IN LOVEMAN’S LIBRARY
The drowsy elevator boy carried Clifford to the eleventh floor, and
Clifford rang Loveman’s bell. After a moment the door was opened by
Loveman’s Japanese butler, to whom Clifford, after stepping in, gave
his card. The little Oriental, showing no slightest surprise at a call
at such an hour, disappeared noiselessly through a door; and reappeared
after a brief delay and held the door open as a sign that Clifford was
to enter.
Clifford stepped through the doorway and found himself in the large
richly furnished library of Peter Loveman. Loveman, in a rope-girdled
dressing-gown and with his tonsured head looking very much a jolly
little monk, crossed the room with smiling hospitality. In a deep,
tapestried chair, wearing a dinner jacket, sat the square figure of
Bradley.
“This is a surprise, Clifford!” cried Loveman, taking his hand. “And
a pleasure, too,--also a relief: dropping in on a pair of grouches,
just as they were getting ready to murder each other to drive dull care
away. You there, you other grouch,”--to Bradley,--“say good-evening to
our relief expedition.”
Bradley, without rising, nodded curtly. Clifford gave back a similar
greeting.
“Off with your overcoat, Clifford,” the little man said briskly, “and
make yourself comfortable.”
“I’ll keep it on, Loveman. I can only stay a few minutes.”
“Well, anyhow, sit down,” and Loveman pushed him into a chair and
gestured toward a little table on which stood bottles and glasses and
siphons. “All the ingredients here of the Fountain of Perpetual Youth:
what’ll you have--high-ball, cocktail, liqueur--or shall I have Oni
bring you a split of champagne?”
“Thanks, I’m not drinking to-night.”
“Smoke, then?” offering cigars and cigarettes.
“No, thank you.”
“Say, you’re making a host look dam’ inhospitable,” humorously
complained the little man. “How about a little whist? I’ll run the
dummy. Bradley there loves it: he’s acting vice-chairman of the
Daughters of Brooklyn Memorial and Bridge Associ--”
“Cut it out!” growled Bradley. “Ask him what he wants.”
“Pardon him, Clifford: Bradley’s a gentleman of no social parts. But
since he has mentioned the point--is there anything special you came
for?”
“I came to talk,” said Clifford.
“Talk--good! Talking’s my trade!” Loveman drew up a chair, so that the
three of them formed a square, the table of bottles filling the fourth
side. “Let ’er go--guest has the opening speech.”
“I suppose, Clifford, that this is where you’d like to have me make a
quick exit,” said Bradley--and he crossed his legs, folded his arms,
bit upon his invariable big cigar, and gave Clifford a challenging look.
“On the other hand, Bradley,” Clifford returned, “I count it luck
that I found you here, and I beg you as a favor to remain. Bradley,
Loveman,” he said sharply, “I’ve come here for a show-down--to tell you
that I’m on to your little game!”
“Our game?” queried Loveman, with puzzled blandness.
“Your game with Mary Regan and the Mortons.”
“Indeed!” Loveman said softly. “Now, I wonder if you’d mind giving a
little information to an ignorant man?”
Bradley’s face had suddenly become hard; his little eyes were gleaming.
But though Loveman’s manner was blandly puzzled, Clifford knew the
little lawyer was as alertly watchful of him as was Bradley--and was as
much to be watched.
“I’ll put all my cards on the table, Loveman,” he said with
deliberation. “I’ll tell you exactly what I know--which is also exactly
what you know. There’s nothing at all extraordinary about it; it’s just
the sort of thing that with a few variations you’re doing over and
over.”
“Oh, I say, am I really so monotonous!” protested Loveman.
“You said you were going to put your cards on the table,” cut in
Bradley. “Come on, let’s see your two-spots.”
“We’ll go back a bit, Loveman,” said Clifford. “Morton, senior, had
entrusted you with the legal end of some of his New York affairs; and
when Jack Morton came to New York, and began to get himself tangled up
through having too much money, the father put it up to you to extricate
his son. Good profit in handling such affairs, Loveman: nice fee for
legal services rendered; a private split of the sums for which the
matters were settled; and an unobtrusive arrangement whereby the son
could be drawn into further profitable predicaments. A big-paying
business, Loveman.”
“Go on,” said the little lawyer pleasantly.
“Three or four months ago the father descended upon New York in a fury.
He declared he was through settling for Jack’s troubles. He was going
to send Jack somewhere far away from New York--and Jack had to take a
brace, or the father would drop him. Also there was a marriage with a
rich girl that the father wanted to put across--and there’d be nothing
doing unless Jack straightened up. So Jack simply had to be braced up.
Right there, Loveman, was where you saw yourself losing a big piece
of your income. But you did some quick thinking, and you fell in with
the father’s idea that Jack should be sent into retirement to reform.
In fact, you knew the very place, Pine Mountain Lodge. And on your
suggestion Jack was sent there.”
“And if I did mention Pine Mountain Lodge, what of that?” Loveman
mildly inquired.
