CHAPTER XXVIIITHE HOUSE OF MONSIEUR LE BAIN
Monsieur Le Bain, from catering to the reckless rich and to spendthrifts who had large sums that abode with them for a flitting month or so, and to monied persons about whose characters and designs he preferred to remain safely ignorant—Monsieur Le Bain had discovered that such as these, on occasion, desired a greater privacy than his Grand Alcazar or his Le Minuit or any other restaurant afforded them—a sumptuous exclusiveness in which, without danger of being seen by uninvited eyes or their merry-making marred or restrained by the propinquity of strangers, a party might dine or supen famille. Quick to see and seize opportunities, Le Bain had devised the material equipment to please such patronage. In addition to the Grand Alcazar and Le Minuit, which he advertised and to which he welcomed all, he had set up another establishment which he did not advertise, and of which few even knew, and to which even fewer ever gained admission.
This was an old brownstone house in the upper Forties between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, outwardly most discreet and decorous—and, moreover, inwardly so most of the time. The house was furnishedas a private residence, and richly furnished, too, albeit somewhat garishly since Le Bain’s latter-day æsthetics had been founded upon the gilt and rococo of Broadway restaurants. There was a large drawing-room whose windows were so deftly curtained that no inner light ever filtered into the street; behind that a large dining-room, in which one might be as merry as one liked without passers-by being halted by laugh or song—or by any possible sound of a less happy character that might originate therein. And in the basement there was a perfect kitchen, which, on those occasions when the house was briefly inhabited, Le Bain peopled with his most efficient and reticent retainers—it being understood that after the dinner or supper had been served, and if the host so directed, these cooks and waiters and ladies’ maids should vanish. And that the party might not suffer from such withdrawal, there was installed in the butler’s pantry an ingenious refrigerator in which foods were kept cold and wines properly iced—and from which host and guests might serve themselves.
Such was Le Bain’s other establishment. For the time paid for it was actually the lessee’s “home”—as much immune from police interference as any other man’s castle. This Le Bain would sublet possibly two or three times a week, possibly once a month, to some one he knew or some one with trustworthy introduction—always at a price commensurate with the extraordinary privacy he supplied.And he never asked questions; particularly did Le Bain prefer to know only the name of the renting host—never of the guests. Then, if anything ever happened there which got to the police,—and it might,—Le Bain would be able to say to interrogating officers that he maintained this place for patrons who wished to give “home dinner parties”—surely a legitimate business enterprise!—and he knew nothing at all about who was there and what they did.
When Peter Loveman, at two o’clock in the morning, quickly closed the outside door, slipped along the hallway, and then drew aside the hangings and peered reconnoiteringly into the great dining-room (finished as to walls and ceiling in paneled Flemish oak, lighted by a sunlike chandelier with multitudinous pendants), he saw just what he had expected to see, just what he had so skillfully planned and so adroitly manipulated. About a small, intimate table, food-strewn and wine-stained,—a table almost lost in this great room which could have seated a party of fifty,—sat Nina Cordova, Nan Burdette, Hilton, Jack Morton, and a slight, evilly handsome third man. His people had done their work well, exactly as per instructions, Loveman noted: the servants had obviously been sent away, and Jack was in the desired state of reckless and pliable hilarity. Loveman continued to look in for a moment, hesitating. He would have vastly preferred not to be here—there was too much dangerfor him. But his clever scheming, whose original outline the interference of Clifford and the uncalculated elements of human nature in Mary Regan had thrown repeatedly into disarray, was now nearing the culmination of what was its latest re-adjustment.
Loveman had held back his many-elemented new plan—two big plans they were, in fact—because each was dependent in a degree upon the other. He had not dared act too quickly in the matter of Mary, for such a course might, by some twist of circumstances or human nature, affect Jack, and therefore upset what he had contemplated concerning Jack. To succeed in either he had to succeed in both; and to succeed in both he had to synchronize them. Whether he had done this, the hour or so ahead was to prove.
Loveman frankly admitted to himself that his affairs and his own personal safety were in a critical condition—critical to a degree never before reached in his career. As he now had matters planned, he stood to win everything—or almost everything; and also he stood to lose everything—or almost everything. In such a crisis, where all was at stake, he had to be on hand—despite any added risks—to watch over, and if necessary direct, the final moves of this his ultimate plan.
Loveman stepped into the great dining-room, and stepped also into a scene that was typical of how the forces which are behind Big Pleasure, which area part of it, handle those who weakly or unwarily let themselves be carried too far by its alluring and mighty current.
