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THE EASIEST WAY
A Story of Metropolitan Life
by
EUGENE WALTER and ARTHUR HORNBLOW
Illustrations by Archie Gunn and Joseph Byron
[Illustration: PICKING UP A HAT, LAURA LOOKED AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR.
_Frontispiece. Page 251._]
W. Dillingham Company
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1911, by
G. W. Dillingham Company
_The Easiest Way_.
A FOREWORD
In presenting this story of a _declassee_ who attempts to redeem her
scarlet past by a disinterested, honest attachment only to meet with
dire, miserable failure, the authors wish to make it plain that their
heroine and her associates are in no way to be identified with the
dramatic profession. Laura Murdock represents the type of woman of easy
virtue who is sometimes seen behind the footlights and helps to give
the theatre a bad name. Although destitute of the slightest histrionic
talent, she styles herself an "actress" in order to better conceal her
true vocation. As a class, the earnest, hardworking men and women who
devote their lives to the dramatic art are entitled to the highest
regard and respect. No profession counts in its ranks more virtuous
women, more honorable men than the artists who give lustre to the
American stage. If such women as Laura Murdock succeed in gaining a
foothold on the boards it must be looked upon merely as an unfortunate
accident. The better element in the theatre shuns them and their
theatrical aspirations are not encouraged by reputable managers.
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
Picking up a hat, Laura looked at herself
in the mirror _Frontispiece_ 251
"I've bought a house for you on Riverside Drive" 86
She began to sew a rip in her skirt 162
She sank down on her knees beside him 273
Laura commenced to pack the trunk 307
John stood looking at her in silence 337
She crouched down motionless on the trunk 344
THE EASIEST WAY
CHAPTER I.
The hour was late and the theatres were emptying. The crowds, coming
from every direction at once, were soon a confused, bewildered mass of
elbowing humanity. In the proximity of Broadway and Forty-second Street,
a mob of smartly-dressed people pushed unceremoniously this way and
that. They swept the sidewalks like a resistless torrent, recklessly
attempting to force a path across the carriage blocked road, darting in
and out under restive horses' heads, barely rescued by stalwart traffic
policemen from the murderous wheels of onrushing automobiles. They
scrambled into taxicabs, trains and trolleys, all impelled by a furious,
yet not unreasonable, desire to reach home with the least possible
delay. These were the wise ones. Others lingered, struggling feebly in
the whirling vortex. Not yet surfeited with the evening's amusement,
they now craved recherche gastronomical joys. With appetites keen for
the succulent, if always indigestible, dainties of after-theatre
suppers, they sought the hospitable portals of Gotham's splendidly
appointed lobster palaces which, scattered in amazing profusion along
the Great White Way, their pretentious facades flamboyantly ablaze with
light, seemed so many oases of luxurious comfort set down in the
nocturnal desert of closed shops.
"Move on there!" thundered an irate policeman. "What the h--ll are you
blocking the way for? I've half a mind to lock you fellows up!"
This to two grasping jehus, who, while quarrelling over a prospective
fare, had so well succeeded in interlocking their respective wheels
that a quarter-of-a-mile-long block resulted instantly. The officer,
exasperated beyond endurance, was apoplectic in the face from the too
sudden strain upon his temper. Starting angrily forward he seemed as if
about to carry out his threat, and the effect of this was magic. The
offending cabbies quickly disentangled themselves, and once more the
long string of vehicles began to move. Women screamed shrilly, as with
their escorts they dodged the horses' hoofs, the trolleys clanged their
gongs, electric-signs blinked their pictorial designs, noisy boys
yelled hoarsely "final extras!" The din was nerve racking. One had to
shout to be heard, yet no one seemed to object. Everybody was happy.
New York was merely enjoying itself.
The rush was at its height, when two young men, perhaps weary of being
buffeted by the throngs that still pushed up Broadway, turned sharply
to the right and entered a fashionable all-night cafe. Halting for a
moment in the richly-carpeted and mirrored vestibule to divest
themselves of their outer garments, they pocketed the brass checks
handed out by a dapper page and passing on into the restaurant, quietly
took seats in an out-of-the-way corner.
