Mary Regan

By LEROY SCOTT AUTHOR OF “Partners of the Night,” Etc.

With Frontispiece

A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin Company

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY LEROY SCOTT ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Published January 1918

CHAPTER I THE WORLD SITS DOWN TOGETHER

It was opening night of the new bill at the Grand Alcazar; and Clifford, as he waited alone at a little table for his host, almost unconsciously searched through the great restaurant of black-and-gold for Mary Regan—just as, almost unconsciously, he had been seeking her wherever he had been during the six months of agreed-upon silence since they had parted. He did not expect to see her here, hence felt no disappointment when his roving eyes did not come upon her. She had said she would write when she had thought it all out, and when she was ready to see him. Six months was a long time, but he believed in her word—and still waited, not once having sought to penetrate that utter privacy which she had asserted to be for her, at that time, life’s prime essential. But though keeping his word, he had often been impatient, and had often wondered.

Meditatively Clifford glanced over this great crowd of well-dressed diners. For him they were a vivid concentration, a cross-section, of life: of life as he, in his philosophy, and in the pursuit of his[2] profession, had come to see it. Here were millionaires, many of them having made their easeful fortunes by dubious operations which shrewd counsel had steered just within the law; here were young men of moderate means, spending recklessly; here were society women of the younger and smarter set, with their escorts, sowing the seeds, though they dreamed it not, of possible scandal and possible blackmail; here were members of that breed of humans who are known as “sporting men”; here were the most finished types of professional crooks, many accompanied by the finished women of their own kind, but here and there with them a girl who had no idea of the manner of man with whom she ate and drank, and no idea of the end of this her pleasant adventure; and here were respectable mothers and their daughters, who were innocent of what sat at

the next table; and here were out-of-town visitors who were visibly excited and exalted by the thought that they were seeing life—New York!—the real New York!

Clifford smiled sadly, rather grimly, to himself. These conglomerate guests were proof of what he had long held: that there was no distinct underworld, no distinct upperworld; that in ideas and personalities the two were always merging. This scene summarized what experience had made the basic idea of Clifford’s working philosophy: the great interrelation, the great interdependence, the great oneness of all humanity.

[3]Looking over this mixture of all sorts, in which acquaintance was so easy to make, Clifford thought of the strange dramas that had their beginnings in the Grand Alcazar and establishments of its kind. Thus much had the dancing craze, though now receded from its earliest frenzy, and the practice of dining and eating midnight suppers in the showy restaurants, achieved: it had brought all sorts of persons, so long as they were well dressed, under the same roof and had set them down at the same or adjoining tables. Hardly since time began had that important requisite of great drama been so nearly perfect as in these restaurants—for people of different ideas and interests and moral standards to meet naturally upon a common ground....

A little man, swart of face, his mustache tightly waxed, and in the smartest evening dress that convention permits the male, paused and spoke to Clifford—a gentleman whom most of the patrons of the place knew, if they knew him at all, as Monsieur Le Bain. Though the master of this ornate pleasure palace, he spoke obsequiously.

Clifford liked to see the great little man squirm. “Police trouble you much here?” he asked.

“No, Bob,—I never see a policeman here, except when a captain or an inspector comes in to eat,” the great restaurateur said nervously.

“Not like the old days downtown—with their raids—eh, Joe?”

“Nothing of that sort—ever!” And with a quick[4] look around that showed he feared some one might have overheard these sentences and guessed what lay behind them, he said something about being needed on his ballroom floor and hurried away.

Clifford watched the famous restaurateur, again smiling grimly. If these people here—the respectable ones at least—knew the record of Joe Gordon (which again was not the name given him at birth), knew from what places and occupations he had made his way to his eminence of foremost host and impresario of prandial entertainment—what a panic there would be! (Or would there be a panic?) Life was certainly strange!—with its emergencies, its juxtapositions, its crossing of threads—strange at least to him who was always seeing behind the scenes. Yes, life was certainly strange!...

Clifford’s meditations were interrupted by a hearty, “Hello, Bob,” and by a large hand gripping one of his.

