MRS. TRUCKLES’ BROAD JUMP
And do you imagine Kitty Marston settles down to a life job after that? Not her. At the very next pay day she hands in her two weeks’ notice, and when they pin her right down to facts she admits weepy that she means to start out lookin’ for Egbert. Now wouldn’t that crust you?
Course, the sequel to that is another governess hunt which winds up with Madame Roulaire. And say, talk about your queer cases——But you might as well have the details.
You see, until Aunt Martha arrived on the scene this Madame Roulaire business was only a fam’ly joke over to Pinckney’s, with all of us in on it more or less. But Aunt Martha ain’t been there more’n three or four days before she’s dug up mystery and scandal and tragedy enough for another one of them French dope dramas.
“In my opinion,” says she, “that woman is hiding some dreadful secret!”
But Mrs. Pinckney only smiles in that calm, placid way of hers. You know how easy she took things when she was Miss Geraldine and Pinckney found her on the steamer in charge of the twins that had been willed to him? Well, she ain’t changed a bit; and, with Pinckney such a brilliant member of the Don’t Worry Fraternity, whatever frettin’ goes on in that house has to be done by volunteers.
Aunt Martha acts like she was wise to this; for she starts right in to make up for lost opportunities, and when she spots this freaky lookin’ governess she immediately begins scoutin’ for trouble. Suspicions? She delivers a fresh lot after every meal!
“Humph!” says she. “Madame Roulaire, indeed! Well, I must say, she looks as little like a Frenchwoman as any person I ever saw! How long have you had her, Geraldine? What, only two months? Did she bring written references, and did you investigate them carefully?”
She wouldn’t let up, either, until she’d been assured that Madame Roulaire had come from service in an English fam’ly, and that they’d written on crested notepaper indorsin’ her in every point, giving her whole hist’ry from childhood up.
“But she hasn’t the slightest French accent,” insists Aunt Martha.
“I know,” says Mrs. Pinckney. “She lived in England from the time she was sixteen, and of course twenty years away from one’s——”
“Does she claim to be only thirty-six?” exclaims Aunt Martha. “Why, she’s fifty if she’s a day! Besides, I don’t like that snaky way she has of watching everyone.”
There was no denyin’, either, that this Roulaire party did have a pair of shifty eyes in her head. I’d noticed that much myself in the few times I’d seen her. They wa’n’t any particular color you could name,—sort of a greeny gray-blue,—but they sure was bright and restless. You’d never hear a sound out of her, for she didn’t let go of any remarks that wa’n’t dragged from her; but somehow you felt, from the minute you got into the room until she’d made a gumshoe exit by the nearest door, that them sleuthy lamps never quite lost sight of you.
That and her smile was the main points about her. I’ve seen a lot of diff’rent kinds of smiles, meanin’ and unmeanin’; but this chronic half-smirk of Madame Roulaire’s was about the most unconvincin’ performance I’ve ever watched. Why, even a blind man could tell she didn’t really mean it! Outside of that, she was just a plain, pie faced sort of female with shrinkin’, apologizin’ ways and a set of store teeth that didn’t fit any too well; but she wa’n’t one that you’d suspect of anything more tragic than eatin’ maraschino cherries on the sly, or swappin’ household gossip with the cook.
That wa’n’t the way Martha had her sized up, though, and of course there was no keepin’ her inquisitive nose out of the case. First thing anyone knew, she’d backed Madame Roulaire into a corner, put her through the third degree, and come trottin’ back in triumph to Mrs. Pinckney.
“Didn’t I tell you?” says she. “French! Bosh! Perhaps you haven’t asked her about Auberge-sur-Mer, where she says she was born?”
Greraldine admits that she ain’t done much pumpin’.
“Well, I have,” says Aunt Martha, “and she couldn’t tell me a thing about the place that was so. I spent ten days there only two years ago, and remember it perfectly. She isn’t any more French than I am.”
“Oh, what of it?” says Mrs. Pinckney. “She gets along splendidly with the twins. They think the world of her.”
“But she’s thoroughly deceitful,” Aunt Martha comes back. “She misrepresents her age, lies about her birthplace, and—and she wears a transformation wig.”
“Yes, I had noticed the brown wig,” admits Mrs. Pinckney; “but they’re quite common.”
“So are women poisoners,” snaps Martha. “Think of what happened to the Briggses, after they took in that strange maid! Then there was the Madame Catossi case, over in Florence last year. They were warned about her, you remember.”
