CHAPTER XXXIIPLEASURE PRESENTS ITS BILL
Overthe black, oiled boulevard that reaches, with many tributaries and parallels, from Manhattan’s Fifty-ninth Street Bridge to the twin points of Long Island, Jack Morton’s new racing roadster was speeding eastward through the heavy three-o’clock night—Jack at the wheel, Nina Cordova beside him, and Loveman and Hilton in the seat behind. The little lawyer had thought rapidly; and now, sunk low in the soft leather, he was counting his chances which had suddenly grown desperate, but which he still saw as large, if only there were no more slips and he got his share of luck. And as the car whirred on, devouring the silent, deserted miles, on and on went his brain, calculating his chances, shaping the details of his new course—that brain whose supreme and sole function was to plan—in which function all other qualities and potentialities of the man had become centered and concentrated, and for which they and the body itself had come solely to exist—that brain which would never cease its tireless, brilliant planning until death should still its mechanism.
He had revised his plans the instant Clifford had entered the dining-room—had seen instantly whatwas his best and only way. Getting Jack where he now sat had been simple. “Come on, Jack,—the police will get you for this, too!” he had cried. And Jack, befuddled with drink, and feeling that his lot now lay with these friends, had obeyed instantly and without question. Into Jack’s waiting car Loveman had sharply ordered those essential to his revised plan.
“You know the Long Island roads?—the way to Greenport?” he had asked Jack after they were in their seats.
“Sure.”
“Then make Greenport as quick as you can. Remember that motor yacht Bradley spoke of?” He spoke with a cunning tone of excitedly pleasant anticipation. “We’re going to be a bunch of pirates,—going to capture the old tub—and you and Nina and Hilton and I are going to have a nice little cruise and wine party all to ourselves. How’s that?”
“Gre’ stuff!” had been Jack’s enthusiastic comment.
The wheel of his new speedster in his hands, there automatically came on Jack an exhilarating sense that here was another lark. It was just like so many other parties of months and years before that had started out hilariously from Broadway for a meteor-like rush through the dark to distant road-houses—just one more party, but with a thrill and excitement that topped all others.
Even when drunk—that is, short of insensibility—Jack was a good driver. His hands seemed to have a peculiar brain of their own—albeit a reckless brain. Ten minutes after leaving Le Bain’s house they were across the bridge, and five minutes later they were in the stretches of the boulevard; and Jack, pointing with his toe to a lighted dial, was chuckling to Nina:—
“Nice li’l’ piece junk—eh, Nina? Doin’ her li’l’ ole sixty an hour, an’ ain’t half tryin’.”
“But slow down at the turns, Jack. Please be careful!”
“’M always careful. Never had an accident.” He laughed mischievously. “Goin’ to show you nice li’l’ breeze when we get out li’l’ farther—goin’ touch her up to ninety.”
In the meanwhile, behind them, little Loveman was planning, planning—and acting. He drew out a thin morocco wallet, from it took a stamped envelope, and on this with a pencil he scrawled an address—the address of a New York bank where he had a personal account which was so private that there was not a scrap among his papers to indicate that such an account existed. Into this envelope he slipped the three checks Nina had given him, sealed it, placed it between the two halves of his wallet and replaced the wallet in his coat. That letter he would drop into a mail-box in Greenport.
Once on board the yacht they would make for the ocean—he knew the vessel to be large and stanchenough to withstand any storm likely to arise in summer seas—and he knew the government patrol boats guarding the coast were not interfering with the course of American pleasure craft. For two days—longer if it suited the exigencies of his plan as it worked out, and perhaps to the end of the cruise—he would keep Jack at sea; then he would get rid of him at some convenient port. In the meantime Jack’s checks would have gone through Jack’s bank. No one suspected the truth about those checks—so he believed—and it would be a long time before the truth came out in the routine of business. Before that he would have managed to draw the funds out of this secret account—just how he did not yet see—but somehow he would manage it. And all the while they would be cruising southward along the coast, slipping into port when necessary to take on oil. And finally they would make Mexico, where Hilton would find sanctuary—and there or in some other Latin-American State he would start his career anew—his and Nina’s. And evading extradition—for what charge could be formed against him with sufficient evidence to cause a foreign State to give it serious heed?—they would become great people, people of brilliant position, he and Nina.
