CHAPTER XIII

FALSE COLORS

After inquiring in the village as to the location of Grant's home, The Vagabonds lost no time in presenting themselves at its spacious entrance. "Well, here we are, Rudy," Sport said, "all set to fall into the welcoming arms of your fond teacher."

"You boys wait here," Rudy answered. "I'll go up to the house and let him know we've arrived. It might look sort of raw if we all barged in right away like a lot of hungry relatives."

Climbing out of the car, he slapped the dust from his clothes and went up the walk to the front door with the air of a returning prodigal. His first rings were unanswered; but presently a Japanese face presented itself at a crack in the slightly opened door.

"Tell Mr. Grant that Rudy Bronson is here," he said confidently. "Rudy Bronson and his Vagabonds."

"Mr. Grant no want to see any tramps," Yogi answered.

Before he could close the door, Rudy laughed. "You don't understand," he said good-naturedly. "We're not tramps. That's just the name of our orchestra."

"Mr. Grant no here," said the unimpressed servant.

"Not here! Why, he's expecting us!"

"Solly, Mr. Grant go away." Yogi opened the door and came out on the terrace. "And I got to go away, too. You come back when Mr. Grant here. No here now." And with that he put a small hat on his head and started down the walk, obviously bound for the village.

Rudy ran a few steps after him, and caught his arm. "But listen! This is important. I've got to see Mr. Grant."

It became apparent that Yogi was a well-trained servant. "I see Mr. Grant pretty soon," he said. "I tell him you're here." Thereupon he resumed his march toward the village--and, had Rudy but known it, the city.

Rudy started after him. Grant not here! But the fellow had said that he would see him soon. Doubtless the great musician was but in the village, perhaps replying to the telegram which he had sent. At all events he would be returning shortly, and there was nothing to do but wait.

Going back to the cars, he explained the situation to his friends. They seemed concerned about Grant's lack of hospitality. As Al Monroe pointed out, he not only had gone "but didn't tell the Chink to let us in."

"Are you sure he'll be as crazy to see us as you think, Rudy?" asked Bud Dwight.

"Why, of course he will!" Rudy insisted. "He's almost a personal friend of mine. He probably had to go to the village for something, and forgot to tell the Jap we were coming. I didn't say when we'd arrive, anyhow; so you can hardly expect the man to sit on the doorstep watching for us."

"Well, what'll we do now?" Al Monroe demanded. "Sit out here in this heat and wait for him to show up?"

A sudden thought occurred to Rudy. "Say!" he exclaimed. "That makes me think! Why not give him a real welcome when he comes back? We'll be all ready to play--and then when he shows up we'll do a number. And right off he'll see what a classy outfit we are!"

"Not bad," Sport cried. "Not bad at all!"

"I wonder if the doors are locked," asked Sam McMahon. "I don't like this idea of busting in places. Some of these country places are strict as all get-out about things like that."

"Aw, that's all right," said Bud Dwight. "Even if the place is locked we can go in. Rudy's a friend of this guy's. Anyway, there's sure to be a door open."

But he was wrong. The doors were all securely closed and locked. One of the long French windows on the verandah came open beneath Swiftie Clarke's tuggings, and they trooped into the large living room.

"Some dump!" Harry Ables exclaimed. "Must have been furnished for a queen or something."

"No," said Rudy, "for a king--of syncopation. But let's get set up so that when he comes we'll be ready for him."

"I don't like this much," said Sam McMahon. "I had a cousin who got put away for going into houses where he didn't belong."

"But we belong here," Sport said. "We'll be working for Grant as soon as he hears us."

"That's right," said Rudy. "So let's give him something good to hear. Let's run over 'You're Nobody's Sweetheart Now.' That ought to knock him dead."

"O.K.," said Sport, "let's go."

