Lorelei was not a little mystified by Merkle's cryptic message, for she
could imagine no possible way in which she or the writer himself could
be connected discreditably with Jarvis Hammon's affair. She gained some
light, however, when that evening she read the note to Lilas.
"Why, they're going to blackmail Merkle, too," Lilas exclaimed. "Well,
they'd be foolish to let him off, wouldn't they? Two millionaires out
with two showgirls! Hilarious foursome at the Chateau! Automobile
wreck! Foxy Pinkertons and flash-light photographs! Nice story."
"So they think he'll pay to keep his name out of the papers?"
"Exactly. And he will--for your sake."
"I won't let him."
Lilas was surprised. "Why? He's rich. He wouldn't miss a few thousand."
"You wouldn't allow Mr. Hammon to be robbed, would you?"
"Oh, wouldn't I? If he didn't care enough for me to protect me from
scandal I'd want to know it."
"Lilas, you puzzle me," confessed Lorelei, doubtfully. "You say things
that make me think you don't care for him at all; then again you seem
to be crazy about him. How DO you feel? How far would you go with him?"
Lilas laughed airily. "Perhaps I'd go farther WITH him than FOR him. He
asked me to marry him if his wife gets a divorce; and I agreed. Does
that answer your question?"
"I--suppose it does."
"Now that he has come to the point, I'm not sorry things happened just
as they did. A woman must look out for herself--no man will ever help
her. It's worth some notoriety to become Mrs. Jarvis Hammon."
Something in the speaker's words rang false; but just what that
something was, Lorelei could not decide.
"Then you'd like to see the story made public?" she queried.
"Naturally."
"I dare say if I loved a man I'd want him at any price, but I--hope I'm
not going to be dragged into this matter."
"My dear, New York has blackmailing newspapers, just as it has
blackmailing men. They live off people like Merkle. You'd be foolish to
let him escape from this just to save a few dollars, for the notoriety
will injure you, where it benefits me. It's not often that girls in our
business know men like those two. You have a family; they can make
Merkle do the right thing by you."
"I don't want him to do anything," protested Lorelei. "There's nothing
to do."
"You could make him marry you."
Lorelei winced. "Nonsense! I don't care for him. He's an old man.
There's no reason why he should."
"He could be made to pay, at least, and you'll be sorry if you don't
get something out of him. Just wait and see what a difference the story
makes with your other men friends."
During the ensuing performance Lorelei pondered her friend's
disquieting prophecy; yet she could see no reason for grave
apprehension. Publicity of the kind threatened would, of course, be
disagreeable; but how it could seriously affect her was not apparent.
Later in the evening Robert Wharton appeared, as usual, and so
resentful was he at the deceptions previously practised upon him that
Lorelei with difficulty escaped a scene. He declared positively that he
was not to be discouraged; that he proposed to have his attentions
accepted at any cost, even if it became necessary to use force. He
seemed sufficiently drunk to execute his threat, and his invitation to
supper was couched this time more in the terms of a command. At last he
borrowed a stool from the Judge, who by now was his willing vassal, and
planted himself in the hallway, where he remained throughout the
performance--a gloomy, watchful figure. Lorelei came down boldly,
dressed for the street, and, since she could not pass the besieger,
excused herself briefly. Descending the basement stairs, she crossed
under the stage, made her way into the orchestra-pit, and managed to
leave the theater by the front door.
She was waiting when Jim came home, and followed him into his room,
where they could talk without disturbing their father. Lorelei made her
accusation boldly, prepared for the usual burst of anger, but Jim
listened patiently until she paused.
"I knew you had to spill this, so I let you rave," said he. "But it's
too late; somebody has been after Hammon for a long time, and he's been
got--yes, and got good. Take a flash at THE CHORUS-GIRL'S BIBLE." He
tossed his sister a copy of a prominent theatrical paper. "I waited
until it came out."
Lorelei gasped, for on the front page glared black-typed head-lines of
the Hammon scandal. John Merkle's name was there, too and linked with
it, her own.
"Jim!" she cried aghast. "They promised to kill the story."
