Mary Regan

The next day the first open move in this struggle was made—a minor development, perhaps signifying no more in the unfolding of events than their delay. Clifford learned of it when he dropped into the Grand Alcazar the following evening on the chance of finding Uncle George.

“Hello, son—sit in with me on a little drink of this here wine drowned in seltzer,” said the old man. And when Clifford was seated, he drawled on, a solemn eye on his glass. “Son, I’ve been tapering fast toward prohibition. In another month I’ll be a bone-dry state. But I’m such a weak creature of habit, son, that I know I’ll just keep on tapering. I’m a worried man, and here’s what’s worrying me: after I’ve reached water, and am still tapering, what am I going to drink next? What’s the answer? I tell you what, son, it’s an awful problem I got to face single-handed and single-livered and all alone in the world—this getting good so sudden and so fast that I can’t stop myself. Why, man, when I hit heaven, I’m afraid I’ll have up so much speed that I’ll shoot clean through.”

Clifford made no response; he knew none was expected. He gave solemn gaze for solemn gaze. Then Uncle George permitted his bald left eyelid to droop in a slight wink.

“Son, I been doing a little private blood-hounding—in my own special delicate motor-truck fashion. The czar and the little czarovitch have fled from the capital to Siberia.”

“Meaning who?”

“Meaning Mr. Morton and one freshly recovered son.”

Clifford was at once interested. “You talked with them?”

“Yes. Over at the Biltmore. The father don’t suspect how good I am—therefore he doesn’t mind chinning with me a bit when we meet.”

“Where are they going?—what are they going to do? Did he tell you?”

“Son, my intellect may not be what it once was, but a gentleman doesn’t have to tell me anything for me to know what he’s going to do. We talked baseball; I was willing to put two bits on the Giants to win the pennant next season—from which I learned that Mr. Morton was going to beat it far from the night-blooming anemone of Broadway and the tender folk-songs of the cabarets—and that he was going to give his only offspring the advantage of his direct, undivided, and unsleeping personal attention.”

Clifford nodded. This fitted in with Mr. Morton’s determination announced the night before in front of Le Minuit when he had refused Mary’s offer—his cool decision that he was now going to handle Jack. Well, he was a master at directing men, at bending them to his will; now that he had set himself to the task, perhaps he might also really manage Jack.

Though Mr. Morton was out of the city, Clifford privately kept watch on Mary, half expecting that her pride and her temperish self-confidence would get the better of her caution and impel her into that vaguely hinted action against Jack’s father. He tried to think out what course might be brewing in her mind. He remembered that Mr. Morton, ignorant of her true relationship to Jack, had tried to make love to her—the passing love of a worldly man; and he knew that Mary was capable of playing any part. She might, in her desire to even matters with Mr. Morton, and reckless of herself and her own name, lead him on, always eluding him, until—well, there was no guessing what Mary, bitter and reckless, might attempt. But whatever she might try, she would carry through.

Also—with the help of Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly, and the confidential aid of Commissioner Thorne—he privately watched Bradley and Loveman, alert for signs of attempt to carry out their self-protecting scheme against Mary. But Mary’s hiding was a temporary check alike to herself and the two men, and the next development in this complicated human drama was to have its inception in another quarter.

Uneventful weeks passed; spring grew into summer; and then one evening Clifford was surprised with a message from Mr. Morton asking him to call at once at the Biltmore. Clifford went to the Biltmore, wondering what lay behind this unexpected summons. Mr. Morton admitted him to his sitting-room and asked him to be seated.

There was a litter of mail upon the table—evidently an accumulation of correspondence that had not been forwarded. As Clifford sat down his eyes were caught and sharply arrested by an open letter. He recognized the writing—it was Mary’s; and almost before he knew what he was doing he had read this fragment:—

Mr. Morton, who had followed Clifford’s eyes, reached sharply forward, and snatched up the letter.

“Pardon my seeing it—I couldn’t help it,” said Clifford. And then: “I remember you offered to take the writer of that letter on a very private cruise. I suppose she has now consented?”

“That’s none of your business!” snapped Mr. Morton, pocketing the letter.

So, then, Mary did have some plan under way!

“Mr. Clifford,” Mr. Morton said abruptly, then paused. Clifford now perceived that the usually composed and masterful financier was in a state of nerves which he was trying his utmost to control. “Mr. Clifford, some time ago I asked you to help me with my son. I have sent for you to ask you that again.”

“Help you!” Clifford wanted a bit of information on a certain point, so he pretended a greater ignorance than was actually his. “Why, I supposed you had taken Jack off, braced him up, and brought about the marriage you once told me was your chief desire for Jack—to Miss Maisie Jones. I supposed Jack and she were on their honeymoon.”

“That affair is all off,” the father said briefly.

