  “Tom Agate? Sure, what can I tell you?” Johnny Dwyer settled back in his chair and waved a hand invitingly at a pair of battered office chairs. Peggy sat down in one of them and looked at the figure in front of her with interest. Johnny Dwyer was a small, birdlike man with a cheerful, pink face, snow-white hair and the bushiest eyebrows Peggy had ever seen. At the moment, he was perched in front of an old-fashioned rolltop desk in a musty corner of the big metropolitan newspaper office, his coat off and the sleeves of his shirt held up by a pair of elastic armbands. Outside of actors in costume and old photographs, Peggy had never seen anyone wear armbands. But Johnny Dwyer did, and it gave him the appearance of someone out of a turn-of-the-century tintype. Despite his age—and Peggy guessed that he was over seventy—Johnny Dwyer moved with a quick, catlike grace. But when he walked, it was with the help of a cane. On the way in to his office that morning, Peter had told Peggy a little about Johnny Dwyer. Johnny had been a gay blade in his younger days, a rising popular star in the New York music halls. But a tragic horseback accident had broken his leg in three places and cut short his career as a song-and-dance man. The publisher of the Chronicle, then a new and struggling newspaper in New York, liked Johnny, felt sorry for him, and offered him a job keeping records for the drama department. It turned out to be a satisfactory arrangement for both sides. Johnny moved in and stayed. For nearly half a century he watched the American theater parade through his bulging scrapbook and file cabinets. His memory was phenomenal and his list of acquaintances was as wide as the theater itself. In his own time, Johnny Dwyer had become sort of a legend, a living museum whose memory was a storehouse of theatrical lore. If anyone needed any information on the theater, they usually tried the public library first and then, if they couldn’t find it there, they came to Johnny. Sometimes, if they knew Johnny well, they didn’t even bother with the library. According to Peter, if anybody in New York knew where Tom Agate was, it would be Johnny Dwyer. “Tom used to be a good friend of mine,” Johnny said, leaning back comfortably. “Many’s the night we’ve sat around and swapped stories.” “Used to?” Peter asked in a troubled voice. “Is he dead?” Johnny looked at Peter shrewdly. “Some people think so.” “Do you?” Peter obviously didn’t know what to make of this strange reply. Johnny stared up at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Look here, young fellow,” he said at last. “Tom Agate retired a long time ago.” “I know that,” Peter said. “But we want to find him.” Johnny Dwyer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has it occurred to you that he doesn’t want to be found?” “Oh, come on now, Johnny,” Peter said in a pleading voice. “You know a lot more than you’re telling us. How about a break? We don’t want to bite the man. We just want to offer him a job.” Johnny seemed startled. “A job? But he’s retired!” “He’ll come out of retirement for this part,” Peter said confidently. “Oh, it’s a play?” Peter nodded. “A wonderful chance.” Johnny shook his head and smiled. “Tom Agate’s heard that so many times. Believe me, he won’t listen. He’s finished with the theater.” “Do you know why?” Peggy asked. “I don’t have the slightest notion,” Johnny replied blandly. Despite his innocent expression, Peggy was almost certain the old man was lying to Peter. “All I know,” he went on smoothly, “is that fifteen years ago, Tom Agate told me he was quitting the stage. He didn’t give any reason and I didn’t ask. After all, you don’t stick your nose into someone else’s affairs.” “Have you seen Tom lately?” Peter persisted. “The last time I saw Tom was”—the old man cocked his head to one side—“oh, it must have been four years ago.” “And he’d been retired then for eleven years?” Johnny smiled briefly. “If my arithmetic isn’t off, I guess you’re right.” “How was he?” “Fine.” Johnny folded his hands and waited patiently for the next question. Peggy suddenly felt herself caught up in a mystery she didn’t understand. It was clear to her that Johnny Dwyer was not going to co-operate even though he had the information Peter wanted so desperately. She waited for the next move anxiously. Peter leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “Johnny,” he said with quiet sincerity, “let me explain why we want to get in touch with Tom Agate.” He proceeded to tell Johnny about Innocent Laughter and the part reserved for Tom. