"Who do you think you want to see in there?" demanded the guard.
"I don't THINK I want to see anyone; Miss Carrillo sent for me," said John, wondering if this would be the password and feeling a thrill go up his backbone at the thought he might be at the wrong place.
"What's your name?"
"Gallant—John Gallant."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place? What do you think I am, a mind reader? The clairvoyants are all east of Main street, son, all east of Main street. Keep right on going, you'll find her on stage number three."
His heels crunched into the finely-graveled driveway as he walked in the direction pointed out to him by the guard, who condescended toleave his chair for the purpose of guiding him. He passed two huge barn-like structures and found the third designated in large white letters, "Stage No. 3." A superstructure of black cloth and laths was built out from the doorway at right angles to the stage building, a precaution, he later learned, against daylight.
It was his first visit to a motion picture studio. He had no interest in pictures or the people who played in them. His father, from whom he inherited his love for books and the better class of spoken drama, had always regarded motion pictures as almost a profanation of art. Once he had noticed an advertising poster of a well known star referred to as a "man's man," wearing a shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled to the elbows, riding trousers and shiny leather puttees, endeavoring desperately to appear like a combination of Sandow and a Northwest Mounted Police officer. He had had the satisfaction of hurling a rock to mar the "virile" face as it looked down defiantly at him from the billboard.
He had always imagined that all motion picture scenes were photographed in the open, on roofless stages, and the idea that Southern California's perpetual sunlight gave the best service for this purpose he believed to be the reason that Los Angeles was the principal producing point of the world. It surprised himwhen he realized that the barn-like structures were inclosed stages.
Was Consuello a screen player or had she some other work connected with the production of pictures, designer, scenario writer, director, art expert? Or was she only at the studio as a visitor, inviting him to be with her because some particular star was playing or some especially interesting scene being staged?
Entering the cloth and lath superstructure he found himself in pitch darkness. Unable to see his hand before his face he stopped to accustom his eyes to the absence of any light. A voice spoke out of the dark:
"Do you wish to see anyone?" it asked.
"Miss Carrillo," he answered, having an uncanny feeling as he spoke to someone he could not see and yet whom he know was close at hand.
"Miss Carrillo is on the set—was she expecting you?" the voice asked.
"She told me to be here and to mention that she was expecting me," he said.
"This way, then, please."
He turned in the direction from which the voice came and walked slowly, cautiously, until his feet encountered steps. He mounted the steps with a strange feeling that he was about to fall on his face.
Reaching the top step he felt himself on alevel floor. Shafts of light, escaping from between tall objects before him, invaded the darkness. A stringed orchestra was playing something soft, plaintively sweet. He recognized the music as Schubert's "Serenade." He stumbled over a sawhorse and his guide turned upon him with a quick admonition to be more careful. Except for the music there was not a sound.
Turning past one of the tall dark objects, which he afterward discovered were painted canvas scenery, he halted at a signal from the man who was leading him and who continued to go forward on tiptoes, a muffled curse escaping him as a board squeaked under foot. John named his guide "Mr. John J. Silence" in his mind.
Before him two arc lamps threw a bluish white light on a set representing the interior of a finely furnished room. Between the lamps were two cameras which were being cranked by two tall young men in khaki trousers and leather puttees who wore the peaks of their caps turned backward like children playing "fireman." Near the cameras a man with horn-rim spectacles sat in a canvas chair, a manuscript in his hand. Scattered about were a dozen men and women, poised tensely, as if they were afraid to move a muscle. To the left was the orchestra, a violin, 'cello andbass viol. Why, thought John, do bass viol players always have that far-away, woebegone look on their faces as they saw at their instruments?
From where he stood it was impossible for John to see what was before the cameras. He strained his eyes in a vain attempt to identify Consuello as among those standing behind the lamps. He saw his guide speak to one of the figures—a man—and then turn to signal to him violently and silently to approach, pressing his forefinger to his lips as a final admonition to be quiet.
"Mr. John J. Silence bids me approach," John said to himself.
He tiptoed forward. A board creaked under his foot. It could not have had more effect if it had been a pistol shot. Instantly all except the cameramen turned on him quickly. He imagined little arrows darting at him from their eyes, those little arrows cartoonists use to illustrate a fixed stare by one of their subjects. Never had he seen such a look of mingled pain and exasperation as crossed the face of "John J. Silence." He stood stock-still, fearful that if he made another sound they would pounce upon him and tear him limb from limb while "John J. Silence," completely overcome, writhed in agony on the floor.
By carefully testing the flooring each timebefore he put his full weight on his foot, he managed to reach a point behind the cameras without having that battery of aggravated eyes turned upon him again. Now no one favored him even with a turn of the head. He saw that Consuello was not in the group. The man in the canvas chair spoke, softly, appealingly.
"Now, Miss Carrillo, you think of how happy you two were together—days that are never to be again—he's gone—gone forever—that's it—tears come up in your eyes—he's (deep voice) gone, (deeper voice) gone, (very deep) g-o-n-e."
Risking those reprimanding eyes again, John stepped to one side to enable himself to see around the man who was in front of him, blocking his view of the set.
He saw Consuello, a strange, sad Consuello, her face ghastly pale under the bluish white light, her naturally beautiful features hidden under a mask of paint and powder, but Consuello, just the same. Heavy tears that brimmed from her eyelids coursed down her cheek, sparkling in the glare of the lamps. Her thickly rouged lips trembled; the fingers of one of her hands, pressed tightly in her lap, beat wildly on the back of the other beneath it.
She was seated in a large plush chair facing the cameras. She wore an evening gown andher hair was arranged in a high coiffure that made her look taller, older.
"Cut!" commanded the man in the horn-rim glasses. "That was splendid, Miss Carrillo, splendid."
The cameras stopped grinding. Consuello rose—laughing. The orchestra stopped abruptly. She came toward them, touching lightly at her cheeks with a tiny handkerchief.
"It seems a shame to dry such perfectly real tears," she said.
Then she saw John and came to him, her hand outstretched. As if they were controlled by a single mind and impulse the heads of everyone in the group turned to him.
"I'm so glad you got here," she said.
"So that was your surprise for me," he said, taking her hand.
