CHAPTER I_Mary Regan

[Illustration: LYING WITH HIS PALLID FACE TOWARD THE SKY, HE LOOKED

HANDSOME AND BOYISH AND IRRESISTIBLY LIKEABLE (_page 373_)]

Mary Regan

By LEROY SCOTT

AUTHOR OF

“Partners of the Night,” Etc.

[Illustration]

With Frontispiece

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN COMPANY

_Published January 1918_

CONTENTS

I. THE WORLD SITS DOWN TOGETHER 1

II. THE RETURN OF MARY REGAN 11

III. PETER LOVEMAN 20

IV. AS MARY SEES HERSELF 34

V. CLIFFORD HAS A NEW PURPOSE 47

VI. MARY SHOWS HER HAND 55

VII. NINA CORDOVA 70

VIII. IN LOVEMAN’S LIBRARY 87

IX. THE TEST OF LIFE 100

X. THE GOLDEN DOORS 112

XI. MARY PLANS ANEW 124

XII. A GENTLEMAN OF PLEASURE 136

XIII. MR. MORTON TAKES A HAND 149

XIV. MARY FACES A CRISIS 159

XV. LOVEMAN SHOWS HIS CLAWS 169

XVI. THE STRINGS OF HUMAN NATURE 181

XVII. THE OTHER WOMAN 193

XVIII. HOW MAISIE JONES REACTED 206

XIX. MARY THINKS THINGS OUT 215

XX. CLIFFORD’S NEW ASSIGNMENT 225

XXI. AT THE MIDNIGHT CAFÉ 238

XXII. MARY MAKES AN OFFER 248

XXIII. LOVEMAN’S FINAL PLEA 264

XXIV. TWO PLEASANT GENTLEMEN 275

XXV. A FATHER’S HOPE 282

XXVI. HOW MARY’S DREAM CAME TRUE 295

XXVII. JACK MAKES A RESOLUTION 315

XXVIII. THE HOUSE OF MONSIEUR LE BAIN 324

XXIX. CLIFFORD WAITS ON GUARD 336

XXX. WHEN WOMEN NEVER TALK 344

XXXI. WHEN OLD FOES GET TOGETHER 354

XXXII. PLEASURE PRESENTS ITS BILL 363

XXXIII. THE STUFF IN MARY REGAN 378

MARY REGAN

CHAPTER I

THE WORLD SITS DOWN TOGETHER

It was opening night of the new bill at the Grand Alcazar; and

Clifford, as he waited alone at a little table for his host, almost

unconsciously searched through the great restaurant of black-and-gold

for Mary Regan--just as, almost unconsciously, he had been seeking

her wherever he had been during the six months of agreed-upon silence

since they had parted. He did not expect to see her here, hence felt

no disappointment when his roving eyes did not come upon her. She had

said she would write when she had thought it all out, and when she

was ready to see him. Six months was a long time, but he believed in

her word--and still waited, not once having sought to penetrate that

utter privacy which she had asserted to be for her, at that time,

life’s prime essential. But though keeping his word, he had often been

impatient, and had often wondered.

Meditatively Clifford glanced over this great crowd of well-dressed

diners. For him they were a vivid concentration, a cross-section,

of life: of life as he, in his philosophy, and in the pursuit of

his profession, had come to see it. Here were millionaires, many of

them having made their easeful fortunes by dubious operations which

shrewd counsel had steered just within the law; here were young men

of moderate means, spending recklessly; here were society women of

the younger and smarter set, with their escorts, sowing the seeds,

though they dreamed it not, of possible scandal and possible blackmail;

here were members of that breed of humans who are known as “sporting

men”; here were the most finished types of professional crooks, many

accompanied by the finished women of their own kind, but here and there

with them a girl who had no idea of the manner of man with whom she ate

and drank, and no idea of the end of this her pleasant adventure; and

here were respectable mothers and their daughters, who were innocent

of what sat at the next table; and here were out-of-town visitors who

were visibly excited and exalted by the thought that they were seeing

life--New York!--the real New York!

Clifford smiled sadly, rather grimly, to himself. These conglomerate

guests were proof of what he had long held: that there was no distinct

underworld, no distinct upperworld; that in ideas and personalities

the two were always merging. This scene summarized what experience

had made the basic idea of Clifford’s working philosophy: the great

interrelation, the great interdependence, the great _oneness_ of all

humanity.

Looking over this mixture of all sorts, in which acquaintance was so

easy to make, Clifford thought of the strange dramas that had their

beginnings in the Grand Alcazar and establishments of its kind. Thus

much had the dancing craze, though now receded from its earliest

frenzy, and the practice of dining and eating midnight suppers in the

showy restaurants, achieved: it had brought all sorts of persons, so

long as they were well dressed, under the same roof and had set them

down at the same or adjoining tables. Hardly since time began had that

important requisite of great drama been so nearly perfect as in these

restaurants--for people of different ideas and interests and moral

standards to meet naturally upon a common ground....