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for him,” he concluded. “And, of course, I’m convinced that Tom would be ideal in the part.” Johnny Dwyer sat perfectly still for several seconds after Peter had finished talking. At last he lifted himself to his feet, picked up his cane, and walked over to the window. Peggy noticed again how tiny and fragile he looked. “Peter, my boy,” he said finally, “I’m glad you feel that way about Tom. It’s nice to know that somebody still remembers him.” “I’m sure that thousands of people all over the country remember him!” Peter interrupted excitedly. Johnny smiled and nodded. “Perhaps. But Tom had his reasons for leaving when he did, and I don’t think anybody has the right to force him back. It’s a decision he’s got to make.” Peter got up and walked over to Johnny. “I agree with you,” he said. “But we’re not going to force him. All I want is a chance to talk to him. He can make up his own mind.” The two men—one old, the other young—stood staring at each other. Johnny Dwyer looked into Peter’s eyes as though he were trying to read his mind, then turned away. “No,” he said. “Get somebody else.” Peter sighed and returned to his chair. “You say you saw Tom four years ago?” “Mm-hm.” Johnny gave a little birdlike bob with his head. Peter looked up abruptly. “Tell me something, Johnny. Was he happy?” The question was sharp and unexpected. For the first time Johnny seemed uncertain of his answer. “Or did he miss the theater?” Johnny groped his way over to his chair and sank down. There was a troubled expression on his face. “Yes,” he said in a very quiet voice. “He missed the stage.” He looked over at Peggy and Peter. “You two,” he said, “you’ve been working in the theater for how long? Two years? Four years? Five years? Well, Tom Agate spent thirty years of his life on stage. It was everything he knew—and almost everything he loved.” “Almost everything?” The question came almost automatically, before Peggy had a chance to think about it. Johnny looked at her oddly. It was the first time she had spoken during the interview. “Don’t ask me any more,” he said. “Just leave Tom alone.” Peter shook his head stubbornly. “Why don’t you help us give Tom a chance to find happiness again?” “By coming back to the theater?” “Yes.” “He’d never do it. I told you that.” “Maybe he’s changed his mind.” Johnny smiled and shook his head regretfully. Suddenly Peggy was on her feet, talking quickly and earnestly. “Mr. Dwyer,” she said, “we don’t want to pry into Mr. Agate’s personal life. You said yourself no one should poke his nose into someone else’s business. Well, I agree. But at the same time you just admitted that he was unhappy and missed the theater. You said it was his whole life. Sometimes, Mr. Dwyer, people need help. They need to have their eyes opened so they can see the life they’re missing. The life that belongs to them if only they reach out and take it. Doesn’t Mr. Agate deserve a second chance? I—I don’t know what happened fifteen years ago. I don’t know why he left the stage and I wouldn’t dream of asking him.” “Then what do you want to ask him?” “I want to ask him to come back to the life he loves,” Peggy said simply. “I tried that myself,” Johnny said. “It didn’t work.” Peggy pulled a chair over beside Johnny and looked into his face. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “the wrong person does the asking.” Johnny stared at her in surprise. “What do you mean?” Peggy was flushed and embarrassed at what she was about to say, but she held her ground. “We’re young,” she said as kindly as she could. “We’re still part of the theater he misses so much. If we want him back, that’s different from....” Her voice trailed off in confusion as she anxiously watched Johnny’s reaction. Johnny nodded in comprehension. “Different from an old fellow like me doing the asking. Somebody who’s through, himself. Is that what you mean?” “Yes,” Peggy said almost in a whisper. “Except for one thing. You’re not through. You’ve still got your work. People need you—the newspaper needs you. Nobody needs Tom Agate, and he probably thinks nobody wants him.” She stood up and looked down at him. “But we want him.” Johnny passed a hand over his face and rested his chin on the head of his cane. Slowly