Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 19

"That you, Dominick?" I sings out.

There's no answer to that, and, knowin' that if there's one failin'

Dominick don't possess it's bein' tonguetied, I gets suspicious.

Besides, a couple of porch-climbin' jobs had been pulled off in the neighborhood recent, and, even though I do carry a burglar policy, I ain't crazy about havin' strangers messin' through the bureau drawers while I'm tryin' to sleep. So I sneaks along the hedge for a ways, and then does the sleuthy approach across the lawn on the right flank.

Another minute and I've made a quick spring and has my man pinned against the tree with both his wrists fast and my knee in his chest.

"Woof!" says he, deep and guttural.

"Excuse the warm welcome," says I, "but that's only a sample of what we pa.s.s out to stray visitors like you. Sizin' up the premises, were you, and gettin' ready to collect a few souvenirs?"

"A thousand pardons," says he, "if I have seem to intrude!"

"Eh?" says I. That wa'n't exactly the comeback you'd expect from a second-story worker, and he has a queer foreign twist to his words.

"It is possible," he goes on, "that I have achieved the grand mistake."

"Maybe," says I, loosenin' up on him a little. "What was it you thought you was after?"

"The house of one McCah-be," says he, "a professor of fists, I am told."

"That's a new description of me," says I, "but I'm the party. All of which don't prove, though, that you ain't a crook."

"Crook?" says he. "Ah, a felon! But no, Effendi. I come on an errand of peace, as Allah is good."

How was that now, havin' Allah sprung on me in my own front yard? Why travel?

"Say, come out here where I can get a better look," says I, draggin' him out of the shadow. "There! Well, of all the----"

No wonder I lost my breath; for what I've picked up off the front lawn looks like a stray villain from a comic opera. He's a short, barrel-podded gent, mostly costumed in a long black cape affair and one of these ta.s.seled Turkish caps. About all the features I can make out are a pair of bushy eyebrows, a prominent hooked beak, and a set of crisp, curlin' black whiskers. Hardly the kind to go shinnin' up waterspouts or squeezin' through upper windows. Still, I'd almost caught him in the act.

"If that's a disguise you've got on," says I, "it's a bird. And if it ain't--say, let's hear the tale. Who do you claim to be, anyway?"

"Many pardons again, Effendi," says he, "but it is my wish to remain--what you call it?--incognito."

"Then you don't get your wish," says I. "No John Doe game goes with me.

Out with it! Who and what?"

"But I make protest," says he. "Rather would I depart on my way."

"Ah, ditch that!" says I. "I caught you actin' like a suspicious character. Now, if you can account for yourself, I may turn you loose; but if you don't, it's a case for the police."

"Ah, no, no!" he objects. "Not the constables! Allah forbid! I--I will make explanation."

"Then let it come across quick," says I. "First off, what name are you flaggin' under?"

"At my home," says he, "I am known as Pasha Dar Bunda."

"Well, that's some name, all right," says I. "Now the next item, Pasha, is this, What set you to prowlin' around the home of one McCabe?"

"Ah, but you would not persist thus far!" says he, pleadin'. "That is a personal thing, something between myself and Allah alone."

"You don't say," says I. "Sorry to b.u.t.t in, but I've got to have it all.

Come, now!"

"But, Effendi----" he begins.

"No, not Fender," says I, "nor Footboard, or anything like that: just plain McCabe."

"It is a word of respect," says he, "such as Sir Lord; thus, Effendi McCabe."

"Well, cut out the frills and let's get down to bra.s.s tacks," says I.

"You're here because you're here, I expect. But what else?"

He sighs, and then proceeds to let go of a little information. "You have under your roof," says he, "a Meesis Vogel, is it not?"

"Vogel?" says I, puzzled for a second. "You don't mean Lindy, do you?"

"She was called that, yes," says the Pasha, "Meelinda."

"But she's a Miss--old maid," says I.

"Ah?" says he, liftin' his bushy eyebrows. "A Mees, eh? It may be so.

They tell me at her place of living that she is to be found here.

_Voila!_ That is all."

"But what about her?" says I. "Where do you come in?"

"Once when I am in England," says he, "many years gone past, I know her.

I learn that she is in New York. Well, I find myself in America too. I thought to see her. Why not? A glimpse, no more."

"Is it the style where you come from," says I, "to gumshoe around and peek in the windows to see old friends?"

"In my country," says he, "men do not--but then we have our own customs.

I have explain. Now I may depart."

"Not so fast, old scout!" says I. "If it's so you're a friend of Lindy, she'll be wantin' to see you, and all we got to do is to step inside and call her down."

"But thanks," says he. "It is very kind. I will not trouble, however. It need not be."

"Needn't, eh?" says I. "Look here, Pasha So and So, you can't put over anything so thin on me! You're up to something or other. You sure look it. Anyway, I'm goin' to march you in and find out from Lindy herself whether she knows you or not. Understand?"

He sighs resigned. "Since you are a professor of fists, it must be so,"

says he. "But remark this, I do not make the request to see her, and--and you may say to her that it is Don Carlos who is here."

"Ah-ha!" says I. "Another pen name, eh? Don Carlos! Low Dago, or Hidalgo?"

"My father," says he, "was a Spanish gentleman of Hebrew origin. My mother was French."