ALL THE WAY WITH ANNA
Believe me, Belinda, this havin' a boss who's apt to stack you up casual
against stuff that would worry a secret service corps recruited from
seventh sons is a grand little cure for monotonous moments. Just because
I happen to get a few easy breaks on my first special details seems to
give Old Hickory the merry idea that when he wants someone to do the
wizard act, all he has to do is press the button for me. I don't know
whether my wearin' the khaki uniform helps out the notion or not. I
shouldn't wonder.
Now, here a week or ten days ago, when I leaves Vee and my peaceful
little home after a week-end swing, I expects to be shot up to Amesbury,
Mass., to inspect a gun-limber factory. Am I? Not at all. By 3 P.M. I'm
in Bridgeport, Conn., wanderin' about sort of aimless, and tryin' to
size up a proposition that I'm about as well qualified to handle as a
plumber's helper called in to tune a pipe organ.
Why was it that some three thousand hands in one of our sub-contractin'
plants was bent on gettin' stirred up and messy about every so often, in
spite of all that had been done to soothe 'em?
Does that listen simple, or excitin', or even interestin'? It didn't to
me. Specially after I'd given the once-over to this giddy mob of Wops
and Hunkies and Sneezowskis.
The office people didn't know how many brands of Czechs or Magyars or
Polacks they had in the shops. What they was real sure of was that a
third of the bunch had walked out twice within the last month, and if
they quit again, as there was signs of their doin', we stood to drop
about $200,000 in bonuses on shell contracts.
It wasn't a matter of wage scales, either. Honest, some of them ginks
with three z's in their names was runnin' up, with over-time and all,
pay envelops that averaged as much as twelve a day. Why, some of the
women and girls were pullin' down twenty-five a week. And they couldn't
kick on the workin' conditions, either. Here was a brand-new concrete
plant, clean as a new dish-pan, with half the sides swingin' glass
sashes, and flower beds outside.
"And still they threaten another strike," says the general manager. "If
it comes, we might as well scrap this whole plant and transfer the
equipment to Pennsylvania or somewhere else. Unless"--here he grins
sarcastic--"you can find out what ails 'em, Lieutenant. But you are only
the third bright young man the Corrugated has sent out to tell us what's
what, you know."
"Oh, well," says I. "There's luck in odd numbers. Cheer up."
It was after this little chat that I sheds the army costume and wanders
out disguised as a horny-handed workingman.
Not that I'd decided to get a job right away. After my last stab I ain't
so strong for this ten-hour cold-lunch trick as I was when I was new to
the patriotic sleuthin' act. Besides, bein' no linguist, I couldn't see
how workin' with such a mixed lot was goin' to get me anywhere. If I
could only run across a good ambidextrous interpreter, now, one who
could listen in ten languages and talk in six, it might help. And who
was it I once knew that had moved to Bridgeport?
I'd been mullin' on that mystery ever since I struck the town. Just a
glimmer, somewhere in the back of my nut, that there had been such a
party some time or other. I'll admit that wasn't much of a clue to start
out trailin' in a place of this size, but it's all I had.
I must have walked miles, readin' the signs on the stores, pushin' my
way through the crowds, and finally droppin' into a fairly clean-lookin'
restaurant for dinner. Half way through the goulash and noodles, I had
this bright thought about consultin' the 'phone book. The cashier that
let me have it eyed me suspicious as I props it up against the sugar
bowl and starts in with the A's.
Ever try readin' a telephone directory straight through? By the time I'd
got through the M's I'd had to order another cup of coffee and a second
piece of lemon pie. At that, the waitress was gettin' uneasy. She'd just
shoved my check at me for the third time, and was addin' a glass of
wooden tooth-picks, when I lets out this excited stage whisper.
"Sobowski!" says I, grabbin' the book.
The young lady in the frilled apron rests her thumbs on her hips
dignified and shoots me a haughty glance. "Ring off, young feller," says
she. "You got the wrong number."
"Not so, Clarice," says I. "His first name is Anton, and he used to run
a shine parlor in the arcade of the Corrugated buildin', New York, N. Y."
