JACK MAKES A RESOLUTION
For an hour--two hours--Clifford continued to stand in the shadowy
doorway near the entrance of the Midnight Café. Presently Mary came
down, Jack with her. The light drug which Clifford had slipped into
his drink to render him more manageable and prevent his going with his
carousing companions, had spent its power. Jack was now sober, though
plainly his nerves were still badly shaken.
Clifford stepped out of his doorway. He wanted Mary to see him, that
she might have the reassurance which would come of her knowing that he
was keeping his promise to watch over her and Jack--to ward off any
possible attempt of Loveman and Bradley--until she got Jack safely in
the apartment at the Mordona, which, months since, they had occupied as
“Mr. and Mrs. Grayson” and which they were again to occupy under that
name. Mary saw him; but Jack also saw him, which last Clifford had not
wished for.
“Hello, there, Bob,--come here,” Jack called. Clifford crossed to him,
and the young man gripped his hand in a hand that twitched. “Bob, old
man,” he went on, his unsteady voice full of feeling, “I want to thank
you. You did me a great turn--and, old man, I’m never going to forget
it. Mary told me how you got rid of dad, and then sent for her to take
me in charge. It was great.”
Clifford did not look at Mary, but he was conscious of her pale, set
face. He fell in with the apocryphal version Mary apparently had given
Jack of what had happened while he had lain in a stupor.
“That’s all right, Jack,” Clifford replied.
“And say, Bob, I want you to know that I know I’ve been a fool--and
things a lot worse than that. But, Bob,--that’s all past now--and past
forever! I don’t deserve what Mary is doing for me. But I’m going to
make good. I’m going to be a good boy--for Mary’s sake! Just you watch
me!”
There was a frank manliness in the young fellow’s voice and manner.
He was deeply moved, and was as much in earnest as it lay within his
powers to be.
“Here’s something I wish you’d back me up in, Bob,” Jack went on. “I
want to tell dad that Mary and I are married; but she objects. Don’t
you think I should?”
Clifford, remembering that scene two hours back where Mary had told the
older Morton everything while Jack lay unconscious, shook his head. “I
think she’s right, Jack.”
“Well, I’m going to tell soon, no matter what the two of you say!” He
gripped Clifford’s hand anew. “Thanks once more, old man. And remember,
I’m sure going to make good!”
They stepped into a taxi-cab. All this while Mary had neither spoken
nor looked at Clifford, and she did not look at him now. But Clifford
saw that her face was still gray, still drawn.
He followed at a distance in another taxi-cab, on the watch for
interruption from Loveman or Bradley, or their agents. But there was
none; and Jack and Mary passed out of sight into the Mordona.
For a space Clifford gazed after them, thinking. Again he had a
profound sense that Jack was fundamentally a fine fellow; that what was
chiefly wrong with him was that he had been swept into the resistless
current of Big Pleasure--and that also he had been victimized by those
who make a subtle business of playing upon the human weaknesses of
those whom Big Pleasure sucks in--and that also, before and behind
it all, he had never been properly guided by his worldly, masterful
father. Clifford wondered whether this frank admission of faults, this
declaration to make good, was merely a flare, merely the final spurt,
of excellent qualities that were almost spent--or whether this was in
truth the beginning of a splendid Jack Morton that was yet to be.
The latter seemed to be the case. Two days later Clifford chanced upon
Mr. Morton at the Biltmore. “Jack came back to work this morning,”
commenced the financier, “and he’s behaving as though nothing is too
hard for him. I guess I owe an awful lot to you for making me see
that Mary was the only person who could straighten him out. She’s
a wonderful woman! The way she’s behaved, it’s something I cannot
understand!”
“Don’t try to understand her,” said Clifford. “Just try to be thankful.”
A new purpose had come into Clifford’s life since that night at Le
Minuit. Rather it was his old purpose, but now more grimly determined
on, and unmixed and undeterred by other considerations. He was out
to get Loveman, and Bradley, and their fellows--and he was also out
to protect Mary. And all this was now nothing more than a purely
professional job, since matters were as they were with Jack and Mary.
Clifford’s long-prevailing reason for holding back on Loveman and
the others--that Mary might be free to work out her plan, and that
Life might have the chance to test her--no longer had any force with
him, now that Mary had exposed herself and renounced her ambition,
now that she had nothing at stake. His determination to get Loveman
was intensified by his certainty that Loveman was trying to get Mary:
Loveman’s soft-spoken, cryptic remark in front of Le Minuit, about the
game perhaps not being finished, and there perhaps being other cards to
play, made him sure that this great spinner of webs had not ceased from
spinning. Clifford, putting himself in Loveman’s place, realized that
the little lawyer had motives for the most desperate action. Loveman
had lost Mary out of his schemes forever; he realized that she would no
longer protect him in order to protect herself; he hated her for having
blocked him; and he feared her, feared her daily, for she had it in her
power to secure his disbarment, to send him to prison.
There was no doubt in Clifford’s mind that Loveman was planning--that
Loveman would act. And he believed that Loveman, in daily fear, would
act quickly. But what would Loveman do?
