Torchy and Vee Part 7

"By jove!" says Barry. "Wonderful!"

"Ain't it?" says I. "And all done without a change of wig or a jab of the needle. Now your part is easy. You simply drift down the side street, step into the shadow where the cab stand juts out, and when n.o.body's pa.s.sin' you work the screws loose. Me, I got to drop into the writin' room and dash something off. Here we are. Go to it."

Course, he could have bugged things. Might have dropped the screwdriver through a grating, or got himself caught in the act. But Barry has surrounded the idea nicely. He couldn't have done better if he'd been sent out to a listenin' post. And when I strolls out again five minutes later there he stands with the pole tucked careful under one arm.

"Fine work!" says I. "But we don't want to hide it altogether. Carry it careless like, with your overcoat unb.u.t.toned, so both ends will show.

That's the cheese!"

It ain't one of these big, vulgar barber poles, you know; not over four feet long and about as many inches thick. But it's a brilliant one, and with Barry in evenin' dress he's bound to be some conspicuous luggin'

it. Yet I starts him straight up Broadway, me trailin' 25 or 30 feet behind.

If it had been further up town he might have collected quite a mob of followers, but down here there's only a few pa.s.sing at that time of night. Most of 'em only turns to look after him and smile. One or two gives him the merry hail and asks where the Cla.s.s of 1910 is holdin' the banquet.

He'd done nearly five blocks before a flatfoot steps out of a doorway and waves a nightstick at him.

"Hey, whaddye mean, pullin' that hick stuff?" demands the cop.

"Sir!" says Barry, wavin' him off dignified.

Then I mixes in. "It's perfectly all right, officer," says I. "I know him."

"Oh, do you?" says the cop. "Well, some of you army guys know a lot; and then again some of you don't. But you can't get away with any such cut-up motions on my beat."

"But listen," I begins, "I can explain how----"

"Ah, feed it to the sergeant," says he. "Come along, you," and he takes Barry by the arm.

Being a quiet night in the precinct the desk sergeant had plenty of time to listen. He'd just decided against Barry, too, when I sprung my sc.r.a.p of paper on him. It's a receipt in full for one barber's pole, signed by Otto Krumpheimer. I knew it was O. K. because I'd signed it myself.

"How about that?" asks the sergeant of the cop.

And all the flatty can do is gaze at it and scratch his head.

"No case," says the sergeant. "Beat it, you."

Then I nudges Barry. He speaks up prompt, too. "I want my little barber pole," says he.

"Ah, take it along," says the sergeant, disgusted.

"Sorry, officer," says I, as we drifts out, and I slips him a five casual.

"Enjoy yourselves, boys," says he. "But pick out another beat."

Which we done. This time we starts from the Northumberland and walks east. Barry had got almost to Madison Avenue before another eagle-eyed copper holds him up. He does it more or less rough, too.

"Drop that, now!" says he.

"Certainly not," says Barry, lyin' enthusiastic. "It's my pole."

"Is it, then?" says the cop. "Maybe you can show the sergeant yet? And maybe I don't know where you pinched it. Walk along, now."

You should have seen the desk sergeant grow purple in the gills when we shows up in front of the rail the second time. "Say, what do you sports think you're doin', anyway?" he demands.

"I'll make a charge of petty larceny and disorderly conduct," says the cop, layin' the evidence on the desk.

"Will you, Myers?" says the sergeant sarcastic. "Didn't ask him if he had a receipt, I suppose? Show it to him, lieutenant."

I grins and hands over the paper.

"Hah!" grunts Myers. "But Otto Krumpheimer don't sign his name like that. Never."

"How do you know?" says I.

"Why," says Myers, sc.r.a.pin' his foot nervous, "I--I just know, that's all. I've seen his writin', plenty times."

"Hear that, sergeant," says I. "Just jot that down, will you?"

"Night court," says the sergeant.

"Never mind, Barry," says I. "Line of duty. And I'll be on hand by the time your case is called."

"Right-o!" says Barry cheerful.

Myers, he was ambitious to lug us both along, but the sergeant couldn't see it that way. So while Barry's bein' walked off to police court, I jumps into a taxi and heads for McCrea's hotel. If he'd been in bed I meant to rout him out. But he wasn't. I finds him in his room havin' a confab with two other plain clothes gents. He seems surprised to see me so quick.

"Well?" says he. "Giving up so soon?"

"Me?" says I. "Hardly! I've got the crooked cop."

McCrea gives a gasp. "You--you have?" says he.

"Yep!" says I. "But he's got my a.s.sistant. Can you pull a badge or anything on the judge at the night court?"

Mr. McCrea thought he could. And he sure worked the charm, for after whisperin' a few words across the bench it's all fixed up. Barry gets the nod that he's free to go.

"May I take my little barber pole?" demands Barry.

"No, no!" speaks up Myers. "Don't let him have it, Judge."

"Silence!" roars the Justice. Then, turnin' to a court officer he says: "Take this policeman to Headquarters for investigation. Yes, Mr. Wales, you may have your pole, but I should advise you to carry it home in a cab."

"Thank you kindly, sir," says Barry. But after he gets outside he asks pleadin': "Don't I get arrested any more?"

I shakes my head. "It's all over for tonight, Barry," says I. "Objective attained, and if you don't mind I'll take charge of this war loot. Drop you at your club, shall we?"

So I still had the striped pole when we rolled up at McCrea's hotel. I was shiftin' it around in the taxi, wonderin' where I'd better dump it, when I made the big discovery.

"Say," I whispers husky to McCrea, "there's something funny about this."