CHAPTER VIININA CORDOVA
Yes, he must prevent this marriage, he must block Loveman, he must find out Loveman’s plan, and he must do all quickly—but how? To warn the Mortons would achieve some of these ends; but he had a strong repugnance to this procedure. He would only play this as his last card.
Clifford thought of Slant-Face; but he realized that Slant-Face would probably have no influence with his sister, and possibly the ex-pickpocket might even regard the affair from Mary’s viewpoint. Also he thought of her Uncle Joe; but the same objection held true regarding him, and also the width of the continent made him unavailable. As for Commissioner Thorne, he could not be of service in the present stage of affairs. And then Clifford thought of Uncle George. Uncle George might possibly give suggestions, for Uncle George knew as much about the pleasure life (and what lay beneath it) of Broadway and of Broadway’s closest territorial relative, Fifth Avenue between the Waldorf and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, as any other hundred men in New York put together.
An hour after leaving Mary, Clifford sat in the Grand Alcazar restaurant, looking into the bland,genial, cunning, loose-skinned old face. He had just finished telling Uncle George of his discovery of the whereabouts of Mary Regan and the other events of the day.
The old man regarded Clifford with meditative, puckered gaze—a gaze of somewhat peculiar effect, begotten by his lack of eyebrows and eyelashes. “Son,” he began slowly, “the thing that stands out in this chunk ofvers libreyou’ve been handing me, is the fact that you’re so stuck on that little dame Mary Regan—”
“Let’s leave me, and what I may think of her, out of it,” put in Clifford.
“Don’t interrupt, son. You ask me a thing and you’ve got to let me spiel along in my own way”—which, indeed, was one of the difficulties not to be avoided in consulting Uncle George. “Now, you listen to me, son, and you’ll hear something out of the original book out of which old Solomon and those other wise guys that have been playing big time steady for three or four thousand years swiped all their good gags. Son, you’re too damned monogamous! You’re insulting God: what the hell d’you suppose he made so many pretty girls for?—and let the others get wise on how to make themselves pretty? Now, I like Mary Regan as well as any male person can who’s not her relative and who’s not trying to be—but if she tried any of that beautiful female cussedness on me, I’d throw her one smiling kiss, mail her a picture post-card of the jumping-offplace, and proceed to admire some of the other works of God.”
Uncle George nodded, and started to sip his white wine thinned with sparkling water.
“Thanks, Uncle George. But let’s get back—”
“Hold on, son. That was just my first sentence. Supposing Mary Regan is trying to put something across by holding back a little of the truth—sort of saving it up for a rainy day. Well, what of that? Ain’t we all liars? You take it from your Uncle George, a superannuated old burglar, president emeritus of that grand oldalma mater, the University of Broadway, who’s played every kind of game with every kind of male and female now decorating this earth—take it from me, son, I’ve never seen the strait and narrow road of truth congested with the traffic. That’s one road you can speed on, and not even see a cop. So, son, if Mary Regan has been like the rest of us, don’t hold it especially against her. And her marrying Jack Morton by holding back a bit of the evidence, it’s not going to hurt him such a lot.”
“I’m thinking of what it may do to her.”
“Why, now, son, a marriage now and then seems to improve a lot of women. And the only time a few marriages seem to be a handicap to some women is when they undertake to sign their names in full.”
“You’re in very good voice this evening, Uncle George. But, if you don’t mind, let’s talk about how to stop that marriage, and how to find out Loveman’s game.”
“All right—all right. Now, let’s see. You know Nina Cordova, star of that new musical show that’s a sure-fire frost—what is it?”
“‘Orange Blossoms.’ Yes, I know of her.”
“Then you’ll remember that in young Morton’s previous Broadway incarnation he had an affair with her—which little Nina broke off sharp and sudden when she got the chance a year ago at the star’s part in ‘The Bridal Wreath’? She’s a live proposition: why not inject her into the affair?”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Clifford.
“H’m. Well, then,” Uncle George meditated, “you remember how Jack Morton, when he was along here before, used to like his little quart or two or three of champagne?—and how he behaved when he was all lit up? Why not kidnap him from Bradley, give him a chance to be his real self again, and then ship him to Mary? This different Jack Morton might make her stop and think. Or send him along to his old man—and when his old man saw how the kid had broken training he might do what he’s threatened, stop Jack’s dough; and this might be enough of a jolt to make Mary call the thing off.”
“I’ve thought of those things, too.”
“You seem to have thought of everything,” half grumbled Uncle George. “Well, what’s the matter with these ways?”
“For one thing, it would take time to put them across. I’ve got to act quickly, for there’s no tellingwhat she’ll do. Besides, before I take any action, I’d like to learn how she got into this matter; I’d like to learn just what Loveman’s and Bradley’s part in the game has been, just what they plan to make of it in the future.”