his head began to nod. “You’re right,” he said at last. “By gollies, I think you are.” He turned to Peter with an appreciative chuckle. “You should have let her do the talking right from the start.” “Then you’ll help us?” Peggy cried eagerly. Johnny got up and hobbled energetically over to a pile of scrapbooks. “I’ll do all I can,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not going to be much.” “Johnny!” Peter was over beside the old man, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. “Take it easy, now,” Johnny protested. “Frankly, I’d give a lot to see Tom Agate back on the stage. Remember that old song of his, ‘Kathleen Aroon’?” Johnny was chuckling happily now, as if he had been relieved of a great burden of responsibility. “Hold on.” Peter laughed. “He won’t be doing any songs in Innocent Laughter. It’s a straight play.” “What a pity,” Johnny sighed. “Did you ever hear him sing?” he asked Peggy. “I guess not,” he said before she could answer. “You’d be too young. But that was his theme song. He used to sing it everywhere. I think he included it in every show he ever played.” “How does it go?” Peggy asked. “Like this.” Johnny turned and faced them. “Why should we parted be, Kathleen Aroon, When thy fond heart’s with me, Kathleen Aroon? Come to these golden skies, Bright days for us may rise, Oh! dry those tearful eyes, Kathleen Aroon.” Even though Johnny sang with the thin voice of an old man, Peggy found herself listening to every phrase. When he finished, she held out her hands to him. “That was beautiful,” she breathed. “I never knew that such a simple song could be so lovely.” Johnny smiled modestly. “You should have heard Tom do it,” he said. “It always seemed to have a special meaning for him.” Beside her, Peggy could feel Peter fidgeting restlessly. “Say, I’m sorry to break this up,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to the office. Can we have Tom Agate’s address?” Johnny shook his head regretfully. “That’s just the trouble. I’m afraid he may have moved. All I’ve got is the place where he lived four years ago.” “But mightn’t he still be there?” Peter asked anxiously. Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. You can try.” “Well, where is it?” Johnny wrote out an address that Peggy recognized as a place out in the suburbs beyond the city. “That’s the best I can do,” Johnny said. “You can inquire there.” “Great.” Peter took the paper and handed it over to Peggy. “That’s your job, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s hope you find him.” “Wait a minute,” Peggy said, grabbing Peter by the arm. “I don’t even know what he looks like.” “That’s easy,” Johnny said. “I’ve got a million photographs. Let me get you one. I’ll try to get the best likeness for you.” He disappeared down a narrow aisle of file cases. A moment later he was back, blowing the dust from a large glossy photo. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “That’s just about the way he looks today. It was taken during the war.” The picture showed a rather ordinary-appearing man. At first glance there was nothing particularly unusual about Tom Agate. But a closer look revealed a quality of gentle, almost melancholy, humor that seemed to dominate his face. Peggy held it out at arm’s length. “He looks so sad,” she said. “Somehow I expected him to be gay.” “What did you think he’d be like?” Johnny asked quietly. “A circus clown?” “No,” Peggy said. She shook her head. “I don’t know.” “Don’t be embarrassed,” Johnny said hastily. “All great clowns are sad. Or didn’t you know that?” He took the photograph from her, slipped it into a plain Manila envelope and returned it. “Here you are,” he said. “And good luck to you. I hope you find him.” Peggy tucked the envelope under her arm and extended her hand. “Thanks a lot,” she said warmly. “We’ll let you know how we make out.” Johnny walked them to the door of his office. “You do that,” he said. “And when you find Tom Agate, give him my regards.” He held the door Open. “Tell him for me that he was a fool ever to have listened to Johnny Dwyer. Tell him—tell him that his friends are waiting for him. It’s been too long.” He smiled and gripped their hands in farewell. Paradise Avenue, just beyond New York City, in Astoria, stretched out in a straight, treeless line of two-family brick houses, each set back about thirty feet from the sidewalk. In general appearance, all the buildings