Torchy As A Pa

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"Might be something in that," I admits.

"But if I had the ring that she gave me--her token--well, you see?" goes
on Waddy. "I must have it. So I must find Bruzinski."

"Yes, that's your play," I agrees. "Where did he hail from?"

"Why, from somewhere in Pennsylvania," says Waddy; "some weird little
place that I never could remember the name of."

"Huh!" says I. "Quite a sizable state, you know. You couldn't ramble
through it in an afternoon pagin' Joe Bruzinski."

"I suppose one couldn't," says Waddy. "But there must be some way of
locating him. Couldn't I telegraph to the War Department?"

"You could," says I, "and about a year from next Yom Kippur you might
get a notice that your wire had been received and placed on file. Why,
they're still revisin' casualty lists from the summer of 1918. If you're
in any hurry about gettin' in touch with Mr. Bruzinski----"

"Hurry!" gasps Waddy. "Why, I must find him by tonight."

"That's goin' to call for speed," says I. "I don't see how you
could--Say, now! I just thought of something. We might tickle Uncle Sam
in the W. R. I. B."

"Beg pardon!" says Waddy, gawpin'.

"War Risk Insurance Bureau," I explains. "That is, if Miss Callahan's
still there. Used to be one of our stenogs until she went into war work.
Last I knew she was still at it, had charge of one of the filing cases.
They handle soldier's insurance there, you know, and if Bruzinski's kept
his up----"

"By George!" breaks in Waddy. "Of course. Do you know, I never thought
of that."

"No, you wouldn't," says I "May not work, at that. But we can try. She's
a reg'lar person, Miss Callahan."

Anyway, she knew right where to put her fingers on Joe Bruzinski's card
and shoots us back his mailin' address by lunch time. It's Coffee Creek,
Pa.

"What an absurd place to live in!" says Waddy. "And how on earth can we
ever find it."

"Eh?" says I. "We?"

"But I couldn't possibly get there by myself," says Waddy. "I've never
been west of Philadelphia. Oh, yes, I've traveled a lot abroad, but
that's different. One hires a courier. Really, I should be lost out of
New York. Besides, you know Mr. Robert said you were to--oh, there he is
now. I say, Bob, isn't Torchy to stay with me until I find Bruzinski?"

"Absolutely," says Mr. Robert, throwin' a grin over his shoulder at me
as he slips by.

"Maybe he thinks that's a life sentence," says I. "Chuck me that
Pathfinder from the case behind you, will you? Now let's see. Here we
are, page 937--Coffee Creek, Pa. Inhabitants 1,500. Flag station on the
Lackawanna below Wilkes-Barre. That's in the Susquehanna valley. Must be
a coal town. Chicago limited wouldn't stop there. But we can probably
catch a jitney or something from Wilkes-Barre. Just got time to make the
1:15, too. Come on. Lunch on train."

I expect Waddy ain't been jumped around so rapid before in his whole
career. I allows him only time enough to lay in a fresh supply of
cigarettes on the way to the ferry and before he's caught his breath we
are sittin' in the dinin' car zoomin' through the north end of New
Jersey. I tried to get him interested in the scenery as we pounded
through the Poconos and galloped past the Water Gap, but it couldn't be
done. When he gets real set on anything it seems Waddy has a single
track mind.

"I trust he still has that ring," he remarks.

"That'll ride until we've found your ex-top sergeant," says I. "What was
his line before he went in the army--plumber, truck driver, or what?"

Waddy hadn't the least idea. Not having been mixed up in industry
himself, he hadn't been curious. Now that I mentioned it he supposed
Joe had done something for a living. Yes, he was almost sure. He had
noticed that Joe's hands were rather rough and calloused.

"What would that indicate?" asks Waddy.

"Most anything," says I, "from the high cost of gloves to a strike of
lady manicures. Don't strain your intellect over it, though. If he's
still in Coffee Creek there shouldn't be much trouble findin' him."