She smiled, a strange and, to him, an unnatural smile, made so by the rouged lips and painted face. Had it not been for the sound of her voice he would have doubted if the girl before him, still holding his hand while the others scrutinized him, was Consuello.
"Speak, or I won't know it's you," he said.
"Were you really surprised?" she asked.
"Beyond words," he assured her.
She turned to the man with the horn-rim spectacles.
"That is all?" she inquired.
"All for today, Miss Carrillo, thank you," she was answered. "Tomorrow at 2, same costume, but on the other set."
"Come," she said, turning to John. "We'll have tea and a talk as soon as I return to—to normalcy—that was Mr. Harding's way of expressing it, wasn't it?"
She led the way across the floor, along a twisting and turning path, through furniture, furnishings and an accumulation of "props" to the door. As they stepped out into the daylight again her face was more unlike the faceof the Consuello John knew than it had been in the half gloom inside.
They crossed a narrow asphalt-paved road to a long two-story building.
"I won't be long," she said, opening the door to the section in which her dressing room was located. "When I'm ready the maid will call you. Will you wait here?"
"Don't hurry," he said. "I'll be right here where you left me."
While he was waiting "John J. Silence" emerged from the door of the stage building. John frowned, pressed his forefinger to his lips in the signal for silence that he had received inside. "John J. Silence," grinning, tiptoed away with ludicrous gestures.
In twenty minutes the maid called John to the door, holding it open for him as he entered.
"This way, please," she said, taking the lead.
A dozen steps brought them to a door marked with Consuello's name. John paused at the threshold while the maid entered, returning in a moment to hold the door open for him again. As he stepped inside she went out into the corridor, closing the door after her.
John found himself in a tiny room with brightly designed wallpaper, matted rugs, a wicker chaise longue, wicker glass-topped table, wicker tea wagon and wicker chairs, alldecorated in a gay colored chintz. The heavy curtains at one side of the room parted, and Consuello—the real Consuello again—stood before him attired in a tailored suit gorgeous in its simplicity, setting off a dainty real biche lace and batiste blouse.
"Well?" she said, as if she had been waiting for him to speak.
"I'll say it again—you're beautiful," he said.
The same half credulous look that she had given him when he told her she was beautiful that day they met for the first time at the Barton Randolph lawn fete came into her eyes.
"I did not mean to ask you that," she said.
"I know," he returned, "but you are, and I couldn't help saying so."
She took a chair near the tea-table and he seated himself in the chair that was opposite to her.
"I meant, what do you think of me now?" she explained, pouring the tea into absurdly small cups, one of which she handed to him.
"It was a surprise," he said. "I'll confess to you now that you puzzled me. I could not understand why you were—well, exiled in the city during the week. I imagined you were either with friends as a sort of a permanent guest or studying."
"You never thought of me as working?" she asked.
"Yes," he admitted, "I have, but I could not picture you in any employment I could think of. It was impossible to think of you as a stenographer or a school teacher or a nurse or a shop girl."
"All because you met me at a lawn fete—a society affair," she concluded.
"No. All because—well, all because you are you."
Was that a glint of pleasure he saw for the briefest fraction of a second in her eyes?
"I asked you to come out here this afternoon because I knew that you would find it out some day, probably tomorrow or the next day, or next week, and I wanted you to know that I had not tried to keep it from you," she said. "I want you to know, too, from me, why it is I'm here."
She paused and he waited for her to continue.
"I entered picture work because—well, frankly, we—that is, father, mother and I—are alone in the world and poor," she said. "Really, honestly poor. The last that we could afford to spend from the little we have left was spent on my education. Father insisted.
"Once, and it was not so many years ago, our family was wealthy like other California families that received land grants. But father—the dear that he is—like so many of his friends, thought little of business or the future andslowly our land was sold until now only a few acres of what we once had remain—only the few acres of the home you visited.
"Of course, I was fortunate. My family name gave me entrance anywhere and still does, although there are those who think I have desecrated that name and who feel that because we are in reduced circumstances we have simply ceased to be.
"So when I was old enough to realize exactly what conditions were and what we faced I was determined to do something. It was a friend who was kind enough to believe and tell me that I had talent for acting who first interested me in motion picture work. And, not to tire you with long, boresome details, I was lucky. Somehow it was not difficult and I am now receiving enough to keep us comfortable without encroaching, as I said, on what little father has left.
"There, you have my story," she concluded, settling back in her chair.
"And the work, do you like it?" he asked.
"I do like it," she replied. "And, besides, what else could I do? You have said yourself that I could never be a stenographer, a school teacher or a nurse or a shop girl."
"You could be anything," he hastened to explain, "from a shop girl to a—to a—a queen."
"That's better," she concurred, smiling.
"Those tears you shed back there before the camera, who were they for?"
"For the man I loved—in the story," she explained. "I was 'emoting'—as they call it—over his death. The inspiration was provided by the orchestra you heard playing. My director thinks it's wonderful that I can shed tears whenever he asks me to. He says it's a relief not to have to substitute drops of glycerine or hold a raw onion under his leading woman's nose to bring about the required lachrymal effect. To be able to cry easily before the camera, he says, is the supreme test, because to shed real tears you must have imagination and imagination is everything."
"And how do you do it?"
"There are plenty of causes for tears in life, far too many, don't you think?" she said. "When my director calls for tears I simply think of one of the many—pictures I have seen of starving children, an empty stocking at Christmas time, a homeless kitten, an orphan baby."
"Don't you ever think of the story and cry because you are carried away by the imaginative sorrow of the death of the man you love?"
"No," she said, laughing. "How can I? Most of the time I'm really glad—not in the story, of course—that he's out of the picture.The publicity man always refers to me as a star of the emotional type and writes yards upon yards of stuff about how I actually 'live' the part I am playing. My imagination doesn't carry me that far, though, and if imagination is everything, as my director says, the publicity man should be the greatest actor living."
"I don't pay much attention to pictures, but I can't remember ever having seen your name or photograph in the advertisements," he said.
"Have you ever noticed the name of Jean Hope?"
"Often."
"That is the name I took when I had advanced far enough to be featured. It was suggested to me by the publicity man, who insisted upon it being short and snappy, as he said, something that would be easy to remember and easy to put into type. Of course, I am not obscured to my friends, who all know that I am Jean Hope. Only once have I had to be positively firm with the publicity man and that was when he wanted to make me the subject of a newspaper story that society girls, as he called them, were intent upon becoming motion picture actresses. That, for the sake of my friends, I simply had to refuse."
