by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER IX
A CARRY-ON FOR CLARA
"Now turn around," says Vee. "Oh, Torchy! Why, you look perfectly----"
"Do I?" I cuts in. "Well, you don't think I'm goin' to the office likethis, do you?"
She does. Insists that Mr. Ellins will expect it.
"Besides," says she, "it is in the army regulations that you must. Ifyou don't--well, I'm not sure whether it is treason or mutiny."
"Hal-lup!" says I. "I surrender."
So I starts for town lookin' as warlike as if I'd just come from a fronttrench, and feelin' like a masquerader who'd lost his way to theball-room.
In the office, Old Hickory gives me the thorough up-and-down. It's agenial, fatherly sort of inspection, and he ends it with a satisfiedgrunt.
"Good-morning, Lieutenant," says he. "I see you have--er--got 'em on.And, allow me to mention, rather a good fit, sir."
I gasps. Sirred by Old Hickory! Do you wonder I got fussed? But he onlychuckles easy, waves me to take a chair, and goes on with:
"What's the word from the Syracuse sector?"
At that, I gets my breath back.
"Fairly good deal up there, sir," says I. "They're workin' in a carloador so of wormy ash for the shovel handles, and some of the steel runsbelow test; but most of their stuff grades well. I'll have my notestyped off right away."
After I've filed my report I should have ducked. But this habit ofstickin' around the shop is hard to break. And that's how I happen to beon hand when the lady in gray drifts in for her chatty confab with Mr.Ellins.
Seems she held quite a block of our preferred, for when Vincent lugs inher card Old Hickory spots the name right away as being on ourwidow-and-orphan list that we wave at investigatin' committees.
"Ah, yes!" says he. "Mrs. Parker Smith. Show her in, boy."
Such a quiet, gentle, dignified party she is, her costume tonin' in withher gray hair, and an easy way of speakin' and all, that my first guessis she might be the head of an old ladies' home.
"Mr. Ellins," says she, "I am looking for my niece."
"Are you?" says Mr. Ellins, "Humph! Hardly think we could be of servicein such a case."
"Oh!" says she. "I--I am so sorry."
"Lost, is she?" suggests Mr. Ellins, weakenin'.
"She is somewhere in New York," goes on Mrs. Parker Smith. "Of course, Iknow it is an imposition to trouble you with such a matter. But Ithought you might have someone in your office who--who----"
"We have," says he. "Torchy,--er--I mean, Lieutenant,--Mrs. ParkerSmith. Here, madam, is a young man who will find your niece for you atonce. In private life he is my secretary; and as it happens that justnow he is on special detail, his services are entirely at yourdisposal."
She looks a little doubtful about bein' shunted like that, but shefollows me into the next room, where I produces a pencil and pad andcalls for details businesslike.
"Let's see," says I. "What's the full description? Age?"
"Why," says she, hesitatin', "Claire is about twenty-two."
"Oh!" says I. "Got beyond the flapper stage, then. Height--tall orshort?"
Mrs. Parker Smith shakes her head.
"I'm sure I don't know," says she. "You see, Claire is not an own niece.She--well, she is a daughter of my first husband's second wife'sstep-sister."
"Wha-a-at?" says I, gawpin' at her. "Daughter of your---- Oh, say, let'snot go into it as deep as that. I'm dizzy already. Suppose we call heran in-law once removed and let it go at that?"
"Thank you," says Mrs. Parker Smith, givin' me a quizzin' smile."Perhaps it is enough to say that I have never seen her."
She does go on to explain, though, that when Claire's step-uncle, orwhatever he was, found his heart trouble gettin' worse, he wrote to Mrs.Parker Smith, askin' her to forget the past and look after the orphangirl that he's been tryin' to bring up. It's just as clear to me as theaverage movie plot, but I nods my head.
"So for three years," says she, "while Claire was in boarding-school, Iacted as her guardian; but since she has come of age I have been merelythe executor of her small estate."
"Oh, yes!" says I. "And now she's come to New York, and forgot to sendyou her address?"
It was something like that. Claire had gone in for art. Looked likeshe'd splurged heavy on it, too; for the drain on her income had beensomething fierce. Meanwhile, Mrs. Parker Smith had doped out an entirelydifferent future for Claire. The funds that had been tied up in aVermont barrel-stave fact'ry, that was makin' less and less barrelstaves every year, Auntie had pulled out and invested in a model dairyfarm out near Rockford, Illinois. She'd made the capital turn over fromfifteen to twenty per cent., too, by livin' right on the job and cashin'in the cream tickets herself.