Which was where I took a lot for granted. When we piled off the express
at Wilkes-Barre I charters a flivver taxi, and after a half hour's drive
with a speed maniac who must have thought he was pilotin' a DeHaviland
through the clouds we're landed in the middle of this forsaken, one
horse dump, consistin' of a double row of punk tenement blocks and a
sprinklin' of near-beer joints that was givin' their last gasp. I tried
out three prominent citizens before I found one who savvied English.

"Sure!" says he. "Joe Bruzinski? He must be the mine boss by Judson's
yet. First right hand turn you take and keep on the hill up."

"Until what?" says I.

"Why, Judson's operation--the mine," says he. "Can't miss. Road ends at
Judson's."

Uh-huh. It did. High time, too. A road like that never should be allowed
to start anywhere. But the flivver negotiated it and by luck we found
the mine superintendent in the office--a grizzled, chunky little
Welshman with a pair of shrewd eyes. Yes, he says Bruzinski is around
somewhere. He thinks he's down on C level plotting out some new
contracts for the night shift.

"What luck!" says Waddy. "I say, will you call him right up?"

"That I will, sir," says the superintendent, "if you'll tell me how."

"Why," says Waddy, "couldn't you--er--telephone to him, or send a
messenger?"

It seems that can't be done. "You might try shouting down, the shaft
though," says the Welshman, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Waddy would have gone hoarse doin' it, too, if I hadn't given him the
nudge. "Wake up," says I. "You're being kidded."

"But see here, my man----" Waddy begins.

"Mr. Llanders is the name," says the superintendent a bit crisp.

"Ah, yes. Thanks," says Waddy. "It is quite important, Mr. Llanders,
that I find Bruzinski at once."

"Mayhap he'll be up by midnight for a bite to eat," says Llanders.

"Then we'll just have to go down where he is," announces Waddy.

Llanders stares at him curious. "You'd have an interesting time doing
that, young man," says he; "very interesting."

"But I say," starts in Waddy again, which was where I shut him off.

"Back up, Waddy," says I, "before you bug the case entirely. Let me ask
Mr. Llanders where I can call up your good friend Judson."

"That I couldn't rightly say, sir," says Llanders. "It might be one
place, and it might be another. Maybe they'd know better at the office
of his estate in Scranton, but as he's been dead these eight years----"

"Check!" says I. "It would have been a swell bluff if it had worked
though, wouldn't it?"

Llanders indulges in a grim smile. "But it didn't," says he.

"That's the sad part," says I, "for Mr. Fiske here is in a great stew to
see this Bruzinski party right away. There's a lady in the case, as you
might know; one they met while they were soldierin' abroad. So if
there's any way you could fix it for them to get together----"

"Going down's the only way," says Llanders, "and that's strictly against
orders."

"Except on a pass, eh?" says I. "Lucky we brought that along. Waddy,
slip it to Mr. Llanders. No, don't look stupid. Feel in your right hand
vest pocket. That's it, one of those yellow-backed ones with a double X
in the corners. Ah, here! Don't you know how to present a government
pass?" And I has to take it away from him and tuck it careless into the
superintendent's coat pocket.

"Of course," says Llanders, "if you young gentlemen are on official
business, it makes a difference."

"Then let's hurry along," says Waddy, startin' impatient.

"Dressed like that?" says Llanders, starin' at Waddy's Fifth Avenue
costume. "I take it you've not been underground before, sir?"

"Only in the subway," says Waddy.

"You'll find a coal mine quite unlike the subway," says Llanders. "I
think we can fix you up for it, though."

They did. And when Waddy had swapped his frock coat for overalls and
jumper, and added a pair of rubber boots and a greasy cap with an
acetylene lamp stuck in the front of it he sure wouldn't have been
recognized even by his favorite waiter at the club. I expect I looked
about as tough, too. And I'll admit that all this preparation seemed
kind of foolish there in the office. Ten minutes later I knew it wasn't.
Not a bit.

"Do we go down in a car or something?" asks Waddy.

"Not if you go with me," says Llanders. "We'll walk down Slope 8. Before
we start, however, it will be best for me to tell you that this was a
drowned mine."

