“_A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet and upon
her head a crown of twelve stars. And she, being with child, cried,
travailing in birth and pained to be delivered._”
The girl-shade heard the words intoned in _mezzo voce_. At the door
of the throne-room she paused, loath to enter the next scene of the
co-star piece. All the day following the completion of her story of
earth she had lain within her chamber, in a state of narcosis, varied
only by the dull ache of dread. All day she had expected the summons
which now had come, that she appear before the King. Through the
séances she had done her best; had whipped her spirit as a slave-seller
might have lashed some modest, naked body on the block. She had come
for the reckoning. If so be it she had met the royal expectations,
her reward would be that lowest high office yet assigned in Greater
Gehenna--She-Destroyer of Womankind. If she had failed----
“_And the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be
delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born._”
Again the deep intonations. Glancing into the blaze of light which
had confused her eyes after her approach through the dim, winding
corridors, Dolores saw a tall figure in the full effect of male evening
attire on earth, with back toward her and gestures directed into one of
the mercurized walls.
Her hesitation was mastered by surprise. Even on closer view, she
scarcely could believe that this superb copy of the men of Earth indeed
was His Satanic Majesty. His hair, formerly pompadoured to conceal his
horns, was clipped, parted on one side and slicked back, the indices
of power evidently razored close. The auburn Vandyke which had been
inseparable from her concept of him was the more noticeable now for
its absence. In its place, a smile whose charm would have been hard to
describe clothed the well-sculped lips.
The lines and color of His Highness’ costume adhered to what she
knew was “latest” form--all except his tie. That was of a red which
vividly reminded her of that Justice Roscoe Strang, whose independence
of judicial precedent had been suggested by a like daring note in
otherwise sombre dress.
“Ah, sweet Grief,” he saluted her. “I feel indebted to you for the
basic idea of my sermon on ‘The Service of Suicide.’ You’ve caught
me at a rehearsal. I was just reading my text, ‘To Hell with the
Ill-Begot.’ We mustn’t overlook the propaganda out of the mouths of
babes and sucklings in our new Drive of Destruction, eh?”
“Mustn’t we?” she evaded wretchedly.
“Come, cheer down! Did my mere mention of a sermon make you pull the
doleful face of the average religionist in church? You haven’t said how
you like my style to-night. Am I not beautiful and _à la mode_?”
He appeared to be in an unusually amiable mood. A turn or two he took
around her, evidently to note the reflection on her face as well as in
the mirror.
“Is it possible----” in sudden suspicion he peered at her--“that you
don’t like me razored?”
“You look--very well.”
“I look--‘very well.’” He aped her effortful tone. “Didst note her
burst of enthusiasm? In gratitude, she’s not so different from the rest
of womankind. What one of them ever realized that a man would rather
remove a mountain from the physiognomy of the earth than the beard from
his face? As for the horns from his head!”
“But really, I do like it--very well indeed!”
“‘Very well indeed’!” Satan threw out his hands in a farcical gesture
of despair. “What man who shaves his beard to please a woman ever
really pleases her?”
“To please me, Your Lowness?”
“Sin’s idea. That silhouette you drew of your pet philanthropist shows
you to have preconceived ideas of the looks of latter-day devils. I
haven’t spent centuries catering to human preconceptions for nothing.
Presto, even John Cabot’s crime toward you is no blacker than my
cut-faced clothes! My tie is a bit off--that is _on_--color, as it
were. But I notice that no man is held accountable for his taste in
cravats. Maybe I _was_ dressed like a character part.”
With the frank self-appreciation of a husband who has just been
hectored into an evening suit by his wife, he turned for a critical
survey of her appearance.
“Glad to see you looking fit to go out with me,” he approved. “I have
planned to take you to a show.”
“To hear you preach?” She put the assumption rather eagerly. “I am
so glad. I have hoped each night you would take me. Frequently when
hearing you talk, I have wondered whether you would--whether you
wouldn’t----”
She faltered at his look of amazement.
“If I wouldn’t just what, child?” he encouraged with all the unctuous
kindliness of the Rev. Dr. Alexander Willard.
“Wouldn’t teach me the Scriptures. You seem to know them by heart.”
“By head, not by heart. There’s a difference, you know. Ingersoll knew
them by head.” Satan’s chuckles began with contemplation of her idea.