The place was already well filled. Nearly all of the small, round
tables, crowded too close for comfort, were taken, and the loud chatter
of men and women, the handling of dishes, the going and coming of
waiters, the more or less labored efforts of a _tzigane_ orchestra--all
this made a hubbub as loud as that in the busy street without. The
people eating and drinking were of the kind usually to be found in
Broadway's pleasure resorts--rich men-about-town spending their money
freely, hard-faced, square-jawed gamblers touting for business, callow
youths having their first fling in metropolitan vice, motor-car parties
taking in the sights, old roues seeking new sensations, faultlessly
dressed wine agents promoting the sale of their particular brands, a
few actors, a sprinkling of actresses of secondary importance, a bevy
of chorus girls of the "broiler" type, a number of self-styled "grass
widows" living quietly, but luxuriously on the generosity of discreet
male admirers, and others still prettier, who made no secret of their
calling, but insolently boasted of their profession being the most
ancient in the world.
Sartorially at least, the company was eminently respectable. The men,
for the most part, wore evening dress and the women were visions of
feminine loveliness, in the latest creations of Paris modistes--gowns a
duchess might envy, hats that would tempt the virtue of a saint. All
were talking loudly, and laughing hilariously as they ate and drank,
while pale-faced, perspiring waiters ran here and there with steaming
chafing dishes and silver buckets of frozen "wine." Here champagne was
king! The frothy, golden, bubbling, hissing stuff seemed to be the only
beverage called for. No one counted the cost. Supplied with fat purses,
all flung themselves into a reckless orgy of high living and ordered
without reckoning. It was the gay rendezvous of the girls and the
Johnnies, the sporting men and the roues--in a word, the nightly
bacchanal of New York _qui s'amuse_. In the atmosphere, heavily charged
with tobacco smoke, floated a strange, indefinable perfume--an odor in
which the vulgar smell of cooking struggled for the mastery with the
subtle essences used by voluptuous women. Instantly, animalism was
aroused, the passions were inflamed. The mouth watered for luscious
_mets_ concocted by expensive _chefs_, the eye was dazzled by snowy
linen, glistening crystal and the significant smiles of red-lipped
wantons, the ear was entranced by the dulcet strains of sensuous music.
In short, a dangerous resort for any man, young or old.
It was the Flesh Market, the public mart, to which the frail sisterhood
came in droves to sell their beauty. The sirens of Manhattan, lineal
descendants of the legendary sisters who, with their songs, lured the
ancient mariners to their doom, were there by the hundred, decked out
in all the expensive finery that individual taste could suggest and
their purses pay for. They were of all types--blonde and brunette, tall
and petite, stout and slender--to meet every demand. Mostly young they
were; some still in their teens. That was the tragedy of it. Older
women had no place there.
Fresh arrivals poured in from the Broadway entrance. Everybody appeared
to be acquainted with everyone else; familiar greetings were exchanged
right and left. "Hello, Jack!" "Howdy, May!" "Sit down here, Grace!"
The waiters rushed away to fill orders for more wine, the orchestra
struck up another lively air, the whole establishment vibrated with
bustle and excitement.
The two young men watched the animated scene. To one of them at least,
it was all novel and strange, a phase of life to which, heretofore, he
had been a stranger. John Madison had seen little of gilded vice in the
big cities. Although he had knocked about the world a great deal and
taken active part in many a stirring scene he had always been a clean
man. Born and bred on a Dakota farm, he was still the typical country
boy, big and vigorous in physique, with a sane, wholesome outlook on
things.
When his mother--a penniless widow--died he was adopted by a tyrannical
uncle, a miserly farmer, who made him do chores around the homestead in
return for his keep. But the boy detested farming. His young soul
yearned for a glimpse of the great outside world, of which he had read
and knew nothing, and his desperation grew, until one day he summoned
up enough courage to run away.
On foot, with nothing to eat, and only an occasional hitch behind a
friendly teamster's wagon, he bravely made his way to Bismarck, fifty
miles distant where, after nearly starving to death, he enlisted the
sympathies of a kindly grocer, who gave him two dollars a week and his
board to run errands. This was not much better than what he had escaped
from, but John did not care. At least it was the dawn of independence.
Industrious and faithful, he was rewarded in due time by promotion and
eventually he might have become a partner and married the grocer's
daughter, but unfortunately, or fortunately, as may be, his restless
spirit made this programme impossible of realization.
Twenty years of age, and six feet tall in his stockings, he had muscles
like steel and nerves of iron. A tall, finely-built type of Western
manhood, he had a frank, open face, with clean-cut features, a strong
mouth, and alert, flashing eyes, that denoted a quick, nervous energy.
