On the way in to his office that morning, Peter had told Peggy a little about Johnny Dwyer. Johnny had been a gay blade in his younger days, a rising popular star in the New York music halls. But a tragic horseback accident had broken his leg in three places and cut short his career as a song-and-dance man.
The publisher of theChronicle, then a new and struggling newspaper in New York, liked Johnny, felt sorry for him, and offered him a job keeping records for the drama department. It turned out to be a satisfactory arrangement for both sides. Johnny moved in and stayed.
For nearly half a century he watched the American theater parade through his bulging scrapbook and file cabinets. His memory was phenomenal and his list of acquaintances was as wide as the theater itself. In his own time, Johnny Dwyer had become sort of a legend, a living museum whose memory was a storehouse of theatrical lore. If anyone needed any information on the theater, they usually tried the public library first and then, if they couldn’t find it there, they came to Johnny. Sometimes, if they knew Johnny well, they didn’t even bother with the library. According to Peter, if anybody in New York knew where Tom Agate was, it would be Johnny Dwyer.
“Tom used to be a good friend of mine,” Johnny said, leaning back comfortably. “Many’s the night we’ve sat around and swapped stories.”
“Used to?” Peter asked in a troubled voice. “Is he dead?”
Johnny looked at Peter shrewdly. “Some people think so.”
“Do you?” Peter obviously didn’t know what to make of this strange reply.
Johnny stared up at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Look here, young fellow,” he said at last. “Tom Agate retired a long time ago.”
“I know that,” Peter said. “But we want to find him.”
Johnny Dwyer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has it occurred to you that he doesn’t want to be found?”
“Oh, come on now, Johnny,” Peter said in a pleading voice. “You know a lot more than you’re telling us. How about a break? We don’t want to bite the man. We just want to offer him a job.”
Johnny seemed startled. “A job? But he’s retired!”
“He’ll come out of retirement for this part,” Peter said confidently.
“Oh, it’s a play?”
Peter nodded. “A wonderful chance.”
Johnny shook his head and smiled. “Tom Agate’s heard that so many times. Believe me, he won’t listen. He’s finished with the theater.”
“Do you know why?” Peggy asked.
“I don’t have the slightest notion,” Johnny replied blandly. Despite his innocent expression, Peggy was almost certain the old man was lying to Peter. “All I know,” he went on smoothly, “is that fifteen years ago, Tom Agate told me he was quitting the stage. He didn’t give any reason and I didn’t ask. After all, you don’t stick your nose into someone else’s affairs.”
“Have you seen Tom lately?” Peter persisted.
“The last time I saw Tom was”—the old man cocked his head to one side—“oh, it must have been four years ago.”
“And he’d been retired then for eleven years?”
Johnny smiled briefly. “If my arithmetic isn’t off, I guess you’re right.”
“How was he?”
“Fine.” Johnny folded his hands and waited patiently for the next question. Peggy suddenly felt herself caught up in a mystery she didn’t understand. It was clear to her that Johnny Dwyer was not going to co-operate even though he had the information Peter wanted so desperately. She waited for the next move anxiously.
Peter leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “Johnny,” he said with quiet sincerity, “let me explain why we want to get in touch with Tom Agate.” He proceeded to tell Johnny aboutInnocent Laughterand the part reserved for Tom. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for him,” he concluded. “And, of course, I’m convinced that Tom would be ideal in the part.”
Johnny Dwyer sat perfectly still for several seconds after Peter had finished talking. At last he lifted himself to his feet, picked up his cane, and walked over to the window. Peggy noticed again how tiny and fragile he looked. “Peter, my boy,” he said finally, “I’m glad you feel that way about Tom. It’s nice to know that somebody still remembers him.”
“I’m sure that thousands of people all over the country remember him!” Peter interrupted excitedly.
Johnny smiled and nodded. “Perhaps. But Tom had his reasons for leaving when he did, and I don’t think anybody has the right to force him back. It’s a decision he’s got to make.”
