pettigrew, "could you manage to make this young
man understand that I don't care to be bothered with such rot?"
Tidman didn't have a chance.
"Excuse me," says I, flashin' Old Hickory's ten thousand dollar check,
"but if there's anything overripe about that, just let me know. That's
real money, that is. If you want it certified I'll--"
"Stop," says T. Waldo, holdin' up his hand like I was the cross-town
traffic. "You must not go on with this silly business chatter. I am
not in the least interested. Besides, you are interrupting my tutoring
period."
"Your which?" says I, gawpin'.
"Mr. Tidman," he goes on, "is my private tutor. He helps me to study
from ten to two every day."
"Gee!" says I. "Ain't you a little late gettin' into college?"
Waldo sighs weary.
"If I must explain," says he, "I prefer to continue improving my mind
rather than idle away my days. I've never been to college or to any
sort of school. I've been tutored at home ever since I can remember.
I did give it up for a time shortly after the death of my father. I
thought that the management of the estate would keep me occupied. But
I have no taste for business--none at all. And I found that by leaving
my father's investments precisely as they came to me my affairs could
be simplified. But one must do something. So I engaged Mr. Tidman.
What if I am nearly thirty? Is that any reason why I should give up
being tutored? There is so much to learn! And to-day's period is
especially interesting. We were just about getting to Thorwald the
Bitter."
"Did you say Biter or Batter?" says I.
"I said Thorwald the Bitter," repeats Pettigrew. "One of the old Norse
Vikings, you know."
"Go on, shoot it," says I. "What's the joke?"
"But there's no joke about it," he insists. "Surely you have heard of
the Norse Vikings?"
"Not yet," says I. "I got my ear stretched, though."
"Fancy!" remarks T. Waldo, turnin' to Tidman.
Tidman stares at me disgusted, then hunches his shoulders and grunts,
"Oh, well!"
"And now," says Pettigrew, "it's nearly time for Epictetus."
Sounded something like lunch to me, but I wasn't takin' any hints. I'd
discovered several things that Waldo didn't care for, money being among
'em, and now I was tryin' to get a line on what he did like. So I was
all for stickin' around.
"Possibly," suggests Tidman, smilin' sarcastic, "our young friend is an
admirer of Epictetus."
"I ain't seen many of the big games this year," says I. "What league
is he in?"
"Epictetus," says Waldo, breakin' it to me as gentle as he can, "was a
Greek philosopher. We are reading his 'Discourses.'"
"Oh!" says I. "Not so close, was I? Now, what was his line of
dope--something like the Dooley stuff?"
Waldo and Tidman swaps grins, sort of sly and sheepish, like they
wasn't used to indulgin' in such frivolity. They seemed to enjoy it,
though, and the first thing I know I'm bein' put through a sort of
highbrow third degree, the object being to show up what an empty loft I
wear my pink thatch on.
Course, they didn't have to dig very deep into back-number hist'ry or
B. C. best sellers to prove their case, and when an extra chuckle was
needed I admit I played up my part for all it was worth. Honest, they
develops into a pair of reg'lar cut-ups, and seems to be havin' the
time of their lives discoverin' that I thought Cleopatra must be one of
the Russian ballet and Francis Bacon a new movie star.
"And yet," says Waldo, inspectin' me curious, "your employers intrust
you with a ten thousand dollar check."
"They've never got onto me, the way you have," says I.
"As I have always contended," puts in Tidman, "the commercial mind is
much over-rated. Its intelligence begins with the dollar sign and ends
with a percentage fraction. In England, now, we--"
"Well, Peters?" breaks in T. Waldo, glancin' annoyed towards the double
doors, where the butler is teeterin' back and forth on his toes.
"If you please, sir," says Peters, registerin' deep agitation, "might I
have a word with you in--er--in private, sir?"
"Nonsense, Peters," says Waldo. "Don't be mysterious about silly
housekeeping trifles. What is it? Come, speak up, man."
"As you like, sir," goes on Peters. "It--it's about the laundress,
sir. She's sitting on a man in the basement, sir."
"Wha-a-at?" gasps Waldo.
Tidman takes it out by droppin' a book.
"A dangerous character, we think, sir," says the butler--"most likely
one of a gang of burglars. Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in the
coal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir. Then she grappled him,
sir."
"Oh, dear!" groans Tidman, his face goin' putty-colored.
"The deuce!" says Waldo. "And you say the laundress has him--er--"
"Quite secure, sir," says Peters. "Both hands in his hair and she
sitting on his chest, sir."
