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.
"I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin' before.[Illustration: "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."]
"I don't think I ever saw Auntie come so near beamin' before.[Illustration: "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."]
"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."
I expect you'll admit that when Mr. Robert slides out at 11 A.M. and don't show up again until after three he's stretchin' the lunch hour a bit. But, whatever other failin's I may have, I believe in bein' easy with the boss. So, when he breezes into the private office in the middle of the afternoon, I just gives him the grin, friendly and indulgent like.
"Well, Torchy," he calls over to me, "have I missed anyone?"
"Depends on how it strikes you," says I. "Mr. Hamilton Adams has near burned out the switchboard tryin' to get you on the 'phone. Called up four times."
"Ham, eh?" says he, shruggin' his shoulders careless. "Then I can hardly say I regret being late. I trust he left no message."
"This ain't your lucky day," says I. "He did. Wants to see you very special. Wants you to look him up."
"At the club, I suppose?" says Mr. Robert.
"No, at his rooms," says I.
"The deuce he does!" says Mr. Robert. "Why doesn't he come here if it's so urgent?"
"He didn't say exactly," says I, "but from hints he dropped I take it he can't get out. Sick, maybe."
"Humph!" says Mr. Robert, rubbin' his chin thoughtful. "If that is the case—" Then he stops and stares puzzled into the front of the roll-top, where the noon mail is sorted and stacked in the wire baskets.
I don't hear anything more from him for two or three minutes, when he signals me over and pulls up a chair.
"Ah—er—about Ham Adams, now," he begins.
"Say, Mr. Robert," says I, "you ain't never goin' to wish him onto me, are you? Why, him and me wouldn't get along a little bit."
"I must concede," says he, "that Mr. Adams has not a winning personality. Yet there are redeeming features. He plays an excellent game of billiards, his taste in the matter of vintage wines is unerring, and in at least two rather vital scrimmages which I had with the regatta committee he was on my side. And, while I feel that I have more than repaid any balance due— Well, I can't utterly ignore him now. But as for hunting him up this afternoon—" Mr. Robert nods at the stacks of letters.
"Oh, all right," says I. "What's his number?"
Mr. Robert writes it on a card.
"You may as well understand my position," says he. "I have already invested some twenty-five hundred dollars in Mr. Adams' uncertain prospects. I must stop somewhere. Of course, if he's ill or in desperate straits— Well, here is another hundred which you may offer or not, as you find best. I am relying, you see, on your somewhat remarkable facility for rescuing truth from the bottom of the well or any other foolish hiding-place."
"Meanin', I expect," says I, "that you're after a sort of general report, eh?"
"Quite so," says Mr. Robert. "You see, it's a business errand, in a way. You go as a probing committee of one, with full powers."
"It's a tough assignment," says I, "but I'll do my best."
For I'd seen enough of Ham Adams to know he wa'n't the kind to open up easy. One of these bull-necked husks, Mr. Adams is, with all the pleasin' manners of a jail warden. Honest, in all the times he's been into the Corrugated general offices, I've never seen him give anyone but Mr. Robert so much as a nod. Always marched in like he was goin' to trample you under foot if you didn't get out of his way, and he had a habit of scowlin' over your head like he didn't see you at all.
I expect that was his idea of keeping the lower classes in their place. He was an income aristocrat, Ham was. Always had been. Phosphate mines down South somewheres, left to him by an aunt who had brought him up. And with easy money comin' in fresh and fresh every quarter, without havin' to turn a hand to get it, you'd 'most think he could take life cheerful. He don't, though. Hardly anything suits him. He develops into the club grouch, starin' slit-eyed at new members, and cultivatin' the stony glare for the world in general.
And then, all of a sudden, his income dries up. Stops absolutely. Something about not bein' able to ship any more phosphate to Germany. Anyway, the quarterly stuff is all off. I'd heard him takin' on about it to Mr. Robert—cussin' out the State Department, the Kaiser, the Allies, anybody he could think of to lay the blame to. Why didn't someone do something? It was a blessed outrage. What was one to do?
Ham's next idea seems to be who was one to do; and Mr. Robert, being handy, was tagged. First off it was a loan; a good-sized one; then a note or so, and finally he gets down to a plain touch now and then, when Mr. Robert couldn't dodge.
But for a month or more, until this S. O. S. call comes in, he don't show up at all. So I'm some curious myself to know just what's struck him. I must say, though, that for a party who's been crossed off the dividend list for more'n a year, he's chuckin' a good bluff. Some spiffy bachelor apartments these are that I locates—tubbed bay trees out front, tapestry panels in the reception-room, and a doorman uniformed like a rear-admiral. I has to tell the 'phone girl who I am and why, and get an upstairs O. K., before I'm passed on to the elevator. Also my ring at B suite, third floor, is answered by a perfectly good valet.
