THE CASE OF A FEMALE PARTY
You know how free this J. Bayard Steele has been in callin' on me for
help in puttin' over his little deeds of kindness, at so much per deed?
Well, here the other day he shows up at the studio with sealed envelope
No. 3 in his pocket, and after springin' his usual guff about the door
of fate he opens it.
"Well, who's the party of the second part this time?" says I.
But he just gazes at the slip of paper he's taken out and smiles mushy.
"All right," says I. "Keep it to yourself. This is my busy day, anyway."
"Pardon me, McCabe," says he. "I was lost in wonder at the varied
character of the persons whom the late Pyramid Gordon numbered on his
conscience list. This time it is a lady."
"Huh!" says I. "Didn't know Pyramid ever had any skirt complications."
"From Adam down has any man escaped?" says J. Bayard, wavin' his
cigarette jaunty. "No, your friend Gordon was no wiser than the rest of
us, as this shows. Hearken to the name--Josie Vernon!"
"That does listen flossy," says I. "But I never heard him mention any
Josie as long as I knew him. Any details?"
"There's an address," says J. Bayard, "and in one corner is written,
'Mrs. Fletcher Shaw.' Probably a friend, or next of kin. Ah, but this is
something like! Knight-errantry for the fair sex! Here, McCabe, is where
I shine!"
"You do, eh?" says I. "Think you can handle this case all by your
lonesome?"
Did he? Why, to see him turkeyin' round, glancin' at himself approvin'
in the mirror, and pattin' them Grand Duke whiskers of his into shape,
you'd think he had some matinée idol as an understudy. Oh, yes, he
rather fancied he understood women, knew how to handle 'em, and all
that. He would look up Josie Vernon at once, find out what had been the
trouble between her and Pyramid, and decide on some kind and generous
way of evenin' the score, accordin' to the terms of Mr. Gordon's will.
"And in this instance, Shorty," says he, "I shall probably not be
compelled to trouble you at all until I submit my plans for your
indorsement. Now I'm off. The ladies, bless 'em!" and he winks giddy as
he trips through the door.
Ain't they the nutty ones, these old cut-ups? Look at Steele now,--in
the late fifties, but just at the mention of a name like Josie Vernon he
gets kittenish!
Well, it's nothin' to me, and I'm glad to duck any dealin's with stray
dames; for when it comes to the surprisin' sex you never know what
you're goin' to be let in for. Besides, my part of his executor game was
only to O.K. J. Bayard's final schemes and see that he spent the money
somewhere near the way I judged Pyramid meant to have it distributed.
Course, I hadn't been able to stick to that very strict in the first two
cases; but this time it looked like I would.
So by the next afternoon, havin' been busy in the gym since nine A.M.,
I'd forgotten the incident complete, and I'm some surprised when Swifty
Joe announces that there's a female party askin' for me in the front
office.
"Wha' d'ye mean--female party?" says I. "Is it a lady?"
"Ah-r-r-r chee!" says Swifty. "How do I know?"
That's some surprisin' too; for as a rule he ain't strong on drawin'
fine distinctions. If they're young and flossy dressed, he calls 'em
"fluffs"; but anything over twenty-five, no matter how she's costumed,
is a lady to Swifty, even a scrubwoman. So his describin' this visitor
as a female party gets me curious.
The minute I steps into the office and gets a glimpse at her, though, I
got Swifty's point of view. The battered old lid had been gay enough
once, a few seasons back, when the willow plume hadn't been dislocated
in four places, and before the velvet trimmin' had faded into so many
differ'nt shades. It had been a lady's hat once. And the face under it,
in spite of the red tip to the nose and the puffs under the eyes, might
have belonged to a lady. Anyway, there was traces of good looks there.
But the rusty black cloak that hung limp over the sagged shoulders, only
part hidin' the sloppy shirt waist and reachin' but halfway down the
side-hiked, draggled-edge skirt--that's the sure mark of a female party.
I don't know why, but it is.
Where they get cloaks like that is a mystery. You see 'em on women
panhandlers, on the old hags that camp on park benches, and in the jag
line at police courts. But you never see a new one. Perhaps they're made
special by second-hand shops for the female party trade.
"Well?" says I, lookin' her over cold and curious.
But you can't faze a female party so simple. They're used to that. She
stares back at me just as cool, and then remarks, "I guess you know who
I am well enough."
"Sure!" says I. "You're the long lost Duchess of Gainsborough, ain't
you?"
She just gazes at me brassy and shakes her head.
"Then you must be a lady snake agent," says I.
"What?" says she, scowlin' puzzled.
"I don't know the answer, either," says I. "Called for Professor McCabe,
didn't you? Well, you're connected. Shoot the rest of it."