For all the time that he had seemingly been amused at her limitations and pretensions, and all the time that he had been quite willing to fit her into his dubious transactions, all this while Lovemanhad had one ruling thought concerning Nina—that in the end she should be his. There had been many women in Peter Loveman’s life, but Nina Cordova, all of whose flaws he knew and at whom he was ever laughing, Nina was the only woman he had ever loved.
Thus, as the car spun noiselessly through the heavy night, the shrewd, tireless brain schemed on and on—as that brain would scheme on and on, brilliantly, fascinated by its schemes and their working out, until death should bring its blankness....
In the meanwhile, some miles back, another car was spinning toward the east and toward the dawn. But before that car had been launched on its flight several things had happened back on Manhattan.
When Clifford came out of Le Bain’s house, thrusting the scruff-held Slim Harrison before him, and saw as he had expected that the red car belonging to Jack was gone, an officer in uniform halted before the high stoop. He was holding a woman by the arm, and the woman Clifford saw to be Nan Burdette.
“I saw her sneakin’ out the basement door a few minutes ago,” explained the officer, “and as she’s a well-known character, and as she was actin’ suspicious, I thought I’d better see what she’d been up to.”
“So they dropped you, Nan,” said Clifford. “I understand—you weren’t of use to them any longer. But what did you hang behind for?”
“None of your business,” said the woman.
“I guess I understand—if they were pinched you didn’t want to get pinched with them, so you waited to make your getaway.” Then, very sharply: “But what did they do with Mary Regan?”
“I don’t know,” she answered sullenly.
“Hold her, officer,” Clifford ordered. “Lieutenant Kelly may have a definite charge against her in the morning.”
Just then Jimmie Kelly and Uncle George emerged from a shadowy doorway beneath the stoop. There was some one between them, and at sight of this person Clifford stepped quickly toward the two.
“Mary!” he ejaculated. “Mary—where were you?”
“Mr. Loveman pushed me into the pantry and locked the door.”
“I see,” said Clifford rapidly. “Their plan against you would now not help them—you were now just excess baggage to them—and they merely wanted to get you out of the way for a while.”
There was no time then for fuller explanations. “We’re just starting after Loveman and Jack.”
Mr. Morton had moved toward them. “Mary,” he said, his voice steady only through great effort, “I’d like to have you go along to help bring Jack back—if Mr. Clifford doesn’t mind.”
She hesitated, then glanced questioningly at Clifford. Clifford nodded.
“All right,” she agreed.
“Here’s where I resign,” said Uncle George—“on the grounds that I’m too old, that I’m too fat, that I’m not needed, and that there’s no room for me. The best of luck to you!”
“Thanks, Uncle George!” And Clifford gripped his hand.
They hurried into the long, low, gray car—the car which was to have borne Mary upon that cunningly devised saturnalia. “Jimmie, if you don’t mind, sit in front with Slim Harrison,” said Clifford, and himself took the rear seat with Mr. Morton, Mary between them. He leaned forward and spoke with harsh dominance into Slim’s ear. “Slim, I know this is a great machine, and I know that when you want to be you’re a great driver—and understand this, your only chance of getting out of this affair halfway easy is for you to get us to Greenport not later than the car ahead. Now, turn her loose.”
Slim turned her loose. Once he was well across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, he lived up to all that the sporting pages had ever said in praise of his ability. The new car, clinging tight to the glass-smooth oiled macadam, flashed in a breath through villages—past dimly seen summer “cottages” of New York millionaires, grand ducal in their leisured magnificence—and on over the motor parkway through the humid, deserted night.
In the rear seat there was silence, except for the gale begotten by the machine’s great speed. Now and then, by the swift-passing lights of a village,Clifford saw the face of Mary Regan: it was pale and set, seemed without expression, and was fixed unchangingly ahead, not so much upon the brilliantly illumined road before them as upon the spaces of the night. He wondered what she was thinking of—she who had experienced so much these last few months, so many things that her calculations had not foreseen. But the swiftly gone glimpses of her white face gave him no clue....