"From Mr. Ellins, sir?" says he, openin' the door a crack.
"Straight," says I.
He swings it wide and bows respectful. A classy party, this man of Mr. Adams', too. Nothing down-and-out about him. Tuxedo, white tie, and neat trimmed siders in front of his ears. One of these quiet spoken, sleuthy movin' gents he is, a reg'lar stage valet. But he manages to give me the once-over real thorough as he's towin' me in.
"This way, sir," says he, brushin' back the draperies and shuntin' me in among the leather chairs and Oriental rugs.
Standin' in the middle of the room, with his feet wide apart, is Mr. Adams, like he was waitin' impatient. You'd hardly call him sick abed. I expect it would take a subway smash to dent him any. But, if his man fails to look the part of better days gone by, Ham Adams is the true picture of a seedy sport. His padded silk dressin'-gown is fringed along the cuffs, and one of the shoulder seams is split; his slippers are run over; and his shirt should have gone to the wash last week. Also his chin is decorated in two places with surgeon's tape and has a thick growth of stubble on it. As I drifts in he's makin' a bum attempt to' roll a cigarette and is gazin' disgusted at the result.
"Why didn't Bob come himself?" he demands peevish.
"Rush of business," says I. "He'd been takin' time off and the work piled up on him."
"Humph!" says Adams. "Well, I've got to see him, that's all."
"In that case," says I, "you ought to drop around about—"
"Out of the question," says he. "Look at me. Been trying to shave myself. Besides— Well, I can't!"
"Mr. Robert thought," I goes on, "that you might—"
"Well?" breaks in Mr. Adams, turnin' his back on me sudden and glarin' at the draperies. "What is it, Nivens?"
At which the valet appears, holdin' a bunch of roses.
"From Mrs. Grenville Hawks, sir," says he. "They came while you were at breakfast, sir."
"Well, well, put them in a vase—in there," says Ham. And as Nivens goes out he kicks the door to after him.
"Now, then," he goes on, "what was it Mr. Robert thought?"
"That you might give me a line on how things stood with you," says I, "so he'd know just what to do."
"Eh?" growls Ham. "Tell you! Why, who the devil are you?"
"Nobody much," says I. "Maybe you ain't noticed me in the office, but I'm there. Private sec. to the president of Mutual Funding. My desk is beyond Mr. Robert's, in the corner."
"Oh, yes," says Adams; "I remember you now. And I suppose I may as well tell you as anyone. For the fact is, I'm about at the end of my string. I must get some money somewhere."
"Ye-e-es?" says I, sort of cagey.
"Did Bob send any by you? Did he?" suddenly asks Adams.
"Some," says I.
"How much?" he demands.
"A hundred," says I.
"Bah!" says he. "Why, that wouldn't— See here; you go back and tell Bob I need a lot more than that—a couple of thousand, anyway."
I shakes my head. "I guess a hundred is about the limit," says I.
"But great Scott!" says Adams, grippin' his hands desperate. "I've simply got to—"
Then he breaks off and stares again towards the door. Next he steps across the room soft and jerks it open, revealin' the classy Nivens standin' there with his head on one side.
"Ha!" snarls Ham. "Listening, eh?"
"Oh yes, sir," says Nivens. "Naturally, sir."
"Why naturally?" says Adams.
"I'm rather interested, that's all, sir," says Nivens.
"Oh, you are, are you?" sneers Ham. "Come in here."
He ain't at all bashful about acceptin' the invitation, nor our starin' at him don't seem to get him a bit fussed. In fact, he's about the coolest appearin' member of our little trio.
Maybe some of that is due to the dead white of his face and the black hair smoothed back so slick. A cucumbery sort of person, Nivens. He has sort of a narrow face, taken bow on, but sideways it shows up clean cut and almost distinguished. Them deep-set black eyes of his give him a kind of mysterious look, too.
"Now," says Ham Adams, squarin' off before him with his jaw set rugged, "perhaps you will tell us why you were stretching your ear outside?"
"Wouldn't it be better, sir, if I explained privately?" suggests Nivens, glancin' at me.
"Oh, him!" says Adams. "Never mind him."
"Very well, sir," says Nivens. "I wanted to know if you were able to raise any cash. I haven't mentioned it before, but there's a matter of fifteen months' wages between us, sir, and—"
"Yes, yes, I know," cuts in Ham. "But yon understand my circumstances. That will come in time."
"I'm afraid I shall have to ask for a settlement very soon, sir," says Nivens.
"Eh?" gasps Adams. "Why, see here, Nivens; you've been with me for five—six years, isn't it?"
"Going on seven, sir," says Nivens.
"And during all that time," suggests Ham, "I've paid you thousands of dollars."
"I've tried to earn it all, sir," says Nivens.