"I think," he said slowly, "that the name your father calls you is the prettiest of them all."
"Mi Primavera?"
"Yes, does anyone else call you that?"
"Only father," she said. "That is his pet name for me—'My Springtime.'"
"You know," he said, "the story you told me of the naming of Spring street; how Ord, the surveyor, named it for his sweetheart, whom he called 'Mi Primavera,' is incomplete. Tell me, if you know, did he eventually marry the beautiful Senorita Trinidad de la Guerra?"
"I have often wondered that, myself," she said. "Whether they were married or not—what a gallant, romantic thing it was for him to do."
"And how few know the story!" he added.
"What dreams he must have had for the upbuilding of that street he named for the one he loved," she said. "I imagine he little thought it was to become a business street, that he thought of it always as lined with quaintly beautiful Spanish homes, shaded and quiet, with couples strolling along it at twilight and rest and contentment everywhere."
"That was his dream," he agreed. "The dream of a practical man—a surveyor and a soldier."
"And after all," she said, "is it as you said once that it is only in books and plays that dreams come true?"
Her chin resting in her hand, she gazed outthe small chintz bordered window of the room, preoccupied. He noticed the daintiness of her profile, the placid sweetness of her face in repose.
The silence was broken by a rap on the door that startled him.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened and on the threshold stood Gibson, the smile he had meant for her fading from his face.
For a moment he paused, his hand still on the knob of the door, as if he hesitated to disturb them. Then, with the appearance of putting whatever thoughts he might have had from his mind, he strode in.
"Well!" he exclaimed. "This is a surprise. How are you, Gallant? Haven't seen you since the night we had our little engagement with 'Red Mike,' who, I have just been told, will recover."
"I'm so glad to hear that," said Consuello.
"And so was I," Gibson said. "No, no, Gallant, stay where you are. I'll sit here."
John had risen to offer Gibson the chair opposite Consuello. He sought a way of relieving the embarrassment he for one, felt when Gibson made his unexpected entrance.
"Miss Carrillo has revealed herself to me as Jean Hope," he explained. "Until thisafternoon I had no idea she played in pictures."
Was it because she too, felt it necessary to make some explanation that she said:
"You see, I realized that Mr. Gallant would eventually learn about it and I wanted to surprise him myself."
"I'm proud of my Consuello," Gibson said, patting her hand and speaking to John. "She is famous—really, truly famous—far more, I'm afraid than you or I will ever be, Gallant. Still, she deserves it, and we don't—that is, I don't, at least. She is so famous that I find it difficult to keep myself from becoming jealous of her."
"Jealous of my good luck?" she asked, smiling.
"No, no; jealous of the admiration that is showered upon you and those who give it. You can understand why, can't you, Gallant?"
While Gibson seemed absolutely frank and to have put the question only incidentally, John had a feeling that it was something more than a mere interrogation. He scanned Gibson's face for a trace of a betrayal of his purpose in putting the question to him.
"Easily," he replied.
"You are both more than kind to me," Consuello said. "Come, now that we three aretogether, let's talk of what you're doing, Reggie. It's far more interesting. I'll call for a fresh pot of tea."
She pressed a button in the wall and a maid responded.
"There's little more that is new," Gibson said. "The mayor is still standing pat, although I have reason to believe that he is feeling the pressure brought on him by those that are supporting me, because he refuses to remove Chief Sweeney. Most of the men who are his advisers are dropping away from him. His policy in the face of my attack apparently dissatisfies them. I am waiting for one of them to swing over to my side and tell exactly what his position is."
John remembered the interview Brennan and he had had with the mayor, and in his mind, as vivid as it was when it occurred, he saw the mayor solemnly pledge himself to seek to establish what he suspected—that Gibson was in league with "Gink" Cummings.
"What will be your next move?" he asked.
"I have promised to clean up Los Angeles and I mean to go through with it," Gibson replied. "With the mayor taking the position he has, it's plainly up to me to carry on despite his opposition. I'll go ahead with my plans to drive gamblers, crooks, bandits andwomen of the underworld from the city and in doing so the people will be convinced that I am in the right and blame the mayor for his obstinacy in refusing to work with me.
"The big difficulty will be to get men to assist me. I have the private detectives I have employed, but I doubt if I can use them in making raids. Of course, Sweeney will see that I don't get any police officers to carry out my orders, which leaves only the district attorney and the sheriff from whom I can ask assistance. I have been informed that the sheriff is ready and willing to place a number of his deputies at my command and they will probably be the officers who will carry out my orders.
"The fact that I am compelled to use deputy sheriffs, who are county and not city employes, in my crusade will have its effect, demonstrating conclusively that the mayor does not intend to assist me in any way in doing what is his duty to keep Los Angeles clean."
"Surely, you're not going to take your life in your hands again?" asked Consuello. John perceived that she was sincerely concerned for Gibson's safety.
"My dear Conny," he said patting her shoulder, "the danger will be slight. I can't expect to have things done and only sit back in my office letting others do it."
"But promise me that you will not take any needless chances," she pleaded.
"You have my promise," he said. Then, turning to John, he added: "You see, Gallant, how it is. If I ever turn and run away from danger, you will know I am only keeping a promise."
"I don't believe there is any one who questions your courage," John said.
"It's good of you to say that, Gallant," Gibson acknowledged. "Now, suppose we hear what you have to say. Tell us, what are you newspaper men saying about this rumpus between the mayor and me? What do you think of what I'm doing? Have you any suggestions?"
John hesitated before answering. What he had heard the mayor say to Brennan was confidential. Even had he been at liberty to tell it he doubted if he would have disclosed it, for Consuello's sake.
"There is one thing upon which the reporters are speculating," he said.
"What's that?" asked Gibson.
"They are wondering when you will launch your attack in a new direction."
"How?"
"By hitting at 'Gink' Cummings." As John mentioned the "Gink's" name he watched Gibson's face closely to discover the effect ithad upon the commissioner. He thought afterward that Gibson had expected him to refer to Cummings and that he had been, if anything, a trifle too well prepared to answer.
