"So there is," says he. "I'll call them up. Come in, will you, lieutenant and--and join us at tea? You've earned it, I think."

Three minutes more and the major announces that the trucks are on the way.

"Which means, Ellins," he adds, "that you win your twenty-five. Here you are."

"If you don't mind," says Old Hickory, "I'll keep this and pa.s.s on my hundred to Torchy here. He might like to entertain his volunteer squad with it."

Did I? Say, when I got through showin' that bunch of far West artillery husks how to put in a real pleasant evening along Broadway there wasn't enough change left to buy a sportin' extra. But they'd had chow in the giddiest lobster palace under the white lights, they'd occupied two boxes at the zippiest girl show in town and they was loaded down with cigarettes and chocolate enough to last 'em clear to France.

The next mornin', when Old Hickory comes paddin' into the general offices, he stops to pat me friendly on the shoulder.

"I think we have succeeded in revising the major's opinion," he remarks, "as to the general utility of bomb-proofers in certain instances."

I grins up at him. "Then," says I, "do I get a recommend for active duty within jabbin' distance of the Huns?"

"We did consider that," says Old Hickory, "but the decision was just as I suspected from the first. The major says it would be a shame to waste you on anything less than a divisional command, and there aren't enough of those to go around. Chiefly, though, he thinks that anyone who is able to get things done in New York in the wizard-like way that you can should be kept within call of Governor's Island. So I fear, Torchy, that you and I will have to go on serving our country right here."

"All right, Mr. Ellins," says I. "I expect you win--as per usual."

CHAPTER III

TORCHY PULLS THE DEEP STUFF

Course, I didn't know what Old Hickory was stackin' me up against when he calls me into the private office and tells me to shake hands with this Mr. McCrea. Kind of a short, stubby party he is, with a grayish mustache and sort of sleepy gray eyes. He's one of these slow motioned, quiet talking ginks, with restful ways, such as would fit easy into a swivel chair and hold down a third vice-president's job for life. Or he might be a champion chess player.

So when the boss goes on to say how Mr. McCrea is connected with the Washington sleuth bureau I expect I must have gawped at him a bit curious. Some relic of the old office force, was my guess; a hold-over from the times when the S. S. people called it a big day if they could locate a lead nickel fact'ry in Mulberry Street, or drop on a few c.h.i.n.k laundrymen bein' run in from Canada in crates. Maybe he was a thumb-print expert.

"Howdy," says I, glancin' up at the clock to see if the prospects was good for makin' the 5:17 out to Harbor Hills.

"I am told you know the town rather well," suggests McCrea, sort of mild and apologetic.

"Me!" says I. "Oh, I can usually find my way back to Broadway even in foggy weather."

He indulges in a flickery little smile. "I also understand," he goes on, "that you have shown yourself to be somewhat quick witted in emergencies."

"I must have a good press agent, then," says I, glancin' accusin' at Mr.

Ellins.

But Old Hickory shakes his head. "I suspect that was my friend, Major Wellby," says he.

"Oh!" says I. "The one I rescued the wire spools for? A lucky break, that was."

"Mr. McCrea is working on something rather more important," goes on Old Hickory, "and if you can help him in any way I trust you will do it."

"Sure," says I. "What's the grand little idea?"

He don't seem enthusiastic about openin' up, McCrea, and I don't know as I blame him much. After he's fished a note book out of his inside pocket he stops and looks me over sort of doubtful. "Perhaps I had better say at the start," says he, "that some of our best men have been on this job for several weeks."

"Nursin' it along, eh?" says I.

That brings a smothered chuckle from Old Hickory. But Mr. McCrea don't seem so tickled over it. In fact, he develops a furrow between the eyes and his next remark ain't quite so soothin'.

"No doubt if they could have had the a.s.sistance of your rapid fire mentality a little sooner," says he, "it would have been but a matter of a few hours."

"There's no telling," says I. "Are you one of the new squad?"

Here Old Hickory chokes down another gurgle and breaks in hasty with: "Mr. McCrea, Torchy, is a.s.sistant chief of the bureau, you know."

"Gosh!" says I, under my breath. "My mistake, sir. And I expect I'd better back out now, while the backin's good."

"Wouldn't that be rather hard on us?" asks McCrea, liftin' his eyebrows sarcastic. "Besides, think how disappointed the major will be if we fail to make use of such remarkable ability as he has a.s.sured us you possess."

It's a kid, all right, even if he does put it so smooth. And by the twinkle in Old Hickory's eye I can see he's enjoyin' it just as much as McCrea. Nothing partial about the boss. His sympathies are always with the good performer. And rather than let this top-liner sleuth put it over me so easy I takes a chance on shootin' a little more bull.

"Oh, if you're goin' to feel bad over it," says I, "course I got to help you out. Now what part of Manhattan is it that's got your super-Sherlocks guessin' so hard?"

He smiles condescendin' and unfolds a neat little diagram showin' a Broadway corner and part of the cross street. "It is a matter of three policemen and a barber shop," says he. "Here, in the bas.e.m.e.nt of this hotel on the corner, is the barber shop."

"Yes, I remember," says I. "Otto something or other runs it. And on the side, I expect, he does plain and fancy spyin', eh?"

"We should be much interested to have you furnish proof of that," says McCrea. "What we suspect, however, is something slightly different. We believe that the place is rather a clearing house for spy information.

News seems to reach there and to leave there. What we wish to know is, how."

"Had anyone on the inside?" I asks.

"Yes, that bright little idea occurred to us," says McCrea. "One of our men has been operating a chair there for three weeks. He discovered nothing of importance. Also we have had the place watched from the outside, to no purpose. So you see how crude our methods must have been."

"Oh, I ain't knockin' 'em," says I. "Maybe they was out of luck. But what about the three cops?"

"Their beats terminate at this corner," says McCrea, "one from uptown, one from downtown, and the third from the east. And we have good reason to suppose that one of the three is crooked. Now if you can tell us which one, and how information can come and go----"

"I get you," I breaks in. "All you want of me is the answer to a lot of questions you've been all the fall workin' up. That's some he-sized order, ain't it?"

McCrea shrugs his shoulder. "As I mentioned, I think," says he, "it was Major Wellby who suggested your a.s.sistance; and as the major happens to enjoy the confidence of--well, someone who is a person of considerable importance in Washington----"

"Uh-huh!" says I. "It's a case of my bein' wished on you and you standin' by with the laugh when I fall down. Oh, very well! I'll be the goat. But the major's a good scout, just the same, and I don't mean to throw him without making a stab. How long do I get on this?"

"Oh, as long as you like," says McCrea.

"Thanks," says I. "Where do I find you when I want to turn in a report, blank or otherwise?"

He gives me the name of his hotel and after collectin' the diagram of the mystery I does a slow exit to my desk in the next office. I was sittin' there half an hour later with my hair rumpled, makin' a noise like deep thinkin', when in walks the hand of fate steppin' heavy on his heels, as usual.

Not that I suspected at the time this Barry Wales could be anything much more than a good natured pest. He didn't used to be even that. No, the change in Barry is only another little item in the score we got against the Kaiser; for back in the days before we went into the war Barry was just one of Mr. Robert's club friends who dropped around casual to date up for an after-luncheon game of billiards, or tip him off to a new cabaret act that was worth engagin' a table next to the gold ropes.