Peter got up and walked over to Johnny. “I agree with you,” he said. “But we’re not going to force him. All I want is a chance to talk to him. He can make up his own mind.”
The two men—one old, the other young—stood staring at each other. Johnny Dwyer looked into Peter’s eyes as though he were trying to read his mind, then turned away. “No,” he said. “Get somebody else.”
Peter sighed and returned to his chair. “You say you saw Tom four years ago?”
“Mm-hm.” Johnny gave a little birdlike bob with his head.
Peter looked up abruptly. “Tell me something, Johnny. Was he happy?” The question was sharp and unexpected. For the first time Johnny seemed uncertain of his answer. “Or did he miss the theater?”
Johnny groped his way over to his chair and sank down. There was a troubled expression on his face. “Yes,” he said in a very quiet voice. “He missed the stage.” He looked over at Peggy and Peter. “You two,” he said, “you’ve been working in the theater for how long? Two years? Four years? Five years? Well, Tom Agate spent thirty years of his life on stage. It was everything he knew—and almost everything he loved.”
“Almosteverything?” The question came almost automatically, before Peggy had a chance to think about it. Johnny looked at her oddly. It was the first time she had spoken during the interview.
“Don’t ask me any more,” he said. “Just leave Tom alone.”
Peter shook his head stubbornly. “Why don’t you help us give Tom a chance to find happiness again?”
“By coming back to the theater?”
“Yes.”
“He’d never do it. I told you that.”
“Maybe he’s changed his mind.”
Johnny smiled and shook his head regretfully. Suddenly Peggy was on her feet, talking quickly and earnestly.
“Mr. Dwyer,” she said, “we don’t want to pry into Mr. Agate’s personal life. You said yourself no one should poke his nose into someone else’s business. Well, I agree. But at the same time you just admitted that he was unhappy and missed the theater. You said it was his whole life. Sometimes, Mr. Dwyer, people need help. They need to have their eyes opened so they can see the life they’re missing. The life that belongs to them if only they reach out and take it. Doesn’t Mr. Agate deserve a second chance? I—I don’t know what happened fifteen years ago. I don’t know why he left the stage and I wouldn’t dream of asking him.”
“Then whatdoyou want to ask him?”
“I want to ask him to come back to the life he loves,” Peggy said simply.
“I tried that myself,” Johnny said. “It didn’t work.”
Peggy pulled a chair over beside Johnny and looked into his face. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “the wrong person does the asking.”
Johnny stared at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Peggy was flushed and embarrassed at what she was about to say, but she held her ground. “We’re young,” she said as kindly as she could. “We’re still part of the theater he misses so much. Ifwewant him back, that’s different from....” Her voice trailed off in confusion as she anxiously watched Johnny’s reaction.
Johnny nodded in comprehension. “Different from an old fellow like me doing the asking. Somebody who’s through, himself. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” Peggy said almost in a whisper. “Except for one thing. You’re not through. You’ve still got your work. People need you—the newspaper needs you. Nobody needs Tom Agate, and he probably thinks nobody wants him.” She stood up and looked down at him. “But we want him.”
Johnny passed a hand over his face and rested his chin on the head of his cane. Slowly his head began to nod. “You’re right,” he said at last. “By gollies, I think you are.” He turned to Peter with an appreciative chuckle. “You should have let her do the talking right from the start.”
“Then you’ll help us?” Peggy cried eagerly.
Johnny got up and hobbled energetically over to a pile of scrapbooks. “I’ll do all I can,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not going to be much.”
“Johnny!” Peter was over beside the old man, clapping him enthusiastically on the back.
“Take it easy, now,” Johnny protested. “Frankly, I’d give a lot to see Tom Agate back on the stage. Remember that old song of his, ‘Kathleen Aroon’?”
Johnny was chuckling happily now, as if he had been relieved of a great burden of responsibility.
“Hold on.” Peter laughed. “He won’t be doing any songs inInnocent Laughter. It’s a straight play.”
“What a pity,” Johnny sighed. “Did you ever hear him sing?” he asked Peggy. “I guess not,” he said before she could answer. “You’d be too young. But that was his theme song. He used to sing it everywhere. I think he included it in every show he ever played.”