“Really, you are either the most naïve or the most intriguing of lost
souls.”
“But seriously,” she insisted.
“Oh, _seriously_!” He laughed the more. “Well, seriously, my poor
child, I’d advise you to remember the clay feet of the ‘Sporting
Parson.’ Far be it from me to try to improve a perfectly bad mind. ‘The
Little Book shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey, but shall make thy
belly bitter.’ That’s one of my own handy, illiterate translations.
M’lady, the carriage awaits. Time we were on our way.”
He was pleased to drive her to the promised entertainment in his
favorite Hawk. While drifting through the drab air of night in Gehenna,
lit only by that “pale, abiding light” whose dynamo was beyond control
of his electricians, he explained the kind of “show” to which he was
escorting her. In it he was not to star, no. It was only a motion
picture, but one in which he felt that she, as well as he, would take
interest.
They were to see, in fact, a picturization of certain unfinished
details connected with her own career on earth, over which he, for one,
felt curiosity. He had ordered the life-films to date of John Cabot
brought from the supply house and cut to give a comprehensive exposé of
a character that would refuse to heed the death cries of a girl whom,
by the honor code of Earth, he was bound to protect. Satan himself had
hit on an apt title, but had not previewed the picture and had left the
sub-titling to his first fiend-scenarist. He hoped for an entertaining
and regardless presentation.
At the Devil’s Own Playhouse it was evident that the feature had
been extensively billed. The capacity of the theater was taxed to
standing-room when the King led his interesting guest into the royal
box. Down over the billows of faces that waved back at their entrance,
Dolores looked with pitying eyes. On a few was apathy; on more, fevered
eagerness; on most, apprehension. The Sea of the Fear of Despair
they were--a Dead Sea, indeed. She, too, soon was carried out toward
its white-caps of hoping thoughts, caught in its undertow. This she
realized from the emotion within herself which began with the curtain’s
rise--the deeps of heartbreak disturbed by the high-winds of hope.
The camera was said not to lie. If His Highness’ boasted topical review
was bona-fide, some excuse might evolve for him who had refused to heed
her call.
The series of incidents unfolded upon the super-quick silver screen may
most readily be grasped, perhaps, by a perusal of the working synopsis
to which the master-director of Hell Films cut the production.
THE TURN TURTLE
HIS SATANIC MAJESTY
Presents
John Cabot
In Facts from His Natural History
Shown in Three Turns.
(_On Screen_)
The turn turtle is an insignificant reptile, great only in its
cowardice. It never looks danger in the face, but at first alarm pulls
in its head and scuddles away. Watch this one.
Turtle enters slowly. Protrudes head. Looks around. Face changes
to that of John Cabot. A pair of hands--recognizably Dolores
Trent’s--appear. Stretch toward turtle. Face shows fright. Head
withdraws into shell. Turtle crawls off.
(_On Screen_)
THE FIRST TURN
John Cabot enters his Broad Street office. Seats himself at desk. Goes
through pile of letters in weary manner. Stops to study one.
(_Show, in Dolores’ Handwriting--Envelope of Dolores’ note, with
“Personal” underscored and the return address of Retreat for Wayward
Girls in corner._)
John interrupted by arrival of Rufus Holt who looks worried, but tries
to cheer up when John asks about Dolores. Attorney assures John:
(_Insert_) “_Miss Trent is comfortably settled at a shore resort, as
well and happy as can be expected until matters are settled._”
With a gesture John asks Holt to wait until he has finished his mail.
Again takes up Dolores’ letter. Is unfolding enclosure when Catherine,
in street costume, enters. She shows amused surprise at Holt’s
presence, but insists that he remain when he attempts to leave.
She takes chair which John places for her. From her purse produces a
ticket which she offers for his inspection.
(_Show--Transportation on Trans-Atlantic Blimp._)
At John’s surprise, Catherine offers plaintive explanation:
(_Insert_) “_In two weeks I am going abroad as a sort of memorial to
Jackie--to help mother the war orphans over there._”
John studies her coldly, taps forefinger on desk as replies:
(_Insert_) “_Another of your trick trips! Well, Europe is not far
these days. A radiogram, a quick flight home and better luck with your
suit-for-absolute next time--perhaps._”
Catherine affects sadness at his suspicion. Droops toward him over
desk with reproachful, luring smile. Seems about to weep. Feels for
’kerchief. Drops eyelids. Is able to read Dolores’ envelope. Picks it
up. Studies it. Sneers:
(_Insert_) “_What a heart you have for wayward girls! Is this a love
letter or a dun?_”
Ends interview with steady stare of suspicion at Holt, who stands
nervously beside a window.