"Listens excitin'," says I. "Meanin' what?"

"Four years ago the creek came in on us," says Llanders, "flooded us to
within ten feet of the shaft mouth. We lost only a dozen men, but it was
two years before we had the lower levels clear. We manage to keep it
down now with the pumps, Bruzinski is most likely at the further end of
the lowest level."

"Is he?" says Waddy. "I must see him, you know."

Whether he took in all this about the creek's playful little habits or
not I don't know. Anyway, he didn't hang back, and while I've started on
evenin' walks that sounded a lot pleasanter I wasn't going to duck then.
If Waddy could stand it I guessed I could.

So down we goes into a black hole that yawns in the middle of a muddy
field. I hadn't gone far, either, before I discovers that being your own
street light wasn't such an easy trick. I expect a miner has to wear his
lamp on his head so's to have his hands free to swing a pick. But I'll
be hanged if it's comfortable or easy. I unhooked mine and carried it in
my hand, ready to throw the light where I needed it most.

And there was spots where I sure needed it bad, for this Slope 8
proposition was no garden pathway, I'll say. First off, it was mucky and
slippery under foot, and in some places it dips down sharp, almost as
steep as a church roof. Then again there was parts where they'd skimped
on the ceilin', and you had to do a crouch or else bump your bean on
unpadded rocks. On and down, down and on we went, slippin' and slidin',
bracin' ourselves against the wet walls, duckin' where it was low and
restin' our necks where they'd been more generous with the excavatin'.

There was one 'specially sharp pitch of a hundred feet or so and right
in the worst of it we had to dodge a young waterfall that comes
filterin' down through the rocks. It was doin' some roarin' and
splashin', too. I was afraid Llanders might not have noticed it.

"How about it!" says I. "This ain't another visit from the creek, is
it?"

"Only part of it," says he careless. "The pumps are going, you know."

"I hope they're workin' well," says I.

As for Waddy, not a yip out of him. He sticks close behind Llanders and
plugs along just as if he was used to scramblin' through a muddy hole
three hundred feet or so below the grass roots. That's what it is to be
100 per cent in love. All he could think of was gettin' that ring back
and renewin' cordial relations with the lovely Marcelle. But I was
noticin' enough for two. I knew that we'd made so many twists and turns
that we must be lost for keeps. I saw the saggy, rotten timbers that
kept the State of Pennsylvania from cavin' in on us. And now and then I
wondered how long it would be before they dug us out.

"Where's all the coal?" I asks Llanders, just by way of makin' talk.

"Why, here," says he, touchin' the side-wall.

Sure enough, there it was, the real black diamond stuff such as you
shovel into the furnace--when you're lucky. I scaled off a piece and
tested it with the lamp. And gradually I begun to revise my ideas of a
coal mine. I'd always thought of it as a big cave sort of a place, with
a lot of miners grouped around the sides pickin' away sociable. But here
is nothing but a maze of little tunnels, criss-crossin' every which way,
with nobody in sight except now and then, off in a dead-end, we'd get a
glimpse of two or three kind of ghosty figures movin' about solemn. It's
all so still, too. Except in places where we could hear the water
roarin' there wasn't a sound. Only in one spot, off in what Llanders
calls a chamber, we finds two men workin' a compressed air jack-hammer,
drillin' holes.

"They'll be shooting a blast soon," says Llanders. "Want to wait?"

"No thanks," says I prompt. "Mr. Fiske is in a rush."

Maybe I missed something interestin', but with all that rock over my
head I wasn't crazy to watch somebody monkey with dynamite. The
jack-hammer crew gave us a line on where we might find Bruzinski, and I
expect for a while there I led the way. After another ten-minute stroll,
durin' which we dodged a string of coal cars being shunted down a grade,
we comes across three miners chattin' quiet in a corner. One of 'em
turns out to be the mine-boss.

"Hey, Joe!" says Llanders. "Somebody wants to see you."