"But--but this can't go on indefinitely," says Waldo. "I suppose
something ought to be done about it."
"I should suggest sending for the police, sir," says Peters.
"Bother!" says Waldo. "That means my going to police court, and having
the thing in the papers, and-- Why, Tidman, what's the matter?"
The tutor sure was takin' it hard. His thin, bony fingers are
clutchin' the chair arm desperate, clammy drops are startin' out on his
brow, and his narrow-set eyes are starin' at Peters.
"She's such a heavy female--Mrs. Flynn," groans Tidman. "Right on his
chest, too!"
"Better that than having him wake us up in the middle of the night
flourishing firearms and demanding valuables," says Waldo.
"Ugh! Burglars. How--how silly of them to come here! It's so
disturbing, and I do dread having the police in. I wish you wouldn't
look so ghastly over it, Tidman. Come, suggest something."
But Tidman don't seem to be a good suggester. "Both hands in his hair.
Oh!" he mutters.
"It's not your hair," sputters Waldo. "And saying idiotic things like
that doesn't help. Not a bit. Must I call the police, or what?"
"The police!" whispers Tidman, hoarse and husky.
"But what else can I do?" demands Waldo. Then he turns to me. "I say,
can you think of anything?"
"Seems to me I'd have a look at the gent first," says I. "Mistakes
sometimes happen, you know, in the best regulated basements. Might be
just a man takin' the meters, or a plumber, or something like that."
"By George, that's so!" says T. Waldo, chirkin' up. "But--er--must I
go down there? Suppose he should be a burglar, after all?"
"We'd be three to one, not countin' Mrs. Flynn," says I.
"Would you help, really?" he asks eager. "You see, I'm not very
strong. And Tidman--well, you can't count much on him. Besides, how
does one know a burglar by sight?"
"They don't wear uniforms, that's a fact," says I; "but I might ask him
what he was doin' down there and call for proof. Then, if he was only
takin' the meter, why--"
"Of course," says Waldo. "We will--er--you'll do that for me, will you
not? Come along, Tidman. You too, Peters. We'll just find out who
the fellow is."
I must say, it's kind of a draggy rush line they formed, Tidman havin'
to be almost pushed, and Peters keepin' well in the rear. I finds
myself leadin' the assault, with Waldo a bad second, but tellin' me
which turns to make and urgin' Tidman to follow close.
Sure enough, though, there on the laundry floor we discovers the
victorious Mrs. Flynn, a wide, husky party, with something flattened
underneath. About all that's visible is a pair of run-over shoes and
part of a coat sleeve that's been ripped off. She seems glad to see us.
"Thanks be!" says she, sighin' grateful. "It's faint and wake I am
strugglin' with this murderous little shrimp. Ah, squirm, will ye!
There's men to handle ye now, and the coppers'll soon be here. Will ye
take charge of him, Mr. Pettigrew?"
"No, no! Please, Mrs. Flynn!" protests Waldo. "You are doing
excellently. Don't let him up just yet."
"O-o-o-o!" moans the flattened gent. "My poor back!"
"If you could ease up a bit, so we might get a look at him," I
suggests. "We want to see if he's really a burglar."
"He's that, all right," says Mrs. Flynn. "Didn't I catch him
red-handed prowlin' about? But if ye want to see what his ugly mug
looks like, ye may. There! Sit ye up and face the gintlemen!"
She's a shifty party with her hands and feet, for with a couple of body
twists Mrs. Flynn is on her knees behind him with his arms pinned to
the small of his back.
"There, thief of the wor-ruld!" says she. "Tell 'em whatever you came
to steal."
"Go on," says I. "Mind the lady."
"I--I'm no thief; really, gentlemen," says he. "You can see that, I
trust."
"Sure!" says I. "Just mistook the basement for the drawin'-room,
didn't you? And you was about to leave cards on the fam'ly. What name
did you say?"
"I--I'd rather not give my name," says he, hangin' his head.
"It's being done in the best circles," says I. "These calls incog. are
gettin' to be bad form. Isn't that right, Mr. Pettigrew?"
"If he is a gas man or a plumber," says Waldo, "why doesn't he say so
at once?"
"There's your cue," says I. "Now come across with the alibi."
"I--I can't explain just how I happen to be here," says the gent,
"but--but there are those who can."
"Eh?" says I. "Oh-ho!"
It was only a quick glance he shot over, but I caught who it was aimed
at. Also, I noticed the effect. And just like that I had a swift
hunch how all this ground-floor mix-up might be worked in useful.
