THE CAFE SINISTER
The Cafe Sinister stands like a gilded temple at the entrance to
Chicago's tenderloin. The fact is significant. The management, the
appearance, the policy, if you please, of the place are all in keeping
with this one potent circumstance of location. The Cafe Sinister beckons
to the passerby. It appeals to him subtly with its music, its cheap
splendor, its false gayety. To the sophisticated its allurements are
those of the scarlet woman, to the innocent its voice is the voice of
Joy.
Two pillars of carved glass, lighted from the inside by electricity,
stand at the portal. Within a huge room, filled with drinking tables
sparkling with many lights, gleaming and garish, suggests without
revealing the enticements of evil.
This is the set trap. Above is that indispensable appurtenance to the
pander's trade--the private dining room. Above that is what, in the
infinite courtesy of the police, is called a hotel. And behind and beyond
lies the Levee itself--naked and unashamed, blatantly vicious, consuming
itself in the caustic of its own vices.
To the trained observer of cities the words: "All hope abandon, ye who
enter here," are written as plainly over the door of the Cafe Sinister as
if it were that other portal through which Dante passed with Beatrice.
But the unlearned in vice cannot read the writing. By thousands every
year they enter joyously and by thousands they are cast out into the
Levee, wrecked in morals, ruined in health, racked by their own
consciences.
The Cafe Sinister is not an institution peculiar to Chicago. Every great
city in America possesses one. It is the place through which recruits are
won to the underworld. It is the entrance to the labyrinth where lost
souls wander. Viewed from its portal it is the Palace of Pleasure; seen
from behind, through those haggard eyes from which vice has torn away the
illusions of innocence, it is the Saddest Place in the World.
Druce owned the Cafe Sinister with Carter Anson; their lease was written
for them by John Boland. Thus the upper world and the under were leagued
for its maintenance. And though the press might shriek and the pulpit
thunder the combination and the Cafe Sinister went on forever.
These three men had been drawn together by a common characteristic. Their
consciences were dead. That atrophy of conscience made them all
worshipers of the same idol--money. The motives that propelled each of
the three to the altar were as diverse as their separate natures, but the
sacrifice that each offered to the Moloch was the same--their souls.
Having forfeited by their deeds the thing that made them men, the three
shrunk to the moral stature of animals. Boland was the tiger, brooding
over the city with yellow eyes, seeking whom he might devour. Druce was
the wolf; cunning, ruthless, prowling. Anson was the mastiff; savage,
brutal, given to wild bursts of rending passion. Love of power lashed
Boland to his crimes; lechery prompted Druce in his prowlings; and whisky
was the fire that smouldered under Anson's brutalities.
On an afternoon in June Druce and Anson sat together in conference in one
of the little booths of the Cafe Sinister's main dining room. The cafe,
after its orgy of the night before, was quiet. Waiters, cat-footed and
villain faced, gathered up the debris of the night's revel, slinking
about their work like men ashamed of it. The sunlight peered dimly
through the curtained windows; the air was heavy with the lees of liquor
and the dead smoke of tobacco.
The two men sat facing each other. A glass of whisky was cupped in
Anson's closed hand. His clothes, unbrushed and unpressed, flapped about
his huge figure. His throat bagged with flabby dewlaps. His head was
bullet-shaped, his eyes fierce, his mouth loose-lipped and brutal. He
made a strange contrast to his companion. Druce was lithe, well made and
gifted with a sort of Satanic handsomeness. He was immaculately dressed.
"It's fixed, I tell you," Druce was saying.
"Fixed, be damned," rumbled Anson. "I know Boland. Nothing's fixed with
him until the lease is drawn and delivered."
"I say the thing's fixed," insisted Druce. "All we've got to do now is
carry out our part of the agreement and I've completed all of the
arrangements. We've got a week."
"I know," said Anson, unconvinced. "It's fixed and you've completed the
arrangements. I'm from Missouri."
"Boland wants this girl, Patience Welcome, brought in here next Saturday
night," said Druce. "He has arranged that his pious pup of a son, Harry,
shall be here the same evening. We are to manage it so that he will get
the impression that the girl has been amusing herself with him, that she
has been kidding him along and playing this tenderloin game on the side.
He's not to be allowed to talk to her. He'll see her--that will be
enough. She's to come here to help her mother earn a little cash. I sent
a fellow to hire the old woman to start here on Saturday night as a scrub
woman. She's agreed to keep that part of it quiet. Then I'll drag the
other one in--mine, do you understand. We'll make young Boland think the
whole damned Welcome family belongs to us. We can see to it that the
Patience girl gets some glad rags and some dope when she gets here. She's
seen me in Millville, so it's up to you, Anson, to sign her up at good
pay as a singer--" He stopped significantly.
