CHAPTER XVII
WITH VINCENT AT THE TURN
It was Mr. Piddie who first begun workin' up suspicions about Vincent,our fair haired super-office boy. But then, Piddie has that kind of amind. He must have been born on the dark of the moon when the wind waseast in the year of the big eclipse. Something like that. Anyway, he'slong on gloom and short on faith in human nature, and he goesgum-shoein' through life lookin' as slit-eyed as a tourist tom-cat fourblocks from his own backyard.
Course, he has his good points, lots of 'em, or else he never would haveheld his job as office manager in the Corrugated Trust so long. Andthere's at least two human beings he thinks was made perfect from thestart--Old Hickory Ellins and Mr. Robert. The rest of us he ain't sureof. We'll bear watchin'. And Piddie's idea of earnin' his salary is tobe right there with the restless eye from 8:43 until 5:02, when he grabshis trusty commutation ticket and starts for the wilds of Jersey,leavin' the force to a whole night of idleness and wicked ways.
Still, I am a little surprised when he picks out Vincent.
"I regret to say it, Torchy," says he, "but someone ought to have an eyeon that boy."
"Oh, come, Piddie!" says I. "Not Vincent! Why, he's a model youth.You've always said so yourself--polite, respectful, washes behind theears, takes home his pay envelope uncracked to mother, all that sort ofthing. Why the mournful headshake over him now?"
"I can't say what it is," says Piddie, "but there has been a change.Recently. Twice this week he has overstayed his luncheon hour. Yesterdayhe asked for his Liberty bond and war saving stamps from the safe. Ibelieve he is planning to do something desperate."
"Huh!" says I. "Most likely he's plotting to pay off the mortgage on thelittle bungalow as a birthday present for mother."
Piddie won't have it that way, though. "I think there's a woman in thecase," says he, "and I'm sure it isn't his mother."
"A woman; Vincent?" says I. "Ah, quit your kiddin', Piddie. I'd as soonthink it of you."
That brings the pink to his ears and he stiffens indignant. But in aminute or so he gets over it enough to explain that he's noticed Vincentfussin' with his necktie and slickin' his hair back careful beforequittin' time. Also that Vincent has taken to gettin' shaved once a weekreg'lar now, instead of every month.
"And he seemed very nervous when he took away his savings," addsPiddie. "Of course, in my position I could ask for no confidences of apersonal nature; but if someone else could have a talk with him.--Well,you, for example, Torchy."
"What a cute little idea!" says I. "What would be the openin' lines forthat scene? Something like, 'Come, my erring lad, rest your fair,sin-soaked head on my knee and tell your Uncle Torchy how you aresecretly scheming to kidnap the rich gum profiteer's lovely daughter andcarry her off to Muckhurst-on-the-Marsh.' Piddie, you're a wonder."
I was still chucklin' over the notion as I breezed out to lunch, but asI pushes out of the express elevator and starts across the arcade towardthe Broadway exit I lamps something over by the candy booth that leavesme with my mouth open. There is Vincent hung up against the countergazin' mushy into the dark dangerous orbs of Mirabelle, the box-tradequeen.
Course, we all know Mirabelle in the Corrugated buildin', for she's beenpresidin' over the candy counter almost as long as the arcade shops havebeen open. She's what you might call an institution; like Apollo Mike,the elevator starter; or old Walrus Smith, the night watchman. And Iexpect there ain't a young hick or a middle-aged bookkeeper on all themtwenty-odd floors but what has had his little thrill from gettin' inline, some time or another, with a cut-up look from them high voltageeyes. She's just one of the many perils, Mirabelle is, that line thepath of the poor working man in the great city. That is, she looks thepart.
As a matter of fact, I've always had Mirabelle sized up as a near-vampwho had worked up the act to boost sales and cinch her job. Anyway, Inever knew of her lurin' her victims into anything more desperate than ared-ink table d'hote dinner or a six-dollar orgie at a cabaret. Andsomehow they all seem to wriggle out of the net within a week or so withno worse casualties than a feverish yearnin' for next pay day and a wiselook in the eyes. I've watched some of them young sports from the bondroom have their little fling with Mirabelle and not one of 'em has comeout a human wreck.
