And yet, I've had people ask me if this private sec. job didn't get sort of monotonous! Does it? Say, listen a while!
I was breezin' through the arcade here the other noon, about twenty minutes behind my lunch schedule, when someone backs away from the marble wall tablets the agents have erected in honor of them firms that keep their rent paid. Some perfect stranger it is, who does the reverse goose step so unexpected that there's no duckin' a collision. Quite a substantial party he is, too, and where my nose connects with his shoulder he's built about as solid as a concrete pillar.
"Say," I remarks, when the aurora borealis has faded out and I can see straight again, "if you're goin' to carom around that way in public, you ought to wear pads."
"Oh, I'm sorry," says he. "I didn't mean to be so awkward. Hope you're not hurt, sir."
Then I did do some gawpin'. For who'd ever expect a big, rough-finished husk like that, would have such a soft, ladylike voice concealed about him? And the "sir" was real soothin'.
"It's all right," says I. "Guess I ain't disabled for life. Next time, though, I'll be particular to walk around."
"But really," he goes on, "I—I'm not here regularly. I was just trying to find a name—a Mr. Robert Ellins."
"Eh?" says I. "Lookin' for Mr. Robert, are you?"
"Then you know him?" he asks eager.
"Ought to," says I. "He's my boss. Corrugated Trust is what you should have looked under."
"Ah, yes; I remember now," says he. "Corrugated Trust—that's the part I'd forgotten. Then perhaps you can tell me just where—"
"I could," says I, "but it wouldn't do you a bit of good. He's got appointments up to 1:15. After that he'll be taking two hours off for luncheon—if he comes back at all. Better make a date for to-morrow or next day."
The solid gent looks disappointed.
"I had hoped I might find him to-day," says he. "It—it's rather important."
At which I sizes him up a little closer. Sort of a carrot blond, this gent is, with close-cropped pale red hair, about the ruddiest neck you ever saw off a turkey gobbler, and a face that's so freckled it looks crowded. The double-breasted blue serge coat and the blue flannel shirt with the black sailor tie gives me a hunch, though. Maybe he's one of Mr. Robert's yacht captains.
"What name?" says I.
"Killam," says he. "Rupert Killam."
"Sounds bloodthirsty," says I. "Cap'n, eh?"
"Why—er—yes," says he. "That is what I am usually called."
"I see," says I. "Used to sail his 60-footer, did you?"
No, that wasn't quite the idea, either. That's somewhere near his line, though, and he wants to see Mr. Robert very particular.
"I think I may assure you," the Captain goes on, "that it will be to his advantage."
"In that case," says I, "you'd better tell it to me; private sec., you know. And if you make a date that's what you'll have to do, anyway. Suppose you come along and feed with me. Then you can shoot the details durin' lunch and we'll save time. Oh, I'll charge it up to the firm, never fear."
The Cap. don't seem anxious to have his information strained through a third party that way, but I finally convinces him it's the regular course for gettin' a hearing so he trails along to the chophouse. And, in spite of his flannel shirt, Rupert seems well table broken. He don't do the bib act with his napkin, or try any sword-swallowin' stunt.
"Now, what's it all about?" says I, as we gets to the pastry and demitasse.
"Well," says Killam, after glancin' around sleuthy and seein' nobody more suspicious than a yawnin' 'bus boy, "I have found the lost treasure of José Caspar."
"Have you?" says I, through a mouthful of strawb'ry shortcake. "When did he lose it?"
"Haven't you ever read," says he, "of Gasparilla?"
"Is it a new drink, or what?" says I.
"No, no," says he. "Gasparilla, the great pirate, once the terror of the Spanish Main. Surely you must have read about him."
"Nope," says I. "That Nick Carter junk never got to me very strong."
The Cap. stares at me sort of surprised and pained.
"But this isn't a dime-novel story I am telling," he protests. "José Caspar was a real person—just as real as George Washington or John Paul Jones. He was a genuine pirate, too, and the fact that he had his headquarters on the west coast of Florida is well established. It's history. And it is also true that he buried much of his stolen treasure—gold and jewelry and precious stones—on some one of those thousands of sandy keys which line the Gulf coast from Anclote Light to White Water Bay. For nearly two hundred years men have hunted for that treasure. Why even the United States Government once sent out an expedition to find it. But I, Rupert Killam, have at last discovered the true hiding place of that secret hoard."
