CHAPTER XVI

TORCHY TACKLES A MYSTERY

I'll admit I didn't get all stirred up when Mr. Robert comes in from

luncheon and announces that this Penrhyn Deems person is missing.

"On how many cylinders?" says I.

I might have added, too, that even if he'd been mislaid permanent I

could struggle along. First off, anybody with a name like that could be

easy spared. Penrhyn! Always reminded me of a headache tablet. Where did

he get such a fancy tag? I never could believe that was sprinkled on

him. Listened to me like something he'd thought up himself when he saw

the chance of its being used so much on four sheets and billboards. And

if you'd ask me I'd said that the prospect of his not contributin' any

more of them musical things to the Broadway stage wasn't good cause for

decreein' a lodge of sorrow. Them last two efforts of his certainly was

punk enough to excuse him from tryin' again. What if he had done the

lines and lyrics to "The Buccaneer's Bride"? That didn't give him any

license to unload bush-league stuff for the rest of his career, did it?

Begun to look like his first big hit had been more or less of an

accident. That being the case maybe it was time for him to fade out.

Course, I didn't favor Mr. Robert with all this. Him and Penrhyn Deems

was old college chums together, and while they ain't been real thick in

late years they have sort of kept in touch. I suspect that since Penrhyn

got to ratin' himself as kind of a combination of Reggie DeKoven and

George Cohan he ain't been so easy to get along with. Maybe I'm wrong,

but from the few times I've seen him blowin' in here at the Corrugated

that was my dope. You know. One of these parties who carries his chest

out and walks heavy on his heels. Yes, I should judge that the ego in

Penrhyn's make-up would run well over 2.75 per cent.

But it takes more'n that to get him scratched from Mr. Robert's list.

He's strong for keepin' up old friendships, Mr. Robert is. He remembers

whatever good points they have and lets it ride at that. So he's always

right there with the friendly hail whenever Penrhyn swaggers in wearin'

them noisy costumes that he has such a weakness for, and with his

eyebrows touched up and his cutie-boy mustache effect decoratin' that

thick upper lip. How a fat party like him could work up so much personal

esteem I never could understand. But they do. You watch next time you're

on a subway platform, who it is that gazes most fond into the

gum-machine mirrors and if it ain't mostly these blimp-built boys with

a 40 belt measure then I'm wrong on my statistics. Anyway, Penrhyn is

that kind.

"This is the third day that he has been missing, Torchy," says Mr.

Robert, solemn.

"Yes?" says I. "Seems to me I saw an item about him in the theatrical

notes yesterday, something about his being a. w. o. l. Kind of joshing,

it read, like they didn't take it serious."

"That's the disgusting part of it," says Mr. Robert. "Here is a man who

disappears suddenly, to whom almost anything may have happened, from

being run over by a truck to robbery and murder; yet, because he happens

to be connected with the theatrical business, it is referred to as if it

were some kind of a joke. Why, he may be lying unidentified in some

hospital, or at the bottom of the North River."

"Anybody out looking for him?" I asks.

"Not so far as I can discover," says Mr. Robert. "I have 'phoned up to

the Shuman offices--they're putting on his new piece, you know--but I

got no satisfaction at all. He hadn't been there for several days. That

was all they knew. Yes, there had been talk of giving the case to a

detective agency, but they weren't sure it had been done. And here is

his poor mother up in New Rochelle, almost on the verge of nervous

prostration. There is his fiancée, too; little Betty Parsons, who is

crying her eyes out. Nice girl, Betty. And it's a shame that something

isn't being done. Anyway, I shall do what I can."

"Sure!" says I. "I hadn't thought about his having a mother--and a girl.

But say, Mr. Robert, maybe I can put you next to somebody at Shuman's

who can give you the dope. I got a friend up there--Whitey Weeks. Used

to do reportin'. Last time I met him though, he admitted modest that

Alf. Shuman had come beggin' him to take full charge of the publicity

end of all his attractions. So if anybody has had any late bulletins

about Mr. Deems it's bound to be Whitey."

"Suppose you ring him up, then," says Mr. Robert.

"When I'm trying to extract the truth from Whitey," says I, "I want to

be where I can watch his eyes. He's all right in his way, but he's as

shifty as a jumpin' bean. If you want the facts I'd better go myself.

Maybe you'd better come, too, Mr. Robert."