"I'm Mrs. Fletcher Shaw," says she.
And for a minute there I couldn't place the name. Then it came to me.
"Oh!" says I. "Some relation of Josie Vernon's, eh?"
"Suppose I am?" she demands, eyin' me suspicious.
"Tut, tut, now!" says I. "You're the one that's occupyin' the witness
stand, you know. You were about to tell why you came."
"Was I?" says she. "You might guess that: you've had a man pryin' and
snoopin' around my flat for two days."
I gawps at her for a second, and then chuckles. "You mean a
classy-dressed gent with whiskers?" says I.
She nods.
"Mr. J. Bayard Steele," says I. "He's the one to see. He'll give you all
the partic'lars."
"Humph!" says she, sniffin'. "What does he want of Josie Vernon? What's
his game?"
"Deeds of kindness, that's all," says I.
Mrs. Shaw indulges in a hard, throaty cackle. "There ain't no such
animal," says she. "Come now, you're in on this with him. He said so.
What's it all about?"
"Mrs. Shaw," says I, "you've heard all I got to say on the subject. I'm
more or less busy too, and----"
"How impolite!" she breaks in. "And me a lady too! Heavings! how faint I
feel!" With that she sidles towards my desk chair and slumps into it.
"Very distressin' symptoms," says I. "But I got a quick cure for attacks
like that. It's fresh air, taken outside."
"I sha'n't budge until I've found why you're hounding me!" says she,
grippin' the chair arms.
"So?" says I. "Maybe you didn't notice the size of my assistant, Swifty
Joe, as you came in? His specialty is escortin' obstreperous parties
downstairs and dumpin' 'em on the curb."
"You try any strong-arm stuff on me and I'll scream for help!" says she.
"I'll make a charge against you too."
She looked equal to it, and for a minute I stands there gazin' puzzled
at her and scratchin' my head.
"You win," says I. "I can't have Swifty scratched up. He's too handsome.
It ain't any secret I'm keepin' away from you, anyway. All Mr. Steele
wants to do is to locate Josie Vernon. It's a will case, and there may
be something in it for her. There! That's the whole story."
"It's a fishy one," says she.
"Maybe," says I; "but I'm givin' you my word on it. Produce Josie, and
you'll see."
She squints at me doubtful, glances around the room cautious once or
twice, and then remarks quiet, "Very well. I'll take a chance. I'm
Josie."
"Eh?" says I. "You!"
"Ask the Sergeant over at the Nineteenth," says she. "He ran me out of
his precinct because I wouldn't give up enough. Fortune-telling, you
know. He wanted twenty a month. Think of that!"
"Never mind the Sarge," says I. "Did you know Mr. Gordon?"
"Pyramid?" says she. "Rather! Back in the '90's, that was. I was in his
offices for awhile."
"Oh--ho!" says I. "Then you must be the one. Would you mind givin' me a
sketch of the affair?"
Mrs. Shaw shrugs her shoulders under the old cape. "Why should I care
now?" says she. "I sprung a breach of promise suit on him, that's all. I
might have known better. He was a hard man, Pyramid Gordon. What with
lawyers and the private detectives he set after me, I was glad to get
out of the city alive. It was two years before I dared come back--and a
rough two years they were too! But you're not raking that up against me
at this late date, are you?"
"I'm not," says I. "Any move I make will be for your good. But Steele's
the man. I'll have to call him in."
"Call away, then," says she. "I ain't afraid of him, either."
And by luck I catches J. Bayard at his hotel and gets him on the 'phone.
"Well?" says I. "How about the fair Josie?"
I could hear him groan over the wire. "Hang Josie!" says he. "See here,
McCabe, I've had a deuce of a time with that case. Must have been
something wrong with the address, you know."
"How's that?" says I.
"Why," says he, "it led me to a smelly, top-floor flat up in Harlem, and
all I could find there was this impossible person, Mrs. Fletcher Shaw.
Of all the sniveling, lying, vicious-tongued old harridans! Do you know
what she did? Chased me down four flights of stairs with a broom, just
because I insisted on seeing Josie Vernon!"
"You don't say!" says I. "And you such a star at this knight-errant
business! Still want to see Josie, do you?"
"Why, of course," says he.
"Then come down to the studio," says I. "She's here."
"Wha-a-at!" he gasps. "I--I'll be right down."
And inside of ten minutes he swings in, all dolled up elegant with a
pink carnation in his buttonhole. You should have seen the smile come
off his face, though, when he sees what's occupyin' my desk chair. He'd
have done a sneak back through the door too, if I hadn't blocked him
off.
