Chapter 3

TORCHY HANDS OUT A SPILL

Maybe I've indulged, now and then, in a few remarks on Auntie. But, say, there's no danger of exhaustin' the subject--not a chance. For she's some complicated old girl, take it from me. First off, there's that stick-around disposition of hers. Now, I expect that just naturally grew on her, same as my pink thatch did on me. She can't help it; and what's the use blamin' her for it?

So, when I drop in for my reg'lar Wednesday and Sunday night calls, the main object of the expedition being to swap a little friendly chatter with Vee, and I find Auntie planted prominent and permanent in the sittin'-room, why, I just grins and makes the best of it.

A patient and consistent sitter-out, Auntie is. And you know that face of hers ain't exactly the chirky sort. Don't encourage you to get chummy, or tip her the confidential wink, or chuck her under the chin. Nothing like that--no.

Not a regular battle-ax, you understand. For all that, she ain't such a bad-lookin' old dame, when you get her in a dim light. Though the expression she generally favors me with, while it ain't so near assault and battery as it used to be, wouldn't take the place of two lumps in a cup of tea.

But you kind of get used to that acetic acid stuff after a while; and, since I'm announced by a reg'lar name now--"Meestir Beel-lard" is Helma's best stab at Ballard--and Auntie knowin' that I got a perfectly good uncle behind me, besides bein' a private sec. myself, why, she don't mean more'n half of it.

Besides, even with her sittin' right there in the room, there's a lot doin' that she ain't in on. Trust Vee. Say, she can drum out classical stuff on the piano and fire a snappy line of repartee at me all the while, just loud enough for me to catch and no more, without battin' an eye. Say, I'm gettin' quite a musical education, just helpin' to stall off Auntie that way. And you should see the cute schemes Vee puts over--settin' a framed photo so it throws the light in the old girl's eyes, or shiftin' our chairs so she has to stretch her neck to keep track of us.

Makes an evenin' call quite an excitin' game; and when we work in a few minutes of hand-holdin', or I get away with a hasty clinch, why, that scores for our side. So, for a personally conducted affair, it ain't so poor. I'm missin' no dates, I notice. And tuck this away; if it was a case of Vee and a whole squad of aunts, or an uninterrupted two-some with one of these nobody-home dolls, I'd pick Vee and the gallery. Uh-huh! I'm just that good to myself.

All was goin' along smooth and merry, too, until one Wednesday night I discovers another lid ahead of mine on the hall table. It's a glossy silk tile, with a pair of gray castor gloves folded neat alongside. Seein' which I reaches past Helma for the silver card-tray.

"Huh!" says I under my breath. "Now, who the giddy gallowampuses is Clyde Creighton?"

"Vair nice gentlemans, Meester Creeton," whispers Helma.

"I know," says I; "you're judgin' by the hat."

She springs that silly grin of hers, as usual. No matter what I say, it gets open-faced motions out of Helma. But I really wasn't feelin' so humorous. Whoever he was, this Creighton guy had come the wrong evenin'. Course, I judged it must be Vee he's callin' on, and I wasn't strong for a three-handed session just then. There was something special I wanted to talk over with Vee this particular evenin', and I couldn't see why--

But, my first glimpse of Clyde soothes me down a lot. He has curly gray hair, also a mustache that's well frosted up. He's a tall, slim built party, with a wide black ribbon to tie him to his eyeglasses. Seems to be entertainin' Auntie.

"Ah!" says he, inspectin' me casual over the shell rims. "Mr. Ballard?" And, with a skimpy little nod, he turns back to Auntie and goes on where he broke off, leavin' me to shake hands with myself if I wanted to.

I expect it served me right, cuttin' in abrupt on such a highbrow conversation as that. Something about the pre-Raphael tendencies of the Barbizon school, I think.

Culture! Say, if I'm any judge, Claude was battin' about 400. It fairly dripped from him. Talk about broad o's--he spilled 'em easy and natural, a font to a galley; and he couldn't any more miss the final g than a telephone girl would overlook rollin' her r's. And such graceful gestures with the shell-rimmed glasses, wavin' 'em the whole length of the ribbon when he got real interested.

I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin' before. She seems right at home, fieldin' that line of chat. And Vee, too, is more or less under the spell. As for me, I'm on the outside lookin' in. I did manage though, after doin' the dummy act for half an hour, to lead Vee off to the window alcove and get in a few words.

"Who's the professor?" says I.

"Why, he isn't a professor," says Vee.