were pretty much alike, although here and there a gaily painted front porch and cottage shutters hinted at the presence of a more imaginative homeowner. The street was almost deserted. But then it was nearly one-thirty. The men were away at their jobs and the children at school. Peggy looked at the envelope in her hand. The address read 3612 Paradise Avenue. The bus driver had given her precise directions. This should be the 3600 block. Peggy moved slowly down the street, searching for the first house number. There it was—3601. That meant the house she wanted must be diagonally across the street. Peggy trotted over, ticked off the numbers, and stopped in front of a reddish-brown brick house. She turned up the walk, mounted the stairs, and reached out for the bell. As she touched it, she felt a strange sense of excitement build up inside her. The bell echoed hollowly. Peggy pressed it a second time. “Just a minute!” came a woman’s voice. Peggy stepped back and waited. Then she saw that the brick wasn’t brick at all, but some sort of imitation material. All the houses on the block must have been built the same way. It told of a lower middle-class neighborhood that prided itself on neatness and hoped for better times to come. Suddenly, without warning, the door swung open and Peggy was face to face with a middle-aged woman who peered at her suspiciously. When she saw her caller was a young girl, the woman opened the door a little wider. “Yes?” she asked. Peggy put on her most pleasant smile and moved forward. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m looking for someone. A Mr. Tom Agate. Does he live here?” “Agate?” The woman said. She shook her head slowly. “Nobody by that name here.” “I know he lived here four years ago,” Peggy said hopefully. “He was an elderly gentleman.” “Retired?” Peggy’s heart leaped. “Yes. He was retired.” The woman opened the door all the way and motioned Peggy inside. “There was a retired gentleman living with us. He rented the rear bedroom. But his name was Anderson.” Peggy reached for the photograph. “I wonder if you’d recognize him if you saw his picture?” The lady of the house nodded unhesitatingly. “Oh, yes, I’d know him.” She squinted at the photograph, took a closer look and blinked. “Let me get my glasses,” she said, turning away to go into the living room. “And shut the front door. It’s getting chilly.” Peggy did as she was told and waited for the woman’s return. The tiny front hall was spotlessly clean and cheerily decorated with flowered prints and a single gold-framed mirror over a mahogany console table. Both furniture and floors were polished to a high gloss. Peggy sensed that this was a home where everything was dusted twice a day and where nothing was allowed to disturb a well-established routine. “Are you a relative of Mr. Anderson’s?” The woman was back with a pair of plain glasses perched on her nose. Peggy saw that she was wearing soft bedroom slippers which accounted for her silent tread. “Not exactly,” Peggy admitted. She wondered how to explain her interest. The real story would be too complicated to tell. “I’m just a friend. Actually,” she added hastily, “a friend of a friend. You see,” she said with sudden inspiration, “Mr. Agate—the man I’m looking for—has had a stroke of good fortune, and I’ve been assigned the job of finding him.” The woman stared at Peggy with new respect. “I see,” she said solemnly. “Then you’re a private investigator?” “Well, sort of,” Peggy answered. The woman leaned forward. “Did he fall into an inheritance?” she asked in a hushed voice. Peggy gulped and spoke in an equally quiet voice. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it,” she whispered. The woman nodded conspiratorially. “I quite understand, my dear. Forgive me for asking.” Peggy reassured her with a smile and held out the photograph. The woman studied it for a moment and slowly began to nod her head. “That’s the man,” she said at last. “That’s Mr. Anderson. I always said he was a real gentleman. Even though he did play the banjo.” She said the last with just a trace of exasperation as though playing the banjo was far too frivolous an occupation for a reliable person. “Yes,” Peggy said excitedly. “That would be Mr. Agate.” The woman shook her head sadly. “I wonder why he changed his name?” Her expression hardened into a severe frown of disapproval. “It doesn’t sound like the proper thing to do. I