Maybe they discover that Mirabelle has turned thirty. I'll admit shedon't look it, 'specially under the pink-shaded counter light when she'shad a henna treatment lately and been careful to spread the make-upartistic. The jet ear danglers helps some, too. Then there are themmisbehavin' eyes. Also when it comes to light and frivolous chatMirabelle is right there with the zippy patter. Oh my, yes! Try shootin'anything fresh across when she's wrappin' a pound of mixed chocolatesand you'll get a quick one back from Mirabelle. Probably a quizzin',twisty smile, too that sends you off kiddin' yourself that you're quitea gay bird when you really cut loose, and where's the harm once in awhile? You know the kind.
But to think that Vincent should be fallin' for Mirabelle. Why, he sitsthere all day behind the gate in plain sight of a battery of twenty ladytypists, some of 'em as kittenish young things as ever blew a week'ssalary into a permanent wave and I've never even seen him so much asroll an eye at one. Besides, he's as perfect a specimen of a Mommer'sboy as you could find between here and the Battery. Not that he's a maleingenue. He's just a nice boy, Vincent, always neat and polite and readyto admit that he has the best little mother in the world. I don't blamehim for thinkin' so either, for I've seen her a couple of times and ifI'm any judge she fits the description. She's a widow, you know, and sheand Vincent are strugglin' along on the life insurance until they makeVincent general manager or vice-president or something.
So, as I was telling you, it gives me more or less of a jolt to seeVincent flutterin' around Mirabelle. There's no mistakin' the motions,either. He's draped himself careless over the end of the counter andthem big innocent blue eyes of his are fairly glued on Mirabelle, whilea simple smile comes and goes, dependin' on whether she's lookin' hisway or not. Just as I stops to gawp at the proceedin's he seems to beaskin' her something, real eager and earnest. For a second Mirabellearches her plucked eyebrows and puckers her lips coy as if she waslettin' on to be shocked. Then she glances around cautious to see if thecoast is clear, reaches out and pats Vincent tender on the cheek andwhispers something in his ear.
A minute later Mirabelle is smilin' mechanical at a fat man who'sstopped to buy a box of chocolate peppermints and Vincent is swingin'past me with his chin up and his eyes bright. It don't take any seventhson work to guess that Vincent has made a date. If it had been anybodyelse that wouldn't have meant nothing at all to me, but as it is I can'thelp feelin' that this was my cue. Just how or why I don't stop tofigure out, but I falls in behind and trails along.
Vincent should have been headin' for the dairy lunch, but he starts inthe other direction and after followin' him for five blocks I sees himdive into a jewelry store. Maybe that don't get a gasp out of me, too.Looks like our little Vincent was some speedy performer, don't it? Andsure enough, by rubberin' in through the door, I can see a clerk haulin'out a tray of rings. Think of that! Vincent.
He must have been in there before and looked over the stock, for insideof ten minutes out he comes again. And by makin' a quick maneuver Imanages to bump into him as he's leavin' the front door with the littlewhite box in his fist.
"Well, well!" says I. "What's all this mean, old son? Been buyin' outthe spark shop? I expect somebody's going to get a weddin' present, eh?"
"Not--not exactly," says Vincent, his cheeks pinkin' up and his righthand slidin' toward his coat pocket.
"Oh, ho!" says I, grabbin' the wrist and exposin' the little squarepackage. "A ring or I'm a poor guesser. And it's for the sweetest girlin the world, ain't it?"
"It is," says Vincent, just a bit defiant.
"Congratulations, old man," says I, poundin' him friendly on theshoulder. "I don't suppose I could guess who, could I?"
"I--I don't think you could," says Vin
cent.
"Then it's my blow to luncheon--reg'lar chop-house feed in honor of thebig event," says I. "Come along, Vincent, while I order a bottle of oneand a half per cent. to drink to your luck."
Course, he can't very well get away from that, me being one of hisbosses, as you might say. But he acts a little uneasy.
"You see, sir," says he, "it--it isn't quite settled."
"I get you," says I. "Going to spring it on her tonight, eh?"
He admits that is the plan.