"It's a small world, ain't it?" says she. "You can pay me or at the
desk, just as you like."
Clarice got her tip all right, and loaned me her pencil to write down
Anton's street number.
A stocky, bow-legged son of Kosciuszko, built close to the ground, and
with a neck on him like a truck-horse, as I remembered Anton. But the
hottest kind of a sport. Used to run a pool on the ball-games, and made
a book on the ponies now and then. Always had a roll with him. He'd take
a nickel tip from me and then bet a guy in the next chair fifty to
thirty-five the Giants would score more'n three runs against the Cubs'
new pitcher in to-morrow's game. That kind.
Must have been two or three years back that Anton had told me about some
openin' he had to go in with a brother-in-law up in Bridgeport. Likely I
didn't pay much attention at the time. Anyway, he was missin' soon
after; and if I hadn't been in the habit of callin' him Old Sobstuff I'd
have forgotten that name of his entirely. But seein' it there in the
book brought back the whole thing.
"Anton Sobowski, saloon," was the way it was listed. So he was runnin' a
suds parlor, eh? Well, it wasn't likely he'd know much about labor
troubles, but it wouldn't do any harm to look him up. When I came to
trail down the street number, though, blamed if it ain't within half a
block of our branch works.
And, sure enough, in a little office beyond the bar, leanin' back
luxurious in a swivel-chair, and displayin' a pair of baby-blue armlets
over his shirt sleeves, I discovers Mr. Sobowski himself. It ain't any
brewery-staked hole-in-the-wall he's boss of, either. It's the Warsaw
Café, bar and restaurant, all glittery and gorgeous, with lace curtains
in the front windows, red, white, and blue mosquito nettin' draped
artistic over the frosted mirrors, and three busy mixers behind the
mahogany bar.
Anton has fleshed up considerable since he quit jugglin' the brushes,
and he's lost a little of the good-natured twinkle from his wide-set
eyes. He glances up at me sort of surly when I first steps into the
office; but the minute I takes off the straw lid and ducks my head at
him, he lets loose a rumbly chuckle.
"It is that Torchy, hey?" says he. "Well, well! It don't fade any, does
it?"
"Not that kind of dye," says I. "How's the boy?"
"Me," says Anton. "Oh, fine like silk. How you like the place, hey?"
I enthused over the Warsaw Café; and when he found I was still with the
Corrugated, and didn't want to touch him for any coin, but had just
happened to be in town and thought I'd look him up for old times'
sake--well, Anton opened up considerable.
"What!" says he. "They send you out? You must be comin' up?"
"Only private sec. to Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he chases me around a
good deal. We're busy people these days, you know."
"The Corrugated Trust! I should say so," agrees Anton, waggin' his head
earnest. "Big people, big money. I like to have my brother-in-law meet
you. Wait."
Seemed a good deal like wastin' time, but I spent the whole evenin' with
Anton. I met not only the brother-in-law, but also Mrs. Sobowski, his
wife; and another Mrs. Sobowski, an aunt or something; and Miss Anna
Sobowski, his niece. Also I saw the three-story Sobowski boardin'-house
that Anton conducted on the side; and the Alcazar movie joint, another
Sobowski enterprise.
That's where this Anna party was sellin' tickets--a peachy-cheeked,
high-chested young lady with big, rollin' eyes, and her mud-colored hair
waved something wonderful. I was introduced reg'lar and impressive.
"Anna," says Anton, "take a good look at this young man. He's a friend
of mine. Any time he comes by, pass him in free--any time at all. See?"
And Anna, she flashes them high-powered eyes of hers at me kittenish.
"Aw ri'," says she. "I'm on, Mr. Torchy."
"That girl," confides Anton to me afterwards, "was eating black bread
and cabbage soup in Poland less than three years ago. Now she buys high
kid boots, two kinds of leather, at fourteen dollars. And makes goo-goo
eyes at all the men. Yes, but never no mistakes with the change. Not
Anna."