"Humph! Charley Murphy himself couldn't kill that."
"What is--THIS?" She ran her eye swiftly down the column.
"Sure. Melcher commenced suit against Hammon this afternoon. Fifty
thousand dollars for alienation of Lilas's affections. Joke, eh? He
claims there was a common-law marriage and he'll get the coin."
"But Mrs. Hammon?"
"The evidence is in her hands already--dates, places, photographs,
everything. She'll win her suit, too."
"Why, it sounds like a--a deliberate plot. But I don't understand who's
behind it. What part did you have in it, Jim? Were you helping Mr.
Melcher in his blackmail scheme, or--" Another possibility came to
her--"Were you by any chance working for Mrs. Hammon?"
Divining his sister's prejudice, Jim lied promptly and convincingly.
"Why, Mrs. Hammon, of course. I had a chance to turn a few dollars, and
I took it."
"But why did they drag me in? Couldn't you keep me out of it? This is
dreadful." As she ran her eye over the article she saw that it was
quite in harmony with the general tone and policy of the paper which
catered to the jaded throngs of the Tenderloin. Truth had been
cunningly distorted; flippancy, sensationalism, and a salacious double
meaning ran through it all.
"What's dreadful about it?" inquired her brother. "That sort of
advertising does a show-girl good. You've got to make people talk about
you, Sis, and this'll bring a gang of high-rollers your way. You've
been so blamed proper that nobody's interested in you any more."
For a moment Lorelei scrutinized her brother in silence, taken aback at
his outrageous philosophy. Jim had changed greatly, she mused; not
until very lately had she observed the full measure of the change in
him. He was no longer the country boy, the playmate and confidant of
her youth, but a man, sophisticated, hard, secretive. He had been
thoroughly Manhattanized, she perceived, and he was as foreign to her
as a stranger. She shook her head hopelessly.
"You're a strange brother," she said. "I hardly know what to make of
you. Has the city killed every decent instinct in you, Jim?"
"Now don't begin on the Old Home stuff," he replied, testily. "I
haven't changed any more than you have. Why, ma used to think you'd
play dead or jump through whenever she snapped her finger, but--you're
getting tough-bitted. You're getting sanctimonious in your old age.
Where you got it from I don't know--not from ma, surely, nor from dad;
he's a cheater and always has been."
"JIM!"
"Oh, you know it. I'm wondering--how long you'll stand pat."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you really intend to marry a bunch of coin?"
"That's the program, isn't it? I've been raised for that, and nothing
else."
"Well, ma can't put it over, so I guess it's up to me. Just leave
things to Brother Jim, and don't worry over what happens. Nobody along
Broadway pays any attention to this rot." He indicated the newspaper
with a wave of his cigar. After a moment he added, "Would you accept
Merkle?"
Lorelei shivered. "Oh--no! Not Mr. Merkle."
"Why not? He's all right, and he won't last long."
"The idea is--Ugh! He wouldn't ask me, and I sha'n't allow you to use
this scandal to--urge him. The proposition sounds all right in the
abstract--marriage, money, comfort, everything I want--but when it
comes right down to the point--I--always balk."
"Humph! You ought to consider the rest of us a little bit. Pa could be
cured, ma'd be happy. I could get on my feet. How about Bob Wharton?"
"He's a drunkard."
"Good Lord, you don't expect to grab a divinity student, do you? That
kind never has anything."
"Let's not talk about it, please. Mr. Wharton is getting nasty,
and--I'm beginning to be afraid of him."
"I'll bet you could land him--"
"Please. I--don't want to think about it. I dare say I'll bring myself
to marry some rich man some day; but--Merkle--Wharton--" She shuddered
for a second time. "If Mr. Wharton is serious this scandal will scare
him off, or else he'll become--just like the others. I could cry. He
threatened me to-night; I don't know how I'll manage to avoid him
to-morrow night."
"Hm-m! He's coming that strong, eh?" was Jim's interested query; but on
hearing his sister's account of the young millionaire's determined
pursuit he volunteered in his offhand way to assist her.