A little man, swart of face, his mustache tightly waxed, and in the

smartest evening dress that convention permits the male, paused and

spoke to Clifford--a gentleman whom most of the patrons of the place

knew, if they knew him at all, as Monsieur Le Bain. Though the master

of this ornate pleasure palace, he spoke obsequiously.

Clifford liked to see the great little man squirm. “Police trouble you

much here?” he asked.

“No, Bob,--I never see a policeman here, except when a captain or an

inspector comes in to eat,” the great restaurateur said nervously.

“Not like the old days downtown--with their raids--eh, Joe?”

“Nothing of that sort--ever!” And with a quick look around that showed

he feared some one might have overheard these sentences and guessed

what lay behind them, he said something about being needed on his

ballroom floor and hurried away.

Clifford watched the famous restaurateur, again smiling grimly. If

these people here--the respectable ones at least--knew the record of

Joe Gordon (which again was not the name given him at birth), knew

from what places and occupations he had made his way to his eminence

of foremost host and impresario of prandial entertainment--what a

panic there would be! (Or would there be a panic?) Life was certainly

strange!--with its emergencies, its juxtapositions, its crossing of

threads--strange at least to him who was always seeing behind the

scenes. Yes, life was certainly strange!...

Clifford’s meditations were interrupted by a hearty, “Hello, Bob,” and

by a large hand gripping one of his.

“Hello, Uncle George. I’d begun to think--”

“Hold on, son,” and Clifford’s host halted the talk by raising one

hand like a traffic policeman and with the other reaching for the

dinner card. While the long order was being dictated, Clifford gazed

impatiently across at his companion, wondering what this appointment

was about. His host was a large man who once might have been bulbous,

but who now had deflated little balloons of skin hanging beneath

eyes and chin and jaws. His few short gray hairs were divided into

two precisely equal portions; his eyebrows were entirely gone,

and of eyelashes he had almost none; his eyes were smallish, gray,

cunning, genial. He made Clifford fancy, with those eyes of his so

good-naturedly cynical, and with his large, outstanding ears, that

here might be a satyr who had forsaken gay forests for city and had at

length grown into grandfatherly days.

“Well, now, Uncle George--what’s all this about?” Clifford demanded

when the order was in.

“Not so fast, son,--not so fast,” slowly remonstrated Uncle George,

who, as far as Broadway’s knowledge went, was no one’s Uncle George,

but who was known by no other name. “Let’s wait until we’ve packed away

some of the freight that waiter’s going to bring us.” He blinked his

lashless lids, and drawled on. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen

you--six months. I just wanted to give you the once over, and ask you

how was trade.”

“Trade’s good--considering.”

The old head nodded. “Yes, considering that you’re a detective who’s on

the square. There’s not much chance for that sort, son,--not in this

here widely advertised Christian civilization of ours. At least, not

much chance to make a large private collection of coin.”

“I’m not in this primarily to make money. I thought you understood

that.”

“You sure are a queer guy, son,” pronounced the old man. “I’ve heard

you spiel off your ideas--you’re not primarily a thief-taker--you’re

in this to help people out of the trouble. A hell of an idea for a

detective!”

“You know as well as I do, Uncle George, that most of the people that

get into trouble, or seem to be bad--well, they personally are not so

much to blame. They’ve been born and raised in bad conditions--they’ve

never had a chance--have never really been able to tell what was right

or wrong, and have never had a chance to choose the right--”

“Come up for air, son,--come up for air,” cut in the old man. “Son,

that’s nice music, but it’s all bunk. You’re an awful example of what

a college education can do to a man. Now you just listen to your Uncle

George. You know me--everybody knows me. I’ve been in about every

crooked game known to the human race and the higher animals, including

managing shows--and I’ve never been pinched because I was too clever

for the coppers, and the coppers know it, too. I tell you I know life

up and down and across the middle--and I tell you that we’ve all got a

streak of crookedness--every damned one of us!”

“If that’s so,” smiled Clifford, “then why are you always helping

crooks?”

“That’s just my human cussedness. I’ve retired from business--I’m one

of these gentlemen farmers that have located on Broadway; but I don’t

like to see any earnest young crook get a raw deal from the coppers,

who are the rawest crooks of all.” The old man waved his left hand as

though brushing such conversation aside. “But let’s get down to brass

tacks--which means you and me. You and Bradley as great friends as

ever?”