"Mr. Pettigrew," says I, "suppose I could Sherlock Holmes this laundry
mystery without callin' in the cops?"
"Oh, I should be so grateful!" says T. Waldo.
"That ain't the answer," says I. "Would it make you feel different
about sellin' that land?"
"Oh, I say, you know!" protests T. Waldo, startin' to stiffen up.
For a two-by-four he lugs around a lot of cranky whims, and it looked
like this was one of his pets. There's quite a mulish streak in him,
too.
"All right," says I, startin' towards the basement stairs. "Settle it
your own way."
"But, really, I--I don't know what to do," says Waldo. "I--I'm all
upset. Of course, if you insist on the land--"
"That's talkin'!" says I. "My guess is that it won't take long.
Suppose you and Peters go back upstairs. You can leave Tidman, though."
"You--you're sure it is safe?" asks Waldo.
"Look at that grip of Mrs. Flynn's," says I.
After one skittish glance, Waldo does a quick exit. At that, though,
Peters beat him to it.
"Tidman," says I, when they're gone, "we'll step out towards the back a
ways and consult. Hold him a minute longer, Mrs. Flynn."
"I--I don't see why I should be dragged into this," whines Tidman, as I
leads him towards the rear.
"Never mind," says I. "We're goin' to clear this all up right away.
Now, who is he, Tidman? Black-sheep brother, or what?"
Got a jump out of him, that jab did. But he recovers quick.
"Why, he's no relative at all," says Tidman. "I assure you that I
never saw the--"
"Naughty, naughty!" says I. "Didn't I spot that peaked beak of his,
just like yours? That's a fam'ly nose, that is."
"Cousin," admits Tidman, turnin' sulky.
"And sort of a blot on the escutcheon?" I goes on.
Tidman nods.
"Booze or dope?" I asks.
"Both, I think," says Tidman. "He--he has almost ruined my career."
"Pulls the Black Hand stuff on you, eh?" says I.
Tidman groans.
"I lost two positions because of him," says he. "It is only when he
gets desperate that he hunts me up. I hadn't seen him for over two
years until this morning. I'd been out for a walk, and he must have
followed me. We were in the front vestibule, and he was begging, as
usual,--threatening, too,--when I saw Mr. Pettigrew coming in. So I
hurried Ralph through the hall and downstairs. I thought he could stay
there until I was through tutoring; then I could give him something and
send him off. But that Mrs. Flynn--"
"She's a swell short-stop," says I. "Doin' extra duty, too. Got a
couple of fives on you?"
"Why, ye-e-es," says Tidman; "but what--"
"You're goin' to reward her for sittin' on Cousin Ralph so long," says
I. "Give her one of the fives. You can slip the other to him as we
shoo him through the back door. Now, let's go relieve Mrs. Flynn."
From the rough way we collared Ralph and led him off, she must have
thought we was headin' him straight for Sing Sing. Anyway, that
five-spot kept her mind busy.
Our remarks to Ralph were short but meaty. "You see the bally muss you
got me into, I hope," says Tidman.
"And just remember," I adds, "when the fit strikes you to call again,
that Mrs. Flynn is always on hand."
"She's a female hyena, that woman," says Cousin Ralph, rubbin' his back
between groans. "I--I wouldn't get within a mile of her again for a
fortune."
Couldn't have been more'n ten minutes before the three of us--Waldo,
Tidman, and me--was all grouped in the lib'ry again, just as though
nothing had happened.
"My hunch was right," says I. "He wasn't a burglar. Ask Tidman."
Tidman backs me up hearty.
"Then who the deuce was he," demands Waldo, "and what was he--"
"Now, say!" says I. "You've been let out, ain't you? He's gone; no
police, no court proceedin's, no scandal in the servants' quarters.
Ain't that enough?"
"You're quite right," says Waldo. "And we still have time for that
chapter of--"
"So you have," says I; "only you got to ditch this Toothpicketus work
until you sign an order to your lawyers about sellin' that land. Here,
lemme draft it off for you. Twelve words. Likely they'll want an O.
K. on the 'phone, too; but you won't mind that. Now your signature.
Thanks. And say, any time you and Tidman need a crude commercial mind
to help you out, just send for me."
Uh-huh! By three o'clock next day we owned the whole of that Apache
Creek tract and had the goods to shove at Ballinger.
Was it a smear? It was--a smear plus. Tickled? Why, Old Hickory came
so near smilin' I was afraid that armor-plate face of his was goin' to
crack.
But say, don't tell the National Real Estaters' League about that
commission check he slipped me. I might lose my amateur standin'.