Torchy, Private Sec.

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"Huh!" says I. "Listens like a case of circumstances over which---- But
where did you pick up that trick of speakin' of coppers as bobbies?"

"I beg pardon, Sir?" says she.

"That tells it," says I. "English, ain't you?"

"London, Sir, Brompton Road," says she.

"Been over long?" says I.

"A matter of three months, Sir," says she.

"And what's the name?" says I.

"Mine?" says she. "Helma Allston. And yours, please, Sir?"

I wa'n't lookin' for her to send it back so prompt. She ain't at all
fresh about it, you know: just easy and natural. I don't know when I've
run across a youngster with such nice manners.

"Why," says I, "I guess you can call me Torchy."

"Thank you, Mr. Torchy," says she, doin' a little dancin'-school duck.
"And if you don't mind, I'd like to--to stay here for a minute or two
while I think what I 'd best---- O-o-o-oh!" She sort of moans out this
last panicky and shrinks against the wall.

"Well, what's the trouble now?" says I.

"That's the one!" she whispers husky. "The--the man in the blue cap--the
one who told me about the work papers. He said I was to clear out too."

And by followin' her scared glances I discovers this low-brow store
sleuth scowlin' ugly at her.

"Pooh!" says I. "Only one of them cheap flat-foots. Don't mind him.
You're waitin' with me, you know. Here!" And I reaches down a hand to
her.

Maybe it wa'n't some grateful look Helma flashes up as she slips her
slim, cold little fingers into mine and snuggles up like a lost kitten.
The store sleuth he stares puzzled for a second; but the near-English
top coat must have impressed him, for he goes sneakin' back down the
main aisle.

So here I am, with this freaky little stray under my wing, when Vee
comes sailin' out, all trim and classy in her silver fox furs, with a
cute little hat to match, and takes in the picture. Maybe you can guess
too, how the average young queen in her set would have curled her lip at
sight of that faded cape and oversized cap. But not Vee! She just
indulges in a flickery smile, then straightens her face out and remarks:

"Well, Torchy, I haven't had the pleasure, have I?"

Say, she's a real sport, Vee is, take it from me!

"Guess not," says I. "This is Helma, late of London, just now at large.
It's a case of one's havin' mislaid one's home."

"Oh!" says Vee, a little doubtful. "And one's parents too?"

"Painful subject," says I, shakin' my head warnin'.

But Helma ain't the kind to gloss things over. She speaks right out. "If
you please, Miss," says she, "I've no mother, and Daddums has been taken
up--the bobbies, you know. And I fancy the money he left for my board
must have been all used; for I heard the landlady say I'd have to go to
a home. So before daylight this morning I slipped out the front door.
I'm not going back, either. I--I'm looking for work."

"For work!" says Vee, starin' first at me and then at Helma. "You absurd
little thing! Why, how old are you?"

"I was twelve last month, Miss," says Helma, bobbin' polite.

"And you've been out since daylight?" demands Vee. "Where did you have
breakfast and luncheon?"

"I--I didn't have them at all, Miss," admits Helma.

Vee presses her lips together sudden and then shoots a knowin' look at
me. "There!" says she. "That reminds me. I haven't had tea, either.
Well, Torchy?"

"My blow," says I. "I was just goin' to mention it. There's a joint
somewhere near, ain't there?"

"Top floor," says Vee. "Come, Helma, you'll go with us, won't you?"

And you should have seen the admirin' look Vee got back in exchange for
the smile she gives Helma! The look never fades, either, all the while
Helma is puttin' away a pot of chocolate, a club sandwich, and an order
of toasted muffins and marmalade. She just lets them big eyes of hers
travel up and down, from Vee's smooth-fittin' gloves to the little wisp
of straw-colored hair that curls up over the side of her fur hat. You
couldn't blame Helma. I took a peek now and then myself.

Meanwhile we has a good chance to inspect this waif that's been sort of
wished on us. Such a sharp, peaked little face she has, and such bright,
active eyes, that it gives her a wide-awake, live-wire look, like a fox
terrier. Then the freckles--just spattered with 'em, clear across the
bridge of her nose and up to where the carroty hair begins. Like rust
specks on a knife blade, they were.

