On With Torchy | Page 8

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, assuming 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 cumulative 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 hoarded wealth, the brown for age. And all are bound together by wire grass, 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 anticipated. 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 basement of the Corrugated Buildin' interviewin' the assistant 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