He agrees to that and inside of half an hour we've pushed through a mob

of would-be and has-been chorus females and have squeezed into the

little coop where Whitey presides important behind a big double-breasted

roll-top. And when I explains how Mr. Robert is an old friend of

Penrhyn's, and is actin' for the heart-broken mother and the weepin'

fiancée as well, Whitey shakes his head solemn.

"Sorry, gentlemen," says he, "but we haven't heard a word from him

since he disappeared. Haven't even a clue. It's an absolute mystery. He

seems to have vanished, that's all. And we don't know what to make of

it. Rather embarrassing for us, too. You know we've just started

rehearsals for his new piece, 'Oh, Say, Belinda!' Biggest thing he's

done yet. And Mr. Shuman has spent nearly $10,000 for the setting and

costumes of one number alone. Yet here Deems walks off with the lyrics

for that song--the only copy in existence, mind you--and drops out of

sight. I suppose he wanted to revise the verses. You see the hole it put

us in, though. We're rushing 'Belinda' through for an early production,

and he strays off with the words to what's bound to be the big song hit

of the season. Why, Miss Ladue, who does that solo, is about crazy, and

as for Mr. Shuman----"

"Yes, I understand, Whitey," I breaks in. "That's good press agent

stuff, all right. But Mr. Ellins here ain't so much worried over what's

going to happen to the show as he is over what has happened to Penrhyn

Deems. Now how did he disappear? Who saw him last?"

Whitey shrugs his shoulders. "All a mystery, I tell you," says he. "We

haven't a single clue."

"And you're just sitting back wondering what has become of him," demands

Mr. Robert, "without making an effort to trace him?"

"Well, what can we do?" asks Whitey. "If the fool newspapers would only

wake up to the fact that a prominent personage is missing, and give us

the proper space, that might help. They will in time, of course. Got to

come to it. But you know how it is. Anything from a press bureau they're

apt to sniff over suspicious. As if I'd pull one as raw as this on 'em!

Huh! But I'm working up the interest, and by next Sunday I'll bet

they'll be carrying front page headlines, 'Where is Penrhyn Deems?'

You'll see."

"Suppose he should turn up tomorrow, though?" I asks.

"Oh, but he couldn't," says Whitey quick. "That is, if he's really lost

or--or anything has happened to him. What makes you think he might show

up, Torchy?"

"Just a hunch of mine," says I. "I was thinking maybe some of his

friends might find him somewhere."

"I'd like to see 'em," says Whitey emphatic. "It--it would be worth a

good deal to us."

"Yes," says I, "I know how you feel about it. Much obliged, Whitey. I

guess that's all we can do; eh, Mr. Robert?"

But we're no sooner out of the office than I gives him the nudge.

"Bunk!" says I. "I'd bet a million of somebody else's money that this is

just one of Whitey's smooth frame-ups."

"I hardly think I follow you," says Mr. Robert.

"Here's the idea," says I. "When 'The Buccaneer's Bride' was having that

two-year run Penrhyn Deems was a good deal in the spotlight. He had

write-ups reg'lar, full pages in the Sunday editions, new pictures of

himself printed every few weeks. He didn't hate it, did he? But these

last two pieces of his were frosts. All he's had recent have been

roasts, or no mention at all. And it was up to Whitey to bring him back

into the public eye, wasn't it? Trust Whitey for doing that."

"But this method would be so thoroughly cold-blooded, heartless,"

protests Mr. Robert.

"Wouldn't stop Whitey, though," says I.

"Then we must do our best to find Penrhyn," says he.

"Sure!" says I. "Sleuth stuff. How about startin' at his rooms and

interviewin' his man?"

"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "We will go there at once."

We did. But what we got out of that pie-faced Nimms of Penrhyn's wasn't

worth taking notes of. He's got a map about as full of expression as the

south side of a squash, Nimms. A peanut-headed Cockney that Penrhyn

found somewhere in London.

"Sure I cawn't say, sir," says he, "where the mawster went to, sir. It

was lawst Monday night 'e vanished, sir."

"Whaddye mean, vanished?" says I.

"'E just walked out, sir, and never came back," says Nimms. "See, sir,

I've 'ad 'is morning suit all laid out ever since, sir."

"Then he went in evening clothes?" puts in Mr. Robert.