"You didn't get all those livin' in London, did you?" says I.

"Oh, no, Sir," says she. "Egypt mostly, and then down in Devon. You see,
Sir Alfred used to let Daddums take me along. Head butler, you know,
Daddums was--until the war. Then Sir Alfred went off with his regiment,
and Haldeane House was shut up, like so many others. Daddums was too old
to enlist, and besides there was no one to leave me with. So he had to
try for a place over here. I--I wish he hadn't. It was awful of the
bobbies, wasn't it?"

"Looks so from here," says I. "Was it jew'lry that was missin', or
what?"

"Money, Cook said," says Helma. "Oh, a lot! Fancy! Why, everyone knows
Daddums wouldn't do a thing like that. They could ask Sir Alfred.
Daddums was with him ever so long--since I was a little, little girl."

I glances across at Vee, and she glances back. That's all; but them big
eyes of Helma's don't miss it.

"You--you don't believe he took the money, do you?" says she, wistful
and pleadin'.

At which Vee reaches over and pats her soothin' on the hand. "I don't
believe a word of it," says she.

"He's a good Daddums," goes on Helma, spreadin' the last of the
marmalade on a buttered muffin. "He was going to take me to Australia,
where Uncle Verne has a big sheep ranch. And he'd promised to buy me a
sheep pony, all for my very own. I love riding, don't you? In Egypt I
had a donkey with a white face; but only hired from Hassan, you know.
And in Devon there was a cunning little Shetland that Hobbs would
sometimes let me take out. But here! I stay in a dark little room alone
for hours. I--I don't like it at all. But it costs such a lot to get to
Australia, and Daddums hasn't been well,--he's had a cold on his
chest,--and he's been afraid he would lose his place and have to go to a
hospital. Just before he was taken up, though, he told me we were to
sail for Melbourne soon. Daddums had found a way."

This time I took care that Helma wa'n't lookin' before I glances at Vee.
I shakes my head dubious, indicatin' I wa'n't so sure about Daddums. But
Vee only tosses up her chin and turns to Helma.

"Of course he would!" says she. "What have you in your lap, Child?"

The kid pinks up and produces a battered old doll,--one of these
cloth-topped, everlastin' affairs, that looks like it had come from the
Christmas tree quite some seasons back.

"This is my dear Arabella," says Helma in her old-maid way. "I suppose
I'm too old to play with dolls now; but I--I can't give her up. Only the
night before Daddums went off I missed her for a while and thought she
was lost. I cried myself to sleep. But what do you think? In the morning
I found her again, right beside me on the pillow. I haven't gone a step
without her since."

"You dear little goose!" says Vee, reachin' out impetuous and givin' her
a hug. "And where do you think you're going, you and your Arabella?"

"I don't know," says Helma. "Only I mustn't let them put me in a home;
for then I couldn't go with Daddums when he came out--you see?"

Sure, we saw--that and a lot more. I could tell that Vee was puzzlin'
over the situation by the way she was starin' at the youngster and
grippin' her muff. Course you might say we wa'n't any Rescue Mission, or
anything like that; but somehow this was diff'rent. Here was Helma,
right in front of us! And I'm free to admit the proposition was too much
for me.

"Gee!" says I. "Handed out rough sometimes, ain't it? What's the answer,
Vee?"

"There's only one," says she. "I'm going to take Helma home with me."

"What about Aunty?" says I.

At which Vee's lips come together and her shoulders straighten. "I
know," says she, "there'll be a row. Aunty's always saying that such
affairs should be handled by institutions. But this time--well, we'll
see. Come, Helma."

"Oh, is it true?" gasps the youngster. "May I go with you? May I?"

And as I tucked 'em into a taxi, Arabella and all, Vee whispers:
"Torchy, if you're any good at all, you'll go straight and find out all
about Daddums and just make them let him out!"

"Eh?" says I. "Make 'em--say, ain't that some life-sized order?"

"Perhaps," says she. "But you needn't come to see us until you've found
him. Good-by!"

