CHAPTER 17 THE ART OF TATTOO

At school, during the afternoon assembly period, Penny received a note from Louise which read:

“The Weekly Times is in urgent need of feature stories for our next issue. Any ideas?”

Penny scrawled a huge zero on the paper, decorated it with angel wings, and sent it down the aisle. An answer came immediately.

“You’ll have to do something about it. All of our reporters are taking a vacation until after monthly exams. Can’t you write some sort of story?”

Penny considered the problem as she studied her history lesson. Just as the dismissal bell rang an inspiration seized her.

“Lou, I do have an idea!” she declared, linking arms with her chum. “How about an interview with Ellis Saal?”

“Who is he?” inquired Louise, somewhat dubiously.

“A tattoo artist who has a little shop on Dorr Street. He takes passport pictures, too. I noticed the place weeks ago.”

“What makes you think the story would be worth printing?”

“Tattooing is a fascinating subject.”

“It is to you. I doubt if our readers share your enthusiasm.”

“They will when they read my story,” countered Penny.

Early the next morning she presented herself at Mr. Saal’s place of business, a den-like crack in the wall, barely wide enough to accommodate a door.

Pausing, she stared at a sign which proclaimed that for a nominal sum Mr. Saal would tattoo or photograph all comers. In a glass frame were displayed many samples of tattooing—bleeding hearts, clasped hands, sailing ships, birds in flight and other artistic conceptions.

Penny entered the shop. The front end of the long, narrow room was unoccupied, but the sound of hammering led her to the rear. A man of some sixty-odd years was engaged in making a new shelf. As he saw her the hammer dropped from his hand.

“Good morning,” said Penny in her friendliest tone. “Are you Mr. Saal?”

“That’s me,” he replied, regarding her curiously.

“Excuse me for bothering you,” apologized Penny, “but I should like to interview you for my newspaper.”

Mr. Saal’s intelligent but somewhat child-like eyes fixed her in a steady stare.

“A reporter,” he said finally in a long suffering tone. “They wouldn’t respect a man’s privacy—or anything else for that matter, I reckon.”

“There is one thing I am sure all reporters respect, Mr. Saal,” responded Penny. “Art. From the samples of your work which I saw out front I am sure you are a great tattoo artist.”

Mr. Saal melted like a lump of butter on a hot stove. Penny had struck his weakest spot.

“You flatter me,” he said, a faint pattern of a smile etching his face. “I admit I’m good, although maybe not quite the best in the business. What do you want to know?”

“A story about the tattooing business in general and you in particular, Mr. Saal. How do you do it? How did you start? Who was the most famous person you ever tattooed? What is your favorite design? Do you think a tattoo looks better on the arm or the chest? What—?”

“Hold it, young lady, hold it. You seem to be a living question mark.”

Mr. Saal motioned for Penny to follow him to the front of the shop. As he offered her a chair she took a quick glance at a row of dirty, smeary bottles of chemicals on a shelf above her head.

“Now let’s take your first question,” said Mr. Saal, seating himself opposite the girl. “I can’t tell you how to tattoo—that’s a secret of the profession.”

“How much do you charge for one?”

“Depends upon how much a fellow is willing to pay. Take this town—it’s a cheap place. Nobody has any money. The King of England paid fifty dollars for his tattoo and what do I get? I’m lucky if it’s a dollar. And mostly hoodlums to work on. You can’t give a man much of a tattoo for a dollar.”

“Do you ever remove tattoos, Mr. Saal?”

“It’s against the law,” the man replied briefly.

“I didn’t know that,” said Penny in surprise. “Why?”

“Crooks can be identified by their tattoos. Oh, it’s easy for a fellow to get one on, but not so easy to get it off.”

“But it can be done?” Penny persisted. “Have you ever removed one?”

“I’m the only man in the state who can take off a tattoo so it doesn’t show,” boasted Mr. Saal. “The surgeons have tried, but you always can see where it was.”

“Tell me about some of the tattoos you’ve removed,” urged Penny.

“I’ve told you more than I should now,” said Mr. Saal. “You’ll print it in the paper and then I’ll get into trouble with the police.”

“This will be strictly confidential,” promised Penny.

“It’s this way,” Mr. Saal justified himself. “I never do any work for crooks—not me. But if a law-abiding, respectable citizen comes here and says he’s sick of his tattoo, then sometimes I take it off for him if he’s willing to pay the price. Fact is, I’m workin’ on a mighty interesting case right now. It’s a design that’s rare—an octopus.”

Penny did not trust herself to speak for a moment. Carefully she controlled her voice as she said casually:

“How interesting, Mr. Saal, An octopus tattoo! Was the man a sailor?”

“He was an old salt all right, though he denied it.”

“What is his name?”

“I couldn’t tell you that,” answered Mr. Saal. “I have to protect my customers.”

“Tell me more about the tattoo,” urged Penny.

“It’s just a figure about so large—” Mr. Saal demonstrated with his hands, “on the man’s back. Funny place for a tattoo, ain’t it?”

“I should say so,” agreed Penny. “Is it merely a figure of an octopus? No words or anything like that?”

“There are two words. I took ’em off last week.”

“Two?” inquired Penny. “What are they, Mr. Saal?”

“They don’t make sense. The words are For One.”

“I once saw an octopus tattoo such as you describe,” declared Penny. “But I distinctly recall that the design used only a single word. It was One.”

“Is that so?” inquired Mr. Saal. “Maybe the tattoo isn’t as uncommon as I thought. But I never saw one like it before.”

“I wonder what can be the significance of the words?”

“I was asking my customer about it. He pretended he didn’t know, but I figure maybe he and some buddies had a sentence tattooed on ’em.”

“You mean that if one were able to read several tattoos together, the words would make sense?”

“That’s right,” nodded Mr. Saal. “I don’t know about this octopus tattoo, but I figure it may have been that way.”

“Did your customer have any other tattoos on his body?” Penny questioned. “An anchor, for instance?”

“Didn’t notice ’em if he did.”

“I suppose it takes a long while to remove a tattoo. Does your customer come often?”

“Every Tuesday and Thursday night. He complains because I don’t do the work faster, but I tell him if he wants a good job it has to be done carefully.”

Before Penny could ask another question, two young sailors swaggered into the shop. Ellis Saal, scenting business, immediately arose.

“Be careful what you write up,” he warned as he left her. “There’s been a lot of articles on tattooin’, but not a one that’s right. It just ain’t possible for a reporter to write a true story unless it’s about a murder or a fire!”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Penny.

Leaving the shop, she walked slowly to her parked car. The information obtained from the tattoo artist both excited and mystified her.

“I don’t believe Mr. Saal could have been mistaken about the words which were incorporated in the design,” she thought. “And I’m equally certain I wasn’t mistaken about Anchor Joe’s tattoo. It had only the single word, ‘One.’”

Mr. Saal’s declaration that his customer was not the possessor of a tattooed anchor caused Penny to wonder if the person could be Joe Landa. However, the man was wanted by government agents and it seemed reasonable to believe that he might seek to remove tell-tale markings.

“I know what I’ll do,” she decided. “Thursday night I’ll watch Mr. Saal’s shop. In that way I may be able to learn the identity of his mysterious customer!”