A CARRY-ON FOR CLARA
"Now turn around," says Vee. "Oh, Torchy! Why, you look perfectly----"
"Do I?" I cuts in. "Well, you don't think I'm goin' to the office like
this, do you?"
She does. Insists that Mr. Ellins will expect it.
"Besides," says she, "it is in the army regulations that you must. If
you don't--well, I'm not sure whether it is treason or mutiny."
"Hal-lup!" says I. "I surrender."
So I starts for town lookin' as warlike as if I'd just come from a front
trench, and feelin' like a masquerader who'd lost his way to the
ball-room.
In the office, Old Hickory gives me the thorough up-and-down. It's a
genial, fatherly sort of inspection, and he ends it with a satisfied
grunt.
"Good-morning, Lieutenant," says he. "I see you have--er--got 'em on.
And, allow me to mention, rather a good fit, sir."
I gasps. Sirred by Old Hickory! Do you wonder I got fussed? But he only
chuckles easy, waves me to take a chair, and goes on with:
"What's the word from the Syracuse sector?"
At that, I gets my breath back.
"Fairly good deal up there, sir," says I. "They're workin' in a carload
or so of wormy ash for the shovel handles, and some of the steel runs
below test; but most of their stuff grades well. I'll have my notes
typed off right away."
After I've filed my report I should have ducked. But this habit of
stickin' around the shop is hard to break. And that's how I happen to be
on hand when the lady in gray drifts in for her chatty confab with Mr.
Ellins.
Seems she held quite a block of our preferred, for when Vincent lugs in
her card Old Hickory spots the name right away as being on our
widow-and-orphan list that we wave at investigatin' committees.
"Ah, yes!" says he. "Mrs. Parker Smith. Show her in, boy."
Such a quiet, gentle, dignified party she is, her costume tonin' in with
her gray hair, and an easy way of speakin' and all, that my first guess
is she might be the head of an old ladies' home.
"Mr. Ellins," says she, "I am looking for my niece."
"Are you?" says Mr. Ellins, "Humph! Hardly think we could be of service
in such a case."
"Oh!" says she. "I--I am so sorry."
"Lost, is she?" suggests Mr. Ellins, weakenin'.
"She is somewhere in New York," goes on Mrs. Parker Smith. "Of course, I
know it is an imposition to trouble you with such a matter. But I
thought you might have someone in your office who--who----"
"We have," says he. "Torchy,--er--I mean, Lieutenant,--Mrs. Parker
Smith. Here, madam, is a young man who will find your niece for you at
once. In private life he is my secretary; and as it happens that just
now he is on special detail, his services are entirely at your
disposal."
She looks a little doubtful about bein' shunted like that, but she
follows me into the next room, where I produces a pencil and pad and
calls for details businesslike.
"Let's see," says I. "What's the full description? Age?"
"Why," says she, hesitatin', "Claire is about twenty-two."
"Oh!" says I. "Got beyond the flapper stage, then. Height--tall or
short?"
Mrs. Parker Smith shakes her head.
"I'm sure I don't know," says she. "You see, Claire is not an own niece.
She--well, she is a daughter of my first husband's second wife's
step-sister."
"Wha-a-at?" says I, gawpin' at her. "Daughter of your---- Oh, say, let's
not go into it as deep as that. I'm dizzy already. Suppose we call her
an in-law once removed and let it go at that?"
"Thank you," says Mrs. Parker Smith, givin' me a quizzin' smile.
"Perhaps it is enough to say that I have never seen her."
She does go on to explain, though, that when Claire's step-uncle, or
whatever he was, found his heart trouble gettin' worse, he wrote to Mrs.
Parker Smith, askin' her to forget the past and look after the orphan
girl that he's been tryin' to bring up. It's just as clear to me as the
average movie plot, but I nods my head.
"So for three years," says she, "while Claire was in boarding-school, I
acted as her guardian; but since she has come of age I have been merely
the executor of her small estate."
"Oh, yes!" says I. "And now she's come to New York, and forgot to send
you her address?"
It was something like that. Claire had gone in for art. Looked like
she'd splurged heavy on it, too; for the drain on her income had been
something fierce. Meanwhile, Mrs. Parker Smith had doped out an entirely
different future for Claire. The funds that had been tied up in a
Vermont barrel-stave fact'ry, that was makin' less and less barrel
staves every year, Auntie had pulled out and invested in a model dairy
farm out near Rockford, Illinois. She'd made the capital turn over from
fifteen to twenty per cent., too, by livin' right on the job and cashin'
in the cream tickets herself.