Just like that I got it! And, say, there wa'n't any use tryin' to kid
myself into thinkin' maybe she don't mean it. I'd seen how strong this
story of little Helma's had got to her; and, believe me, when Vee gets
real stirred up over anything she's some earnest party--no four-flushin'
about her! And it don't seem to make much diff'rence who blocks the
path. Look at her then, sailin' off to go up against a stiff-necked,
cold-eyed Aunty, who's a believer in checkbook charity, and mighty
little of that! And just so I won't feel out of it she tosses me a job
that would keep a detective bureau and a board of pardons busy for a
month.

"Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' up the avenue after the cab. "And I pulled
this down just by bein' halfway human! Oh, very well, very well! Here's
where I strain something!"

Course, if I hadn't knocked around a newspaper office more or less, I
wouldn't have known where to begin any more than--well, than the average
private sec would. But them two years I spent outside the Sunday
editor's door wa'n't all wasted. For instance, that's where I got to
know Whitey Weeks. And now my first move is to pike down to old
Newspaper Row and locate him. Inside of half an hour we'd done a lot
too. We'd called up their headquarters' man on the 'phone and had him
sketch off the case against one Allston, a butler.

"Yep, grand larceny," says Whitey, his ear to the receiver. "We know
that. How much? Eh? Twenty thousand!"

"Ah, tell him to turn over: he's on his back!" says I. "Not twenty
thousand cash?"

"That's what he says," insists Whitey, "all in hundreds. Lifted out of a
secret wall safe."

"Ask him where this guy was buttling,--in a bank," says I, "or at the
Subtreasury?"

And Whitey reports that Allston was workin' for a Mrs. Murtha, West 76th
Street; "Mrs. Connie Murtha, you know," he goes on, "the big poolroom
backer, and one of the flossiest, foxiest widows in New York."

"Then that accounts for the husky wad," says I. "Twenty thousand! No
piker, was he? Ask your man who's on the case?"

"Rusitelli & Donahue," says Whitey. "Mike's a friend of mine too; but he
never talks much."

"Let's have a try, anyway," says I.

So we runs this partic'lar detective sergeant down, drags him away from
a penuchle game, and Whitey begins by suggestin' that we hear how he's
done some clever work on the Allston case.

"I got him right, that's all," says Mike. "And he'd faked up a nice
little stall too."

"Anything on him when you rounded him up?" asks Whitey.

Donahue shakes his head disgusted. "Stowed it," says he.

"Some cute, eh?" says Whitey.

"Bah!" says Mike. "Who was it sprung that tale about his being a big
English crook? The Yard never heard of him. I doped him out from the
first, though. Plain nut! The Chief wouldn't believe it until I showed
him."

"Showed him what?" says Whitey, innocent like.

"This," says the sleuth, haulin' out of his pocket a bulgy envelope. "I
found that in his room. Take a look," and he lifts the flap at the end.

"What the deuce!" says Whitey.

"Sawdust," says Mike, "just plain, everyday sawdust. I had it
analyzed,--no dope, no nothing. Now tell me, would anyone but a nut do a
thing like that?"

We both agreed nobody but a nut would; also we remarks in chorus that
Mr. Donahue is some classy sleuth, which he don't object to at all. In
fact, after I've explained how a relation of Allston's had asked me to
look him up he fixes it so I can get a pass into the Tombs. Followin'
which I blows Whitey to one of Farroni's seventy-five-cent spaghetti
banquets and then goes home to think a few chunks of thought.

As the case stood it looked bad for Daddums. A party like Mrs. Connie
Murtha, with all the police drag she must have, wa'n't goin' to be
separated from her reserve roll without makin' somebody squirm good and
plenty. He might have known that, if it was him turned the trick. Or was
he nutty, like Donahue had said? Before I went any further I had to
settle that point, and while I ain't strong for payin' visits through
the iron bars I was up early next mornin' and down presentin' my pass.

"You cub lawyers give me shootin' pains in the neck!" grumbles the
turnkey that tows me in.

"How'd you guess I wa'n't the new District Attorney?" says I. "Here,
have a perfecto for that pain." And that soothes him so much he loafs
against the tier rail while I knocks on the door of Cell 69.