Can you beat that for a batty conversation to be handed across the table, right on Broadway at high noon? But say, take it from me, this Rupert party is some convincin' spieler. With that low, smooth voice of his, and them buttermilk blue eyes fixed steady and earnest on mine, I was all but under the spell for a minute or so there. Then I shakes myself and gets back to normal.
"Say," says I, "you ain't lookin' to put any such fancy tale as that over on Mr. Robert, are you?"
"I hope I can interest him in the enterprise," says Killam.
"Well, take my advice and don't waste your time," says I. "He's a good deal of a sport and all that, but I don't think he'd fall for anything so musty as this old doubloon and pieces-of-eight dope."
"I have proofs," says Rupert, "absolute proofs."
"Got the regulation old chart, eh," says I, "with the lone tree marked by a dagger?"
No, he didn't have a chart. He went on to say how the treasure was buried on a certain little island under a mound in the middle of a mangrove swamp. He'd been there. He'd actually helped dig into one corner of the mound. He had four pieces of jewelry that he'd taken out himself; and nobody knew how many chests full was left.
"Back up!" says I. "Why didn't you go on diggin'?"
But he's right there with a perfectly good alibi. Seems, if he dug up anything valuable and got caught at it, he'd have to whack up a percentage with the owner of the land. Also, the government would holler for a share. So his plan is to keep mum, buy up the island, then charter a big yacht and cruise down there casually, disguised as a tourist. Once at the island, he could let on to break a propeller shaft or something, and sneak ashore after the gold and stuff at night when the crew was asleep.
The Cap. explains that to do it right would take more cash than he could raise. Hence his proposition for lettin' in Mr. Robert to finance the expedition. No, he didn't know Mr. Robert personally, but he'd heard a lot about him in one way or another, and understood he was generally willin' to take a chance.
"Maybe you're right," says I. "Anyway, he shouldn't miss hearin' this lovely yarn of yours. You come back with me and I'll see if I can't fix it durin' the afternoon. Let's see, what did you say the name of this island was?"
"I didn't say," says Rupert. "I can tell you the old Spanish name, however, which no one on the west coast seems to know. It is Nunca Secos Key—meaning the key that is never dry."
"Huh!" says I. "That listens better in Spanish. Better not translate if you want to make a hit."
"I am merely stating the facts as they are," says Rupert.
He's a serious-minded gink, and all frivolous cracks are lost on him completely. He's a patient waiter, too. He sticks around for over two hours without gettin' restless, until finally Mr. Robert blows in from the club. First chance I gets, I springs Rupert on him.
"A guy with a great little scheme," says I, winkin'. "If you can spare ten minutes he'll tell you something worth while, so he says."
"Very well," says Mr. Robert. "But ten minutes must be the limit."
Say, it was rich, too, watchin' Mr. Robert's face as he listens to this weird tale of pirates and buried gold. First off he was tryin' to be polite, and only smiled sarcastic; but when Rupert gets to spreadin' on the romance, Mr. Robert starts drummin' his fingers on the desk and glancin' at his watch.
Right in the midst of the recital, too, Old Hickory drifts out of his private office, and stands waitin' with his ear cocked. He has a report or something he wants to ask a question about, and I was lookin' every minute to see him crash right in. But Rupert is in high gear, and goin' stronger all the while; so Mr. Ellins just stands there and listens. The Cap. had got to the part where he describes this mysterious island with the mound in the middle, when Mr. Robert shrugs his shoulders impatient.
"My good fellow," says he, "whatever gave you the notion I would be interested in such rubbish? Sorry, but your time is up. Torchy, will you show Mr.—er—what's-his-name to the elevator?"
Which I did as comfortin' as I knew how. Course, he's feelin' some hurt at bein' choked off so abrupt, but he takes it calm enough.
"Oh, well," says he, "perhaps I can find someone else who will appreciate that this is the opportunity of a lifetime."
"Sure you can," says I. "Broadway's just lined with willin' ears."
I'd loaded him into an elevator and was strollin' through the waitin'-room, when Old Hickory comes paddin' out as slinky as a man of his weight can.
"Young man," says he, "where is that Captain person?"
"About the tenth floor by now, sir," says I.
"Bring him back," says Mr. Ellins, sharp and snappy. "Through the private entrance. Understand?"
I nods and makes a dive into an upbound car that's just makin' a stop at the seventeenth. "Hey, Jimmy, reverse her! I'll square you with the starter. That's it. Shoot us down."
So, when Rupert steps out on the ground floor, I'm there to take him by the arm and lead him back into the elevator.
"Why—why, what's the matter now?" he asks.