“How does it go?” Peggy asked.
“Like this.” Johnny turned and faced them.
“Why should we parted be, Kathleen Aroon,When thy fond heart’s with me, Kathleen Aroon?Come to these golden skies,Bright days for us may rise,Oh! dry those tearful eyes, Kathleen Aroon.”
“Why should we parted be, Kathleen Aroon,
When thy fond heart’s with me, Kathleen Aroon?
Come to these golden skies,
Bright days for us may rise,
Oh! dry those tearful eyes, Kathleen Aroon.”
Even though Johnny sang with the thin voice of an old man, Peggy found herself listening to every phrase. When he finished, she held out her hands to him.
“That was beautiful,” she breathed. “I never knew that such a simple song could be so lovely.”
Johnny smiled modestly. “You should have heard Tom do it,” he said. “It always seemed to have a special meaning for him.”
Beside her, Peggy could feel Peter fidgeting restlessly. “Say, I’m sorry to break this up,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to the office. Can we have Tom Agate’s address?”
Johnny shook his head regretfully. “That’s just the trouble. I’m afraid he may have moved. All I’ve got is the place where he lived four years ago.”
“But mightn’t he still be there?” Peter asked anxiously.
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. You can try.”
“Well, where is it?”
Johnny wrote out an address that Peggy recognized as a place out in the suburbs beyond the city.
“That’s the best I can do,” Johnny said. “You can inquire there.”
“Great.” Peter took the paper and handed it over to Peggy. “That’s your job, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s hope you find him.”
“Wait a minute,” Peggy said, grabbing Peter by the arm. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“That’s easy,” Johnny said. “I’ve got a million photographs. Let me get you one. I’ll try to get the best likeness for you.” He disappeared down a narrow aisle of file cases. A moment later he was back, blowing the dust from a large glossy photo. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “That’s just about the way he looks today. It was taken during the war.”
The picture showed a rather ordinary-appearing man. At first glance there was nothing particularly unusual about Tom Agate. But a closer look revealed a quality of gentle, almost melancholy, humor that seemed to dominate his face. Peggy held it out at arm’s length. “He looks so sad,” she said. “Somehow I expected him to be gay.”
“What did you think he’d be like?” Johnny asked quietly. “A circus clown?”
“No,” Peggy said. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Johnny said hastily. “All great clowns are sad. Or didn’t you know that?” He took the photograph from her, slipped it into a plain Manila envelope and returned it. “Here you are,” he said. “And good luck to you. I hope you find him.”
Peggy tucked the envelope under her arm and extended her hand. “Thanks a lot,” she said warmly. “We’ll let you know how we make out.”
Johnny walked them to the door of his office. “You do that,” he said. “And when you find Tom Agate, give him my regards.” He held the door Open. “Tell him for me that he was a fool ever to have listened to Johnny Dwyer. Tell him—tell him that his friends are waiting for him. It’s been too long.” He smiled and gripped their hands in farewell.
Paradise Avenue, just beyond New York City, in Astoria, stretched out in a straight, treeless line of two-family brick houses, each set back about thirty feet from the sidewalk. In general appearance, all the buildings were pretty much alike, although here and there a gaily painted front porch and cottage shutters hinted at the presence of a more imaginative homeowner.
The street was almost deserted. But then it was nearly one-thirty. The men were away at their jobs and the children at school. Peggy looked at the envelope in her hand. The address read 3612 Paradise Avenue. The bus driver had given her precise directions. This should be the 3600 block. Peggy moved slowly down the street, searching for the first house number. There it was—3601. That meant the house she wanted must be diagonally across the street. Peggy trotted over, ticked off the numbers, and stopped in front of a reddish-brown brick house. She turned up the walk, mounted the stairs, and reached out for the bell. As she touched it, she felt a strange sense of excitement build up inside her. The bell echoed hollowly. Peggy pressed it a second time.
“Just a minute!” came a woman’s voice.