"I'll come for you myself, and we'll whip over to a cafe for supper."
"You'll save me from him," said Lorelei, with a wan smile, "and I'll
know that you are in good company for one evening at least."
"Don't lose any sleep over my habits," he told her, lightly; "and don't
worry yourself about this newspaper story, either. Melcher is in the
right, for Hammon cut him out with Lilas. He's after Merkle, too; so
you'll have to stand the gaff this time. I'll look up this chap Wharton
to-morrow and find out what sort of a farmer's son he really is."
As Jim and his mother breakfasted together on the following morning he
broached the subject of his recent conversation with Lorelei.
"She's sore about the story," he said. "We had a long talk last night."
"I knew she would be, and I'm not sure it was a good thing."
"We'll drag something out of it if you do your part. Merkle will pay.
Don't mention money--nothing but marriage--understand? Outraged
motherhood, ruined daughter, blasted career--that's yours. I'll be the
brother who's in the position of a father to her. I can threaten, but
you mustn't. Goldberg will close for us."
"I don't see why we have to divide with a lawyer, when it's our affair
and we can handle it ourselves," his mother complained.
"I tell you it's got to go through the regular channels. This was
Melcher's idea, and, since I'm in on the Hammon money, Max is entitled
to his bit of this. Gee! If she'd only told us she was going out with
Merkle we might have framed something worth while--I don't mind telling
you this is a pretty weak case."
"He won't stand publicity; they never do," averred Mrs. Knight.
"Oh, he's not like Hammon; he hasn't GOT a family-and Lorelei won't
back us up, either. We've got to bluff it through."
"Wouldn't he marry her?"
"Not a chance. In the first place, she wouldn't have him. Bob Wharton
is the white hope."
"She hates him, too. Goodness knows what we're going to do with her."
"I think she'll stand for Wharton if we work her right; it's him or
nobody. She's getting harder to handle every day, though, and one of
these times she'll fall for some rummy. If she ever does lose her head
she'll skid for the ditch, and we can kiss ourselves good-by. She'll be
as easy to steer as a wild boar by the tail. I guess you're sorry now
that you didn't listen to me and let Max handle her before she got
wise."
"I wouldn't feel safe with any of that crowd. I'd be terribly afraid."
Mrs. Knight shook her head dubiously.
"Say! She's got you doing it, too. Why, they don't take a chance.
Goldberg handles the legal end, and his brother is in the legislature.
But that's not all: Melcher's partner in his gambling-house is
Inspector Snell. You can't beat that. I could have Merkle killed for
five hundred bucks and never stand a pinch. I'd merely tip one of
Maxey's gunmen, and some night Old Dyspepsia Dick would wake up with a
harp in his hand. They'd get him coming out of his bank or going to his
club or leaving the theater; and nobody would dream who did it, for
there wouldn't be a motive. It's done every day, ma. Even if they
grabbed one of the boys, Melcher would spring him from the Tombs.
'Alibi' is Maxey's middle name, and he MAKES bondsmen. How do you
suppose politics are run in this town, anyhow?"
"That isn't politics; that's murder." Mrs. Knight was deeply shocked.
"This is a terrible city, Jim."
"Sure; but Max is in politics for the protection it gives him in his
other lines of business. His gambling-house is as safe as a church.
There's big money in this banker-hunting, too. Did you read about the
two old guys at the King William Hotel last month? Well, Max laid 'em
against two squabs, friends of Tony's. He got the girls into the hotel,
paid their bills, and all that. They've cleaned up about twenty
thousand so far. Of course, Lorelei won't stand for anything like that,
so we've got to marry her, I suppose."
"Just the same, I'm frightened--and this isn't honest. I wish she would
listen to Robert Wharton."
James winked meaningly. "Leave that to me. She's going to Proctor's
with me to-night. Maybe he'll join us. But meanwhile we've got Merkle
for some quick money if we work him right. I'm off for Goldy's office
now. I'll meet you at three."
When Jim reappeared, dressed for the street, he gave a bit of parting
advice:
"Better lay on the hysterics when she wakes up. It'll make it easier
for me to-night."