"I thought so," Gibson said. "Well, let me tell you something, Gallant. I'll make things hot for the 'Gink' mighty soon. But, you must remember, the 'Gink' is only the effect and not the cause of the trouble. The cause is the failure of the mayor and Sweeney to keep the lid down in Los Angeles. Cummings is only powerful through the weakness of the mayor and the chief. If they were on the job, Los Angeles wouldn't be big enough for such a man as 'Gink' Cummings."
"Why don't you come out and say so?" John asked, feeling reassured, however, by Gibson's announcement that the "Gink" was not to be overlooked.
"It's another case of where 'actions speak louder than words,'" the police commissioner said. "Cummings isn't afraid of what someone says is going to happen to him. He's a veteran. He's heard that kind of talk before. So have the people of Los Angeles. What he is afraid of and what the people of the city want is—action."
"And who is this man, 'Gink' Cummings?" put in Consuello, who had been listening intently to the conversation between the two men.
"'Gink' Cummings, my dear," said Gibson, "is the boss of the element I hope to drive out of Los Angeles. He rules like a king over burglars, gamblers, pickpockets, bandits, swindlers and crooks of every description."
John took advantage of an opportunity.
"It's true, is it not, that the mayor and Cummings are enemies?"
"Yes, that's true, but they're political enemies," Gibson said. "The trouble is, however, that the mayor is afraid of Cummings. And so is Sweeney. They don't seem to have the courage to go after him."
"Why don't they take this 'Gink' person and put him in the penitentiary?" asked Consuello.
Gibson laughed.
"That appears to be an impossibility," he said. "They have tried it time and again, but each time he was too clever for them."
"Of course," smiled Consuello. "It was silly of me to have asked such a question. I confess I'm a perfect ignoramus about such things."
A few minutes later they left the studio, Gibson offering to convey John to his home in his automobile.
"As often as I can I call for Consuello and take her to her home," he explained. "We are both so busy these days we have little other time in which to see each other. I'mglad I saw you this afternoon, Gallant, and you may want to know that it won't be long before I'll have some more real news for you."
As the automobile carried them toward his home, John thanked Consuello again for having invited him to the studio.
"I don't believe I would have discovered that you are Jean Hope for a long time," he said. "From now on I'll never miss one of your pictures."
"I have yet to view with complacency the scenes in which she is in the arms of another man," laughed Gibson.
After dinner that night he led his mother to the porch, telling her he had news for her. He was glad that he was able to answer her questions concerning Consuello, although he believed the unpleasant occurrence of a few nights before was completely a thing of the past, to be forgotten.
"Mother," he said, smiling, "I discovered today what keeps Miss Carrillo in the city during the week."
Mrs. Gallant regarded him expectantly.
"You did?"
"Yes, she is working."
Mrs. Gallant smiled, as though the information given her by her son relieved a hidden anxiety.
"And what does she do?" she asked.
"She is in pictures," he answered.
The smile faded from Mrs. Gallant's face.
"In pictures!" she exclaimed. "Then she is an——"
"An actress," he supplied. "She invited me out to her studio and told me all about how it was while we had tea in her dressing room. Why, mother! What's the matter? Mother!"
Mrs. Gallant had risen from her chair, a strange, disconsolate expression upon her face, and had gone back into the house.
Astonished even more than he had been when she first questioned the propriety of Consuello's living alone in the city, John hurried into the house after his mother and found her in a chair beside a table in the living room, her head buried in her arms.
"Mother!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "What is wrong? Are you ill? Don't, mother, don't cry. Speak to me, speak to me."
She did not answer. He stepped forward quickly and lifted her face between his hands, tenderly. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Please," she said, drawing back her head. He dropped his arms to his sides. "Please, I must be alone," she said.
"Tell me, tell me, what is it?" he begged.
Rising a trifle unsteadily to her feet she walked past him to the door. He wheeled as she was about to step out of the room and caught her in his arms.
"Mother, dearest," he pleaded, "what is it? Is it because you do not approve? Is it so terrible that she must work to live and that she plays in pictures? Surely, you can't think wrong of her?"
Slowly she nodded her head. He stepped back in amazement. How could she possibly think such things?
"I had hoped, because she was a friend of yours, that she would be what you thought her," Mrs. Gallant said, tremulously.
"Why, mother, what are you talking about?" he gasped. "She is my friend and there is nothing to make me think that she is anything but what I believed her to be, a dear, kind friend."
Mrs. Gallant clasped her hands at her waist and straightened her shoulders.
"She dared—dared to receive you alone in her dressing room," she said. "John, don't you understand what that means? Don't you know how wrong it was? Do decent girls do such things? An actress! I've heard enough about them. An actress who allows herself to be kissed and held in men's arms! An associate of—"
He raised his hand quickly.
"Mother!" he expostulated, "you can't say that. You can't, you can't."
For a moment they stood facing each other and an expression of despair crossed her features as she whirled around and left the room. John stood stunned until he heard the door of her bedroom close. With a heavy sigh he threw himself into a chair and bowed his headin his hands, staring distractedly at the design in the rug under his feet.
Until far into the night he sat there, thinking, thinking, thinking. Mingled exasperation and perplexity racked his brain and finally he attempted to collect his thoughts and reason it all out. It was ridiculous, he thought, and yet so serious. Gradually he came to study the entire situation from the viewpoint of his mother and by doing so he came to a solution of the difficulty. His heart softened toward her and he found an excuse for her antipathy for Consuello.
Primarily, he understood his mother's great love for him, her desire to protect him, guard his happiness and assure his success in life was the cause for the unreasonable attitude she had taken toward the girl who had been so kind to him. Perhaps his mother still clung to her hastily-formed idea that he was in love and that his "undisciplined heart"—the descriptive words were fresh in his mind from his reading again of "David Copperfield"—would lead him into trouble.
And then he easily comprehended her aversion to motion pictures and those who played in them, insupportable by facts as it was. The strict, narrow training she had received as a girl had nurtured in her an abhorrence of public performers, particularly actors andactresses, whom she regarded without exception as libertines. This misconception had been increased by the scandalous and equally slanderous stories that had reached her ears concerning motion pictures and the life led by those engaged in the producing of photoplays in Hollywood.