"Couldn't say," says I. "Only you're wanted again. It's the Big Boss this time—Old Hickory Ellins himself. And lemme put you hep to this, Cap'n; if that's a phony tale you're peddlin', don't try it on him."
"But it's all true—every word of it," insists Rupert.
"Even so," says I, "I wouldn't chance it on with Old Hickory. He's a hard-headed old plute, and that romance dope is likely to make him froth at the mouth. If he starts in givin' you the third degree, or anything like that, you'd better close up like a clam. Here we are, and for the love of Pete draw it mild."
You see, I hadn't minded passin' on a freak to Mr. Robert, for he often gets a laugh out of 'em. But Mr. Ellins is different. The site of his bump of humor is a dimple at the base of his skull, and if he traces up the fact that I'm the one who turned Rupert and his pirate yarn loose in the general offices my standin' as a discriminating private sec. is goin' to get a sad jolt.
So when Cap'n Killam has been in on the carpet near an hour, with no signs of his either havin' been let out or fired through a window, I begins to get nervous. Once Mr. Robert starts to go into Old Hickory's sanctum; but he finds the door locked, and shortly after that he shuts his roll-top and leaves for the day.
It's near closin' time when Old Hickory opens the door an inch or two, throws a scouty glance around, and beckons me mysterious to come in. Rupert is still there and still alive. In fact, he's chokin' over one of Mr. Ellins' fat black cigars, but otherwise lookin' fairly satisfied with himself.
"Young man," says Old Hickory, "I understand that you have heard some of Captain Killam's story."
"Eh?" says I, careless like. "Oh, yes; I believe he did feed a little of that tale to me, but—"
"You will kindly forget to mention it about the office," he cuts in.
"Yes, sir," says I. "That'll be the easiest thing I do. At the time it sounded mighty—"
"Never mind how it sounded to you," says he. "Your enthusiasms are easily aroused. Mine kindle somewhat more slowly, but when— Well, no need to discuss that, either. What I want you to do is to take Captain Killam to some quiet little hotel—the Tillington, for instance—and engage a comfortable room for him; a room and bath, perhaps."
"Ye-es, sir," I gasps out.
"In the morning," he goes on, "you will call for the Captain about nine o'clock. If he has with him at that time certain odd pieces of antique jewelry, you may report over the 'phone to me and I will tell you what to do next."
I expect I was gawpin' some, and starin' from one to the other of 'em, for Mr. Ellins scowls and clears his throat menacin'.
"Well?" he growls.
"I was just lettin' it sink in, sir," says I.
"Humph!" he snorts. "If it will help the process any, I may say that I am considering the possibility of going on a cruise South with Captain Killam—for my health."
At which Old Hickory drops his left eyelid and indulges in what passes with him for a chuckle.
That's my cue to grin knowin', after which I gets my hat and starts off with Rupert. We'd only got into the corridor when Old Hickory calls me hack, wavin' a twenty.
"Pay for two days in advance," says he, and then adds in a whisper: "Keep close track of him. See that he doesn't get away, or talk too much."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Gag and bind, if necessary."
But there don't seem to be much need of even warnin' Rupert. He hardly opens his mouth on the way up to the hotel, but trails along silent, his eyes fixed starey, like he was thinkin' deep.
"Well," says I, after a bell-hop had shown us into one of the Tillington's air-shaft rooms and gone for ten cents' worth of ice water, "it looks like you had the Big Boss almost buffaloed with that pirate tale of yours."
Rupert don't enthuse much at that.
"As a cautious business man," says he, "I suppose Mr. Ellins is quite right in moving slowly. He wants to see the jewelry, and he wishes time to investigate. Still, it seems to me that my story ought to speak for itself."
"That's the line," says I. "Stick to that. But I wouldn't chatter about it to strangers."
Rupert smiles indulgent.
"Thank you," says he. "You need not fear. I have kept my secret for three years—and I still hold it."
He's a dramatic cuss, Rupert. I leaves him posin' in front of the mirror on the bathroom door, gazin' sort of romantic at himself.
"Not a common, everyday nut," as I explains to Vee that night, when I goes up for my reg'lar Wednesday evenin' call, "but a nut, all the same. Sort of a parlor pirate, too."
"And you think there isn't any buried treasure, after all?" asks Vee.
"Don't it sound simple?" I demands.
"I'm not so sure," says Vee, shakin' her head. "There were pirates on the Florida coast, you know. I've read about them. And—and just fancy, Torchy! If his story were really true!"
"What was the name of that island, again?" puts in Auntie.