Lorelei found her mother visibly upset by the story in the morning's
newspaper.
"You told me you only went to supper with that man," Mrs. Knight cried,
tragically. "Instead of that you two were off in the country together
all night. Here's the whole thing." She brandished the paper
dramatically.
"Well, I told you a fib. But there's no harm done."
"Harm, indeed? You're ruined. I never read anything more disgraceful; I
daren't show it to Peter--it would kill him. What EVER possessed you,
after the way we've watched over you, after the care we've taken of
you? It's terrible."
"Please don't carry on so. It was too bad, of course, but--I'll live
through it."
The shock of this callous assertion seemed to rob Mrs. Knight of
speech; she stared at her daughter in grief and amazement.
"Mr. Merkle is a gentleman," Lorelei defended. "He'll regret this
publicity as much as I."
"The wretch! I'll teach him to spoil an innocent girl's career and drag
her name in the mud." Mrs. Knight glared balefully.
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said her daughter, sharply.
"He--ought to marry you."
"Why, mother! You're more insulting than that newspaper. The career of
a show-girl is something of a joke." Lorelei undertook to laugh, but
the attempt failed rather dismally.
"Indeed. What will the other men say? You had a character; nobody could
say a word against you until now. Do you think any decent man would
marry a girl who did a thing like this? Of course, I know you're a good
girl, but they don't, and they'll believe absolutely the worst. You've
spoiled everything, my dear; I'm completely discouraged." Mrs. Knight
began to weep in a weak, heart-broken manner, expecting Lorelei to
melt, as usual; but, seeing something in her daughter's expression that
warned her not to carry her reproaches too far, she broke out: "You're
SO hard, SO unreasonable. Don't you see I'm frantic with worry? You're
all we have, and--and the thought of an injury to your prospects nearly
kills me. You misunderstand everything I say. I--WISH you were safely
married and out of danger. I think I could die happy then. It means so
much to all of us to have you settled right away. Peter is failing
every day; Jim is going to the dogs, and--I'm sick over it all."
"I wish I WERE married and out of the way. You would all be fixed, at
least. I--don't much care about myself." Lorelei sighed in hopeless
weariness of spirit, for variations of this scene had been common of
late, and they always filled her with the blackest pessimism.
"Maybe Mr. Merkle--"
"We'll leave him out of this," declared Lorelei; "he's too decent to
have a person like me foisted upon him--and there's no reason whatever
why he should be held responsible for my notoriety." She turned away
from the dining-room with a shudder of distaste. "I don't want any
breakfast. I think I'll get some air."
As soon as she was out in the street she turned southward
involuntarily, and set off toward the establishment of Adoree Demorest.
Mrs. Knight dried her eyes and began to dress herself carefully,
preparatory to a journey into the Wall Street section of the city, for
the hour was drawing on toward three o'clock.
Meanwhile Jim, having transacted his business at Goldberg's office,
sought a more familiar haunt on one of the side-streets among the
forties. Here, just off Broadway, was a famous barber-shop--a spotless
place with white interior and tiled walls. Six Italians in stiff duck
coats practised their arts at a row of well-equipped chairs. A
wasp-waisted girl sat at the manicure-table next the front windows. As
Jim entered she was holding the hand of a jaded person in a light-gray
suit, and murmuring over it with an occasional upward glance from a
pair of bold dark eyes.
"Tony the Barber's" place was thoroughly antiseptic. Dirt was a
stranger there; germs found life within its portals a hazardous
business--what with the vitrified walls, the glass shelves, and
enameled plumbing. Even the towels were handled with tongs; the
nickel-plated steamer in which they were heated to an unbearable
temperature seemed to puff its cheeks with a consciousness of painful
and almost offensive cleanliness. The men who worked here had hard,
black eyes, but their hands were soft and white. The rows of mugs that
stood inside the glass cupboards were inscribed with the names of
prominent actors, managers, and booking-agents of the Rialto--for this
was a famous place in its way.