“You knew Mary Regan was there, and knew she was the only attractive
woman staying at the hotel. And you knew that Jack Morton fell
for about every pretty woman that he met. Thrown together in that
isolation, you hadn’t a doubt of what he would do. It was only a
chance--but it was _your only chance_; and if it worked out the way you
thought it might, there would be rich possibilities in the situation
for you--without your seeming to have been mixed in the affair. Well,
it worked out just as you thought it might--and the possibilities lie
ready to your hand.”
“In case I’m overlooking anything good,” Loveman remarked in the same
gentle voice, “would you mind telling me just what these possibilities
are?”
“Of course the marriage had to be secret; otherwise the possibilities
would have been cut down by two thirds. First item, after the marriage
had taken place, there was the possibility of getting hush money out of
Mary Regan by threatening to expose her. You would never have appeared
in this; Bradley would have attended to this detail--perhaps through
one of his men. Second, after you had exhausted the possibilities of
blackmail, the next step would have been to inform the father that you
suspected something was wrong with Jack. The father would order the
matter looked into; you would engage Bradley for the job, and after a
lengthy examination Bradley would report a secret marriage--a big bill
for detective services. Third, you would then be retained to annul
the marriage--and a big fee there. Well, Loveman, Bradley,” he ended
grimly, “I believe that’s just about the outline of this particular
sweet little game!”
Bradley was glaring at him, his square jaws clamped upon his cigar.
Little Loveman, still with his affable look, was twirling the tasseled
end of his girdle around a chubby forefinger.
“You’re very ingenious, very imaginative, Clifford. But granting for
the moment that you are correct, what next?”
Clifford leaned sharply forward. “You are not going through with it!
I’m going to stop you!”
Clifford gazed tensely at the two men. A slight quivering ran through
Bradley’s frame; his cigar fell, bitten through; his small, brilliant
eyes were points of vicious flame. Loveman still twirled the end of his
girdle, but now a bit more slowly. And thus the three sat for several
moments.
Then suddenly, without warning of word, seemingly without any
preliminary motion, Bradley’s powerful body launched itself from a
sitting posture straight at Clifford. Clifford started to rise, and
instinctively threw up his arms; but to no avail, for Bradley’s big
hands broke past his weak defense and gripped his throat. His chair
went toppling over, the table with its cargo of liquors went crashing
to the floor, and Clifford was carried resistlessly backward by the
force of Bradley’s lunge, until he came up against the great library
table. Over this he toppled, his spine against the table’s edge, and
Bradley drove his head down upon the wood with a terrific thump.
“You’ll stop nothing!” grated Bradley. “You’ve butted into my affairs
for the last time!”
Clifford tried to struggle free, but he was caught at too hopeless a
disadvantage--his spine upon the edge of the table, Bradley’s weight
crushing upon him, and that pair of hands clutching his throat. He
could move only his arms, and those to no purpose; he could not cry
out; he could not breathe. As his chest heaved for lack of air, he
read his doom in the deadly fury of Bradley’s face. And he realized,
even could he call for help, the futility of such an outcry in this
apartment at the top of a lofty building, at this heavily slumbrous
hour of four.
He had been faintly conscious of hurried fumblings about the desk--of
the snap of a lock--of the whine of a sliding drawer. Now, suddenly,
as his wide eyes were growing bleared, he saw a dark something appear
between his face and the face of Bradley a bare two feet away. And then
he saw the something was a short, black pistol, and that the pistol
was flush against Bradley’s jaw, and that the pistol was gripped in a
soft, round hand that was indubitably Loveman’s. And he heard Loveman’s
voice, no longer velvety, snap out:--
“Damn you, Bradley,--that rough stuff don’t go with me! Let loose of
him, or, by God, I’ll blow your dam’ face off!”
Clifford saw Bradley’s flaming little eyes shift toward the speaker.
Then he saw the monk-like figure shift the pistol from jaw to Bradley’s
shoulder.
“No, I’ll not kill you; I’ll splinter your dam’ bones,” the sharp voice
cried with fierce decision. “Get off that man before I count three, or
your left arm’ll be the first bone to go. One--two--”
The hands left Clifford’s throat, and the heavy figure lifted itself
from his body; and, thus freed, Clifford slumped to the floor where he
sat limply, pantingly, against the table. Loveman had stepped around
the table, and Clifford now saw that he was looking up at Bradley, and
he saw that the cherubic, large-eyed face of the lawyer was grim with
an awful wrath.
“You dam’ big boob!” cried the little man. “You’d let yourself--and
me!--in for a criminal charge! And people have always said you have a
brain!”
“I’ve taken all I can from him!” Bradley said thickly.
“Either you control your temper and cut out the rough stuff,” snapped
Loveman, “or you and I are through!”
The pair gazed fixedly at each other. Neither spoke. While they stood
silent, Clifford became aware of the Japanese butler, his back toward
the three of them and seemingly unaware of their doings, on his knees
picking up bottles and broken glass and toweling up the spilled liquor
from the rug.
Without replying, Bradley put his hands in his trousers’ pockets,
resumed his chair, and crossed his legs. With an easy motion Loveman
dropped the pistol into a pocket of his dressing-gown, and stepped
to Clifford’s side. He was again the agreeable man-about-town that
Broadway liked so well.