“Good-evening, everybody,” he called cheerily. “Hello, Jack. This is certainly one quiet little birthday party you’re giving.” Loveman had himself instigated it, though these five at the table had brought it to pass. “Kind of you to invite me, Jack.”
“Got to have ole Peter—else no birthday party,” cried Jack, swaying up and taking Loveman’s hand, holding on to one of Nina’s with his left. “Had three birthday parties this week; goin’ have seven next week. Peter, y’re invited to ’em all! You there, Slim,”—this to the slight, handsome young man,—“get fresh bottle Pommery, open for ole Peter Loveman.”
Without taking his eyes off Jack, Loveman let them also include Nina Cordova. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Thanks, Jack,” said Loveman; and then in an amiably chiding tone: “But I must say I’m surprised. I thought you had settled down to be a steady business man.”
“Damn business!”
“But your wife, Jack? I thought you were trying to attend to business for her sake.”
Jack showed a flash of petulant ill-temper. “Tha’s wha’ make me sore at her! Always drivin’ me to work. Always work—always business!Man’s got ri’ to li’l’ relaxation, ain’t he?” His good-nature was back again. “Tell you wha’, man’s got ri’ to do as he likes. Tell you wha’, nothin’ like bein’ free!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” put in Nina with a challenging shrug of her dainty bare shoulders, and a disbelieving smile. “That’s what you say—but you wouldn’t really dare do it and be it. You see, Peter,” with her pleasing drawl,—she was a better actress off the stage than on it,—“this bold young gentleman, who believes so strongly in his right to do as he pleases, has just been trying to tell me how much he loves me. He’s a nice little boy, Jack,—but I don’t believe him.”
“But, Nina, li’l’ girl, I do love you!” protested Jack. “Here’s Slim with tha’ champagne. Slim, fill all glasses. Everybody ready? All ri’—here’s Nina, only girl I love, only girl I ever goin’ love!”
Jack drained his glass. The others merely sipped theirs.
“But drinking a glass of wine doesn’t prove anything,” said Nina, with her pleasantly provoking drawl. “You say you’re free, and you say you love me—but you’re afraid really to prove it.”
“Not afraid!” Jack declared stoutly. “Prove it any way you say!”
She gazed at him in amused skepticism—yet a most alluring smile on her young face. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t, Jack. There’s only one way to prove your independence and your love. You know whatthat is—to drop everything else, and go away with me.”
“I’ll do it to-night!” he cried. “Say, listen, Nina,—know a li’l’ place up in Adirondacks—nice, quiet li’l’ place—”
“No, thanks,” she interrupted. “If you took me off into hiding, that wouldn’t prove anything. Besides, I want to be where there’s something doing, and where there’s people—you understand,classypeople.”
“Tha’s all ri’! Make it Newport, Bar Harbor, any ole swell resort you like. I’m no quitter!”
“I believe you really are in earnest,” mused Nina, her large eyes upon him.
“Sure, I’m earnest! Make it Narragansett Pier—any ole place you like!”
She shook her head, and sighed. “You’re awfully good, Jack, but it can’t be done. I’ve no clothes—and those places take clothes—and clothes, the right sort of clothes, they take money—and I have no money.”
“Wha’s money!” Jack laughed. “Tha’s nothing! I got money. I give you a check.”
“Really?”—the large, almost childish eyes still upon him. “Yes, you really are in earnest. But one check wouldn’t buy all I need.”
“You li’l’ fool—pre’ li’l’ fool,” he cried, patting her cheek, and laughing again. “I can make it one big check.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anythingabout checks and banks, but I know it would take three.”
“All ri’,” he said good-humoredly, tickled by her ignorance. He drew out his pocket check-book. “How much?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Couldn’t you just sign your name, and let me fill those spaces when I buy the things?”
“Sure. Peter, you always carry ole fountain pen. Lemme have ole fountain pen jus’ one minute.”
The pen was handed over. Jack signed three checks and passed them to Nina. She murmured warm thanks, and then looked from them to him, apologetic doubt in her eyes.
“A woman’s clothes cost an awful lot, Jack,—more than you guess. Would it be all right if I had to fill these in for perhaps as much as five hundred dollars apiece?”
Again Jack laughed. “Sure—you pre’ li’l’ fool!”
“You can laugh, but I want to be certain,” she protested. “I don’t want to get in trouble by having people come after me for having passed checks that had no money behind them.”