Tony, engaged in administering a shampoo, nodded at Jim, and from force
of habit murmured politely:
"Next!" Then, with a meaning glance, he indicated a door at the rear of
the shop. In the third chair Jim recognized Max Melcher, although the
face of the sporting-man was swathed in steaming cloths.
Jim passed on and into a rear room, where he found three men seated at
a felt-covered card-table. They were well dressed, quiet persons--one a
bookmaker whom the racing laws had reduced from affluence to
comparative penury; another, a tall, pallid youth with bulging eyes.
The third occupant of the room was an ex-lightweight champion of the
ring, Young Sullivan, by name. His trim waist and powerful shoulders
betokened his trade. His jaw was firm, and a cauliflower ear overhung
his collar like a fungus.
Jim drew up a chair and chatted idly until the book-maker yawned, rose,
and went out. Then Jim and the others relaxed.
"Gee, he's a sticker!" exclaimed the pugilist. "I thought he'd broke
his back."
"Max is getting his map greased," the pop-eyed youth explained. Taking
a pasteboard box from his pocket, he removed a heroin tablet therefrom
and crushed it; the powder he held in the indentation between the base
of his closed thumb and first finger, known as "the thimble"; then,
with a quick inhalation, he drew the drug up his nostrils. "Have an
angel?" he inquired, offering the box.
Jim accepted, but Young Sullivan declined.
"What's the news?" the latter inquired.
"I've seen Goldy," replied Jim. "Mother and I will call on Merkle at
three. I finally got her to consent."
Sullivan shook his head. "He MIGHT fall, but I doubt it. How does your
sister feel?"
"That's the trouble. She's square, and we can't use her," Jim explained.
"Some doll!" admiringly commented Armistead, the third member of the
group. Armistead had once been famed in vaudeville for dancing, but the
drug habit had destroyed his endurance, and with it his career. "She's
a perfect thirty-six, all right. She could rip a lot of coin loose if
she tried."
At this moment Mr. Melcher, freshly perfumed and talcumed, entered the
room. His white hair was arranged with scrupulous nicety; his pink
face, as unwrinkled as his immaculate attire, was beaming with good
humor.
"Well, boys, I'm the pay-car," he smiled.
"Hammon came through, eh?" Sullivan inquired, eagerly.
"Not exactly; we compromised. Quick sales and small profits; that's
business."
"How strong did he go?" queried Armistead.
"Now, what's the difference, so long as you get yours? Photography is a
paying business." Melcher laughed agreeably.
"Sure! I'll bet Sarony is rich." Young Sullivan carelessly accepted the
roll of currency which Melcher tossed him, and the others did likewise.
"I suppose that's curtain for us," Jim said, regretfully.
"It is. The rest is Lilas's affair."
"Say, will the old man fall AGAIN?" queried Armistead.
"He's going to marry her!" The three others stared at him in amazement.
"Right!" confirmed Melcher. "She's got a strangle hold on him."
"Hm-m! Maybe we haven't lost the last car yet," Sullivan ventured.
Jim seconded the thought. "She's got an ace buried somewhere. There's a
lot more in her head than hair-pins. I wish Merkle would marry my
sister."
"Not a chance," Melcher declared. "You'll be lucky to shake him down
for a few thousand. How about Wharton? Will she stand for him?"
Jim frowned, and his voice was rough as he replied:
"I'll MAKE her stand for him--if it's a marry."
"He's a lush; if you got him stewed he might go that far. It has been
done; but, of course, it's all up to the girl. Anyhow, if he balks at
the altar we might get him for something else."
"I'm not sure I'll need any help in this." Jim looked up coldly. "If he
marries her, that ends it; if we have to frame him, of course I'll
split."
"How are you going to frame him, with a square dame like Lorelei?"
asked Armistead.
"Frame both of them," Melcher said, shortly. "By the way, he's a
gambler, too, isn't he? Bring him in some night, Jim, and I'll turn for
him myself."
"Save his cuff-buttons for me," laughed Young Sullivan, idly riffling
the cards. "Gee! Money comes easy to some folks. Don't you guys never
expect to do any honest work?"