Shorty McCabe on the Job Part 31

"Well, what you beefin' about?" says I. "There's your chance, ain't it?

Jump in and cheer him up. Go round every day and drink yourself full of tea. Lug along your friends--anything. Got the whole Gordon estate back of you, you know. And it's plain Pyramid had in mind squarin' accounts for that raw deal he handed Gerald years back, or he wouldn't have named him in the will. And if your dope is right, I judge there ought to be something nice comin' to him."

"Of course, of course," says Steele. "But you see, McCabe, as an expert in altruism, I have reached the point where I no longer act hastily on crude conclusions. Possibly you will fail to understand, but now I take a certain pride in doing just the right thing in exactly the right way."

"I knew you was developin' into some variety of nut," says I. "So that's it, eh? Well, go on."

J. Bayard smiles indulgent and shrugs his shoulders. "For instance,"

says he, "this Gerald Webb seems to be one of those highly sensitive, delicately organized persons; somewhat effeminate in fact. He needs considerate, judicious handling."

"Then why not present him with an inlaid dressin' table and a set of eyebrow pencils?" I suggest.

Steele brushes that little persiflage aside too. "He's no doubt an idealist of some sort," says he, "a man with high hopes, ambitions. If I only knew what they were----"

"Ain't tried askin' him, have you?" says I.

"Certainly not!" says J. Bayard. "Those are things which such persons can rarely be induced to talk about. I've been studying him at close range, however, by dropping in now and then for a cup of tea and incidentally a chat with his sister; but to no effect. I can't seem to make him out. And I was wondering, Shorty, if you, in your rough and ready way----"

"P.O.F.!" I breaks in.

"What?" says Steele.

"Please omit floral tributes," says I. "You was wonderin' if I couldn't what--size him up for you?"

"Just that," says J. Bayard. "While your methods are not always of the subtlest, I must concede that at times your--er--native intuition----"

"Top floor--all out!" I breaks in. "You mean I can do a quick frame-up without feelin' the party's b.u.mps or consultin' the cards? Maybe I can.

But I ain't strong for moochin' around these oolong joints among the draped tunics and vanity boxes."

He's a persistent party, though, J. Bayard is, and after he's guaranteed that we won't run into any mob of shoppers this late in the day, and urged me real hard, I consents to trail along with him and pa.s.s on Gerald.

One of the usual teashop joints, the Bra.s.s Candlestick is, tucked away in a dwelling house bas.e.m.e.nt on a side street about half a block east of Fifth avenue, with a freaky sign over the door and a pair of moultin'

bay trees at the entrance. Inside we finds a collection of little white tables with chairs to match, a showcase full of arty jew'lry, and some shelves loaded with a job lot of odd-shaped vases and jugs and teapots and such truck.

A tall, loppy female with mustard-colored hair and haughty manners tows us to a place in a dark corner and shoves a menu at us. You know the tearoom brand of waitress maybe, and how distant they can be? But this one fairly sneers at us as she takes our order; although I kind of shrivels up in the chair and acts as humble as I know how.

"That ain't Sister Evelyn, is it?" says I, as she disappears towards the back.

"No, no," says Steele. "Miss Webb is at the little cashier's desk, by the door. And that is Webb, behind the counter, talking to those ladies."

"Oh!" says I. "Him with the pale hair and the narrow mouth? Huh! He is Lizzie-like, ain't he?"

He's a slim, thin-blooded, sharp-faced gent, well along in the thirties, I should judge, with gray showin' in his forelock, and a dear little mustache pointed at the ends; the sort of chappy who wears a braid-bound cutaway and a wrist watch, you know. He's temptin' his customers with silver-set turquoise necklaces, and abalone cuff links, and moonstone sets, and such; doin' it dainty and airy, and incidentally displayin' a job of manicurin' that's the last word in fingernail decoration. Such smooth, highbrow conversation goes with it too!