They rippled melodiously through the introductory passage, and then Rudy took up the chorus:

"You're nobody's sweetheart now-- They don't baby you, somehow-- Fancy hose, silken gown, Say, you'd be out of place in your own home town. When you walk down the Avenue, Folks just can't believe that it's you! Painted lips, painted eyes-- And wearing a bird of paradise, It seems all wrong somehow-- That you're nobody's sweetheart now!"

As the number closed there was, in lieu of any applause, a commotion at the front door. The band looked in the direction of the disturbance. "Who's that knocking at my door?" sang Sport O'Malley in a falsetto. "You better go and open, Rudy. Maybe it's Grant back, forgotten his key or something."

Sam McMahon had glanced out the window. "It's a couple of women with--jumping juniper, if he's not a cop I'm a Chinaman!"

"A cop!"

There was a concerted rush to the window.

"It sure looks like one, all right," Sport said. As the knocking was renewed on the door, he added: "Well, we might as well go and see what it's all about, Rudy."

Rudy nodded, and together they crossed the room and flung open the door. On the threshold stood a large woman of fifty, fashionably dressed, with a frightened face, and a man who undisputably was a police officer. And with them, Rudy was amazed to see Jean Whitehall! Rudy and Sport exchanged an agonized glance.

"Stand where you are!" the officer cried, flourishing a large service revolver. "Do not move, any of you. Step in, Mrs. Whitehall, I've got them covered."

Mrs. Whitehall obeyed, saying: "Those are the men all right, Mr. Tuttle."

"Sure you recognize them?" the policeman asked.

"Certainly, I do. I saw them breaking in the side window not five minutes ago. I was in my room with my niece, and we saw them snooping around the house, and finally break in. After that robbery of two weeks ago I wasn't taking any chances. I called the station at once."

The officer moved his gun menacingly. "Breaking in, huh? I s'pose you know there's a law about house-breaking?"

"Law?" Rudy repeated.

"The last gang I caught got a year," the policeman informed him triumphantly. "Yes, sir!"

"But we weren't house-breaking!"

With Jean so near he was having difficulty keeping his mind on the officer. He knew that with this incident, all his plans for raising himself in her eyes had come to nothing. Yet, such was the effect of her lovely presence upon his wits, that no matter how bad was the situation, he was unable to summon any ideas as to how to remedy it. "We weren't house-breaking," he repeated mechanically.

"No? Then what are you doing with all this junk?" The revolver waved in the direction of the musical instruments held by the frightened clump of youths in the living room.

"That isn't junk," Rudy said. "Those are band instruments."

"I know what they are, young fellow," the officer said testily. "What I want to know is what you are doing with them."

Rudy's color deepened. How could he ever explain the crazy whim which had prompted them to enter a stranger's house? And with Jean present to hear any explanation he might give, there was the best of chances that he would forever damage himself in her eyes. There was no way to avoid her inspection, or memory, now. She was examining him straightly.

"Well?" the officer said.

"But we weren't stealing them," Rudy said. "If you had listened, you might have heard us playing them. I'm--I'm the leader here."

"Leader, huh? Well, you better get ready to lead this bunch to jail!"

Then Jean Whitehall laughed. Pure musical laughter, but with an underlying note of embarrassment. "Oh, what a foolish mistake! Don't you see, Auntie?" she asked the older woman. "This is Mr. Grant, himself, with his band!"

But Mrs. Whitehall was unimpressed. "Ho! Ho! What nonsense! Do you mean to say that Mr. Grant would break into his own house?"

Suddenly Sport O'Malley came into the conversation with a demonstration of the quick wit for which he was noted.

"That's it exactly," he said. "Forgot his keys. That's right, isn't it, Mr. Grant?"

Rudy groaned inwardly, at once angry for the lie and relieved that Sport had made no mention of the fact that they had been at the University with Jean.

In a sudden excited movement Sam McMahon burst from the circle of the orchestra. "Why that's it, of course, Officer! Mr. Grant forgot his keys! Didn't you, Mr. Grant?"