"You have!" says I. "Not a reg'lar cow farm?"
She nods.
"It did seem rather odd, at first," says she. "But I wanted to get away
from--from everything. But now---- Well, I want Claire. I suppose I am a
little lonesome. Besides, I want her to try taking charge. Recently,
when she had drawn her income for half a year in advance and still
asked for more, I was obliged to refuse."
"And then?" says I.
Mrs. Parker Smith shrugs her shoulders.
"The foolish girl chose to quarrel with me," says she. "About ten days
ago she sent me a curt note. I could keep her money; she was tired of
being dictated to. I needn't write any more, for she had moved to
another address, had changed her name."
"Huh!" says I. "That does make it complicated. You don't know what she
looks like, or what name she flags under, and I'm to find her in little
New York?"
But I finds myself tacklin this hopeless puzzle from every angle I could
think of. I tried 'phonin' to Claire's old street number. Nothin' doin'.
They didn't know anything about Miss Hunt.
"What brand of art was she monkeyin' with?" I asks.
Mrs. Parker Smith couldn't say. Claire hadn't been very chatty in her
letters. Chiefly she had demanded checks.
"But in one she did mention," says the lady in gray, "that---- Now, what
was it! Oh, yes! Something about 'landing a cover.' What could that
mean?"
"Cover?" says I. "Why, for a magazine, maybe. That's it. And if we only
knew what name she'd sign, we might---- Would she stick to the Claire
part? I'll bet she would. Wait. I'll get a bunch of back numbers from
the arcade news-stand and we'll go through 'em."
We'd hunted through an armful, though, before we runs across this freaky
sketch of a purple nymph, with bright yellow hair, bouncin' across a
stretch of dark blue lawn.
"Claire Lamar!" says I. "Would that be---- Eh? What's wrong?"
Mrs. Parker Smith seems to be gettin' a jolt of some kind, but she
steadies herself and almost gets back her smile.
"I--I am sure it would," says she. "It's very odd, though."
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Listens kind of arty--Claire Lamar. Lemme
see. This snappy fifteen-center has editorial offices on Fourth Avenue
and---- Well, well! Barry Frost, ad. manager! Say, if I can get him on
the wire----"
Just by luck, I did. Would he pry some facts for me out of the art
editor, facts about a certain party? Sure he would. And inside of ten
minutes, without leavin' the Corrugated General Offices, I had a full
description of Claire, includin' where she hung out.
"Huh!" says I. "Greenwich Village, eh? You might know."
"My dear Lieutenant," says Mrs. Parker Smith, "I think you are perfectly
wonderful."
"Swell thought!" says I. "But you needn't let on to Mr. Ellins how
simple it was. And now, all you got to do is----"
"I know," she cuts in. "And I really ought not to trouble you another
moment. But, since Mr. Ellins has been so kind--well, I am going to ask
you to help me just a trifle more."
"Shoot," says I, unsuspicious.
It ain't much, she says. But she's afraid, if she trails Claire to her
rooms, the young lady might send down word she was out, or make a quick
exit.
"But if you would go," she suggests, "with a note from me asking her to
join us somewhere at dinner----"
I holds up both hands.
"Sorry," says I, "but I got to duck. That's taking too many chances."
Then I explains how, although I may look like a singleton, I'm really
the other half of a very interestin' domestic sketch, and that Vee's
expectin' me home to dinner.
"Why, all the better!" says Mrs. Parker Smith. "Have her come in and
join us. I'll tell you: we will have our little party down at the old
Napoleon, where they have such delicious French cooking. Now, please."
As I've hinted before, she is some persuader. I ain't mesmerized so
strong, though, but what I got sense enough to play it safe by callin'
up Vee first. I don't think she was strong for joinin' the reunion until
I points out that I might be some shy at wanderin' down into the
art-student colony and collectin' a strange young lady illustrator all
by myself.
"Course, I could do it alone if I had to," I throws in.
"H-m-m-m!" says Vee. "If that bashfulness of yours is likely to be as
bad as all that, perhaps I'd better come."
