“Maybe he will.”
I was only joking when I said that, because I was pretty sure the slaughterhouse employee did not have a dress suit even if he did have a sporty roadster with Illonois license plates, and anyhow Annabell had promised to dance with me in the pantry after she got through checking the coats, but he looks at me hard and bobs his head up and down just a mite, and he says, “Yep.”
Then Annabell says, “Pete, we better be hurrying back because it is getting late and the missus will be in a hurry for that there dress,” so we drove back home, which is only a couple of minutes from Mudge Pond, and Annabell says, “Joe is a rough diamond, isn’t he, Pete?”
I says, “Yep. Extra rough,” and then I says, “I thought you said his name was Hubert Honeywell.”
Annabell gives me a funny look and says, “So it is now that you remind me of it but his good friends call him Joe for short.”
I deducted he was a fast worker and I better keep my eye on that redhead Annabell, but I never let a girl know if I am jealous, and I only said, “Hubert or Joe, don’t you ever let me catch you dating him,” and she snuggled up close and said, “Why, Pete, the very idea!”
P.S. 1. Please send back the target. I am starting a collection of targets.
P.S. 2. You only gave me 30 % on my last lesson because I deducted the slaughterhouse employee played the violin which you said was ridiculous. Well, here is where you make that 130 % instead, because what I saw on the table in the shanty when I looked in through the window which did not have any glass was a violin case, a black leather violin case, and it was so near I could have reached out and touched it.
TELEGRAM.
PETER MORAN, c/o MR. R. B. McRAE, SURREY, CONN.
MAN YOU DESCRIBE MAY BE JOE COSTELLO ALIAS JOE CASTELLI ALIAS JOE COSTANZE ALIAS JOE CASTRUCCIO WHO WAS HANGED IN TEXAS BUT PARDONED WHEN ROPE BROKE STOP HE IS WANTED FOR ARMED ROBBERY HIGHWAY ROBBERY AND ROBBERY IN ILLINOIS INDIANA AND MISSOURI BUT NOT IN TEXAS STOP THUMBPRINT ON TARGET WOULD HAVE MADE IDENTIFICATION CERTAIN IF YOU HAD NOT SHOT OUT MOST OF IT STOP TRY TO OBTAIN FRONT AND PROFILE PHOTOGRAPHS OF HIM AND MAIL THEM TO ME STOP TELEGRAPH AT ONCE IS HIS NOSE BROKEN.
TELEGRAM.
CHIEF INSPECTOR, ACME INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVE CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOL, SOUTH KINGSTON, N. Y.
YES. I BROKE IT.
From: Operative P. Moran, c/o Mr. R. B. McRae, Surrey, Conn.
To: Chief Inspector, Acme International Detective Correspondence School, South Kingston, N.Y.
Well, your telegram did not get here until Monday morning which is this morning for reasons which I will tell you when I get around to them for I must not get ahead of my story.
Sunday which was yesterday dawned bright and clear with the night ditto, and everything was O.K. until nine or nine-thirty or ten P.M. in the evening when everybody was through saying “Oh, how do you do?” and “So nice to see you again?” and “Isn’t it a lovely evening?” to everybody else, and the missus calls me over and says, “Peter, wherever is the Amenia Concert Orchestra, goodness gracious what shall we do without them?”
I says, “I have been asking that myself, Mrs. McRae, and I deduct they have got a flat tire.”
“Oh, is that all? Then they ought to be here any minute.”
“Yes, Mrs. McRae.”
“Peter, you’re such a comfort.”
A couple of minutes later the boss comes up and he’s mad. “Peter, where the hell is that confounded orchestra? Are they lapping up my liquor in the kitchen?”
I said, “No, Mr. McRae, the help has not yet started sampling the liquor.”
“Well, we can’t have dancing until the orchestra gets here.”
I knew that without anybody telling me, and I hated to hear it because that redhead Annabell had promised to dance with me like I wrote you and she was going to teach me the Lindy hop.
The boss says, “Peter, this is serious. We shall have to do something.”
“Mr. McRae, we could turn on the radio.”
The boss shakes his head. “This is Sunday night, and not even the sub-debs can dance to the sixty-four dollar question. Peter, the guests are here and there is no orchestra. Telephone to Amenia and find out when they started.”
So I telephoned Amenia, and Horace Ruggles, who works in the garage and plays the drums in the Amenia Concert Orchestra when they go places to play answered the telephone.
I said, “Horace, why aren’t you here?” and he says, “Pete, we are out of luck. You know Clint Newton, who plays the saxophone?”
Naturally I knew Clint because he cut my hair once a month shingling it up the sides before they drafted him, and I said, “Sure I know him.”
“Well, Clint lied to us.”
“What do you mean, lied to you?”
“Clint said he was home on a furlough when he wasn’t. He was A. W. O. L., and we didn’t suspicion it until the M. P.’s caught up with him just as we were starting for Mr. McRae’s more than an hour ago. We told the M. P.’s it would spoil Mr. McRae’s party if they arrested Clint and they could arrest him just as easy after the party, but you can’t reason with them guys, and they took Clint away in a jeep.”
I thought that over. “Horace, Clint is just one man out of three. Why didn’t you come without him?”
“Pete, you know how it is. Vince Dudley, the sheriff, who plays the piano, only knows seven chords, four major and three minor, and he’s no good if there ain’t a saxophone for him to follow.”
“How about you?”
“I play the drums, and while I can fake pretty good, there ain’t nobody that can dance to a drum solo.”
I thought the boss had better talk to him and he was madder than he was before. He says, “Look here, Ruggles, you can’t do this to me. I’ve hired your orchestra because everybody says it’s the real local color. Get another saxophonist and come right over.”
Well, I knew what Horace would be answering. Clint Newton is the only man who plays the saxophone in these parts, and it would take an hour to get another one from Poughkeepsie or Torrington if you could find another one in Poughkeepsie or Torrington, which Horace tried to do, he told me later, only he couldn’t.
The boss says, “If there isn’t a saxophonist, there must be one good musician who can lead. Don’t tell me there isn’t one real musician in this area! I’ll pay him twenty dollars! I’ll pay him fifty dollars! I’ve got to have him!”
And then I got an idea!
I says, “Mr. McRae!”
He says, “Hush! I’m talking to Horace Ruggles.”
I says, “Mr. McRae, I got a musician for you!”
He says, “Ruggles, hold the wire,” and he gives me a funny look. “Peter, you haven’t been taking a correspondence course in how to play the saxophone, have you?”
“No, sir, but I know where I can find a violinist.”
“You do, Peter?”
“Yes, sir, right in this town.”
“A violinist, here in Surrey, and I never heard of him? Peter, is he good?”
“Well, Mr. McRae, he has played the violin so long he has got a groove on the underside of his jaw.”
The boss slaps me on the back. “Peter, you are a man after my own heart! Offer him fifty dollars, and here, keep this twenty for yourself. How long will it take you to get him?”
“If he’s home now—”
“Why shouldn’t he be home now?”
“You can never tell, Mr. McRae.”
“If you drive to his house and bring him back with you, how long will you be?”
“Twenty minutes. No, better make it half an hour.” I didn’t tell the boss, but I deducted it would take Hubert Honeywell all of ten minutes to scrub some of the dirt off of himself.