Leila Vance, lunching with Elorn Sharrow at the Ritz, spoke of
Estridge:
"There seem to be so many of these well-born men who marry women we
never heard of."
"Perhaps we ought to have heard of them," suggested Elorn, smilingly.
"The trouble may lie with us."
"It does, dear. But it's something we can't help, unless we change
radically. Because we don't stand the chance we once did. We never
have been as attractive to men as the other sort. But once men thought
they couldn't marry the other sort. Now they think they can. And they
do if they have to."
"What other sort?" asked Elorn, not entirely understanding.
"The sort of girl who ignores the customs which make us what we are.
We don't stand a chance with professional women any more. We don't
compare in interest to girls who are arbiters of their own destinies.
"Take the stage as an illustration. Once the popularity of women who
made it their profession was due partly to glamour, partly because
that art drew to it and concentrated the very best-looking among us.
But it's something else now that attracts men; it's the attraction of
women who are doing something--clever, experienced, interesting, girls
who know how to take care of themselves and who are not afraid to give
to men a frank and gay companionship outside those conventional
limits which circumscribe us."
Elorn nodded.
"It's quite true," said Leila. "The independent professional girl
to-day, whatever art or business engages her, is the paramount
attraction to men.
"A few do sneak back to us after a jolly caper in the open--a few
timid ones, or snobs of sorts--thrifty, perhaps, or otherwise
material, or cautious. But that's about all we get as husbands in
these devilish days of general feminine _bouleversement_. And it's a
sad and instructive fact, Elorn. But there seems to be nothing to do
about it."
Elorn said musingly: "The main thing seems to be that men admire a
girl's effort to get somewhere--when she happens to be good-looking."
"It's a cynical fact, dear; they certainly do. And now that they
realise they have to marry these girls if they want them--why, they
do."
Elorn dissected her ice. "You know Stanley Wardner," she remarked.
"Mortimer Wardner's son?"
Elorn nodded. "He became a queer kind of sculptor. I think it is
called a Concentrationist. Well, he's concentrated for life, now."
"Whom did he marry?" asked Leila, laughing.
"A girl named Questa Terrett. You never heard of her, did you?"
"No. And I can imagine the moans and groans of the Mortimer
Wardners."
"I have heard so. She lives--_they_ live now, together, in Abdingdon
Square, where she possesses a studio and nearly a dozen West Highland
terriers."
"What else does she do?" inquired Leila, still laughing.
"She writes cleverly when she needs an income; otherwise, she produces
obscure poems with malice aforethought, and laughs in her sleeve, they
say, when the precious-minded rave."
Leila reverted to Estridge:
"I had no idea he was married," she said. "Palla Dumont introduced his
widow to me the other day--a most superb and beautiful creature. But,
oh dear I--can you fancy her having once served as a girl-soldier in
the Russian Battalion of Death!"
The slightest shadow crossed Elorn's face.
"By the way," added Leila, following quite innocently her trend of
thought, "Helen Shotwell tells me that her son is going back to the
army if he can secure a commission."
"Yes, I believe so," said Elorn serenely.
Leila went on: "I fancy there'll be a lot of them. A taste of service
seems to spoil most young men for a piping career of peace."
"He cares nothing for his business."
"What is it?"
"Real estate. He is with my father, you know."
"Of course. I remember--" She suddenly seemed to recollect something
else, also--not, perhaps, quite certain of it, but instinctively
playing safe. So she refrained from saying anything about this young
man's recent devotion to her friend, Palla Dumont, although that was
the subject which she had intended to introduce.
And, smiling to herself, she thought it a close call, because she had
meant to ask Elorn whether she knew why the Shotwell boy had so
entirely deserted her little friend Palla.
The Shotwell boy himself happened to be involved at that very moment,
in matters concerning a friend of Mrs. Vance's little friend Palla--in
fact, he had been trying, for the last half hour, to find this friend
of Palla's on the telephone. The friend in question was Alonzo D.
Pawling. And he was being vigorously paged at the Hotel Rajah.
As for Jim, he remained seated in the private office of Angelo Puma,
whither he had been summoned in professional capacity by one Skidder,
the same being Elmer, and partner of the Puma aforesaid.