When Catherine has gone, John settles his own wonder on subject.
(_Show in Dolores’ handwriting--“Soon a rosebud will open its petals
to the world. I may not stay to care for it. I depend on you._”)
John turns upon Holt. Without explaining, accuses him of perfidy. Holt
departs, depressed by their danger of exposure.
John calls a taxi. Drives at once to the Retreat. Is putting his query
to the matron when Vincent Seff emerges from room marked “Private.”
Mutual recognitions instant. Seff does the lofty philanthropic. In
answer to John’s demands claims to know nothing of Miss Trent except
that duty forced him to eject her from Home the previous day.
Matron tries to proffer her information, but is cut short by Seff, who
assures her aside:
(_Insert_) “_It is for the girl’s best good that we throw this
blood-hound off the scent. Trust my judgment._”
Matron retires from scene without giving address. Seff, with
exaggerated courtesy draped over his triumph and sneers, shows John the
door.
John drives at once to a detective agency. There, with hard-suppressed
impatience, he retains them to find the girl he had not known was lost.
Suggests:
(_Insert_) “_Comb all the taxi and express stands in the vicinity,
grill the matron of the Retreat and shadow Seff._”
Scene shifts to hallway outside Dolores’ room. Aged landlady emerges.
Puts on spectacles. Reads advertisement entrusted to her.
(_On Screen in Dolores’ Handwriting_)
_Wasted_
_Unless you come to me at once._
_979 East 17th Street._
Counts money given for its insertion. Departs kitchen-ward. Mutters:
(_Insert_) “_Money’s a sure thing. This ad. ain’t. I owe something to
myself and sure, so does she._”
As days pass John is tortured by alternate hope and disappointment.
Detectives make reports, but nothing comes of their search. He grows
haggard and desperate.
Catherine comes again to office with an appeal to his patriotism.
Expresses herself as shocked by change in him. Gets generous check for
her proposed philanthropy abroad. Suggests sarcastically:
(_Insert_) “_Better join me in this sail overseas. With your money and
your sympathy for waywardness, you’d find a lot to do in demoralized
Europe._”
John scorns even to refuse. Once outside office, Catherine seeks a
telephone booth. Gets her own detective agency. Orders extra close
watch on husband’s movements.
(_On Screen_)
THE SECOND TURN
At his club John finds himself distracted. Cannot listen to
conversation of friends. Seeks office. Over telephone gets the usual
assurance from his detective that “something” is about to happen.
Decides to wait at office. Looks at desk calendar.
(_Show--October 31, date of Dolores’ death._)
John paces floor through terrible night. Imagines forms of Amor and
Innocentia pleading with him. Sees reproachful face of Jack peering at
him from the shadows. Curses past weakness and present impotency.
The while, in bedroom at Cabot town-house, Catherine sleeps. Smiles
like innocent child in her guilty dreams.
Dolores’ landlady arises from sound slumber. Goes about her sordid
tasks. Smells gas. Traces it. Airedale is on guard outside tenant’s
door. Landlady entices him away with bit of meat from kitchen below.
Breaks into room. Makes startling discovery. Mother and babe dead upon
the bed. Her first thought after turning off gas is for meter. Reads
it. Gets greatly excited.
In kitchen landlady retrieves Dolores’ advertisement and money for
payment. On consideration, decides that best chance of getting bill
paid by a dead tenant lies in possible live answer to the ad. Goes to
_Times_ office on belated errand. Proffers “personal.”
(_On Screen_)
In this wise--and only one day late--the “Personal” of Dolores Trent
appears.
In office of afternoon newspaper veiled ad. catches eye of sub-editor.
(_On Screen in Print_)
_Wasted_
_Unless you come to me at once._
_979 East 17th Street._
Editor calls reporter, who goes to East Side address.
John emerges from club with copy of _Times_ under arm. At curb buys
copies of two other newspapers. As gets into limousine, lets one--the
_Times_--fall into mud.
(_On Screen_)
As usually happens, the “Personal” is not read by the person for whom
intended.
John glances at fallen paper regretfully. As cab starts, turns to
financial pages of other paper.
