Wilt Thou Torchy | Page 7

was the
best I had to offer, and after the Lieutenant had finished his Oolong and
lighted a cigarette I loads him into the limousine again and we shoots
uptown.
"Here we are," says I, as we turns into a cross street just before it ends
in the East River. "The main works," and I waves my band around
casual.
"Ah, yes," says he, gettin' his eye on the tall brick stack of the brewery
and then lettin' his gaze roam across to the car-barns.
"Temporary quarters," says I. "Kind of miscellaneous, ain't they? Here's
the main entrance. Let's go in here first." And I steers him through the
office door of the middle buildin'. Then I hunts up the superintendent.
"Just takin' a ramble through the works," says I. "Don't bother. We'll
find our way."
Some busy little scene it is, too, with all them lathes and things goin',
belts whirrin' overhead, and workmen in undershirts about as thick as
they could be placed.
I towed Cecil in and out of rooms, up and down stairs, until he must
have been dizzy, and ends by leadin' him into the yard.
"Storage sheds," says I, pointin' to the neat rows of shell-cases piled
from the ground to the roof. "And a dozen motor-trucks haulin' 'em
away all the time."

The Lieutenant he inspects some of 'em, lookin' wise; and then he
walks to the back, where there's a high board fence with barbed wire on
top. "What's over there?" says he.
"Blamed if I know," says I.
"It's rather important," says he. "Let's have a look."
I didn't get the connection, but I helped him shove a packin'-case up
against the fence, so he could climb up. For a minute or so he stares,
then he ducks down and beckons to me.
"I say," he whispers. "Come up here. Don't show your head. There!
What do you make of that?"
So I'm prepared for something tragic and thrillin'. But all I can see is an
old slate-roofed house, one of these weather-beaten, dormer-windowed
relics of the time when that part of town was still in the suburbs.
There's quite a big yard in the back, with a few scrubby old pear trees, a
double row of mangy box-bushes, and other traces of what must have
been a garden.
In the far corner is a crazy old summer-house with a saggin' roof and
the sides covered with tar paper. There's a door to it, fastened with a big
red padlock.
Standin' on the back porch of the house are two of the help, so I judged.
One is a square-built female with a stupid, heavy face, while the other
is a tall, skinny old girl with narrow-set eyes and a sharp nose.
"Well," says I, "where's your riot?"
"S-s-s-sh!" says he. "They're up to some mischief. One of them is
hiding something under her shawl. Watch."
Sure enough, the skinny one did have her left elbow stuck out, and
there was a bulge in the shawl.
"Looks like a case of emptyin' the ashes," says I.

"Or of placing a bomb," whispers the Lieutenant.
"Mooshwaw!" says I. "Bomb your aunt! What for should they--"
"Look now!" he breaks in. "There!"
They're advancin' in single file, slow and stealthy, and gazin' around
cautious. Mainly they seem to be watchin' the back fire-escapes of the
flat buildin' next door, but now and then one of 'em turns and glances
towards the old house they've just left. They make straight for the shack
in the corner of the yard, and in a minute more the fat one has produced
a key and is fumblin' with the red padlock.
She opens the door only far enough to let the slim one slip in, then
stands with her back against it, her eyes rollin' first one way and then
the other.
Two or three minutes the slim one was in there, then she slides out, the
door is locked, and she scuttles off towards the house, the wide one
waddlin' behind her.
"My word!" gasps the Lieutenant. "Right against the wing of your
factory, that shed is. And a bomb of that size would blow it into
match-wood."
"That's so," says I.
Course, we hadn't really seen any bomb; but, what with the odd notions
of them two females and the Lieutenant's panicky talk, I was feelin'
almost jumpy myself.
"A time-fuse, most likely," says he, "set for midnight. That should give
us several hours. We must find out who lives in that house."
"Ought to be simple," says I. "Come on."
We chases around the block and rings up the janitor of the flat buildin'.
He's a wrinkled, blear-eyed old pirate, just on his way to the corner
with a tin growler.

"Yah! You won't git in to