"Steady there, J. Bayard!" says I. "On the job, now!"
"But--but this isn't Josie Vernon," says he. "It's that Mrs.----"
"One and the same," says I. "The lady says so herself. She's proved it
too."
"I had you sized up as a police spotter," puts in Mrs. Shaw, "trying to
get me for palm reading. Thought you might have run across one of my
cards. Josie Vernon's the name I use on them. Sorry if I was too free
with the broom."
"I was merely returning to tell you, Madam," says Steele, "that I had
discovered you to be an impostor. Those five children you claimed as
yours did not belong to you at all. The janitor of the building informed
me that----"
"Yes, I heard him through the dumb-waiter shaft," says Mrs. Shaw. "But I
always borrow some youngsters for my poor widow act when I think I'm
being shadowed; so you needn't get peeved."
"Of course not. How silly of him!" I puts in. "There, Steele, that's all
straightened out, and here is the original Josie Vernon. What have you
got to suggest?"
He stares at me blank, and then takes another look at Mrs. Shaw. I'll
admit she wa'n't a fascinatin' sight.
"You don't mean," says he, whisperin' husky in my ear, "that you would
do anything for such a creature?"
"She's on the list, ain't she?" says I.
"Ye-e-es," he admits; "but----"
"Let's ask the lady herself for a few more details, so we can have
something definite to go on," says I. "Excuse us, Mrs. Shaw, for this
little side debate; but we ain't quite made up our minds about you yet.
Let's see--you was tellin' me about bringin' a breach of promise suit
against Pyramid, and how he ran you out of town. You had a good case
too, I expect?"
"What's the use of lying about it now?" says she. "It was a cheap bluff,
that's all; one of Mr. Shaw's brilliant schemes. Oh, he was a schemer,
Shaw was! Pretended to be a lawyer, Fletcher did, in those days. He was
smooth enough for one, but too lazy. I didn't know that when I married
him. What I didn't know about him then! But I learned. He thought he
could scare Mr. Gordon into settling for a few thousand. Of course my
claim was all bosh. Pyramid Gordon hardly knew I was in his office.
Besides, I was married, anyway. He didn't guess that. But the bluff
didn't work. We were the ones who were scared; scared stiff, too."
"H-m-m-m!" says I. "Not what you might call a pretty affair, was it?"
Mrs. Shaw don't wince at that. She just sneers cynical. "Life with
Fletcher Shaw wasn't pretty at any stage of the game," says she. "Say,
you don't think I picked my career, do you? True, I was only a girl; but
I wasn't quite a fool. You will laugh, I suppose, but at twenty-two I
had dreams, ambitions. I meant to be a woman doctor. I was teaching
physiology and chemistry in a high school up in Connecticut, where I was
born. In another year I could have begun my medical course. Then
Fletcher came along, with his curly brown hair, his happy, careless
smile, and his fascinating way of avoiding the truth. I gave up all my
hopes and plans to go with him. That's what a woman does when she
marries. I don't know why it should be so, but it is. Take my case: I
had more brains, more energy, more character, than he. But he was a man;
so I had to live his life. A rotten sort of life it was. And when it was
over--well, look at me. I've learned to drink gin and to make a living
as a fortune-teller. And the worst of it is, I don't care who knows it.
Wanted details, didn't you? Well, you've got 'em."
I glances at J. Bayard, and finds him lookin' the other way with his lip
curled. You couldn't blame him so much. Listenin' to a female party tell
the story of her life ain't inspirin', and we're all apt to duck things
of that kind. They may be true; but it's easier and pleasanter to look
the other way. As for me, I want to, but can't. I just got to take
things as they are and as they come. Forgettin' weeds in the back yard
don't get rid of 'em. I'm apt to paw around and see where the roots
spread to.
Meanwhile J. Bayard has stepped over by the window and signals me to
follow. "Disgusting, isn't it?" says he. "And you see by this creature's
own story that she doesn't deserve a penny of Pyramid's money. He was
fooled by her, that's all."
"Not Pyramid," says I. "Didn't he have her married name on the slip too?
So he must have found out."
"That's so," says Steele. "Well, suppose we give her fifty or so, and
ship her off."
"That's kind of small, considerin' the pile we got to draw on, ain't
it!" says I. "And it strikes me that since Pyramid put her name down he
meant---- Let's see if there ain't something special she wants."
"Say," sings out Mrs. Shaw, "what about that will business? If it was
old Gordon, I suppose he wouldn't leave me much. He had no call to."
"About what would you expect, now?" says I, as we drifts back to her.
She squints foxy at us for a minute. "After all this fuss," says she,
"it ought to be two or three hundred--maybe five. No, I mean a
thousand."