"Not exactly, sir," says Nimms. "'E was attired as a court jester, sir;

in motley, you know, sir, and cap and bells."

"Wha-a-at?" says Mr. Robert. "In a fool's costume? You say he went out

in that rig? Why the deuce should he----"

"I didn't ask the mawster, sir," says Nimms, "but my private opinion of

the matter, sir, is that he was on 'is way to a masked banquet of some

sort. I 'appened to see a hinvitation, sir, that----"

"Dig it up, Nimms," says I. "Might be a clue."

Sure enough, Nimms had it stowed away; and the fathead hadn't said a

word about it before. It's an invite to the annual costume dinner of the

Bright Lights Club.

"Huh!" says I. "I've heard of that bunch--mostly producers, stage stars

and dramatists. Branch of the Lambs Club. Whitey would have known about

that event, too. And Alf. Shuman. If Deems had been there they'd have

known. So he didn't get there. I expect he wore a rain coat or

something over his costume, and went in a taxi; eh, Nimms?"

"Quite so, sir," says Nimms. "A long raincoat, sir."

"But," breaks in Mr. Robert, "a man couldn't wander around New York

dressed in a fool's costume without being noticed. That is, not for

several days."

"You bet he couldn't," says I. "So he didn't."

That's a good line to pull, that "he couldn't, so he didn't," when

you're doin' this Sherlock-Watson stuff. Sounds professional. Mr. Robert

nods and then looks at me expectant as if he was waitin' to hear what

I'd deduce next. But as a matter of fact my deducer was runnin' down.

Yet when you've got a boss who always expects you to cerebrate in high

gear, as he's so fond of puttin' it, you've got to produce something

off-hand, or stall around.

"Now, let's see," says I, registerin' deep thought, "if Penrhyn was to

go anywhere on his own hook, where would it be? You know his habits

pretty well, Mr. Robert. What's your guess?"

"Why, I should say he would make for the nearest golf course," says he.

"He's a golf shark, is he?" says I.

"Not in the sense you mean," says Mr. Robert. "Hardly. Penrhyn is a

consistent but earnest duffer. The ambition of his life is to break 100

on some decent course. He has talked enough about it to me. Yes, that is

probably where he is, if he's still alive, off playing golf somewhere."

"Begging your pardon, sir," puts in Nimms, "but that could 'ardly be so,

sir, seeing as 'ow 'is sticks are still 'ere. That's the strange part of

'is disappearance, sir. 'E never travels without 'is bag of sticks. And

they're in that closet, sir."

"Couldn't he rent an outfit, or borrow one?" I suggests.

"He could," says Mr. Robert, "but he wouldn't. No more than you would

rent a toothbrush. That is one of the symptoms of the golf duffer. He

has his pet clubs and imagines he can play with no others. I think we

must agree with Nimms. If we do, the case looks serious again, for

Penrhyn would certainly not go away voluntarily unless it was to some

place where he could indulge in his mania."

"That's it!" says I. "Then he's been steered somewhere against his will.

That's the line! Which brings us back to Whitey Weeks. Who else but

Whitey would want him shunted off out of sight for a week or so?"

"But you don't think he would go so far as to kidnap Penrhyn, do you?"

asks Mr. Robert.

"Who, Whitey?" says I. "He'd kidnap his grandmother if he saw a front

page story in it. Maybe he'd had this disappearance stunt all worked up

when Mr. Deems balked. So he gets him when he's rigged up in some crazy

costume, with all his regular clothes at home, and tolls him off to some

out of the way spot. See? In that rig Penrhyn would have to stay put,

wouldn't he? Couldn't show himself among folks without being mobbed. So

he'd have to lay low until someone brought him a suit of clothes."

"That would be an ingenious way of doing it," admits Mr. Robert.

"Believe me, Whitey has that kind of a mind," says I, "or else he

wouldn't be handling the Alf. Shuman publicity work."

"But where could he have taken him?" asks Mr. Robert.

"We're just gettin' to that," says I. "Where would he? Now if this was a

movie play we was dopin' out it would be simple. He'd be taken off on a

yacht. But Whitey couldn't get the use of a yacht. He don't travel in

that class, and Shuman wouldn't stand for the charter price in an

expense bill. A lonesome farm would be a good spot. But Penrhyn could

borrow a rube outfit and escape from a farm. A lighthouse would be a

swell place to stow away a leading librettist dressed up in a fool's

costume, wouldn't it? Or an island? Say, I'll bet I've got it!"

