Hardy owed many of his special articles to a detective friend of his
named Clendenning--a big, magnificent creature with a princely air and a
marvelous wardrobe. When there was something interesting to be “pulled
off,” Clendenning used to “tip off” Hardy; and when it was possible, the
detective would take his friend along, to witness his exploits.
He was a very useful man for a certain sort of work, for his gentlemanly
air made it possible for him to go without arousing suspicion into
places where some of his colleagues would have been conspicuous. He was
an adroit fellow, full of guile and ironic humor. Nothing in life gave
him such pleasure as his “little surprises,” his neat traps for knaves
of all sorts.
“If you’re around such and such a corner, at such and such a time,” he
would say, “you might see something you could work into a story, old
man.”
Hardy always followed such suggestions, and was always rewarded.
One evening Clendenning came into the little restaurant where Hardy
almost always ate his dinner, and sat down at the table beside him.
“Want to see something interesting?” he asked.
“I do,” said Hardy.
“There’s a poor old feeble ass of a man who’s been complaining of a
mysterious Persian woman,” he said. “He says she’s bewitched him, and he
can’t keep away from her. He goes every night to get a psychic
consultation, and she gives him advice about the stock market. He’s lost
thousands already, but he says he thought he hadn’t interpreted her
advice right, and kept going back for more. At last he came to
headquarters with a complaint--says she’s a fraud. He says her place is
crowded every evening with people clamoring for a chance to press ten
dollars into the mysterious Persian’s hand and get a psychic message. Of
course, it’s a pretty plain case for the police; but from what he said I
thought it might be funny. I like to see how those things are done. It’s
wonderful to see how easy it is to fool people. I like to watch ’em
work. She calls herself the Princess Zoraide. Ready?”
They rose and strolled out into the mild October night. They lighted
cigars and sauntered uptown to a street of grim and moribund stone
houses, given over to more or less mysterious enterprises. They stopped
at one, rang the bell, and were admitted to a little drawing room
furnished in moldy satin and poorly illuminated by a gas chandelier.
Almost every seat was occupied, and the dreary light revealed a set of
figures so dramatic, so interesting, that Hardy’s professional instincts
were at once aroused.
He saw two women, probably a mother and daughter, sitting side by side,
hand in hand, on a sofa, both weeping. He saw a white-bearded old man
with his head thrown back and his dim eyes staring raptly at the
ceiling. He saw a man who appeared to be on the brink of delirium
tremens, his body twitching, his face contorted. He saw a great, fat
blond woman in diamonds and silks and feathers, with a false, distrait
smile on her painted face. In shadowy corners he saw other women
whispering together. He was impressed by the atmosphere of pain, of
terrible anxiety, that surrounded these people who came to receive
relief and assuagement from the Princess Zoraide.
He sat down near the door with Clendenning, to await his turn. One by
one he watched these people receive their summons, vanish into an inner
room, and reappear again as shadows hastening through the dark hall to
the front door. He would have liked to see their faces then, to see if
the psychic consultation had in any way altered them.
The room had filled again, but Hardy was no longer observant. He was
thinking. He was thinking of the immeasurable human longing after hope,
and it occurred to him that perhaps even a charlatan might satisfy this.
The young woman who gave the summons to the waiting clients once more
appeared before the curtains, and repeated her formula:
“The princess is ready for the next seeker!”
“You go first,” said Clendenning, and Hardy rose.
He walked across the room, past all those strained faces, opened the
curtains, and entered a room completely dark, filled with a heavy
perfume. A hand guided him to a chair, and he vaguely discerned a white
form opposite him.
“What is your trouble?” asked a low voice.
He hesitated a moment. He hadn’t prepared anything to say.
“A love affair,” he said at last.
He knew that more questions would follow, but he was unable to arm
himself, to set himself to invent something plausible. He was troubled,
unhappy; he sat there in the dark with a blank and apprehensive mind.