In repose his face was serious; when he smiled, revealing fine strong
teeth, it was prepossessing. He wore his hair rather long, and with his
loose corduroy jacket, top boots, and cowboy hat, suggested the Western
ranchman. The girls of Bismarck were all in love with him, and his mere
presence doubled the business of the store, but the young man resisted
all feminine blandishments. He was ambitious, dissatisfied and
restless, A voice within him told him that Nature intended him for
something better than selling potatoes; so, taking affectionate leave
of the grocer, he went away.
Ten years passed. He prospered and saw a good deal of the world. He
traveled East and West, North and South. He was in Canada and down in
Mexico; he visited London, Berlin, Paris, New York and San Francisco.
His money all gone, he drifted for a time, trying his versatile hand at
everything that offered itself. He went to sea and sailed around the
Horn before the mast, he enlisted in the army and saw active service in
the Philippines. He was cowboy for a Western cattle king, and there he
learned to break wild bronchos without a saddle and split apples with a
revolver bullet at a hundred yards. He was among the pioneers in the
gold rush to Alaska and played faro in all the tough mining towns.
Sworn in as sheriff, he one day apprehended single-handed, a gang of
desperate outlaws, who attempted to hold up a train.
It was a rough and dangerous life. He was thrown in with all sorts of
men, most of them with criminal records. He loved the excitement, yet
he never allowed his tough associates to drag him down to their own
level. He drank with them, gambled with them, but he never made a beast
of himself, as did some of the others. He always managed to keep his
own hands clean, he never lost his own self regard. He was quick on the
trigger and in time of overheated argument could go some distance with
his fists. Utterly fearless, powerful in physique, he was at all times
able to command respect. Above all, he was a respecter of women. He
never forgot what his mother once said to him. He was only a lad at the
time, but her words had never faded from his memory: "Sonny," she said,
"never forget that your mother was a woman." And he never had. In all
his relations with women in later life, he had remembered the
injunction of the mother he loved. When other men spoke lightly of
women in his presence he showed disapproval, if their character was
attacked he championed their cause, if confronted with proofs, he
flatly refused to consider them. Yet he was neither a prig nor a prude.
He enjoyed a joke as well as any one, but at the same time he did not
let his mind run in only one channel, as some men do. He pitied rather
than blamed the wretched females who frequented the miners' camps. More
sinned against than sinning, was his humane judgment of these unhappy
outcasts, and when he could, he helped them. Many a besotted creature
had him to thank when the end came and short shrift little better then
that accorded a dead dog awaited her--that at least she got a decent
burial. The boys knew his attitude on the woman question, and it was a
tribute to the regard in which they held him that, in his hearing at
least, they were decent.
Meantime, John Madison was educating himself. There was no limit to his
ambition. With the one idea of studying law and going into politics, he
attended night schools and lectures and burned the midnight oil
devouring good books. He sent to an enterprising journal of Denver a
vividly written account of his exploit with the train robbers. With the
newspaper's cheque came an offer to join its staff. That was how John
Madison became a reporter, and incidentally explained why, on this
particular evening, he happened to be in New York. Sent East in
connection with a big political story, he had run across an old
acquaintance, Glenn Warner, a young New York lawyer, and accepted his
invitation to theatre and supper.
"I'll take you to a swell joint," he laughed. "It'll amuse you. It's
the swiftest place in town."
In personal appearance, the young attorney presented a sharp contrast
to his stalwart companion. Slight in physique, with sandy hair
scrupulously parted in the middle and nattily dressed, he was of the
conventional type of men colloquially described as "well groomed." That
the restaurant, and its people, were an old story to him, was apparent
by the nods he exchanged and the familiar greeting he gave the waiter.
After he had decided on the order, he proceeded to give John thumb-nail
biographies of some of the most conspicuous of those present.
"See that fat, coarse-looking hog over there? Look--he's flashing a
bank roll thick enough to choke a horse. That's Berny Bernheim, the
bookmaker. His gambling house on West Forty-fourth Street is one of the
show places of the town. It's raided from time to time, but he always
manages to get off scot free. He has a pull with the police."
Pointing in another direction, where a stately blonde in a big
Gainsborough hat, trimmed with white plumes, sat languidly sipping
champagne in company of a gray-haired man old enough to be her
grandfather, he went on:
"That girl with the white feathers is Lucy Graves. Don't you
remember--five years ago--a Lucy Graves shot and killed a man, and then
hypnotised the jury into acquitting her. That's the girl. Since then
she's been on the stage--a vaudeville act--$1,000 a week they say. A
month ago she was again in trouble with the police--caught playing the
badger game. I don't know who the old chap is--a new 'sucker' I
imagine."