Despite himself Clifford flushed with chagrin. “Don’t try to be funny!”

“And, son, don’t be too sore. Bradley was one hell of a guy. He was the

cleverest chief of detectives the Police Department ever had.”

“And the crookedest!”

“Sure, son,--didn’t I tell you us humans were all crooks!” the old man

said appeasingly. “But, sure, there never was a crookeder chief of

detectives than Bradley. You certainly showed nerve when you started

out to get him--and you certainly showed your class when you finally

trapped him, publicly, with the goods on. Only--”

“That’s it--_only_!” Clifford exclaimed sourly. “It’s quite some little

word, that _only_.”

“Sure--_only_. Son,”--and the old man spoke gravely,--“I’m twice as

old as you are, but you should know as well as I know that _you really

can’t get_ a copper. I mean a clever copper. Count the big coppers that

have really been sent away--the smart boys, I mean--and you’ll see you

have several fingers left to check up your laundry on. That was grand

business you pulled on Bradley, and it showed all New York he was a

crook. It was worth doing--God, yes! But I said to myself, as soon as I

heard of the swell arrest you had made of him, that a classy guy like

Bradley would have himself covered and would beat the case when it

came to trial. And he sure did beat it!”

“On a technicality!” Clifford was still bitter at the manner in which

his old enemy and old superior officer had slipped from what had seemed

the sure clutches of the law.

“A technicality, sure. But it got him off, and what more does a crook

ever ask for?”

“But he got reinstated in the Police Department!”

“But didn’t he retire right afterwards, claiming broken health? And

don’t you and I know his real reason was that his old game was done for

and that the public was wise to him? The big trouble with you, son,”

the old man declared severely, “is that you want a one hundred per cent

victory. The best you can hope for with a guy like Bradley is to split

the thing fifty-fifty.”

“You seem to admire Bradley a lot!” half growled Clifford.

“I do. I hand it to the guy with brains wherever I meet him.”

“I don’t see how you can be friends with me, then!”

“You’re clever, too, son. You’re the only one I’ve ever figured

might beat Bradley in a finish fight. And then you’re a queer party,

Bob,--you’re square,” he drawled. “I’ve traveled up and down this

world of he-and-she grafters, shoplifters, safeblowers, and sure-thing

business men, and after it all you know it’s right pleasant to sit down

in the shade of a square guy. And besides, son,” he added, “I said I

admired Bradley because he was clever; I didn’t say I liked him as a

friend. Now, you, Bob, somehow I like you.”

“Thanks, Uncle George.” There was a moment’s silence. “But that’s not

what you got me here to tell me.”

“Perhaps not, son. But what’s the hurry? Queer, ain’t it,” he

meditated, “how all the big cops, when they leave the Police

Department, open a private detective agency? I hear Bradley’s doing

great business since he started out as a private detective.”

“Licensed blackmailer--that’s what he is!”

“Sure, son, that’s what they all are. A client tells a private sleuth

secrets, and retains him to get information about some other party--and

is held up for a big fee. The sleuth gets the information, and then

makes the second party pay by threatening to expose him--second

hold-up; and then makes the first client pay again by threatening

to expose the original secret--third hold-up. Oh, it’s a rich game

Bradley’s switched into!”

“Once more, Uncle George--that’s not what you got me here to tell me.”

“Perhaps it’s not really so much I’ve got to tell you. Mebbe it’s

occurred to you”--meditatively, slowly--“that since the big upset you

gave him, Bradley isn’t exactly what you might call in love with you.”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I heard it from a friend who’s got a friend who’s got a

mother-in-law who listens to little birds--and the dope runs that

Bradley is out to square matters with you.”

Clifford nodded. He had expected something of the sort.

“Did this little bird relay any information as to just what Bradley was

going to do?”

“None that got to me. But, son, I’d keep my eyes pointed in all

directions, and be careful of the friends I made, and be careful of

the cases I got drawn into. It may be a long time coming, and God only

knows in what direction it’ll come from. Bradley knows how to handle

people so they never know they’re being handled--and he’s likely to hit

you through almost any one. Look out, son. This is serious. There’ll be

big doings.”

Clifford gazed steadily at the old worldling. Indeed, there must be

something--and big!--or else Uncle George, whose general attitude

in matters of morals, police, and criminals was one of genial

_laissez-faire_, would not have brought him this warning. He knew from

experience the craft and power of Bradley--his subtle patience in

working out his designs, his patience in waiting apparently quiescent

for the ripe moment--the swiftness and might with which he struck when

the instant came to strike.

Automatically, swiftly, Clifford’s mind flashed forward in search

of possible weapons, of direct and devious schemes, that the

fertile-brained Bradley might be contriving against him.