All of which was interestin' enough, but it didn't seem to help any. You
never can tell, though, can you? You see, it was kind of hard, breakin'
away from Anton once he'd started to get folksy and show me what an
important party he'd come to be. He wanted me to see the Warsaw when it
was really doin' business, about ten o'clock, after the early
picture-show crowds had let out and the meetin' in the hall overhead was
in full swing.
"What sort of meetin'?" I asks, just as a filler.
"Oh, some kind of labor meetin'," says he. "I d'know. They chin a lot.
That's thirsty work. Good for business, hey?"
"Is it a labor union?" I insists.
Anton shrugs his shoulders.
"You wait," says he. "Mr. Stukey, he'll tell you all about it. Yes, an
ear-full. He's a good spender, Stukey. Hires the hall, too."
Somehow, that listened like it might be a lead. But an hour later, when
I'd had a chance to look him over, I was for passin' Stukey up. For he
sure was disappointin' to view. One of these thin, sallow, dyspeptic
parties, with deep lines down either side of his mouth, a bristly, jutty
little mustache, and ratty little eyes.
I expect Anton meant well when he brings out strong, in introducin' me,
how I'm connected with the Corrugated Trust. In fact, you might almost
gather I _was_ the Corrugated. But it don't make any hit with Stukey.
"Hah!" says he, glarin' at me hostile. "A minion."
"Solid agate yourself," says I. "Wha'd'ye mean--minion?"
"Aren't you a hireling of the capitalistic class?" demands Stukey.
"Maybe," says I, "but I ain't above mixin' with lower-case minds now and
then."
"Case?" says he. "I don't understand."
"Perhaps that's your trouble," says I.
"Bah!" says he, real peevish.
"Come, come, boys!" says Anton, clappin' us jovial on the shoulders.
"What's this all about, hey? We are all friends here. Yes? Is it that
the meetin' goes wrong, Mr. Stukey? Tell us, now."
Stukey shakes his head at him warnin'. "What meetin'?" says he. "Don't
be foolish. What time is it? Ten-twenty! I have an engagement."
And with that he struts off important.
Anton hunches his shoulders and lets out a grunt.
"He has it bad--Stukey," says he. "It is that Anna. Every night he must
walk home with her."
"She ain't particular, is she?" I suggests.
"Oh, I don't know," says Anton. "Yes, he is older, and not a strong
hearty man, like some of these young fellows. But he is educated; oh,
like the devil. You should hear him talk once."
But Stukey had stirred up a stubborn streak in me.
"Is he, though," says I, "or do you kid yourself?"
I thought that would get a come-back out of Anton. And it does.
"If I am so foolish," says he, "would I be here, with my name in gold
above the door, or back shining shoes in the Corrugated arcade yet? Hey?
I will tell you this. Nobodies don't come and hire my hall from me,
fifty a week, in advance."
"Cash or checks?" I puts in.
"If the bank takes the checks, why should I worry?" asks Anton.
"Oh, the first one might be all right," says I, "and the second;
but--well, you know your own business, I expect."
Anton gazes at me stupid for a minute, then turns to his desk and fishes
out a bunch of returned checks. He goes through 'em rapid until he has
run across the one he's lookin' for.
"Maybe I do," says he, wavin' it under my nose triumphant.
Which gives me the glimpse I'd been jockeyin' for. The name of that
bank was enough. From then on I was mighty interested in this Mortimer
J. Stukey; and while I didn't exactly use the pressure pump on Anton, I
may have asked a few leadin' questions. Who was Stukey, where did he
come from, and what was his idea--hirin' halls and so on? While Anton
could recognize a dollar a long way off, he wasn't such a keen observer
of folks.
"I don't worry whether he's a Wilson man or not," says Anton, "or which
movie star he likes best after Mary Pickford. If I did I should ask
Anna."
"Eh?" says I, sort of eager.
"He tells her a lot he don't tell me," says Anton.
"That's reasonable, too," says I. "Ask Anna. Say, that ain't a bad
hunch. Much obliged."
