NINA CORDOVA
Yes, he must prevent this marriage, he must block Loveman, he must
find out Loveman’s plan, and he must do all quickly--but how? To warn
the Mortons would achieve some of these ends; but he had a strong
repugnance to this procedure. He would only play this as his last card.
Clifford thought of Slant-Face; but he realized that Slant-Face
would probably have no influence with his sister, and possibly the
ex-pickpocket might even regard the affair from Mary’s viewpoint. Also
he thought of her Uncle Joe; but the same objection held true regarding
him, and also the width of the continent made him unavailable. As for
Commissioner Thorne, he could not be of service in the present stage of
affairs. And then Clifford thought of Uncle George. Uncle George might
possibly give suggestions, for Uncle George knew as much about the
pleasure life (and what lay beneath it) of Broadway and of Broadway’s
closest territorial relative, Fifth Avenue between the Waldorf and St.
Patrick’s Cathedral, as any other hundred men in New York put together.
An hour after leaving Mary, Clifford sat in the Grand Alcazar
restaurant, looking into the bland, genial, cunning, loose-skinned old
face. He had just finished telling Uncle George of his discovery of the
whereabouts of Mary Regan and the other events of the day.
The old man regarded Clifford with meditative, puckered gaze--a gaze
of somewhat peculiar effect, begotten by his lack of eyebrows and
eyelashes. “Son,” he began slowly, “the thing that stands out in this
chunk of _vers libre_ you’ve been handing me, is the fact that you’re
so stuck on that little dame Mary Regan--”
“Let’s leave me, and what I may think of her, out of it,” put in
Clifford.
“Don’t interrupt, son. You ask me a thing and you’ve got to let me
spiel along in my own way”--which, indeed, was one of the difficulties
not to be avoided in consulting Uncle George. “Now, you listen to me,
son, and you’ll hear something out of the original book out of which
old Solomon and those other wise guys that have been playing big time
steady for three or four thousand years swiped all their good gags.
Son, you’re too damned monogamous! You’re insulting God: what the hell
d’you suppose he made so many pretty girls for?--and let the others get
wise on how to make themselves pretty? Now, I like Mary Regan as well
as any male person can who’s not her relative and who’s not trying to
be--but if she tried any of that beautiful female cussedness on me,
I’d throw her one smiling kiss, mail her a picture post-card of the
jumping-off place, and proceed to admire some of the other works of
God.”
Uncle George nodded, and started to sip his white wine thinned with
sparkling water.
“Thanks, Uncle George. But let’s get back--”
“Hold on, son. That was just my first sentence. Supposing Mary Regan
is trying to put something across by holding back a little of the
truth--sort of saving it up for a rainy day. Well, what of that? Ain’t
we all liars? You take it from your Uncle George, a superannuated
old burglar, president emeritus of that grand old _alma mater_, the
University of Broadway, who’s played every kind of game with every kind
of male and female now decorating this earth--take it from me, son,
I’ve never seen the strait and narrow road of truth congested with the
traffic. That’s one road you can speed on, and not even see a cop.
So, son, if Mary Regan has been like the rest of us, don’t hold it
especially against her. And her marrying Jack Morton by holding back a
bit of the evidence, it’s not going to hurt him such a lot.”
“I’m thinking of what it may do to her.”
“Why, now, son, a marriage now and then seems to improve a lot of
women. And the only time a few marriages seem to be a handicap to some
women is when they undertake to sign their names in full.”
“You’re in very good voice this evening, Uncle George. But, if you
don’t mind, let’s talk about how to stop that marriage, and how to find
out Loveman’s game.”
“All right--all right. Now, let’s see. You know Nina Cordova, star of
that new musical show that’s a sure-fire frost--what is it?”
“‘Orange Blossoms.’ Yes, I know of her.”
“Then you’ll remember that in young Morton’s previous Broadway
incarnation he had an affair with her--which little Nina broke off
sharp and sudden when she got the chance a year ago at the star’s part
in ‘The Bridal Wreath’? She’s a live proposition: why not inject her
into the affair?”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Clifford.