“I get you,” nodded Uncle George. “So that you can plan your action accordingly. But that’s some job, son,—getting in on the inside of the game of such a pair as Bradley and Loveman.”
“I know it. It can only be done indirectly.” Clifford regarded Uncle George thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly asked: “Do you know Jack Morton’s father?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Know him well enough to get into a friendly talk with him?”
“Son,” demanded Uncle George in an aggrieved tone, “you mean to insult me by asking if I need even to have seen a man before to be his best friend inside of thirty minutes—me that could go out now and sell old Andy Carnegie’s pig-iron billets back to him as gold-bricks!” Uncle George looked at his watch. “Father Morton is staying at the Biltmore. It’s now six-twenty. I’ve noticed that he leads himself into the smoking-room at six-thirty for a cocktail. I feel a craving for a Biltmore cocktail. Son, just where is that building lot in North River located that you want me to sell him?”
“Could you steer the talk around to his son—make him doubt Bradley a bit—say somethinggood about me—and implant in him the idea that he ought to consult me?”
“Could I? Why don’t you write me an act that’d bring out my talents? It’s already done—what you going to do next?”
“That depends on whether Mr. Morton comes to see me, and whether I get anything out of him.”
Uncle George heaved himself to his feet. “Come on, son, see me safe aboard a taxi.” Outside, in the cab, he reached forth and laid a hand on Clifford’s shoulder. “Remember, son, there’s just as good mermaids in the sea as have ever been caught.”
“Bon voyage,” said Clifford as the car started.
The old man, winking a genial, satyr-like wink, blew Clifford a kiss through the open window.
At half-past ten that night Clifford sat at a little table in the Gold Room at the Grantham. There had come a message from Uncle George that he should be in this room at this hour. Beyond this the message had said nothing.
Clifford had wandered through the score of big public rooms that comprised the first two floors of the Grantham—the lounges, the parlors, the half-dozen restaurants—with the feverish hope that he might glimpse Mary Regan (so little effect had Uncle George’s wisdom had upon him!), but with no idea of what he should do or say should he see her. He had had an impulse to call again at her suite, but had restrained himself from that folly. He now glanced through the slowly filling GoldRoom, but he did not sight her. He wondered just where she was—what she was thinking of—what she was planning. Should he, if all other methods failed, block her worldly plans and the as yet unpenetrated scheme of Loveman and Bradley by telling the Mortons who she was? He felt himself a cad whenever he thought of it; but, yes, if he had to, he would do it!...
A hand fell upon his shoulder. “Wake up there, you old crystal-gazer!” called a cheerful voice.
Clifford looked up. Smiling down on him was a cherubic face: a somewhat elderly cherub, to be sure, since where usually there is the adornment of divine curls there was the glaze of baldness.
“Sit down, Loveman, and join me in a drink.”
“I’m afraid of you, my boy,” answered the famous little lawyer. “You might put poison in my cup.”
“Why?”
“Because I lied to you—you see, I’m not waiting to be accused,” the other smiled affably. “I told you I didn’t know where Mary Regan was, and after that you followed me and I led you right to her. She telephoned me about your finding her. You sure caught me dead to rights.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do anything with you, Loveman,—though that was the second fib you told me about her.”
“Both gentleman’s lies—told for a lady’s sake,” amiably explained Loveman. “She didn’t want herwhereabouts known. But now that you’ve found her, what’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know that I can do anything.” And then Clifford chanced a shot. “You see, I learned that she is secretly engaged to Jack Morton.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed the little man. “That is astounding! Well, well—I’ll have a look into that and see what’s to be done.”
He rubbed his shining crown in bewildered thoughtfulness,—Clifford had to admire his art as an actor,—then again was smiling.
“Wish you’d join me after a while at supper, Clifford. Little party I’m giving Nina Cordova—got to cheer her up a bit, you understand. You know ‘Orange Blossoms’ is one God-awful flivver, and Nina, poor orphan-child, don’t know what to do. Gee, but it’s a rotten show, and what it didn’t do to kill itself Nina did for it: she sure is one musical-comedy prima donna that ought to be seen and not heard! And even at that, seen too oft, familiar with her face—oh, go ask the box-office man to finish the quotation. So I’m giving her this little party to boost her spirits—though why shouldn’t somebody be giving me a party to cheer me up for the twenty thousand United States of America dollars that dropped through the bottom of that show?” He gave a moan of mock self-sympathy. “Well, you’ll join us when the crowd blows in?”
“Thanks, but I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Break away if you can; be glad to have you.”
