On With Torchy Part 4

"Hadn't you better take a look around the offices," suggests Old Hickory, "examine the doors, and so on?"

"No, no!" says Bingstetter, wavin' away the interruption. "No bypaths.

The trained mind rejects everything contributory, subordinate. It refuses to be led off into a maze of unsupported conjecture. It seeks only the vital, primogenitive fact, the hidden truth at the heart of things. And that is all here--here!"

Piddie leans forward for another look at the flowers, and wags his head solemn, I edges around for a closer view myself, and Old Hickory stares puzzled.

"You don't mean to say," says he, "that just by gazing at a few flowers you can----"

"S-s-s-s.h.!.+" breaks in the Doc, holdin' up a warnin' hand. "It is coming. I am working outward from the primal fact toward the objective. It is evolving, taking on definite proportions, a.s.suming shape."

"Well, what's the result?" demands the boss, hitchin' restless in his chair.

"Patience, my dear Sir, patience," says the Doc soothin'. "The introdeductive method cannot be hurried. It is an exact process, requiring utmost concentration, until in the fullness of the moment---- Ah, I have it!"

"Eh?" says Old Hickory.

"One moment," says the Doc. "A trifling detail is still missing,--the day of the week. To-day is Wednesday, is it not? Now, on what day of last week did you receive a--er--similar token?"

Old Hickory finally reckons up that it must have been last Wednesday.

"And the week before?" goes on the Doc. "The bunch of flowers appeared then on Wednesday, did it not?"

Yes, he was pretty sure it did.

"Ah!" says Bingstetter, settlin' back in his chair like it was all over, "then the c.u.mulative character is established. And such exact recurrence cannot be due to chance. No, it has all been nicely calculated, carried out with relentless precision. Four Wednesdays, four floral threats!"

"Threats?" says Mr. Ellins, sittin' up prompt.

"You failed to read them," says the Doc. "That is what comes of neglecting minor details. But fortunately I came in time to decipher this one. Observe the fateful number,--thirteen. Note the colors here,--brown, golden, pink. The pink of the mallow means youth, the goldenrod stands for h.o.a.rded wealth, the brown for age. And all are bound together by wire gra.s.s, which is the tightening snare. A menacing missive! There will come another on Wednesday next."

"Think so?" says Old Hickory.

"I am positive," says the Doc. "One more. We will allude to it for the present, if you choose, as the fifth bouquet. And this fifth token will be red, blood red! Mr. Ellins, you are a marked man!"

"The blazes you say!" snorts Old Hickory. "Well, it won't be the first time. Who's after me now, though?"

"Five desperate men," says the Doc, countin' 'em off on his fingers.

"Four have given evidence of their subtle daring. The fifth is yet to appear. He will come on Wednesday next, and then--he will find that his coming has been antic.i.p.ated. I shall be here in person. Now, let me see--there is a room connecting with this? Ah, very well. Have three policemen in readiness there. I think it can be arranged so that our man will walk in among them of his own accord. That is all. Give yourself no uneasiness, Mr. Ellins. For a week you will be undisturbed. Until then, Sir, au revoir."

With that he bows dignified and motions Piddie to lead the way out. I slides out too, leavin' Old Hickory sittin' there starin' sort of puzzled and worried at the wall. And, honest, whether you took any stock in the Doc's yellow forecast or not, it listens kind of creepy.

Course, with him usin' all that highbrow language, I couldn't exactly follow how he gets to it; but there's no denyin' that it sounds mighty convincin'.

And yet--well, I can't say just what there was about Bingstetter that got me leery; but somehow he reminds me of a street faker or a museum lecturer. And it does seem sort of fishy that, just by gazin' at a bunch of flowers, he could dope out all this wild tale about five desp'rate men. Still, there was no gettin' away from the fact that he had hit it right about the bouquets appearin' reg'lar every Wednesday.

That must mean something. But why Wednesdays? Now, what was there that happens on Wednesday that don't----

Say, you know how you'll get a fool hunch sometimes, that'll seem such a nutty proposition first off that you'll almost laugh at yourself for havin' it; and yet how it'll rattle around in your bean persistent, until you quit tryin' to get rid of it? Well, this one of mine strikes me about as I'm snugglin' down into the hay that night, and there was no gettin' away from it for hours.