Honest, I hadn't thought she was takin' notice at all when I was givin' Vee a full account of my afternoon session with Rupert. She never does chime in much with our talk. And I judged she was too busy with her sweater-knittin' to hear a word. But here she is, askin' details.
"Why," says I, "Captain Killam calls it Nunca Secos Key."
"What an odd name!" says Auntie. "And you left him at some hotel, did you? The—er—"
"Tillington," says I.
"Oh, yes," says Auntie, and resumes her knittin' placid.
Course, there I was, gassin' away merry about what Old Hickory wanted kept a dead secret. But I usually do tell things to Vee. She ain't one of the leaky kind. And Auntie don't go out much. Besides, who'd think of an old girl like that ever bein' interested in such wild back-number stuff? How foolish!
So I wasn't worryin' any that night, and at quarter of nine next mornin' I shows up at the hotel to send up a call for Rupert.
"Captain Killam?" says the room clerk with the plastered front hair. "Why, he left an hour or more ago."
"Yes, I know," says I; "but he was coming back."
"No," says the clerk; "he said he wasn't. Took his bag, too."
"Wha-a-at!" I gasps. "He—he ain't gone for good, has he?"
"So it seems," says the clerk, and steps back to continue his chat with the snub-nosed young lady at the 'phone exchange.
How was that for an early mornin' bump? What was the idea, anyway? Rupert had found a prospective backer, hadn't he? And was bein' taken care of. What more could he ask? Unless—unless someone else had got next to him. But who could have heard of this—
"Gee!" I groans. "I wonder?"
I couldn't stand there starin' foolish across the register and do the wonderin' act all day, though. Besides, I wanted to follow a clew. It ain't a very likely one, but it's better'n nothing. So I slides out and boards a Columbus Avenue surface car, and inside of twenty minutes I'm at Auntie's apartments, interviewin' Helma, her original bonehead maid.
No, Miss Verona wasn't at home. She'd gone for her morning ride in the park. Also Auntie was out.
"So early as this?" says I. "When did Auntie get away?"
"Before breakfast yet," says Helma. "She telephone long time, then a gentlemans coom, and she go out."
"Not a gent with pale hair and plenty of freckles on his face?" I asks.
Helma gazes thoughtless at the ceilin' a minute.
"Yah," says she. "Den have funny face, all—all rusty."
"The sleuthy old kidnapper!" says I. "Could she have pulled anything like that? Here, lemme step in and leave a note for Miss Vee. I want her to call me up when she comes in. No I'll dash it off right here on the lib'ry table. Here's a pad and—"
I broke off there, because my mouth was open too wide for further remarks. On the table was a big atlas opened to the map of Florida. And on the margin, with a line drawn from about the middle of the west coast, was something written faint in pencil.
"Nunca Secos Key!" I reads. "Good night! Auntie's got the bug—and Rupert."
"Vass it is?" asks Helma.
"I'm double-crossed, that's what it is," says I. "I've had a nice long nap at the switch, and I've just woke up in time to see the fast express crash on towards an open draw. Hal-lup! Hal-lup! I know I'll never be the same again."
"It's too bad, yah," says Helma sympathetic.
"That don't half describe it," says I. "And what is goin' to happen when I report to Old Hickory won't be nice to print in the papers."
"Should I say something by Miss Vee when she coom?" asks Helma.
"Yes," says I. "Tell her to kindly omit flowers."
And with that I starts draggy towards the elevator.
Oh, no! Private seccing ain't always what you might call a slumber part.
You know Forty-seventh Street and Broadway, the northwest corner? Say, would you judge there was a specially foolish streak runnin' across town about there? No, I don't see why there should be; only it was exactly on that spot I was struck by the hunch that this kidnappin' act of Auntie's was a joke.
Now, look. A freckle-faced parlor pirate with no more credentials than a park pan-handler blows in from nowhere particular, and tells a wild yarn about buried treasure on the west cost of Florida. First off he gets Old Hickory Ellins, president of the Corrugated Trust and generally a cagey old boy, more or less worked up. Mr. Ellins turns him over to me, with orders to watch him close while he's investigatin' the tale. Then, when I'm gabbin' free and careless about it to Vee, her Auntie sits there with her ear stretched. She wants to know what hotel I've left the Captain at. And the next mornin' he's gone. Also on other counts the arrow points to Auntie.