Clifford watched the strange little notable, behind whose light chatter he knew to be the cleverest legal brain of its sort in New York, cross to a small corner table, which was reserved for him every night and was known to the waiters here as “Mr. Loveman’s table.” He saw Loveman converse in turn with various people, and in a general way he understood; for at this table, during the play hours of the night, Loveman transacted many of the affairs too delicate to be brought to his office or his apartment. And he saw Loveman, while he chatted, gaze about upon those gathering for supper and dancing. There were people here whose family names were daily in the society and Wall Street columns—most of them here with no intent more reprehensible than the restless search for pleasure, which in this our present day has become public pleasure. Loveman smiled on them most kindly: as why shouldn’t he, thought Clifford, since many of them were working for him, though they guessed it not?
Loveman’s party now arrived and were seating themselves at a large table directly beside the dancing-floor. There were Jack Morton, his father, Nina Cordova, two other actresses, and half a dozen men and women of the smart young society set. Loveman was at his best, keeping his party in highest spirits: no man in New York was his superior as midnight host.
As Clifford watched the gay supper progress, he wondered what other of these guests the gay Lovemanmight be deftly drawing into some distant entanglement.
Presently some one took the chair opposite Clifford. It was Uncle George; and Uncle George gave him a slight wink of a lashless eye.
“While we’re on the subject, son,” the old man began, “I might remark that I put a bee in little Nina’s bonnet.”
“Just what have you got me here for?” demanded Clifford.
“It’s always worth while, son, to watch Loveman improve each midnight hour. See how he smiles and talks—and yet, God, how he’s working! But you’re here, son, because of Father Morton; and also, perhaps, to see if Nina’s bee buzzes. How about splitting fifty-fifty on a ham sandwich?”
As the two ate the best supper Uncle George could order, Clifford kept his eyes on Loveman’s party. They were now leaving the table in couples to dance. Nina Cordova, a slender blonde with a soft, appealing face and quick, bright eye, was with Jack Morton; dancing was something they both did well; and it was easy to see that the slender prima donna had more than a dancing interest in her partner. Then Loveman danced with her; and in the middle of the dance they halted beside Clifford’s table.
“Finish this with me, Uncle George,” coaxed the little star.
“My dear child,” returned the old man, “ifyou’d spoken to me a little earlier, say bout 1871, I’d have danced with you till that orchestra dropped dead. But now, why, I’d just fall apart on the floor. Ask Clifford there.”
She smiled at Clifford and the next moment he was fox-trotting with her. She was certainly a marvel of a dancer; also, beneath heringénuesurface, she had a keen brain of her own sort; and in her light chatter as they swung about he sensed that she was trying to search his mind—and he sensed also that she was doing this at the instigation of Loveman. But he parried so well that he believed she did not even know he was fencing.
“Clever girl, Uncle George,” he said when he was back at his table.
“Son, you said something then,” affirmed the old man. “Unless my hunch works wrong you’ll some day find her mixed up in this affair; and when you do meet up with her, son, you’d better forget that, according to the date written down in her press-agent’s Bible, that dear little child is only twenty-one.”
Clifford looked over at her thoughtfully. She danced half a dozen dances with Jack Morton; and Clifford, watching everything, guessed that the elder Morton was none too pleased. And then she danced again with Loveman; and he saw that she was talking imperiously to the little lawyer; and if only he could have overheard he might have given more weight to Uncle George’s prediction that NinaCordova was to play some considerable part before the final curtain fell.
“Peter,” she was saying, “since ‘Orange Blossoms’ is such a fizzle, I’m going to quit the show business, and marry some nice young man.”
“But, my child, your art!” protested Loveman.
“My art be damned!” replied the pretty one. “And, Peter, I’ve decided that the nice young man will be Jack Morton.”
Loveman gave her a sharp look. But if he felt any alarm, his voice gave no evidence of it.
“Better think again, dearie. He’ll not have forgotten the way you threw him down.”
“Give me a week and I’ll make him forget it,” she returned confidently.
“If you are set on getting married, Nina dear, I’ll help you find another candidate,” said Loveman in his soft, advisory tone. “This town’s full of rich young fellows. Just look ’em over, make your choice, and I’ll help you out with the rest.”
“I don’t want any other!”
“I don’t think Jack Morton will do, my dear.”
“Why not?”
“I think, dearie, that there are other arrangements—”
“You mean that you have other arrangements!” she said sharply.
“There now, dearie, don’t get excited. This town’s full of nice men—”
“You can’t bluff me, Peter! I see through you—youdon’t want me to marry Jack.” The littleingénuewas suddenly a little fury—but a composed fury. “Peter, I know a lot,” she said quietly, “and unless you behave about the way I want you to, I may do something that won’t make you awfully happy.”
There was no mistaking the threat in that voice, and that threat was not to be underrated. Loveman had no intention of yielding; the situation required careful handling and perhaps quick action elsewhere; in the meantime the thing to do was to temporize.
