Torchy As A Pa
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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."
CHAPTER XVII
NO LUCK WITH AUNTIE
Well, I expect I've gone and done it again. Queered myself with Auntie.
Vee's, of course. You'd most think I'd know how to handle the old girl
by this time, for we've been rubbin' elbows, as you might say, for quite
a few years now. But somehow we seldom hit it off just right.
Not that I don't try. Say, one of the big ambitions of my young life has
been to do something that would please Auntie so much that no matter
what breaks I made later on she'd be bound to remember it. Up to date,
though, I haven't pulled anything of the kind. No. In fact, just the
reverse.
I've often wished there was some bureau I could go to and get the
correct dope on managin' an in-law aunt with a hair-trigger disposition.
Like the Department of Agriculture. You know if it was boll-weevils, or
cattle tick, or black rust, all I'd have to do would be to drop a
postcard to Washington and in a month or so I'd have all kinds of
pamphlets, with colored plates and diagrams, tellin' me just what to do.
But balky aunts on your wife's side seem to have been overlooked.
Somebody ought to write a book on the subject. You can get 'em that will
tell you how to play bridge, or golf, or read palms, or raise chickens,
or bring up babies. But nothin' on aunts who give you the cold eye and
work up suspicions. And it's more or less important, 'specially if
they're will-makin' aunts, with something to make wills about.
Not that I'm any legacy hound. She can do what she wants with her money,
for all of me. Course, there's Vee to be considered. I wouldn't want to
think, when the time comes, if it ever does, that her Auntie is with us
no more, that it was on account of something I'd said or done that the
Society for the Suppression of Jazz Orchestras was handed an unexpected
bale of securities instead of the same being put where Vee could cash in
on the coupons. Also there's Master Richard Hemmingway. I want to be
able to look sonny in the face, years from now, without having to
explain that if I'd been a little more diplomatic towards his mother's
female relations he might he startin' for college on an income of his
own instead of havin' to depend on my financin' his football career.
Besides, our family is so small that it seems to me the least I can do
to be on good terms with all of 'em. 'Specially I'd like to please
Auntie now and then just for the sake of--well, I don't go so far as to
say I could be fond of Auntie for herself alone, but you know what I
mean. It's the proper thing.
At the same time, I wouldn't want to seem to be overdoin' the act. No.
So when it's a question of whether Auntie should be allowed to settle
down for the spring in an apartment hotel in town, or be urged to stop
with us until Bar Harbor opened for the season, I was all for the
modest, retirin' stuff.
"She might think she had to come if she was asked," I suggests to Vee.
"And if she turned us down we'd have to look disappointed and that might
make her feel bad."
"I hadn't considered that, Torchy," says Vee. "How thoughtful of you!"
"Oh, not at all," says I, wavin' my hand careless. "I simply want to do
what is best for Auntie. Besides, you know how sort of uneasy she is in
the country, with so little going on. And later, if we can persuade her
to make us a little visit, for over night maybe, why----" I shrugs my
shoulders enthusiastic. Anyway, that's what I tried to register.
It went with Vee, all right. One of the last things she does is to get
suspicious of my moves. And that's a great help. So we agrees to let
Auntie enjoy her four rooms and bath on East Sixty-umpt Street without
tryin' to drag her out on Long Island where she might be annoyed by the
robins singin' too early in the mornin' or havin' the scent of lilacs
driftin' too heavy into the windows.
"Besides," I adds, just to clinch the case, "if she stays in town she
won't be bothered by Buddy barkin' around, and she won't have to worry
about how we're bringin' up 'Ikky boy. Yep. It's the best thing for
her."
If Auntie had been in on the argument I expect she'd differed with me.
She generally does. It's almost a habit with her. But not being present
maybe she had a hunch herself that she'd like the city better. Anyway,
that's where she camps down, only runnin' out once or twice for
luncheon, while I'm at the office, and havin' nice little chatty visits
with Vee over the long distance.