“Too bad--but natural--the way men will lose their tempers,” he said,
as he helped Clifford to his feet and into a chair. “How’re you
feeling?”
“I’ll be all right in a breath or two.”
“Better let me give you a brandy?”
“No, thanks.”
“Aw, it’s nothing!” cut in Bradley. “Let him finish saying how he was
going to stop us!”
“Do you feel like that--yet?” Loveman queried solicitously.
Clifford was still dazed, but he was no less set in his purpose.
“Bradley’s right--a little scuffle like that is nothing.”
“Good; a great thing to be in training!” Loveman sank into his chair,
smiling urbanely. “We’ve forgotten what’s happened”; and he brushed the
matter into oblivion with a pleasant wave of the hand that two minutes
before had gripped the pistol. “As I was about to remark--granting that
you are right, how are you going to stop it?”
“Of course I could stop it,” said Clifford, “by telling Jack and Mr.
Morton about Mary Regan and her father and her uncle and her brother.
At any rate, that would smash your game.”
“As you say, provided, of course, there is a contemplated marriage,
that would stop it,” Loveman agreed pleasantly. “Why don’t you do that?”
“Considering the character of the Mortons and the fact that she’s more
worth while than they are, telling on her seems to me a pretty raw deal
to give Mary Regan: to show her up to them, and give the father, who’s
as sympathetic as a shark, a chance to take the lead, break it off,
make a scandal out of it, and to humiliate her in public.”
“That’s dam’ delicate of you, Clifford,” said Loveman, “and I approve
of your sentiments as a gentleman. But if you don’t do that, how else
are you going to stop it?”
Clifford spoke calmly. “I’m going to stop it through you.”
“Through me! Well, well! Do you mind telling me, Clifford, just how I
am going to do it?”
“You have some influence over Mary Regan; I don’t pretend to know
what it is. You go to her to-morrow and you tell her, saying whatever
is necessary to bring her around, that she can’t go through with the
marriage. Then she breaks it off--and not the Mortons, and they’ll not
be any the wiser about her.”
“Well, well, you certainly do seem to think I have a very strong
influence with the ladies,” Loveman said blandly. “Very flattering,
I assure you. But supposing--all we’ve been talking about is mere
supposition, you know--supposing I have a mild disinclination to do
what you propose?”
“Supposing that,” Clifford returned grimly, “then I go to Mr. Morton,
tell him about Mary Regan, and tell him the whole thing was your plan.
And he’ll believe what I say about you, Loveman; I’ve merely got to
remind him that you suggested Pine Mountain Lodge, prove to him that
you knew Mary Regan was there, prove to him that you’ve been seeing
Mary Regan in New York, and he’ll swallow everything else. Result, the
present scheme of you and Bradley goes smash, and, further, you lose
all future business with your best-paying client.”
“Supposing, on the other hand,” Loveman remarked in his same bland
voice, “that I have no disinclination to do what you suggest?”
“In that case, you only lose out on your present plan. I’m not
interested in Morton. You keep his business. You see, Loveman, I’ve got
you: and what I’m offering is the best proposition for you.”
Loveman gently stroked his crown. “Clifford, do you believe in fairies?”
“Where does that come in?”
“You ought to believe in fairies, Clifford. You really ought. With
that imagination of yours, you’d coin money, writing fairy-stories for
children--simply coin money.” He turned to Bradley. “What do you say to
Clifford’s proposition?”
“Tell him to go to hell!” said Bradley, his old hatred flaring out.
“You’ll excuse Fido’s behavior, Clifford,” Loveman said apologetically.
“He hasn’t had a biscuit all day.”
“The real question is,” returned Clifford, “what does Peter Loveman say
to the proposition?”
“What do I say? Well, now, well,” Loveman said pleasantly, “you know
I never did believe in fairies and so I can’t be expected to gulp
down this remarkable little story you’ve told me. But since you are
interested in Miss Regan, and are concerned that nothing goes wrong
with her--why, for your sake, of course I’ll do it--I’ll do anything
you say.”
Clifford stared penetratingly at the round face, which never before
looked more like the face of an amiable monk. Behind that amiable face
was a swift thought that, after all, he might slip Nina Cordova into
this situation and that he’d square matters with Nina the first thing
in the morning.
“You’ll do it to-morrow?” demanded Clifford.
“To-morrow--sometime before noon.” And as Clifford continued his
keen glance: “You doubt me? All right.” He walked to a section of
his bookshelves and came back with a large, dingy volume. “Here’s a
Bible--a Gutenberg, 1455. There can’t be a holier Bible than this; just
think, man, what it cost. Go ahead--swear me.”
“I guess you’ll do it,” said Clifford. He rose. “I believe that’s all,
gentlemen. Good-night.”
As he started away Bradley glowered at him; but Loveman, slipping an
arm through his, escorted him to the door. There Loveman held him for a
moment.
“That was one grand fairy-tale, Clifford, you dreamed about me,” he
said with a smile through which (perhaps purposely) there glinted ever
so little of mockery. “But supposing I do have any little plan under
way, I wonder how close you’ve come to guessing it? Now, I wonder?”
Down in the quiet street, Clifford found himself wondering too.