THE HOUSE OF MONSIEUR LE BAIN
Monsieur Le Bain, from catering to the reckless rich and to
spendthrifts who had large sums that abode with them for a flitting
month or so, and to monied persons about whose characters and designs
he preferred to remain safely ignorant--Monsieur Le Bain had discovered
that such as these, on occasion, desired a greater privacy than his
Grand Alcazar or his Le Minuit or any other restaurant afforded
them--a sumptuous exclusiveness in which, without danger of being
seen by uninvited eyes or their merry-making marred or restrained by
the propinquity of strangers, a party might dine or sup _en famille_.
Quick to see and seize opportunities, Le Bain had devised the material
equipment to please such patronage. In addition to the Grand Alcazar
and Le Minuit, which he advertised and to which he welcomed all, he had
set up another establishment which he did not advertise, and of which
few even knew, and to which even fewer ever gained admission.
This was an old brownstone house in the upper Forties between Fifth and
Sixth Avenues, outwardly most discreet and decorous--and, moreover,
inwardly so most of the time. The house was furnished as a private
residence, and richly furnished, too, albeit somewhat garishly since
Le Bain’s latter-day æsthetics had been founded upon the gilt and
rococo of Broadway restaurants. There was a large drawing-room whose
windows were so deftly curtained that no inner light ever filtered into
the street; behind that a large dining-room, in which one might be as
merry as one liked without passers-by being halted by laugh or song--or
by any possible sound of a less happy character that might originate
therein. And in the basement there was a perfect kitchen, which, on
those occasions when the house was briefly inhabited, Le Bain peopled
with his most efficient and reticent retainers--it being understood
that after the dinner or supper had been served, and if the host so
directed, these cooks and waiters and ladies’ maids should vanish.
And that the party might not suffer from such withdrawal, there was
installed in the butler’s pantry an ingenious refrigerator in which
foods were kept cold and wines properly iced--and from which host and
guests might serve themselves.
Such was Le Bain’s other establishment. For the time paid for it was
actually the lessee’s “home”--as much immune from police interference
as any other man’s castle. This Le Bain would sublet possibly two or
three times a week, possibly once a month, to some one he knew or some
one with trustworthy introduction--always at a price commensurate with
the extraordinary privacy he supplied. And he never asked questions;
particularly did Le Bain prefer to know only the name of the renting
host--never of the guests. Then, if anything ever happened there which
got to the police,--and it might,--Le Bain would be able to say to
interrogating officers that he maintained this place for patrons who
wished to give “home dinner parties”--surely a legitimate business
enterprise!--and he knew nothing at all about who was there and what
they did.
When Peter Loveman, at two o’clock in the morning, quickly closed
the outside door, slipped along the hallway, and then drew aside
the hangings and peered reconnoiteringly into the great dining-room
(finished as to walls and ceiling in paneled Flemish oak, lighted by
a sunlike chandelier with multitudinous pendants), he saw just what
he had expected to see, just what he had so skillfully planned and
so adroitly manipulated. About a small, intimate table, food-strewn
and wine-stained,--a table almost lost in this great room which
could have seated a party of fifty,--sat Nina Cordova, Nan Burdette,
Hilton, Jack Morton, and a slight, evilly handsome third man. His
people had done their work well, exactly as per instructions, Loveman
noted: the servants had obviously been sent away, and Jack was in the
desired state of reckless and pliable hilarity. Loveman continued
to look in for a moment, hesitating. He would have vastly preferred
not to be here--there was too much danger for him. But his clever
scheming, whose original outline the interference of Clifford and
the uncalculated elements of human nature in Mary Regan had thrown
repeatedly into disarray, was now nearing the culmination of what was
its latest re-adjustment.
Loveman had held back his many-elemented new plan--two big plans they
were, in fact--because each was dependent in a degree upon the other.
He had not dared act too quickly in the matter of Mary, for such a
course might, by some twist of circumstances or human nature, affect
Jack, and therefore upset what he had contemplated concerning Jack. To
succeed in either he had to succeed in both; and to succeed in both he
had to synchronize them. Whether he had done this, the hour or so ahead
was to prove.
Loveman frankly admitted to himself that his affairs and his own
personal safety were in a critical condition--critical to a degree
never before reached in his career. As he now had matters planned, he
stood to win everything--or almost everything; and also he stood to
lose everything--or almost everything. In such a crisis, where all was
at stake, he had to be on hand--despite any added risks--to watch over,
and if necessary direct, the final moves of this his ultimate plan.
Loveman stepped into the great dining-room, and stepped also into a
scene that was typical of how the forces which are behind Big Pleasure,
which are a part of it, handle those who weakly or unwarily let
themselves be carried too far by its alluring and mighty current.