"He's got the patter," says I. "Old friend of Auntie's, I take it?"

No, it wasn't quite that. Seems the late Mrs. Creighton had been a chum of Auntie's 'way back when they was girls, and the fact had only been discovered when Clyde and Auntie got together a few days before at some studio tea doins'.

"About how late was the late Mrs. C. C.?" says I.

"Oh, he has been a widower for several years, I think," says Vee. "Poor man! Isn't he distinguished-looking?"

"Ye-e-es," says I. "A bit stagey."

"How absurd!" says she. "Isn't it fascinating to hear him talk?"

"Reg'lar paralyzin'," says I. "I was gettin' numb from the knees down."

"Silly!" says Vee, givin' me a reprovin' pat. "Do be quiet; he is telling Auntie about his wife now."

Yep, he was. Doin' it beautiful too, sayin' what a lovely character she had, how congenial they was, and what an inspiration she'd been to him in his career.

"Indeed," he goes on, "if it had not been for the gentle influence of my beloved Alicia, I should not be what I am to-day."

"Say," I whispers, nudgin' Vee, "what is he to-day?"

"Why," says she, "why--er--I don't quite know. He collects antiques, for one thing."

"Does he?" says I. "Then maybe he's after Auntie."

First off Vee snickers, after which she lets on to be peeved and proceeds to rumple my hair. Clyde catches her at it too, and looks sort of pained. But Auntie's too much interested in the reminiscences to notice. Yes, there's no discountin' the fact that the old girl was fallin' for him hard.

Not that we thought much about it at that time. But later on, when I finds he's been droppin' in for tea, been there for dinner Saturday, and has beat me to it again Sunday evenin', I begins to sprout suspicions.

"He seems to be gettin' the habit, eh?" I suggests to Vee.

She don't deny it.

"Who's doin' the rushin'," says I, "him or Auntie?"

Vee shrugs her shoulders. "He came around to-night," says she, "to show Auntie some miniatures of the late Alicia. She asked to see them. Look! They are examining one now."

Sure enough they were, with their heads close together. And Auntie is pattin' him soothin' on the arm.

"Kind of kittenish motions, if you ask me," says I. "She's gazin' at him mushy, too."

"I never knew Auntie to be quite so absurd," says Vee.

"Say," I whispers, "how about givin' 'em a sample of the butt-in act, so they'll know how it seems?"

Vee smothers a giggle.

"Let's!" says she.

So we leaves the alcove and crashes in on this close-harmony duet. Vee has to see the miniatures of Alicia, and she has to show 'em to me. Also we pulls up chairs and sits there, listenin' with our mouths open, right in the midst of things.

Auntie does her best to shunt us, too.

"Verona," says she, "why don't you and Torchy get out the chafing-dish and make some of that delicious maple fudge you are so fond of."

"Why, Aunty!" says Vee. "When you know I've stopped eating candy for a month."

"You might play something for him," is Auntie's next suggestion. "That new chanson."

"But we'd much rather listen to you and Mr. Creighton," says Vee. "Hadn't we, Torchy?"

"Uh-huh," says I.

"Quite flattering, I'm sure," puts in Clyde, smilin' sarcastic, while Auntie shoots a doubtful look at me.

But we hung around just the same, and before ten o'clock Creighton announces that he must really be going.

"Me too," says I, cheerful. "I'll ride down with you if you don't mind."

"Oh, charmed!" says Clyde.

It wasn't that I was so strong for his comp'ny, but I'd just annexed the idea that it might be a good hunch to get a little line on exactly who this Mr. Clyde Creighton was. Vee don't seem to know anything very definite about him, outside of the Alicia incident; and it struck me that if there was a prospect of havin' him in the fam'ly, as it were, someone ought to see his credentials. Anyway, it wouldn't do any harm to pump him a bit.

"Pardon me for changing my mind," says Clyde, as we hits the sidewalk, "but I think I prefer to walk downtown."

"Just what I was goin' to spring on you," says I. "Fine evenin' for a little thirty-block saunter, too. Let's see, the Plutoria's where you're staying ain't it?"

"Why--er--yes," says he, hesitatin'.

I couldn't make out why he should choke over it, for I'd heard him say distinctly he was livin' there. But it was amazin' what an effect the night air had on his conversation works. Seemed to dry 'em up.

"Interested in antiques, are you?" says I, sort of folksy.

"Somewhat," says Clyde, steppin' out brisk.

"Odd line," says I. "Now, I could never see much percentage in havin' grandfathers' clocks and old spinning-wheels and such junk around."