"Eh?" says Mr. Robert.

"He's on an island," says I. "High Bar Island. It's a place where

Whitey goes duck shootin' every fall. He belongs to a club that owns it.

Anyway, he did. Used to feed me an earful about what a great gunner he

was, and what thrillin' times he had at the old shack. Down somewhere in

Barnegat Bay, back of the lighthouse. Yep! He's there, if he's

anywhere."

"Sounds rather unlikely," says Mr. Robert. "Still, you seem to have an

uncanny instinct for being right in such matters. Perhaps we ought to go

down and see. Come."

"What, now?" says I. "Right away?"

"There is his mother, almost in hysterics," says Mr. Robert, "and his

sweetheart. Think of the suspense, the mental strain they must be under.

If we can find Penrhyn we must do so as quickly as possible. Let's go

back to the office and look up train connections."

Well, if we'd started half an hour earlier we'd been all right. As it

was we could hang up all night at some dinky junction or wait over until

next morning. Neither suited Mr. Robert. He 'phones for his tourin' car

and decides to motor down into Jersey. Also he has a kit bag packed for

two of us and collects from Nimms a full outfit of daylight clothes for

Penryhn.

We got away about five o'clock and as Mr. Robert figures by the Blue

Book that we have only a hundred and some odd miles to run he thinks we

ought to make some place near Barnegat Light by nine o'clock. Maybe we

would have, too, if we'd caught the Staten Island ferries right at both

ends, and hadn't had two blow-outs and strayed off the road once. As it

is we finally lands at little joint that shows on the map as Forked

River about 1 a.m. There wasn't a light in the whole place and it took

us half an hour to pry the landlord of the hotel out of the feathers.

No, he couldn't tell us where we could get a boat to take us out to High

Bar at that time of night. It wasn't being done. Folks didn't go there

often anyway, and when they did they started after breakfast.

"It'll be there in the morning, you know," says he.

"That's so," says Mr. Robert. "Have a motor boat ready at nine o'clock.

Not much use getting there before 10:30. Penrhyn wouldn't be up."

That sounded sensible to me. When I go huntin' for lost dramatists I

like to take it easy and be braced up for the day with a good shot of

ham and eggs. This part of the program was carried out smooth. And it's

a nice little sail across old Barnegat Bay with the oyster fleet busy

and the fishin' boats dotted around. But the native who piloted us out

was doubtful about anybody's being on High Bar.

"I seen some parties shootin' around on Love Ladies yesterday," says he,

"an' a couple more was snipin' on Sea Dog, but I didn't hear nary gun

let off on th' Bar."

"Oh, my friend doesn't shoot, anyway," says Mr. Robert.

"Ain't nothin' else for him to do on High Bar," says the native, "less'n

he wants to collect skeeter bites."

When we got close enough to see the island I begun to suspicion I'd

missed out on my hunch, for there ain't a soul in sight. We could see

the whole of it, too, for the highest part isn't much over two feet

above tide-water mark. Near the boat landing is the club house, set up

on piling, with a veranda across the front. The rest of High Bar is only

a few acres of sedge and marsh.

"Yea-uh!" says the native. "Must be somebody thar. Door's open. Yea-uh!

Thar's old Lem Robbins, who allus does the cookin'. Hey, Lem!"

Lem waves cordial and waddles down to meet us. He's a fat, grizzled old

pirate who looked bored and discontented.

"Got anybody with you, Lem?" asks the native.

"Not to speak of," says Lem. "Only a loony sort of gent that wears

skin-tight barber-pole pants and cusses fluent."

"That's Penrhyn!" says Mr. Robert. "Dressed as a fool, isn't he?"

"You've said it," says Lem. "Acts like one, too. Hope you gents have

come to take him back where he belongs. Needs to be shut up, he does."

"But where is he?" demands Mr. Robert.

"Out back of the house, swingin' an old boat-hook and carryin' on

simple," says Lem. "I'll show you."