“Good-evening, everybody,” he called cheerily. “Hello, Jack. This is
certainly one quiet little birthday party you’re giving.” Loveman had
himself instigated it, though these five at the table had brought it to
pass. “Kind of you to invite me, Jack.”
“Got to have ole Peter--else no birthday party,” cried Jack, swaying up
and taking Loveman’s hand, holding on to one of Nina’s with his left.
“Had three birthday parties this week; goin’ have seven next week.
Peter, y’re invited to ’em all! You there, Slim,”--this to the slight,
handsome young man,--“get fresh bottle Pommery, open for ole Peter
Loveman.”
Without taking his eyes off Jack, Loveman let them also include Nina
Cordova. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Thanks, Jack,” said Loveman; and then in an amiably chiding tone: “But
I must say I’m surprised. I thought you had settled down to be a steady
business man.”
“Damn business!”
“But your wife, Jack? I thought you were trying to attend to business
for her sake.”
Jack showed a flash of petulant ill-temper. “Tha’s wha’ make me sore at
her! Always drivin’ me to work. Always work--always business! Man’s
got ri’ to li’l’ relaxation, ain’t he?” His good-nature was back again.
“Tell you wha’, man’s got ri’ to do as he likes. Tell you wha’, nothin’
like bein’ free!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” put in Nina with a challenging shrug of her dainty
bare shoulders, and a disbelieving smile. “That’s what you say--but
you wouldn’t really dare do it and be it. You see, Peter,” with her
pleasing drawl,--she was a better actress off the stage than on
it,--“this bold young gentleman, who believes so strongly in his right
to do as he pleases, has just been trying to tell me how much he loves
me. He’s a nice little boy, Jack,--but I don’t believe him.”
“But, Nina, li’l’ girl, I do love you!” protested Jack. “Here’s Slim
with tha’ champagne. Slim, fill all glasses. Everybody ready? All
ri’--here’s Nina, only girl I love, only girl I ever goin’ love!”
Jack drained his glass. The others merely sipped theirs.
“But drinking a glass of wine doesn’t prove anything,” said Nina, with
her pleasantly provoking drawl. “You say you’re free, and you say you
love me--but you’re afraid really to prove it.”
“Not afraid!” Jack declared stoutly. “Prove it any way you say!”
She gazed at him in amused skepticism--yet a most alluring smile on
her young face. “Oh, no, you wouldn’t, Jack. There’s only one way to
prove your independence and your love. You know what that is--to drop
everything else, and go away with me.”
“I’ll do it to-night!” he cried. “Say, listen, Nina,--know a li’l’
place up in Adirondacks--nice, quiet li’l’ place--”
“No, thanks,” she interrupted. “If you took me off into hiding, that
wouldn’t prove anything. Besides, I want to be where there’s something
doing, and where there’s people--you understand, _classy_ people.”
“Tha’s all ri’! Make it Newport, Bar Harbor, any ole swell resort you
like. I’m no quitter!”
“I believe you really are in earnest,” mused Nina, her large eyes upon
him.
“Sure, I’m earnest! Make it Narragansett Pier--any ole place you like!”
She shook her head, and sighed. “You’re awfully good, Jack, but it
can’t be done. I’ve no clothes--and those places take clothes--and
clothes, the right sort of clothes, they take money--and I have no
money.”
“Wha’s money!” Jack laughed. “Tha’s nothing! I got money. I give you a
check.”
“Really?”--the large, almost childish eyes still upon him. “Yes, you
really are in earnest. But one check wouldn’t buy all I need.”
“You li’l’ fool--pre’ li’l’ fool,” he cried, patting her cheek, and
laughing again. “I can make it one big check.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about checks and banks, but
I know it would take three.”
“All ri’,” he said good-humoredly, tickled by her ignorance. He drew
out his pocket check-book. “How much?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Couldn’t you just sign your name, and let me fill
those spaces when I buy the things?”
“Sure. Peter, you always carry ole fountain pen. Lemme have ole
fountain pen jus’ one minute.”
The pen was handed over. Jack signed three checks and passed them to
Nina. She murmured warm thanks, and then looked from them to him,
apologetic doubt in her eyes.
“A woman’s clothes cost an awful lot, Jack,--more than you guess. Would
it be all right if I had to fill these in for perhaps as much as five
hundred dollars apiece?”
Again Jack laughed. “Sure--you pre’ li’l’ fool!”
“You can laugh, but I want to be certain,” she protested. “I don’t want
to get in trouble by having people come after me for having passed
checks that had no money behind them.”