Peggy stepped back and waited. Then she saw that the brick wasn’t brick at all, but some sort of imitation material. All the houses on the block must have been built the same way. It told of a lower middle-class neighborhood that prided itself on neatness and hoped for better times to come.
Suddenly, without warning, the door swung open and Peggy was face to face with a middle-aged woman who peered at her suspiciously. When she saw her caller was a young girl, the woman opened the door a little wider.
“Yes?” she asked.
Peggy put on her most pleasant smile and moved forward. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m looking for someone. A Mr. Tom Agate. Does he live here?”
“Agate?” The woman said. She shook her head slowly. “Nobody by that name here.”
“I know he lived here four years ago,” Peggy said hopefully. “He was an elderly gentleman.”
“Retired?”
Peggy’s heart leaped. “Yes. He was retired.”
The woman opened the door all the way and motioned Peggy inside. “Therewasa retired gentleman living with us. He rented the rear bedroom. But his name was Anderson.”
Peggy reached for the photograph. “I wonder if you’d recognize him if you saw his picture?”
The lady of the house nodded unhesitatingly. “Oh, yes, I’d know him.” She squinted at the photograph, took a closer look and blinked. “Let me get my glasses,” she said, turning away to go into the living room. “And shut the front door. It’s getting chilly.”
Peggy did as she was told and waited for the woman’s return. The tiny front hall was spotlessly clean and cheerily decorated with flowered prints and a single gold-framed mirror over a mahogany console table. Both furniture and floors were polished to a high gloss. Peggy sensed that this was a home where everything was dusted twice a day and where nothing was allowed to disturb a well-established routine.
“Are you a relative of Mr. Anderson’s?” The woman was back with a pair of plain glasses perched on her nose. Peggy saw that she was wearing soft bedroom slippers which accounted for her silent tread.
“Not exactly,” Peggy admitted. She wondered how to explain her interest. The real story would be too complicated to tell. “I’m just a friend. Actually,” she added hastily, “a friend of a friend. You see,” she said with sudden inspiration, “Mr. Agate—the man I’m looking for—has had a stroke of good fortune, and I’ve been assigned the job of finding him.”
The woman stared at Peggy with new respect. “I see,” she said solemnly. “Then you’re a private investigator?”
“Well, sort of,” Peggy answered.
The woman leaned forward. “Did he fall into an inheritance?” she asked in a hushed voice.
Peggy gulped and spoke in an equally quiet voice. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it,” she whispered.
The woman nodded conspiratorially. “I quite understand, my dear. Forgive me for asking.”
Peggy reassured her with a smile and held out the photograph. The woman studied it for a moment and slowly began to nod her head. “That’s the man,” she said at last. “That’s Mr. Anderson. I always said he was a real gentleman. Even though he did play the banjo.” She said the last with just a trace of exasperation as though playing the banjo was far too frivolous an occupation for a reliable person.
“Yes,” Peggy said excitedly. “That would be Mr. Agate.”
The woman shook her head sadly. “I wonder why he changed his name?” Her expression hardened into a severe frown of disapproval. “It doesn’t sound like the proper thing to do. I mean, it sounds as if he wanted to hide something. I never would have let him stay here if I’d known about that.”
“I’m sure you’re very careful,” Peggy broke in. “But—”
“This is a respectable house,” the woman said primly.
“Oh, I can see that,” Peggy assured her. “But when did Mr. Agate leave you? And do you know where he went?”
Tom Agate’s erstwhile landlady pressed her lips together in a thin line. “I don’t know anything about him,” she said shortly. “You just can’t trust people these days. Why, I was saying to Maude Benson the other day....”
Peggy realized that she was going to have to think and talk quickly in order to get information out of the woman. “I know how you must feel,” Peggy soothed. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “But Mr. Agate’s had a very sad life.”
The woman stopped and stared at Peggy with fresh interest. “Really!”
“Oh, yes,” Peggy said gravely. “He was orphaned at an early age. The only person to take care of him was a distant cousin who tried to disinherit him.”
The woman was clearly shocked. “No!”