It was some sight, too. For there is the famous author of "The

Buccaneer's Bride," rigged out complete in a more or less soiled

jester's costume, includin' the turkey red headpiece with the bells on

it. He's standing on a heap of shells and waving this rusty boat-hook

around. Course, I expects when he sees Mr. Robert and realizes how he's

been rescued he'll come out of his spell and begin to act rational once

more. But it don't work out that way. When Mr. Robert calls out to him

and he sees who it is, he keeps right on swingin' the boat-hook.

"Glory be, Bob!" he sings out. "I've got it at last."

"Got what, Penny?" demands Mr. Robert.

"My drive," says he. "Watch, Bob. How's that, eh? Notice that carry

through? Wouldn't that spank the pill 200 yards straight down the

fairway? Wouldn't it, now?"

"Oh, I say, Penny!" says Mr. Robert. "Don't be more of an ass than you

can help. Quit that golf tommyrot and tell me what you're doing here in

this forsaken spot when all New York is thinking that maybe you've been

murdered or something."

"Eh?" says Penrhyn. "Then--then the news is out, is it? Did you bring

any papers?"

"Papers?" says Mr. Robert. "No."

"Wish you had," says Penrhyn. "Got everyone stirred up, I suppose? Tell

me, though, how are people taking it?"

"If you mean the public in general," says Mr. Robert, "I think they are

bearing up nobly. But your mother and Betty----"

"By George!" breaks in Penrhyn. "That's so! They might be rather

disturbed. I--I never thought about them."

"Didn't, eh?" says Mr. Robert. "No, you wouldn't. You were thinking

about Penrhyn Deems, as usual. And I must say, Penny, you're the limit.

I've a good notion to leave you here."

"No, no, Bob! Don't do that," pleads Penrhyn. "Disgusting place. And I

dislike that cook person, very much. Besides, I must get back. Really."

"Want to relieve your poor old mother and Betty, eh?" asks Mr. Robert.

"Yes, of course," says Penrhyn. "Besides, I want to try this swing with

my driver. Bob, I'm sure I can put in that wrist snap at last. And if I

can I--I'll be playing in the 90's. Sure!"

He's a wonder, Penrhyn. He has this hoof and mouth disease, otherwise

known as golf, worse than anybody I ever met before. Took Mr. Robert

another ten minutes to get him calmed down enough so he could tell how

he come to be marooned on this island in that rig.

"Why, it was that new press agent of Shuman's, of course," says Penrhyn.

"That Weeks person. He did it."

"You don't mean to say, Penny," says Mr. Robert, "that you were

kidnapped and brought here a prisoner?"

"Not at all," says Penny. "We drove down here at night and came in a

boat just at daylight. Silly performance. Especially wearing this

costume. But he insisted that it would make the disappearance more

plausible, more dramatic. Wouldn't tell me where we were going, either.

Said it was a club house, so I thought of course there would be golf.

But look at this hole! And I've had four days of it. Mosquitoes?

Something frightful. That's why I've kept on the cap and bells. At first

I put in the time working over one of the songs in the new piece. Wrote

some ripping verses, too. They'll go strong. Best thing I've done. But

after I had finished that job I wanted to play golf; practice, anyway.

And I was nearly crazy until I found this old boat-hook and began

knocking oyster shells into the water. That's how it came to me--the

drive. If I can only hold it!"

I suggests how Mr. Weeks is probably plannin' for him to stay lost until

over Sunday anyway, so he can work some big space in the newspapers.

"Oh, bother Mr. Weeks!" says Penrhyn. "I've had enough of this. The new

piece is going to go big, anyway. Come along, Bob. Let's start. I'll

'phone to mother and Betty, and maybe I can get in eighteen holes this

afternoon. Brought some clothes for me, didn't you? I must change from

this rig first."

"I wouldn't," says Mr. Robert. "It's quite appropriate, Penny."

But Penrhyn wouldn't be joshed and makes a dive for his suitcase. We

lands him back on Broadway at 4:30 that same afternoon. My first move

after gettin' to the Corrugated general offices is to ring up Whitey

Weeks.

"This is Torchy," says I. "And ain't it awful about Penrhyn Deems?"

"Eh?" gasps Whitey. "What about him?"

"He's been found," says I. "Uh-huh! Discovered on an island by some fool

friends that brought him back to town. I just saw him on Broadway."

"The simp!" groans Whitey.

"You're a great little describer, Whitey," says I. "Simp is right. But

next time you want to win front page space by losing a dramatist I'd

advise you to lock him in a vault. Islands are too easy located."