At which Waddy pushes to the front. "Oh, I say, Bruzinski! Remember me,
don't you?" he asks.

Joe looks him over casual and shakes his head.

"I'm Lieutenant Fiske, you know," says Waddy. "That is, I was."

"Well, I'll be damned!" says Joe earnest. "The Loot! What's up?"

"That ring I gave you in Belgium," goes on Waddy. "I--I hope you still
have it?"

"Ye-e-es," says Joe draggy. "Fact is, I was goin' to use it tomorrow.
I'm gettin' engaged. Nice girl, too. I was meanin' to----"

"But you can't, Joe," breaks in Waddy. "Not with that ring. Miss Jedain
gave me that. Here, I'll give you another. How will this do?" And Waddy
takes a low set spark off his finger.

"All right. Fine!" says Joe, and proceeds to unhook the other ring from
his leather watch, guard. "But what's all the hurry about?"

"Because she's here," says Waddy. "In Washington, I mean. The lovely
Marcelle. Came over looking for me, Joe, just as she promised. Perhaps
you didn't know she did promise, though?"

"Sure," says Joe. "That's what she told all of us."

"Eh?" gasps Waddy.

"Some hugger, that one," says Joe. "Swell lady, too. A bear-cat for
makin' love, I'll tell the world. Me, and the Cap., and the First Loot,
and you, all the same day. She was goin' to marry us all. And the Cap.,
with a wife and two kids back in Binghamton, N. Y., he got almost
nervous over it."

"I--I can't believe it," says Waddy gaspy. "Did--did she give you a--a
token, as she did to me?"

"No," says Joe. "None of us fell quite so hard for her as you did. I
guess we kinda suspected what was wrong with her."

"Wrong?" echoes Waddy.

"Why not?" asks Joe. "Four years of the Huns, and then we came blowin'
in to lift the lid and let 'em come up out of the cellars. Just
naturally went simple in the head, she did. Lots like her, only they
took it out in different ways. Her line was marryin' us, singly and in
squads; overlookin' complete that she had one perfectly good hubby who
was an aide or something to King Albert, as well as three nice
youngsters. We heard about that later, after she'd come to a little."

For a minute or so Waddy stands there starin' at Joe with his mouth open
and his shoulders sagged. Then he slumps on a log and lets his chin
drop.

"Goin' to hunt her up and give back the ring?" asks Joe. "That the
idea?"

"Not--not precisely," says Waddy. "I--I shall send it by mail, I think."

And all the way out he walked like he was in a daze. He generally takes
it hard for a day or so, I understand. So we had that underground
excursion all for nothing. That is, unless you count my being able to
give Mr. Robert the swift comeback next mornin' when he greets me with
a chuckle.

"Well, Torchy," says he, "how did you leave Bruzinski?"

"Just where I found him," says I, "about three hundred feet
underground."

CHAPTER VI

HOW TORCHY ANCHORED A COOK

It began with Stella Flynn, but it ended with the Hon. Sour Milk and
Madam Zenobia. Which is one reason why my job as private sec. to Mr.
Robert Ellins is one I wouldn't swap for Tumulty's--unless they came
insistin' that I had to go to the White House to save the country. And
up to date I ain't had any such call. There's no tellin' though. Mr.
Robert's liable to sic 'em onto me any day.

You see, just because I've happened to pull a few winnin' acts where I
had the breaks with me he's fond of playin' me up as a wizard performer
in almost any line. Course, a good deal of it is just his josh, but
somehow it ain't a habit I'm anxious to cure him of. Yet when he bats
this domestic crisis up to me--this case of Stella Flynn--I did think it
was pushin' the comedy a bit strong.

"No," says I, "I'm no miracle worker."

"Pooh, Torchy!" says Vee. "Who's saying you are? But at least you might
try to suggest something. You think you're so clever at so many things,
you know."

Trust the folks at home for gettin' in these little jabs.

"Oh, very well," says I. "What are the facts about Stella?"