"So you have," admits Ham. "I suppose I should have said so before. As a valet you're a wonder. You've got a lot of sense, too. So why insist now on my doing the impossible? You know very well I can't lay my hands on a dollar."
"But there's your friend Mr. Ellins," says Nivens.
Ham Adams looks over at me. "I say," says he, "won't Bob stand for more than a hundred? Are you sure?"
"He only sent that in case you was sick," says I.
"You see?" says Ham, turnin' to Nivens. "We've got to worry along the best we can until things brighten up. I may have to sell off some of these things."
A cold near-smile flickers across Nivens' thin lips.
"You hadn't thought of taking a position, had you, sir?" he asks insinuatin'.
"Position!" echoes Ham. "Me? Why, I never did any kind of work—don't know how. Tell me, who do you think would give me a job at anything?"
"Since you've asked, sir," says Nivens, "why, I might, sir."
Ham Adams lets out a gasp.
"You!" says he.
"It's this way, sir," says Nivens, in that quiet, offhand style of his. "I'd always been in the habit of putting by most of my wages, not needing them to live on. There's tips, you know, sir, and quite a little one can pick up—commissions from the stores, selling second-hand clothes and shoes, and so on. So when Cousin Mabel had this chance to buy out the Madame Ritz Beauty Parlors, where she'd been forelady for so long, I could furnish half the capital and go in as a silent partner."
"Wha-a-at?" says Ham, his eyes bugged. "You own a half interest in a beauty shop—in Madame Ritz's?"
Nivens bows.
"That is strictly between ourselves, sir," says he. "I wouldn't like it generally known. But it's been quite a success—twelve attendants, sir, all busy from eleven in the morning until ten at night. Mostly limousine trade now, for we've doubled our prices within the last two years. You'll see our ads in all the theater programs and Sunday papers. That's what brings in the—"
"But see here," breaks in Ham, "how the merry dingbats would you use me in a beauty parlor? I'm just curious."
Nivens pulls that flickery smile of his again.
"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, sir," says he. "In fact, I have nothing to do with the active management of Madame Ritz's; only drop around once or twice a month to go over the books with Mabel. It's wonderful how profits pile up, sir. Nearly ten thousand apiece last year. So I've been thinking I ought to give up work. It was only that I didn't quite know what to do with myself after. I've settled that now, though; at least, Mabel has. 'You ought to take your place in society,' she says, 'and get married.' The difficulty was, sir, to decide just what place I ought to take. And then—well, it's an ill wind, as they say, that blows nobody luck. Besides, if you'll pardon me, sir, you seemed to be losing your hold on yours."
"On—on mine?" asks Ham, his mouth open.
Nivens nods.
"I'm rather familiar with it, you see," says he. "Of course, I may not fill it just as you did, but that would hardly be expected. I can try. That is why I have been staying on. I've taken over the lease. The agent has stopped bothering you, perhaps you have noticed. And I've made out a complete inventory of the furnishings. In case I take them over, I'll pay you a fair price—ten per cent. more than any dealer."
"Do—do you mean to say," demands Adams, "that you are paying my rent?"
"Excuse me, mine," says Nivens. "The lease has stood in my name for the last two months. I didn't care to hurry you, sir; I wanted to give you every chance. But now, if you are quite at the end, I am ready to propose the change."
"Go on," says Ham, starin' at him. "What change?"
"My place for yours," says Nivens.
"Eh?" gasps Ham.
"That is, of course, if you've nothing better to do, sir," says Nivens, quiet and soothin'. "You'd soon pick it up, sir, my tastes being quite similar. For instance—the bath ready at nine; fruit, coffee, toast, and eggs at nine-fifteen, with the morning papers and the mail laid out. Then at—"
"See here, my man," breaks in Adams, breathin' hard. "Are you crazy, or am I? Are you seriously suggesting that I become your valet?"
Nivens shrugs his shoulders.
"It occurred to me you'd find that the easiest way of settling your account with me, sir," says he. "Then, too, you could stay on here, almost as though nothing had happened. Quite likely I should go out a bit more than you do, sir. Well, here you'd be: your easy chair, your pictures, your favorite brands of cigars and Scotch. Oh, I assure you, you'll find me quite as gentlemanly about not locking them up as you have been, sir. I should make a few changes, of course; nothing radical, however. And, really, that little back room of mine is very cozy. What would come hardest for you, I suppose, would be the getting up at seven-thirty; but with a good alarm clock, sir, you—"
"Stop!" says Ham. "This—this is absurd. My head's swimming from it. And yet— Well, what if I refuse?"
Nivens lifts his black eyebrows significant.
"I should hope I would not be forced to bring proceedings, sir," says he. "Under the Wage Act, you know—"
"Yes, yes," groans Ham, slumpin' into a chair and restin' his chin on his hands. "I know. You could send me to jail. I should have thought of that. But I—I didn't know how to get along alone. I've never had to, you know, and—"
"Precisely, sir," says Nivens. "And allow me to suggest that another employer might not have the patience to show you your duties. But I shall be getting used to things myself, you know, and I sha'n't mind telling you. If you say so, sir, we'll begin at once."
