I'm kind of glad I was with Ernie when he had his big night. If I hadn't been I never would have believed it of him. Not if he'd produced affidavits. No! It would have been too much of a strain on the imagination.
For somehow it's hard to connect Ernie with anything like that, even when I've seen what I have. You could almost tell that, just by his name--Ernest Sudders. And when I add that he's assistant auditor in the Corrugated offices you ought to have the picture complete. You know what assistant auditors are like.
Ernie ran true to type. And then some. I expect there was one or two other things he might have been; such as manager of a gift shop, or window dresser for the misses' department, or music teacher in a girls' boarding school. But I doubt if he'd ever been such a success as he was at the high desk. Seemed like he was born to be an assistant auditor. He was holding the job when I first came to the Corrugated as sub office boy; he still has it, and I can think of only one party that could pry him loose from it--the old boy with the long scythe.
For one thing, Ernie gives all his time to being assistant auditor. Not just office hours. I'll bet he's one even in his sleep. He looks the part, dresses the part, thinks the part. He don't work at it, he lives it. Talk about this four dimension stuff. Ernie gets along with two--up the column from the bottom, and both ways from the decimal point.
Not such a bad-lookin' chap, Ernie, only a bit stiff from the waist up. You know, like he had his spine in a cast. Then there's the neck-apple. Ernie fits his into a high white wing collar and sets it off with a black ascot tie and a pearl stickpin. Also he sports the only black cutaway that's worn reg'lar into the General Offices. Oh, yes, Ernie could go on at a minute's notice as best man or pall-bearer. I don't mean he's often called on to be either. He only wears that costume because that's his idea of how an assistant auditor should be arrayed.
One of these super-system birds, Ernie is. He could turn out an annual report every Saturday if the directors asked for it. Never has to hunt for a bunch of stray figures. He has everything cross-indexed neat and accurate. He's that way about everything, always a spare umbrella and an extra pair of rubbers in his locker, and he carries a pearl-handle penknife in a chamois case.
But in spite of all that I'm sorry to state that around the Corrugated Ernie is rated as a walking joke. We all josh him, even up to Old Hickory Ellins. The only ones he ever seems to mind much though are the lady typists. The hardest thing he does during the day is when he has to walk past that battery of near-vamps, for they never fail to lay down a rolling eye barrage that gets him pink in the ears.
Course, having noticed that, I generally use it as my cue for passing pleasant words to Ernie. "Honest now," I'll ask him, "which one of them Lizzie Mauds are you playin' as favorite these days, Ernie?"
And Ernie, he'll color up like a fire hydrant and protest: "Now, say, Torchy! You know very well I've never spoken to one of them."
"Yes, you tell it well," I'll say, "but I'm onto you, old sport."
I don't know how long I've been shooting stuff like that at Ernie, and it always gets him going. I have a hunch, though, that he kind of likes it. These skirt-shy boys usually do. And as a matter of fact I expect the only female he ever looked square in the eye is that old maid sister of his that he lives with somewhere over in Jersey.
So this night when we were doing overtime together at the office and it was a case of going out for dinner I'd planned to slip a little something on Ernie by towin' him to a joint where the lights were bright and they were apt to have silver buckets on the floor. I was hoping he might see some perfect lady light up a cigarette, or maybe give him a cut-up glance over the top of her fizz goblet. It would be cheerin' to watch Ernie tryin' to let on he didn't notice.
He'd already called Sister on the long distance telephone and told her not to wait up for him, explainin' just what it was we was workin' on and how we might not be through until quite late. And Sister had advised him to be sure to wear his silk muffler and not to sleep past his station if he had to take the 11:48 out.
"Gosh, Ernie!" says I. "If you 're that way now what'll you be when you're married?"
"But I hadn't thought of getting married," says he. "Really!"
"Yes," says I, "and you silent, thoughtless boys are the very ones who jump into matrimony unexpected. Some evenin' you'll meet just the right babidoll and the next thing we know you'll be sendin' us at home cards. You act innocent enough in public, but I'll bet you're a bear when it comes to workin' up to a quick clinch behind the palms."