“Yes. You see, Mr. Agate is the rightful heir to the Agate fortune.” Peggy held her fingers up to her lips. “Now you mustn’t breathe this to a soul.” The woman nodded breathlessly. “But Mr. Agate is the only son of Henry Agate. You know,” she prompted, “theAgate family. One of the wealthiest in America.”
The woman looked at Peggy in round-eyed wonder. “Oh, yes,” she said. “The Agates.”
“Of course, everybody’s heard of them,” Peggy said in an offhanded manner. “And that’s why Mr. Agate didn’t like to use the name.”
The woman brightened considerably. “Isn’t that the most romantic thing you ever heard of!” she practically crooned. “And to think that he was living right in our house! Just wait until I tell Maude!”
“Oh, you mustn’t!” Peggy cautioned. “You promised!”
“That’s right, I did.” She patted Peggy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, you can trust me.”
“Well, now,” Peggy went on in a more businesslike voice, “have you any idea where we can find Mr. Agate?” She put a slight emphasis on the “we” in order to give the woman a feeling that she was part of the search.
The woman suddenly clapped her hands together. “I just remembered something. When Mr. Agate left here two years ago he told me where he was going. It was a place way over in Baywater on the other side of Long Island. I remember thinking it was rather strange to go so far off, but then he said he wanted to live near the ocean.”
“Did he give an address?”
The woman shook her head regretfully. “No, he refused to leave any. He said there wouldn’t be any mail. And there wasn’t.”
“Can’t you remember anything more than that?”
The woman closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He let the address slip once. It was Tidewater Road, I’m sure of that.”
“And the number?”
There was a sigh. “I can’t—wait a minute. I think it was twenty-nine hundred something Tidewater Road.” She opened her eyes eagerly. “Yes, I know it was. It was the twenty-nine-hundred block.”
Peggy hurriedly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. “Well, thank you very much,” she said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“I wish I could have done more for poor Mr. Agate. He really was such a nice gentleman.”
“If I locate him, I’ll give him your regards,” Peggy promised.
The woman danced nervously around Peggy, obviously reluctant to see her go. “Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, my dear?”
Peggy declined as gracefully as she could. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m going to have to get to Baywater this afternoon.”
The woman was now eager to help. “If you take the number fourteen bus down at the end of the block, it will get you to the Long Island Railroad Station. I’m sorry I don’t have a timetable.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Peggy said, edging toward the door. “I’ll be able to manage. Thank you again.” Peggy turned the handle of the front door and stepped out on the porch.
As Peggy fled down the steps, she heard a muffled “good-by” as the door slammed shut. That would be the woman on her way to the telephone to tell Maude Whatever-her-name-was all about the famous Mr. Agate. Well, let her, Peggy thought to herself with a smile. No harm in that.
She directed her footsteps to the bus stop at the corner. “Tidewater Road,” she murmured to herself. “Not much to go on, but I’m not going to give up now.”
Paradise Avenue, with its imitation brick houses and neat garden plots, might have had some pretensions, but Tidewater Road had none. Here the houses were built of frame, most of them in need of a new coat of paint, many of them badly wanting repairs. Even the streets seemed uncared for. Scraps of old newspapers rustled in the gutters, and the pavement itself was cracked and worn. Looking at its bleak row of buildings, Peggy felt like catching the next train back to the city. Tom Agate couldn’t be living here.
She had to remind herself that she had made a promise as she crossed the street and approached the first house on the block. A child’s tricycle, one wheel twisted awkwardly out of shape, lay on its side across the steps. Peggy picked her way gingerly around it, crossed the porch, and put her finger on the bell. No sound came from the house so she tried knocking.
“Yeah?” came a thin, querulous voice, but inside the house nothing moved.
Peggy stepped back, wondering what to do next. “Excuse me,” she called at last. “I wonder if you could give me some information.”
“We don’t want none,” answered the same voice.
“I’m not selling anything,” Peggy replied. “I just want some help.”
