Wilt Thou Torchy Part 19

Tidman takes it out by droppin' a book.

"A dangerous character, we think, sir," says the butler--"most likely one of a gang of burglars. Mrs. Flynn found him lurking in the coal-bin on account of his having sneezed, sir. Then she grappled him, sir."

"Oh, dear!" groans Tidman, his face goin' putty-colored.

"The deuce!" says Waldo. "And you say the laundress has him--er--"

"Quite secure, sir," says Peters. "Both hands in his hair and she sitting on his chest, sir."

"But--but this can't go on indefinitely," says Waldo. "I suppose something ought to be done about it."

"I should suggest sending for the police, sir," says Peters.

"Bother!" says Waldo. "That means my going to police court, and having the thing in the papers, and-- Why, Tidman, what's the matter?"

The tutor sure was takin' it hard. His thin, bony fingers are clutchin' the chair arm desperate, clammy drops are startin' out on his brow, and his narrow-set eyes are starin' at Peters.

"She's such a heavy female--Mrs. Flynn," groans Tidman. "Right on his chest, too!"

"Better that than having him wake us up in the middle of the night flouris.h.i.+ng firearms and demanding valuables," says Waldo.

"Ugh! Burglars. How--how silly of them to come here! It's so disturbing, and I do dread having the police in. I wish you wouldn't look so ghastly over it, Tidman. Come, suggest something."

But Tidman don't seem to be a good suggester. "Both hands in his hair.

Oh!" he mutters.

"It's not your hair," sputters Waldo. "And saying idiotic things like that doesn't help. Not a bit. Must I call the police, or what?"

"The police!" whispers Tidman, hoa.r.s.e and husky.

"But what else can I do?" demands Waldo. Then he turns to me. "I say, can you think of anything?"

"Seems to me I'd have a look at the gent first," says I. "Mistakes sometimes happen, you know, in the best regulated bas.e.m.e.nts. Might be just a man takin' the meters, or a plumber, or something like that."

"By George, that's so!" says T. Waldo, chirkin' up. "But--er--must I go down there? Suppose he should be a burglar, after all?"

"We'd be three to one, not countin' Mrs. Flynn," says I.

"Would you help, really?" he asks eager. "You see, I'm not very strong. And Tidman--well, you can't count much on him. Besides, how does one know a burglar by sight?"

"They don't wear uniforms, that's a fact," says I; "but I might ask him what he was doin' down there and call for proof. Then, if he was only takin' the meter, why--"

"Of course," says Waldo. "We will--er--you'll do that for me, will you not? Come along, Tidman. You too, Peters. We'll just find out who the fellow is."

I must say, it's kind of a draggy rush line they formed, Tidman havin'

to be almost pushed, and Peters keepin' well in the rear. I finds myself leadin' the a.s.sault, with Waldo a bad second, but tellin' me which turns to make and urgin' Tidman to follow close.

Sure enough, though, there on the laundry floor we discovers the victorious Mrs. Flynn, a wide, husky party, with something flattened underneath. About all that's visible is a pair of run-over shoes and part of a coat sleeve that's been ripped off. She seems glad to see us.

"Thanks be!" says she, sighin' grateful. "It's faint and wake I am strugglin' with this murderous little shrimp. Ah, squirm, will ye!

There's men to handle ye now, and the coppers'll soon be here. Will ye take charge of him, Mr. Pettigrew?"

"No, no! Please, Mrs. Flynn!" protests Waldo. "You are doing excellently. Don't let him up just yet."

"O-o-o-o!" moans the flattened gent. "My poor back!"

"If you could ease up a bit, so we might get a look at him," I suggests. "We want to see if he's really a burglar."

"He's that, all right," says Mrs. Flynn. "Didn't I catch him red-handed prowlin' about? But if ye want to see what his ugly mug looks like, ye may. There! Sit ye up and face the gintlemen!"

She's a s.h.i.+fty party with her hands and feet, for with a couple of body twists Mrs. Flynn is on her knees behind him with his arms pinned to the small of his back.

"There, thief of the wor-ruld!" says she. "Tell 'em whatever you came to steal."

"Go on," says I. "Mind the lady."

"I--I'm no thief; really, gentlemen," says he. "You can see that, I trust."

"Sure!" says I. "Just mistook the bas.e.m.e.nt for the drawin'-room, didn't you? And you was about to leave cards on the fam'ly. What name did you say?"

"I--I'd rather not give my name," says he, hangin' his head.

"It's being done in the best circles," says I. "These calls incog. are gettin' to be bad form. Isn't that right, Mr. Pettigrew?"

"If he is a gas man or a plumber," says Waldo, "why doesn't he say so at once?"

"There's your cue," says I. "Now come across with the alibi."

"I--I can't explain just how I happen to be here," says the gent, "but--but there are those who can."

"Eh?" says I. "Oh-ho!"

It was only a quick glance he shot over, but I caught who it was aimed at. Also, I noticed the effect. And just like that I had a swift hunch how all this ground-floor mix-up might be worked in useful.

"Mr. Pettigrew," says I, "suppose I could Sherlock Holmes this laundry mystery without callin' in the cops?"

"Oh, I should be so grateful!" says T. Waldo.

"That ain't the answer," says I. "Would it make you feel different about sellin' that land?"

"Oh, I say, you know!" protests T. Waldo, startin' to stiffen up.

For a two-by-four he lugs around a lot of cranky whims, and it looked like this was one of his pets. There's quite a mulish streak in him, too.

"All right," says I, startin' towards the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. "Settle it your own way."

"But, really, I--I don't know what to do," says Waldo. "I--I'm all upset. Of course, if you insist on the land--"

"That's talkin'!" says I. "My guess is that it won't take long.