Ernie almost gasps with horror at the thought.
"Oh, I wouldn't put it past you," says I. "I expect, though, you'd like to have me class you among the great unkissed?"
"As a matter of fact," says Ernie solemn, "I have never--Well, not since I was a mere boy, at least. It--it's just happened so."
"And you past thirty!" says I. "What a long spell to be out of luck!"
So I suggests that we work through until about 7:45 and then hit the Regal roof for a $2 feed and a view of some of this fancy skatin' they're pullin' off there. But that ain't Ernie's plan at all. He has his mouth all set for an oyster stew and a plate of crullers down in the Arcade beanerie.
"Ah, forget your old automatic habits for once," says I. "This dinner is on the house, you know, so why not make it a reg'lar one? Come along."
And for a wonder I persuades him to do it. I expect this idea of chargin' it on the expense account hadn't occurred to him.
Anyway, that's how it come we were piking through West Forty-fifth Street with the first of the theater crowds, Ernie still protestin' that he really didn't care for this sort of thing--cabaret stunts and all that--and me kiddin' him along as usual, sayin' I'll bet the head waiter would call him by his first name, when the net is cast sudden over Ernie's head.
I don't know which one of us saw her first. All I'm sure of is that we both sort of slowed up and did the gawp act. You could hardly blame us, for here in a taxi by the curb is--Well, it would take Robert Chambers a page and a half at twenty cents a word to do her full justice, so I'll just say she was a lovely lady.
No, I ain't gettin' her mixed with any of Mr. Ziegfeld's stars, nor she ain't any broker's bride plucked from the switch-board. She's the real thing in the lady line, though how I knew it's hard to tell. Also she's a home-grown siren that works without the aid of a lip-stick, permanent wave, or an eyebrow pencil. Anyway, here she is leaning through the taxi door and shootin' over the alluring smile.
I couldn't quite believe it was meant for either of us until I'd scouted around to see if there wasn't someone else in line. No, there wasn't. And as Ernie is nearest, course I knows it's for him.
"Ah, ha!" says I. "Who's your friend with the golden tresses?"
That's what they were, all right. You don't see hair like that every day, and it ain't the shade which can be produced at a beauty parlor. It's the 18-karat kind, done up sort of loose and careless, but all the more dangerous for that. And with that snowy white complexion, except for the pink flush on the cheeks, and the big, starry blue eyes, she sure is a stunner.
"Do--do you think she means me?" whispers Ernie husky, as we stop in our tracks.
"Ah come!" says I. "This is no time to stall. If she hadn't spotted you direct you might have let on you didn't see her, and strolled back after you'd given me the slip. As it is, Ernie, I've got the goods on you for once and you might as well----"
"But I--I don't know her at all," insists Ernie.
Just then, though, she reaches out a pair of bare arms and remarks real folksy: "At last you've come, haven't you?"
"Seems to be fairly well acquainted with you, though, Ernie boy," says I.
As for Ernie, he just stands there starin' bug-eyed and gaspy, as if he didn't know what to do. Course, I couldn't tell why. I knew he always had acted like a poor prune when he was kidded by the flossy key pounders in the office, but almost any nut could see this was an entirely different case. Here was a regular person, all dolled up in a classy evening gown, with a fur-trimmed opera cape slippin' off her shoulders. And she was givin' him the straight call.
"But--but there must be some mistake," protests Ernie.
"If there is," says I, "it's up to you to put the lady wise. You can't walk off and leave her with her hands in the air, can you? Ah, don't be a fish! Step up."
With that I gives him a push and Ernie staggers over to the curb.
"It's been so long," I hears the lady murmur, "but I knew you would remember. Come."
What Ernie said then I didn't quite catch, but the next thing I knew he'd been dragged in, the chauffeur had got the signal, and as the taxi started off toward Fifth Avenue I had a glimpse of what looked very much like a fond clinch, with Ernie as the clinchee.
