Torchy As A Pa

by Sewell Ford

  CHAPTER VI

  HOW TORCHY ANCHORED A COOK

  It began with Stella Flynn, but it ended with the Hon. Sour Milk andMadam Zenobia. Which is one reason why my job as private sec. to Mr.Robert Ellins is one I wouldn't swap for Tumulty's--unless they cameinsistin' that I had to go to the White House to save the country. Andup to date I ain't had any such call. There's no tellin' though. Mr.Robert's liable to sic 'em onto me any day.

  You see, just because I've happened to pull a few winnin' acts where Ihad the breaks with me he's fond of playin' me up as a wizard performerin almost any line. Course, a good deal of it is just his josh, butsomehow it ain't a habit I'm anxious to cure him of. Yet when he batsthis domestic crisis up to me--this case of Stella Flynn--I did think itwas pushin' the comedy a bit strong.

  "No," says I, "I'm no miracle worker."

  "Pooh, Torchy!" says Vee. "Who's saying you are? But at least you mighttry to suggest something. You think you're so clever at so many things,you know."

  Trust the folks at home for gettin' in these little jabs.

  "Oh, very well," says I. "What are the facts about Stella?"

  While the bill of particulars is more or less lengthy all it amounts tois the usual kitchen tragedy. Stella has given notice. After havin' beena good and faithful cook for 'steen years; first for Mrs. Ellins'smother, and then being handed on to Mrs. Ellins herself after she andMr. Robert hooked up; now Stella announces that she's about to resignthe portfolio.

  No, it ain't a higher wage scale she's strikin' for. She's been boostedthree times durin' the last six months, until she's probably the bestpaid lady cook on Long Island. And she ain't demandin' an eight-hourday, or recognition as chairman of the downstairs soviet. Stella is amiddle-aged, full-chested, kind of old-fashioned female who probablythinks a Bolshevik is a limb of the Old Boy himself and ought to be metwith holy water in one hand and a red-hot poker in the other. She'ssatisfied with her quarters, havin' a room and bath to herself; she'sgot no active grouch against any of the other help; and being sent tomass every Sunday mornin' in the limousine suits her well enough.

  But she's quittin', all the same. Why? Well, maybe Mr. Robert remembersthat brother Dan of hers he helped set up as a steam fitter out inAltoona some six or seven years ago? Sure it was a kind act. And Dannyhas done well. He has fitted steam into some big plants and someelegant houses. And now Danny has a fine home of his own. Yes, with apiano that plays itself, and gilt chairs in the parlor, and a sedan topon the flivver, and beveled glass in the front door. Also he has astylish wife who has "an evenin' wrap trimmed with vermin and islearnin' to play that auctioneer's bridge game." So why should hissister Stella be cookin' for other folks when she might be livin' swelland independent with them? Ain't there the four nieces and three nephewsthat hardly knows their aunt by sight? It's Danny's wife herself thatwrote the letter urgin' her to come.

  "And do all the cooking for that big family, I suppose?" suggests Mrs.Ellins.

  "She wasn't after sayin' as much, ma'am," says Stella, "but would I besittin' in the parlor with my hands folded, and her so stylish? AndDanny always did like my cookin'."

  "Why should he not?" asks Mrs. Ellins. "But who would go on adding toyour savings account? Don't be foolish, Stella."

  All of which hadn't gotten 'em anywhere. Stella was bent flittin' toAltoona. Ten days more and she would be gone. And as Mr. Robert finishesa piece of Stella's blue ribbon mince pies and drops a lump of sugarinto a cup of Stella's unsurpassed after-dinner coffee he lets out asigh.

  "That means, I presume," says he, "hunting up a suite in some apartmenthotel, moving into town, and facing a near-French menu three times aday. All because our domestic affairs are not managed on a businessbasis."

  "I suppose you would find some way of inducing Stella to stay--if youwere not too busy?" asks Mrs. Robert sarcastic.