“H’m. Well, then,” Uncle George meditated, “you remember how Jack
Morton, when he was along here before, used to like his little quart
or two or three of champagne?--and how he behaved when he was all lit
up? Why not kidnap him from Bradley, give him a chance to be his real
self again, and then ship him to Mary? This different Jack Morton might
make her stop and think. Or send him along to his old man--and when
his old man saw how the kid had broken training he might do what he’s
threatened, stop Jack’s dough; and this might be enough of a jolt to
make Mary call the thing off.”
“I’ve thought of those things, too.”
“You seem to have thought of everything,” half grumbled Uncle George.
“Well, what’s the matter with these ways?”
“For one thing, it would take time to put them across. I’ve got to act
quickly, for there’s no telling what she’ll do. Besides, before I take
any action, I’d like to learn how she got into this matter; I’d like to
learn just what Loveman’s and Bradley’s part in the game has been, just
what they plan to make of it in the future.”
“I get you,” nodded Uncle George. “So that you can plan your action
accordingly. But that’s some job, son,--getting in on the inside of the
game of such a pair as Bradley and Loveman.”
“I know it. It can only be done indirectly.” Clifford regarded Uncle
George thoughtfully for a moment, then suddenly asked: “Do you know
Jack Morton’s father?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Know him well enough to get into a friendly talk with him?”
“Son,” demanded Uncle George in an aggrieved tone, “you mean to insult
me by asking if I need even to have seen a man before to be his best
friend inside of thirty minutes--me that could go out now and sell
old Andy Carnegie’s pig-iron billets back to him as gold-bricks!”
Uncle George looked at his watch. “Father Morton is staying at the
Biltmore. It’s now six-twenty. I’ve noticed that he leads himself into
the smoking-room at six-thirty for a cocktail. I feel a craving for a
Biltmore cocktail. Son, just where is that building lot in North River
located that you want me to sell him?”
“Could you steer the talk around to his son--make him doubt Bradley a
bit--say something good about me--and implant in him the idea that he
ought to consult me?”
“Could I? Why don’t you write me an act that’d bring out my talents?
It’s already done--what you going to do next?”
“That depends on whether Mr. Morton comes to see me, and whether I get
anything out of him.”
Uncle George heaved himself to his feet. “Come on, son, see me safe
aboard a taxi.” Outside, in the cab, he reached forth and laid a hand
on Clifford’s shoulder. “Remember, son, there’s just as good mermaids
in the sea as have ever been caught.”
“_Bon voyage_,” said Clifford as the car started.
The old man, winking a genial, satyr-like wink, blew Clifford a kiss
through the open window.
At half-past ten that night Clifford sat at a little table in the Gold
Room at the Grantham. There had come a message from Uncle George that
he should be in this room at this hour. Beyond this the message had
said nothing.
Clifford had wandered through the score of big public rooms that
comprised the first two floors of the Grantham--the lounges, the
parlors, the half-dozen restaurants--with the feverish hope that he
might glimpse Mary Regan (so little effect had Uncle George’s wisdom
had upon him!), but with no idea of what he should do or say should
he see her. He had had an impulse to call again at her suite, but had
restrained himself from that folly. He now glanced through the slowly
filling Gold Room, but he did not sight her. He wondered just where
she was--what she was thinking of--what she was planning. Should he,
if all other methods failed, block her worldly plans and the as yet
unpenetrated scheme of Loveman and Bradley by telling the Mortons who
she was? He felt himself a cad whenever he thought of it; but, yes, if
he had to, he would do it!...
A hand fell upon his shoulder. “Wake up there, you old crystal-gazer!”
called a cheerful voice.
Clifford looked up. Smiling down on him was a cherubic face: a somewhat
elderly cherub, to be sure, since where usually there is the adornment
of divine curls there was the glaze of baldness.