The faults of one or two who became involved in scandal of some sort she gave to all. Because a motion picture actress, as human as any other woman and as liable to imperfection, sought a divorce in the courts she instantly, in Mrs. Gallant's mind, became an immoral character. A motion picture actor attacked by a blackmailer because of his wealth and prominence, was adjudged guilty of whatever wrong of which he was accused. It was an unfair and unjust attitude common to thousands of women as wholesome in character, as kindly and merciful in disposition and as saintly to those who loved them and were loved by them, as Mrs. Gallant.
In his unsuspecting delight in being able to explain to his mother why Consuello lived apart from her parents, he had completely overlooked her foible in disliking motion picture players simply because they were members of that profession. Likewise he had forgotten precaution by telling her that Consuello had received him in her dressing room. Hehad been unable to tell her that Consuello, although she enjoyed work and had a pride in it, had entered the pictures to provide for her aging parents. The confidence, as he regarded it, that Consuello had placed in him in informing him that she and Gibson were engaged to be married, he could not, he felt, reveal.
He pondered for a time over a disconcerting thought that possibly it had not been proper after all, for Consuello to have allowed him to see her in her dressing room, alone, without having previously mentioned to Gibson her intention of doing such a thing. It had been obvious that Gibson was genuinely surprised when he found John with her. He finally dismissed any apprehension created by this thought by recalling Consuello's apparent guilelessness.
He fatigued his brain in a vain endeavor to decide upon some means of overcoming his mother's prejudice. Setting aside the fact that he wanted them to be friends, to know and find in each other the things he admired in them, the principle of the whole affair concerned him. He remembered how different his father had been, how tolerant, how ready to withhold adverse judgment of a person until both sides of the story had been heard.
Weary, unhappy, disconcerted, he went to his bedroom and puzzled over his problemuntil he fell asleep. Mrs. Gallant had composed herself, somewhat severely, when he saw her in the morning at breakfast. There was a trace of haggardness in her face that told him she, too, had spent a restless night.
"Mother, dear," he said, holding her in his arms before he left for work, "you know how much I love you." She seemed to yield a little in response to his tenderness.
"I know, my boy," she said, "and you must realize how much I care for you."
"Oh, I do, I do," he said, "you have always been a wonderful, wonderful mother to me. Remember, nothing must come between us."
Her severe aspect, which, he knew, she assumed to compose herself, disappeared and the love that she bore him as her first and only son shone in her eyes as she kissed him when he left. It was like the kisses she had given him when he was a grammar school boy.
Later in the day John met an old friend whom he had almost forgotten. It was the scrawny youth with the twisted nose and the husky voice who had been a second in his corner the night he fought Battling Rodriguez to get money to pay for his father's funeral. He remembered the youth as Murphy when he met him lounging at the counter of a cigar stand at the entrance to one of Spring street'smost celebrated saloons, which now was converted into a soft drink and lunch establishment and which was frequented by men who loitered in and around it for the associations it held for them and the memory of other days.
Murphy, a brown paper cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, hailed him as he passed.
"If it ain't da Gallant kid!" he said, speaking from beneath the visor of his cloth cap, pulled tightly around his ears. They shook hands.
"Hello, Murphy, what have you been doing since the night that Mexican nearly killed me?" asked John, feeling somehow that he owed the second something for the care he had taken of him after he had staggered from the ring, bruised and battered.
"Oh, da same old stuff, da same old stuff," Murphy replied. "Haven't been doin' any more fightin', have ya?"
"No," said John, with a laugh, "the beating the Battler gave me was enough. You know, it's a good man who knows when he has had enough."
"Ya didn't seem to know when ya had enough da night ya mixed it with da Battler," said Murphy. "Ya took a beltin' that night and came up for more as long as ya could."
"Let's step inside; I'll buy you a drink of whatever they have," John invited.
Over steins of near-beer which Murphy drank with a wry face John learned that Battling Rodriguez had fought himself to the top and was now boxing main events at Vernon, at the American Legion stadium in Hollywood and occasionally in San Francisco and San Diego. He told Murphy that he was working on the newspaper, endeavoring to develop himself into a reporter.
They were about to leave and had turned away from the bar when there was a scuffle of feet at the front door. John was startled to see a number of men rush in and form a line across the front of the long room.
It flashed into his head that the men were bandits. One of them, he saw, had a gun in his hand. But this suspicion was quickly routed from his mind when one of the men, apparently the leader, stepped forward and shouted a command:
"Get in the corner, there, you birds, you're pinched," he ordered.
John recognized the men as deputy sheriffs and for a moment he was nonplussed. Then he stepped forward to explain there was no cause for them to arrest them.
"In the corner, I said, in the corner,"shouted the foremost of the deputies, pushing John back. "Get over there or I'll put you there, see!"
John "saw." He stepped back into the corner of the room which the deputy indicated, joining a group of a dozen men herded there by the other deputies who swept through the "saloon." Murphy, beside him, whispered in his ear:
"Don't get excited, kid, it's nuttin'; just another phoney pinch, dat's all."
"But what for?" asked John.
"Loiterin' around a handbook joint. You'll be squared, kid, you'll be squared. Stick with me and you'll come out on top; ten bucks to the good."
One of the deputies marched up to the corner, pushing a young fellow before him.
"Tried to duck out the back door," the deputy explained to his brother officers. He shoved his prisoner into the group in the corner. "I guess that's all of them. Let's get them out of here. Come on, you birds, out the door; step lively and no funny business."
Murphy was at his side as they walked out into the street, guarded on each side by the deputies. A motor truck was backed up to the curb and in it were fifteen or twenty men, young and old, laughing and smoking. Acrowd of men and women, spectators to the raid, thronged the sidewalk on either side.
John stepped to the side of one of the deputies.
"Listen, old man," he said. "I'm a reporter."
The deputy stepped back in mock surprise.
"You don't say so!" he exclaimed. "A reporter, eh? Well, you ain't nobody, see! Why, one of your pals we got in there told me he was the sheriff's nephew. Another one tried to bull me that he was one of Gibson's men."
"Gibson!" exclaimed John. Then it dawned on him; this was one of the police commissioner's "personally conducted" raids, his first attack on "Gink" Cummings, without a doubt.
"Yes, Gibson," said the deputy. "What about it?"
"Is this one of Gibson's raids?" he asked.