So by six o 'clock Vee and I are in the dinky reception-room of one of
them Belasco boardin'-houses, tryin' to convince a young female in a
paint-splashed smock and a floppy boudoir cap that we ain't tryin' to
kidnap or otherwise annoy her.
"What's the big idea?" says she. "I don't get you at all."
"Maybe if you'd read the note it would help," I suggests.
"Oh!" says she, and takes it over by the window.
She's a long-waisted, rangy young party, who walks with a Theda Bara
slouch and tries to talk out of one side of her mouth. "Hello!" she goes
on. "The Parker Smith person. That's enough. It's all off."
"Just as you say," says I. "But, if you ask me, I wouldn't pass up an
aunt like her without takin' a look."
"Aunt!" says Claire Lamar, _alias_ Hunt. "Listen: she's about as much an
aunt to me as I am to either of you. And I've never shed any tears over
the fact, either. The only aunt that I'd ever own was one that my family
would never tell me much about. I had to find out about her for myself.
Take it from me, though, she was some aunt."
"Tastes in aunts differ, I expect," says I. "And Mrs. Parker Smith don't
claim to be a reg'lar aunt, anyway. She seems harmless, too. All she
wants is a chance to give you a rosy prospectus of life on a cow farm
and blow you to a dinner at the Napoleon."
"Think of that!" says Claire. "And I've been living for weeks on
window-sill meals, with now and then a ptomaine-defying gorge at the
Pink Poodle's sixty-cent table d'hôte. Oh, I'll come, I'll come! But I
warn you: the Parker Smith person will understand before the evening is
over that I was born to no cow farm in Illinois."
With that she glides off to do a dinner change.
"I believe it is going to be quite an interesting party, don't you?"
says Vee.
"The signs point that way," says I. "But the old girl really ought to
wear shock-absorbers if she wants to last through the evenin'. S-s-s-sh!
Claire is comin' back."
This time she's draped herself in a pale yellow kimono with blue
triangles stenciled all over it.
"Speaking of perfectly good aunts," says she, "there!" And she displays
a silver-framed photo. It's an old-timer done in faded brown, and shows
a dashin' young party wearin' funny sleeves, a ringlet cascade on one
side of her head, and a saucy little pancake lid over one ear.
"That," explains Claire, "was my aunt Clara Lamar; not my real aunt, you
know, but near enough for me to claim her. This was taken in '82, I
believe."
"Really!" says Vee. "She must have been quite pretty."
"That doesn't half tell it," says Claire. "She was a charmer, simply
fascinating. Not beautiful, you know, but she had a way with her. She
was brilliant, daring, one of the kind that men raved over. At twenty
she married a Congressman, fat and forty. She hadn't lived in Washington
six months before her receptions were crushes. She flirted
industriously. A young French aide and an army officer fought a duel
over her. And, while the capital was buzzing with that, she eloped with
another diplomat, a Russian. For a year or two they lived in Paris. She
had her salon. Then the Russian got himself killed in some way, and she
soon married again--another American, quite wealthy. He brought her back
to New York, and they lived in one of those old brown-stone mansions on
lower Fifth Avenue. Her dinner parties were the talk of the
town--champagne with the fish, vodka with the coffee, cigarettes for the
women, cut-up stunts afterwards. I forget just who No. 3 was, but he
succumbed. Couldn't stand the pace, I suppose. And then---- Well, Aunt
Clara disappeared. But, say, she was a regular person. I wish I could
find out what ever became of her."
"Maybe Mrs. Parker Smith could give you a line," I suggests.
"Her!" says Claire. "Fat chance! But I must finish dressing. Sorry to
keep you waiting."
We did get a bit restless durin' the next half hour, but the wait was
worth while. For, believe me, when Claire comes down again she's some
dolled.
I don't mean she was any home-destroyer. That face of hers is too long
and heavy for the front row of a song review. But she has plenty of zip
to her get-up. After one glance I calls a taxi.
The way I'd left it with Mrs. Parker Smith, we was to land Claire at the
hotel first; then call her up, and proceed to order dinner. So we had
another little stage wait, with only the three of us at the table.
"I hope you don't mind if I have a puff or two," says Claire. "It goes
here, you know."
"Anything to make the evenin' a success," says I, signalin' a garçon.
"My khaki lets me out of followin' you."