"Oh, yes, Madam," I overhears him gurgle. "Quite so, I a.s.suah you. We import these direct from Cairo; genuine scarabs, taken from ancient mummy cases. No, not Rameses; these are of the Thetos period. Rather rare, you know. And here is an odd trifle, if you will permit me. Oh, no trouble at all. Really! When we find persons of such discriminating taste as you undoubtedly have we----"

"Say," I remarks low to Steele, "he's some swell kidder, ain't he? He'll be chuckin' her under the chin next. What a sweet thing he is! It's a shame to waste all that on a side street too. He ought to be farther up in the shoppin' district and on the avenue."

"Do you think so?" says J. Bayard. "I've been considering that--setting him up in first-cla.s.s style on a big scale. But of course I should like to be sure that is what he wants most."

"That's my best guess," says I. "I'll bet he'd eat it up. Spring it on him and see."

"Perhaps I will when he's through," says J. Bayard. "There! They're going now."

He was wrong: they was only startin' to go. They had to come back twice and look at something all over again, after which Gerald follows 'em to the door and holds it open for 'em while they exchange a few last words.

So it's ten minutes or more before Steele has a chance to call him over, get him planted in the extra chair, and begin breakin' the news to him about Pyramid's batty will.

And even after all them years Webb flushes pink in the ears at the mention of the name. "Oh, yes, Gordon," says he. "I--I did hold a position at one time in his office. Misunderstanding? Not at all. He treated me shamefully. Rank injustice, it was! He--he was by no means a gentleman, by no means!"

"I hear you tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate him with a mop," says I.

"I--I was not quite myself," says Gerald, colorin' still more. "You see, he put me in such a false position before those Chicago men; and when I tried to tell them the truth he--well, he acted brutally. I ask you, Mr.

McCabe, what would you have done?"

"Me?" says I. "I expect I'd slapped him rough on the wrist, or something like that. But you know he was always a little quick about such things, and when it was all over he was gen'rally sorry--if he had time. You see he remembered your case. Now the idea is, how can that little affair of yours be squared?"

"It may have been a little affair to him," says Gerald, poutin' a bit sulky; "but it wasn't so to me. It--it changed my whole life--utterly!"

"Of course," puts in J. Bayard soothin'. "We understand that, Mr. Webb."

"But you've come out all right; you struck something just as good, or better, eh?" and I waves round at the teashop. "Course, you ain't catchin' the business here you might if you was located better. And I expect you feel like you was wastin' your talents on a place this size.

But with a whole second floor near some of the big Fifth avenue department stores, where you could soak 'em half a dollar for a club sandwich and a quarter for a cup of tea,--a flossy, big joint with a hundred tables, real French waiters from Staten Island, and a genuine Hungarian orchestra, imported from East 176th street, where you could handle a line of Mexican drawnwork, and Navajo blankets, and Russian samovars, and----"

"No, no!" breaks in Gerald peevish. "Stop!"

"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at him.

"If you are proposing all that as a--a recompense for being publicly humiliated," says he, "and having my career entirely spoiled--well, you just needn't, that's all. I do not care for anything of the kind."

I gasps. Then I gazes foolish over at J. Bayard to see if he has anything to offer. He just scowls at me and shakes his head, as much as to say:

"There, you see! You've messed things all up."

"All right, Mr. Webb," says I. "Then you name it."

"Do you mean," says he, "that Mr. Gordon intended to leave me something in his will; that he--er--considered I was ent.i.tled to some--ah----"

"That's the idea, more or less," says I. "Only Mr. Steele here, he's been tryin' to dope out what would suit you best."

"Could--could it be in the form of a--a cash sum?" asks Gerald.

I sighs relieved and looks inquirin' at Steele. He nods, and I nods back.

"Sure thing," says I.

"How much?" demands Webb.

"Time out," says I, "until Mr. Steele and I can get together."

So while Gerald is pacin' nervous up and down between the tables we makes figures on the back of the menu. We begins by guessin' what he was gettin' when he was fired, then what salary he might have been pullin'