  "I would," says he.

  "What a pity," says she, "that such diplomatic genius must be confinedto mere business. If we could only have the benefit of some of it here;even the help of one of your bright young men assistants. They wouldknow exactly how to go about persuading Stella to stay, I suppose?"

  "They would find a way," says Mr. Robert. "They would bring a trainedand acute mentality to the problem."

  "Humph!" says Mrs. Robert, tossing her head. "We saw that worked out ina play the other night, you remember. Mr. Wise Business Man solves thedomestic problem by hiring two private detectives, one to act as cook,the other as butler, and a nice mess he made of it. No, thank you."

  "See here, Geraldine," says Mr. Robert. "I'll bet you a hundred Torchycould go on that case and have it all straightened out inside of aweek."

  "Done!" says Mrs. Robert.

  And in spite of my protests, that's the way I was let in. But I mightnot have started so prompt if it hadn't been for Vee eggin' me on.

  "If they do move into town, you know," she suggests, "it will be ratherlonesome out here for the rest of the winter. We'll miss going there foran occasional Sunday dinner, too. Besides, Stella ought to be saved fromthat foolishness. She--she's too good a cook to be wasted on such aplace as Altoona."

  "I'll say she is," I agrees. "I wish I knew where to begin blockin' heroff."

  I expect some people would call it just some of my luck that I picks upa clue less'n ten minutes later. Maybe so. But I had to have my earstretched to get it and even then I might have missed the connection ifI'd been doin' a sleep walkin' act. As it is I'm pikin' past theservants' wing out toward the garage to bring around the little car fora start home, and Stella happens to be telephonin' from the butler'spantry with the window part open. And when Stella 'phones she does itlike she was callin' home the cows.

  About all I caught was "Sure Maggie, dear--Madame Zenobia--two flightsup over the agency--Thursday afternoon." But for me and Sherlock that'sas good as a two-page description. And when I'd had my rapid-firededucer workin' for a few minutes I'd doped out my big idea.

  "Vee," says I, when we gets back to our own fireside, "what friend hasStella got that she calls Maggie, dear?"

  "Why, that must be the Farlows' upstairs maid," says she. "Why,Torchy?"

  "Oh, for instance," says I "And didn't you have a snapshot of Stella youtook once last summer?"

  Vee says she's sure she has one somewhere.

  "Dig it out, will you?" says I.

  It's a fairly good likeness, too, and I pockets it mysterious. And nextday I spends most of my lunch hour prowlin' around on the Sixth Ave.hiring line rubberin' at the signs over the employment agencies. Musthave been about the tenth hallway I'd scouted into before I ran acrossthe right one. Sure enough, there's the blue lettered card announcin'that Madame Zenobia can be found in Room 19, third floor, ring bell. Irang.

  I don't know when I've seen a more battered old battle-axe face, or acolder, more suspicious pair of lamps than belongs to this old dame withthe henna-kissed hair and the gold hoops in her ears.

  "Well, young feller," says she, "if you've come pussyfootin' up herefrom the District Attorney's office you can just sneak back and reportnothing doing. Madame Zenobia has gone out of business. Besides, I ain'tdone any fortune tellin' in a month; only high grade trance work, andmighty little of that. So good day."

  "Oh, come, lady," says I, slippin' her the confidential smile, "do Ilook like I did fourth-rate gumshoein' for a livin'? Honest, now?Besides, the trance stuff is just what I'm lookin' for. And I'm notexpectin' any complimentary session, either. Here! There's a ten-spoton account. Now can we do business?"

  You bet we could.

  "If it's in the realm of Eros, young man," she begins, "I think----"

  "But it ain't," says I. "No heart complications at all. This ain't evena matter of a missin' relative, a lost wrist watch, or gettin' advice onbuyin' oil stocks. It's a case of a cook with a wilful disposition. Getme? I want her to hear the right kind of dope from the spirit world."