"Durin' the course of a little dinner, eh?" I goes on.
Vincent nods.
"That's taking the high dive, all right," says I. "Lets you in deep, youknow, when you go shovin' solitaires at 'em. But I expect you've thoughtit over careful and picked out the right girl."
"She is perfectly splendid," says Vincent.
"Well, that helps some," says I. "One that Mother approves of, I'llbet."
"Why," says Vincent, his chin droppin', "I am sure she will like herwhen--when she sees her."
"Let's see, Vincent," says I, "you're all of nineteen, ain't you?"
"Nearly twenty," says he.
"How we do come along!" says I. "Why, when you took my old place on thegate you was still wearin' knickers, wasn't you? And now--I supposeit'll be a case of your bringin' home a new daughter to help Mother,eh?"
"Ye-e-es," says Vincent draggy.
"Lucky she's the right kind, then," I suggests.
"She's a wonderful girl, Torchy. Wonderful," says he.
"Well, I expect you're a judge," says I.
"I've never known anyone just like her," he goes on, "and if she'll haveme----" He wags his head determined.
I was hardly lookin' for such a stubborn streak in Vincent. He's alwaysseemed so mild and modest. But you never can tell. There's no doubtabout his having his mind all made up about Mirabelle, and while hername ain't mentioned once he consents to tell me what a perfectly sweetand lovely person she is. If I hadn't had a hunch who he was talkingabout I'm afraid I never would have guessed from the description. She'dput the spell on him for fair. That being the way things stood what wasthe use of my coming in with an argument? The most I could do was tohint that Vincent's salary as head office boy might be a bit strainedwhen it came to providin' for two.
He has the answer to that, though. He's got the promise of a filingclerk's job the first of the year, with a raise every six months if hemakes good.
"Besides," he adds, "I may pick up a little something extra very soon."
"Eh?" says I. "You ain't been plungin' on a curb tip, have you?"
He nods. "It came to me very straight, sir," says he. "Oil stocks."
"Good-night!" I groans. "Say, Vincent, you're off in high gear, allright. Matrimony and gushers, all at one clip! Lemme get my breath. Haveyou put up for the margins?"
"Oh, yes," says Vincent.
"Then have another piece of pie and a second cup of coffee," says I."You're going to need bracin' up."
Not that I proceeds to deal out the wise stuff about oil stocks alongthe Talk to Investors line. It's too late for that. Besides, Vincent wasdue to get a lesson in the folly of piker speculatin' that would lasthim a long time. Maybe it was best for him to get it early in his youngcareer.
But it was going to be rough on the little mother when she hears how herdarling boy has sneaked out the nest egg and tossed it reckless into themiddle of Broad Street. That would be some bump. And then on top of thatif Mirabelle is introduced as her future daughter-in-law--Well, you canframe up the picture for yourself. And right there I organizes myselfinto a relief expedition to rescue the Lost Battalion.
I got to admit that my plan of campaign was a trifle vague. About as faras I could get was decidin' that somebody ought to have speech withMirabelle on the subject. And when we hurries back through the arcadeagain, ten minutes behind schedule, and I catches the little exchange offond looks between the two, I knows that whatever is done needs to bestarted right away. So I mumbles something about having forgotten anerrand, makes a round trip in the elevator, and am back at the candycounter almost as soon as Vincent has hung up his hat.
"Yes-s-s, sir?" says Mirabelle inquirin', with her bestdollar-fifty-quality smile playin' around where the lip-stick has givennature a boost.
"Hard gum drops," says I, "or chocolate marshmallows, or most anythingin half-pound size. The main idea is a little chat with you."
"Naughty, naughty!" says Mirabelle, shaking her head until the jet eardanglers are doing a one-step. "But you men are all alike, aren't you?"
"Is that why you've taken to cradle snatchin'?" says I.
Mirabelle executes the wide shutter movement with her eyes and finisheswith what she thinks is a Mary Pickford pout. "Really, I don't think Iget you," says she. "In other words, meaning what?"
"Referring to the boy, Vincent," says I.
"Oh!" says she, eying me curious. "Dear little fellow, isn't he?"