“What! Definitely?”

“Her aunt wrote saying that Maisie no longer cared for Jack. I wrote to Maisie, and she confirmed it. She was unchangeable.”

So, then, Maisie Jones had fulfilled her promise to Mary.

“To repeat,” Mr. Morton went on, “I have sent for you to ask you again to help me with Jack.”

“My answer now must be the same as when you asked help of me before: I can’t say until I know the situation. And even then I must reserve the privilege to act as I think best.”

“All right. Have it your own way.”

“First, tell me what has happened since you took charge of Jack that night at Le Minuit?”

“I took him to a mountain hotel in Maine, hoping that away from all his old associates I could manage him more easily. But he kept me awake night and day, and even then he was always eluding me and finding road-houses where the prohibition law didn’t exist. Yesterday he got away altogether. I know he’s somewhere in New York. I want you to help me find him.”

“I thought you had Mr. Bradley retained for such service.”

“I have, and I’ve already notified him. But I don’t trust Mr. Bradley as far as I once did. That’s why I’m asking you to help. Will you?”

Clifford felt the irony of it—that he should once more be called in to save the man Mary Regan had married instead of himself. But he nodded.

“That may be easy enough if Jack is in any of the regular joy-joints. But it will be hard if any of the sharps have got him in tow. Come on.”

Leading the way, Clifford began a careful search of the gayer restaurants of Broadway. He picked up Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly. The search was rapid, for it had not to go beyond the entrances; Clifford knew the door-men and managers of every resort, and Jack Morton was a well-known figure to all. To them Clifford put the same question—“Young Mr. Morton in here?”—and all answered honestly, having a very substantial fear of Clifford and Jimmie Kelly, and an earnest desire to retain their licenses.

At length, toward one o’clock, they came to Le Minuit; and of the proprietor, Monsieur Le Bain, Clifford asked the usual question. Monsieur Le Bain replied that Jack was there, and led the way through the din of his “authentic Hawaiian orchestra” and the hilarity of his hundreds of pleasure-fevered guests, down a little corridor off his “imperial ballroom.” He started to open the door at the end of this little hallway,—the door to his most exclusive private room,—but Clifford checked his hand.

“Needn’t bother, Le Bain,—you can go on back,” said Clifford. “And, Jimmie,”—to the little lieutenant, as Le Bain went gliding away,—“I wish you’d hang around, where you won’t be noticed much, so you’ll be handy if needed.”

“All right, Bob,” returned Lieutenant Jimmie.

Clifford opened the door and pressed the elder Morton ahead of him into a dining-room of gray-and-gold. What he saw was almost the same as he had seen in Le Minuit many weeks before: here were Nina Cordova, Nan Burdette, Hilton, and Jack—the only difference being that Jack, then in a stupor, was now joyously maudlin.

“Why, h’lo, dad,” he said, swaying up, a handsome, flushed, boyish figure. “Welcome home! Pull up chair, have li’l’ ole drink, ’n’ meet m’ frien’s. ’N’ there’s Clifford—good ole scout Clifford—meet m’ frien’s. Everybody have ’nother li’l’ ole drink.”

The other three had risen. “I’ll take it as a favor if you’ll all say good-night,” Mr. Morton said shortly. “I want to speak to my son.”

“So do we,” returned Nina Cordova in her most pertly charming manner, which she figured as irresistible. “Jack invited us to his little party, and we’re not going to insult the dear boy by walking out on him.”

“Get out—all of you!” Mr. Morton’s jaws snapped together.

“See here, we don’t stand for that line of talk, and we’re not going,” bristled Hilton.

Clifford caught Hilton by the wrist, and gave the arm a twist that made the man drop sidewise to one knee and groan. “You are all going, and, Hilton, you go first,”—and he thrust him through the door. He turned to Nan Burdette, and the star of the long-faded “Orange Blossoms.” “If you two want to avoid trouble,” he said shortly, “you’ll follow Mr. Hilton right out.”

They glowered at Clifford, but started to obey. “See here,” hiccoughed young Morton, “’f my frien’s go, I go too,”—and he swayed toward the door.

But Clifford sharply closed the door upon the pair, blocked Jack’s way, and laid a detaining hand upon Jack’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Jack,” he said, “and we’ll have that little old drink together.”

“Don’ wan’ drink with you. Goin’ with m’ frien’s.”

A stubborn, vicious look had come into Jack’s face, a look that Clifford knew meant trouble. “Just one little old drink, Jack, and then you can go with your friends.”

Jack regarded Clifford’s impeding figure, and grinned cunningly. “All ri’—jus’ one drink.”

“He’s already had too damned much,” growled the elder Morton.