“Sit down, Loveman, and join me in a drink.”
“I’m afraid of you, my boy,” answered the famous little lawyer. “You
might put poison in my cup.”
“Why?”
“Because I lied to you--you see, I’m not waiting to be accused,” the
other smiled affably. “I told you I didn’t know where Mary Regan
was, and after that you followed me and I led you right to her. She
telephoned me about your finding her. You sure caught me dead to
rights.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do anything with you, Loveman,--though that was the
second fib you told me about her.”
“Both gentleman’s lies--told for a lady’s sake,” amiably explained
Loveman. “She didn’t want her whereabouts known. But now that you’ve
found her, what’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know that I can do anything.” And then Clifford chanced a
shot. “You see, I learned that she is secretly engaged to Jack Morton.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed the little man. “That is astounding! Well,
well--I’ll have a look into that and see what’s to be done.”
He rubbed his shining crown in bewildered thoughtfulness,--Clifford had
to admire his art as an actor,--then again was smiling.
“Wish you’d join me after a while at supper, Clifford. Little party
I’m giving Nina Cordova--got to cheer her up a bit, you understand.
You know ‘Orange Blossoms’ is one God-awful flivver, and Nina, poor
orphan-child, don’t know what to do. Gee, but it’s a rotten show, and
what it didn’t do to kill itself Nina did for it: she sure is one
musical-comedy prima donna that ought to be seen and not heard! And
even at that, seen too oft, familiar with her face--oh, go ask the
box-office man to finish the quotation. So I’m giving her this little
party to boost her spirits--though why shouldn’t somebody be giving me
a party to cheer me up for the twenty thousand United States of America
dollars that dropped through the bottom of that show?” He gave a moan
of mock self-sympathy. “Well, you’ll join us when the crowd blows in?”
“Thanks, but I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Break away if you can; be glad to have you.”
Clifford watched the strange little notable, behind whose light chatter
he knew to be the cleverest legal brain of its sort in New York,
cross to a small corner table, which was reserved for him every night
and was known to the waiters here as “Mr. Loveman’s table.” He saw
Loveman converse in turn with various people, and in a general way he
understood; for at this table, during the play hours of the night,
Loveman transacted many of the affairs too delicate to be brought to
his office or his apartment. And he saw Loveman, while he chatted, gaze
about upon those gathering for supper and dancing. There were people
here whose family names were daily in the society and Wall Street
columns--most of them here with no intent more reprehensible than the
restless search for pleasure, which in this our present day has become
public pleasure. Loveman smiled on them most kindly: as why shouldn’t
he, thought Clifford, since many of them were working for him, though
they guessed it not?
Loveman’s party now arrived and were seating themselves at a large
table directly beside the dancing-floor. There were Jack Morton, his
father, Nina Cordova, two other actresses, and half a dozen men and
women of the smart young society set. Loveman was at his best, keeping
his party in highest spirits: no man in New York was his superior as
midnight host.
As Clifford watched the gay supper progress, he wondered what other of
these guests the gay Loveman might be deftly drawing into some distant
entanglement.
Presently some one took the chair opposite Clifford. It was Uncle
George; and Uncle George gave him a slight wink of a lashless eye.
“While we’re on the subject, son,” the old man began, “I might remark
that I put a bee in little Nina’s bonnet.”
“Just what have you got me here for?” demanded Clifford.
“It’s always worth while, son, to watch Loveman improve each midnight
hour. See how he smiles and talks--and yet, God, how he’s working!
But you’re here, son, because of Father Morton; and also, perhaps, to
see if Nina’s bee buzzes. How about splitting fifty-fifty on a ham
sandwich?”
As the two ate the best supper Uncle George could order, Clifford kept
his eyes on Loveman’s party. They were now leaving the table in couples
to dance. Nina Cordova, a slender blonde with a soft, appealing face
and quick, bright eye, was with Jack Morton; dancing was something they
both did well; and it was easy to see that the slender prima donna had
more than a dancing interest in her partner. Then Loveman danced with
her; and in the middle of the dance they halted beside Clifford’s table.