"Of course," I goes on, "if it's only a case of adoption----"
"Say," she breaks in, her eyelids gettin' narrow, "some of you ceriseblondes ought to be confined to the comic strips. Who do you thinkyou're kidding, anyway?"
"Sorry, Mirabelle," says I, "but you're all wrong. This is straightheart-to-heart stuff. You know you've been stringin' Vincent along."
"Suppose I have?" demands Mirabelle. "Where do you get a license tocrash in?"
"Just what I was working up to," says I. "For one thing, he's the onlyperfect office boy in captivity. The Corrugated can't spare him. Thenagain, there's Mother. Honest, Mirabelle, you ought to seeMother--reg'lar stage widow, with the sad sweet smile, the soft grayhair, 'n'everything. If you could, you'd lay off this Theda Bara act thenext minute."
It was a poor hunch, pullin' out that sympathy stop for Mirabelle. Iknew that when I saw them black eyes of hers begin to give off sparks.
"Listen, son," says she, "if you feel as bad as all that run down in thesub-cellar and sob in the coal bins. I'll be getting nervous, next thingI know, listening to ravings like that."
"My error," says I. "Course, you didn't know how a few kind words and alittle off-hand target practice with the eyes would affect Vincent. Howshould you? But he's taking it all serious. Uh-huh! Been buying thering."
"What!" says Mirabelle, startled.
"A real blue-white, set in platinum," says I. "On the instalments, ofcourse. And he's plungin' with all his war savings on wild cat stocks tomake good. Oh, he's in a reg'lar trance, Vincent. So you see?"
Mirabelle seems to see a good deal more than I was expectin' her to.Just now she's glancin' approvin' into one of the display mirrors and ispattin' down the hair puffs over her ears.
"He _is_ a dear boy," she remarks, more to the mirror than to me.
"But look here," says I, "you--you wouldn't let him go on with this,would you?"
"I beg pardon?" says Mirabelle. "Still chattering, are you? Well,stretch your ear once, young feller. When I want your help in this I'llsend out a call. If you don't get one you'll know you ain't needed.Here's your package, sir. Sixty cents, please."
And I'm given the quick shunt, just like that. Whatever it was I thoughtI was doing, I'd bugged it. The rescue expedition had gone on the rocks.Absolutely. I might have known better, too; spillin' all that dope aboutthe solitaire. As if that would throw a scare into Mirabelle! Of all thebush-league plays! Instead of untanglin' Vincent any from the net I'donly got him twisted up tighter. With that ring on him he was just assafe as an exposed pocket flask at an Elks' picnic.
I was retreatin' draggy with my chin down when I happens to get a grinfrom this wise guy Marcus, in charge of the cigar booth opposite.
"You don't have no luck with Mirabelle, eh?" says he winkin'. "That'stoo bad, ain't it? But there's lots of others. She keeps 'em allguessin'. Hard in the heart, Mirabelle has been, ever since she gotthrown overboard herself."
"Eh?" says I. "When was that? Who did it?"
"Oh, near a year now," says Marcus. "You know the feller who was in
withme here--Chuck Dempsey?"
"The big husk with the bushy black eyebrows?" says I.
Marcus nods. "He had Mirabelle goin' all right," says he. "She was crazyover him. And Chuck, he was pretty strong for her, too. They had it allfixed up, the flat picked out and all, when something or other bust itup. I dunno what. Chuck, he quits the next day. Lucky thing, too, for ifhe'd stuck here he wouldn't have met up with them automobile sundriespeople and landed his new job. I hear he's manager of their Harlembranch now, seventy-five a week. Wouldn't Mirabelle be sore if she knewabout that, eh?"
"She'd have cause for grindin' her teeth," says I. "Bully for Chuck,though. I must call him up and give him the hail. What's his number?"
I will admit too, that once I got started, I worked fast. It took meless'n three minutes to pump out of Vincent the time and place of thisfatal little dinner party he was about to pull off, and shortly afterthat I had Mr. Dempsey on the wire. Yes, he says he remembers me wellenough, on account of my hair. Most of 'em do.
"It's a shame you've forgot someone else so quick, though," I adds.
"Who's that?" says he.
"Mirabelle," says I.