"You guessed it," snapped the deputy. "Now, get along there. Hop on that truck with the rest of the gents and see if you can't get consolation from the sheriff's nephew and the bird that tried to bull me he was working for Gibson."
"But I am a reporter," protested John. "You'll find out soon enough."
"Don't get gay!" threatened the deputy. "Don't get gay!"
John scrambled on the truck.
"Come right along, brother, join our party," said a red-faced man in a brown check suit and a greasy derby hat, who reached down to help John up.
The truck was now crowded with standing men. Three of the deputies swung themselves up on the back of it to act as a rear guard. Murphy squirmed through the tightly packed load until he reached John's side again.
"Listen, kid," he said in his husky voice. "If you want to find out something about dis game, just keep your trap shut and do what Tim Murphy tells you. Get me? I was tipped to dis raid but I didn't know it was coming so soon or I'd got ya out of it, see? It's a phoney, see. There's ten bucks in it for ya if ya go through with it like I tell ya, see?"
"What are you talking about, Murphy?" John demanded.
"I know what I'm talkin' about and don't you forget it," Murphy said. "Just do what I tell ya, will ya?"
"All right," he agreed.
The truck turned to the left at First and Spring streets and struggled up the grade atFirst west of Broadway, backing into the curb in front of the central police station. By the time they were leaving the truck John had decided to "go through with it," as Murphy had suggested. It would be an adventure, at least, and Murphy's repeated assertions that it was "a phoney" invited investigation. He knew that a word to Kenyon, the police reporter for his paper, would get him out of his trouble, but he concluded he had nothing to lose and perhaps something to gain by following Murphy's whispered instructions.
Herded into an alley-way leading back to the desk sergeant's room were, John estimated, more than 150 other men and boys, arrested like himself and evidently brought to headquarters in other trucks. In this crowd he learned that every place along Spring street where it was suspected that a handbook on the races at Tia Juana was being operated had been raided simultaneously by squads of deputy sheriffs detailed to the command of Police Commissioner Gibson by the sheriff. Over the heads of the crowd he caught a glimpse of Gibson himself surrounded by Kenyon and the other police reporters. He saw Gibson pose for a photograph with the crowd of men he had arrested as a background. Once, he thought, he had a glimpse of Brennan in conversation with Police Chief Sweeney.
"Have ya got ten bucks on ya?" asked Murphy.
"Why?" he asked.
"Dat's da bail," explained Murphy.
"I've got it," he said. "Have you yours?"
"Murphy's always got his bail money wid him," the twisted nose youth grinned. "Remember, now, stick wid me."
"Right-o," said John.
"Gwan!" Murphy made the word the acme of disgust. "If I hadn't seen ya mix it wid de Battler I'd bust ya for dat," he said. Evidently "right-o" was not a word calculated to win in Twisted Nose's vocabulary.
Slowly, like a line of theatergoers approaching the box office, the crowd worked its way toward the desk sergeant's counter, where two police officers were booking the prisoners, receiving $10 in bail from each and handing them a receipt for the money. Murphy and John finally reached the counter.
"Murphy—Tim Murphy," said John's companion, stepping up to the desk and speaking before the desk sergeant asked him his name, as if it was an old ceremony which he knew by heart.
"Murphy—Tim Murphy," repeated the officer at the huge book. "If no one was looking, Murphy, I'd slip you out the back door for having a name like that."
Murphy handed over his $10 in bail, received his receipt slip and stepped to one side to wait for John.
"Gallant—John Gallant," said John, following Murphy's lead.
"Ten bucks," said the desk sergeant.
"No, I mean what am I arrested for?"
"Oh, you're particular, are you? Well, it's loitering in a gambling resort and playing the handbook. I suppose you'll ask for a jury trial?" inquired the officer, with pretended politeness.
He produced his $10 and was given a receipt. Murphy tugged at his arm.
"Come on," he whispered. "Da sooner we get back da better."
John followed him out into the street. Turning to the right, Murphy walked rapidly down First street toward Broadway, his arm hooked to John's.
"Now, Murphy," he said, "tell me what's this all about—what are you going to do?"
"Well, listen, kid, and I'll spill it to ya," Murphy said, talking as they walked. "Dis raid was all a phoney, get me?"
"A phoney?"
"Ya, a phoney! Fixed, framed, phoney, see? I get my orders da other day. A friend o' mine tips me. He steers me dat de handbooks are goin' to be pulled and if I'm pinchedfor me to go through with it and there'll be ten bucks in it for me."
"How?" asked John, impatiently.
"I'll get my ten bucks from da boss for bein' a good little boy and gettin' pinched, see? It's dis way: Dis new commissioner, Gibson, wants to make a big play, get me? He wants to do a grandstand on da bookmakers and de 'Gink's' for him, see?"
"The 'Gink'?" exclaimed John. "'Gink' Cummings?"
"Sssh, not so loud, not so loud," cautioned Murphy.
"You mean to tell me that the 'Gink' is helping Gibson?" John demanded, coming to a standstill.
"Come on," said Murphy, tugging at his arm. "I didn't say dat, did I? All I said was dat da 'Gink' was for him pulling the bookies. Search me, why. I figures it dat da 'Gink' has split with da bookies and is out to teach 'em to behave."
"Then this raid was just what Cummings wanted?"
"Dat's it. If it wasn't we wouldn't be gettin' our ten back and ten on top of it. I was steered to hang around a bookmaking joint for a few days so dat when Gibson and his deputies come there would be somebody to get pinched, see?"
"And were all those other men tipped to do the same thing?"
"Sure. Dey got a few suckers but de bunch was all in on the know."
"But how did the 'Gink' know beforehand that the raid was going to be made?"
"Say," expostulated Murphy, "ask me some-pun easy, will ya? Da 'Gink' knows everything before it happens, see? If he didn't he wouldn't be da 'Gink,' dat's all."
A thrill went through John. He was "in on the know," as Murphy had put it. What a discovery he had made! What would Brennan say when he told him? What would the mayor say? And what would Gibson say?
They were back before the place in which they had been arrested. Murphy turned, guiding John by the arm with him.
"Now keep your trap shut and let me do da talkin', see?" he admonished as they went through the swinging doors.
