[Illustration]
New York
Cosmopolitan Book Corporation
MCMXXI
Copyright, 1921, by Cosmopolitan Book Corporation.--All rights
reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian
_To ETHEL PETTIT ROCHE_
_Let Philip win his Clancy,_
_As heroes always do;_
_To each his own sweet fancy--_
_My fancy is for you._
The Illustrations by
DEAN CORNWELL
CLANCY DEANE, THE HEROINE OF FIND THE WOMAN _Frontispiece_
CLANCY ROSE SLOWLY TO HER FEET--"UNLOCK THAT DOOR AND
LET ME OUT----" 44
GRANNIS POINTED TO CLANCY--"ARREST HER, OFFICER," HE CRIED 146
"WHO'S GOING TO BELIEVE THAT KIND OF YARN?" CAREY DEMANDED 232
I
As the taxi stopped, Clancy leaned forward. Yes; she'd read the sign
aright! It was Fifth Avenue that she saw before her.
Fifth Avenue! And she, Clancy Deane, of Zenith, Maine, was looking at it
with her own eyes! Dreams _did_ come true, after all. She, forty-eight
hours ago a resident of a sleepy Maine town, was in the city whence came
those gorgeous women who, in the summer-time, thrilled her as they
disembarked from their yachts in Zenith Harbor, to stroll around the
town, amusement in their eyes.
She looked to the left. A limousine, driven by a liveried chauffeur,
beside whom sat another liveried man, was also stopped by the policeman
in the center of the avenue. Furtively, Clancy eyed the slim matron who
sat, leaning back, in the rear of the car. From the jaunty toque of blue
cloth trimmed with gold, down the chinchilla-collared seal coat, past
the edge of brown duveteen skirt to the short-vamped shoes that,
although Clancy could not know it, had just come from Paris, the woman
was everything that Clancy was not.
As the policeman blew a whistle and the taxi moved forward and turned up
the avenue, Clancy sat more stiffly. Oh, well, give her six months--
She knew well enough that her tailor-made was not the real thing. But it
was the best that Bangor, nearest city to Zenith, could provide. And it
would do. So would her hat that, by the presence of the woman in the
limousine, was made to seem coarse, bucolic. Even her shoes, which she
had been assured were the very latest thing, were, she suddenly knew,
altogether too long and narrow. But it didn't matter. In her pocketbook
she held the "Open Sesame" to New York.
A few weeks, and Clancy Deane would be as well dressed as this woman to
whom a moment ago she had been so close. Clothes! They were all that
Clancy needed. She knew that. And it wasn't vanity that made her realize
that her faintly angular figure held all the elements that, ripening,
would give her shape that lissomness envied by women and admired by men.
It wasn't conceit that told her that her black hair, not lusterless but
with a satiny sheen, was rare in its soft luxuriousness. It wasn't
egotism that assured her that her face, with its broad mouth, whose red
lips could curve or pout exquisitely, its straight nose with the narrow
nostrils, its wide-set gray eyes, and low, broad forehead, was
beautiful.
Conceit, vanity, egotism--these were not in the Clancy Deane make-up.
But she recognized her assets, and was prepared to realize from their
sale the highest possible price. She could not forbear to peep into her
pocketbook. Yes; it was still there--the card, oddly enough, quite
simply engraved, of "Mlle. Fanchon DeLisle." And, scrawled with a muddy
pen, were the mystic words: "Introducing my little friend, Florine
Ladue, to Mr. Morris Beiner."
Carefully, as the taxi glided up the avenue, Clancy put the card back in
the side compartment of the rather bulky pocketbook. At Forty-fifth
Street, the driver turned to the left toward Times Square. She
recognized the Times Building from a photograph she had seen. The taxi
turned again at the north end of the square, and, a door away, stopped
before what seemed to be a row of modiste's shops.
"This is the Napoli, ma'am," the driver said. "The office is up-stairs.
Help you with your bag, ma'am?"
"Of course." It was with a quite careless air that she replied.
She climbed the short and narrow flight of stairs that led to the office
of the Napoli with as much of an air as is possible for any human to
assume mounting stairs.
A fat, jolly-seeming woman sat at a desk perched so that it commanded
not merely the long, narrow dining-room but the stairs to the street.