Ham Adams gulps twice, like he was tryin' to swallow an egg, and then asks:
"Just how do—do you want to—to begin?"
"Why," says Nivens, "you might get my shaving things and lay them out in the bathroom. I think I ought to start by—er—dispensing with these"; and he runs a white hand over the butler siders that frames his ears.
Almost like he was walkin' in his sleep, Ham gets up. He was headed for the back of the suite, all right, starin' straight ahead of him, when of a sudden he turns and catches me watchin'. He stops, and a pink flush spreads from his neck up to his ears.
"As you was just sayin'," says I, "don't mind me. Anyway, I guess this is my exit cue."
I tries to swap a grin with Nivens as I slips through the door. But there's nothing doing. He's standin' in front of the mirror decidin' just where he shall amputate those whiskers.
First off Mr. Robert wouldn't believe it at all. Insists I'm feedin' him some fairy tale. But when I gives him all the details, closin' with a sketch of Ham startin' dazed for the back bathroom, he just rocks in his chair and 'most chokes over it.
"By George!" says he. "Ham Adams turning valet to his own man! Oh, that is rich! But far be it from me to interfere with the ways of a mysterious Providence. Besides, in six months or so his income will probably be coming in again. Meanwhile— Well, we will see how it works out."
That was five or six weeks ago, and not until Tuesday last does either of us hear another word. Mr. Robert he'd been too busy; and as for me, I'd had no call. Still, being within a couple of blocks of the place, I thought I might stroll past. I even hangs up outside the entrance a few minutes, on the chance that one or the other of 'em might be goin' in or out, I'd about given up though, and was startin' off, when I almost bumps into someone dodgin' down the basement steps.
It's Ham Adams, with a bottle of gasoline in one hand and a bundle of laundry under his arm. Looks sprucer and snappier than I'd ever seen him before, too. And that sour, surly look is all gone. Why, he's almost smilin'.
"Well, well!" says I. "How's valetin' these days?"
"Oh, it's you, is it?" says he. "Why, I'm getting along fine. Of course, I never could be quite so good at it as—as Mr. Nivens was, but he is kind enough to say that I am doing very well. Really, though, it is quite simple. I just think of the things I should like to have done for me, and—well, I do them for him. It's rather interesting, you know."
I expect I gawped some myself, hearing that from him. From Ham Adams, mind you!
"Ye-e-e-es; must be," says I, sort of draggy. Then I shifts the subject. "How's Mr. Nivens gettin' along?" says I. "Ain't married yet, eh?"
For a second Ham Adams lapses back into his old glum look.
"That is the only thing that worries me," says he. "No, he isn't married, as yet; but he means to be. And the lady—well, she's a widow, rather well off. Nice sort of person, in a way. A Mrs. Grenville Hawks."
"Not the one that used to send you bunches of roses?" says I.
He stares at me, and then nods.
"It seems that Mr. Nivens had already picked her out—before," says he. "Oh, there was really nothing between us. I'd never been a marrying man, you know. But Mrs. Hawks—well, we were rather congenial. She's bright, not much of a highbrow, and not quite in the swim. I suppose I might have— Oh, widows, you know. Told me she didn't intend to stay one. And now Mr. Nivens has come to know her, in some way; through his cousin Mabel, I suppose. Knows her quite well. She telephones him here. I—I don't like it. It's not playing square with her for him to— Well, you see what I mean. She doesn't know who he was."
"Uh-huh," says I.
"But I'm not sure just what I ought to do," says he.
"If you're callin' on me for a hunch," says I, "say so."
"Why, yes," says he. "What is it?"
"What's the matter," says I, "with beating him to it?"
"Why—er—by Jove!" says Ham. "I—I wonder."
He was still standin' there, holdin' the gasoline bottle and gazin' down the basement steps, as I passed on. Course, I was mostly joshin' him. Half an hour later and I'd forgot all about it. Never gave him a thought again until this mornin' I hears Mr. Robert explode over something he's just read in the paper.
"I say, Torchy," he sings out. "You remember Ham Adams? Well, what do you think he's gone and done now?"
"Opened a correspondence school for valets?" says I.
"Married!" says Mr. Robert. "A rich widow, too; a Mrs. Grenville Hawks."
"Zippo!" says I. "Then he's passed the buck back on Nivens."
"I—er—I beg pardon?" says Mr. Robert.
"You see," says I, "Nivens kind of thought an option on her went with the place. He had Ham all counted out. But that spell of real work must have done Ham a lot of good—must have qualified him to come back. Believe me, too, he'll never be the same again."
"That, at least, is cheering," says Mr. Robert.