There I was, too, on my way back to Old Hickory, figurin' whether I'd better resign first and report afterwards, or just take my chances that maybe after he'd slept on it he wouldn't be so keen about seein' this Captain Killam again. Then the whole thing hit me on the funnybone. Haw-haw! Auntie, the sober old girl with the mixed-pickle disposition, suddenly comin' to life and pinchin' Old Hickory's find while he's tryin' to make up his mind whether it's phony or not. Auntie, of all people! More hearty haw-haws.
When I finally does drift into Old Hickory's private office and he motions me to shut the door, I'm still registerin' merry thoughts.
"Well?" says he, snappin' it out crisp.
"You'd never guess," says I, smotherin' a chuckle.
"Eh?" says he, shootin' a puzzled glance at me from under them overhangin' eyebrows of his. "Who wants to guess? What about Captain Killam?"
"That's just it," says I. "He's flitted."
"Wha-a-at!" snorts Old Hickory. "You don't mean he has gone?"
"Uh-huh!" says I. "Been lured away. But say,"—here I indulges in my most comic open-face movement,—"who do you suppose did the trick on us?"
Old Hickory stares at me and waves his cigar impatient. "Go on," he growls.
"You know Miss Vee's aunt," says I, "Mrs. Cornelia Hemmingway? Well, she's got him. Yep! Just naturally kidnapped him, I expect. I had my suspicions of her the minute I found the Captain was gone. So I chases right up there. She's out. The maid admits she went away with a party answerin' Killam's description. I wouldn't have been sure, though, if I hadn't found a map of Florida on the lib'ry table and Nunca Secos Key marked on it. Now, what do you know about that? Auntie! Ain't that rich?"
No hilarity from Old Hickory—not even one of them cracked concrete smiles of his. He just sits there glarin' at me, missin' the comedy cue altogether.
"Young man," says he, "just a moment before we get any further off the track. How did Mrs. Hemmingway happen to learn about Captain Killam?"
"Why," says I, "she had her ear out while, I was tellin' Miss Vee. Would you believe, though, that an old girl like her—"
"I would," says he. "Humorous as it may seem to you, I should credit almost anyone with wanting to dig up several million dollars, if they could find where it was hidden."
"But—" I begins.
"Besides Miss Verona and her aunt," goes on Old Hickory, "how many others have you made acquainted with what I was doing my best to keep a secret?"
"Not a soul," says I. "Honest!"
"Temporary paralysis of the tongue, eh?" he asks. "It's a wonder you didn't have it published in the morning papers. Quite thoughtless of you. Hah!"
And say; next time I think I have a joke for Old Hickory I'll go down to Thirty-third Street and try it first on the statue of Horace Greeley. If he rocks back and forth in his bronze chair and lifts the roof off the L station above, I'll know it may do to pass on to Mr. Ellins. Yep! That's just the way I feel about it.
"I expect I'm released on this case, then?" says I, after waitin' while Old Hickory chews his cigar savage for a couple of minutes.
"No," he snaps out. "You've succeeded in losing Captain Killam; now you'll help find him again. I'll go with you this time. Come."
Seemed too simple for words at first, me and Mr. Ellins startin' out to hunt New York for a batty stranger in a blue flannel shirt. By degrees, though, I got the idea. It's the competition that has stirred him up. Likely enough, he'd have turned Rupert and his scheme down cold if it hadn't been for that. But when Auntie crashes in, the case is entirely different; then he's strong for it. Settin' that time-lock jaw of his and lightin' a fresh perfecto, Old Hickory grabs his hat; and off we go, with me trailin' along reluctant. His first move is to hail a taxi.
"Just goin' to cruise around town casual in the hopes of spottin' him on the fly, eh?" I asks.
"Hardly," says Mr. Ellins. "I'm not going to stand in the middle of Broadway and whistle for him either, or throw out a hook and line and troll. I think we will go first to Mrs. Hemmingway's, if you will kindly give the driver the number."
He can be more brutally polite than anyone I ever saw. I wasn't enjoyin' that ride so much, and it's a relief when we pulls up at the curb. I offers to run in and see if Auntie is back yet, but he won't have it.
"Just lead the way, that's all," says he.
"Oh, very well," says I.
And when Helma, the maid, has used up all her hyphenated English in assurin' us that "Meesus" is still out, I rubs it in by shruggin' my shoulders and glancin' knowin' at him.
"Mees Verona, she coom," suggests Helma.
"Good!" says I. "I'd like a word with her, anyway."