Although Clancy didn't know it, the Napoli, the best known theatrical
hotel in America, had been made by throwing several old dwelling-houses
together.
"A room?" suggested Clancy.
The stout woman nodded pleasantly. Whereupon Clancy paid and tipped her
taxi-man. The landlady, Madame Napoli, as Clancy was soon to learn,
shoved the register toward her. With a flourish Clancy signed "Florine
Ladue." To append the town of Zenith as her residence was too much of an
anticlimax after the "Florine Ladue." Portland was a bit more
cosmopolitan, and Portland, therefore, appeared on the register.
"You have a trunk?" asked Madame Napoli.
Clancy shook her head.
"Then the terms, for a room by the week, will be fourteen dollars--in
advance," said _madame_.
Clancy shrugged. Nonchalantly she opened her purse and drew forth a
twenty-dollar bill. _Madame_ beamed upon her.
"You may sign checks for one week, Miss"--she consulted the
register--"Miss Ladue."
"'Sign checks?'" Clancy was puzzled.
_Madame_ beamed. Also, a smaller edition of _madame_, with the same
kindly smile, chuckled.
"You see," said _madame_, "my children--these are all my children." And
she waved a fat hand toward the dining-room, where a few men and women
were gayly chattering incomprehensible badinage to each other between
mouthfuls. "But children are careless. And so--I let them sign checks
for one week. If they do not pay at the end of one week----"
Clancy squared her shoulders haughtily.
"I think you need have no apprehension about me," she said stiltedly.
"Oh, I won't--not for one week," beamed _madame_. "Paul!" she called. A
'bus-boy emerged from the dining-room, wiping his hands upon a soiled
apron.
"Take Miss--Ladue's bag to one hundred and eighteen," ordered _madame_.
She beamed again upon Clancy. "If you like chocolate-cake, Miss Ladue,
better come down early. My children gobble it up quickly."
"Thank you," said Clancy, and followed the 'bus-boy porter up two
flights of stairs. Her room, fairly large, with a basin for running
water and an ample closet, and, as Paul pointed out, only two doors from
the bathroom, had two wide windows, and they looked out upon Times
Square.
The afternoon was waning. Dots of light embellished the awesome Times
Building. Back, lower down Broadway, an automobile leaped into being,
poised high in the air, its wheels spinning realistically. A huge and
playful kitten chased a ball of twine. A petticoat flapped back and
forth in an electrically created gale.
There was a wide seat before one window, and Clancy stretched out upon
it, elbows upon the sill and her cheeks pressed into her two palms.
Zenith was ten million miles away. She wondered why people had hoped
that she wouldn't be lonely. As if anyone _could_ be lonely in New York!
Why, the city was crowded! There were scores of things to do, scores of
places to go. While, back home in Zenith, two days ago, she had finished
a day just like a hundred preceding, a thousand preceding days. She had
washed her hands in the women's dressing-room at Miller & Company's. She
had walked home, tired out after a hard day pounding a typewriter for
Mr. Frank Miller. Her aunt Hetty--she wasn't really Clancy's
aunt--Clancy was an orphan--but she'd lived at Mehitabel Baker's
boarding-house since her mother died, four years ago--had met her at the
door and said that there was apple pie for supper and she'd saved an
extra piece for her. After supper, there'd been a movie, then bed. Oh,
occasionally there was a dance, and sometimes a dramatic company,
fourth-rate, played at the opera-house. She thought of "Mlle. Fanchon
DeLisle," whose card she carried, whose card was the "Open Sesame."
Mademoiselle DeLisle had been in the "New York Blondes." Clancy
remembered how, a year ago, when the "flu" first ravaged the country,
Mademoiselle DeLisle had been stricken, on the night the Blondes played
Zenith. She'd almost died, too. She said herself that, if it hadn't been
for Clancy, when nurses were so scarce and hard to get, that she sure
would have kicked in. She'd been mighty grateful to Clancy. And when she
left, a fortnight after her company, she'd given Clancy this card.