It wasn't so easy, though, with Stukey on the job, to get near enough to
ask Anna anything. When they came in, and Anton invites me to join the
fam'ly group in the boardin'-house dinin'-room while the cheese
sandwiches and pickles was bein' passed around, I finds Stukey blockin'
me off scientific.
As Anton had said, he had it bad. Never took his eyes off Anna for a
second. I suppose he thought he was registerin' tender emotions, but it
struck me as more of a hungry look than anything else. Miss Sobowski
seemed to like it, though.
I expect a real lady's man wouldn't have had much trouble cuttin' in on
Stukey and towin' Anna off into a corner. But that ain't my strong suit.
The best I could do was to wait until the next day, when there was no
opposition. Meantime I'd been usin' the long-distance reckless; so by
the time Anna shows up at the Alcazar to open the window for the evenin'
sale, I was primed with a good many more facts about a certain party
than I had been the night before. Stukey wasn't quite such a man of
mystery as he had been.
Course, I might have gone straight to Anton; but, somehow, I wanted to
try out a few hints on Anna. I couldn't say just why, either. The line
of josh I opens with ain't a bit subtle. It don't have to be. Anna was
tickled to pieces to be kidded about her feller. She invites me into the
box-office, offers me chewin' gum, and proceeds to get quite frisky.
"Ah, who was tellin' you that?" says she. "Can't a girl have a gentleman
frien' without everybody's askin' is she engaged? Wotcher think?"
"Tut-tut!" says I. "I suppose, when you two had your heads together so
close, he was rehearsin' one of his speeches to you--the kind he makes
up in the hall, eh?"
"Mr. Stukey don't make no speeches there," says Anna. "He just tells the
others what to say. You ought to hear him talk, though. My, sometimes
he's just grand!"
"Urgin' 'em not to quit work, I suppose?" says I.
"Him?" says Anna. "Not much. He wants 'em to strike, all the time
strike, until they own the shops. He's got no use for rich people. Calls
'em blood-suckers and things like that. Oh, he's sump'n fierce when he
talks about the rich."
"Is he?" says I. "I wonder why?"
"All the workers get like that," says Anna. "Mr. Stukey says that pretty
soon everybody will join--all but the rich blood-suckers, and they'll be
in jail. He was poor himself once. So was I, you know, in Poland. But we
got along until the Germans came, and then---- Ugh! I don't like to
remember."
"Anton was tellin' me," says I. "You lost some of your folks."
"Lost!" says Anna, a panicky look comin' into her big eyes. "You call it
that? I saw my father shot, my two brothers dragged off to work in the
trenches, and my sister--oh, I can't! I can't say it!"
"Then don't tell Stukey," says I, "if you want to keep stringin' him
along."
"But why?" demands Anna.
"Because," says I, "the money he's spendin' so free around here comes
from them--the Germans."
"No, no!" says Anna, whisperin' husky. "That--that's a lie!"
"Sorry," says I; "but I got his number straight. He was workin' for a
German insurance company up to 1915, bookkeepin' at ninety a month. Then
he got the chuck. He came near starvin'. It was when he was almost in
that he went crawlin' back to 'em, and they gave him this job. If you
don't believe it's German money he's spendin' ask Anton to show you some
of Stukey's canceled checks."
"But--but he's English," protests Anna. "Anyway, his father was."
"The Huns don't mind who they buy up," says I.
She's still starin' at me, sort of stunned.
"German money!" she repeats. "Him!"
"Anton will show you the checks," says I. "He don't care where they
come from, so long as he can cash 'em. But you might hint to him that if
another big strike is pulled it's apt to be a long one, and in that case
the movie business will get a crimp put in it. The Warsaw receipts, too.
I take it that Stukey's tryin' to work the hands up to a point where
they'll vote for----"
"To-night they vote," breaks in Anna. "In two hours."
I lets out a whistle. "Zowie!" says I. "Guess I'm a little late. Say,
you got a 'phone here. Would it do any good if you called Anton up
and----"
"No," snaps Anna. "He thinks too slow. I must do this myself."
"You?" says I. "What could you do?"
"I don't know," says Anna. "But I must try. And quick. Hey, Marson!