And there I am left with my mouth open. I expect I hung up there fully ten minutes, tryin' to dope out what had happened. Had Ernie just been stallin' me off tryin' to establish an alibi? Or was it a case of poor memory? No, that didn't seem likely. She wasn't the kind of a female party a man could forget easy, if he'd ever really known her. Specially a gink like Ernie who'd had such a limited experience. Nor she wasn't the type that would go out cruisin' in a cab after perfect strangers. Not her. Besides, hadn't she recognized Ernie on sight? Then there was the quick clinch. No discountin' that. Whoever it was it's somebody who don't hesitate to hug Ernie right in public. And yet he sticks to it, right up to the last, that he don't know her. Well, I gave it up.
"Either he's a foxier sport than we've been givin' him credit for," thinks I, "or else the lady has made the mistake of her life. If she has she'll soon find it out and Ernie will be trailing back on the hunt for me."
But after walkin' up and down the block three times without seeing anything that looked like Ernie I dodges into a chop-house and has a bite all by my lonesome. Then I wanders back to the general offices and tries to wind up what we'd been workin' on. But I couldn't help wondering about Ernie. Had he just plain buffaloed me, or what? If he had, who was his swell lady friend? And how did she come to be waitin' there in the taxi? By the way she was costumed she might have been on her way to some dinner dance on Fifth Avenue. That was a perfectly spiffy evening dress she had on, what there was of it. And I could remember jewels sparklin' here and there. Course, she was no chicken; somewhere under thirty would have been my guess, but she sure was easy to look at. Such eyes, too! Yes, a little starry maybe, but big and sparkly. No wonder Ernie didn't care to look at any of our lady typists if he had that in the background.
So I wasn't gettin' ahead very fast untanglin' them dockage contracts, and before 11 o'clock I was yawning. I'd just decided to quit and loaf around the station until the theater train was ready when I hears an unsteady step in the outer office and the next minute in blows Ernie.
That is, it's somebody who looks a little as Ernie did three hours before. But his derby is busted in on one side, one end of his wing collar has been carried away and is ridin' up towards his left ear, his coat is all dusty, and his face is flushed up like a new fire truck.
"For the love of soup!" says I, gaspy. "Must have been some party?"
Ernie, he braces himself by grippin' a chair-back and makes a stab at recoverin' his usual stiff-neck pose. But it's a flat failure. So he gives up, waves one hand around vague, and indulges in a foolish smile.
"Wha'--wha' makes you think sho--party?" he demands.
"I got second sight, Ernie," says I, "and it tells me you've been spilled off the wagon."
"You--you think I--I've been drinkin'?" asks Ernie indignant.
"Oh, no," says I. "I should say you'd been using a funnel."
"Tha's--tha's because you have 'spischus nashur'," protests Ernie. "Merely few glasshes. You know--bubblesh in stem."
"Champagne, eh?" says I. "Then it was a reg'lar party? Ernie, I am surprised at you."
"You--you ain't half so shurprised as--as I am myshelf," says he, chucklin'. "Tha's what I told Louishe."
"Oh, you mentioned it to Louise, did you?" says I. "I expect that was the lovely lady who carted you off in the taxi?"
He nods and springs another one of them silly smiles. "Tha's ri'," says he. "The lovely Louishe."
"Tell me, Ernie," says I, "how long has this been going on?"
And what do you suppose this fathead has the front to spring on me? That this was the first time he'd ever seen her. Uh-huh! He sticks to that tale. Even claims he don't know what the rest of her name is.
"Oh, very well," says I. "We'll let it ride at that. And I expect she picked you out all on account of your compelling beauty? Must have been a sudden case, from the fond clinch I saw you gettin' as the cab started."
Ernie closed his eyes slow, like he was goin' over the scene again, and then remarks: "Thash when I begun to be surprished. Louishe has most affec-shanate nashur."
"So it would seem," says I. "But where did the party take place?"