"Oh, I don't know," says Chuck. "Maybe it's just as well."
"She don't think so," says I.
"Who was feedin' you that?" asks Dempsey.
"A certain party," says I. "But you know how easy a queen like her canpick up an understudy. Some have been mighty busy lately, too; one inparticular. And I don't mind sayin' I'd hate to see him win out."
"Yes, she's some girl, all right," says Chuck, "even if I did get alittle sore on her one night. I might be droppin' around again some ofthese days."
"If I was you," says I, "I'd make it snappy. In fact, not later than6:30 this evening. That is, unless you're content to figure as an alsoran."
He's an enterprisin' young gent, Mr. Dempsey. And it seems he ain'tclosed the book on Mirabelle for good. He's rather interested in hearin'where she'll be waitin' at that hour and makes a note of it.
"Much obliged for the tip, Torchy," says he. "I'll think it over."
I hoped he would. It was the best I could do for Vincent, except hangaround and 'phone out to Vee that probably I'd be late home for dinner.Seeing as how I was drillin' around at 6:30 in a doorway up opposite theCafe Caroni it looked like I would. But I'd seen Chuck Dempsey drift inall dolled up sporty, and then Mirabelle. As for Vincent, he was righton the dot, as usual. He wasn't tickled to death to find me waitin' forhim, either.
"Oh, I say, Torchy!" he protests.
"You wouldn't want to make it a threesome, eh?" I suggests.
"I'd much rather not," says he.
"Then we'll remember that," says I. "No harm in my edgin' in long enoughto drop a word to Joe, the head waiter, to give you a nice quiet cornertable and take care of you well, is there?"
"I'm sorry," says Vincent. "I didn't know but what you----"
"Not me," says I. "I'll stay long enough to get you started right. Comealong. Ah, there's Joe, down at the end, and when he--Eh? Did you chokeor anything? Well, of all things!"
Course, he'd spotted 'em right away--Mirabelle and Chuck Dempsey.They're at a little table over by the wall chattin' away cosy andconfidential. It hadn't taken 'em long to re-establish friendlyrelations. In fact, Chuck was just reachin' playful for one ofMirabelle's hands and he was gettin' away with the act.
"Why," says I, "it looks like the S.R.O. sign was out already."
Yes, it was a bit raw for Vincent. He shows his polite bringin' upthough. No rash moves or hasty words from him. He backs out graceful,even if he is a bit pale about the gills. And not until we're welloutside does he let loose a husky remark.
"Well, I--I've been made a fool of, I suppose," says he.
"That depends on who's doing the judgin'," says I. "This Dempsey's nonewcomer, you know. Anyway, now you can go home to dinner with Mother."
"But I can't," says Vincent. "You see, I left word that I was dining intown and she--she would want to know why I didn't."
"That's easy fixed," says I. "You're havin' dinner with me, out at myLong Island shack. Haven't seen the large-sized family I'm startin',have you? Well, here's your chance. And we can just make the 6:47."
Not that I'd planned it all out, but it was the best antidote toMirabelle that I could have thought up. For Vee is--Well, she's quitedifferent from Mirabelle. And I suspect after Vincent had watched herplayin' her star part as the fond little wife, and been led up to thenursery to have the baby exhibited to him, and heard us joshin' eachother friendly--Well maybe he wondered how Mirabelle would show up in astrictly domestic sketch.
"Torchy," says he, grippin' my hand as I'm about to load him on the10:26, "I believe I'm not going to care so much about losing Mirabelle,after all."
"That's bucking up," says I. "And likely they'll let you draw back yourdeposit on the ring. But you might as well bid them oil stock marginsgood-by."
Oh, yes, I'm a bear at friendly advice. At least, I was until Vincentcomes breezin' in from lunch yesterday wearin' a broad grin. He'dconnected with a bull flurry and unloaded ten points to the good.
"Now for a king killing, eh?" says I.
"No," says Vincent. "I'm through with--with everything."
"Includin' near-vamps?" says I.
He nods enthusiastic.
"Then I don't see what's goin' to stop you from gettin' a Solomon Wiseratin' before they include you in the votin' list," says I. "Go to it,son."
THE END
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