There was a moment’s silence and then the shuffling of feet. A suspicious face appeared at the door and examined Peggy narrowly. It was an older woman, dressed in a worn housecoat with her hair up in pin curls.
“Yeah? Whatcha want?”
Peggy fumbled at her envelope and drew out the photograph. “I’m trying to locate somebody,” she said. “I understand that he lives in this neighborhood, and I wonder if you know him?” She held out the picture for inspection.
The door opened a little wider as the woman leaned down to examine the photograph. The pin curls gave a decisive shake.
“Naw. Never saw him.”
The next instant the door was slammed shut and Peggy found herself alone on the porch. She made her way carefully back down the steps and out to the sidewalk. Finding Tom Agate was going to be much harder than she had anticipated.
There was no answer at the next house. In the one following lived a woman who spoke no English. The trail became warmer at the third house where a woman said she thought the face looked familiar, but couldn’t place it. The next five houses were blanks.
By now it was well after four o’clock in the afternoon. Peggy knew she had time for only two or three more calls before taking the train back to New York. Peter Grey had arranged to meet her at the Broadway Drugstore on Forty-eighth Street at eight-thirty, giving her barely enough time to get back to the city, bolt down some supper, and keep her appointment. But the next three houses could give her no fresh information and Peggy decided that she had had enough for one day. She would return in the morning and finish the rest of the houses on the block.
As she turned to retrace her footsteps to the bus stop on the corner, her eye was caught by a bright flash of color. Four doors down from where she stood was a house decorated with two window boxes full of fall flowers. Peggy wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. The house itself was weatherworn, and like all the other houses on the block, in need of a fresh coat of paint. But somehow it gave the impression of a home that had been carefully tended. The porch was neat, the lawn had been recently raked of leaves, and someone had even tried to trim the hedges. Standing in the midst of such careless neglect, the house seemed to sparkle with life and friendly invitation.
Before she realized it, Peggy was standing at the front door, listening to a set of chimes peal softly at her touch. The door was opened by a pleasant-looking woman who was drying her hands on a towel. When she saw Peggy, her face broke into a smile of welcome.
“Come in,” she said. “You caught me washing some things in the kitchen.”
Peggy stepped into a clean, simply furnished front hall. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she said. “But I’m trying to locate someone, and I thought maybe you could help me.” Peggy displayed her photograph again and waited for the reaction. But this time, instead of a blank stare and a quick shake of the head, she was met with an exclamation of surprise.
“But that’s Mr. Armour!” the woman cried in a delighted voice.
“Mr. Armour?”
“Yes. He lived with us for over a year and a half.”
“You mean he’s moved?” Peggy heard the disappointment in her own voice. Tom Agate had chosen another name.
“I’m afraid he has,” the woman said. She beckoned Peggy into the living room. “Here, won’t you come in for a few moments? You look tired.”
“Well, yes, I am,” Peggy admitted. “I’ve been going since early this morning.”
“Trying to find Mr. Armour?” the woman asked, sitting down in an easy chair.
Peggy nodded as she took a chair near the door. “Yes. It’s a terribly complicated story, but believe me, it’s important that I locate him.”
“I’ll be happy to tell you all I know,” the woman said. “A little less than two years ago, Mr. Armour rang my front doorbell and asked if he could rent a room. Well, I had never rented a room before, but it just so happened that my son had recently left home.” The woman smiled shyly. “He had just gotten married, you see.”
Peggy smiled back and nodded.
“He has a little baby girl now. Lives in upstate New York. We’ll be going to see them for Thanksgiving.” The woman paused and laughed. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Anyway,” she said, returning to her story, “I told him all right and about a week later he moved in. Well, we couldn’t have had a nicer man in our house—not even if we had picked him ourselves. Always cheerful he was, and very quiet.”
“You say he was quiet?” Peggy interrupted. “Didn’t he ever play the banjo?”
The woman beamed. “He certainly did. He used to play it for us in the evenings. He was very good, you know.”
Peggy nodded. “Yes, I know. Do you remember any of the tunes he used to play?”
