Mary Regan

Monsieur Le Bain, proprietor of the Grand Alcazar, was a man of ideas and was by way of being a bit of a monopolist in his chosen business. But he was careful not to be his own competitor; so when he had prospered to the point where prosperity could be enlarged only by a second restaurant, he took great thought that he should not injure that excellent proposition, the Grand Alcazar. The result of this thought was Le Minuit, which he so named because its doors did not open until midnight.

Shortly after twelve Clifford, turning a few paces off Broadway, mounted a brilliant stairway. By being off the street floor, “The Midnight” gave a sense (an effect carefully thought out by Monsieur Le Bain) of privacy and also of piquant naughtiness. He was in evening dress; patrons of the place, male or female, had to be so garbed to pass the gold-braided guardian who held the outer door.

Inside the café, Clifford was approached by a head waiter.

“I want to see Monsieur Le Bain—at once,” he said in that manner which head waiters instinctively obey.

The head waiter vanished. The next moment Monsieur Le Bain was approaching.

“Joe,” Clifford began shortly, “this joint is being watched, and I’ve got my eyes on it, too.”

“Honest to God, I ain’t pullin’ nothin’ crooked here,” responded Monsieur Le Bain, lapsing from his French accent into the one more natural to him.

“You’d better not try to,” Clifford warned grimly, looking coldly and squarely into his dark eyes. Seeing that he had made his impression, Clifford inquired: “Mr. Loveman come yet?”

“No.”

“But he has a table reserved for two?”

“Yes.”

“Joe, you give me a table for one, close to it, so I can see Loveman, without being seen.”

“I can fix you up with a cabinet particulier,” the other said cringingly, “if it’s privacy you want.”

“I don’t want to be alone in any cabinet particulier. I want to be alone where I can see. You’re going to fix that up, Joe,—and you’re not going to pass any tip along to Mr. Loveman. Otherwise you’ll be hearing something from the Bureau of Licenses that won’t be healthy for your business.”

“Aw, now, don’t get sore,” said Monsieur Le Bain, “it’s goin’ to be just like you say.”

It was. Two minutes later Clifford was in a nook at one end of the big after-midnight restaurant, a tubbed palm insuring him privacy from any save those who should purposely come investigating. A few yards away, with a placard “Reserved,” was the table that had been indicated as Loveman’s. Along the nearest side of the room was a row of begilded doors, entrances into small private dining-rooms—Monsieur Le Bain’s “cabinets particulier.” The passing of waiters through these doors with loaded trays, and the issuance of laughter, informed Clifford that some of these rooms were already occupied.

Clifford’s job was now a waiting job; and while he waited the appearance of Loveman and Mary Regan, he took in the restaurant. Le Minuit, though it advertised “newest decorations, most titillating dishes, most astonishing entertainment,” was to Clifford the same old thing: its only individual appeal to the imagination was that it did not open till midnight, and that it was reputed to be supreme in the matter of naughty surprises. The pretentious mural paintings—the rows of mirrors inserted in the walls, framed with gilded plaster—the palms in tubs—the artificial vines, with their clusters of purple glass grapes hanging from the latticed ceiling: all was to him a wearisome duplication. And Le Minuit’s cabaret was the same old thing—perhaps a bit more risqué than the average—except for its great feature, one Molkarina, a native Hawaiian dancer, who whirled and contorted and jiggled in what New York accepted as authentic folk-dances—but who, as Clifford knew, had never been any nearer the much-sung island beaches than the Barbary Coast of San Francisco.

Of the three or four hundred persons who by this time were in the room, Clifford knew some by name, all he knew by types. There were a few indubitable members of the smartest social set for whom the wildest was becoming tame and cloying; and there were men and women hardly less well dressed, who lived by every means except honest effort—who were looking for pleasure and looking for prey; and in between these showy extremes were a few work-a-day persons who had come hither in a spirit of daring exploration.

Presently Clifford saw Mary Regan, obsequiously led by Monsieur Le Bain himself, and followed by the urbane little Peter Loveman, make way through the hilarious room and take possession of the reserved table. Clifford keyed himself to watch and listen. He sensed that he was now about to have revealed to him the heart of this whole business.

Evidently Loveman had given full orders in advance, for almost immediately supper, with champagne in an ice pail, was brought to the table. The talk at first was chiefly the amusing, disarming chatter of which Loveman was a master. Then by degrees it became more serious, then it shifted to Mary and her plans.

“Let’s face the whole situation squarely, Mary,” Clifford heard the little man say in his most plausible voice. “I’m perfectly willing to back you up in the original proposition—stand right behind you—the same as I promised—if you still want me to. But let’s not bunk ourselves. Mary, I’m telling you God’s truth—it’s a great game if you could put it over—only you can’t put it over!”

“I’ve told you I’m going to try, Peter Loveman,” she returned steadily, “and if you double-cross me, I’ll do exactly what I said I’d do—and that means you’ll be shown up to the Mortons and, besides, won’t get a nickel out of them.”

“Now, now, Mary, let’s don’t talk threats. Whatever the play, we’ve got to back each other’s hand; and if your play seems the best play, I’ll be right with you. But let’s look at the facts sensibly, Mary. First fact, my dear: you’re basing your hope of succeeding in your plan,—it was the original plan of us all,—you’re building that plan, on Jack.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Loveman?”