While the bill of particulars is more or less lengthy all it amounts to
is the usual kitchen tragedy. Stella has given notice. After havin' been
a good and faithful cook for 'steen years; first for Mrs. Ellins's
mother, and then being handed on to Mrs. Ellins herself after she and
Mr. Robert hooked up; now Stella announces that she's about to resign
the portfolio.

No, it ain't a higher wage scale she's strikin' for. She's been boosted
three times durin' the last six months, until she's probably the best
paid lady cook on Long Island. And she ain't demandin' an eight-hour
day, or recognition as chairman of the downstairs soviet. Stella is a
middle-aged, full-chested, kind of old-fashioned female who probably
thinks a Bolshevik is a limb of the Old Boy himself and ought to be met
with holy water in one hand and a red-hot poker in the other. She's
satisfied with her quarters, havin' a room and bath to herself; she's
got no active grouch against any of the other help; and being sent to
mass every Sunday mornin' in the limousine suits her well enough.

But she's quittin', all the same. Why? Well, maybe Mr. Robert remembers
that brother Dan of hers he helped set up as a steam fitter out in
Altoona some six or seven years ago? Sure it was a kind act. And Danny
has done well. He has fitted steam into some big plants and some
elegant houses. And now Danny has a fine home of his own. Yes, with a
piano that plays itself, and gilt chairs in the parlor, and a sedan top
on the flivver, and beveled glass in the front door. Also he has a
stylish wife who has "an evenin' wrap trimmed with vermin and is
learnin' to play that auctioneer's bridge game." So why should his
sister Stella be cookin' for other folks when she might be livin' swell
and independent with them? Ain't there the four nieces and three nephews
that hardly knows their aunt by sight? It's Danny's wife herself that
wrote the letter urgin' her to come.

"And do all the cooking for that big family, I suppose?" suggests Mrs.
Ellins.

"She wasn't after sayin' as much, ma'am," says Stella, "but would I be
sittin' in the parlor with my hands folded, and her so stylish? And
Danny always did like my cookin'."

"Why should he not?" asks Mrs. Ellins. "But who would go on adding to
your savings account? Don't be foolish, Stella."

All of which hadn't gotten 'em anywhere. Stella was bent flittin' to
Altoona. Ten days more and she would be gone. And as Mr. Robert finishes
a piece of Stella's blue ribbon mince pies and drops a lump of sugar
into a cup of Stella's unsurpassed after-dinner coffee he lets out a
sigh.

"That means, I presume," says he, "hunting up a suite in some apartment
hotel, moving into town, and facing a near-French menu three times a
day. All because our domestic affairs are not managed on a business
basis."

"I suppose you would find some way of inducing Stella to stay--if you
were not too busy?" asks Mrs. Robert sarcastic.

"I would," says he.

"What a pity," says she, "that such diplomatic genius must be confined
to mere business. If we could only have the benefit of some of it here;
even the help of one of your bright young men assistants. They would
know exactly how to go about persuading Stella to stay, I suppose?"

"They would find a way," says Mr. Robert. "They would bring a trained
and acute mentality to the problem."

"Humph!" says Mrs. Robert, tossing her head. "We saw that worked out in
a play the other night, you remember. Mr. Wise Business Man solves the
domestic problem by hiring two private detectives, one to act as cook,
the other as butler, and a nice mess he made of it. No, thank you."

"See here, Geraldine," says Mr. Robert. "I'll bet you a hundred Torchy
could go on that case and have it all straightened out inside of a
week."

"Done!" says Mrs. Robert.

And in spite of my protests, that's the way I was let in. But I might
not have started so prompt if it hadn't been for Vee eggin' me on.

"If they do move into town, you know," she suggests, "it will be rather
lonesome out here for the rest of the winter. We'll miss going there for
an occasional Sunday dinner, too. Besides, Stella ought to be saved from
that foolishness. She--she's too good a cook to be wasted on such a
place as Altoona."

"I'll say she is," I agrees. "I wish I knew where to begin blockin' her
off."