  "Ah!" says she, her eyes brightenin'. "I think I follow you, child ofthe sun. Rather a clever idea,
too. Your cook, is she?"

  "No such luck," says I. "The boss's, or I wouldn't be so free with theexpense money. And listen, Madame; there's another ten in it if thespirits do their job well."

  "Grateful words, my son," says she. "But these high-class servants arehard to handle these days. They are no longer content to see the cardslaid out and hear their past and future read. Even a simple trancesitting doesn't satisfy. They must hear bells rung, see ghostly handswaved, and some of them demand a materialized control. But they are sofew! And my faithful Al Nekkir has left me."

  "Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

  "One of the best side-kicks I ever worked with, Al Nekkir," says MadameZenobia, sighin'. "He always slid out from behind the draperies at justthe right time, and he had the patter down fine. But how could I keep areal artist like that with a movie firm offering him five times themoney? I hear those whiskers of his screen lovely. Ah, such whiskers!Any cook, no matter how high born, would fall for a prophet's beard likethat. And where can I find another?"

  Well, I couldn't say. Whiskers are scarce in New York. And it seemsMadame Zenobia wouldn't feel sure of tacklin' an A1 cook unless she hadan assistant with luxurious face lamberquins. She might try to put itover alone, but she couldn't guarantee anything. Yes, she'd keep thesnapshot of Stella, and remember what I said about the brother inAltoona. Also it might be that she could find a substitute for Al Nekkirbetween now and Thursday afternoon. But there wasn't much chance. I hadto let it ride at that.

  So Monday was crossed off, Tuesday slipped past into eternity withnothing much done, and half of Wednesday had gone the same way. Mr.Robert was gettin' anxious. He reports that Stella has set Saturday asher last day with them and that she's begun packin' her trunk. What wasI doing about it?

  "If you need more time off," says he, "take it."

  "I always need some time off," says I, grabbin my hat.

  Anyway, it was too fine an afternoon to miss a walk up Fifth Avenue.Besides, I can often think clearer when my rubber heels are busy. Didyou ever try walkin' down an idea? It's a good hunch. The one I wastryin' to surround was how I could sub in for this Al Nekkir partymyself without gettin' Stella suspicious. If I had to say the lineswould she spot me by my voice? If she did it would be all up with thegame.

  Honest, I wasn't thinkin' of whiskers at all. In fact, I hadn'tconsidered the proposition, but was workin' on an entirely differentline, when all of a sudden, just as I'm passin' the stone lions in frontof the public library, this freak looms up out of the crowd. Course youcan see 'most anything on Fifth Avenue, if you trail up and down oftenenough--about anything or anybody you can see anywhere in the world,they say. And this sure was an odd specimen.

  He was all of six feet high and most of him was draped in a brownraincoat effect that buttoned from his ankles to his chin. Besides that,he wore a green leather cap such as I've never seen the mate to, and hehad a long, solemn face that was mostly obscured by the richest andrankest growth of bright chestnut whiskers ever in captivity.

  I expect I must have grinned. I'm apt to. Probably it was a friendlygrin. With hair as red as mine I can't be too critical. Besides, he wasgazin' sort of folksy at people as he passed. Still, I didn't think henoticed me among so many and I hadn't thought of stoppin' him. I'd goneon, wonderin' where he had blown in from, and chucklin' over that fancytinted beard, when the first thing I knew here he was at my elbowlookin' down on me.

  "Forgive, sahib, but you have the face of a kindly one," says he.

  "Well, I'm no consistent grouch, if that's what you mean," says I."What'll it be?"

  "Could you tell to a stranger in a strange land what one does who hasgreat hunger and no rupees left in his purse?" says he.

  "Just what you've done," says I. "He picks out an easy mark. I don'tpass out the coin reckless, though. Generally I tow 'em to a hash houseand watch 'em eat. Are you hungry enough for that?"

  "Truly, I have great hunger," says he.