"I beg pardon?" says a deep, smooth voice, and up to the bars steps a
tall, round-shouldered gent, with hair a little thin on top and a pair
of reddish-gray butler sideboards in front of his ears. Not a bad face
either, only the pointed chin is a little weak.

"I'm from Helma," says I.

That jolts him at the start. His hands go trembly, and twice he makes a
stab at speakin' before he can get the words out. "Is--isn't she all
right?" says he. "I left her in lodgings, you know. I--I trust she----"

"She quit," says I. "They was goin' to put her in a home. Picked me up
on the street, you might say. But she's safe enough now."

"Safe?" says he, dartin' over a suspicious look. "Where?"

"Take my word for it," says I. "Maybe we can swap a little information
later on. Now what about this grand larceny charge?"

"All rubbish!" says he. "Why, I hadn't been out of the house! They admit
that. If I'd taken the money, wouldn't it have been found on me?"

"Then they pinched you on the premises?" says I. "I rather thought from
what Helma said you'd been to see her that night?"

"Not since the night before," says he. "Helma was down in the kitchen
with Cook when they came."

"Huh!" says I, rubbin' my chin as a help to deep thought. "The night
before?"

I don't know why, either, but somehow that makes me think of sawdust,
and from sawdust--say, I had it in a flash.

"Sorry, Allston," says I, "but on account of Helma I was kind of in hopes
they was just makin' a goat of you. She's a cute youngster--Helma."

"She is all I have to live for, Sir," says he, bowin' his head.

"Then why take such chances as this?" says I. "Twenty thousand! Say, you
know this ain't any jay burg. You can't expect to get away with a wad
like that."

"I know nothing about the money," says he, stiffenin' up. "They'll have
to find it to prove I took it."

"Big mistake No. 2," says I. "They got to convict somebody, and the
arrow points to you. About fifteen years would be my guess. Now come,
Allston, what good would you be after fifteen years' hard?"

He shivers, but shrugs his shoulders dogged. "Poor little Helma!" says
he. "Where is she?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Allston," says I, "but that ain't the order of events.
It's like this: First off you tell me where the wad is; then I tell you
about Helma."

Makes him groan a bit, that does, and he scowls at me stubborn. "They
tried all that on at Headquarters," says he. "It's no use."

"You'd get off lighter if you told," says I.

"I've nothing to tell," he insists.

"How about swappin' what you know for two tickets to Australia?" I
suggests.

"Hah!" says he. "Helma's been talkin'!"

"She's a chatty youngster," says I, "and she thinks a heap of her
Daddums. I ain't sure, though, whether you come first--or Arabella."

If I hadn't been watchin' for it, I might not have noticed, but the
quiver that begins in the fingers grippin' the bars runs clear up to the
sagged shoulders. His mouth twitches nervous, and then he gets hold of
himself.

"Oh, yes," says he, forcin' a smile. "Her doll. She--she still has that,
has she?"

"Uh-huh!" says I, watchin' him keen. "I'm keepin' close track of both."

That little touch did the business. He begins pacin' up and down his
cell, wringin' his hands. About the fourth lap he stops.

"If I only could take her to Australia," says he, "and get her out
of--of all this, I would be willing to--to----"

"That's enough," says I. "All I want is your O. K. on any terms I can
make with Mrs. Murtha."

"She's a hard woman," says he. "And she doesn't come by her money
straight."

"Nor lose it easy," says I. "She wants it back. Might talk business,
though, if I could show her how----"

"Anything!" says Allston. "Anything to get me out!"

"Now you're usin' your bean," says I. "I'm off. Maybe you'll hear from
me later."

Course I didn't know what could be done, but I 'phones Piddie at the
office to tell 'em I won't be in before lunch, and then I boards an
uptown subway express. Easy enough findin' Mrs. Connie Murtha too. She's
just finished a ten o'clock breakfast. A big, well-built, dashin' sort
of party she is, with an enameled complexion and drugged hair. She's
brisk and businesslike.

"If you've come to beg me to let up on that sneaking English butler,"
says she, "you needn't waste any more breath. He's going to do time for
this job."

