“Have her cross examine the maids,” says I. “The old lady may have left some orders about forwardin’ her mail.”
That was the clew. Inside of ten minutes Nellie ’phones back and gives a number on West 21st-st.
“Gee!” says I. “A hamfatters’ boardin’-house, I’ll bet a bag of beans! Grandmother has sure picked out a lively lodgin’-place.”
“Horrible!” says Vincent. “I must get her away from there at once. But I wish there was someone who——Shorty, could I get you to go along with me and——”
“Rescuin’ grandmothers ain’t my long suit,” says I; “but I’ll admit I’m some int’rested in this case. Come on.”
By the time our clockwork cab fetches up in front of the prunery it’s after six o’clock. There’s no mistakin’ the sort of histrionic asylum it was, either. A hungry lookin’ bunch of actorets was lined up on the front steps, everyone of ’em with an ear stretched out for the dinner bell. In the window of the first floor front was a beauty doctor’s sign, a bull fiddle-artist was sawin’ out his soul distress in the hall bedroom above, and up under the cornice the Chicini sisters was leanin’ on the ledge and wishin’ the folks back in Saginaw would send on that grubstake letter before the landlady got any worse. But maybe you’ve seen samples of real dogday tragedy among the profesh, when the summer snaps have busted and the fall rehearsals have just begun. What, Mabel?
“It’s a sure enough double-in-brass roost,” says I. “Don’t say anything that sounds like contract, or you’ll be mobbed.”
But they sizes Vincent up for a real estate broker, and gives him the chilly stare, until he mentions the old lady’s name. Then they thaws out sudden.
“Oh, the Duchess!” squeals a couple in chorus. “Why, she always dines out, you know. You’ll find her around at Doughretti’s, on 27th-st.”
“Duchess!” says Vincent. “I—I’m afraid there’s some mistake.”