“I couldn’t help seeing what was in your mind, my dear. You’ve been trying to reform Jack. You believe that if you can steady Jack down permanently—make a real responsible man of him, which is what everybody else has failed to do so far—that you’ll make yourself so solid with both of the Mortons, so much of a necessity, that they’ll forgive whatever you’ve done and gladly take you on as a regular member of the family. And as a member of the family you believe you’ll add to the Morton dignity and prestige.”

“You think I can’t do that as well as any woman?” Mary demanded.

“That part of it you’d do better than any other woman!” Loveman hastened to reply. “But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what comes before that—your plan to make a man out of Jack. You never can do that.”

“Why not?”

“Several reasons. Chiefly because Jack can’t be made a man of.”

“I can do it.”

“Mary, let’s quit kidding ourselves,” Loveman returned gravely, quietly. “Unless you’re with Jack constantly you can’t influence him. And if you’ve seen Jack during the last ten days you’ve done more than any one else has.”

Mary tried to speak calmly. “Jack recently left New York on a hunting trip.”

Loveman shook his head. “Shooting would never take Jack away from New York; certainly not for ten days. He’s just—I think you understand.” He regarded Mary keenly. “You know Jack’s old reputation; he used to show more speed than any man who ever entered the Broadway Free-for-All. He never cared much for song—but he was all for the other two members of the old trio. The last bottle was Jack’s quitting place, and daybreak was his bedtime.”

“Well?” demanded Mary.

Loveman answered slowly. “There’s a rumor about that Jack’s his old self once more; that secretly he’s been in New York all the while, and that Broadway’s got him again.”

“I don’t believe it!” cried Mary in a low voice.

“And I do,” Loveman said solemnly—“though I have no proof.”

Clifford could see that Mary, gazing across at the little lawyer, had turned very white. For all her confident exterior, he guessed she now feared that Jack had done just what Loveman had said.

“Well?” she challenged.

“If Jack has,—and I’m sure he has,—isn’t it perfectly plain that you can never make a responsible man of him? And if you can’t make a man of him, it’s perfectly plain that you can never put your plan across.”

“Well?” repeated Mary.

Loveman leaned farther over the table and spoke in a low voice—though Clifford got his every word. “Drop the game, Mary. It’s a dead one. There’s not one penny for you, or any one else, in trying to play it further. Drop it, and come in on the basis I spoke of a week or so ago.”

Mary’s face gave no sign of what she might be thinking. “Just what was that—if you don’t mind outlining it again?”

“First item: I don’t need to remind you that I’m retained by Mr. Morton to look after Jack; say in a week I bring in a report that Jack has contracted a secret marriage—which means a bill for ten thousand for detective services, which I’ll split with you. Second item: he’ll want a divorce; I’ll handle the case and get a big fee—that’s where I come in. You’ll not fight, if he’ll pay high enough; that’s where you clean up between a hundred thousand and half a million—and being on the inside I’ll be in a position to tell you the top figure that Morton will pay. And third item: freed of this mess, and with Mrs. Jack Morton as your legal name, there’s no end to the big propositions I could put across for and with you—you with your looks and brains, and I with my inside knowledge of New York domestic life. Big stuff—big, I tell you! I could land you close to the top!”

His enthusiasm, which had mounted as he spoke, now abated to a tone of solid, unanswerable argument. “That’s why I say to you to drop your present impossible game, and come into these new propositions.”

She did not answer at once; so that he was led to prompt her: “That’s plain enough, isn’t it, Mary?—that the thing to do is to stop thinking about Jack and come in on these other lines?”

“Perhaps,” she answered steadily. “But first, I’ve got to find out about Jack. I don’t believe what you believe.”

“Well, I’m disappointed—though perhaps I don’t blame you. But the proposition stands open.”

With the philosophic sigh of the man to whom the world has taught patience, he fell upon the remainder of his half of the guinea-hen. Clifford saw him rub his napkin twice across his mouth, place it upon his knees, from where it slipped to the floor—which may or may not have been a signal. But, at any rate, the next moment a waiter, who had been standing close at hand, opened the door of the nearest cabinet particulier. “Did you ring?” he said, and stepping inside left the door open. Mary’s gaze, wandering from her table-mate, went through the doorway, and she saw, what Clifford also saw from his retreat: Jack Morton, his features soddenly loose, leaning in a stupor against the shoulder of a woman.

She stared fixedly at this picture so unexpectedly enframed by the doorway; then involuntarily there burst from her lips:—

“Good God—look!”

Loveman raised his eyes from his guinea-hen, and followed her gaze. “Well—of all things!”

The waiter, coming out, closed the door, and the brief picture was gone. Then Loveman turned on Mary, his big eyes wide with amazement.

“That certainly is some jolt! Not that I’m surprised at the fact—only surprised at our coming on it like this.”

Clifford saw that he regarded her keenly. She was very pale and strained, but said nothing.

“Well, who guessed right?” he ventured after a moment. Then, more confidently: “That ought to settle matters, Mary. There’s nothing else to it—you’re coming in on the new line.”

Again Mary did not speak. But for Loveman there was no need for her to speak. Clifford easily guessed what was passing in his mind. The danger which she represented to Loveman was now averted; the plans which he was going to carry out with her were already successes. His active brain was leaping months, even years, ahead. This was one of the big moments of his life—one of those few moments when a series of great achievements become suddenly possible.

But Clifford could not see into the soul of Mary Regan; tensely he wondered what was passing therein—and waited.