“And what is the difficulty?” asked the Princess Zoraide. “What is it
that you wish to know?”
He said nothing at all.
“Come, my friend!” she said a little impatiently. “Can you expect that I
should enter into your heart and know its secrets? I have the most
sympathetic nature in the world, but--”
He rose suddenly. He knew that phrase, that voice!
“What? Is it _you_?” he cried.
“I? Who? What is it that you mean?” she faltered.
“Mme. Sensobiareff!”
She gave a sigh that was like a groan.
“Yes,” she said. “See how I am obliged to gain my living! Ah, well! But
why do you come here? Have you some trouble, my dear?”
“No! Listen! Don’t you know how dangerous this is? It’s illegal--it’s
not allowed.”
“I do no harm.”
“But it’s against the law.”
“No one will trouble about me, so obscure, so--”
“The man who came with me is a detective. You’ll be arrested.”
“My God!” she cried. “My God! I--arrested?”
To him, an American, her alarm seemed exaggerated. To be arrested had
not the same terrible meaning that it had for her. The hand that had
clutched his arm trembled violently.
“Arrested? No, no! I do no harm. I help many people. I am very psychic.
I am very sympathetic. I comprehend the troubles of others. If you knew!
So many people bring their friends to me, because I have helped them!
Oh, no! I _cannot_ be arrested! Oh, my friend! At my age! And I am so
alone here, in a foreign land! It will kill me! I shall die!”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Wait! Let me think! Can you slip out without
being seen? I will wait for you on the corner of Fifth Avenue. Hurry!”
He went stealthily down the dark hall, opened the front door, and went
out. He didn’t know whether the formidable Clendenning had seen him or
not. He expected every moment to feel a hand on his shoulder, to see
that handsome and ironic face; and then he would be lost. He felt
himself absolutely incapable of deceiving Clendenning, or of outwitting
him.
But no one came. Hardy stood in the shadow, nervous as a cat, watching
the quiet street. He saw some one go up the steps of the house, and
enter, but no one came out. Why didn’t she hurry? Had Clendenning
already seized her?
He stopped a passing taxi and told the driver to wait, and once more he
looked down the silent street. Certainly Clendenning would be growing
impatient; if she didn’t come soon--
He was startled to hear her voice behind him.
“I left by the back door and went through the yards to the next street,”
she whispered. “I am sure that no one saw me. Oh, my friend!”
He hurried her into the taxi.
“Be quick!” he said to the driver.
He took her to his lodging house, where they entered unobserved and went
upstairs to his little room. He locked the door behind them and sat down
on the bed, trying to smile, to reassure her; but he expected every
moment to hear a knock at the door, and the detective’s voice, demanding
satisfaction for this outrageous betrayal. What in Heaven’s name was he
to do with her?
“Now, you know,” he said, with a distorted smile, “it wouldn’t be such a
serious matter, even if you _were_ arrested. Perhaps a fine--”
“No!” she said firmly. “I should die. If they come to arrest me, I shall
kill myself. I have a pistol here in my hand bag!”
“Nonsense!” he cried impatiently. “Don’t be so absurd!”
“Do you think, then, that I have so much to live for?” she asked. “I
have nothing--nothing at all. When you went away, without a word--I had
thought I should always have you. Well, never mind; let us not speak of
it. I am a foolish old woman. Let us say no more.”
He stared at her with a new idea dawning upon him. She wasn’t old. She
wasn’t much over forty, he imagined, and she had certainly not renounced
the intention to charm. He observed her queer little hat, made up of
odds and ends of jet, lace, and satin, her carefully powdered face, her
earrings, her drab hair artfully disposed, all her harmless coquetry. He
recalled all that she had done for him, how she had nursed him and
provided for all his wants. He thought of his base suspicions with
shame. The poor soul had simply been holding her psychic consultations
to earn money--so much of which she had used for him.
Why hadn’t he seen it before? She loved him--it must be that! For what
other reason would a woman do all that she had done?