"You have!" says I. "Not a reg'lar cow farm?"
She nods.
"It did seem rather odd, at first," says she. "But I wanted to get awayfrom--from everything. But now---- Well, I want Claire. I suppose I am alittle lonesome. Besides, I want her to try taking charge. Recently,when she had drawn her income for half a year in advance and stillasked for more, I was obliged to refuse."
"And then?" says I.
Mrs. Parker Smith shrugs her shoulders.
"The foolish girl chose to quarrel with me," says she. "About ten daysago she sent me a curt note. I could keep her money; she was tired ofbeing dictated to. I needn't write any more, for she had moved toanother address, had changed her name."
"Huh!" says I. "That does make it complicated. You don't know what shelooks like, or what name she flags under, and I'm to find her in littleNew York?"
But I finds myself tacklin this hopeless puzzle from every angle I couldthink of. I tried 'phonin' to Claire's old street number. Nothin' doin'.They didn't know anything about Miss Hunt.
"What brand of art was she monkeyin' with?" I asks.
Mrs. Parker Smith couldn't say. Claire hadn't been very chatty in herletters. Chiefly she had demanded checks.
"But in one she did mention," says the lady in gray, "that---- Now, whatwas it! Oh, yes! Something about 'landing a cover.' What could thatmean?"
"Cover?" says I. "Why, for a magazine, maybe. That's it. And if we onlyknew what name she'd sign, we might---- Would she stick to the Clairepart? I'll bet she would. Wait. I'll get a bunch of back numbers fromthe arcade news-stand and we'll go through 'em."
We'd hunted through an armful, though, before we runs across this freakysketch of a purple nymph, with bright yellow hair, bouncin' across astretch of dark blue lawn.
"Claire Lamar!" says I. "Would that be---- Eh? What's wrong?"
Mrs. Parker Smith seems to be gettin' a jolt of some kind, but shesteadies herself and almost gets back her smile.
"I--I am sure it would," says she. "It's very odd, though."
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Listens kind of arty--Claire Lamar. Lemmesee. This snappy fifteen-center has editorial offices on Fourth Avenueand---- Well, well! Barry Frost, ad. manager! Say, if I can get him onthe wire----"
Just by luck, I did. Would he pry some facts for me out of the arteditor, facts about a certain party? Sure he would. And inside of tenminutes, without leavin' the Corrugated General Offices, I had a fulldescription of Claire, includin' where she hung out.
"Huh!" says I. "Greenwich Village, eh? You might know."
"My dear Lieutenant," says Mrs. Parker Smith, "I think you are perfectlywonderful."
"Swell thought!" says I. "But you needn't let on to Mr. Ellins howsimple it was. And now, all you got to do is----"
"I know," she cuts in. "And I really ought not to trouble you anothermoment. But, since Mr. Ellins has been so kind--well, I am going to askyou to help me just a trifle more."
"Shoot," says I, unsuspicious.
It ain't much, she says. But she's afraid, if she trails Claire to herrooms, the young lady might send down word she was out, or make a quickexit.
"But if you would go," she suggests, "with a note from me asking her tojoin us somewhere at dinner----"
I h
olds up both hands.
"Sorry," says I, "but I got to duck. That's taking too many chances."
Then I explains how, although I may look like a singleton, I'm reallythe other half of a very interestin' domestic sketch, and that Vee'sexpectin' me home to dinner.
"Why, all the better!" says Mrs. Parker Smith. "Have her come in andjoin us. I'll tell you: we will have our little party down at the oldNapoleon, where they have such delicious French cooking. Now, please."
As I've hinted before, she is some persuader. I ain't mesmerized sostrong, though, but what I got sense enough to play it safe by callin'up Vee first. I don't think she was strong for joinin' the reunion untilI points out that I might be some shy at wanderin' down into theart-student colony and collectin' a strange young lady illustrator allby myself.
"Course, I could do it alone if I had to," I throws in.
"H-m-m-m!" says Vee. "If that bashfulness of yours is likely to be asbad as all that, perhaps I'd better come."