All eyes were upon Rudy. All of his old hatred of deceit surged up within him in an effort to force the truth from his lips. But he beat it down with a realization of what the truth would mean. Jail, disgrace in the eyes of Jean. Yes, deceit was the lesser of two evil choices.

"Why, yes," he said. "I--I--forgot my key."

As an eager babble of confirmation broke from the rest of the young men, the officer looked at Rudy suspiciously.

"Yeah? Well, I must say that you don't look like any saxophony wizard to me."

"But he is!" Sport exclaimed. "He's a wonderful saxophone player, isn't he, boys?"

Once more the chorus of assent went up. Al Monroe tapped the officer on the shoulder. "He's a great saxophone player," he said, "except when he forgets the key."

But Mr. Tuttle apparently had small use for levity. He continued to look suspiciously at Rudy, scratching his chin, at a loss as to what he should do. It was evident that he took his duties seriously; but that he also had no wish to arrest innocent men.

"Yeah," he said presently, "maybe you're Ted Grant all right. But if you are, let's hear you and this band play something on those instruments."

Rudy agreed in relief, and the boys quickly assembled for work. "What'll it be, Mr. Grant?" asked Al Monroe.

Rudy felt Jean Whitehall's eyes upon him. Without looking in her direction he answered: "'I Love You, Believe Me, I Love You.'"

The Vagabonds never had played more earnestly. Nor, when it came time for him to take up the vocal refrain, had Rudy ever sung more earnestly than he did in singing:

"I love you, believe me, I love you. This theme is the dream of my heart. I need you, believe me, I need you, I'll be blue when we two are apart. You'll be my one inspiration, You've changed my whole life from the start. I love you, believe me, I love you-- This theme is the dream of my heart!"

Their combined sincerity was convincing. Mrs. Whitehall came forward with outstretched hand. "Oh, Mr. Grant, I am so pleased to meet you! How could we make such a silly mistake?"

Jean greeted him, too; but there was that in her glance and the clasp of her hand, the almost self-conscious manner in which she spoke, which denoted that she had heard something more in the song than had the others. Once more her thoughts were back on Sorority Row--and that mysterious voice at the Laconia.

"Thank you, Mr. Grant. It has been a real pleasure to hear you in person."

"Yes," said Sport O'Malley. "He sounds a little different over the radio, but I think he's better this way, don't you?"

"Indeed I do," answered Mrs. Whitehall. "And I'm so pleased that we're to be neighbors. And this," she added, indicating Jean, "is my niece, Jean Whitehall."

"You mustn't mind Auntie, Mr. Grant," Jean said. "She so wanted to meet you. That's why she was so anxious to protect your property."

"Did _you_ want to meet me, too?" Rudy asked, his voice husky with emotion.

"I've always wanted to meet Ted Grant," the girl answered, lowering her glance.

"Then," Rudy said decisively, "that's who I am!"

Mrs. Whitehall smiled. "Then you got my notes about the musicale?"

"Oh, yes," Rudy said, with an agonized glance at Sport. "Yes--I got them all right."

With a smile of impending victory, Mrs. Whitehall nodded her head. "And you're coming? Oh, dear Mr. Grant, please say that you'll come."

"Come?" Rudy asked. "Where to?"

"Why, to play at the musicale. You didn't answer me," she went on, heedless of his expression of growing alarm. "But I shan't chastise you, for I know you're going to come. Oh, imagine!" she added rapturously. "Imagine what Mrs. Todhunter will think when she knows Ted Grant is going to play for us!"

Jean smiled at Rudy's mystification. "That's Auntie's hated social rival," she explained. "It does seem silly, but it's so important to her."

"Not at all," Mrs. Whitehall cut her short. "Not at all, my dear! It is simply because I resent very much the way she's acting on our Benefit Committee meetings, trying to run the whole show and everything, just because she knows a lot of opera singers. Oh, Mr. Grant," she turned to Rudy, "she's going to bring them with her to our musicale to-night, just to show everybody how important she is. Really, really, it's just too annoying."

