Odd Numbers. Ford Sewell
Pinckney. “I am going to finance the trip.”
“If it don’t cost too much,” says I, “it’ll be a good investment.”
Pinckney wants to do the thing right away, too. First off, though, he has to locate Spotty. The youth has been at large for a week or more now, since he was last handed the fresh air, and Pinckney ain’t heard a word from him.
“Maybe Swifty knows where he roosts,” says I.
It was a good guess. Swifty gives us a number on Fourth-ave. where he’d seen Spotty hangin’ around lately, and he thinks likely he’s there yet.
So me and Pinckney starts out on the trail. It leads us to one of them Turkish auction joints where they sell genuine silk oriental prayer rugs, made in Paterson, N. J., with hammered brass bowls and antique guns as a side line. And, sure enough, camped down in front on a sample rug, with his hat off and the sun full on him, is our friend Spotty.
“Well, well!” says Pinckney. “Regularly employed here, are you, Spotty?”
“Me? Nah!” says Spotty, lookin’ disgusted at the thought. “I’m only stayin’ around.”
“Ain’t you afraid the sun will fade them curly locks of yours?” says I.
“Ah, quit your kiddin’!” says Spotty, startin’ to roll a fresh cigarette.
“Don’t mind Shorty,” says Pinckney. “I have some good news for you.”
That don’t excite Spotty a bit. “Not another job!” he groans.
“No, no,” says Pinckney, and then he explains about finding Uncle Aloysius, windin’ up by askin’ Spotty how he’d like to go up there and live.
“I don’t know,” says Spotty. “Good ways off, ain’t it!”
“It is, rather,” admits Pinckney; “but that need not trouble you. What do you think I am going to do for you, Spotty?”
“Give it up,” says he, calmly lightin’ a match and proceedin’ with the smoke.
“Well,” says Pinckney, “because of the long and faithful service of your father, and the many little personal attentions he paid me, I am going to give you – Wait! Here it is now,” and hanged if Pinckney don’t fork over ten new twenty-dollar bills. “There!” says he. “That ought to be enough to fit you out well and take you there in good shape. Here’s the address too.”
Does Spotty jump up and crack his heels together and sputter out how thankful he is? Nothin’ so strenuous. He fumbles the bills over curious for a minute, then wads ’em up and jams ’em into his pocket. “Much obliged,” says he.
“Come around to Shorty’s with your new clothes on to-morrow afternoon about four o’clock,” says Pinckney, “and let us see how you look. And – er – by the way, Spotty, is that a friend of yours?”
I’d been noticin’ her too, standin’ just inside the doorway pipin’ us off. She’s a slim, big-eyed, black-haired young woman, dressed in the height of Grand-st. fashion, and wearin’ a lot of odd, cheap lookin’ jewelry. If it hadn’t been for the straight nose and the thin lips you might have guessed that her first name was Rebecca.
“Oh, her?” says Spotty, turnin’ languid to see who he meant. “That’s Mareena. Her father runs the shop.”
“Armenian?” says I.
“No, Syrian,” says he.
“Quite some of a looker, eh?” says I, tryin’ to sound him.
“Not so bad,” says Spotty, hunchin’ his shoulders.
“But – er – do I understand,” says Pinckney, “that there is – ah – some attachment between you and – er – the young lady?”
“Blamed if I know,” says Spotty. “Better ask her.”
Course, we couldn’t very well do that, and as Spotty don’t seem bubblin’ over with information he has to chop it off there. Pinckney, though, is more or less int’rested in the situation. He wonders if he’s done just right, handin’ over all that money to Spotty in a place like that.
“It wa’n’t what you’d call a shrewd move,” says I. “Seems to me I’d bought his ticket, anyway.”
“Yes; but I wanted to get it off my mind, you know,” says he. “Odd, though, his being there. I wonder what sort of persons those Syrians are!”
“You never can tell,” says I.
The more Pinckney thinks of it, the more uneasy he gets, and when four o’clock comes next day, with no Spotty showin’ up, he begins to have furrows in his brow. “If he’s been done away with, it’s my fault,” says Pinckney.
“Ah, don’t start worryin’ yet,” says I. “Give him time.”
By five o’clock, though, Pinckney has imagined all sorts of things, – Spotty bein’ found carved up and sewed in a sack, and him called into court to testify as to where he saw him last. “And all because I gave him that money!” he groans.
“Say, can it!” says I. “Them sensation pictures of yours are makin’ me nervous. Here, I’ll go down and see if they’ve finished wipin’ off the daggers, while you send Swifty out after something soothin’.”
With that off I hikes as a rescue expedition. I finds the red flag still out, the sample rug still in place; but there’s no Spotty in evidence. Neither is there any sign of the girl. So I walks into the store, gazin’ around sharp for any stains on the floor.
Out from behind a curtain at the far end of the shop comes a fat, wicked lookin’ old pirate, with a dark greasy face and shiny little eyes like a pair of needles. He’s wearin’ a dinky gold-braided cap, baggy trousers, and he carries a long pipe in one hand. If he didn’t look like he’d do extemporaneous surgery for the sake of a dollar bill, then I’m no judge. I’ve got in too far to look up a cop, so I takes a chance on a strong bluff.
“Say, you!” I sings out. “What’s happened to Spotty?”
“Spot-tee?” says he. “Spot-tee?” He shrugs his shoulders and pretends to look dazed.
“Yes, Spotty,” says I, “red-headed, freckle-faced young gent. You know him.”
“Ah!” says he, tappin’ his head. “The golden crowned! El Sareef Ka-heel?”
“That’s the name, Cahill,” says I. “He’s a friend of a friend of mine, and you might as well get it through your nut right now that if anything’s happened to him – ”
“You are a friend of Sareef Ka-heel?” he breaks in, eyin’ me suspicious.
“Once removed,” says I; “but it amounts to the same thing. Now where is he?”
“For a friend – well, I know not,” says the old boy, kind of hesitatin’. Then, with another shrug, he makes up his mind. “So it shall be. Come. You shall see the Sareef.”
At that he beckons me to follow and starts towards the back. I went through one dark room, expectin’ to feel a knife in my ribs every minute, and then we goes through another. Next thing I knew we’re out in a little back yard, half full of empty cases and crates. In the middle of a clear space is a big brown tent, with the flap pinned back.
“Here,” says the old gent, “your friend, the Sareef Ka-heel!”
Say, for a minute I thought it was a trap he’s springin’ on me; but after I’d looked long enough I see who he’s pointin’ at. The party inside is squattin’ cross-legged on a rug, holdin’ the business end of one of these water bottle pipes in his mouth. He’s wearin’ some kind of a long bath robe, and most of his red hair is concealed by yards of white cloth twisted round his head; but it’s Spotty all right, alive, uncarved, and lookin’ happy and contented.
“Well, for the love of soup!” says I. “What is it, a masquerade?”
“That