There was a slight commotion at the main entrance as a fat, bald-headed,
red-faced man entered, followed by several women, all beautifully
gowned. Warner, who had caught sight of the party, whispered _sotto
voce_:
"That's Sam Solomon, the famous criminal lawyer. He's just been
indicted by the Grand Jury. Only a miracle can save him from a long
prison term. He's had a box party at the theatre. He usually has a
string of women after him. That's where his money goes--women and wine.
The girls call him a good thing."
Madison looked amused.
"Where are the respectable folk?" he laughed. "Have all the people here
got a police record?"
"Most all," was the laconic rejoinder. "Hello, Elfie--when did you come
in?"
This last exclamation was addressed to a tall, attractive brunette, who
was just pushing past their table in a crowd. She was young and
vivacious looking, and her voluptuous figure was set off to advantage
in an expensive gown. Evidently she knew the lawyer well, for she
greeted him familiarly:
"Hello, Glenn--I didn't see you."
"Alone?" he asked quickly.
"Yes--for a while," she answered airily.
He made a place for her on the bench.
"Sit down here and have something."
"I don't mind if I do," she smiled amiably.
Slipping past the two men into the seat she looked inquiringly at
Madison. The lawyer made introductions.
"This is a friend of mine--John Madison--Miss Elfie St. Clair."
Jocularly he added: "Well known on the metropolitan stage."
Madison smiled and nodded. The girl eyed him with interest. He was a
type of man not often seen in the gay resorts of Manhattan. Impulsively
she burst out:
"Say, Glenn--your friend's a good looker, do you know it? Better take
care, or he'll cut you out with the girls." Turning to Madison, she
demanded: "From the West?"
He nodded.
"Yes--Denver."
"Seeing New York, eh? Great fun, ain't it?"
He shrugged his massive shoulders and made no reply, finding more
amusement in watching the crowd than in gratifying the curiosity of
this chatterbox. She turned to Warner.
"Got a grouch, ain't he?"
Warner laughed.
"Oh--that's his manner. Don't mind him." Turning the conversation, he
demanded: "What's new?"
The girl glanced all around the restaurant, as she answered:
"Oh, the same old thing! In feather one week--broke the next. You know
how it is."
"I thought you were playing."
"So I was, but the show busted. It was a bully part, and I spent $150
on dresses. All I got was two weeks' salary. When the dresses will be
paid for, the Lord only knows."
Elfie St. Clair was a typical Tenderloin grafter. A woman absolutely
devoid of moral conscience, she styled herself an actress, yet was one
only by courtesy. By dint of pulling all kinds of wires she contrived
from time to time to get a part to play, but her stage activities were
really only a blind to conceal her true vocation. A cold-blooded
courtesan of the most brazen and unscrupulous type, she was,
notwithstanding, one of the most popular women in the upper Tenderloin.
She dressed with more taste than most women of her class, and her
naturally happy disposition, her robust spirits and spontaneous gaiety
had won her many friends. For all that she was an unscrupulous grafter,
the kind of woman who deliberately sets out to lure men to destruction.
She knew she was bad, yet found plenty of excuses for herself. She
often declared that she hated and despised men for the wrong they had
done her. Imposed upon, deceived, mistreated in her early girlhood by
the type of men who prey on women, at last she turned the tables, and
armed only with her dangerous charm and beauty, started out to make the
same slaughter of the other sex as she herself had suffered, together
with many of her sisters.
While still in her teens she came to Broadway and entering the chorus
of one of the local theatres, soon became famous for her beauty. On
every hand, stage-door vultures were ready to give her anything that a
woman's heart can desire, from fine clothes to horses, carriages,
jewels, money, and what not. But at that time there was still some
decency left in her, the final sparks of sentiment and honest
attachment were not yet altogether extinguished. She fell in love with
an actor connected with the company, and during all the time that she
might have profited and become a rich woman by the attention of outside
admirers, she remained true to her love, until finally her fame as the
premier beauty of the city had begun to wane. The years told on her,
there were others coming up as young as she had been, and as good to
look at, and she soon found that, through her faithfulness to her
lover, the automobile of the millionaire, which once waited at the
stage door for her, was now there for some one else. Yet she was
contented and happy in her day dream, until one day the actor jilted
her, and left her alone.