The door was locked; the room in disorder. Safe, letter-files,
cupboards, desks had been torn open and their contents littered the
place.
Skidder, in an agony of perspiring fright, kept running about the room
like a distracted squirrel. Jim watched him, darkly preoccupied with
other things, including the whereabouts of Mr. Pawling.
"You say," he said to Skidder, "that Mr. Pawling will confirm what you
have told me?"
"John D. Pawling knows damn well I own this plant!"
Jim shook his head: "I'm sorry, but that isn't sufficient. I can only
repeat to you that there is no point in calling me in at present. You
have no legal right to offer this property for sale. It belongs,
apparently, to the creditors of your firm. What you require first of
all is a lawyer----"
"I don't want a lawyer and I don't want publicity before I get
something out of this dirty mess that scoundrel left behind!" cried
Skidder, snapping his eyes like mad and swinging his arms. "I got to
get something, haven't I? Isn't this property mine? Can't I sell it?"
"Apparently not, under the terms of your agreement with Puma,"
replied Jim, wearily. "However, I'm willing to hear what Mr. Pawling
has to say."
"You mean to tell me, Puma fixed it so I'm stuck with all his debts?
You mean to say my own personal property is subject to seizure to
satisfy----"
"I certainly do mean just that, Mr. Skidder. But I'm not a lawyer----"
"I tell you I want to get something for myself before I let loose any
lawyers on the premises! I'll make it all right with you----"
"It's out of the question. We wouldn't touch the property----"
"I'll take a quarter of its value in spot cash! I'll give you ten
thousand to put it through to-day!"
"Why can't you understand that what you suggest would amount to
collusion?"
"What I propose is to get a slice of what's mine!" yelled Skidder,
fairly dancing with fury. "D'yeh think I'm going to let that crooked
wop, Puma, do this to me just like that! D'yeh think he's going to get
away with all my money and all Pawling's money and leave me planted on
my neck while about a million other guys come and sell me out and fill
their pants pockets with what's mine?"
Jim said: "If Mr. Pawling is the very rich man you say he is, he's not
going to let the defalcation of this fellow, Puma, destroy such a
paying property."
"Damn it, I don't want him to buy it in for himself and freeze me out!
I can't stop him, either; Puma's got all my money except what's in
this parcel. And you betcha life I hang onto this, creditors or no
creditors, and Pawling to the contrary! He knows damn well it belongs
to me. Try him again at the Rajah----"
"They're paging him. I left the number. But I tell you the proper
thing for you to do is to go to a lawyer, and then to the police,"
repeated Jim. "There's nothing else to do. This fellow, Puma, may have
run for the Mexican border, or he may still be in the United States.
Without a passport he couldn't very easily get on any trans-Atlantic
boat or any South American boat either. The proper procedure is to
notify the police----"
"Nix on the police!" shouted Skidder. "That'll start the land-slide,
and the whole shooting-match will go. I want _this_ property. If the
papers show it's subject to the firm's liabilities, then that dirty
skunk altered the thing. It's forgery.
"I never was fool enough to lump this parcel in with our assets. Not
me. It's forgery; that's what it is, and this parcel belongs to me,
privately----"
"See an attorney," repeated Jim patiently. "You can't keep a thing
like this out of the papers, Mr. Skidder. Why, here's a man, Angelo
Puma, who pounces on every convertible asset of his firm, stuffs a
valise full of real money, and beats it for parts unknown.
"That's a matter for the police. You can't hope to hide it for more
than a day or two longer. Your firm is bankrupt through the rascality
of a partner. He's gone with all the money he could scrape together.
