FOR THE BENEFIT OF ALL CONCERNED
In the library of the Whitehall home, Mrs. Whitehall sat surrounded
by a circle of gentlemen from the press. Her face was harassed and
marked with strain, and it was evident that she was making every
effort to put up a semblance of composure. But under the eager
scrutiny of the newspaper reporters, she rapidly was giving way to
something close to panic.
"Tell me," one of them asked her, "who introduced this impostor to
your friends as Ted Grant?"
"I did," answered the unfortunate woman.
"I see," the man continued, "and when did you first notice your
niece's interest in him."
Mrs. Whitehall bowed her head. "When she ran away with him."
Another reporter introduced himself: "Clarke of the _Herald_, Mrs.
Whitehall. Where can we get a photograph of your niece?"
Mrs. Whitehall's lips straightened.
"I don't intend to answer another question," she said coldly. "Too
much has been said already."
"But you've got to!" Clarke insisted. "Why, this is front-page
stuff."
"Sure," said the first speaker, "we're going to give you a million
dollars worth of free publicity. We've learned that this fellow
Bronson played at the Hotel Laconia, and they called themselves the
Vagabonds." He turned to his companions. "Can't you just see that,
boys? 'Heiress Elopes with Vagabond. Aunt Rages. Secret Love
Nest.'"
"'Her Vagabond Lover!'" Clarke cried. "There's a head for you."
Another member of the group stepped forward.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Whitehall. I met you at Lathrop's at Palm Beach
last winter."
"How nice of you to remember," Mrs. Whitehall assured him icily.
"Yes, I'm nice that way. Now, in the interest of the _Gazette_,
might I ask if your niece was ever photographed in a bathing suit?"
Mrs. Whitehall got to her feet, her face blazing with fury.
"Go away; go away, all of you! I don't intend to answer another
question!"
Officer Tuttle stepped forward to her aid.
"Now lookee here, boys--we don't know for sure that she did run away
with these crooks."
"Maybe they ran away with her, eh?" Clarke asked sarcastically.
"Well," Tuttle admitted, "that's my theory."
"A kidnapping? Hot dog!"
"Do you think that hypnotism was used?" asked the _Gazette_
representative.
"Well, I wouldn't say positively," Tuttle said. "But you might print
the fact that Chief George C. Tuttle expects startling discoveries
within twenty-four hours. Two t's in Tuttle."
"You mean an arrest?" Clarke asked hopefully.
Tuttle nodded emphatically, his chin bobbing in forceful illustration
of his meaning.
"We're going to arrest these crooks and put them where they belong,
as sure as my name is George C. Tuttle, attached to the 11th
precinct."
"With two t's?" a voice queried.
But Tuttle went on without pause, adding:
"We'll show these city gangsters that they can't perpetrate their
outrages in this town. I've had my eye on them all the time they
been here. I thought they were trying to kid me--kid the country
cop."
"Well," Clarke observed, "you can't blame a man for trying."
"Now, madam," the _Gazette_ reporter returned to Mrs. Whitehall,
"about that bathing-suit picture."
"Go away," he was answered. "I shan't speak to you. I shan't say
another word. Officer Tuttle, I must ask you to clear the house of
these men."
As Tuttle half-heartedly was about to carry out her instructions, the
radio gave up the muffled dance music which it had been broadcasting
in favor of a crisp masculine voice.
"This is the National Broadcasting Company," it announced, "operating
from the charity benefit at the Todhunter estate at Longport, Long
Island. Please stand by."
"Wait a minute," Clarke asked of Tuttle. "What was that?"
"Why," said Mrs. Whitehall, "they're announcing the charity benefit
over the radio!"
"But I thought you said this benefit would have to be called off,"
one of the reporters reminded her.
"Sh," said Clarke as the voice began to speak again, "let's get this."
"This is Phillips Graham speaking," the radio voice commenced. "In
behalf of Mrs. Whittington Todhunter, I wish to announce that the
first performance of this monster benefit for the Orphan's Home will
be broadcast over this station immediately. Mrs. Todhunter wishes me
to explain that due to an unfortunate misunderstanding with Mrs.