  So, five minutes later I've led him into a side street and parked himopposite me at a chop house table. "How about a slice of roast beefrare, with mashed potatoes and turnips and a cup of coffee?" says I.

  "Pardon," says he, "but it is forbidden me to eat the flesh of animals."

  So we compromised on a double order of boiled rice and milk with a hunkof pumpkin pie on the side. And in spite of the beard he went to itbusiness-like and graceful.

  "Excuse my askin'," says I, "but are you going or coming?"

  He looks a bit blank at that. "I am Burmese gentleman," says he. "I amnamed Sarrou Mollik kuhn Balla Ben."

  "That's enough, such as it is," says I. "Suppose I use only the last ofit, the Balla Ben part?"

  "No," says he, "that is only my title, as you say Honorable Sir."

  "Oh, very well," says I, "Sour Milk it is. And maybe you're willin' totell how you get this way--great hunger and no rupees?"

  He was willin'. It seems he'd first gone wanderin' from home a year orso back with a sporty young Englishman who'd hired him as guide andinterpreter on a trip into the middle of Burmah. Then they'd gone oninto India and the Hon. Sour Milk had qualified so well as all roundvalet that the young Englishman signed him up for a two-year jauntaround the world. His boss was some hot sport, though, I take it, andafter a big spree coming over on a Pacific steamer from Japan he'd beentaken sick with some kind of fever, typhoid probably, and was makin' amad dash for home when he had to quit in New York and be carted to somehospital. Just what hospital Sour Milk didn't know, and as the Hon.Sahib was too sick to think about payin' his board in advance his valethad been turned loose by an unsympathizing hotel manager. And here hewas.

  "That sure is a hard luck tale," says I. "But it ought to be easy for aman of your size to land some kind of a job these days. What did youwork at back in Burmah?"

  "I was one of the attendants at the Temple," says he.

  "Huh!" says I. "That does make it complicated. I'm afraid there ain'tmuch call for temple hands in this burg. Now if you could run abutton-holin' machine, or was a paper hanger, or could handle a deliverytruck, or could make good as a floor walker in the men's furnishin'department, or had ever done any barberin'--Say! I've got it!" and Igazes fascinated at that crop of facial herbage.

  "I ask pardon?" says he, starin' puzzled.

  "They're genuine, ain't they?" I goes on. "Don't hook over the ears witha wire? The whiskers, I mean."

  He assures me they grow on him.

  "And you're game to tackle any light work with good pay?" I asks.

  "I must not cause the death of dumb animals," says he, "or touch theirdead bodies. And I may not serve at the altars of your people. Butbeyond that----"

  "You're on, then," says I. "Come along while I stack you up againstMadame Zenobia, the Mystic Queen."

  We finds the old girl sittin' at a little table, her chin propped up inone hand and a cigarette danglin' despondent from her rouged lips. She'sa picture of gloomy days.

  "Look what I picked up on Fifth Ave.," says I.

  And the minute she spots him and takes in the chestnut whiskers, themweary old eyes of hers lights up. "By the kind stars and the jack ofspades!" says she. "A wise one from the East! Who is he?"

  "Allow me, Madame Zenobia, to present the Hon. Sour Milk," says I.

  "Pardon, Memsahib," he corrects. "I am Sarrou Mellik kuhn Balla Ben,from the Temple of Aj Wadda, in Burmah. I am far from home and withoutrupees."

  "Allah be praised!" says Madame Zenobia.

  "Ah!" echoes Sour Milk, in a deep boomin' voice that sounds like it camefrom the sub-cellar. "Allah il Allah!"

  "Enough!" says Madame Zenobia. "The Sage of India is my favorite controland this one has the speech and bearing of him to the life. You mayleave us, child of the sun, knowing that your wish shall come true. Thatis, provided the cook person appears."