"Too complicated," was Anson's rejoinder. "Sounds good on paper, but it
won't work, I tell you, it won't work. I don't like the way things have
been going lately." He drained the whisky glass. "This vice commission
and this crazy yap of a Mary Randall--"
"O, hell!" interrupted Druce in disgust. "You've got it, too, have you?
Mary Randall! My God, you talk like an old woman!"
"I tell you--" Anson began.
"You can't tell me nothing. I'm sick and tired of framing stuff and then
have you throw it down because you've lost your nerve and are afraid of a
girl. I'm done, I tell you. If you think you can improve on my plans, go
ahead. I'm through. I won't--"
Anson capitulated immediately. "Now don't get sore, Mart," he whined, "I
know I'm no good on this frameup stuff. Maybe I am a little nervous. Go
ahead with your plan--I guess it's the best one. Don't let's fight about
it."
"All right," rejoined Druce. "Now that's settled. I'll handle this thing.
All you've got to do is keep your trap shut and stand pat."
The conversation was interrupted by the angry and maudlin exclamations of
a girl. She had been sitting at a distant table half asleep. A porter had
wakened her.
"I won't go home and sleep," she shrieked. "Keep your hands off me, you
dirty nigger."
"Now what's the trouble?" demanded Druce of Anson.
"Swede Rose has been drunk all night."
"We've got to get rid of her. She's always pulling this rough stuff."
"Not now," warned Anson. "It's too hard to get new girls. When she's
sober she's a wise money getter."
"Damn her," muttered Druce, "I don't like her anyway. She had the nerve
to slap my face the other night because I wouldn't give her money for
hop. As soon as this lease is signed I'm going down state. I'll bring
back some new stock and then it's 'On your way' for that wildcat."
"Let me handle her," advised Anson. He got up and walked over to the
table where the girl was having the altercation with the negro. She was
still young, but drink and drugs had left ineffaceable lines upon her
face. She was beautiful, even this morning after her night's debauch, for
she possessed a regularity of feature and a fine contour of figure that
not even death itself could wreck. Her disheveled hair showed here and
there traces of gray. Her skin was a dead white, save where two pink
spots blazed in either cheek.
"Here he comes," called the girl, catching sight of Anson. "Good old
Carter. Ans," she went on, "chase this coon out of here; he won't let me
sleep." Anson motioned the porter to keep his distance. "An' say, Ans,"
the girl went on, "gimme a quarter. I'm broke and I got to have some hop
or die."
Anson handed the negro a quarter without a word. The porter hurried out
of the cafe.
"He wanted to chase me out," the girl whimpered.
"Well, Rose," Anson went on pacifically, "you've got to cut out this all
night booze thing. You're hurting the house."
The girl looked up at the dive keeper with dull eyes.
"Hurting the house, eh?" she echoed. "What about me? Think I ain't
hurting myself? Say, it's got so I'd rather be drunk than sober. I can't
stand to be sober. I always start thinking. Some of these days you'll
hear of me walking out of this place and making a dent in the lake--"
The negro returned with the drug. The girl seized it with trembling
hands. While the two men stood and looked she drew a small lancet from
the bosom of her dress, inserted its point under the skin of her white
forearm and drove a few drops of the drug into the vein. The effect was
instantaneous. She laughed loudly.
"Now, you get to bed," ordered Anson.
"Bed, hell," retorted the girl.
"I said get to bed." Anson glowered at her.
"There'll be a big night tonight, and--"
"You can't give me no orders."
Anson had held in his temper as long as he was able. His fierce eyes
twinkled and his brutal mouth twitched. Without a word he reached across
the table, clutched the girl by the throat and dragged her out of her
seat. He hurled her, half strangled, on the floor.
"Here," he bellowed to some of his servitors, "take this damn hell-cat
out of here. Take her up to the hotel. If she won't go to bed, throw her
into the street."
"You--you--" gasped the girl, struggling to her feet.
"Don't talk back to me," roared Anson, "or I'll kill you. I'll show you
what you are and who's running this place." Then to the waiters: "Get her
out of here."
The girl was dragged out of the room, screaming and fighting. A wisp of
curses came back into the big room as she was lugged up the stairs
towards the hotel.
Anson stood panting with anger. A mail carrier entered and placed a
letter in his hand. He opened and read:
"Mr. Carter Anson: Take your choice. Close the Cafe Sinister, or I'll see
that it is closed. Mary Randall."
The big man flushed crimson with rage. He tried to speak, but the words
choked in his throat. He crumpled the letter and hurled it with a curse
across the room.