Up street wind drives copy of _Times_. Blows it open.
(_On Screen in Print_)
_Wasted_
_Unless you come to me at once._
_979 East 17th Street._
Hoof of dray horse stamps out legibility of printed words.
(_On Screen_)
Well it is for the solving of mysteries that the public need not depend
upon the mysterious ways of detective agencies.
Reporter finds East Seventeenth Street address. Frightens landlady
with questions about ad. Persuades her to let him into Dolores’ room.
Recognizes face of notorious girl. Emerges under thrill of a “beat.”
Rewrite man in evening newspaper office takes discovery over telephone.
Rattles sensational story through typewriter and composing room into
print.
In another office an un-wise old “owl” of John’s detective agency gets
start from headlines of latest edition.
(_On Screen in Print_)
_Dolores Trent a Suicide
Goes to End by Gas
Takes Birthling for Company._
Agency chief shows himself capable of real speed after things have
been detected for him. Makes for John’s office. Must prepare employer
for shock, he declares. They have found the girl, although dead. The
address is John’s only demand. It is supplied without reference to
newspaper. He hastens there.
Pessimistic landlady will let none except authorities into bedroom
until bills are paid.
(_Insert_) “_It uses up a sight of gas to kill a woman grown and a
healthy baby._”
John crushes green-backs into her hand and strides into room.
Upon bed lies dead girl.
(_On Screen_)
With backthrown silken hair her mourning veil, all smileless in death
as she had been through life, she clasps to her breast the clay of his
child and hers, of whose existence a detective had told him. “Grief to
Men” at last teaches one man the acme of grief.
John bends over her. His lips move.
(_Insert_) “_I have murdered what I love. Can you forgive?_”
Sinks to knees beside bed. Lays face in her hair. Shudders in agony of
regret.
THE THIRD TURN
(_On Screen_)
The digit of death points back to the divorce case of Cabot vs. Cabot.
In imposing room of Bar Association, Rufus Holt stands trial for his
professional life. Is charged with having thrown the first divorce case
he ever lost. Faces of jury of brother lawyers grow contemptuous when
prosecutor sums up evidence against him--his visit to Judge Strang’s
apartment with Cabot co-respondent, as reported by elevator man, later
protectorate of girl and payment of her bills, as proved by florist and
manager of up-town hotel, and continued friendship with John Cabot. Now
suicide of girl and death of infant conceived during period of sojourn
in philanthropist’s home clinches case.
Holt to be formally disbarred. Is broken by disgrace and denied
friendship of man for whom he took risk. Leaves trial room.
(_On Screen_)
Mrs. Cabot finds a new use for “blimps.”
In her quarters at Cabot town-house, Catherine and maid are engaged in
packing trunks. Two society friends announced. Shown into disordered
suite. Ask questions. Is it true, as papers say, that Mrs. Cabot is
going to make trans-Atlantic flight? Catherine gives laughing assurance:
(_Insert_) “_I’ve always enjoyed being first, my dears. I guess I am
first to fly from unpleasant notoriety. It will be a joy-ride, as my
new lawyer is sure of winning my reopened suit._”
(_On Screen_)
DUST TO DUST
Beside grave of Trevor Trent, jovial digger finishes double task.
Enters auto hearse, followed by single limousine. John steps from
car as coffin is lowered. Carries arm-load of roses. Holds face
emotionless. Tears off handful of rose petals. Scatters them into
grave. Lips move.
(_Insert_) “_God teach me that nothing is wasted. God grant that
nothing is wasted._”
As he turns away, with last offices performed, is halted and questioned
by reporter who first published news of Dolores’ death. John at first
refuses to answer. Shows deep thought, then inspiration.
(_Insert_) “_You may say that I am sailing for Europe in the
trans-Atlantic blimp. Yes, with Mrs. Cabot._”
Reporter stands astonished. Stares.
(_On Screen_)
That John Cabot deserves his reputation for shrewdness is the
news-hound’s thought. So that is his latest scheme for protecting the
name of the Trent girl--to stop the possible reopening of his wife’s
suit by flying abroad with her, Whether she wants him or not!
(_Cut Back_) Turtle appears. Protrudes head. Sees appealing hands.
Withdraws head. Turns. Scuddles away.
THE END
(_Passed by Board of Censure_)
HELL FILMS