That little detail appears to have escaped Ernie. He remembered that there were pink candles on the table, and music playing, and a lot of nice people around. Also that the waiter's head was shiny, like an egg. He thought it must have been at some hotel on Fifth Avenue. Yes, they went in through a sidewalk canopy. It was a very nice dinner, too--'specially the pheasant and the parfait in the silver cup. And it was so funny to watch the bubbles keep coming up through the glass stem.
"Yes," says I, "that's one of New York's favorite winter sports. But who was all this on--Louise?"
"She insists I'm her guesh," says Ernie.
"That made it very nice, then, didn't it?" says I. "But none of this accounts for the dent in your hat and the other rough-house signs. Somebody must have got real messy with you at some stage in the game. Remember anything about that?"
"Oh!" says Ernie, stiffenin' up and tryin' to scowl. "Most--most disagreeable persons. Actually rude."
"Who and where?" I insists.
"Louishe's family," says Ernie. "I--I don't care for her family. No. Sorry, but----"
"Mean to say Louise took you home after dinner?" says I.
Ernie nods. "Wanted me to meet family," says he. "Dear old daddy, darling mother, sho on. 'Charmed,' says I. I was willing to meet anyone then. Right in the mood. 'Certainly,' says I. Feeling friendly. Patted waiter on back, waved to orchestra leader, shook handsh with perfect stranger going out. Went to lovely house, uptown somewhere. Fine ol' butler, fine ol' rugsh in hall, tapeshtries on wall. And then--then----"
Ernie slumps into a chair, pushes the loose collar end away from his chin fretful, and indulges in a deep sigh. I expect he thinks he's told the whole story.
"I take it," says I, "that you did meet dear old daddy?"
"Washn't so very old, at thash," says Ernie. "No. Nor such a dear. Looksh like--like Teddy Roosh'velt. Behavesh like Teddy, too. Im--impeshuous. Very firsh thing he says is, 'And who the devil are you?' 'Guesh?' I tells him. 'Give you three guesshes.' He--he's no good as guessher, daddy. Grabsh me by the collar. 'You, you loafer!' says he. Then the lovely Louishe comes to rescue. 'Can't you see, daddy?' she tells him. 'It's Ernie. Found him at lash.' 'Ernie who?' demandsh daddy. 'I--I forget,' says Louishe. 'Bah!' saysh daddy. 'Lash time it was Harold, wasn't it?' 'Naughty, naughty!' saysh I. 'Mustn't tell talesh. Bad form, daddy. Lessh all be calm now and--and we'll tell you about dinner--bubblesh in the glass, 'n'everything. Louishe and I. Lovely girl, Louishe. Affecshonate nashur.' And thash as far as I got. Different nashur, daddy."
"I gather that he didn't insist on your staying?" says I.
No, he hadn't. As near as I could make out dear old daddy took a firm grip on Ernie in two places, and while the fine old butler held the front door open he got more impetuous than ever. As Ernie tells me about it he rubs himself reminiscent and gazes sorrowful at his dented derby.
"Mosh annoying," says he. "Couldn't even shay good night to lovely Louishe."
"Oh, well," says I. "You can make up for that when you pay your dinner call. By the way, where was this home of the lovely Louise?"
Ernie doesn't know. When he'd arrived he was too busy to notice the street and number, and when he came out he was too much annoyed. Also he didn't remember having heard Louise's last name.
"Huh!" says I. "Except for that everything is all clear, eh? It strikes me, Ernie, as if you'd worked up a perfectly good mystery. You've been kidnapped by a lovely lady, had a swell dinner, with plenty of fizz on the side, been introduced to a strong-arm father, and finished on the sidewalk with your lid caved in. And for an assistant auditor who blushes as easy as you do that's what I call kind of a large evening."
Ernie nods. Then he chuckles to himself, sort of satisfied, and remarks mushy: "Lovely girl, Louishe."
"Yes, we've admitted all that," says I. "But who the blazes is she?"
Ernie rumples his hair thoughtful and then shakes his head.