"But suppose he could be coaxed into tellin' where the loot was?" says
I.

"He's had the third degree good and strong," says she. "The boys told me
so. He won't squeal. Donahue says he ain't right in his head. Anyway, he
goes up."

"He's leavin' a little girl," I puts in, "without anyone to look after
her."

"Most crooks do," says she, sniffin'.

"But if you could get the wad back?" says I.

"All of it?" says she quick.

"Every bean," says I.

She leans forward, starin' at me hard and eager. "He'll tell, then?"
says she.

"Said he would," says I, "providin' him and the little girl could be
shipped to Australia."

She chews that over a minute. "That's cheap enough," says she. "I could
claim I'd remembered putting the money somewhere and forgotten. Young
man, it's a bargain. I'll have my lawyer go down and----"

"Say," I breaks in, "why fat up a lawyer? Let's settle this between you
and me."

"But how?" says she.

"Just a minute," says I, lookin' her full in the eyes. "I'm playin' you
to give Allston a square deal, you know."

"You can bank on that," says she. "Connie Murtha's word was always as
good as government bonds. And if you can wish back that twenty thousand,
I'll put a quick crimp in this prosecution."

"What could be fairer than that?" says I. "I'll be back in an hour."

It was only forty-five minutes, in fact; but Mrs. Connie was watchin'
for me.

"Let's have a pair of scissors," says I, as I sheds my overcoat and
produced from under one arm, where it had been buttoned up snug and
tight, about the worst-lookin' doll you ever saw. I hadn't figured on
Mrs. Murtha goin' huffy so sudden, either.

"You fresh young shrimp you!" she blazes out. "What's that?"

"This is Arabella," says I. "She's sufferin' from a bad case of
undigested securities, and I got to amputate."

She stands by watchin' the operation suspicious and ready to lam me one
on the ear, I expect. But on the way down I'd sounded Arabella's chest,
and I was backin' my guess. When I found the coarse stitchin' done with
heavy black thread I chuckles.

"More or less the worse for wear, Arabella, eh?" says I. "But how that
youngster did hang onto her! Little Helma Allston, you know. And me
offerin' to swap a brand-new two-dollar one that could open and shut its
eyes! 'It's for Daddums,' I says at last, and she gives up. There! Now
we're gettin' to it. No wonder Arabella was some plump!"

"Well, of all places!" gasps out Mrs. Murtha, and, believe me, it don't
take her long to leave Arabella flat as a pancake. "But how did he
manage to----"

"It was the night before," says I. "You didn't miss the roll until the
next afternoon. And he ain't a reg'lar crook, you know. It was a case of
bein' up against it,--sickness, and wantin' to get away somewhere with
the kid. Honest, he don't strike me as such a bad lot: only a little
limber in the backbone. Better count it."

"All there," she announces after runnin' through the bunch. "And maybe
I'm not tickled to get it back! Catch me forgetting to lock that safe
again! But I thought no one knew. Allston must have seen me moving the
picture and guessed. Well, I'm not sore. Poor devil! I'll call up the
District Attorney's office right away. He gets those tickets to
Australia, too. Leave that to me."

Yep! Mrs. Connie wa'n't chuckin' any bluff. She went down herself and
had the indictment ditched.

I didn't mean to stage any heart-throb piece, either; but it just
happens that yesterday, when we pulls off the final act, Vee tells me
that Helma is in the libr'y, playin' nurse and hairdresser to Aunty's
chief pet, a big orange Persian that she calls Prince Hal. That's how
Helma had won out with Aunty, you know, by makin' friends with the cat.

"You tell her," says Vee.

So I steps in quiet where the youngster is busy with the comb and brush.
"Someone special to see Miss Helma," says I.

"To see me?" says she, droppin' pussy and gazin' at the door. "Why, who
can---- O-o-o-o-o! Daddums! Daddums!"

And as they rush to a fond clinch in one room something happens to me in
the other. Uh-huh! I'm caught around the neck quick, and something soft
and sweet hits me on the right cheek, and the next minute I'm bein'
pushed away just as sudden.

"No, no!" says Vee. "That's enough. You're a dear, all the same. Of
course I knew he didn't take it; but how in the world did you ever make
them let him go?"