So, when the head waiter finally tows in Mrs. Parker Smith, costumed in
the same gray dress and lookin' meeker and gentler than ever, she is
greeted with a sporty tableau. But she don't faint or anything. She just
springs that twisty smile of hers and comes right on.
"The missing one!" says I, wavin' at Claire.
"Ah!" says Mrs. Parker Smith, beamin' on her. "So good of you to come!"
"Wasn't it?" says Claire, removin' the cork tip languid.
Well, as a get-together I must admit that the outlook was kind of
frosty. Claire showed plenty of enthusiasm for the hors d'oeuvres
and the low-tide soup and so on, but mighty little for this volunteer
auntie, who starts to describe the subtle joys of the butter business.
"Perhaps you have never seen a herd of registered Guernseys," says Mrs.
Parker Smith, "when they are munching contentedly at milking time, with
their big, dreamy eyes----"
"Excuse me!" says Claire. "I don't have to. I spent a whole month's
vacation on a Vermont farm."
Mrs. Parker Smith only smiles indulgent.
"We use electric milkers, you know," says she, "and most of our young
men come from the agricultural colleges."
"That listens alluring--some," admits Claire. "But I can't see myself
planted ten miles out on an R. F. D. route, even with college-bred help.
Pardon me if I light another dope-stick."
I could get her idea easy enough, by then. Claire wasn't half so sporty
as she hoped she was. It was just her way of doing the carry-on for Aunt
Clara Lamar. But, at the same time, we couldn't help feelin' kind of
sorry for Mrs. Parker Smith. She was tryin' to be so nice and friendly,
and she wasn't gettin' anywhere.
It was by way of switchin' the line of table chat, I expect, that Vee
breaks in with that remark about the only piece of jewelry the old girl
is wearin'.
"What a duck of a bracelet!" says Vee. "An heirloom, is it?"
"Almost," says Mrs. Parker Smith. "It was given to me on my
twenty-second birthday, in Florence."
She slips it off and passes it over for inspection. The part that goes
around the wrist is all of fine chain-work, silver and gold, woven
almost like cloth, and on top is a cameo, 'most as big as a clam.
"How stunning! Look, Torchy. O-o-oh!" says Vee, gaspin' a little.
In handling the thing she must have pressed a catch somewhere, for the
cameo springs back, revealin' a locket effect underneath with a picture
in it. Course, we couldn't help seein'.
"Why--why----" says Vee, gazin' from the picture to Mrs. Parker Smith.
"Isn't this a portrait of--of----"
"Of a very silly young woman," cuts in Auntie. "We waited in Florence a
week to have that finished."
"Then--then it is you!" asks Vee.
The lady in gray nods. Vee asks if she may show it to Claire.
"Why not?" says Mrs. Parker Smith, smilin'.
We didn't stop to explain. I passes it on to Claire, and then we both
watches her face. For the dinky little picture under the cameo is a dead
ringer for the one Claire had shown us in the silver frame. So it was
Claire's turn to catch a short breath.
"Don't tell me," says she, "that--that you are Clara Lamar?"
Which was when Auntie got her big jolt. For a second the pink fades out
of her cheeks, and the salad fork she'd been holdin' rattles into her
plate. She makes a quick recovery, though.
"I was--once," says she. "I had hoped, though, that the name had been
forgotten. Tell me, how--how do you happen to----"
"Why," says Claire, "uncle had the scrapbook habit. Anyway, I found this
one in an old desk, and it was all about you. Your picture was in it,
too. And say, Auntie, you were the real thing, weren't you?"
After that it was a reg'lar reunion. For Claire had dug up her heroine.
And, no matter how strong Auntie protests that she ain't that sort of a
party now, and hasn't been for years and years, Claire keeps right on.
She's a consistent admirer, even if she is a little late.
"If I had only known it was you!" says she.
"Then--then you'll come to Meadowbrae with me?" asks Mrs. Parker Smith.
"You bet!" says Claire. "Between you and me, this art career of mine has
rather fizzled out. Besides, keeping it up has got to be rather a bore.
Honest, a spaghetti and cigarette life is a lot more romantic to read
about than it is to follow. Whether I could learn to run a dairy farm or
not, I don't know; but, with an aunt like you to coach me along, I'm
blessed if I don't give it a try. When do we start?"
"But," says Vee to me, later, "I can't imagine her on a farm."
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Didn't you notice she couldn't smoke
without gettin' it up her nose?"