Odd Numbers

CHAPTER XI

A LOOK IN ON THE GOAT GAME

Pinckney was tellin’ me, here awhile back at lunch one day, what terrors them twins of his was gettin’ to be. He relates a tragic tale about how they’d just been requested to resign from another private school where they’d been goin’ as day scholars.

“That is the third this season,” says he; “the third, mind you!”

“Well, there’s more still, ain’t there?” says I.

“Brilliant observation, Shorty,” says he, “also logical and pertinent. Yes, there are several others still untried by the twins.”

“What you howlin’ about, then?” says I.

“Because,” says he, toyin’ with the silver frame that holds the bill of fare, “because it is not my intention to demoralize all the educational institutions of this city in alphabetical order.”

“G’wan!” says I. “The kids have got to be educated somewhere, haven’t they?”

“Which is the sad part of it,” says Pinckney, inspectin’ the dish of scrambled eggs and asparagus tips and wavin’ the waiter to do the serving himself. “It means,” he goes on, “having a governess around the house, and you know what nuisances they can be.”

“Do I?” says I. “The nearest I ever got to havin’ a governess was when Mrs. O’Grady from next door used to come in to use our wash-tubs and I was left with her for the day. Nobody ever called her a nuisance and got away with it.”

“What an idyllic youth to look back upon!” says he. “I can remember half a dozen, at least, who had a hand in directing the course of my budding intellect, and each one of them developed some peculiarity which complicated the domestic situation. I am wondering what this new governess of ours will contribute.”

“Got one on the job already, eh?” says I.

“This is her third day,” says he, “and if she manages to live through it with the twins, I shall have hope.”

“Ah, pickles!” says I. “Those kids are all right. They’re full of life and ginger, that’s all.”

“Especially ginger,” says Pinckney.

“What of it?” says I. “Or are you just blowin’ about ’em? It’s all right, they’re a great pair, and any time you want to entertain me for half an hour, turn ’em loose in my comp’ny.”

“Done!” says Pinckney. “We’ll take a cab right up.”

“Put it off three minutes, can’t you?” says I, lookin’ over the French pastry tray and spearin’ a frosted creampuff that was decorated up with sugar flowers until it looked like a bride’s bouquet.

He insists on callin’ my bluff, though; so up the avenue we goes, when I should have been hotfootin’ it back to the studio. But I could see that Pinckney was some anxious about how the kids was gettin’ on, Gertie being away for the day, and I thinks maybe I’ll be useful in calmin’ any riot he might find in progress.

All was quiet and peaceful, though, as Pinckney opens the door with his latchkey. No howls from upstairs, no front windows broken, and nobody slidin’ down the banisters. We was just waitin’ for the automatic elevator to come down when we hears voices floatin’ out from the lib’ry. Pinckney steps to the doorway where he can see through into the next room, and then beckons me up for a squint.

It wa’n’t the kids at all, but a couple of grownups that was both strangers to me. From the way the young woman is dressed I could guess she was the new governess. Anyway, she’s makin’ herself right to home, so far as entertainin’ comp’ny goes; for she and the gent with her is more or less close together and mixed up. First off it looked like a side-hold lover’s clinch, and then again it didn’t.

“Is it a huggin’ match, or a rough-house tackle?” I whispered over Pinckney’s shoulder.

“I pass the declaration,” says he. “Suppose we investigate.”

With that we strolls in, and we’re within a dozen feet of the couple before they get wise to the fact that there’s an int’rested audience. I must say, though, that they made a clean, quick breakaway. Then they stands, starin’ at us.

“Ah, Miss Marston!” says Pinckney. “Do I interrupt?”

“Why – er – er – you see, sir,” she begins, “I – that is – we – ”

And she breaks down with as bad a case of rattles as I ever see. She’s a nice lookin’, modest appearin’ young woman, too, a little soft about the mouth, but more or less classy in her lines. Her hair is some mussed, and there’s sort of a wild, desp’rate look in her eyes.

“A near relative, I presume?” suggests Pinckney, noddin’ at the gent, who’s takin’ it all cool enough.

“Oh, yes, sir,” gasps out the governess. “My husband, sir.”

And the gent, he bows as easy and natural as if he was bein’ introduced at an afternoon tea party. “Glad to know you,” says he, stickin’ out his hand, which Pinckney, bein’ absent-minded just then, fails to see.

“Really!” says Pinckney, lookin’ the governess up and down. “Then it’s not Miss Marston, but Mrs. – er – ”

“Yes,” says she, lettin’ her chin drop, “Mrs. Marston.”