And maybe you know how a good lively suspecter can get results when she keeps followin’ it up. They got to watchin’ the governess close when she was around, and noticin’ all the little slips in her talk and the crab-like motions she made in dodgin’ strangers. That appears to make her worse than ever, too. She’d get fussed every time anyone looked her way, and just some little question about the children would make her jump and color up like she’d been accused of burnin’ a barn. Even Sadie, who’d been standin’ up for her right along, begins to weaken.
“After all,” says she, “I’m not sure there isn’t something queer about that woman.”
“Ah, all governesses are queer, ain’t they?” says I; “but that ain’t any sign they’ve done time or are in the habit of dosin’ the coffeepot with arsenic. It’s Aunt Martha has stirred all this mess up, and she’d make the angel Gabriel prove who he was by blowin’ bugle calls.”
It was only next day, though, that we gets a report of what happens when Pinckney runs across this Sir Carpenter-Podmore at the club and lugs him out to dinner. He’s an English gent Pinckney had known abroad. Comin’ in unexpected that way, him and Madame Roulaire had met face to face in the hall, while the introductions was bein’ passed out—and what does she do but turn putty colored and shake like she was havin’ a fit!
“Ah, Truckles?” says Podmore, sort of cordial.
“No, no!” she gasps. “Roulaire! I am Madame Roulaire!”
“Beg pardon, I’m sure,” says Sir Carpenter, liftin’ his eyebrows and passin’ on.
That was all there was to it; but everyone in the house heard about it. Course Aunt Martha jumps right in with the question marks; but all she gets out of Podmore is that he presumes he was mistaken.
“Well, maybe he was,” says I. “Why not?”
“Then you haven’t heard,” says Sadie, “that Sir Carpenter was for a long time a Judge on the criminal bench.”
“Z-z-z-zing!” says I. “Looks kind of squally for the governess, don’t it?”
If it hadn’t been for Pinckney, too, Aunt Martha’d had her thrown out that night; but he wouldn’t have it that way.
“I’ve never been murdered in my bed, or been fed on ground glass,” says he, “and—who knows?—I might like the sensation.”
Say, there’s more sides to that Pinckney than there are to a cutglass paperweight. You might think, with him such a Reggie chap, that havin’ a suspicious character like that around would get on his nerves; but, when it comes to applyin’ the real color test, there ain’t any more yellow in him than in a ball of bluin’, and he can be as curious about certain things as a kid investigatin’ the animal cages.
Rather than tie the can to Madame Roulaire without gettin’ a straight line on her, he was willin’ to run chances. And it don’t make any difference to him how much Aunt Martha croaks about this and that, and suggests how dreadful it is to think of those dear, innocent little children exposed to such evil influences. That last item appeals strong to Mrs. Pinckney and Sadie, though.
“Of course,” says Geraldine, “the twins don’t suspect a thing as yet, and whatever we discover must be kept from them.”
“Certainly,” says Sadie, “the poor little dears mustn’t know.”
So part of the programme was to keep them out of her way as much as possible without actually callin’ her to the bench, and that’s what fetched me out there early the other afternoon. It was my turn at protectin’ innocent childhood. I must say, though, it’s hard realizin’ they need anything of that sort when you’re within reach of that Jack and Jill combination. Most people seem to feel the other way; but, while their society is apt to be more or less strenuous, I can gen’rally stand an hour or so of it without collectin’ any broken bones.
As usual, they receives me with an ear splittin’ whoop, and while Jill gives me the low tackle around the knees Jack proceeds to climb up my back and twine his arms affectionate around my neck.
“Hey, Uncle Shorty,” they yells in chorus, “come play Wild West with us!”
“G’wan, you young terrors!” says I, luggin’ ’em out on the lawn and dumpin’ ’em on the grass. “Think I’d risk my neck at any such game as that? Hi! leggo that necktie or I’ll put on the spanks! Say, ain’t you got any respect for company clothes? Now straighten up quiet and tell me about the latest deviltry you’ve been up to.”
“Pooh!” says Jill. “We’re not afraid of you.”
“And we know why you’re here to-day, too,” says Jack.
“Do you?” says I. “Well, let’s have it.”
“You’re on guard,” says Jill, “keeping us away from old Clicky.”
“Old Clicky?” says I.
“Uh-huh,” says Jack. “The goosy governess, you know.”
“Eh?” says I, openin’ my eyes.