mean, it sounds as if he wanted to hide something. I never would have let him stay here if I’d known about that.” “I’m sure you’re very careful,” Peggy broke in. “But—” “This is a respectable house,” the woman said primly. “Oh, I can see that,” Peggy assured her. “But when did Mr. Agate leave you? And do you know where he went?” Tom Agate’s erstwhile landlady pressed her lips together in a thin line. “I don’t know anything about him,” she said shortly. “You just can’t trust people these days. Why, I was saying to Maude Benson the other day....” Peggy realized that she was going to have to think and talk quickly in order to get information out of the woman. “I know how you must feel,” Peggy soothed. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “But Mr. Agate’s had a very sad life.” The woman stopped and stared at Peggy with fresh interest. “Really!” “Oh, yes,” Peggy said gravely. “He was orphaned at an early age. The only person to take care of him was a distant cousin who tried to disinherit him.” The woman was clearly shocked. “No!” “Yes. You see, Mr. Agate is the rightful heir to the Agate fortune.” Peggy held her fingers up to her lips. “Now you mustn’t breathe this to a soul.” The woman nodded breathlessly. “But Mr. Agate is the only son of Henry Agate. You know,” she prompted, “the Agate family. One of the wealthiest in America.” The woman looked at Peggy in round-eyed wonder. “Oh, yes,” she said. “The Agates.” “Of course, everybody’s heard of them,” Peggy said in an offhanded manner. “And that’s why Mr. Agate didn’t like to use the name.” The woman brightened considerably. “Isn’t that the most romantic thing you ever heard of!” she practically crooned. “And to think that he was living right in our house! Just wait until I tell Maude!” “Oh, you mustn’t!” Peggy cautioned. “You promised!” “That’s right, I did.” She patted Peggy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, you can trust me.” “Well, now,” Peggy went on in a more businesslike voice, “have you any idea where we can find Mr. Agate?” She put a slight emphasis on the “we” in order to give the woman a feeling that she was part of the search. The woman suddenly clapped her hands together. “I just remembered something. When Mr. Agate left here two years ago he told me where he was going. It was a place way over in Baywater on the other side of Long Island. I remember thinking it was rather strange to go so far off, but then he said he wanted to live near the ocean.” “Did he give an address?” The woman shook her head regretfully. “No, he refused to leave any. He said there wouldn’t be any mail. And there wasn’t.” “Can’t you remember anything more than that?” The woman closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He let the address slip once. It was Tidewater Road, I’m sure of that.” “And the number?” There was a sigh. “I can’t—wait a minute. I think it was twenty-nine hundred something Tidewater Road.” She opened her eyes eagerly. “Yes, I know it was. It was the twenty-nine-hundred block.” Peggy hurriedly slipped the photograph back in its envelope. “Well, thank you very much,” she said. “You’ve been most helpful.” “I wish I could have done more for poor Mr. Agate. He really was such a nice gentleman.” “If I locate him, I’ll give him your regards,” Peggy promised. The woman danced nervously around Peggy, obviously reluctant to see her go. “Won’t you stay for a cup of tea, my dear?” Peggy declined as gracefully as she could. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m going to have to get to Baywater this afternoon.” The woman was now eager to help. “If you take the number fourteen bus down at the end of the block, it will get you to the Long Island Railroad Station. I’m sorry I don’t have a timetable.” “That’s perfectly all right,” Peggy said, edging toward the door. “I’ll be able to manage. Thank you again.” Peggy turned the handle of the front door and stepped out on the porch. As Peggy fled down the steps, she heard a muffled “good-by” as the door slammed shut. That would be the woman on her way to the telephone to tell Maude Whatever-her-name-was all about the famous Mr. Agate. Well, let her, Peggy thought to herself with a smile. No harm in that. She directed her footsteps to the bus stop at the corner. “Tidewater Road,” she murmured to herself. “Not much to go on, but I’m not going to give up now.” |
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