So by six o 'clock Vee and I are in the dinky reception-room of one ofthem Belasco boardin'-houses, tryin' to convince a young female in apaint-splashed smock and a floppy boudoir cap that we ain't tryin' tokidnap or otherwise annoy her.
"What's the big idea?" says she. "I don't get you at all."
"Maybe if you'd read the note it would help," I suggests.
"Oh!" says she, and takes it over by the window.
She's a long-waisted, rangy young party, who walks with a Theda Baraslouch and tries to talk out of one side of her mouth. "Hello!" she goeson. "The Parker Smith person. That's enough. It's all off."
"Just as you say," says I. "But, if you ask me, I wouldn't pass up anaunt like her without takin' a look."
"Aunt!" says Claire Lamar, _alias_ Hunt. "Listen: she's about as much anaunt to me as I am to either of you. And I've never shed any tears overthe fact, either. The only aunt that I'd ever own was one that my familywould never tell me much about. I had to find out about her for myself.Take it from me, though, she was some aunt."
"Tastes in aunts differ, I expect," says I. "And Mrs. Parker Smith don'tclaim to be a reg'lar aunt, anyway. She seems harmless, too. All shewants is a chance to give you a rosy prospectus of life on a cow farmand blow you to a dinner at the Napoleon."
"Think of that!" says Claire. "And I've been living for weeks onwindow-sill meals, with now and then a ptomaine-defying gorge at thePink Poodle's sixty-cent table d'hote. Oh, I'll come, I'll come! But Iwarn you: the Parker Smith person will understand before the evening isover that I was born to no cow farm in Illinois."
With that she glides off to do a dinner change.
"I believe it is going to be quite an interesting party, don't you?"says Vee.
"The signs point that way," says I. "But the old girl really ought towear shock-absorbers if she wants to last through the evenin'. S-s-s-sh!Claire is comin' back."
This time she's draped herself in a pale yellow kimono with bluetriangles stenciled all over it.
"Speaking of perfectly good aunts," says she, "there!" And she displaysa silver-framed photo. It's an old-timer done in faded brown, and showsa dashin' young party wearin' funny sleeves, a ringlet cascade on oneside of her head, and a saucy little pancake lid over one ear.
"That," explains Claire, "was my aunt Clara Lamar; not my real aunt, youknow, but near enough for me to claim her. This was taken in '82, Ibelieve."
"Really!" says Vee. "She must have been quite pretty."
"That doesn't half tell it," says Claire. "She was a charmer, simplyfascinating. Not beautiful, you know, but she had a way with her. Shewas brilliant, daring, one of the kind that men raved over. At twentyshe married a Congressman, fat and forty. She hadn't lived in Washingtonsix months before her receptions were crushes. She flirtedindustriously. A young French aide and an army officer fought a duelover her. And, while the capital was buzzing with that, she eloped withanother diplomat, a Russian. For a year or two they lived in Paris. Shehad her salon. Then the Russian got himself killed in some way, and shesoon married again--another American, quite wealthy. He brought her backto New York, and they lived in one of those old brown-stone mansions onlower Fifth Avenue. Her dinner parties were the talk of thetown--champagne with the fish, vodka with the coffee, cigarettes for thewomen, cut-up stunts afterwards. I forget just who No. 3 was, but hesuccumbed. Couldn't stand the pace, I suppose. And then---- Well, AuntClara disappeared. But, say, she was a regular person. I wish I couldfind out what ever became of her."
"Maybe Mrs. Parker Smith could give you a line," I suggests.
"Her!" says Claire. "Fat chance! But I must finish dressing. Sorry tokeep you waiting."
We did get a bit restless durin' the next half hour, but the wait wasworth while. For, believe me, when Claire comes down again she's somedolled.
I don't mean she was any home-destroyer. That face of hers is too longand heavy for the front row of a song review. But she has plenty of zipto her get-up. After one glance I calls a taxi.
The way I'd left it with Mrs. Parker Smith, we was to land Claire at thehotel first; then call her up, and proceed to order dinner. So we hadanother little stage wait, with only the three of us at the table.
"I hope you don't mind if I have a puff or two," says Claire. "It goeshere, you know."
"Anything to make the evenin' a success," says I, signalin' a garcon."My khaki lets me out of followin' you."