What sublime sacrifices she had made, and how brutally he had rewarded
her! He thought he had never heard of so generous and noble a nature
before. He felt crushed and immeasurably humiliated before her--her who
had almost undoubtedly saved his life.
“Why shouldn’t I make a sacrifice?” he asked himself. “What better could
I do with my life than to try to make her happy? I’m not much good. I’ll
never be much use any other way.”
He began to walk up and down the room.
“Of course she’s at least twelve years older than I; but she’s a
charming, intelligent woman, and I respect her.”
And then the unworthy thought came to him--what a startling and
distinguished thing it would be to marry her!
He stopped short.
“Mme. Sensobiareff,” he said, with dignity, “will you marry me?”
“_What?_” she asked with a frown.
“I know I’ve acted badly, but I--at the time I didn’t understand. I
didn’t really appreciate you; but now--if you will--”
“Marry you!” she said, with a look that amazed him. “Are you mad?”
“But--”
“Is it possible that you didn’t _know_?” she said. “Couldn’t you _see_?
That man--that _saint_--”
She began to weep, holding a tiny lace handkerchief to her eyes.
“One of the master minds of Russia--a noble soul--the kindest and best
of men!” she sobbed. “Is it possible that you think--oh, how little you
know of women! You think I would replace _him_?”
“Replace _him_ by _you_,” her tone implied.
Hardy was completely taken aback. He couldn’t speak.
“No,” she said, drying her eyes. “I have thought of nothing but him.
Only help me to get away, where I shall be safe, and then forget me! I
am the most unhappy wretch in the world. I have wished only to gain my
living, and it seems that I have become a criminal. Only save me from
this disgrace!”
“Yes, of course!” he said hurriedly. “Let me see!”
He fancied he heard a footstep on the stairs. He turned pale.
“Have you any money?” he cried. “If you could go to Canada--”
“Yes, I have money. In time, if it had not been for this, I should have
become rich. But why are you so pale? Is there danger?”
“There’s no time to lose. Are you ready?”
She rose, adjusted her queer little hat before his mirror, and carefully
patted her eyes.
“I am ready,” she said.
They went down the stairs and through the sleeping house with noiseless
steps.
“Wait!” said Hardy. “Let me look first!”
He went out into the street and looked carefully up and down. No one
there! He returned to fetch her. She took his arm with a pathetic,
appealing gesture, and they went off through the quietest and darkest
streets, both filled with haste and dread, unable to speak.
She was terribly out of breath when they reached the Grand Central
Station. While he bought her ticket, she sat panting on a bench, her
face concealed by a thick veil, but her little plump hands clasped
passionately. A more forlorn, utterly foreign figure couldn’t be
imagined.
They had nearly an hour to wait. He sat down beside her and tried to
reassure her.
“You needn’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure there won’t be much of a search
for you, and probably there’s no fear of further trouble. Only--you’ll
never do _that_ again, will you?”
“Never!”
“What will you do? Write me as soon as you reach Montreal. I’ll be
anxious until I hear from you.”
“Yes, I shall write,” she said.
“How will you manage there?”
“I shall find a way.”
He persuaded her to take a cup of coffee and a sandwich at the lunch
counter. Then he bought her some magazines and a box of chocolates.
“It’s time for you to go now,” he said. “I want you to know that never,
as long as I live, shall I forget what you did for me. It was--”
“Hush!” she said. “You are repaying me, my dear. I only hope I have not
brought you any trouble.”
The image of Clendenning rose up before him, but he answered valiantly:
“Certainly not! But when I think of what you did for me--a stranger--”
He could no longer repress the question which tormented him.
“But _why_ did you do it? _Why_ were you so good to me?”
She raised her veil and smiled at him.
“Ah, my dear!” she said “It is the Russian heart!”
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
SEPTEMBER, 1922
Vol. LXXVI NUMBER 4