“Hello, Uncle George. I’d begun to think—”

“Hold on, son,” and Clifford’s host halted the talk by raising one hand like a traffic policeman and with the other reaching for the dinner card. While the long order was being dictated, Clifford gazed impatiently across at his companion, wondering what this appointment was about. His host was a large man who once might have been bulbous, but who now had deflated little balloons of skin hanging beneath eyes and chin and jaws. His few short gray hairs were divided into two precisely equal portions;[5] his eyebrows were entirely gone, and of eyelashes he had almost none; his eyes were smallish, gray, cunning, genial. He made Clifford fancy, with those eyes of his so good-naturedly cynical, and with his large, outstanding ears, that here might be a satyr who had forsaken gay forests for city and had at length grown into grandfatherly days.

“Well, now, Uncle George—what’s all this about?” Clifford demanded when the order was in.

“Not so fast, son,—not so fast,” slowly remonstrated Uncle George, who, as far as Broadway’s knowledge went, was no one’s Uncle George, but who was known by no other name. “Let’s wait until we’ve packed away some of the freight that waiter’s going to bring us.” He blinked his lashless lids, and drawled on. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you—six months. I just wanted to give you the once over, and ask you how was trade.”

“Trade’s good—considering.”

The old head nodded. “Yes, considering that you’re a detective who’s on the square. There’s not much chance for that sort, son,—not in this here widely advertised Christian civilization of ours. At least, not much chance to make a large private collection of coin.”

“I’m not in this primarily to make money. I thought you understood that.”

“You sure are a queer guy, son,” pronounced the old man. “I’ve heard you spiel off your ideas—you’re not primarily a thief-taker—you’re in this[6] to help people out of the trouble. A hell of an idea for a detective!”

“You know as well as I do, Uncle George, that most of the people that get into trouble, or seem to be bad—well, they personally are not so much to blame. They’ve been born and raised in bad conditions—they’ve never had a chance—have never really been able to tell what was right or wrong, and have never had a chance to choose the right—”

“Come up for air, son,—come up for air,” cut in the old man. “Son, that’s nice music, but it’s all bunk. You’re an awful example of what a college education can do to a man. Now you just listen to your Uncle George. You know me—everybody knows me. I’ve been in about every crooked game known to the human race and the higher animals, including managing shows—and I’ve never been pinched because I was too clever for the coppers, and the coppers know it, too. I tell you I know life up and down and across the middle—and I tell you that we’ve all got a streak of crookedness—every damned one of us!”

“If that’s so,” smiled Clifford, “then why are you always helping crooks?”

“That’s just my human cussedness. I’ve retired from business—I’m one of these gentlemen farmers that have located on Broadway; but I don’t like to see any earnest young crook get a raw deal from the coppers, who are the rawest crooks of all.” The old man waved his left hand as though brushing such[7] conversation aside. “But let’s get down to brass tacks—which means you and me. You and Bradley as great friends as ever?”

Despite himself Clifford flushed with chagrin. “Don’t try to be funny!”

“And, son, don’t be too sore. Bradley was one hell of a guy. He was the cleverest chief of detectives the Police Department ever had.”

“And the crookedest!”

“Sure, son,—didn’t I tell you us humans were all crooks!” the old man said appeasingly. “But, sure, there never was a crookeder chief of detectives than Bradley. You certainly showed nerve when you started out to get him—and you certainly showed your class when you finally trapped him, publicly, with the goods on. Only—”

“That’s it—only!” Clifford exclaimed sourly. “It’s quite some little word, that only.”

“Sure—only. Son,”—and the old man spoke gravely,—“I’m twice as old as you are, but you should know as well as I know that you really can’t get a copper. I mean a clever copper. Count the big coppers that have really been sent away—the smart boys, I mean—and you’ll see you have several fingers left to check up your laundry on. That was grand business you pulled on Bradley, and it showed all New York he was a crook. It was worth doing—God, yes! But I said to myself, as soon as I heard of the swell arrest you had made of him, that a classy guy like Bradley would have himself covered[8] and would beat the case when it came to trial. And he sure did beat it!”