“Finish this with me, Uncle George,” coaxed the little star.
“My dear child,” returned the old man, “if you’d spoken to me a little
earlier, say bout 1871, I’d have danced with you till that orchestra
dropped dead. But now, why, I’d just fall apart on the floor. Ask
Clifford there.”
She smiled at Clifford and the next moment he was fox-trotting with
her. She was certainly a marvel of a dancer; also, beneath her
_ingénue_ surface, she had a keen brain of her own sort; and in her
light chatter as they swung about he sensed that she was trying to
search his mind--and he sensed also that she was doing this at the
instigation of Loveman. But he parried so well that he believed she did
not even know he was fencing.
“Clever girl, Uncle George,” he said when he was back at his table.
“Son, you said something then,” affirmed the old man. “Unless my hunch
works wrong you’ll some day find her mixed up in this affair; and when
you do meet up with her, son, you’d better forget that, according to
the date written down in her press-agent’s Bible, that dear little
child is only twenty-one.”
Clifford looked over at her thoughtfully. She danced half a dozen
dances with Jack Morton; and Clifford, watching everything, guessed
that the elder Morton was none too pleased. And then she danced again
with Loveman; and he saw that she was talking imperiously to the little
lawyer; and if only he could have overheard he might have given more
weight to Uncle George’s prediction that Nina Cordova was to play some
considerable part before the final curtain fell.
“Peter,” she was saying, “since ‘Orange Blossoms’ is such a fizzle, I’m
going to quit the show business, and marry some nice young man.”
“But, my child, your art!” protested Loveman.
“My art be damned!” replied the pretty one. “And, Peter, I’ve decided
that the nice young man will be Jack Morton.”
Loveman gave her a sharp look. But if he felt any alarm, his voice gave
no evidence of it.
“Better think again, dearie. He’ll not have forgotten the way you threw
him down.”
“Give me a week and I’ll make him forget it,” she returned confidently.
“If you are set on getting married, Nina dear, I’ll help you find
another candidate,” said Loveman in his soft, advisory tone. “This
town’s full of rich young fellows. Just look ’em over, make your
choice, and I’ll help you out with the rest.”
“I don’t want any other!”
“I don’t think Jack Morton will do, my dear.”
“Why not?”
“I think, dearie, that there are other arrangements--”
“You mean that you have other arrangements!” she said sharply.
“There now, dearie, don’t get excited. This town’s full of nice men--”
“You can’t bluff me, Peter! I see through you--you don’t want me to
marry Jack.” The little _ingénue_ was suddenly a little fury--but a
composed fury. “Peter, I know a lot,” she said quietly, “and unless you
behave about the way I want you to, I may do something that won’t make
you awfully happy.”
There was no mistaking the threat in that voice, and that threat
was not to be underrated. Loveman had no intention of yielding; the
situation required careful handling and perhaps quick action elsewhere;
in the meantime the thing to do was to temporize.
“All right, dearie,--we’ll fix it up,” he said soothingly. “There’s
Jack Morton waiting for us; I’ll turn you right over to him.”
As Clifford saw Nina and young Morton begin a fox-trot, a passing
waiter handed Clifford a card. On it was engraved, “_Mr. James
Morton_,” and around the name was scribbled, “Wait for me in the lounge
just off the bar.”
Clifford descended to the Grantham’s lounge, which was fitted in the
manner of the smartest and most exclusive of men’s clubs. Five minutes
later Mr. Morton entered and came straight to him. Clifford had already
made his private estimate of this man with the graying hair and
distinguished face: a man whose habit it was to buy men,--and women,
too,--use them, and when finished with them, throw them aside without a
thought and go on his way.
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Clifford,” he began, when they were seated in
deep chairs beside a little table. “They say you are a detective who’s
absolutely on the square.”
“Thank you,” said Clifford.