"Cinch!" says I. "I saw through the sawdust, and they didn't."

I couldn't let on, though, about that inside tip I got from Arabella.

CHAPTER X

THEN ALONG CAME SUKEY

It looked like it was Kick-in Day, or something like that; for here was
Nutt Hamilton, a sporty young plute friend of Mr. Robert's, that I'm
tryin' to entertain, camped in the private office, when fair-haired
Vincent comes in off the brass gate to report respectful this new
arrival.

"A gentleman to see Mr. Robert, Sir," says he.

"Well, he's still out," says I.

"So I told him, Sir," says Vincent; "but then he asks if Mr. Ferdinand
isn't here. I didn't know, Sir. Is there a----"

"Sure, Vincent, sure!" says I. "Brother-in-law Ferdie, you know. What's
the gentleman's real name?"

"Mr. Blair Hiscock," says Vincent, readin' the card.

"Ever hear that one?" I asks Hamilton, and he says he ain't. "Must be
some fam'ly friend, though," I goes on. "We'll take a chance, Vincent.
Tell Blair to breeze in."

I might have had bean enough to have looked for another pair of
shell-rimmed glasses too. That's what shows up. Only this party, instead
of beamin' mild and foolish through 'em, same as Ferdie does, stares
through his sort of peevish. He's a pale-haired, sharp-faced, undersized
young gent too, and dressed sort of finicky in one of them Ballyhooly
cape coats, an artist necktie, and a two-story soft hat with a striped
scarf wound around it.

"Well?" says I, leanin' back in the swing chair and doin' my best to
spring the genial smile.

"Isn't Ferdinand here, then?" he demands, glancin' about impatient.

"Good guess," says I. "He ain't. Drifts in about once a month, though,
as a rule, and as it's been three weeks or so since he was here last,
maybe you'd like to----"

"How absurd!" snaps Blair. "But he was to meet me here to-day at this
time."

"Was, eh?" says I. "Well, if you know Ferdie, you can gamble that he'll
be an hour or two behind, if he gets here at all."

"Thanks," says Blair, real crisp. "You needn't bother. I fancy I know
Ferdie quite as well as you do."

"Oh, I wa'n't boastin'," says I, "and you don't bother me a bit. If you
think Ferdie's liable to remember, you're welcome to stick around as
long as----"

"I'll wait half an hour, anyway," he breaks in.

"Then you might as well meet Mr. Hamilton," says I. "Friend of Mr.
Robert's--Marjorie's too, I expect."

The two of 'em nods casual, and then I notices Nutt take a closer look.
A second later a humorous quirk flickers across his wide face.

"Well, well!" says he. "It's Sukey, isn't it?"

At which Mr. Hiscock winces like he'd been jabbed with a pin. He flushes
up too, and his thin-lipped, narrow mouth takes on a pout.

"I don't care to be called that," he snaps back.

"Eh?" says Nutt. "Sorry, old man; but you know, up at the camp summer
before last--why, everyone called you Sukey."

"A lot of bounders they were too!" flares out Blair. "I--I'd asked them
not to. And I'll not stand it! So there!"

"Oh!" says Hamilton, grinnin' tantalizin'. "My error. I take back the
Sukey, _Mr._ Hiscock."

There's some contrast between the pair as they faces each other,--young
Hiscock all bristled up bantam like and glarin' through his student
panes; while Nutt Hamilton, who'd make three of him, tilts back easy in
the heavy office armchair until he makes it creak, and just chuckles.

He's a chronic josher, Nutt is,--always puttin' up some deep and
elaborate game on Mr. Robert, or relatin' by the hour the horse-play
stunts he's pulled on others. A bit heavy, his sense of humor is, I
judge. His idea of a perfectly good joke is to call up a bald-headed
waiter at the club and crack a soft-boiled egg on his White Way, or
balance a water cooler on top of a door so that the first party to walk
under gets soaked by it,--playful little stunts like that. And between
times, when he ain't makin' merry around town, he's off on huntin'
trips, killin' things with portable siege guns. You know the kind,
maybe.

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