“Very unfortunate,” says Pinckney, “very!”

“Haw, haw, haw!” breaks out the strange gent, slappin’ his knee. “I say now, but that’s a good one, that is, even if it is at my expense! Unfortunate, eh? Perfectly true though, perfectly true!”

Now it takes a lot to get Pinckney going; but for a minute all he does is turn and size up this husband party with the keen sense of humor. I had my mouth open and my eyes bugged too; for he don’t look the part at all. Why, he’s dressed neat and expensive, a little sporty maybe, for a real gent; but he carries it off well.

“Glad to have your assurance that I was right,” says Pinckney, still givin’ him the frosty eye.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” says Mr. Marston. “And I trust you will overlook my butting in here to see Kitty – er, Mrs. Marston. Little matter of sentiment and – well, business, you know. I don’t think it will happen often.”

“I am quite sure it won’t,” says Pinckney. “And now, if the interview has been finished, I would suggest that – ”

“Oh, certainly, certainly!” says Marston, edging towards the door. “Allow me, gentlemen, to bid you good-day. And I say, Kit, don’t forget that little matter. By-by.”

Honest, if I could make as slick a backout as that, without carryin’ away anybody’s footprint, I’d rate myself a headliner among the trouble dodgers. Pinckney, though, don’t seem to appreciate such talents.

“That settles governess No. 1,” says he as we starts for the elevator again. “We are beginning the series well.”

That was before he saw how smooth she got along with Jack and Jill. After she’d given an exhibition of kid trainin’ that was a wonder, he remarked that possibly he might as well let her stay the week out.

“But of course,” says he, “she will have to go. Hanged if I understand how Mrs. Purdy-Pell happened to send her here, either! Shorty, do you suppose Sadie could throw any light on this case?”

“I’ll call for a report,” says I.

Does Sadie know anything about the Marstons? Well, rather! Says she told me all about ’em at the time too; but if she did it must have got by. Anyway, this was just a plain, simple case of a worthless son marryin’ the fam’ly governess and bein’ thrown out for it by a stern parent, same as they always are in them English novels Sadie’s forever readin’.

The Marstons was Madison-ave. folks, which means that their back yard was bounded on the west by the smart set – and that’s as far as there’s any need of going. The girl comes from ’Frisco and is an earthquake orphan. Hence the governess stunt. As for young Marston, he’d been chucked out of college, tried out for a failure in the old man’s brokerage office, and then left to drift around town on a skimpy allowance. So he was in fine shape to get married! The girl sticks to him, though, until there’s trouble with the landlady, and then, when he only turns ugly and makes no move towards gettin’ a job, she calls it off, gives him the slip, and begins rustlin’ for herself.

“Oh, well,” says Pinckney, “I suppose she ought to have a chance. But if that husband of hers is going to – ”

“Next time you catch him at it,” says I, “just ’phone down for me. It’ll be a pleasure.”

I meant it too; for after hearing how she’d lost other places on account of his hangin’ around I could have enjoyed mussin’ him up some.

With my feelin’ that way, you can guess what a jar it is, one afternoon when I’m having a little front office chat with my old reg’lar, Pyramid Gordon, to see this same gent blow in through the door. Almost looked like he knew what he ought to get and had come after it.

“Well?” says I as chilly as I knew how.

“Quite so,” says he, “quite so. I see you remember our recent meeting. Awkward situation for a moment, wasn’t it, eh? Splendid chap, though, your friend – ”

“Say, choke off the hot air,” says I, “and let’s hear what gave you the courage to climb those stairs!”

And what do you guess? He takes five minutes of steady chinnin’ to get around to it; but he puts over such a velvety line of talk, and it’s so int’restin’ to watch him do it, that I let him spiel ahead until he gets to the enactin’ clause in his own way. And it’s nothing more or less than a brassy fingered touch for a twenty, all based on the fact that he met me at a house where his wife’s drawin’ wages.

“Mr. Gordon,” says I, turnin’ to Pyramid, who’s heard it all, “what do you think of that, anyway?”

“Very neat, indeed,” says Pyramid, chucklin’.

“And then a few!” says I. “I can almost see myself givin’ up that twenty right off the bat. Nothing but great presence of mind and wonderful self-control holds me back. But look here, Mr. What’s-your-name – ”

“Marston,” says he, flashin’ an engraved visitin’ card, “L. Egbert Marston.”

“L. Egbert, eh?” says I. “Does the L stand for Limed? And what do they call you for short – Eggie?”