“Let’s see now. Well, he played all the old favorites—Stephen Foster and ... oh, I can’t remember what-all.”
“Did he ever play ‘Kathleen Aroon’?”
“How did you know that?” the woman cried. “That was one he did all the time. Beautiful too. Simply lovely.”
Peggy sighed. It must have been Tom Agate. She wondered if he was still calling himself Armour. He seemed to change his name each time he moved.
“What happened to him?” she asked.
“He left us. About three months ago.”
Three months! Peggy almost groaned aloud. “Have you any idea where he went?”
The woman shook her head slowly. “No. He didn’t leave a forwarding address. He said there wouldn’t be any mail.”
This matched the story Peggy had heard earlier that afternoon. “He didn’t give you any hint about where he was going?”
“No. None at all.” The woman looked at Peggy sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid....”
“Do you know why he left?”
The woman paused and stared down at the floor. “I think so,” she said in a troubled voice. “It was because he couldn’t afford to pay the rent any more. I was perfectly willing to let him stay, but he insisted on going. He said that he couldn’t allow himself to accept charity. I tried to explain that his presence gave us real pleasure and that was payment enough, but he wouldn’t listen. One day he went out and just never came back....” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged helplessly.
“Didn’t he take his banjo with him?”
“Yes, he took that. But not very far.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a little boy in the house next door. Tommy Stanton, his name is. Mr. Armour was very fond of Tommy. They used to spend hours together. He even taught Tommy how to play the banjo a little, and before he left, he gave it to him.”
Peggy passed a hand across her forehead. Every trail seemed to lead to a dead end. Tom Agate had disappeared without a trace. Peggy finally gathered herself together and stood up. “Thank you very much,” she said. “I guess that just about finishes any chance of finding my friend.”
“I guess so,” the woman agreed sadly. “Unless”—she got up and put her finger against her lips—“you want ... listen,” she whispered. “There’s Tommy playing now.”
Peggy listened carefully and heard the sound of a banjo being plucked. It seemed to be coming from the back yard. “Maybe Tommy knows something about him. Would you like to ask?” the woman inquired.
“I certainly would,” Peggy said, moving toward the front door.
“Here,” cried the woman, taking her by the arm. “Come around the back way. It’s quicker.”
Moving quietly, the woman led the way through the kitchen and out the back door into the yard. The sound of the banjo was now loud and clear. “Tommy!” cried the woman. “Oh, Tommy! Can you come here a minute?”
The music stopped and in a moment a small tousled head appeared over a back fence. “Hello, Tommy,” the woman said in a friendly voice. “This nice young lady said she wanted to meet you.”
A small tousled head appeared over a back fence.
A small tousled head appeared over a back fence.
The face above the fence gave a scowl of annoyance but held its position. Peggy walked over and smiled. “How do you do, Tommy?” she said. “I like the way you play the banjo.”
There was no answer to this. A pair of eyes gazed at her steadily, and Peggy could hear the sound of a foot impatiently kicking the other side of the fence. She decided that flattery was going to get her nowhere with Tommy, and abandoned it for a more direct approach.
“I bet I know who taught you how to play,” she said. “It was Mr. Armour, wasn’t it?”
The scuffing stopped and Peggy thought she detected a flash of interest. She held out the picture to the little boy. “That’s Mr. Armour, isn’t it?”
The boy’s eyes grew round and he nodded his head briefly. “You know Mr. Armour?” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“No,” Peggy admitted. “I don’t. But I want to.”
“Why?” Tommy demanded. “You want to learn how to play?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Tommy nodded. “He can teach you. He can teach anybody.” He eyed her moodily. “Even girls.”
“I bet he can,” Peggy said, wondering why all little boys seemed to have such vast scorn where girls were concerned. “The only trouble is,” she went on, “I don’t know where to find him. Do you know?”
The kicking on the other side of the fence started in again. Tommy lowered his eyes and stared at Peggy’s feet. “It’s a secret,” he muttered.
“What is?”
“Where Mr. Armour went.”
Peggy’s heart almost missed a beat. She tried to keep her voice calm. “Can’t you tell me?”