He converted everything into cash; he lied, swindled, stole, and
skipped. And what he didn't take must remain to satisfy the firm's
creditors. You can't conceal conditions, slyly pocket what Puma has
left and then call in an attorney. That's criminal. You have your
contracts to fulfil; you have a studio full of people whose salaries
are nearly due; you have running expenses; you have notes to meet; you
have obligations to face when a dozen or so contractors for your new
theatre come to you on Saturday----"
"You mean that's all up to me?" shrieked Skidder, squinting horribly
at a framed photograph of Puma. And suddenly he ran at it and hurled
it to the floor and began to kick it about with strange, provincial
maledictions:
"Dern yeh, yeh poor blimgasted thing! I'll skin yeh, yeh dumb-faced,
ring-boned, two-edged son-of-a-skunk!----"
The telephone's clamour silenced him. Jim answered:
"Who? Oh, long-distance. All right." And he waited. Then, again: "Who
wants him?... Yes, he's here in the office, now.... Yes, he'll come to
the 'phone."
And to Skidder: "Shadow Hill wants to speak to you."
"I won't go. By God, if this thing is out!--Who the hell is it wants
to speak to me? Wait! Maybe it's Alonzo D. Pawling!----"
"Shall I inquire?" And he asked for further information over the wire.
Then, presently, and turning again to Skidder:
"You'd better come to the wire. It seems to be the Chief of Police who
wants you."
Skidder's unhealthy skin became ghastly. He came over and took the
instrument:
"What d'ye want, Chief? Sure it's me, Elmer.... Hey? Who? Alonzo D.
Pawling? My God, is he dead? Took _pizen_! W-what for! He's a rich
man, ain't he?... Speculated?... You say he took the bank's funds?
Trust funds? What!" he screeched--"put 'em into _my_ company! He's a
liar! ... I don't care what letters he left!... Well, all right
then. Sure, I'll get a lawyer----"
"Tell him to hold that wire!" cut in Jim; and took the receiver from
Skidder's shaking fingers.
"Is the Shadow Hill Trust Company insolvent?" he asked. "You say that
the bank closed its doors this morning? Have you any idea of its
condition? Looted? Is it entirely cleaned out? Is there no chance for
depositors? I wish to inquire about the trust funds, bonds and other
investments belonging to a friend of mine, Miss Dumont.... Yes, I'll
wait."
He turned a troubled and sombre gaze toward Skidder, who sat there
pasty-faced, with sagging jaw, staring back at him. And presently:
"Yes.... Yes, this is Mr. Shotwell, a friend of Miss Dumont....
Yes.... Yes.... Yes.... I see.... Yes, I shall try to communicate with
her immediately.... Yes, I suppose the news will be published in the
evening papers.... Certainly.... Yes, I have no doubt that she will go
at once to Shadow Hill.... Thank you.... Yes, it does seem rather
hopeless.... I'll try to find her and break it to her.... Thank you.
Good-bye."
He hung up the receiver, took his hat and coat, his eyes fixed
absently on Skidder.
"You'd better beat it to your attorney," he remarked, and went out.
* * * * *
He could not find Palla. She was not at the Red Cross, not at the
canteen, not at the new Hostess House.
He telephoned Ilse for information, but she was not at home.
Twice he called at Palla's house, leaving a message the last time
that she should telephone him at the club on her arrival.
He went to the club and waited there, trying to read. At a quarter to
six o'clock no message from her had come.
Again he telephoned Ilse; she had not returned. He even telephoned to
Marya, loath to disturb her; but she, also, was not at home.
The chances that he could break the news to Palla before she read it
in the evening paper were becoming negligible. He had done his best to
forestall them. But at six the evening papers arrived at the club. And
in every one of them was an account of the defalcation and suicide of
the Honorable Alonzo D. Pawling, president of the Shadow Hill Trust
Company. But nothing yet concerning the defalcation and disappearance
of Angelo Puma.
Jim had no inclination to eat, but he tried to at seven-thirty, still
waiting and hoping for a message from Palla.
He tried her house again about half past eight. This time the maid
answered that Miss Dumont had telephoned from down town that she would
dine out and go afterward to the Combat Club. And that if Mr. Shotwell
desired to see her he should call at her house after ten o'clock.
So Jim hastened to the cloak-room, got his hat and coat, found the
starter, secured a taxi, bought an evening paper and stuffed it into
his pocket, and started out to find Palla at the Combat Club. For it
seemed evident to him that she had not yet read the evening paper; and
he hoped he might yet encounter her in time to prepare her for news
which, according to the newspapers, appeared even blacker than he had
supposed it might be.