I expect some people would call it just some of my luck that I picks up
a clue less'n ten minutes later. Maybe so. But I had to have my ear
stretched to get it and even then I might have missed the connection if
I'd been doin' a sleep walkin' act. As it is I'm pikin' past the
servants' wing out toward the garage to bring around the little car for
a start home, and Stella happens to be telephonin' from the butler's
pantry with the window part open. And when Stella 'phones she does it
like she was callin' home the cows.

About all I caught was "Sure Maggie, dear--Madame Zenobia--two flights
up over the agency--Thursday afternoon." But for me and Sherlock that's
as good as a two-page description. And when I'd had my rapid-fire
deducer workin' for a few minutes I'd doped out my big idea.

"Vee," says I, when we gets back to our own fireside, "what friend has
Stella got that she calls Maggie, dear?"

"Why, that must be the Farlows' upstairs maid," says she. "Why,
Torchy?"

"Oh, for instance," says I "And didn't you have a snapshot of Stella you
took once last summer?"

Vee says she's sure she has one somewhere.

"Dig it out, will you?" says I.

It's a fairly good likeness, too, and I pockets it mysterious. And next
day I spends most of my lunch hour prowlin' around on the Sixth Ave.
hiring line rubberin' at the signs over the employment agencies. Must
have been about the tenth hallway I'd scouted into before I ran across
the right one. Sure enough, there's the blue lettered card announcin'
that Madame Zenobia can be found in Room 19, third floor, ring bell. I
rang.

I don't know when I've seen a more battered old battle-axe face, or a
colder, more suspicious pair of lamps than belongs to this old dame with
the henna-kissed hair and the gold hoops in her ears.

"Well, young feller," says she, "if you've come pussyfootin' up here
from the District Attorney's office you can just sneak back and report
nothing doing. Madame Zenobia has gone out of business. Besides, I ain't
done any fortune tellin' in a month; only high grade trance work, and
mighty little of that. So good day."

"Oh, come, lady," says I, slippin' her the confidential smile, "do I
look like I did fourth-rate gumshoein' for a livin'? Honest, now?
Besides, the trance stuff is just what I'm lookin' for. And I'm not
expectin' any complimentary session, either. Here! There's a ten-spot
on account. Now can we do business?"

You bet we could.

"If it's in the realm of Eros, young man," she begins, "I think----"

"But it ain't," says I. "No heart complications at all. This ain't even
a matter of a missin' relative, a lost wrist watch, or gettin' advice on
buyin' oil stocks. It's a case of a cook with a wilful disposition. Get
me? I want her to hear the right kind of dope from the spirit world."

"Ah!" says she, her eyes brightenin'. "I think I follow you, child of
the sun. Rather a clever idea, too. Your cook, is she?"

"No such luck," says I. "The boss's, or I wouldn't be so free with the
expense money. And listen, Madame; there's another ten in it if the
spirits do their job well."

"Grateful words, my son," says she. "But these high-class servants are
hard to handle these days. They are no longer content to see the cards
laid out and hear their past and future read. Even a simple trance
sitting doesn't satisfy. They must hear bells rung, see ghostly hands
waved, and some of them demand a materialized control. But they are so
few! And my faithful Al Nekkir has left me."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"One of the best side-kicks I ever worked with, Al Nekkir," says Madame
Zenobia, sighin'. "He always slid out from behind the draperies at just
the right time, and he had the patter down fine. But how could I keep a
real artist like that with a movie firm offering him five times the
money? I hear those whiskers of his screen lovely. Ah, such whiskers!
Any cook, no matter how high born, would fall for a prophet's beard like
that. And where can I find another?"

Well, I couldn't say. Whiskers are scarce in New York. And it seems
Madame Zenobia wouldn't feel sure of tacklin' an A1 cook unless she had
an assistant with luxurious face lamberquins. She might try to put it
over alone, but she couldn't guarantee anything. Yes, she'd keep the
snapshot of Stella, and remember what I said about the brother in
Altoona. Also it might be that she could find a substitute for Al Nekkir
between now and Thursday afternoon. But there wasn't much chance. I had
to let it ride at that.

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