And now and again Clifford saw the face of Mr. Morton beside her. Also the face of this masterful man of business, who ruled his thousands of men and dominated a score of companies, and yet had failed to direct his own son in the way he would have him go—also Mr. Morton’s face was drawn and pale, but it was fixed with straining impatience upon the roadway. Now and then Clifford saw him turn and gaze at Mary, whose forward-fixed look never shifted, and then turn back to the road, wetting his drawn, thinned lips....
All the while Clifford’s own mind was working. The professional part of Clifford felt the exultation of triumph already won—and the exultant excitement of the chase, which, if successful, would make triumph complete. He had already got Bradley; he felt certain that he soon was to get Loveman and the others. That much done, the dominating professional purpose would have been achieved. He would have won.... But there was the man element in Clifford, and it also was thinking as the car flewthrough the night. His success meant that Loveman, and Bradley, and Nina, and the others, who had subtly worked to undermine whatever of good there was in Jack, would be removed as factors in Jack’s life—and free of their influence and unopposedly under the influence of Mary, he and Mary might— Well, that was the way Life worked out. For long he had expected for himself nothing more....
On, on they sped, always silent, through the August night—the car relaxing its speed only when there were sharp curves, and then at once picking up its flashing pace. An hour slipped by—another hour. They were now come upon the upper of the two fingers into which the eastern third of Long Island separates—and the blackness of the night had changed into a thick, sluggish dawn, that murky dawn held back and muffled by the heavy fogs which lie upon the outer portions of the island on humid days of late summer and keep the horns and sirens of the shore at their discordant singing until noon.
Presently Clifford half rose in the machine and pointed forward. “There they are!” he exclaimed.
Before them in the murk was a swiftly moving something, now visible, now vanished in a thicker portion of the fog. The others saw, but said nothing.
Clifford leaned forward and spoke into Slim’s ear. “Just keep about this distance from them—they’ll have to stop in Greenport and we can get them before they can go aboard.”
Slim nodded. Keeping this quarter of a mile behind, they rushed on into the fog—flashed through Southold—over miles of marsh-bordered road—skirted for a space the single track of the Long Island Railway—skimmed more miles of marsh-bordered roadbed—swung about a curve—and then—
They clutched each other, their horrified eyes staring ahead. “My God!” gasped Clifford; and Mary gave a sharp cry—and a wrenching groan came from Mr. Morton. Instantly and instinctively Slim had shut off the gas and applied the brake—and slowly they rolled onward, staring wildly.
That thing which they had seen, happening all in an instant, was a commonplace of newspaper headlines. Long Island is a choice speeding-ground for that tribe known as “joy-riders.” “Look out for Crossings” reads a placard in every passenger-coach of the Long Island Railroad—and the same placard bears a picture of what may befall those who do not. Jack, who had taken ten thousand risks and never had an accident, had risked his fortune just once too often. Driving at reckless speed, his ears filled with the roar of the wind, he had only his eyes—and too late had his eyes seen that freight engine thrust itself out of the fog....
Clifford helped Mary out of their halted car, and silently they all began the work of examination—soon helped by the crew of the train. Jack’s new red car was a tangle of twisted steel.... First theyfound Nina and Hilton; both were conscious and crying out in their pain—each shrieked when touched. And then they found Peter Loveman: he was alive, but unconscious. Not far from him Mr. Morton picked up a morocco wallet, which he slipped into his pocket, Clifford not seeing this. And then Clifford and Mary found Jack: he also was alive and also unconscious. Strangely enough, his clothes were but little disordered, and there was not a visible scratch upon him. Lying with his pallid face toward the sky, the hair falling back from his forehead, he looked handsome and boyish and irresistibly likable and endowed with qualities which go to make an unusual man. Never to Clifford had that face looked so promising as it now looked.
There is a good little hospital in Greenport, and in half an hour the four were in it—and in less than another half-hour two famous New York specialists were in attendance, for many New York doctors have summer homes near Greenport, and are professionally connected with this little hospital. The first report of these two men, based on a hasty examination, was that Nina and Hilton had many broken bones, but would undoubtedly in time be as sound as ever; as to Jack and Loveman, a more careful examination was necessary before they could really tell anything.