"It certainly is," Rudy admitted.

Mrs. Whitehall leaped forward like a hound ready for the kill. "Oh, Mr. Grant--if you would come to our little affair and bring your boys with you, then we could introduce you as our friends----"

Rudy gulped. "Well, I tell you, Mrs. Todhunter----"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Whitehall.

Her shocked eyes told him of his mistake.

"--I mean, Mrs. Whitehall, we had originally intended to leave town on the six o'clock train----"

The words seemed to shock Tuttle into the need for action. Suspicion came back into his gaze.

"Hey," he demanded, "what's this?"

For a few minutes he had been digesting the contents of a note which he had found stuck in the door-panel, apparently left there by the departing Yogi.

Rudy was attempting to explain:

"Well, it's just that to-morrow is Sunday and the first train doesn't go through until six o'clock. We thought that maybe----"

"I don't mean that," Tuttle said. "I mean this note. It says, 'Notice to tradesmen. Mr. Grant away until Tuesday. Please hold all deliveries.'"

"Oh," said Rudy, "that."

"Yes," Tuttle answered, "that! It says you're away. But you're not away. You're here. How do you explain if?"

Rudy tapped him confidentially on the lapel. "You know, it's getting so that you can't believe anything you read."

But the officer was not to be put off from what appeared a fresh clue.

"Trying to kid the country cop, huh? Well----"

Sport O'Malley stepped easily forward, smiling.

"He means that he was thinking of going, and then changed his mind. That's all."

"Oh," Tuttle said disappointedly, "and you left the note on the door, huh?"

"Yes," Rudy answered quickly, "that's it. We were just thinking of going."

"But you're not going now?" Tuttle persisted.

Rudy shook his head. "No, of course not--why should we?"

"Why indeed?" in the voice of Sam McMahon came from the grouped orchestra. "Why indeed?"

Mrs. Whitehall smiled, extending her hand.

"Then you'll be here for our musicale to-night, won't you, Mr. Grant?"

Rudy cast one desperate glance at Sport.

"Why, yes," he said haltingly, "so far as I know, I guess we will."

A look of intense satisfaction came into Mrs. Whitehall's face and she looked triumphantly at Jean.

"That's so good of you, Mr. Grant," she said. "Oh, imagine my party--Mr. Grant and his band, too! Really, I'm eternally grateful!"

Jean looked at Rudy. "And so am I."

In returning her glance, some of the misery went out of Rudy's face.

"We're delighted, aren't we, boys?" he asked the Vagabonds. There was a slight assent of "Yeah," but with a reassuring smile at Jean, he added: "Don't worry, we'll be there."

"I think you're very nice, Mr. Grant," she told him. "We won't forget. Good-by."

At the door, Mrs. Whitehall turned, making sure of her victory.

"Don't forget, at eight o'clock, Mr. Grant. Good-by for the moment."

"I won't forget," Rudy said. "Good-by."

Mrs. Whitehall put forth her hand, her face cordial.

"Jean and I hope to see a great deal of you while you are here, Mr. Grant," she said. "You know I really don't care for opera; I love jazz. It does something to me. I'm purely American," she explained, "just an Indian at heart--just an Indian!"

She laughed. "So with a great musician like you so close--I'll be keeping my eyes on you!"

The police officer followed her out the door. On the threshold he paused, still struggling with his suspicions.

"She won't be the only one keeping an eye on you," he said at last. "I'll be keeping one on you, to boot."

"Always glad to have protection," Sport assured him. "What with all the robberies and so on that I hear have been happening around here, Mr. Grant will be only too glad to have the knowledge that he is being guarded. Isn't that right, Mr. Grant?" he asked, turning to Rudy.

But Rudy's eyes were on the figure of Jean Whitehall, disappearing down the walk.