Inside things were exactly as they had been before the raid, except that there were twice as many in the long room. John recognized the red-faced man in the brown check suit and the greasy derby hat who had helped him on to the truck as he stood at the bar, a glass of near-beer in front of him and chatting with the bartender, who was pulling on his white coat again.
Murphy led him to the back room and rapped on a door.
"Come in," a voice called.
Murphy opened the door and entered, beckoning to John with a jerk of the head to follow him.
The room was small and dark, the only light coming from an electric lamp over an old-fashioned, battered roll-top desk that completely filled the wall at one end. Between John and Murphy and the desk was a scarred oak table behind which sat a thin-faced man, an unlighted cigar protruding from a corner of his mouth.
"Shut the door," said the man, without removing the cigar.
John closed the door.
"Who's this with you, Murphy?" the man snapped out his words and eyed John keenly.
"He's all right, Slim," Murphy replied.
"Sure?" asked "Slim," quizzically.
"I ain't gonna let anybody fool you or me, am I, Slim?"
"Not if you want to stay alive," returned "Slim." "Was he picked up in the raid, too?"
"He was wit me all through it," said Murphy.
"All right, then, I'll take your word for it, Murphy," said the man behind the desk. "But remember, if he's a stoolie, you're the bird that's going to get it."
"Don't I know?" Murphy assured him.
"Where's your tag?" asked "Slim."
Murphy produced the receipt for his bail money and tossed it on the table. "Slim" examined it and then, without looking up, asked:
"And where's yours?"
John noticed Murphy's almost imperceptible jerk of his head. He drew his bail receipt from his pocket and tossed it on the table as Murphy had done. Holding the slip of paper in both hands "Slim" examined it closely, looked up inquiringly at John, and then reached into his pocket, bringing forth a thick roll of bills. He snapped the rubber band from the roll and extracted from it four bills. Returning the roll to his pocket he divided the four bills equally and pushed them across the table.
Murphy took two of the bills and John reached out his hand for the other two. As his fingers touched the bills, "Slim's" hand closed down on them.
"Just a minute," he heard "Slim" say. His nerves jerked tight as he looked down into the thin, hard face of the man in the chair. For two or three seconds they looked into each other's eyes. Then "Slim" spoke.
"You're on the square with Murphy and me?" he asked.
John nodded his head. "Slim" still held his hand on the bills.
"Say it," he demanded.
"I'm on the square with you," John said.
"Slim" released his hand.
"All right, beat it now and forget you ever saw me," he said. John and Murphy left the room, each with two $10 bills. The red-faced man with the greasy derby winked at John as they passed him. They hurried through the afternoon crowd in Spring street until they were a block from the saloon.
John was the first to speak.
"Murphy," he said, "who is this man, 'Slim'?"
"'Slim's' da right-hand man for da 'Gink.' He's one of da few birds da 'Gink' will trust. And he's one hard-boiled guy, believe me."
"Whose money was that he paid us?"
"Well," Murphy replied, "'Slim' gets his jack from da 'Gink.'"
"Are you sure of that?"
"Say, whatcha think 'Slim' is, a Christmas tree?"
"Now, let me get this right," said John. "The 'Gink' knew this raid was coming off. He arranged with you and most of the others who were arrested to be at the places to be raided so that Gibson's men would have a crowd to take to central station. Then each of those who were arrested and who were 'in on the know,' as you say, were given the$10 they put up for bail and $10 extra for being on hand to be arrested. Is that it?"
"Dat's it."
"And you figure that the 'Gink' wanted Gibson's raid to be a success because the 'Gink' has split with the bookmakers and wants to make trouble for them?"
"Dat's da way I dope it," Murphy assented.
"And we forfeit our bail and forget all about it?"
"Sure."
"If any more of these framed-up raids are made, will you know about it?" John asked.
"Sure, dey always fix it for us regular guys."
"Well, Murphy," said John, halting at a corner, "I'm going to ask you to do something for me. If you find out that anything like this is going to happen again, will you let me know about it?"
"Sure thing; where can I get ya?"
John gave him the number of the reporters' telephone at his office. In exchange Murphy gave him the address of his room, in East Third street.
"You won't forget?" cautioned John as they shook hands. Murphy promised him again and they separated after John had thanked him for letting him "in on the know."
He hurried back toward the office, stoppingonly to buy the late edition of his paper. Across the top of the front page, in big, heavy black type, was the headline: "Gibson Leads Big Spring Street Raid." Under this and above the story of the raid was another "head" which read: "Commissioner Says He's After 'Gink' Cummings; 200 Arrested." The photograph of Gibson standing near the men arrested in the raid, which John had noticed him posing for, occupied a four-column space.
At the office P. Q. greeted him with a scowl.
"Well, where have you been all afternoon?" the city editor demanded.
"I was picked up in Gibson's raid," John replied.
"What's the big idea?"
"I didn't have any idea of getting arrested. And I think I've discovered something big."
"What do you mean, big?" Then John told him the story of his experience from beginning to end, producing the two $10 bills as evidence. He related all that Murphy had told him and how Murphy had promised to tell him in advance of a repetition of the occurrence.
P. Q. listened to him attentively, whistling softly when he had finished.
"Do you think Murphy is right in believing that the 'Gink's' only motive was to make trouble for the bookmakers?" he asked."Personally, I doubt if the 'Gink' would play into the hands of Gibson like that even if he was fighting the bookmakers, providing, of course, that he has reason to fear Gibson."
Before John could reply Brennan appeared and the whole story was related to him.
"Your friend, Murphy, is off on the wrong foot," Brennan said. "Don't you know what's happening? The 'Gink' is playing Gibson's game and Gibson is playing his just like the mayor suspects. Someone has told Gibson that people are wondering why he doesn't start after the 'Gink.' So what does he do? He arranges with the 'Gink' to put on a grandstand raid in Spring street and Cummings fixes it with your friend, Murphy, and the others to submit to arrest, paying their bail money and adding $10 to it to compensate them for their trouble, and Gibson is able to make a big showing.
"Don't you suppose that the 'Gink' would realize that the minute he tried doing what your friend Murphy thinks, some one of the bookmakers would get wise to it and holler?"
"That's my idea of it," put in P. Q.
John was astounded at Brennan's revelation. Clearly Brennan's view of the case was more reasonable, more logical, than that given him by Murphy. He remembered having told Gibson when they met in Consuello's dressingroom that newspapermen were questioning why he did not attack "Gink" Cummings and he remembered Gibson's answer that he was about to make such a move.