The kicking increased to a thunderous volley. “Nope,” Tommy said abruptly.
“Oh, please,” Peggy begged. “I want to see him so badly.”
Tommy’s lower lip stuck out as he considered Peggy’s request. “I want to see him too,” he announced.
“Well, if you tell me where he is,” Peggy said, “maybe I can get him to come back.”
The kicking stopped a second time as Tommy paused to appraise this new idea. Then quite suddenly, he disappeared. For a moment Peggy thought he had gone back into his house, but the next instant, a gate swung open and Tommy marched into the yard, holding a banjo in one hand. He stopped in front of Peggy and looked at her earnestly. “Honest?” he said. “You really think you can get him to come see me?”
“I’ll try,” Peggy promised. “I’ll try as hard as I can.”
Indecision was stamped all over Tommy’s face, but in the end the desire to see his old friend won out.
“He’s gone far away from here,” he said in a clear voice that left no room for doubt.
“How far?”
“To a place where there are kings and queens and all sorts of magic things. There’s a one-eyed giant there who looks after everybody and sees to it that everybody is happy. Mr. Armour told me. He said he’d always be happy ’cause he’d be with friends. It’s a place where everybody lives in trunks.”
“In trunks!” Peggy exclaimed.
Tommy nodded solemnly. “That’s what he said. He told me I mustn’t miss him too much on account of he was going to be very, very happy and safe.”
“Did he say where this place was?”
Tommy shook his head. “Just that it’s far away.”
Peggy and the woman looked at each other blankly. Kings and queens who lived in trunks with a one-eyed giant to guard them! It didn’t makeanysense.
“When you find him,” Tommy was saying, “tell him I can play lots better now, and I want him to come and hear me.”
“I will,” Peggy said automatically. “I’ll tell him.”
“Okay,” Tommy said with a satisfied nod. “I gotta go now.”
“All right.” Peggy held out her hand, but Tommy backed resolutely away from it. He turned and ran for the gate. “G’by,” he called.
“Good-by,” Peggy said. The gate swung open and Tommy disappeared.
A one-eyed giant! Where on earth could Tom Agate be living? Peggy turned thoughtfully back to the house.
“Honestly, Peter, that’s what he said.”
Peter Grey lowered his cup into his saucer. “Kings and queens,” he muttered incredulously.
“And don’t forget the one-eyed giant,” Peggy reminded him.
“Don’t worry, I’m not,” Peter assured her, “but I’d rather think about one thing at a time.”
Peggy and Peter were sitting in a back booth of the Broadway Drugstore. Outside, the streets were comparatively empty. Half an hour earlier they had been jammed curb to curb with honking taxicabs threading through thousands of hurrying people on their way to an evening at the theater, a first-run movie, or a late dinner. But by now everyone had reached his destination. The streets off Broadway would be quiet for another two hours. Then, as if some unseen force had released a floodgate, the big doors to the theaters and movie palaces would swing open, and the rush would begin all over again.
“Do you think it was all his imagination?” Peter was asking.
Peggy shook her head. “I’m sure he didn’t make it up,” she said.
“I don’t mean the boy,” Peter said. “I mean Tom.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To cheer up the little boy. To keep him from being sad about his leaving.”
Peggy toyed with her cup of tea. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Maybe it all means something. Maybe Johnny Dwyer could help us.”
“Yes, but not until tomorrow morning,” Peter pointed out. “And we don’t have that much time left.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “We’ve got to figure it out tonight.” He pushed his coffee cup to one side. “Let’s start at the beginning and try to put ourselves in Tom Agate’s position. First of all, how much do we know?”
“Well,” Peggy said thoughtfully, “we know that three months ago he ran out of money and left the house on Tidewater Road. It seems to me that there are four possibilities.”
“All right. Let’s have them.”
“He found a job.”
Peter shook his head. “That’s not likely. All he knew was the theater. And if he had gotten a job in show business people would have heard about it.”
“What about some other kind of job?”
“What could he do? He was too old to be hired for a regular position.”