"Huh!" says I. "A thousand! Got your nerve with you, ain't you? But
suppose it was that much, what would you do with it?"
"Do!" says she, her eyes brightenin'. "Why, I would--I---- Ah, what's
the use! I'd make a fool of myself, of course. And inside of ten days
I'd be in a D.T. ward somewhere."
"No old home or folks that you could go back to?" I suggests.
She shakes her head. "It's too late for me to go back," says she. "Too
late!" She don't try to be tragic, don't even whine it out, but just
states it dull and flat.
"But most everyone has a friend or so somewhere," says I.
At first that don't make any impression at all. Then all of a sudden she
sits up and gazes vague over the top of my head.
"There's the Baron!" says she.
"The which?" says I.
"Von Blatzer," says she. "Oh, he's a real Baron, all right; an
odd-looking, dried up little chap with a wig and painted eyebrows. Yet
he's hardly sixty. I got to know him at Atlantic City, where I had a
Board Walk pitch one season. Queer? That's no word for it! Shy and
lonesome he was; but after you got to know him, one of the brightest,
jolliest old duffers. Our first talk was out on the end of one of those
long piers, by moonlight.
"After that it was a regular thing. We'd walk up and down like two kids,
telling each other all about ourselves. I'd never stated my full opinion
of Fletcher Shaw to a soul before; but somehow old Von was so friendly
and sympathetic that I cut loose. The Baron ground his teeth over it. He
said that Fletcher should have been caught young and shot from a cannon.
Good old Von Blatzer! Wanted me to go back to Vienna as the Baroness.
Think of it--me! But I was having a good season. Besides, I didn't think
I could stand for a wig. I didn't know how much I was going to miss
him."
"You wouldn't shy at the wig now, eh?" says I.
"Would I?" says she. "Honest, I liked Von Blatzer, for all his freaky
ways. He was human, he was, and we understood each other. He'll be at
Monte Carlo now. Roulette, you know. That's all he lives for. Plays a
system. Nice little income he has; not big, but comfortable. And during
the season he feeds it all into the wheel. Someone ought to cure him of
that."
"Think you could, I expect?" says I. "But how about you and the juniper
juice?"
"Oh, I could quit that easy if there was anything else to do," says she.
"But there isn't."
"Then here's a proposition," says I. "You query him by cable to see if
he's changed his mind; and if he's still a candidate for
matrimony--well, I guess Mr. Steele will see that you get to the Baron."
"You--you mean that?" says she gaspy.
"Uh-huh," says I. "It's up to you."
"But--but I---- Why, look at me!" says she.
"Two weeks on the water wagon, a few visits to the beauty parlors, and
an outfit of tango skirts ought to make some diff'rence, hadn't it?"
says I. "Those items would be included. What do you say?"
I expect it was a good deal of a proposition to spring on a female
party. No wonder she choked up over it.
"If I thought you were just guying me," says she, "I--I'd----"
"Here's a cable blank," says I. "Frame up your call to the Baron while I
state the case to Mr. Steele."
He couldn't see it at all, J. Bayard couldn't. "What!" says he. "Waste
all that money on such a wretch! Why, the woman is unworthy of even the
most----"
"What's that got to do with it?" says I. "Pyramid didn't put that in the
bill of partic'lars, did he? Maybe he had doubts about himself. And how
would we qualify? How would you? Come, what's your battin' average,
Steele, in the worthy league?"
J. Bayard squirms a little at that, and then hunches his shoulders.
"Oh, if you're going to put it that way," says he, "go ahead. But when
she starts to be a Baroness, I'd like to see her."
"You'll be there to hand her the tickets," says I. "You'll get her
ready. That's part of your job."
He saw the point. And, say, he did his work thorough. I saw no more of
Mrs. Shaw until nearly two weeks later, when Steele towed me down to the
steamer.
"Which one?" says I, lookin' at the crowd along the rail. "Ah, come off!
That with the veils and the stunnin' figure--the one wavin' this way?
That ain't never Mrs. Fletcher Shaw!"
"That's Josie," says he. "And before the end of the month she'll be the
Baroness Von Blatzer. Changed? Why, I hardly recognized her myself after
her first day's shopping! She must have been quite a beauty once. But
what a wreck she was when----"
"When she chased you with the broom, eh?" says I, chucklin'. "And now
you're as chesty over her as though you'd been workin' a miracle. Just
beamin' for joy, you are!"
"I know," says he. "And really, McCabe, I've never had a hand in
anything which has given me so much genuine pleasure. It--it's weird,
you know. I can't think what's happening to me."
"Maybe," says I, "you're sproutin' a soul."