There was nothing Clifford could do but merely wait. Through an open doorway—all the patients were on the same floor—he saw Mary Regan sittingat a window. He entered. She gave him a look from her pale face, and without saying anything looked back out the window. He drew a chair up beside her, and they both sat gazing out—at the flag with a white field and a cross of blue which told that this little hospital had become an auxiliary hospital of the United States Navy—and beyond at the harbor, with its scores of small white craft, one of which was doubtless the yacht of Loveman’s visioned voyage—the voyage that now would never be.
Neither spoke; there were no interruptions—Mr. Morton was at Jack’s bedside, and had not left it. Clifford felt numb: part of this was physical weariness, part the shock of what had so swiftly happened, and part the sense of large issues (he was not then conscious of what they all were) that remained still in the balance. An hour of this heavy silence passed—two hours; Mary, with white, set face, continued to gaze out upon the harbor of tiny ships.
At length Clifford rose mechanically and went out into the corridor, and paced to and fro. Presently he saw a nurse come from Jack’s room and enter Loveman’s, and after a moment he saw the doctor who was with Loveman—Dr. Peters, Clifford knew him to be, a great nerve specialist,—emerge followed by the two nurses and enter Jack’s room. He noted that Loveman’s door had been left open; and first, without purpose, merely as a break in the routine of his walking, he paused and lookedin. Then he entered and crossed to Loveman’s bed.
To his surprise Loveman’s large bright eyes were wide open; they recognized him—and Clifford saw that they were alive with all of Loveman’s intelligence. He gazed down at the sheet-covered figure, and something of the fury revived which had lain dumb in him these last two or three hours.
“Well, Loveman, I’ve landed you at last!” he said grimly.
The little lawyer made no response.
“Make no mistake about it, Loveman,—I’ve got you for fair this time—and got you eleven different ways from Sunday!”
Still the little man did not speak, though his eyes showed that he understood every word. Clifford was provoked at the manner in which Loveman ignored him.
“Haven’t you any come-back at all, Loveman—you were usually quick enough with your tongue.”
“See here—what are you doing with my patient?” a sharp voice called from the door.
Clifford turned. Approaching was Dr. Peters.
“He may be your patient, but he is my prisoner,” Clifford returned stiffly, still under the influence of his revived fury. But at once he was himself again. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Peters, but this man here is responsible for all that has happened.” And then: “He seems to have very much of a grouch against me—rather natural, I suppose. He wouldn’teven say a word to me. What’s the matter with him?”
“What’s the matter?” Dr. Peters repeated, looking at him keenly. Then he drew Clifford aside, out of Loveman’s hearing. “All that’s the matter with Mr. Loveman,” he answered slowly, “is that the accident caused a hemorrhage affecting the sensory and motor portions of the brain causing a permanent aphasia.”
“What’s that mean, doctor, in plain English?”
“It means that he has permanently lost the use of legs and arms, and that he’ll never speak again.”
Clifford stared. “But he seems to understand!” he cried.
“He understands everything. His brain is as good as it ever was, and it will be as good as ever for perhaps thirty years to come. But by no possibility can he ever communicate to a second person what that brain is thinking of.”
Clifford stared at the doctor, mumbled something, and unsteadily walked out. In the corridor he leaned against a wall and drew a deep breath. As the full significance of the doctor’s words sank in, he was awed, appalled. That great clear brain fated by the momentum of a life’s habit to go on planning—never to be able to put any of those plans into action himself—never able to communicate a plan to an agent or accomplice—but always planning—tirelessly planning—for thirty years or more!...
After a time he straightened up and entered theroom of Hilton, who was in less pain, but who just then hated all mankind; and with Hilton he had a few grim, direct words. After that he had a few words with Jimmie Kelly, who was waiting below. Then he went back and sat down beside Mary, and briefly he told her what had befallen Loveman.
Again they sat in silence, gazing out upon the harbor. Perhaps another hour passed. Then Mr. Morton entered. He was haggard and gray of face. Clifford and Mary rose.
“Jack?” breathed Mary, moving toward him.
Mr. Morton seemed at first unable to speak. But when his voice did issue, though husky and low, it was controlled and strangely emotionless.
“Jack never regained consciousness,” he said. “Jack—Jack has just died.”