So, when the head waiter finally tows in Mrs. Parker Smith, costumed inthe same gray dress and lookin' meeker and gentler than ever, she isgreeted with a sporty tableau. But she don't faint or anything. She justsprings that twisty smile of hers and comes right on.
"The missing one!" says I, wavin' at Claire.
"Ah!" says Mrs. Parker Smith, beamin' on her. "So good of you to come!"
"Wasn't it?" says Claire, removin' the cork tip languid.
Well, as a get-together I must admit that the outlook was kind offrosty. Claire showed plenty of enthusiasm for the hors d'oeuvresand the low-tide soup and so on, but mighty little for this volunteerauntie, who starts to describe the subtle joys of the butter business.
"Perhaps you have never seen a herd of registered Guernseys," says Mrs.Parker Smith, "when they are munching contentedly at milking time, withtheir big, dreamy eyes----"
"Excuse me!" says Claire. "I don't have to. I spent a whole month'svacation on a Vermont farm."
Mrs. Parker Smith only smiles indulgent.
"We use electric milkers, you know," says she, "and most of our youngmen come from the agricultural colleges."
"That listens alluring--some," admits Claire. "But I can't see myselfplanted ten miles out on an R. F. D. route, even with college-bred help.Pardon me if I light another dope-stick."
I could get her idea easy enough, by then. Claire wasn't half so sportyas she hoped she was. It was just her way of doing the carry-on for AuntClara Lamar. But, at the same time, we couldn't help feelin' kind ofsorry for Mrs. Parker Smith. She was tryin' to be so nice and friendly,and she wasn't gettin' anywhere.
It was by way of switchin' the line of table chat, I expect, that Veebreaks in with that remark about the only piece of jewelry the old girlis wearin'.
"What a duck of a bracelet!" says Vee. "An heirloom, is it?"
"Almost," says Mrs. Parker Smith. "It was given to me on mytwenty-second birthday, in Florence."
She slips it off and passes it over for inspection. The part that goesaround the wrist is all of fine chain-work, silver and gold, wovenalmost like cloth, and on top is a cameo, 'most as big as a clam.
"How stunning! Look, Torchy. O-o-oh!" says Vee, gaspin' a little.
In handling the thing she must have pressed a catch somewhere, for thecameo springs back, revealin' a locket effect underneath with a picturein it. Course, we couldn't help seein'.
"Why--why----" says Vee, gazin' from the picture to Mrs. Parker Smith."Isn't this a portrait of--of----"
"Of a very silly young woman," cuts in Auntie. "We waited in Florence aweek to have that
finished."
"Then--then it is you!" asks Vee.
The lady in gray nods. Vee asks if she may show it to Claire.
"Why not?" says Mrs. Parker Smith, smilin'.
We didn't stop to explain. I passes it on to Claire, and then we bothwatches her face. For the dinky little picture under the cameo is a deadringer for the one Claire had shown us in the silver frame. So it wasClaire's turn to catch a short breath.
"Don't tell me," says she, "that--that you are Clara Lamar?"
Which was when Auntie got her big jolt. For a second the pink fades outof her cheeks, and the salad fork she'd been holdin' rattles into herplate. She makes a quick recovery, though.
"I was--once," says she. "I had hoped, though, that the name had beenforgotten. Tell me, how--how do you happen to----"
"Why," says Claire, "uncle had the scrapbook habit. Anyway, I found thisone in an old desk, and it was all about you. Your picture was in it,too. And say, Auntie, you were the real thing, weren't you?"
After that it was a reg'lar reunion. For Claire had dug up her heroine.And, no matter how strong Auntie protests that she ain't that sort of aparty now, and hasn't been for years and years, Claire keeps right on.She's a consistent admirer, even if she is a little late.
"If I had only known it was you!" says she.
"Then--then you'll come to Meadowbrae with me?" asks Mrs. Parker Smith.
"You bet!" says Claire. "Between you and me, this art career of mine hasrather fizzled out. Besides, keeping it up has got to be rather a bore.Honest, a spaghetti and cigarette life is a lot more romantic to readabout than it is to follow. Whether I could learn to run a dairy farm ornot, I don't know; but, with an aunt like you to coach me along, I'mblessed if I don't give it a try. When do we start?"
"But," says Vee to me, later, "I can't imagine her on a farm."
"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Didn't you notice she couldn't smokewithout gettin' it up her nose?"