"Really," says he.

"One of your fads, I expect?" says I.

"M-m-m," says he.

"Shouldn't think you'd find room in a hotel for such stuff," I goes on, doin' a hop-skip across a curb, "or do you have another joint, too?"

"Quite so," says he. "Studio."

"Oh!" says I. "Whereabouts?"

"In town," says he.

"Yes, most of 'em are," says I. "But I expect you'll be gettin' married again some of these days and settin' up a reg'lar home, eh?"

He stops short and gives me a stare.

"If I feel the need of discussing the project," says he, "I shall remember that you are available."

"Oh, don't mention it," says I.

Somehow, I didn't tap Clyde for so much real information. In fact, if I'd been at all touchy I might have worked up the notion that I was bein' snubbed.

I keeps step with Mr. Creighton clear to his hotel, where he swings in the Fifth Avenue entrance without wastin' any breath over fond adieus. I can't say why I didn't go on home then, instead of hangin' up outside. Maybe it was because the sidewalk taxi agent had sort of a familiar look, or perhaps I had an idea I was bein' sleuthy.

Must have been four or five minutes I'd been standin' there, starin' at the entrance, when out through the revolvin' door breezes Clyde, puffin' a cigarette and swingin' his walkin'-stick jaunty. He don't spot me until he's about to brush by, and then he stops short.

"Forgot something?" I suggests.

"Ah--er--evidently," says he, and whirls and marches back into the hotel.

"Huh!" says I, indicatin' nothin' much.

"Where to, sir?" says someone at my elbow.

It's the taxi agent, who has drifted up and mistaken me for a foolish guest.

Kind of a throaty, husky voice he has, that you wouldn't forget easy; and I knew them aëroplane ears of his couldn't be duplicated.

"Why, hello, Loppy!" says I. "How long since you quit runnin' copy in the Sunday room?"

"Well, blow me!" says he. "Torchy, eh?"

That's what comes of havin' been in the newspaper business once. You never know when you're going to run across one of the old crowd. I cut short the reunion, though, to ask about Creighton.

"The swell in the silk lid I just had words with," says I.

"Don't place him," says Loppy. "Never turned a flag for him, anyway. Why?"

"Oh, I'd kind of like to get a sketch of him," says I.

"That's easy," says Loppy. "Remember Scanlon, that used to be doorman at Headquarters?"

"Squint?" says I.

"Same one," says he. "Well, he's inside--one of the house detective squad. His night on, too. And say, if your man's one that hangs out here you can bank on Squint to give you the story of his life. Just step in and send a bell-hop after Squint. Say I want him."

And inside of two minutes we had Squint with us. He remembers me too, and when he finds I'm an old friend of Whitey Weeks he opens up.

"Yes, I've seen that party around more or less," says he. "Creighton, eh? Well, he's no guest. Yes, I'm sure he don't room here. He just blew through the north exit. What's his line?"

"Antiques, he says," says I.

"Oh, sure!" says Squint. "Now I have him located. He's a free-lunch hitter; I remember one of the barkeeps grouching about him. But say, if you're after full details you ought to have a talk with Colonel Brassle. He knows him. And the Colonel ought to be strolling in from the Army and Navy Club soon. Want to wait?"

"Long as I've started this thing, I might as well stay with it," says I.

Yep, I waits for the Colonel. Some enthusiastic describer, Colonel Brassle is, when he gets going. It was near 1 A.M. when I finally tears myself away; but I'm loaded up with enough facts about Creighton to fill a book. And few of 'em was what you might call complimentary to Clyde. For one thing, his dear Alicia hadn't found him as inspirin' as he had her. Anyway, she'd complained a lot about his hang-over disposition, and finally quit him for good five or six years before she passed on. Also, Clyde was no plute. He was existin' chiefly on bluff at present, and that studio of his was a rear loft over a delivery-truck garage down off Sixth Avenue. Then, there was other items just as interestin'.

But how I was goin' to get it all on record for Auntie I couldn't quite dope out. Anyway, there was no grand rush; it would keep. So I just lets things slide for a day or so. Maybe next Wednesday evenin' I'd have a chance to throw out a hint.

Then, here Tuesday afternoon I gets this trouble call from Vee. She's out at the corner drug store on the 'phone.

"It's about Auntie," says she. "She is acting so queerly."

"Any more so than usual?" I asks.

"She is going somewhere, and she hasn't told me a word about it," says Vee. "I found her traveling-bag, all packed, hidden under the hall-seat."