“We call her that,” says Jill, “because her teeth click so when she gets excited. At night she keeps ’em in a glass of water. Do you suppose they click then?”
“Her hair comes off too,” says Jack, “and it’s all gray underneath. We fished it off once, and she was awful mad.”
“You just ought to hear her when she gets mad,” says Jill. “She drops her H’s.”
“She don’t do it before folks, though,” says Jack, “’cause she makes believe she’s French. She’s awful good to us, though, and we love her just heaps.”
“You’ve got queer ways of showin’ it,” says I.
“What makes Aunt Martha so scared of her?” says Jill. “Do you think it’s so she would really and truly murder us all and run off with the jewelry, or that she’d let in burglars after dark? She meets someone every Thursday night by the side gate, you know.”
“A tall woman with veils over her face,” adds Jack. “We hid in the bushes and watched ’em.”
“Say, for the love of Mike,” says I, “is there anything about your governess you kids haven’t heard or seen? What more do you know?”
“Lots,” says Jill. “She’s scared of Marie, the new maid. Marie makes her help with the dishes, and make up her own bed, and wait on herself all the time.”
“And she has to study beforehand all the lessons she makes us learn,” says Jack. “She studies like fun every night in her room, and when we ask questions from the back of the book she don’t know the answers.”
“She’s been too scared to study or anything, ever since Monday,” says Jill. “Do you think they’ll have a policeman take her away before she poisons us all? We heard Aunt Martha say they ought to.”
Say, they had the whole story, and more too. If there was anything about Madame Roulaire’s actions, her past hist’ry, or what people thought of her that had got by these two, I’d like to know what it was.
“Gee!” says I. “Talk about protectin’ you! What you need most is a pair of gags and some blinders. Now trot along off and do your worst, while I look up Pinckney and give him some advice.”
I was strollin’ through the house lookin’ for him, and I’d got as far as the lib’ry, when who should I see but Madame Roulaire comin’ through the opposite door. Someway, I didn’t feel like meetin’ them sleuthy eyes just then, or seein’ that smirky smile; so I dodges back and pikes down the hall. She must have had the same thought; for we almost collides head on halfway down, and the next thing I know she’s dropped onto a davenport, sobbin’ and shakin’ all over.
“Excuse me for mentionin’ it,” says I; “but there ain’t any call for hysterics.”
“Oh, I know who you are now,” says she. “You—you’re a private detective!”
“Eh?” says I. “How’d you get onto my disguise?”
“I knew it from the first,” says she. “And then, when I saw you with the children, asking them about me——Oh, you won’t arrest me and take me away from the darlings, will you? Please don’t take me to jail! I’ll tell you everything, truly I will, sir!”
“That might help some,” says I; “but, if you’re goin’ to ’fess up, suppose you begin at Chapter I. Was it the fam’ly jewels you was after?”
“No, no!” says she. “I never took a penny’s worth in my life. Truckles could tell you that if he could only be here.”
“Truckles, eh!” says I. “Now just who was——”
“My ’usband, sir,” says she. “And I’m Mrs. Truckles.”
“Oh-ho!” says I. “Then this Roulaire name you’ve been flaggin’ under was sort of a nom de plume?”
“It was for Katy I did it!” she sobs.
“Oh, yes,” says I. “Well, what about Katy?”
And, say, that was the way it come out; first, a bit here and then a bit there, with me puttin’ the ends together and patchin’ this soggy everyday yarn out of what we’d all thought was such a deep, dark mystery.
She was English, Mrs. Truckles was, and so was the late Truckles. They’d worked together, him bein’ a first class butler whose only fault was he couldn’t keep his fingers off the decanters. It was after he’d struck the bottom of the toboggan slide and that thirst of his had finished him for good and all that Mrs. Truckles collects her little Katy from where they’d boarded her out and comes across to try her luck on this side.
She’d worked up as far as housekeeper, and had made enough to educate Katy real well and marry her off to a bright young gent by the name of McGowan that owned a half interest in a corner saloon up in the Bronx and stood well with the district leader.
She was happy and contented in them days, Mrs. Truckles was, with McGowan doin’ a rushin’ business, gettin’ his name on the Tammany ticket, and Katy patronizing a swell dressmaker and havin’ a maid of her own. Then, all of a sudden, Mrs. Truckles tumbles to the fact that Katy is gettin’ ashamed of havin’ a mother that’s out to service and eatin’ with the chauffeur and the cook. Not that she wants her livin’ with them,—McGowan wouldn’t stand for that,—but Katy did think Mother might do something for a living that wouldn’t blur up the fam’ly escutcheon quite so much.