"But during all that time didn't she say anything about herself, or give you any hint?" I goes on.
Ernie can't remember that she did.
"What was all the chat about?" I demands.
"Oh, everything," says Ernie. "She--she said she'd been looking for me long timesh. Knew me by--by my eyesh."
"How touching!" says I. "That must have been during the clinch."
"Yes," says Ernie. "But nexsh time----"
"Say," I breaks in, "if you don't know what her name is, or where she lives, how do you figure on a next time?"
"Thash so," says Ernie. "Too bad."
"Still," says I, "the kiss stringency in your young career has been lifted, hasn't it? And now it's about time I fixed you up and towed you out to a hotel where you can hit the feathers for about ten hours. My hunch is that a pitcher of ice water is going to look mighty good to you in the morning. And maybe by tomorrow noon you can remember more details about Louise than you can seem to dig up now."
You can't always tell about these birds who surprise you that way. I was only an hour late in getting to the office myself next day, but I finds Ernie at his desk looking hardly any the worse for wear, and grinding away as usual. He looks a little sheepish when I ask him if Louise has 'phoned him yet.
"S-s-sh!" says he, glancin' around cautious. "Please!"
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Trust me. I'm no sieve. But I'm wondering if you'll ever run across her again."
"I--I don't know," says Ernie. "It all seems so vague and queer. I can't recall much of anything except that Louise---- Well, she did show rather a fondness for me, you know; and perhaps, some time or other----"
"Yes," says I, "lightnin' does occasionally strike twice in the same place. But not often, Ernie."
He's a wonder, Ernie is. Seems satisfied to let it go as it stands, without trying to dope anything out. But me, I can't let anybody bat a mystery like that up to me without going through a few Sherlock Holmes motions. So that evening finds me wandering through Forty-fifth Street again at about the same hour. Not that I expected to find the same lovely lady ambushed in a cab. I don't know just what I was looking for.
And then, all of a sudden, I gets my eye on this yellow taxi. It's an odd shade of yellow, something like a pale squash pie; a big, lumbering old bus that had been repainted by some amateur. And I was willing to bet there wasn't another in town just like it. Also it's the one Ernie had stepped into the night before, for there's the same driver wearing the identical square-topped brown derby. Only there's no Louise waiting inside.
They're a shifty bunch, these independents. Some you can hire for a bank robbing job or a little act with gun play in it, and some you can't. This mutt looked like he'd be up to anything. But when I asks him if he remembers the lady in the evening dress he had aboard last night he just looks stupid and shakes his head.
"Oh, it's all right," says I. "No come-back to it."
"Mebby so," says he, "but my big line, son, is forgettin' things."
"Would this help your memory any?" says I, slippin' him a couple of dollars.
He grins and stows it away the kale. "Aw, you mean the party with the wild eyes, eh?" he asks.
"Uh-huh!" says I. "I was just curious to know where you picked her up."
"That's easy," says he. "She came out of there, third door above. I get most of my fares from there."
"Oh," says I, steppin' out for a squint. "Looks like a private house."
"It's private, all right," says he, "but it's a home for dippy ones. You know," and he taps his head. "She's a sample. I've had her before. They slip out now and then. Last night she made her getaway through the basement door. I expect she's back by now."
"Yes," says I, "I expect she is."
And I don't need to ask any more. The mystery of the lovely Louise has been cleared up complete.
First off I was going to tell Ernie all about it, but when I saw him sitting there at his high desk, gazin' sort of blank at nothing at all and kind of smilin' reminiscent, I didn't have the heart. Instead, I asks confidential, as usual:
"Any word yet from Louise?"
"Not yet," says Ernie, "but then----"
"I get you," says I. "And I got to hand it to you, Ernie; you're a cagey old sport, even if you don't look it."
He don't deny. Hadn't I seen him start on his big night? And say, he's gettin' so he can walk past that line of lady typists and give 'em the once over without changin' color in the ears. He's almost skirt broken, Ernie is.