“I didn’t call you down to pay you compliments,” the other said
incisively, eyeing him keenly, “so I’ll go right to the point. You know
my son?”
“Yes.”
“It’s about Jack I want to see you.” Mr. Morton spoke in the compact
sentences of a master of affairs. “I guess you know he’s been some
trouble. I’m certain something’s in the air now. I don’t know whether
it’s that Miss Cordova or something else. I can’t get anything out of
Jack. I’ve been having him looked over by a private detective; you know
him--Bradley; but Bradley doesn’t seem to be able to learn anything
either. I’m not one hundred per cent trustful of Bradley: set a
detective to catch a detective--that might prove a good idea. Will you
undertake the job?--finding out about Bradley, and finding out about my
son?”
“I can’t say until I know the situation.” Here was opening before him
the chance he had been working for, but Clifford managed to speak
composedly. “If you don’t mind telling me, just how do things stand?”
“If you know Jack, you know what his idea of living in New York was a
year or six months ago. I couldn’t leave my affairs and come here to
look after him. I ordered my lawyer, Mr. Loveman, to take whatever
steps were necessary. It was absolutely essential that Jack should take
a brace--”
“Pardon me. Aside from the moral reasons, were there any other reasons
for your wanting Jack to change his habits?”
“There was, and still is, an engagement with a young woman back in
Chicago. Not exactly an engagement, rather an understanding between the
families. The match could not be more desirable; the young lady has
everything.”
“Pardon me--do I know the young lady you refer to?”
“You may have heard of her. Her father is Sherwood Jones. She is Miss
Maisie Jones.”
“I have seen her picture in the illustrated Sunday supplements--among
prominent young society girls.”
“Then you can partially understand why I consider the match
so desirable. But the family at that time objected, and still
objects--until Jack proves that he has settled down. Three months ago I
came East and delivered an ultimatum.”
“In the presence of Jack alone?” Clifford put in gently.
“No. Mr. Loveman had been doing his best to control the boy. Naturally
he was present.”
“And the ultimatum?”
“I said that he either had to take a brace or I was through with him.”
“Let’s see whether I get the general idea.” Clifford was moving forward
carefully. “If Jack didn’t brace up, he’d have to earn his own money.
On the other hand, if he did brace up, the idea was that he was to quit
New York and marry the young lady you have referred to.”
“That’s it exactly.”
“Did you suggest any particular plan for his bracing up?”
“I said he had to spend a period at some quiet place far away from New
York.”
“And what did Mr. Loveman think of this idea?”
“He thought it was just the plan. In fact he said he knew the very
place for Jack to go to--Pine Mountain Lodge.”
“Then he suggested Pine Mountain Lodge?”
“Yes.”
Clifford was silent a moment.
“You have told Mr. Loveman and Mr. Bradley of your intention to consult
me?”
“No.”
“I suggest that you do not. Is there any other information you can give
me?”
“Nothing else that’s definite. But I suspect a lot, and I want to find
out what’s doing. Will you take the case?”
Clifford spoke guardedly, masking his dislike for the ruthless man
before him. “I prefer not to consider myself retained by you until I am
certain I can serve you. I’ll have to think the situation over, and
let you know later.”
It was little that Mr. Morton had told Clifford, yet, after Morton had
left him, that little set Clifford’s mind going like a racer. He sat
thinking--thinking; and after a time he began to perceive dim outlines
of what Loveman’s plan might be. And as with growing excitement he
began to see, he began also to consider what his own course should
be....
He looked at his watch. It was half-past three. He started back for the
Gold Room, but on the way up he saw Loveman and his party leaving. He
quickly secured his coat and hat and followed them out just in time to
see Loveman go off in a taxi with Nina Cordova. He was after them in
another taxi, a discreet block behind. Five minutes later Loveman set
Miss Cordova down at her hotel, and went on to his own home.
Clifford dismissed his taxi, waited ten minutes, then crossed and
entered Loveman’s apartment house.