"By George, Gallant," exclaimed Brennan, "your little experience this afternoon is liable to turn the town over, if I'm not mistaken. That's why Gibson came out with a statement after the raid denouncing the 'Gink' and claiming that he had gone right into the 'Gink's' territory to demonstrate to the people that he was out to get Cummings. It's a frame-up from start to finish. The 'Gink's' smart enough to know that Gibson couldn't carry through his plan to overthrow the administration unless he made some pretense of opposing him and so he fixes up this raid."
"The question is, What are we going to do with what we have?" commented the city editor. "Do you suppose Murphy would come through with an affidavit?"
"Not unless we furnished him with protection," said John.
"As it stands," said Brennan, "we have Gallant's story and only our conclusions as to what was back of it all. We haven't quite enough yet. For example, this fellow 'Slim,' who paid you the money may be the 'Gink's' right-hand man, all right, but how are we goingto prove it? And, besides, all we know is that Gallant and Murphy were paid off. We don't actually know that anyone else received their bail money back and $10 on top of it.
"This information that Gallant has brought in satisfies me beyond all doubt that the mayor's right in suspecting that the 'Gink' is back of Gibson. But, before we shoot, it seems to me that we ought to have a little more stuff. We've got to show that Gibson and the 'Gink' are actually working together."
"Brennan's right," P. Q. concurred. "Your story is dynamite, Gallant, but we need a fuse to explode it. We had better sit tight and if it occurs again be in on it so that we can get something to show beyond all doubt that Gibson is a faker and a tool of the 'Gink.' In the meantime, Gallant, you keep in close touch with your friend Murphy."
"What about putting it up to Gibson and seeing what he has to say?" John suggested.
"What about it, Brennan?" asked P. Q.
"That wouldn't get us anywhere," said Brennan. "And if Gibson is playing the 'Gink's' game it would only warn him that we have reason to suspect him and they'd be so careful we'd never have a chance to upset them. Your idea is the best, P. Q. Sit tight for a while and see what happens next."
* * * * *
John told the story of his experience in Gibson's raid on the Spring street bookmakers to two other persons, the mayor and the publisher of the paper that employed him, Cyrus W. Phillips, known fraternally to his men as the "chief." He was accompanied to the private office of the publisher by P. Q., who informed him that his discovery of what could be regarded as evidence that there was an alliance between Gibson and "Gink" Cummings had brought the situation to a point where orders were to be given by the "chief," who supervised the policy of the paper.
Mr. Phillips, a keen-eyed, energetic man, who unselfishly bestowed the credit for the success of his newspaper on the men who worked under him, listened to John's story with interest. It was John's first meeting with the "chief," for whom even Brennan, with all his skepticism, had a profound respect and the rapidity with which the publisher gave his decision won his admiration.
"The policy of this paper has been to keep out of politics," he said, "but this young man's story, with what it undoubtedly suggests, brings us face to face with the duty we have always endeavored to fulfill, that is, to attack graft and corruption wherever we find them. We have no pledge to support either the mayor or Commissioner Gibson and we areonly for the one who is doing the right thing in the right way.
"'Gink' Cummings and men of his type we regard as a menace to Los Angeles against whom every effort should be made. If Gibson is a masquerader in league with Cummings he must be exposed. If this is only an attempt at political retaliation by the mayor we must condemn it.
"We have indisputable evidence that the raid was framed by Cummings, but whether he acted to make trouble for the bookmakers or to enable Gibson to make a big showing we do not know. The more logical view to take is that there may be an alliance between Gibson and Cummings, improbable as it may appear. But we must not pre-judge nor act hastily.
"Commissioner Gibson has the support of the churches and the business men of Los Angeles. If he has deceived them and is only a tool for Cummings, he is the most infamous imposter that the city has ever known and it would be a big thing for us as well as a great deed in behalf of the city if we are able to expose him. On the other hand, if Gibson is really what he claims to be and what his supporters believe him to be, he is working for the betterment of Los Angeles and is entitled to our unqualified support.
"Consequently, we must keep our eyes open. We must work to establish beyond all doubt Gibson's sincerity or duplicity. What we do must be fair and fearless and with only one object, the welfare of the city of Los Angeles."
"Would it be advisable to let the mayor hear Gallant's story?" asked P. Q.
"Only with the distinct understanding that it is not to be used by him for any purpose whatsoever and that we are taking a strictly neutral position on it, even inclining to the view that it does not necessarily indicate that Gibson and Cummings are in a conspiracy," the publisher replied. "I can say this much to you, I admire the mayor for having made an enemy of 'Gink' Cummings."
As they left his office the "chief" shook hands with John.
"P. Q. tells me you have not been with us long," he said. "The information you have obtained for us is very important and you did well. I want you to feel that you know me now and that I am very glad you are with us."
He visited the mayor's office in company with Brennan to whom P. Q. had imparted the publisher's instructions. The mayor's secretary ushered them into his office immediately. He greeted them both warmly and opened the conversation with a question directed to Brennan.
"What do you make of Gibson's raid yesterday?" he asked.
"We'll answer that by telling you something mighty interesting," said Brennan. "Gallant here has some information that will knock your eye out."
Once again John told his story, from beginning to end. As he related it the mayor sat upright in his chair, listening so intently to every word that the fire at the end of his cigar died out and the ash dropped unnoticed on his coat front. When John concluded the mayor bounced out of his chair, circled his desk and seizing him by the hand exclaimed:
"My boy, you've done it!"
John's story seemed to have rejuvenated him. He shook hands with Brennan, went back to his desk, sat down, bounced up again, wasted five matches in a vain attempt to relight his cigar and then chose a fresh one from a box he took from a drawer.
"I know that fellow 'Slim' who paid you the money," the mayor went on. "His name is Gray and he IS the 'Gink's' right-hand man; has been for years. It almost made me believe Gibson might be straight when he conducted that raid yesterday. I was beginning to wonder if I wasn't mistaken, after all, but now I'm convinced for once and all that he is the 'Gink's' man. I'm willing to wager mylife that he and Cummings arranged for that raid yesterday because they knew that people were beginning to ask themselves why he didn't get after the 'Gink.'