Ethelberta Whitehall, of the committee, the operatic stars expected
will be unable to appear. Mrs. Whitehall promised to replace these
singers with the Ted Grant band, but, again due to another
unfortunate misunderstanding on the part of Mrs. Whitehall, this also
will be impossible. However----"
Mrs. Whitehall gave a low moan. "Oh, dear, oh dear--this is
terrible. I'm ruined!"
"However," the announcer continued, "rather than let the program
suffer, Rudy Bronson and his Vagabonds, that famous musical
organization which has just returned from a triumphal tour of the
fashionable New England resorts, have volunteered to replace the Ted
Grant band, with whom they were unfortunately confused by Mrs.
Whitehall."
The announcement caused an excited stir in the room.
"That means those Vagabonds are right there at the benefit!"
"And so's the niece!"
"The nerve of them!" Tuttle cried. "I'll pinch the whole bunch!"
"Do you mean to tell me," Mrs. Whitehall asked, "that those young
blackguards have had the impudence to appear at that benefit after
what has happened?"
Tuttle nodded. "That's what the radio is saying."
Mrs. Whitehall wheeled upon the butler, crying:
"Adams, my car!"
"Wait!" Clarke said. "Here's comes something else."
Again the radio voice spoke: "Now folks, the benefit is about to
begin. The band is going to play the first number, and then there
will be specialty acts by various volunteers from the colony. I wish
I could make you see this brilliant spectacle as it really is.
Taking place on one of the most beautiful estates, the immense crowd,
seated about the natural amphitheater, is probably the smartest
gathering of the season. Flowers, new Paris gowns, Chinese lanterns,
have turned the whole scene into a blaze of color. Here comes the
band onto the outdoor stage. You can hear the crowd applauding----"
"Your car is here, Mrs. Whitehall," said the butler.
Mrs. Whitehall turned to Tuttle, her eyes like flames in the anger of
her face.
"Officer, you may come with me, in my car, and make the arrests."
"I'll say I will," Tuttle agreed with alacrity. "That young smart
aleck will do the rest of his singing in Sing Sing!"
Due to the proximity of the Whitehall and Todhunter estates, not much
time was required for the hurrying car to bring its occupants to the
scene of the charity benefit.
In his description of the Todhunter estate, the radio announcer had
done scant justice to an impressive expenditure of both time and
money. One of the more beautiful of the Long Island places, under
the guidance of especially imported decorators, the house and gardens
comprised an elaborate panorama of artificial splendor.
Myriad lights had been slung in long vari-colored loops all through
the amphitheater, their focal point being the richly decorated stage.
How upon row of cushioned seats faced this raised platform; and these
were occupied by the type of audience only to be gathered by a leader
of Mrs. Todhunter's eminence.
Mrs. Todhunter herself moved among her guests, apologizing for the
"unfortunate misunderstanding" now generally credited to Mrs.
Whitehall. There was small question in anyone's mind but that she
would use this incident to its last implication to settle finally the
race for social leadership which had been so bitterly contested by
Mrs. Whitehall.
Leaving her car, Mrs. Whitehall at a glance understood the situation,
and she turned to Tuttle with a renewed malice.
"Make your arrests just as soon as you possibly can. That young
ruffian up there has caused me to lose the dearest thing I own. And
I am going to make him regret it, you may count on that!"
"You're right," Tuttle agreed. "He's made a fool of me, too. Don't
worry, Mrs. Whitehall, you'll find me just a little more than ready
to take the whole bunch of them where they belong!"
On the stage, the Vagabonds were playing their best. And as they
played, Rudy knew that they were doing anything but poorly. Yet he
could find small comfort in the thought. After all, what could it
matter if they played well or badly, now that Jean knew him for what
he was?
An impostor! As he knew that he merited the term as fully as anyone
ever had, chagrin engulfed him in a crashing, unhappy wave. Nor
could he find relief in the thought that his deception had been
without intent toward any gain. For it hadn't. He had entered into
the masquerade in a simple need of safety, true enough; but there
also had been that wish to bring himself to the attention of Jean
Whitehall.
Well, he had done that well enough! After being careful that she did
not see him at the University as an obscure student, or at the Hotel
Laconia as a member of the jazz orchestra--he had caused her to
uncover him in her own home as the pretender to another man's name!
The girls who had volunteered to dance to the music of the orchestra
made their entrance and went gracefully through a rhythmic pattern of
steps. Watching them, Rudy reflected that any one of them might be
Jean. They were of her set, her social order. And he, Rudy Bronson,
was simply a--a Vagabond.