You--at the door. Come here and sell the tickets. Put an usher in your
place."
With that she bounces down off the tall chair, shoves the substitute
into her place, and goes streamin' out bare-headed. I decides to follow.
But she leaves me behind as though I'd been standin' still.
At the Warsaw I finds Anton smokin' placid in his little office.
"Seen Anna?" I asks.
"Anna!" says he. "She should be selling tickets at the----"
"She was," says I; "but just now she's upstairs in the hall."
"At the meetin'?" gasps Anton. "Anna? Oh, no!"
"Come, take a look," says I.
And, for once in his life, Anton got a quick move on. He don't ask me to
follow, but I trails along; and just as we strikes the top stair we
hears a rousin' cheer go up. I suppose any other time we'd been barred
out, but there's nobody to hold us up as we pushes through, for everyone
has their eyes glued on the little stage at the far end of the hall.
No wonder. For there, standin' up before more than three hundred yellin'
men, is this high-colored young woman.
Course, I couldn't get a word of it, my Polish education havin' been
sadly neglected when I was young. But Anna seems to be tellin' some sort
of story. My guess was that it's the one she'd hinted at to me--about
her father and brothers and sister. But this time she seems to be
throwin' in all the details.
[Illustration: "Quick as a flash, Anna turns and points to Stukey. I
caught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow,
slumps in his chair."]
There was nothin' frivolous about Anna's eyes now. It almost gave me a
creepy feelin' to watch 'em--as if she was seein' things again that
she'd like to forget--awful things. And she was makin' those three
hundred men see the same things.
All of a sudden she breaks off, covers her face with her hands, and
shivers. Then, quick as a flash, she turns and points to Stukey. I
caught his name as she hisses it out. Stukey, turnin' a sickly yellow,
slumps in his chair. Another second, and she's turned back to the men
out front. She is puttin' something up to them--a question, straight
from the shoulder.
The first to make a move is a squatty, thick-necked gent with one eye
walled out. He jumps on a chair, shouts a few excited words, waves his
long arms, and starts for the stage businesslike. The next thing I knew
the riot was on, with Mortimer J. Stukey playin' the heavy lead and
bein' tossed around like a rat.
It must have been Anton that switched off the lights and sent for the
police. I didn't stop to ask. Bein' near the door, I felt my way
downstairs and made a quick exit. Course, the ceremonies promised to
continue interestin', but somehow this struck me as a swell time for me
to quit. So I strolls back to the hotel and goes to bed.
Yes, I was some curious to know how the muss ended, but I didn't hurry
around next mornin'. As a matter of fact, I'd enjoyed the society of the
Sobowskis quite a lot durin' the past two days, and I thought I'd better
stay away for a while. They're a strenuous bunch when they're stirred
up--even a kittenish young thing like Anna.
About noon I 'phoned the works, and found that all was serene there,
with no signs of a strike yet.
"No, and I got a hunch there won't be any, either," says I.
I was plannin' to linger in Bridgeport another day or so; but when the
afternoon paper came out I changed my mind. Accordin' to the
police-court reporter's account, there'd been some little disturbance in
Warsaw Hall the night before. Seems a stranger by the name of Stukey had
butted into a meetin' of the Pulaski Social Club, and had proceeded to
get so messy that it had been found necessary to throw him out. Half a
dozen witnesses told how rude he'd been, includin' the well-known
citizen, Mr. Anton Sobowski, who owned the premises. The said Stukey had
been a bit damaged; but after he'd been patched up at the City Hospital
he'd been promised a nice long rest--thirty days, to be exact.
So I jumps the next train back to Broadway.
"Ah, Lieutenant!" says Mr. Ellins, glancin' up from his desk. "Find
anything up there?"
"Uh-huh," says I. "His name was Stukey. Another case of drawin' his pay
from Berlin."
"Hah!" grunts Old Hickory, bitin' into his cigar. "The long arm again.
But can't you recommend something?"
"Sure!" says I. "If we could find a pair of gold boots about eighteen
buttons high, we ought to send 'em to Anna Sobowski."