Having just finished her canter in the park, Vee is still in her riding togs; and, take it from me, that's some snappy costume of hers. Maybe she ain't easy to look at, too, as she floats in with the pink in her cheeks and her eyes sparklin'. Wish I could fit into a frock-coat like that, or wear such shiny little boots. Even Old Hickory cheers up a bit at sight of her.
"Why, Torchy!" says she, holdin' out her hand. "And Mr. Ellins!"
"Morning calls right along for me, after this," says I, sort of walkin' around her. "It's worth while."
"Old thing!" says she. "Don't be silly. But what is the matter?"
I glances at Mr. Ellins. "Shall I tell?" says I.
"As that seems to be your specialty," says he, "perhaps you had better."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," says I, salutin'.
Then I turns to Vee. "Seen Auntie this morning?" I asks.
"Why, no," says Vee. "I was up rather early, you know."
"Not so early as she was," says I. "What do you think she's done? Jumped in on that treasure hunt I was tellin' you of. She's pinched Rupert, and by now maybe they're on their way South."
Vee stares at me for a second, and then gives one of them ripply laughs.
"How crazy of you to think such a thing!" says she.
"Here's the evidence in the case," says I, pointin' to the map with the scribblin' on the side. "That's her writin', ain't it? And you remember her wakin' up and askin' questions, don't you?"
"Ye-e-es," admits Vee; "but I'm sure she hasn't—"
"She and the Captain are missing," says I. "That's what comes of my gettin' chatty about business affairs. I didn't dream, though, that Auntie was such a plunger."
"I can't believe it," says Vee. "There's been some ridiculous mistake. But I can't imagine where she could have gone so early."
"Couldn't have had time to pack a trunk, could she?" I asks. "If not she'd be coming back some time to-day. Shall we wait here a while, Mr. Ellins?"
"I think I prefer a meeting on neutral grounds," says he.
So we goes downstairs and paces up and down the sidewalk, watchin' the avenue traffic sleuthy.
"Course she wouldn't start off without baggage," I suggests.
"I'm not so certain," growls Old Hickory.
Ten minutes we waited—fifteen; and then I spots a yellow taxi rollin' up from downtown. Inside I gets a glimpse of a black straw lid with purple flowers on it.
"Here she comes!" I sings out to Old Hickory. "Yep, that's her! And say! The Captain's with her. Quick! Dive into our cab."
He's a little heavy on his feet, Mr. Ellins is, and someway he manages to get himself hung up on the cab door. Anyway, Auntie must have seen us doin' the wild scramble, and got suspicious; for, just as they got alongside, she pounds on the front window, shouts something at the driver, and instead of stoppin' the other taxi veers off and goes smokin' uptown.
"Hey!" yells Mr. Ellins to our driver. "Catch that yellow car! Ten dollars if you catch it."
And you know it's just the chance of hearin' a few kind words like them that these taxi pirates live for. This old coffee mill that Mr. Ellins had hailed reckless could give out more groans and grinds and produce less speed than any other fare trap I was ever in. The connectin' rods was wabbly on the shaft, the gears complained scandalous, and the hit-and-miss average of the cylinders was about 33 per cent.
But after a few preliminary jack-rabbit jumps she begun to get headway, and the next I knew our driver was leanin' over his wheel like he was after the Vanderbilt Cup. He must have been throwin' all his weight on the juice button and slippin' his clutch judicious, for we sure was breezin' some. Inside of two blocks we'd eaten up half the lead and was tearin' uptown like a battalion chief answerin' a third alarm. I glances at Old Hickory to see if he's gettin' nervous at some of the close shaves; but he's braced himself in one corner, his teeth sunk deep into his cigar and his eyes glued on that yellow taxi ahead.
They was wise to the fact that we was after 'em, too. First Auntie would rubber back at us, and then lean forward to prod up her chauffeur. A couple of rare old sports, them two, with no more worries for what might happen to their necks than if they'd been joy-riders speedin' home at 3 A.M. from the Pink Lady Inn.
Me, I was holdin' my breath and waitin' for the grand smash. If Auntie's driver had stuck to a straightaway run we'd either caught 'em or smeared ourselves against a beer truck or something. But after the first mile he takes to dodgin'. Zip! he goes on two wheels around a corner.
"After him now!" orders Old Hickory. "I'll make it twenty if you don't let him get away."
"You're on!" says our speed maniac, and does a carom skid into a cross street that showed he didn't need any banked turns in his.
In and out we goes, east and west and up and down; now losin' sight of the yellow taxi altogether, then pickin' it up again; droppin' behind a whole block when the traffic broke bad for us, but makin' it up when something got in the way of the other cab.
