Torchy, Private Sec. Part 9

"Gather up those papers and come along," says he. "I think we're ready now to talk to Gedney Nash."

I smothered a gasp. Was he nutty, or what? You know you don't drop in offhand on a man like Gedney Nash, same as you would on a shrimp bank president, or a corporation head. You hear a lot about him, of course,--now givin' a million to charity, then bein' denounced as a national highway robber,--but you don't see him. Anyway, I never knew of anyone who did. He's the man behind, the one that pulls the strings.

Course, he's supposed to be at the head of International Utilities, but he claims not to hold any office. And you know what happened when Congress tried to get him before an investigatin' committee. All that showed up was a squad of lawyers, who announced they was ready to answer any questions they couldn't file an exception to, and three doctors with affidavits to prove that Mr. Nash was about to expire from as many incurable diseases. So Congress gave it up.

Yet here we was, pikin' downtown without any notice, expectin' to find him as easy as if he was a traffic cop on a fixed post. Well, we didn't.

The minute we blows into the arcade and begins to ask for him, up slides a smooth-talkin' buildin' detective who listens polite what I feed him and suggests that if we wait a minute he'll call up the gen'ral offices.

Which he does and reports that they've no idea where Mr. Nash can be found. Maybe he's gone to the mountains, or over to his Long Island place, or abroad on a vacation.

"Tommyrot!" says Old Hickory. "Gedney Nash never took a vacation in his life. I know he's in New York now."

The gentleman sleuth shrugs his shoulders and allows that if Mr. Ellins ain't satisfied he might go up to Floor 11 and ask for himself. So up we went. Ever in the Tractions Buildin'? Say, it's like bein' caught in a fog down the bay,--all silence and myst'ry. I expect it's the headquarters of a hundred or more diff'rent corporations, all tied up some way or other with I. U. interests; but on the doors never the name of one shows: just "Mr. So-and-So," "Mr. Whadye Callum," "Mr.

This-and-That." Clerks hurry by you with papers in their hands, walkin'

soft on rubber heels. They tap respectful on a door, it opens silent, they disappear. When they meet in the corridors they pa.s.s without hailin', without even a look. You feel that there's something doin'

around you, something big and important. But the gears don't give out any hum. It's like a game of blind man's bluff played in the dark.

And the sharp-eyed, gray-haired gent we talked to through the bra.s.s gratin' acted like he'd never heard the name Gedney Nash before. When Old Hickory cuts loose with the tabasco remarks at him he only smiles patient and insists that if he can locate Mr. Nash, which he doubts, he'll do his best to arrange an interview. It may take a day, or a week, or a month, but----

"Bah!" snorts Old Hickory, turnin' on his heel, and he cusses eloquent all the way down and out to the taxi.

"Seems to me I've heard how Mr. Nash uses a private elevator," I suggests.

"Quite like him," says Old Hickory. "Think you could find it?"

"I could make a stab," says I.

But at that I knew I was kiddin' myself. Why not? Ain't there been times when whole bunches of live-wire reporters, not to mention relays of court deputies, have raked New York with a fine-tooth comb, lookin' for Gedney Nash, without even gettin' so much as a glimpse of his limousine rollin' round a corner.

"Suppose we circle the block once or twice, while I tear off a few Sherlock Holmes thoughts?" says I.

Mr. Ellins sniffs scornful; but he'd gone the limit himself, so he gives the directions. I leaned back, shut my eyes, and tried to guess how a foxy old guy like Nash would fix it up so he could do the unseen duck off Broadway into his private office. Was it a tunnel from the subway through the boiler bas.e.m.e.nt, or a bridge from the next skysc.r.a.per, or---- But the sight of a blue cap made me ditch this dream stuff. Funny I hadn't thought of that line before--and me an A. D. T. once myself!

"Hey, you!" I calls out the window. "Wait up, Cabby, while we take on a pa.s.senger. Yes, you, Skinny. Hop in here. Ah, what for would we be kidnappin' a remnant like you? It's your birthday, ain't it? And the gentleman here has a present for you--a whole dollar. Eh, Mr. Ellins?"

Old Hickory looks sort of puzzled; but he forks out the singleton, and the messenger climbs in after it. A chunky, round-faced kid he was too.

I pushed him into one of the foldin' front seats and proceeds to apply the pump.

"What station do you run from, Sport?" says I.

"Number six," says he.

"Oh, yes," says I. "Just back of the Exchange. And is old Connolly chief down there still?"

"Yes, Sir," says he.

"Give him my regards when you get back," says I, "and tell him Torchy says he's a flivver."

The kid grins enthusiastic.

"By the way," I goes on, "who's he sendin' out with the Nash work--Gedney Nash's, you know?"

"Number 17," says he, "Loppy Miller."

"What!" says I. "Old Loppy carryin' the book yet? Why, he had grown kids when I wore the stripes. Well, well! Cagy old duffer, Loppy. Ever ask him where he delivers the Nash business?"

"Yep," says the youngster, "and he near got me fired for it."

"But you found out, didn't you?" says I.

He glances at me suspicious and rolls his eyes. "M-m-m-m," says he, shakin' his head.

"Ah, come!" says I. "You don't mean that a real sure-fire like you could be shunted that way? There'd be no harm in your givin' a guess, and if it was right--well, we could run that birthday stake up five more; couldn't we, Mr. Ellins?"

Old Hickory nods, and pa.s.ses me a five-spot prompt.

"Well?" says I, wavin' it careless.

The kid might have been scared, but he had the kale-itch in his fingers.

"All I know," says he, "is that Loppy allus goes into the William Street lobby of the Farmers' National."

"Go on!" says I. "That don't come within two numbers of backin' against the Traction Buildin'."

"But Loppy allus does," he insists. "There's a door to the right, just beyond the teller's window. But you can't get past the gink in the gray helmet. I tried once."

"Secret entrance, eh?" says I. "Sounds convincin'. Anyway, I got your number. So here's your five. Invest it in baby bonds, and don't let on to Mother. You're six to the good, and your job safe. By-by!"

"What now?" says Old Hickory. "Shall we try the secret door?"

"Not unless we're prepared to do strong arm work on the guard," says I.

"No. What we got to frame up now is a good excuse. Let's see, you can't ring in as one of the fam'ly, can you?"

"Not as any relative of Gedney's," says Old Hickory. "I'm not built right."

"How about his weak points?" says I. "Know of any fads of his?"

"Why," says Mr. Ellins, "he is a good deal interested in landscape gardening, and he goes in for fancy poultry, I believe."

"That's the line!" says I. "Poultry! Ain't there a store down near Fulton Market where we could buy a sample?"

I was in too much of a rush to go into details, and it must have seemed a batty performance to Old Hickory; but off we chases, and when we drove up to the Farmers' National half an hour later I has a wicker cage in each hand and Mr. Ellins has both fists full of poultry literature displayed prominent. Sure enough too, we finds the door beyond the teller's window, also the gink in the gray helmet. He's a husky-built party, with narrow-set, suspicious eyes.

"Up to Mr. Nash's," says I casual, makin' a move to walk right past.

"Back up!" says he, steppin' square across the way. "What Mr. Nash?"

"Whadye mean, what Mr. Nash?" says I. "There ain't cl.u.s.ters of 'em, are there? Mr. Gedney Nash, of course."

"Wrong street," says he. "Try around on Broadway."