“Oh, suit yourself,” says he, with a careless wave of the hand.

“All right, Eggie,” says I; “but before we get in any deeper I’ve got a conundrum or two to spring on you. We got kind of curious, Pinckney and me, about that visit of yours. He thinks we disturbed a fond embrace. It looked diff’rent to me. I thought I could see finger-marks on the young lady’s throat. How about it?”

Course he flushes up. Any man would under a jab like that, and I looked for him either to begin breakin’ the peace or start lyin’ out of it. There’s considerable beef to Egbert, you know. He’d probably weigh in at a hundred and eighty, with all that flabby meat on him, and if it wa’n’t for that sort of cheap look to his face you might take him for a real man. But he don’t show any more fight than a cow. He don’t even put in any indignant “Not guilty!” He just shrugs his shoulders and indulges in a sickly laugh.

“It doesn’t sound nice,” says he; “but sometimes they do need a bit of training, these women.”

“For instance?” says I. “In the matter of handing over a little spendin’ money, eh?”

“You’ve struck it,” says he, with another shrug.

I glances at Pyramid; but there wa’n’t any more expression to that draw poker face of his than as if it was a cement block.

“Egbert,” says I, frank and confidential, “you’re a sweet scented pill, ain’t you?”

And does that draw any assault and battery motions? It don’t. All the result is to narrow them shifty eyes of his and steady ’em down until he’s lookin’ me square in the face.

“I was hard up, if you want to know,” says he. “I didn’t have a dollar.”

“And that,” says I, “is what you give out as an excuse for – ”

“Yes,” he breaks in. “And I’m no worse than lots of other men, either. With money, I’m a gentleman; without it – well, I get it any way I can. And I want to tell you, I’ve seen men with plenty of it get more in meaner ways. I don’t know how to juggle stocks, or wreck banks, or use any of the respectable methods that – ”

“Nothing personal, I hope,” puts in Mr. Gordon, with another chuckle.

“Not so intended,” says Marston.

“Eh, thanks,” says Pyramid.

“We’ll admit,” says I, “that your partic’lar way of raisin’ funds, Mr. Marston, ain’t exactly novel; but didn’t it ever occur to you that some folks get theirs by workin’ for it?”

“I know,” says he, tryin’ to seem good natured again; “but I’m not that kind. I’m an idler. As some poet has put it, ‘Useless I linger, a cumberer here.’”

“You’re a cucumber, all right,” says I; “but why not, just for a change, make a stab at gettin’ a job?”

“I’ve had several,” says he, “and never could hold one more than a week. Too monotonous, for one thing; and then, in these offices, one is thrown among so many ill bred persons, you know.”

“Sure!” says I, feelin’ my temper’ture risin’. “Parties that had rather work for a pay envelope than choke their wives. I’ve met ’em. I’ve heard of your kind too, Egbert; but you’re the first specimen I ever got real close to. And you’re a bird! Mr. Gordon, shall I chuck him through the window, or help him downstairs with my toe?”

“I wouldn’t do either,” says Pyramid. “In fact, I think I can make use of this young man.”

“Then you’re welcome to him,” says I. “Blaze ahead.”

“Much obliged,” says Pyramid. “Now, Mr. Marston, what is the most reasonable sum, per month, that would allow you to carry out your idea of being a gentleman?”

Egbert thinks that over a minute and then puts it at three hundred.

“And would it conflict with those ideas,” Pyramid goes on, “if you were required, say twice a week, to spend an hour in a private office, signing your name?”

Egbert thinks he could stand that.

“Very well, then,” says Pyramid, producin’ his checkbook and gettin’ busy with the fountain pen, “here is your first month’s salary in advance. Whenever you find it convenient during the week, report at my offices. Ask for Mr. Bradley. Yes, Bradley. That’s all,” and Pyramid lights up one of his torches as satisfied as though he’d just bought in a Senator.

As for Egbert, he stows the check away, taps me on the shoulder, and remarks real friendly, “Well, professor, no hard feelings, I hope?”

“Say, Eggie,” says I, “seems to me I expressed myself once on that point, and I ain’t had any sudden change of heart. If I was you I’d beat while the beatin’s good.”

Egbert laughs; but he takes the advice.

“Huh!” says I to Pyramid. “I expect that’s your notion of making a funny play, eh!”

“I’m no humorist, Shorty,” says he.

“Then what’s the idea?” says I. “What do you mean?”

“I never mean anything but cold, straight business,” says he. “That’s the only game worth playing.”