There was but one way to learn, and that was to keep Loveman
under constant and discreet surveillance; and this now became the
all-consuming routine of Clifford’s life, in which he was aided by
Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly and special men supplied him by Commissioner
Thorne, and concerning which he took counsel with Uncle George. But
days, weeks, went by; nothing happened. As far as the closest scrutiny
could reveal, Loveman was going about his daily round of legal business
and his nightly round of pleasures, and in no way was he concerning
himself about Mary Regan. And likewise Bradley seemed to be confining
himself to his own affairs.
This behavior puzzled Clifford. Why were they holding back? But behind
this seeming quiet, Clifford knew that things were brewing--and big
things. But as to just what they might be, he could get no clue.
However, he kept doggedly at his secret watch. There would come a time
when they would doubtless act, and he must be ready and on the spot to
take action when the moment came.
One day when Clifford was talking the situation over with Commissioner
Thorne, the Commissioner remarked: “They’re undoubtedly up to
something--and you’ll get them in the end, Clifford.” And then: “I hear
that young Jack Morton has braced up?”
“Yes.”
“And I understand that it’s the influence of his wife that’s keeping
him in the strait and narrow.”
“Yes.”
There was no further reference to Mary Regan. But each understood what
was in the other’s mind: Thorne knew of Clifford’s regard for Mary
Regan, and Clifford knew that Thorne knew it.
“Clifford,” the Commissioner went on after a moment, “I’ve twice
offered you the position of Chief of the Detective Bureau. I have a man
in the place now, but he doesn’t like it and I’m going to shift him as
soon as I can. Clifford, I’m offering that job to you again.”
“Thanks, Chief. I appreciate the honor”--and he did. In former times
Clifford had looked up to that position as the glory-crowned but
unattainable peak in his professional career. He hesitated. “It’s a
mighty big thing, Chief,--but do you mind if I don’t give you my answer
until this job I’m on is closed up?”
“All right, Clifford. But remember--I’m counting on you.”
While Clifford kept at his appointed task--always with the sense that
something big was gathering, and always wondering why Loveman was
holding back--the summer grew toward its prime. Jack he occasionally
saw; the young fellow seemed to be keeping his promise made that night
out in front of Le Minuit. And occasionally Clifford saw the elder
Morton, who was remaining in town despite the heat, to watch over his
son in this latest testing of Jack’s fiber. But all this while Clifford
did not again see Mary.
And then in the early days of August there happened what perhaps had
been inevitable this long while--something which was perhaps, despite
halts and hopeful upward turns, merely a following of the direction in
which this affair had been foredoomed to move since he had first come
into it. Clifford first learned of it when Mr. Morton sent for him. He
found the financier with his grim power of control trying to repress
his agitation.
“Day before yesterday was Jack’s twenty-fifth birthday,” said Mr.
Morton, “and Jack came into that legacy left him by his aunt--two
hundred thousand cash, you remember. That same day it was deposited
in his name. And that same afternoon he began drinking. He was at it
yesterday; he did not appear at the office at all. And last night
he did not go home; Mary has not seen him since yesterday morning.
God!”--with a burst of emotion--“I don’t like to be asking you this
again--but do what you can to find the boy!”
“I’ll get him if I can,” Clifford said quietly, and went away.
Clifford did some quick thinking. Jack at last might just naturally
have reached the limit of the endurance of his good resolution--yes,
that probably was the case. But even if so, the weakness of the
eaten-away structure of Jack’s will was not alone responsible for his
break-down and disappearance. All Clifford’s instincts, and all his
cold reasoning, told him that Loveman was concerned in this latest
relapse of Jack. It was, as he well knew, an easy matter to keep a
man--either with or against his consent--hidden in the vast human
wilderness of New York.
More intently, and more carefully, than before Clifford now followed
the little lawyer--about his downtown legal work by day, about the
restaurants and roof-gardens at night. Every hour of the twenty-four
either Clifford, or the men assigned to help him, had the little
man under surveillance. As far as eye could discern, Loveman was
preserving the established routine of his life: a figure at various
public resorts until three--then to bed--up at eight--at his office
at nine-thirty--then with his dinner at seven beginning the round of
pleasure for the night.
But on the fourth evening after Jack’s disappearance there was a
slight variation. Clifford, supping with Uncle George, whose company
he found a boon in this late-houred routine, saw Loveman start home
at a little before two, an hour earlier than was his wont. In a taxi
with Uncle George Clifford followed Loveman’s car, saw Loveman when he
came to one of the upper West Forties,--a street of one-time handsome
residences,--slip out of his car and walk rapidly through the quiet,
deserted cross-street. Clifford also got quickly out of his taxi, and
slipped into the dark shadow of a stoop--where Uncle George, showing a
surprising quickness, joined him a moment later.
A little way down this street, before a black-windowed house, Clifford
noted two empty, shadowy automobiles; he saw that they were alike at
least in this, that both were low and long, built evidently for speed
and the ability to maintain it.
Having reached this darkened and seemingly empty house, Loveman turned
and ran quickly up the high, old-fashioned stoop. The next instant he
had let himself in with a latch-key.
“I suppose you know what that place is?” whispered Uncle George,
gripping Clifford’s forearm sharply.
“Yes,” breathed Clifford--“the house of Joe Le Bain!”