Our gears was hummin' a reg'lar tomcat chorus, but with the throttle wide open the motor was hittin' on four most of the time.
Talk about your chariot race! Say, if we'd had Ben Hur aboard he'd been down on the floor, clawin' the mat. Twice we scraped fenders with passin' cars, and you could have traced every turn we made by the wheel paint we left on the curb corners. It was a game of gasoline cross-tag. We wasn't merely rollin'; we was one-stepping fox-trottin', with a few Loupovka motions thrown in for variety. And, at that, Auntie was holdin' the lead.
Down at Fifty-ninth, what does her driver do but swing into Fifth Avenue, right in the thick of it. That was no bonehead play either, for if there's any one stretch in town where you can let out absolutely reckless and get a medal for it, that's the place. Course, you got to take it in short spurts when you get the "go" signal, and that's what he was doin'. I watched him wipe both ends of a green motor bus and squeeze into a space that didn't look big enough for a baby carriage.
"Auntie must be biddin' up on the results, too," I remarks to Mr. Ellins. "There they duck through Forty-third."
"Try Forty-fourth," sings out Old Hickory. "In here!"
It was a poor guess, for when we hits Sixth Avenue there's no yellow taxi in sight.
"Wouldn't Auntie's game be to double back home?" I suggests.
"We'll see," says Old Hickory, and gives the order to beat it uptown again.
And, sure enough, just as we gets in sight of the apartment house, there's the other taxi, with Auntie haulin' Captain Killam out hasty. Before we can dash up and pile out, they've disappeared in the vestibule.
"Looks like we'd lost out by a nose," says I.
"Not yet," says Old Hickory. "I intend to see what those two mean by this."
And after 'em we rushes.
But the one elevator was half way up when we fetches the gate. Old Hickory puts his finger on the button and holds it there.
"They've stopped at the fourth," says I. "Now it'll be comin'— No; it's goin' all the way to the roof!"
There it stayed, too, although Old Hickory shoots some spicy commands up the elevator well.
"No use; he's been bought," says I. "What's the matter with the stairs? Only three flights."
"Good idea!" says Mr. Ellins; and up we starts.
He wouldn't break any stair-climbin' records in an amateur contest, though, and when he does puff on to the last landin' he's purple behind the ears and ain't got breath enough left to make any kind of speech. So I tackles another interview with Helma.
"No," says she; "Meesus not coom yet."
"Ah, ditch the perjury stuff, Helma," says I. "Didn't we just follow her in?"
"No coom yet," insists Helma in her wooden way.
That's all I can get out of her, too. It wasn't that she'd had orders to say Auntie wasn't at home, or didn't care to receive just then. Helma sticks to the simple statement that Auntie hasn't come back.
"But say," I protests; "we just trailed her here. Get that? We was right on her heels when she struck the elevator. And the Captain was with her."
"No coom," says Helma, shakin' her head solemn.
"Why, you she-Ananias, you!" I gasps. "Do you mean to tell me that—"
"I beg pardon," says a familiar acetic acid voice behind us—and I turns to see Auntie steppin' out of the elevator. "Were you looking for someone?" she goes on.
"You've guessed it," says I. "In fact, we was—"
"Madam," breaks in Mr. Ellins, "will you kindly tell me what you have done with Captain Rupert Killam?"
"Certainly, Mr. Ellins," says Auntie. "Won't you step in?"
"I should prefer to be told here, at once," says Old Hickory.
"My preference," comes back Auntie, "if I must be cross-examined, is to undergo the process in the privacy of my own library, not in a public hallway."
Well, there was nothing else to it. We could either stay out there and stare at the door, or follow her in. So in we goes. And maybe Vee's gray eyes don't open some wide as she views the procession streamin' in. She glances at me inquirin'. I throws up both hands and shakes my head, indicatin' that it was beyond words.
"Now," says Auntie, liftin' her purple-decorated lid off one ear and tuckin' a stray lock into her back hair, "I will answer your question. I have just sent Captain Killam back to his hotel."
"The Illington?" demands Old Hickory.
"No," says Auntie. "It was my fancy that Captain Killam deserved rather better quarters than those you saw fit to provide. So I found others for him—just where, I do not care to say."
"But he came in here with you a moment ago," insists Old Hickory. "How could you—"
"I'm next!" says I. "You smuggles him over the roof and down the elevator in the next building. Wasn't that how you gave us the slip?"
Auntie indulges in one of them lemony, tight-lipped smiles of hers. "You have exposed my poor strategy," says she; "but a little late, I trust."