"Druce," he bellowed.
Druce hurried across the room.
"Did you see that?"
"Yes, I saw you beat her up. Why don't you let 'em alone? You'll kill one
of them some of these days."
"Naw, not her. I mean the letter. Mary Randall--she says she's going to
close us." A waiter recovered the letter and brought it to Druce. He read
it.
"Say, listen, are you turning yellow--"
"No, I ain't yellow," returned Anson, "but this thing is getting my goat.
You're sure about that lease?"
"Sure?--say, I thought we'd settled that--"
"Well," pursued Anson, "I don't like this. What have you done with this
other girl--the one you married? She'll be getting us into a row next."
"I married her, didn't I?"
"Yes, but--"
"Well, it's about time she started earning her bread. This Randall woman
hasn't got me scared. You know why I married her. Well, I'm going through
with it. I--"
The rest of his sentence died on his lips. A girl scarcely more than a
child came in from the hotel entrance. She was dressed in a lacey gown, a
size too large for her. The slit skirt displayed her slim ankles in pink
silk stockings. The French heeled shoes were decorated with rhinestone
buckles. In spite of this outrageous dress she was still pretty. It was
Elsie Welcome.
"Hello, kid," said Druce, his manner changing.
"I want to see you, Martin," Elsie replied. Druce noticed that she seemed
deeply agitated. There were signs of recently shed tears on her cheeks.
"I'll run along," said Anson, seeing the girl's agitation. When he was
gone Druce drew the girl into a booth and demanded sharply:
"What the devil do you want and how did you get here?"
"I came in a taxicab," the girl answered.
"A taxi, eh? Well, you're learning. Who paid for it?"
"It isn't paid for, Martin. I wanted to see you and--"
"And what?"
"The man's waiting outside."
Druce flushed angrily. "Look here," he demanded. "Don't play me for a
boob. Get someone else to pay your taxi bills."
"But, Martin, I thought--"
Druce did not wait for the rest of the sentence. With a muttered oath he
rushed outside and paid the waiting chauffeur.
"Now, what do you want?" he demanded when he returned.
Elsie looked at him piteously. "Martin," she said, "I can't stay in that
place any longer."
"Say, don't my aunt treat you all right?"
The girl burst out sobbing. "She isn't your aunt, Martin. She told me so
herself. And that flat--"
"Well, what about it?"
"I--I can't tell you. I can't say it. I never knew until tonight." Elsie
clutched Druce's arm pleadingly. "Martin," she said, "a man came into my
room."
Druce saw that the time had come for him to lay his cards on the table.
He folded his arms and looked at the girl.
"Well?" he demanded coolly.
"He had been drinking and--he took hold of me."
There was a long pause. Druce gazed at the girl satirically. She quailed
with sinking heart under that look. She began sobbing again.
"Don't look at me like that, Martin," she wailed. "Don't--or I shall go
mad. I left home to marry you."
"Well, I married you, didn't I?" Druce sneered.
Elsie attempted to control her voice.
"That woman you call your aunt laughed at me when I told her I was your
wife. She said I was a country fool."
"Damn her," muttered Druce. "I'll settle with her."
The girl grasped Druce frantically.
"Tell me she lied," she cried, "or I'll go crazy. Tell me she lied."
"Yes, she lied," answered Druce glibly. "See here, kid, it's about time
you began helping to support the family."
Elsie dried her tears. "I'm--I'm ready," she said. "I've practiced my
songs--"
"O, the songs," said Druce. "That isn't all."
"What do you mean, Martin?"
"Why--don't be so stand-offish. When a man offers to buy you a bottle of
wine, let him."
"Martin!"
Druce stopped her sharply. "Now don't begin that Millville Sunday school
stuff," he said. "This is business."
"Is it?" Elsie spoke in a whisper.
"Sure. When a man's got a wad of bills and he's willing to buy, string
him along!"
"But I'm your wife, Martin." Elsie was dead white and calm.
"Well, don't let that worry you. Go as far as you like--or as far as he
likes."
The girl stood motionless, looking straight before her.
"Is--is that what you brought me here for?" she asked with forced
calmness.
"Sure. Why do you suppose I dressed you up like that? Your stock in trade
is your good looks. Sell it."
The girl drew herself up rigidly.
"I won't do it," she said. She started toward the door.
"You will!" grated Druce, following her.
"Never," she answered. "I'll die first. Good-by!" The door closed after
her.
Anson had returned to the room and had witnessed the scene.
"Well," he sneered, "there goes the first move in your plan. You've lost
that one."
"You think so?" Druce sneered in return. "Well, don't lose any sleep
worrying about that one. She ain't got a dime. She'll be back."