e is planning to do something desperate."

"Huh!" says I. "Most likely he's plotting to pay off the mortgage on the
little bungalow as a birthday present for mother."

Piddie won't have it that way, though. "I think there's a woman in the
case," says he, "and I'm sure it isn't his mother."

"A woman; Vincent?" says I. "Ah, quit your kiddin', Piddie. I'd as soon
think it of you."

That brings the pink to his ears and he stiffens indignant. But in a
minute or so he gets over it enough to explain that he's noticed Vincent
fussin' with his necktie and slickin' his hair back careful before
quittin' time. Also that Vincent has taken to gettin' shaved once a week
reg'lar now, instead of every month.

"And he seemed very nervous when he took away his savings," adds
Piddie. "Of course, in my position I could ask for no confidences of a
personal nature; but if someone else could have a talk with him.--Well,
you, for example, Torchy."

"What a cute little idea!" says I. "What would be the openin' lines for
that scene? Something like, 'Come, my erring lad, rest your fair,
sin-soaked head on my knee and tell your Uncle Torchy how you are
secretly scheming to kidnap the rich gum profiteer's lovely daughter and
carry her off to Muckhurst-on-the-Marsh.' Piddie, you're a wonder."

I was still chucklin' over the notion as I breezed out to lunch, but as
I pushes out of the express elevator and starts across the arcade toward
the Broadway exit I lamps something over by the candy booth that leaves
me with my mouth open. There is Vincent hung up against the counter
gazin' mushy into the dark dangerous orbs of Mirabelle, the box-trade
queen.

Course, we all know Mirabelle in the Corrugated buildin', for she's been
presidin' over the candy counter almost as long as the arcade shops have
been open. She's what you might call an institution; like Apollo Mike,
the elevator starter; or old Walrus Smith, the night watchman. And I
expect there ain't a young hick or a middle-aged bookkeeper on all them
twenty-odd floors but what has had his little thrill from gettin' in
line, some time or another, with a cut-up look from them high voltage
eyes. She's just one of the many perils, Mirabelle is, that line the
path of the poor working man in the great city. That is, she looks the
part.

As a matter of fact, I've always had Mirabelle sized up as a near-vamp
who had worked up the act to boost sales and cinch her job. Anyway, I
never knew of her l