I expect I did tear off a few chunks of slumber between times; but I was wide awake long before my regular hour for rollin' out, and after makin' three or four stabs at a second nap I gives it up, slips down for an early breakfast, and before eight A.M. I'm down in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Corrugated Buildin' interviewin' the a.s.sistant superintendent in his little coop of an office. I comes out whistlin' and lookin' wise.

And that night after I'd made a trip over to Long Island across the Queensboro Bridge I looks wiser still. Nothin' to do until next Wednesday.

And when it comes it sure opens up like it's goin' to be a big day, all right! At first Old Hickory announces that he ain't goin' to have any cops campin' around in the directors' room. It was all blithering nonsense! Hadn't he lived through all sorts of warnin's before? And he'd be eternally blim-scuttled if he was goin' to get cold feet over a few faded flowers!

There was Piddie, though, with his say. His idea is to have the reserves from two precincts scattered all over the shop, and he lugs around such a serious face and talks so panicky that at last the boss compromises on havin' two of the buildin' specials detailed for the job. We smuggles 'em into the big room at eleven o'clock, and tells 'em to lay low until they gets the word. Next comes Bingstetter, blinkin' mysterious, and has himself concealed behind a screen in the private office. By that time Old Hickory is almost as nervous as anybody.

"Fine state of affairs, things are at now," he growls, "when a man isn't safe unless he has a bodyguard! That's what comes of all this political agitation!"

"Have no fear," says the Doc; "you will not receive the fifth bouquet.

Boy, leave that door into the next room slightly ajar. He will try to escape that way."

"Ajar she is," says I, proppin' it open with a 'phone directory.

"'Tis well," says the Doc. "Now leave us."

I was goin' to, anyway; for at exactly noon I had a date somewhere else. There was a window openin' off the bondroom that was screened by a pile of cases, and out from that was an iron fire escape runnin'

along the whole court side on our floor. I'd picked that window out as bein' a good place to scout from. And I couldn't have been better placed; for I saw just who I was expectin' the minute he heaves in sight. I'd like to have had one glimpse, though, of Old Hickory and the Doc and Piddie while they was watchin' and listenin' and holdin'

their breath inside there. But I'm near enough when the time comes, to hear that chorus of gasps that's let loose at twelve-twenty-six exact.

"Ha!" says the Doc. "As I told you--a red rose!"

"Well, I'll be slam-whizzled!" explodes Old Hickory.

"But--but where did it come from?" pants Piddie. "Who--who could have----"

And that's just when little Willie, after creepin' cautious along the fire escape, gives his unsuspectin' victim the snappy elbow tackle from behind and shoves him into view.

"Here's your desperado!" says I, givin' my man the persuadin' knee in the small of his back. "Ah, scramble in there, Old Top! You ain't goin' to be hurt. In with you now!"

"Look out!" squeals Piddie. "Police, police!"

"Ah, can that!" I sings out, helpin' my prisoner through the window and followin' after. "Police nothin'! Shoo 'em back, will you? He's as harmless as a kitten."

"Torchy," calls Old Hickory, recoverin' his nerve a little, "what is the meaning of this, and who have you there?"

"This," says I, straightenin' my man up with a shoulder slap, "is the bearer of the fifth bouquet--also the fourth, and the third, and so on.

This is Mr. Cubbins of the Consolidated Window Cleanin' Company. Ain't that right, eh, old sport?"

"'Enery Cubbins, Sir," says he, sc.r.a.pin' his foot polite and jerkin'

off his old cap.

"And was it you who just threw this thing on my desk?" demands Old Hickory, pointin' to the red rose.

"Meanin' no 'arm at all, Sir, no 'arm at all," says Cubbins.

"And do I understand that you brought those other flowers in the same way?" goes on Mr. Ellins.

"Not thinkin' you'd mind, Sir," says Cubbins; "but if there's henny hoffense given, I asks pardon, Sir."

And there couldn't be any mistakin' the genuine tremble in that weak, pipin' voice, or the meek look in them watery old eyes. For Cubbins is more or less of a human wreck, when you come to size him up close,--a thin, bent-shouldered, faded lookin' old party, with wispy, whitish hair, a peaked red nose, and a peculiar, whimsical quirk to his mouth corners. Old Hickory looks him over curious for a minute or so.