Mr. Ellins makes her a bow.
"Mrs. Hemmingway," says he, "my compliments on your cleverness as a tactician. But I fail to see how you justify your methods. You knew that I was negotiating with Captain Killam?"
"Oh, yes," says she.
"And in spite of that," goes on Mr. Ellins, "you induce him to break his word to me and you hide him in another hotel."
"Something like that," admits Auntie, squarin' her jaw. "Why not, Mr. Ellins?"
"Why, Auntie!" gasps Vee.
"Verona!" says Auntie, shootin' over a reprovin' look.
"But see here," protests Old Hickory. "I was arranging with this man to fit out a treasure-hunting expedition. He had made a verbal contract with me. Just because you over-heard my plans, you had no right to take advantage. You can't do that sort of thing, you know."
"Oh, can't I?" sneers Auntie, lookin' him straight in the eye. "But I have, you see."
And that's one of the few times I ever saw Old Hickory Ellins squirm at a come-back. He pinks up some, too; but he keeps a grip on his temper.
"Then you—you intend financing this somewhat doubtful enterprise?" he asks. "A man you know nothing about, too. Suppose he never comes back?"
"I shall go along myself," says Auntie.
"You?" says Old Hickory. "To dig for buried treasure!"
"I have always wanted to do something of the kind," says Auntie. "True, I may not look like that sort of a person, and I suppose that I do lead rather a dull, commonplace existence. Not from choice, however. Once I was ship-wrecked in the Mediterranean, and I found it a thrilling experience. Also I once spent nearly a week on a snow-bound train in the Rockies; I would not have missed that for anything. And if Captain Killam can lead me to genuine adventures, I am going to follow. So there you have it! All you saw in his story, I presume, was a chance to add to your millions. The romance of the thing, the mystery of that forgotten little island with its long hidden pirate hoard, never appealed to you in the least."
"Oh, didn't it!" says Old Hickory.
For a second or so he stares over her head at the wall beyond, and around his grim mouth corners come softer lines than I'd ever seen there before. Then, all of a sudden, he adds:
"You'll need a roomy, light-draught yacht."
"We were just going to look for one," says Auntie. "I was returning for my checkbook when you interfered."
"That was a rather lively pace you set for us," almost chuckles Old Hickory.
"I have never enjoyed a ride more," says Auntie. "My blood is still tingling from it."
"And mine," says Mr. Ellins. "We nearly overhauled you once. Did your cab hit anything?"
"Only the hub of an ashcart," says she. "We lost part of a front fender. And once a traffic policeman tried to arrest us. We rushed him, though."
"Auntie!" comes from Vee husky, as she drops back on a window seat. But Auntie takes no notice.
"I say," goes on Old Hickory, "has Killam shown you the jewelry he dug from the mound?"
Auntie nods. "It is genuine antique," says she, "the Louis Treize period, one piece. If there is much like that, no collection in the world can match it."
"Hm-m-m-m!" says Old Hickory. "I am rather interested in that sort of thing myself. Then there is the bullion. Of course, if it should turn out to be part of the Louisiana Purchase money, and it became known that it had been recovered, I suppose the federal government would step in, perhaps claim the larger share."
"That would be an outrage," says Auntie. "There's no sense in that, not a bit. You—you mean you would give the information—that is, unless—"
"I never make threats," says Old Hickory, "even when I think I have been cheated out of doing something I've wanted all my life to have a try at."
It's Auntie's turn to stare at him. And hanged if she don't sort of mellow up.
"Really?" says she. "I—I had no idea. And it would be fun, wouldn't it, sailing off for that enchanted coast to hunt for a real treasure island?"
"'Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!'" roars out Mr. Ellins.
It's the battiest remark I ever heard him make. I was lookin' for Auntie to throw some sort of a fit. But she don't. She comes nearer chucklin' than anything else.
"Mr. Ellins," says she, "I think perhaps I have misjudged you. And I—I suppose I really ought not to attempt such a thing alone. Shall we—er—"
"Why not?" says he, reachin' out his hand. "Share and share alike."
"Agreed!" says Auntie. "And now, suppose we get the Captain and look for that yacht."
They was so anxious to get at it that they chases off without a word to either Vee or me. She just sits there starin' after 'em.
"Did anyone ever hear of anything quite so absurd?" says Vee.
"I don't know," says I. "I never worked in a filbert factory myself. I'm sure of one thing, though. With them two on the job, it's goin' to be put up to Rupert to come across."