Again Jack laughed. “’S all ri’, Nina. Listen.” He leaned toward her confidentially. “Other day, you know, I’m twenty-five; came into nice li’l’ ole pile money. Soak it away in bank. Since then I buy tha’ nice li’l’ ole car—the car I drive you up here in, Nina—some li’l’ ole car when I turn her loose—nothin’ever passes her—an’ I draw out li’l’ spendin’ money. Tha’s all.” He snickered once more. “Five hundred—is my check good for tha’—oh, say! Listen, Nina. It’s all down on stubs of my check-book—wha’ I deposit—wha’ I draw out. Look for yourself—tha’ll show you!”
He handed her the check-book. She examined the stubs, then gazed at him in stupefaction.
“Why!” she said breathlessly,—“why—over one hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars!”
“Sure!” He grinned delightedly. “Am I good for five hundred—eh, Nina?”
“I beg your pardon, Jack. Why—I never dreamed— Then, of course, it will be all right if I make them as much as five hundred each.”
Her face broke into a sudden, naïve smile. “And I tell you what, Jack,—I’ll make them payable to ‘Cash,’ then I won’t have to endorse them nor will anybody else—and if anybody wants to start a scandal, why, nobody that sees them will ever suspect, and certainly not be able to prove, that I got money from you. It’ll protect both of us.”
Nina seemed to have another inspiration—a very business-like one. “And what’s more, I’ll just fill these in now and have it all done with. Peter, let me have your fountain pen. Thanks. And, Jack, while I’m writing, you might pour me a fresh glass, and yourself one, and one for the others—that’s a dear boy. Remember you’re the host.”
While Jack was unsteadily doing a host’s duty,decanting almost as much of the amber fluid upon the cloth as into the glasses, Nina filled out the checks; and as she wrote she three times repeated aloud: “Payable to—Cash—Five—Hundred—Dollars.”
She returned Loveman’s pen, waved the checks daintily until the ink had dried, then slipped them within her sex’s invariable postal box. Loveman glanced at his watch and rose briskly.
“Excuse me a minute or so,” he said. “I promised to call up a party at two o’clock, and it’s almost half after.”
He disappeared through the heavily curtained doorway through which he had entered. The next moment he reappeared.
“Nina, just as I started to use the ’phone, there came a call for you. A woman, but she refused to give her name.”
When Nina had stepped into the hall and the heavy curtains had swung behind her, Loveman silently held out his right hand. Also in silence Nina reached within the bosom of her gown, drew out the checks and handed them to him. He unfolded them, scrutinized them sharply, refolded them, and slipped them into an inner pocket.
“Nina, you certainly did it great,” he said in a whisper. “If you were as good on the stage as you are in a play like this, Dave Belasco would be paying you a thousand a week. Great stuff, Nina!”
And then rapidly: “Go on back in. Rememberyou’ve got to keep him going for two days. He mustn’t suspect a thing, and we’ve got to keep him out of the way until these checks go through.”
“I understand,” and silently that excellent off-stage actress reëntered the drawing-room.
Beneath the stairway of Le Bain’s house of a hundred precautions was an item which on occasions helped measurably toward the ultra-private pleasures of his guests—a telephone installed in a closet. Loveman stepped through the door of this, closed it, and after a wait was speaking to Mary Regan at the Mordona—speaking in a well-mimicked voice:—
“Hello.... This is Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly, of the Tenderloin Squad,—you know, friend of Mr. Clifford. Mr. Clifford has just found Mr. Morton—Jack Morton, I mean. Jack is sick of what he’s been doing the last few days—half crazy with remorse, you understand. Mr. Clifford can’t leave Jack, and he asked me to telephone you to come for him. We’re all at”—here Loveman gave the address—“it’s one of those old private houses made into an exclusive restaurant. Just ring and I’ll let you in.... All right, then, we’ll expect you in half an hour.”
He called a second number, which he got instantly, and he spoke in his natural voice, though his words to any other ears save those at the end of the wire, might have been enigmatic:—
“I wish to report a full crop,” he said. “Immediate delivery is requested.”
With that he hung up and stepped out of the closet, wiping away the moisture begotten by the stifling air of the cubicle. The full-bodied little man, that Fifth Avenue and Broadway knew best as an amiable, unflurried smile, was now set and grim of face, excited with suspense and calculations. All had thus far gone well with his plan. Immediately before him was the next vital development, swiftly approaching its culmination. If all went there, too, as planned—why, he would be safe—no man could touch him—and once emerged from the desperate methods into which his present danger had forced him, he would be more careful in the future.
Resuming his amiable smile, Peter Loveman rejoined his companions in the dining-room.