Again Jack laughed. “’S all ri’, Nina. Listen.” He leaned toward her
confidentially. “Other day, you know, I’m twenty-five; came into nice
li’l’ ole pile money. Soak it away in bank. Since then I buy tha’
nice li’l’ ole car--the car I drive you up here in, Nina--some li’l’
ole car when I turn her loose--nothin’ ever passes her--an’ I draw
out li’l’ spendin’ money. Tha’s all.” He snickered once more. “Five
hundred--is my check good for tha’--oh, say! Listen, Nina. It’s all
down on stubs of my check-book--wha’ I deposit--wha’ I draw out. Look
for yourself--tha’ll show you!”
He handed her the check-book. She examined the stubs, then gazed at him
in stupefaction.
“Why!” she said breathlessly,--“why--over one hundred and eighty-nine
thousand dollars!”
“Sure!” He grinned delightedly. “Am I good for five hundred--eh, Nina?”
“I beg your pardon, Jack. Why--I never dreamed-- Then, of course, it
will be all right if I make them as much as five hundred each.”
Her face broke into a sudden, naïve smile. “And I tell you what,
Jack,--I’ll make them payable to ‘Cash,’ then I won’t have to endorse
them nor will anybody else--and if anybody wants to start a scandal,
why, nobody that sees them will ever suspect, and certainly not be able
to prove, that I got money from you. It’ll protect both of us.”
Nina seemed to have another inspiration--a very business-like one. “And
what’s more, I’ll just fill these in now and have it all done with.
Peter, let me have your fountain pen. Thanks. And, Jack, while I’m
writing, you might pour me a fresh glass, and yourself one, and one for
the others--that’s a dear boy. Remember you’re the host.”
While Jack was unsteadily doing a host’s duty, decanting almost as
much of the amber fluid upon the cloth as into the glasses, Nina filled
out the checks; and as she wrote she three times repeated aloud:
“Payable to--Cash--Five--Hundred--Dollars.”
She returned Loveman’s pen, waved the checks daintily until the ink
had dried, then slipped them within her sex’s invariable postal box.
Loveman glanced at his watch and rose briskly.
“Excuse me a minute or so,” he said. “I promised to call up a party at
two o’clock, and it’s almost half after.”
He disappeared through the heavily curtained doorway through which he
had entered. The next moment he reappeared.
“Nina, just as I started to use the ’phone, there came a call for you.
A woman, but she refused to give her name.”
When Nina had stepped into the hall and the heavy curtains had swung
behind her, Loveman silently held out his right hand. Also in silence
Nina reached within the bosom of her gown, drew out the checks and
handed them to him. He unfolded them, scrutinized them sharply,
refolded them, and slipped them into an inner pocket.
“Nina, you certainly did it great,” he said in a whisper. “If you were
as good on the stage as you are in a play like this, Dave Belasco would
be paying you a thousand a week. Great stuff, Nina!”
And then rapidly: “Go on back in. Remember you’ve got to keep him
going for two days. He mustn’t suspect a thing, and we’ve got to keep
him out of the way until these checks go through.”
“I understand,” and silently that excellent off-stage actress reëntered
the drawing-room.
Beneath the stairway of Le Bain’s house of a hundred precautions was
an item which on occasions helped measurably toward the ultra-private
pleasures of his guests--a telephone installed in a closet. Loveman
stepped through the door of this, closed it, and after a wait was
speaking to Mary Regan at the Mordona--speaking in a well-mimicked
voice:--
“Hello.... This is Lieutenant Jimmie Kelly, of the Tenderloin
Squad,--you know, friend of Mr. Clifford. Mr. Clifford has just found
Mr. Morton--Jack Morton, I mean. Jack is sick of what he’s been doing
the last few days--half crazy with remorse, you understand. Mr.
Clifford can’t leave Jack, and he asked me to telephone you to come for
him. We’re all at”--here Loveman gave the address--“it’s one of those
old private houses made into an exclusive restaurant. Just ring and
I’ll let you in.... All right, then, we’ll expect you in half an hour.”
He called a second number, which he got instantly, and he spoke in his
natural voice, though his words to any other ears save those at the end
of the wire, might have been enigmatic:--
“I wish to report a full crop,” he said. “Immediate delivery is
requested.”
With that he hung up and stepped out of the closet, wiping away the
moisture begotten by the stifling air of the cubicle. The full-bodied
little man, that Fifth Avenue and Broadway knew best as an amiable,
unflurried smile, was now set and grim of face, excited with suspense
and calculations. All had thus far gone well with his plan. Immediately
before him was the next vital development, swiftly approaching its
culmination. If all went there, too, as planned--why, he would be
safe--no man could touch him--and once emerged from the desperate
methods into which his present danger had forced him, he would be more
careful in the future.
Resuming his amiable smile, Peter Loveman rejoined his companions in
the dining-room.