  "Oh, she'll be here, all right," says I. "They never miss a date likethat. There'll be two of 'em, understand. The thin one will be Maggie,that I ain't got any dope on. You can stall her off wi
th anything. Thefat, waddly one with the two gold front teeth will be Stella. She's theparty with the wilful disposition and the late case of wanderlust.You'll know her by the snapshot, and be sure and throw it into herstrong if you want to collect that other ten."

  "Trust Zenobia," says she, wavin' me away.

  Say, I'd like to have been behind the curtains that Thursday afternoonwhen Stella Flynn squandered four dollars to get a message from thespirit world direct. I'd like to know just how it was done. Oh, she gotit, all right. And it must have been mighty convincin', for when Vee andI drives up to the Ellinses that night after dinner to see if they'dnoticed any difference in the cook, or if she'd dropped any encouragin'hints, I nearly got hugged by Mrs. Robert.

  "Oh, you wonderful young person!" says she. "You did manage it, didn'tyou?"

  "Eh?" says I.

  "Stella is going to stay with us," says Mrs. Robert. "She is unpackingher trunk! However did you do it? What is this marvelous recipe ofyours?"

  "Why," says I, "I took Madame Zenobia and added Sour Milk."

  Yes, I had more or less fun kiddin' 'em along all the evenin'. But Icouldn't tell 'em the whole story because I didn't have the detailsmyself. As for Mr. Robert, he's just as pleased as anybody, only he letson how he was dead sure all along that I'd put it over. And before Ileft he tows me one side and tucks a check into my pocket.

  "Geraldine paid up," says he, "and I rather think the stakes belong toyou. But sometime, Torchy, I'd like to have you outline your process tome. It should be worth copyrighting."

  That bright little idea seemed to have hit Madame Zenobia, too, for whenI drops around there next day to hand her the final instalment, she andthe Hon. Sour Milk are just finishing a he-sized meal that had been sentin on a tray from a nearby restaurant. She's actin' gay and mirthful.

  "Ah, I've always known there was luck in red hair," says she. "And whenit comes don't think Zenobia doesn't know it by sight. Look!" and shehands me a mornin' paper unfolded to the "Help Wanted" page. The markedad reads:

  The domestic problem solved. If you would keep your servants consultMadame Zenobia, the Mystic Queen. Try her and your cook will neverleave.

  "Uh-huh!" says I. "That ought to bring in business these times. I expectthat inside of a week you'll have the street lined with limousines andcustomers waitin' in line all up and down the stairs here."

  "True words," says Madame Zenobia. "Already I have made fourappointments for this afternoon and I've raised my fee to $50."

  "If you can cinch 'em all the way you did Stella," says I, "it'll be asgood as ownin' a Texas gusher. But, by the way, just how did you feed itto her?"

  "She wasn't a bit interested," says Madame Zenobia, "until Imaterialized Sarrou Mellik as the wise man of India. Give us that patterI worked up for you, Sarrou."

  And in that boomin' voice of his the Hon. Sour Milk remarks: "Beware ofchange. Remain, woman, where thou art, for there and there only willsome great good fortune come to you. The spirit of Ahmed the Wise hathspoken."

  "Great stuff!" says I. "I don't blame Stella for changin' her mind.That's enough to make anybody a fixture anywhere. She may be the onlyone in the country, but I'll say she's a permanent cook."

  And I sure did get a chuckle out of Mr. Robert when I sketches out howwe anchored Stella to his happy home.

  "Then that's why she looks at me in that peculiarly expectant way everytime I see her," says he. "Some great good fortune, eh? Evidently shehas decided that it will come through me."

  "Well," says I, "unless she enters a prize beauty contest or somethinglike that, you should worry. Even if she does get the idea that you'reholdin' out on her, she won't dare quit. And you couldn't do better thanthat with an Act of Congress. Could you, now?"

  At which Mr. Robert folds his hands over his vest and indulges in acat-and-canary grin. I expect he was thinkin' of them mince pies.