Honest, I can enjoy an Auntie who does her droppin' in by 'phone. I
almost got so fond of her that I was on the point of suggestin' to Vee
that she tell Auntie to reverse the charges. No, I didn't quite go that
far. I'd hate to have her think I was gettin' slushy or sentimental. But
it sure was comfortin', when I came home after a busy day at the
Corrugated Trust, to reflect that Auntie was settled nice and cozy on
the ninth floor about twenty-five miles due west from us.
I should have knocked on wood, though. Uh-huh. Or kept my fingers
crossed, or something. For here the other night, as I strolls up from
the station I spots an express truck movin' on ahead in the general
direction of our house. I felt kind of a sinkin' sensation the minute I
saw that truck. I can't say why. Psychic, I expect. You know. Ouija
stuff.
And sure enough, the blamed truck turns into our driveway. By the time
I arrives the man has just unloaded two wardrobe trunks and a hat box.
And in the livin' room I finds Auntie.
"Eh?" says I, starin'. "Why, I--I thought you was----"
"How cordial!" says Auntie.
"Yes," says I, catchin' my breath quick. "Isn't it perfectly bully that
you could come? We was afraid you'd be havin' such a good time in town
that we couldn't----"
"And so I was, until last night," says Auntie. "Verona, will tell you
all about it, I've no doubt."
Oh yes, Vee does. She unloads it durin' a little stroll we took out
towards the garden. New York hadn't been behavin' well towards Auntie.
Not at all well. Just got on one of its cantankerous streaks. First off
there was a waiters' strike on the roof-garden restaurant where most of
the tenants took their dinners. It happened between soup and fish. In
fact, the fish never got there at all. Nor the roast, nor the rest of
the meal. And the head waiter and the house manager had a
rough-and-tumble scrap right in plain sight of everybody and some
perfectly awful language was used. Also the striking waiters marched out
in a body and shouted things at the manager as they went. So Auntie had
to put on her things and call a taxi and drive eight blocks before she
could finish her dinner.
Then about 9 o'clock, as she was settling down for a quiet evening in
her rooms, New York pulled another playful little stunt on her. Nothing
unusual. A leaky gas main and a poorly insulated electric light cable
made connection with the well-known results. For half a mile up and down
the avenue that Auntie's apartment faced on the manhole covers were
blown off. They go off with a roar and a bang, you know. One of 'em
sailed neatly up within ten feet of Auntie's back hair, crashed through
the window of the apartment just above her and landed on the floor so
impetuous that about a yard of plaster came rattlin' down on Auntie's
head. Some fell in her lap and some went down the back of her neck.
All of which was more or less disturbin' to an old girl who was tryin'
to read Amy Lowell's poems and had had her nerves jarred only a couple
of hours before. However, she came out of it noble, with the aid of her
smellin' salts and the assurance of the manager that it wouldn't happen
again. Not that same evenin', anyway. He was almost positive it
wouldn't. At least, it seldom did.
But being in on a strike, and a free-for-all fight, and a conduit
explosion hadn't prepared Auntie to hit the feathers early. So at 1:30
A. M. she was still wide awake and wanderin' around in her nightie with
the shades up and the lights out. That's how she happened to be
stretchin' her neck out of the window when this offensive broke loose
on the roof of the buildin' across the way.
Auntie was just wondering why those two men were skylarking around on
the roof so late at night when two more popped out of skylights and
began to bang away at them with revolvers. Then the first two started to
shoot back, and the first thing Auntie knew there was a crash right over
her head where a stray bullet had wandered through the upper pane. Upon
which Auntie screamed and fainted. Of course, she had read about loft
robbers, but she hadn't seen 'em in action. And she didn't want to see
'em at such close range any more. Not her. She'd had enough, thank you.
So when she came to from her faintin' spell she begun packin' her
trunks. After breakfast she'd called Vee on the 'phone, sketched out
some of her troubles, and been invited to come straight to Harbor Hills.