“All right, dearie,—we’ll fix it up,” he said soothingly. “There’s Jack Morton waiting for us; I’ll turn you right over to him.”
As Clifford saw Nina and young Morton begin a fox-trot, a passing waiter handed Clifford a card. On it was engraved, “Mr. James Morton,” and around the name was scribbled, “Wait for me in the lounge just off the bar.”
Clifford descended to the Grantham’s lounge, which was fitted in the manner of the smartest and most exclusive of men’s clubs. Five minutes later Mr. Morton entered and came straight to him. Clifford had already made his private estimate of this man with the graying hair and distinguished face: a man whose habit it was to buy men,—and women, too,—use them, and when finished with them, throw them aside without a thought and go on his way.
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Clifford,” he began, when they were seated in deep chairs beside a little table. “They say you are a detective who’s absolutely on the square.”
“Thank you,” said Clifford.
“I didn’t call you down to pay you compliments,” the other said incisively, eyeing him keenly, “so I’ll go right to the point. You know my son?”
“Yes.”
“It’s about Jack I want to see you.” Mr. Morton spoke in the compact sentences of a master of affairs. “I guess you know he’s been some trouble. I’m certain something’s in the air now. I don’t know whether it’s that Miss Cordova or something else. I can’t get anything out of Jack. I’ve been having him looked over by a private detective; you know him—Bradley; but Bradley doesn’t seem to be able to learn anything either. I’m not one hundred per cent trustful of Bradley: set a detective to catch a detective—that might prove a good idea. Will you undertake the job?—finding out about Bradley, and finding out about my son?”
“I can’t say until I know the situation.” Here was opening before him the chance he had been working for, but Clifford managed to speak composedly. “If you don’t mind telling me, just how do things stand?”
“If you know Jack, you know what his idea of living in New York was a year or six months ago. I couldn’t leave my affairs and come here to lookafter him. I ordered my lawyer, Mr. Loveman, to take whatever steps were necessary. It was absolutely essential that Jack should take a brace—”
“Pardon me. Aside from the moral reasons, were there any other reasons for your wanting Jack to change his habits?”
“There was, and still is, an engagement with a young woman back in Chicago. Not exactly an engagement, rather an understanding between the families. The match could not be more desirable; the young lady has everything.”
“Pardon me—do I know the young lady you refer to?”
“You may have heard of her. Her father is Sherwood Jones. She is Miss Maisie Jones.”
“I have seen her picture in the illustrated Sunday supplements—among prominent young society girls.”
“Then you can partially understand why I consider the match so desirable. But the family at that time objected, and still objects—until Jack proves that he has settled down. Three months ago I came East and delivered an ultimatum.”
“In the presence of Jack alone?” Clifford put in gently.
“No. Mr. Loveman had been doing his best to control the boy. Naturally he was present.”
“And the ultimatum?”
“I said that he either had to take a brace or I was through with him.”
“Let’s see whether I get the general idea.” Clifford was moving forward carefully. “If Jack didn’t brace up, he’d have to earn his own money. On the other hand, if he did brace up, the idea was that he was to quit New York and marry the young lady you have referred to.”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Did you suggest any particular plan for his bracing up?”
“I said he had to spend a period at some quiet place far away from New York.”
“And what did Mr. Loveman think of this idea?”
“He thought it was just the plan. In fact he said he knew the very place for Jack to go to—Pine Mountain Lodge.”
“Then he suggested Pine Mountain Lodge?”
“Yes.”
Clifford was silent a moment.
“You have told Mr. Loveman and Mr. Bradley of your intention to consult me?”
“No.”
“I suggest that you do not. Is there any other information you can give me?”
“Nothing else that’s definite. But I suspect a lot, and I want to find out what’s doing. Will you take the case?”
Clifford spoke guardedly, masking his dislike for the ruthless man before him. “I prefer not to consider myself retained by you until I am certain I canserve you. I’ll have to think the situation over, and let you know later.”
It was little that Mr. Morton had told Clifford, yet, after Morton had left him, that little set Clifford’s mind going like a racer. He sat thinking—thinking; and after a time he began to perceive dim outlines of what Loveman’s plan might be. And as with growing excitement he began to see, he began also to consider what his own course should be....
He looked at his watch. It was half-past three. He started back for the Gold Room, but on the way up he saw Loveman and his party leaving. He quickly secured his coat and hat and followed them out just in time to see Loveman go off in a taxi with Nina Cordova. He was after them in another taxi, a discreet block behind. Five minutes later Loveman set Miss Cordova down at her hotel, and went on to his own home.
Clifford dismissed his taxi, waited ten minutes, then crossed and entered Loveman’s apartment house.