“So?” says I. “Then here’s where you got let in bad with your eyes open. You heard him tell how useless he was?”

“I did,” says Pyramid; “but I always do my own appraising when I hire men. I anticipate finding Mr. Marston somewhat useful.”

And say, that’s all I can get out of Pyramid on the subject; for when it comes to business, he’s about as chatty over his plans as a hard shell clam on the suffragette question. I’ve known him to make some freak plans; but this move of pickin’ out a yellow one like Egbert and rewardin’ him as if he was a Carnegie medal winner beat anything he’d ever sprung yet.

It’s no bluff, either. I hears of this Marston gent sportin’ around at the clubs, and it wa’n’t until I accident’lly run across an item on the Wall Street page that I gets any more details. He shows up, if you please, as secretary of the Consolidated Holding Company that there’s been so much talk about. I asks Pinckney what kind of an outfit that was; but he don’t know.

“Huh!” says I. “All I’d feel safe in givin’ Egbert to hold for me would be one end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“I don’t care what he holds,” says Pinckney, “if he will stay away from our little governess. She’s a treasure.”

Seems Mrs. Marston had been doin’ some great tricks with the twins, not only keepin’ ’em from marrin’ the furniture, but teachin’ ’em all kinds of knowledge and improvin’ their table manners, until it was almost safe to have ’em down to luncheon now and then.

But her life was being made miser’ble by the prospect of havin’ Egbert show up any day and create a row. She confided the whole tale to Sadie, how she was through with Marston for good, but didn’t dare tell him so, and how she sent him most of her salary to keep him away.

“The loafer!” says I. “And think of the chance I had at him there in the studio! Hanged if I don’t get even with Pyramid for that, though!”

But I didn’t. Mr. Gordon’s been too busy this season to show up for any trainin’, and it was only here the other day that I runs across him in the street.

“Well,” says I, “how’s that work scornin’ pet of yours gettin’ on these days?”

“Marston?” says he. “Why, haven’t you heard? Mr. Marston is away on a vacation.”

“Vacation!” says I. “He needs it, he does!”

“The company thought so,” says Pyramid. “They gave him six months’ leave with pay. He’s hunting reindeer or musk ox somewhere up in British Columbia.”

“Him a hunter?” says I. “G’wan!”

Pyramid grins. “He did develop a liking for the wilderness rather suddenly,” says he; “but that is where he is now. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if he stayed up there for a year or more.”

“What’s the joke?” says I, catchin’ a flicker in them puffy eyes of Pyramid’s.

“Why, just this,” says he. “Mr. Marston, you know, is secretary of the Consolidated Holding Company.”

“Yes, I read about that,” says I. “What then?”

“It pains me to state,” says Mr. Gordon, “that in his capacity of secretary Mr. Marston seems to have sanctioned transactions which violate the Interstate Commerce act.”

“Ah-ha!” says I. “Turned crooked on you, did he?”

“We are not sure as yet,” says Pyramid. “The federal authorities are anxious to settle that point by examining certain files which appear to be missing. They even asked me about them. Perhaps you didn’t notice, Shorty, that I was cross-examined for five hours, one day last week.”

“I don’t read them muck rakin’ articles,” says I.

“Quite right,” says Pyramid. “Well, I couldn’t explain; for, as their own enterprising detectives discovered, when Mr. Marston boarded the Montreal Express his baggage included a trunk and two large cases. Odd of him to take shipping files on a hunting trip, wasn’t it?” and Pyramid tips me the slow wink.

I’m more or less of a thickhead when it comes to flossy finance; but I’ve seen enough plain flimflam games to know a few things. And the wink clinched it. “Mr. Gordon,” says I, “for a Mr. Smooth you’ve got a greased pig in the warthog class. But suppose Egbert gets sick of the woods and hikes himself back? What then?”

“Jail,” says Pyramid, shruggin’ his sable collar up around his ears. “That would be rather deplorable too. Bright young man, Marston, in many ways, and peculiarly adapted for – ”

“Yes, I know the part,” says I. “They gen’rally spells it g-o-a-t.”

CHAPTER XII

MRS. TRUCKLES’ BROAD JUMP

And do you imagine Kitty Marston settles down to a life job after that? Not her. At the very next pay day she hands in her two weeks’ notice, and when they pin her right down to facts she admits weepy that she means to start out lookin’ for Egbert. Now wouldn’t that crust you?

Course, the sequel to that is another governess hunt which winds up with Madame Roulaire. And say, talk about your queer cases – But you might as well have the details.