"It was the only thing to be done," says Vee.
"Well, maybe," says I. "Course, she might have tried another apartment
hotel. They don't all have strikes and explosions and burglar hunts
goin' on. Not every night. She might have taken a chance or one or two
more."
"But with her nerves all upset like that," protests Vee, "I don't see
why she should, when here we are with----"
"Yes, I expect there was no dodgin' it," I agrees.
At dinner Auntie is still sort of jumpy but she says it's a great
satisfaction to know that she is out here in the calm, peaceful country.
"It's dull, of course," she goes on, "but at the same time it is all so
restful and soothing. One knows that nothing whatever is going to
happen."
"Ye-e-es," says I, draggy. "And yet, you can't always tell."
"Can't always tell what?" demands Auntie.
"About things not happenin' out here," says I.
"But, Torchy," says Vee, "what could possibly happen here; that is, like
those things in town?"
I shrugs my shoulders and shakes my head.
"How absurd!" says Vee.
Auntie gives me one of them cold storage looks of hers. "I have usually
noticed," says she, "that things do not happen of themselves. Usually
some one is responsible for their happening."
What she meant by that I couldn't quite make out. Oh yes, takin' a
little rap at me, no doubt. But just how or what for I passed up. I
might have forgotten it altogether if she hadn't reminded me now and
then by favorin' me with a suspicious glare, the kind one of Mr.
Palmer's agents might give to a party in a checked suit steppin' off the
train from Montreal with something bulgin' on the hip.
So it was kind of unfortunate that when Vee suddenly remembers the
Airedale pup and asks where he is that I should say just what I did.
"Buddy?" says I. "Oh, he's all right. I shut him up myself."
It was a fact. I had. And I'd meant well by it. For that's one of the
things we have to look out for when Auntie's visitin' us, to keep Buddy
away from her. Not that there's anything vicious about Buddy. Not at
all. But being only a year old and full of pep and affection, and not at
all discriminatin', he's apt to be a bit boisterous in welcomin'
visitors; and while some folks don't mind havin' fifty pounds of dog
bounce at 'em sudden, or bein' clawed, or havin' their faces licked by a
moist pink tongue, Auntie ain't one of that kind. She gets petrified and
squeals for help and insists that the brute is trying to eat her up.
So as soon as I'd come home and had my usual rough-house session with
Buddy, I leads him upstairs and carefully parks him in the south bedroom
over the kitchen wing. Being thoughtful and considerate, I call that.
Not to Buddy maybe, who's used to spendin' the dinner hour with his nose
just inside the dinin' room door; but to Auntie, anyway.
Which is why I'm so surprised, along about 9 o'clock when Auntie has
made an early start for a good night's rest, to hear these loud hostile
woofs comin' from him and then these blood curdlin' screams.
"For the love of Mike!" I gasps. "Where did you put Auntie?"
"Why, in the south bedroom this time," says Vee.
"Hal-lup!" says I. "That's where I put Buddy."
It was a race then up the stairs, with me tryin' to protest on the jump
that I didn't know Vee had decided to shift Auntie from the reg'lar
guest room to this one.
"Surely you didn't," admits Vee. "But I thought the south room would be
so much sunnier and more cheerful. I--I'll explain to Auntie."
"It can't be done," says I. "Stop it, Buddy! All right, boy. It's
perfectly all right."
Buddy don't believe it, though, until I've opened the door and switched
on the light. Young as he is he's right up on the watch-dog act and when
strangers come prowlin' around in the dark that's his cue for goin' into
action. He has cornered Auntie scientific and while turnin' in a general
alarm he has improved the time by tearin' mouthfuls out of her dress. At
that, too, it's lucky he hadn't begun to take mouthfuls out of Auntie.
As for the old girl, she's so scared she can't talk and so mad she can
hardly see. She stands there limp in a tattered skirt with some of her
gray store hair that has slipped its moorin's restin' jaunty over one
ear and her eyes blazin' hostile.
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