"What a fool I was, ever to think of her," he thought. "I must have
let that Ted Grant complex chase away the few brains that I had!"
But if he only were Ted Grant! Then he would be able to approach her
without fear or shame, on the solid assurance of achievement.
America asked nothing of anyone more than that he be excellent in his
chosen profession. Oh, if only he had been able to speak to Jean as
Rudy Bronson--but with the weight of Ted Grant's skill behind him!
As the girls finished their number, a wave of applause rolled up to
the stage. The young ladies ran from the wings for a bow; then, with
the sudden self-consciousness of amateur performers, hastily
retreated to the safety of the canvas walls.
"How about a song on this next one, Rudy?" Sport asked. "We haven't
seemed to wow them with either of our first two numbers."
"Why blame us?" Al Monroe demanded. "I could dance better'n any of
that flock of skinny dames, with both my feet tied."
"Pipe down," Swiftie counseled, "or somebody around here is liable to
tie your big mouth up with a nice big fist."
"Save that," Sam McMahon put in. "I saw Mrs. Whitehall coming in
with that flatfoot cop in the middle of that number. And that," he
added, "means that pretty soon you guys will be able to have all the
fight that your little hearts desire!"
"Did she come?" Sport asked.
"Who?" demanded Bud Dwight, "the old lady?"
"Sure," Sam repeated, "I knew we should have taken that train."
"Aw, be your age," Al Monroe snarled. "We're in this, ain't we? And
if we hadn't come here and played, the charity benefit would have
been a bust, wouldn't it? I don't see that they've got any squawk
coming when we've saved them all their dough."
"That's right," Sport agreed. "Do you think Mrs. Whitehall is apt to
press charges against us, Rudy?"
"I don't know," Rudy answered. "Jean said that she sent her cook to
jail for falsifying his household accounts."
"But we didn't steal anything from her," Sport protested. "Ted Grant
is the man who could cause us trouble if he wanted to. And I don't
imagine that he would object to having a pupil of his stay overnight
in his house."
"That may be all right," Rudy admitted. "It's just that until we can
get Grant to speak for us, she is apt to cause Tuttle to put us on a
bread and water diet."
"Well," said Al Monroe, "I think that Swiftie's been eating too much
lately anyway. He put on ten pounds at the Laconia."
"Yeah," said Swiftie, "and lost them when I left it!"
"Tell you what, gang," Sport said. "Let's give them everything we've
got. We'll put over the best number we've got, and make them like
it. If we're a hit, maybe even Mrs. Whitehall will feel a little
more kindly toward us."
"That sounds good," said Bud Dwight.
"Anything would sound good that would do some good," said Sam
McMahon. "But what's our best number, 'Lovable and Sweet'?"
"That's it," said Sport. "And you take up the chorus, eh, Rudy?"
As they adjusted their instruments, the brief pause between numbers
having been dissipated, Rudy shook his head.
"No," he said, "not that one."
"Well, what one then?" Sport asked. "Let's make it snappy."
"No, not snappy, either. I want to sing 'I Love You, Believe Me, I
Love You.'" Before there could be any remarks, he added: "That's the
number that I do best, and if you want the best, why--
"Sure, that's all right," Sport said, "Let's go, gang."
He gave his signal, and the band, now a perfectly organized team,
swept into the melody. Below them pale bulbs of faces swam in
organized lines. The multi-colored hues of hundreds of dresses,
offset by the more somber clothing of the gentlemen, lay like a gaudy
blanket at their feet. It was a gay, smart crowd, craving amusement
beyond all things, and Rudy instinctively knew that to please it
would be to please the whole pleasure-loving world.
But he gave it the minutest part of his thought. It was not of the
total assemblage of Mrs. Todhunter's guests that he was thinking--but
of one. And it was to that one, Jean, that he stood to sing.
With closed eyes, shutting out all the world but the mental image of
a slim, lovely girl, he poured forth his song:
"I love you, believe me, I love you,
This theme is the dream of my heart.
I need you, believe me, I need you,
I'll be blue when we two are apart."
And as he sang, he put far more sincerity into those simple words
than even their author could have hoped for. It was his love-song,
yes; but he knew it to be his swan song, too.