"Morris Beiner ain't the biggest guy in the world, kid," she'd said,
"but he's big enough. And he can land you a job. He got me mine," she
stated. Then, as she caught a glint of pity in Clancy's eyes, she went
on: "Don't judge the stage by the Blondes, and don't judge actresses by
me. I'm an old-timer, kid. I never could _act_. But if the movies had
been in existence twenty years ago, I'd 'a' cleaned up, kid; hear me
tell it. It's a crime for a girl with your looks to be pounding the keys
in a two-by-four canning factory in a jerk Maine town. Why, with your
looks--a clean-up in the movies--you don't have to be an actress, you
know. Just look pretty and collect the salary. And a husband with
kale--that's what a girl like you _really_ wants. And you can get it.
Think it over, kid."
Clancy had thought it over. But it had been one of those absurdly
hopeless dreams that could never be realized. And then, two months ago,
had come from California an inquiry as to her possible relationship to
the late Stephen Burgess. Aunt Hetty had visited the court-house,
looked up marriage records, with the result that, two days ago, Clancy
had received a draft for seven hundred and thirty-two dollars and
forty-one cents, one-eighth of the estate of Stephen Burgess, cousin of
Clancy's mother.
It wasn't a fortune, but Clancy, after a shriek, and showing the
precious draft to aunt Hetty, had run up-stairs and found the card that
Fanchon DeLisle had given her. She stood before the mirror. She
pirouetted, turned, twisted. And made her decision. If she stayed in
Zenith, she might, if lucky, marry a traveling man. One hundred dollars
a week at the outside.
Better to sink in New York than float in Zenith! And Fanchon DeLisle had
been so certain of Clancy's future, so roseate in her predictions, so
positive that Morris Beiner would place her!
Not a regret could Clancy find in her heart for having, on the day after
the receipt of the draft, left Zenith. Forever! She repeated the word to
herself, gritting her teeth.
"What's the matter, kid? Did he insult you?"
Clancy looked up. In the doorway--she had left the door ajar--stood a
tall young woman, a blonde. She entered without invitation and smiled
cheerfully at Clancy. She whirled on one shapely foot.
"Hook me up, will you, kid? I can't fix the darned thing to save my
life."
Clancy leaped to her feet and began fastening the opened dress of the
woman. She worked silently, too overcome by embarrassment to speak. The
blonde wriggled in her dress, making it fit more smoothly over her
somewhat prominent hips. She faced Clancy.
"My name's Fay Marston. What's yours?"
"Cl--Florine Ladue," replied Clancy.
"Y-e-s, it is," grinned the other. "But it don't matter a darn, kid.
It's what others call you, not what you call yourself. On the stage?"
"I expect to enter the movies," said Clancy.
"'_Enter_' them, eh? Wish I could crawl in! I'm too blamed big, they all
tell me. Still, I should worry, while Mr. Ziegfeld runs the 'Follies.'"
"Are you in the 'Follies'?" asked Clancy. This was life!
Fay winked.
"Not when they're on the road, old thing. You got your job?"
"Oh, I will!" said Clancy.
Miss Marston eyed her.
"I'll say you will. With a skin like that, you'll get anywhere
under God's blue canopy that you want to go. That's the secret,
Flo--Florine--skin. I tell you so. Oh, well, much obliged, kid. Do as
much for you sometime."
She walked to the door but hesitated on the threshold.
"Like wild parties, Florine?" she asked.
"I--I don't know," said Clancy.
"Nothing rough, you know. I never forget that I'm a lady and what's due
me from gentlemen," said Fay. "But--Ike Weber 'phoned me that his little
friend was laid up sick with somethin' or other, and if I could bring
another girl along, he'd be obliged. Dinner and dance--at the Château de
la Reine. Jazzy place, kid. You'd better come."
Clancy was thrilled. If a momentary doubt assailed her, she dismissed
it at once. She could take care of herself.
"I--I'd love to. If I have anything to wear----" She hesitated.
"Well, unpack the old gripsack," grinned Fay, "and we'll soon find out."
A moment later, she was shaking out the folds of an extremely simple
foulard. Another moment, and Clancy was in her knickers. Fay eyed her.
"Dance? Stage-dances, I mean. No? You oughta learn. Some pretty shape,
kid. Here, lemme button this."
For a moment, Clancy hesitated. Fay patted her on the shoulder.
"Don't make any mistake about me, Florine. I'm the right kind of people
for a little girl to know, all right."
"Why--why, of course you are!" said Clancy. Without further delay she
permitted Fay to return her service of a while ago and hook up the
pretty foulard.