Clifford gave the father an imperative, knowing look, pushed Jack down into his chair, and pressed a button. “Send Monsieur Le Bain,” he said to the answering waiter; and to Jack: “I’m going to order the drinks, Jack, and we’re going to switch to high-balls—and we’re going to see if this dump has some Scotch that’s really Scotch.”

As Le Bain appeared, Clifford stepped quickly to the door, spoke in a low voice, and returned to the table. Presently Le Bain himself entered with three glasses which he set down in careful order before the men, and then withdrew.

“Here’s how,” said Clifford, and sipped his glass. Jack tossed his down and rose unsteadily.

“Now, guess I’ll go find m’ frien’s,” he declared.

“Not yet, Jack,”—and Clifford pushed him again back into place. “There’s going to be one more round, and it’s on you. I gave Le Bain the order.”

Mr. Morton, not touching his glass, sharply watched the two. Jack grinned cunningly at Clifford; then his face became vacuous, heavy; and then he slumped forward, and head and shoulders lay inertly among the wine-glasses and the dishes of the interrupted supper.

“What’s happened to him?” the father asked sharply.

“Doped.”

“Doped? What for?”

“Didn’t you see there was no handling him in the mood he was in? Le Bain keeps his own knock-out drops for use on customers who become obstreperous—and I ordered him to fix Jack’s drink. The dose is light—it won’t hurt him.” Clifford abruptly changed the subject. “Well, you’ve got Jack. What are you going to do with him?”

Mr. Morton did not answer; his proud, powerful face, now pale, was fixed upon his son. Clifford also shifted his gaze to the huddled figure. Despite everything, Clifford really liked this good-natured piece of driftwood which washed so irresponsibly upon this great tide of pleasure. But what he felt most strongly at this moment was the ironical caprice of Destiny, which had enlarged so minor and will-less a figure, a mere pawn in this big human game, into so all-important a factor in Mary Regan’s life, and his own—and in the designs of many persons.

Clifford turned to the father. “Well—what next?” he prompted.

“I wish to God I knew!” Mr. Morton burst out, his reserve suddenly leaving him. “See what he’s come to! See what he’s done to himself!”

“He didn’t do it—at least not all,” Clifford said quietly.

“Who did, then?”

“Several persons—but chiefly his father.”

“His father!” An angry flush tinted the older man’s cheeks.

“Jack was not unusually bad or weak, and he was naturally most likable. He would have turned out well enough if his father had trained him right from the start and placed a man’s responsibilities—”

“I don’t want to hear any damned sermon!” the other interrupted. “What’s done, is done! I’ve got to face the present. I’ve done all I can to save him—and I’ve failed!”

He paused, then went on in savage desperation. “And if anything is going to be done, it’s got to be done quick! I’ve controlled him, to an extent, by controlling his money. But a fool aunt of his died the other day, and left him a legacy of two hundred thousand which automatically becomes his on his twenty-fifth birthday—and he’ll be twenty-five in a month. If he’s not got hold of before he gets that money, then the last chance is gone!”

He was silent a moment. Then came another burst, even more desperate.

“God, can’t you see what it means to me?—my only son!—all the plans I’ve built on him!—and him come to this! For God’s sake, isn’t there anything that can be done to save him!”

Clifford regarded him steadily. But there had suddenly begun a wild pounding of his heart.

“There is just one thing that might possibly save your son.”

“What’s that?” the other cried quickly.

Clifford hesitated, while the struggle which had so swiftly arisen within himself fought itself out.

In spite of all that had happened, a dream had persisted in him. If he spoke the thought that was in his mind, and if that suggestion were accepted and carried to a successful conclusion, it would mean the end, forever, of this persistent dream....

And yet—there was that plan and purpose that had guided his attitude toward Mary Regan these many months: that Mary should be allowed to play her hand out—that Life should test her.

And then, in a flash, he was seeing again the letter he had glimpsed when he had entered Mr. Morton’s room at the Biltmore—that letter with its unmistakable intimation. A flame of anger went searingly through him. Well, given into his hands was a method of putting Mary to the uttermost test—of proving who and what she was: and a method of bringing this whole matter to a head—for Mary—for everybody.

“What is it, man?” Mr. Morton repeated.

“You wouldn’t pay the price,” said Clifford.

“If I could get results I’d pay any price!”

“I’m not so sure you would, but I’ll try you.” Clifford stepped to the little wall telephone, done in gray-and-gold to match the room, and asked for Mary’s number at the Mordona. After a long wait Mary’s voice sounded on the wire.

“This is Clifford,” he said. “I want to see you at once at Le Minuit—very important. Ask Le Bain to show you where I am.... All right.”

“Who is the party?” demanded Mr. Morton when Clifford had hung up.

“I think it best for you not to know until the party comes,” replied Clifford. “The party should be here in half an hour.”