You see, until Aunt Martha arrived on the scene this Madame Roulaire business was only a fam’ly joke over to Pinckney’s, with all of us in on it more or less. But Aunt Martha ain’t been there more’n three or four days before she’s dug up mystery and scandal and tragedy enough for another one of them French dope dramas.

“In my opinion,” says she, “that woman is hiding some dreadful secret!”

But Mrs. Pinckney only smiles in that calm, placid way of hers. You know how easy she took things when she was Miss Geraldine and Pinckney found her on the steamer in charge of the twins that had been willed to him? Well, she ain’t changed a bit; and, with Pinckney such a brilliant member of the Don’t Worry Fraternity, whatever frettin’ goes on in that house has to be done by volunteers.

Aunt Martha acts like she was wise to this; for she starts right in to make up for lost opportunities, and when she spots this freaky lookin’ governess she immediately begins scoutin’ for trouble. Suspicions? She delivers a fresh lot after every meal!

“Humph!” says she. “Madame Roulaire, indeed! Well, I must say, she looks as little like a Frenchwoman as any person I ever saw! How long have you had her, Geraldine? What, only two months? Did she bring written references, and did you investigate them carefully?”

She wouldn’t let up, either, until she’d been assured that Madame Roulaire had come from service in an English fam’ly, and that they’d written on crested notepaper indorsin’ her in every point, giving her whole hist’ry from childhood up.

“But she hasn’t the slightest French accent,” insists Aunt Martha.

“I know,” says Mrs. Pinckney. “She lived in England from the time she was sixteen, and of course twenty years away from one’s – ”

“Does she claim to be only thirty-six?” exclaims Aunt Martha. “Why, she’s fifty if she’s a day! Besides, I don’t like that snaky way she has of watching everyone.”

There was no denyin’, either, that this Roulaire party did have a pair of shifty eyes in her head. I’d noticed that much myself in the few times I’d seen her. They wa’n’t any particular color you could name, – sort of a greeny gray-blue, – but they sure was bright and restless. You’d never hear a sound out of her, for she didn’t let go of any remarks that wa’n’t dragged from her; but somehow you felt, from the minute you got into the room until she’d made a gumshoe exit by the nearest door, that them sleuthy lamps never quite lost sight of you.

That and her smile was the main points about her. I’ve seen a lot of diff’rent kinds of smiles, meanin’ and unmeanin’; but this chronic half-smirk of Madame Roulaire’s was about the most unconvincin’ performance I’ve ever watched. Why, even a blind man could tell she didn’t really mean it! Outside of that, she was just a plain, pie faced sort of female with shrinkin’, apologizin’ ways and a set of store teeth that didn’t fit any too well; but she wa’n’t one that you’d suspect of anything more tragic than eatin’ maraschino cherries on the sly, or swappin’ household gossip with the cook.

That wa’n’t the way Martha had her sized up, though, and of course there was no keepin’ her inquisitive nose out of the case. First thing anyone knew, she’d backed Madame Roulaire into a corner, put her through the third degree, and come trottin’ back in triumph to Mrs. Pinckney.

“Didn’t I tell you?” says she. “French! Bosh! Perhaps you haven’t asked her about Auberge-sur-Mer, where she says she was born?”

Greraldine admits that she ain’t done much pumpin’.

“Well, I have,” says Aunt Martha, “and she couldn’t tell me a thing about the place that was so. I spent ten days there only two years ago, and remember it perfectly. She isn’t any more French than I am.”

“Oh, what of it?” says Mrs. Pinckney. “She gets along splendidly with the twins. They think the world of her.”

“But she’s thoroughly deceitful,” Aunt Martha comes back. “She misrepresents her age, lies about her birthplace, and – and she wears a transformation wig.”

“Yes, I had noticed the brown wig,” admits Mrs. Pinckney; “but they’re quite common.”

“So are women poisoners,” snaps Martha. “Think of what happened to the Briggses, after they took in that strange maid! Then there was the Madame Catossi case, over in Florence last year. They were warned about her, you remember.”

And maybe you know how a good lively suspecter can get results when she keeps followin’ it up. They got to watchin’ the governess close when she was around, and noticin’ all the little slips in her talk and the crab-like motions she made in dodgin’ strangers. That appears to make her worse than ever, too. She’d get fussed every time anyone looked her way, and just some little question about the children would make her jump and color up like she’d been accused of burnin’ a barn. Even Sadie, who’d been standin’ up for her right along, begins to weaken.