It was just when Mrs. Truckles was feelin’ this most keen that the French governess where she was got married and went West to live, leavin’ behind her, besides a collection of old hats, worn out shoes, and faded picture postals, this swell reference from Lady Jigwater. And havin’ put in a year or so in France with dif’rent families that had taken her across, and havin’ had to pick up more or less of the language, Mrs. Truckles conceives the great scheme of promotin’ herself from the back to the front of the house. So she chucks up as workin’ housekeeper, splurges on the wig, and strikes a swell intelligence office with this phony reference.
Course, with anybody else but an easy mark like Mrs. Pinckney, maybe she wouldn’t have got away with it; but all Geraldine does is glance at the paper, ask her if she likes children, and put her on the payroll.
“Well?” says I. “And it got you some worried tryin’ to make good, eh?”
“I was near crazy over it,” says she. “I thought I could do it at first; but it came cruel ’ard. Oh, sir, the lies I’ve ’ad to tell, keepin’ it up. And with the rest of the ’elp all ’ating me! Marie used me worst of all, though. She made me tell ’er everything, and ’eld it over my ’ead. Next that Aunt Martha came and thought up so many bad things about me—you know.”
“Sure,” says I; “but how about this Sir Podmore?”
“I was ’ead laundress at Podmore ’Ouse,” says she, “and I thought it was all up when he saw me here. I never should have tried to do it. I’m a good ’ousekeeper, if I do say it; but I’m getting to be an old woman now, and this will end me. It was for Katy I did it, though. Every week she used to come and throw it in my face that she couldn’t call at the front door and—and——Well, I ’opes you’ll believe me, sir; but that was just the way of it, and if I’m taken to jail it will kill Katy and——”
“Aha!” breaks in a voice behind us. “Here, Pinckney! Come, Geraldine! This way everybody!” and as I turns around there’s Aunt Martha with the accusin’ finger out and her face fairly beamin’. Before I can get in a word she’s assembled the fam’ly.
“What did I tell you?” she cackles. “She’s broken down and confessed! I heard her!”
“Is it true, Shorty?” demands Mrs. Pinckney. “Does she admit that she was plotting to——”
“Yep!” says I. “It’s something awful too, almost enough to curdle your blood.”
“Go on,” says Aunt Martha. “Tell us the worst. What is it?”
“It’s a case of standin’ broad jump,” says I, “from housekeeper to governess, with an age handicap and a crooked entry.”
Course, I has to work out the details for ’em, and when I’ve stated the whole hideous plot, from the passing of Truckles the Thirsty to the high pride of Katy the Barkeep’s Bride, includin’ the tale of the stolen character and chuckin’ the nervy bluff—well, they didn’t any of ’em know what to say. They just stands around gawpin’ curious at this sobbin’, wabbly kneed old party slumped down there on the hall seat.
Aunt Martha, actin’ as prosecutor for the State, is the first to recover. “Well, there’s no knowin’ how far she might have gone,” says she. “And she ought to be punished some way. Pinckney, what are you going to do with her?”
For a minute he looks from Aunt Martha to the object in the middle of the circle, and then he drops them black eyelashes lazy, like he was half-asleep, and I knew somethin’ was coming worth listenin’ to.
“Considering all the circumstances,” says Pinckney, “I think we shall discharge Marie, increase Mrs. Truckles’ salary, give her an assistant, and ask her to stay with us permanently. Eh, Geraldine?”
And Geraldine nods hearty.
“Pinckney, let’s shake on that,” says I. “Even if your head is full of soap bubbles, you’ve got an eighteen-carat heart in you. Hear the news, Mrs. Truckles?”
“Then—then I’m not to go to jail?” says she, takin’ her hands off her face and lookin’ up straight and steady for the first time in months.
“Jail nothin’!” says I. “There’s goin’ to be a new deal, and you start in fresh with a clean slate.”
“Humph!” snorts Aunt Martha. “Do you expect me to stay here and countenance any such folly?”
“I’m far too considerate of my relatives for that,” says Pinckney. “There’s a train at five-thirty-six.”
And, say, to see Mrs. Truckles now, with her gray hair showin’ natural, and her chin up, and a twin hangin’ to either hand, and the sleuthy look gone out of them old eyes, you’d hardly know her for the same party!
These antelope leaps is all right sometimes; but when you take ’em you want to be wearin’ your own shoes.