"The old cut-up!" says I. "What about Creighton--he been around lately?"

"Every afternoon and evening," says Vee. "He's to take her to a concert somewhere this evening. I'm not asked."

"Shows his poor taste," says I. "He's due there about eight o'clock, eh?"

"Seven-thirty," says Vee. "But I don't know what to think, Torchy--the traveling-bag and--"

"Don't bother a bit, Vee," says I. "Leave it to me. If it's Clyde at the bottom of this, I've as good as got him spiked to the track. Let Auntie pack her trunk if she wants to, and don't say a word. Give the giddy old thing a chance. It'll be all the merrier afterwards."

"But--but I don't understand."

"Me either," says I. "I'm a grand little guesser, though. And I'll be outside, in ambush for Clyde, from seven o'clock on."

"Will you?" says Vee,' sighin' relieved. "But do be careful, Torchy. Don't--don't be reckless."

"Pooh!" says I. "That's my middle name. If I get slapped on the wrist and perish from it, you'll know it was all for you."

Course, it would have been more heroic if Clyde hadn't been such a ladylike gent. As it is, he's about as terrifyin' as a white poodle. So I'm still breathin' calm and reg'lar when I sees him rollin' up in a cab about seven-twenty-five. I'm at the curb before he can open the taxi door.

"Sorry," says I, "but I'm afraid it's all off."

"Eh?" says he, gawpin' at me.

"And you with your suit-case all packed too," says I. "How provokin'! But they're apt to change their minds, you know."

"Do you mean," says he, "that--er--ah--"

"Something like that," I breaks in. "Anyway, you can judge. For, the fact is, some busybody has been gossipin' about your little trick of bawlin' out Alicia over the coffee and rolls and draggin' her round by the hair."

"Wha-a-at?" he gasps.

"You didn't mention the divorce, did you?" I goes on. "Nor go into details about your antique business? That Marie Antoinette dressin'-table game of yours, for instance. You know there is such a thing as floodin' the market with genuine Connecticut-made relics like that."

Gets him white about the gills, this jab does.

"Puppy!" he hisses out. "Do you insinuate that--"

"Not me," says I. "I'm too polite. But when you unload duplicates of the late Oliver Cromwell's writing-desk you ought to see that both don't go to friends of Colonel Brassle. Messy old party, the Colonel, and I understand he's tryin' to induce 'em to make trouble. Course, you might explain all that to Auntie; but in her present state of mind-- Eh? Must you be goin'? Any word to send up? Shall I tell her this wilt-thou date is postponed to--"

"Bah!" says Clyde, bangin' the taxi door shut and signalin' the chauffeur to get under way. I think I saw him shakin' his fist back at me as he drives off. So rough of him!

Upstairs I finds Auntie all in a flutter and tryin' to hide it. Vee looks at me inquirin' and anxious, but I chats on for a while just as if nothing had happened. Somehow, I was enjoyin' watchin' Auntie squirm. My mistake was in forgettin' that Vee was fidgety, too. No sooner has Auntie left the room, to send Helma scoutin' down to the front door, than I'm reminded.

"Ouch!" says I. Vee sure can pinch when she tries. I decides to report.

"Oh; by the way," says I, as Auntie comes back, "I just ran across Mr. Creighton."

"Yes?" says Auntie eager.

"He wasn't feelin' quite himself," says I. "Sudden attack of something or other. He didn't say exactly. But I expect that concert excursion is scratched."

"Scratched!" says Auntie, lookin' dazed.

"Canceled," says I. "Anyway, he went off in a hurry."

"But--but he-was to have--" And there she stops.

"I know," says I. "Maybe he'll explain later, though."

No wonder she was dizzy from it, and it's quite natural that soon after she felt one of her bad headaches comin' on. So Vee and Helma got busy at once. After they'd tucked her away with the ice-bag and the smellin'-salts, she asked to be let alone; so durin' the next half hour I had a chance to tell Vee all about Creighton and his career.

"But he did seem so refined!" says Vee.

"Yon got to be," says I, "to deal in fake antiques. His mistake was in tacklin' something genuine"; and I nods towards a picture of Auntie.

"I don't see how I can ever tell her," says Vee.

"It would be a shame," says I. "Them late romances come so sudden. Why not just let her press it and put it away? Clyde will never come back."

"Just think, Torchy," says Vee, sort of snugglin' up. "If it hadn't been for you!"

"That's my aim in life," says I--"to prove I'm needed in the fam'ly."