That was the end of her virtuous resolves. From then on, she steeled
her heart against all men. What she had lost of her beauty had been
replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature. She determined to give
herself up entirely to a life of gain, and she went about it coldly,
methodically. She knew just how much champagne could be drunk without
injuring the health; she knew just what physical exercise was necessary
to preserve what remained of her beauty. There was no trick of the
hairdresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of
queer people who devote their talents to aiding the outward
fascinations of women, with which she was not familiar. She knew
exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should
live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and all this she
determined to devote to profit.
She had no self delusions. She knew that as an actress she had no
future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. Conscious that
she had already lost the youthful litheness of figure which had made
her so fascinating in the past, she laid aside every decent sentiment
and chose for her companion the man who had the biggest bank roll. His
age, his position in life, whether she liked or disliked him, did not
enter into her calculations at all. She figured out that she had been
made a fool of by men, and that there was only one revenge, the
accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for
all. She had, of course, certain likes and dislikes, and in a measure,
she indulged them. There were men whose company she preferred to that
of others, but in the case of these, their association was practically
sexless, and had come down to a point of mere good fellowship.
"Seen Laura lately?" asked the lawyer suddenly, after Elfie had given
the waiter her order.
"No--not for some days."
Warner looked surprised.
"I thought you and she were inseparable. You haven't quarreled, have
you?"
The girl laughed.
"Quarreled--no. Laura's too sweet a girl to quarrel with. Only you know
how it is. We're both so busy, with our eye on the main chance, that
there isn't much time for anything else. Besides, she's been playing
more or less ever since the season opened. I didn't see her in that
last piece, but they say she was fine. Of course, it was Brockton's
influence that got her the part. I expect to see her here to-night."
"So she's still stuck on Willard Brockton, eh?"
With a light laugh, she replied quickly:
"Laura's not the kind of girl to be 'stuck' on anybody--at least I hope
she isn't. She used to be inclined to get sentimental at times--she
thought she was in love and all that sort of thing. I soon knocked that
nonsense out of her head. 'Laura' I said--'you've no time to fool. You
won't be fresh and pretty all your life. Make hay while the sun shines.
It's time to fall in love when you get old and faded and wrinkled.
Business before pleasure every time.' You know, Brockton has been very
good to her. She was lucky to find such a steady. She has money to
burn, a luxurious apartment, automobiles, influence with the managers.
What more could she want? She'd be a fool to give up all that." Raising
her glass to her lips, she looked with a smile towards Madison.
"Here's how!" she said with mock courtesy.
But the big Westerner was paying no attention to them. Silent,
engrossed, he was intent watching the gay crowd around him, studying
with deep interest the faces of these painted courtesans, who brazenly
came to this place to offer themselves. He wondered what their
childhood had been, to what disastrous home influences they had been
subjected to bring them to such degradation as this. Most of them were
coarse and vulgar-looking wantons, with rouged cheeks and pencilled
eyebrows, but others seemed to be modest girls, refined and well bred.
These were plainly in their novitiate. Surely, he pondered, such a
shameless calling must be revolting to them; the better instincts of
their womanhood must rebel at the very shame of it. He believed that
here and there, behind the rouge and forced hilarity, he could detect
signs of an aching heart, a woman secretly filled with anguish. It gave
him a sickening feeling of repulsion. Others saw only the outward
gaiety of the scene; but he saw still deeper. He realized its tragic
significance and it filled him with disgust and horror.
Suddenly his attention was attracted to a young girl who had just
entered the restaurant. She was gowned magnificently enough even to be
conspicuous among that crowd of well-dressed women, and she wore a
large picture hat, crowned by expensive plumes. Close behind was her
escort, a middle-aged, stockily built man, with iron-gray hair, also
immaculately dressed. As the couple passed, the people at the tables
turned and whispered. When the newcomer drew nearer, Madison could see
that she was very young, and he was struck by her laughing, dimpled
beauty. She appeared little more than a child, and the manner in which
she was dressed--girlish fashion, with her wealth of blonde hair caught
back by a ribbon band--carried out the illusion completely. Her
complexion was so fair and fresh, her sensitive lips so red and full,
and delicately chiseled, such a look of childish innocence was in her
light blue eyes, that he wondered what she could be doing among such
questionable company. He concluded that the couple had wandered in by
mistake, not knowing the true character of the place. Turning to
Warner, he said in an undertone.
"Look at that young girl--the blonde with white plumes--coming this way
escorted by the man with the smooth face and gray hair! Surely she is
not an habitue of this joint!"
The lawyer laughed as he quickly drew Elfie's attention to the new
arrivals.
"Really, old chap--you're so green you're funny! Don't you know who she
is? Why--that's Laura Murdock--the cleverest of them all!"