Wilt Thou Torchy | Page 8

and has a look at the place. It's shut in by a rusty iron fence with high spiked pickets. The house sets well back from the sidewalk, and the front is nearly covered by some sort of vine. At the side there are double gates openin' into a grass-grown driveway.
I was just noticin' that they was chained and locked when the Lieutenant gives me a nudge and pulls me along by the coat sleeve. I gets a glimpse of the square-built female waddlin' around the corner of the house. We passes by innocent and hangs up in front of a plumbery shop, starin' in at a fascinatin' display of one bathtub and a second-hand hot-water boiler. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could see her scout up and down the street, unfasten the gate, and then disappear.
"Huh!" says I. "Kitchen company expected."
"Or more conspirators," adds Cecil. "By Jove! Isn't this one now?"
There's no denyin' he looked the part, this short-legged, long-armed, heavy-podded gent with the greasy old derby tilted rakish over one ear. Such a hard face he has, a reg'lar low-brow map, and a neck like a choppin'-block. His stubby legs are sprung out at the knees, and his arms have a good deal the same curve.
"Built like a dachshund, ain't he?" I remarks.
"Quite so," says Fothergill. "See, he's stopping. And he has a bundle under one arm."
"Overalls," says I. "Plumber, maybe."
"Isn't that a knife-handle sticking out of the end of the bundle?" asks the Lieutenant.
So it was; a butcher knife, at that. He has stopped opposite the double gates and is scowlin' around. Then he glances quick at the house. A side shutter opens just then and a dust-cloth is shaken vigorous. Seein' which, he promptly pushes through the gates.
"Ha!" says the Lieutenant. "A signal. He'll be the one to attach the fuse and light it, eh?"
Well, I admit that up to that time I hadn't been takin' all this very serious, discountin' most of Cecil's suspicions as due to an over-worked imagination. But now I'm beginnin' to feel thrills down my spine.
What if this was a bomb plot? Some sort of bunk was being put over here--no gettin' away from that. And if one of our shell factories was in danger of being dynamited, here was my cue to make a medal play, wa'n't it?
"I am for telephoning the authorities at once," announces Cecil.
"Ah, you don't know our bonehead cops," says I. "Besides, if we can block the game ourselves, what's the use? Let's get 'em in the act. I'm going to pipe off our friend with the meat-knife."
"I--I've only a .34-caliber automatic with me," says the Lieutenant, reachin' into his side pocket.
"Well, you don't want a machine-gun, do you?" says I. "And don't go shootin' reckless. Here, lemme get on the other side. Close to the house, now, on the grass, until we can get a peek around the--"
"S-s-s-sh!" says Cecil, grippin' my arm. He was strong on shushin' me up, the Lieutenant was. This time, though, he had the right dope; for a few steps more and we got a view of the back porch.
And there are the two maids, hand in hand, watchin' the motions of the squatty gent, who is unlockin' the summer-house. He disappears inside.
At that Cecil just has to cut loose. Before I can stop him, he's stepped out, pulled his gun, and is wavin' it at the two females.
"I say, now! Hands up! No nonsense," he orders.
"Howly saints!" wails the square-built party, clutchin' the slim one desperate. "Maggie! Maggie!"
Maggie she's turned pale in the gills, her mouth is hangin' open, and her eyes are bugged, but she ain't too scared to put up an argument.
"Have yez a warrant?" she demands. "Annyways, my Cousin Tim Fealey'll go bail for us. An' if it was that Swede janitor next door made the complaint on us I'll--"
"Woman!" breaks in the Lieutenant. "Don't you know that you have been apprehended in a grave offense? You'd best tell all. Now, who put you up to this? Your master, eh?"
"Howly saints! Mr. Bauer!" groans the fat one.
"For the love of the saints, don't tell him!" says Maggie. "Don't tell Mr. Bauer, there's a dear. It was off'm Cousin Tim we got it."
"That miscreant in the shed there?" asks the Lieutenant.
"Him?" says Maggie. "Lord love ye, no. That's only Schwartzenberger, from the slaughter-house. And please, Mister, it'll be gone the mornin'--ivry bit gone."
"Oh, will it!" says Cecil sarcastic. "But you'll be in prison first."
"Wurra! Wurra!" moans the fat female. "Save us, Maggie! Let him have it for the takin's."
"I will not, then," says Maggie. "Not if he's the president of the Board of Health himself."
"Enough of this," says the Lieutenant. "Hands up, you bomb plotters!"
But about then I'd begun to acquire the hunch that