“On a technicality!” Clifford was still bitter at the manner in which his old enemy and old superior officer had slipped from what had seemed the sure clutches of the law.

“A technicality, sure. But it got him off, and what more does a crook ever ask for?”

“But he got reinstated in the Police Department!”

“But didn’t he retire right afterwards, claiming broken health? And don’t you and I know his real reason was that his old game was done for and that the public was wise to him? The big trouble with you, son,” the old man declared severely, “is that you want a one hundred per cent victory. The best you can hope for with a guy like Bradley is to split the thing fifty-fifty.”

“You seem to admire Bradley a lot!” half growled Clifford.

“I do. I hand it to the guy with brains wherever I meet him.”

“I don’t see how you can be friends with me, then!”

“You’re clever, too, son. You’re the only one I’ve ever figured might beat Bradley in a finish fight. And then you’re a queer party, Bob,—you’re square,” he drawled. “I’ve traveled up and down this world of he-and-she grafters, shoplifters, safeblowers, and sure-thing business men, and after it all you know it’s right pleasant to sit down in the shade of a square guy. And besides, son,” he added, “I said I admired[9] Bradley because he was clever; I didn’t say I liked him as a friend. Now, you, Bob, somehow I like you.”

“Thanks, Uncle George.” There was a moment’s silence. “But that’s not what you got me here to tell me.”

“Perhaps not, son. But what’s the hurry? Queer, ain’t it,” he meditated, “how all the big cops, when they leave the Police Department, open a private detective agency? I hear Bradley’s doing great business since he started out as a private detective.”

“Licensed blackmailer—that’s what he is!”

“Sure, son, that’s what they all are. A client tells a private sleuth secrets, and retains him to get information about some other party—and is held up for a big fee. The sleuth gets the information, and then makes the second party pay by threatening to expose him—second hold-up; and then makes the first client pay again by threatening to expose the original secret—third hold-up. Oh, it’s a rich game Bradley’s switched into!”

“Once more, Uncle George—that’s not what you got me here to tell me.”

“Perhaps it’s not really so much I’ve got to tell you. Mebbe it’s occurred to you”—meditatively, slowly—“that since the big upset you gave him, Bradley isn’t exactly what you might call in love with you.”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, I heard it from a friend who’s got a friend[10] who’s got a mother-in-law who listens to little birds—and the dope runs that Bradley is out to square matters with you.”

Clifford nodded. He had expected something of the sort.

“Did this little bird relay any information as to just what Bradley was going to do?”

“None that got to me. But, son, I’d keep my eyes pointed in all directions, and be careful of the friends I made, and be careful of the cases I got drawn into. It may be a long time coming, and God only knows in what direction it’ll come from. Bradley knows how to handle people so they never know they’re being handled—and he’s likely to hit you through almost any one. Look out, son. This is serious. There’ll be big doings.”

Clifford gazed steadily at the old worldling. Indeed, there must be something—and big!—or else Uncle George, whose general attitude in matters of morals, police, and criminals was one of genial laissez-faire, would not have brought him this warning. He knew from experience the craft and power of Bradley—his subtle patience in working out his designs, his patience in waiting apparently quiescent for the ripe moment—the swiftness and might with which he struck when the instant came to strike.

Automatically, swiftly, Clifford’s mind flashed forward in search of possible weapons, of direct and devious schemes, that the fertile-brained Bradley might be contriving against him.

CHAPTER II THE RETURN OF MARY REGAN

Suddenly all conjectures concerning Bradley were swept utterly from his mind. Down the gilded red-carpeted stairway that led from what the Grand Alcazar termed its “ballroom de luxe,” there came—though this was not the figure Clifford first noted—a short, full-bodied, ornately dressed man, with a bald crown and a smile of engaging amiability. Beside him, and a half-head taller,—and this is what Clifford first saw,—walked a slender young woman, in an evening coat of rose velvet, her rounded throat gleaming a dusky marble from the soft shadows of the furred collar. Her face was the rose-tan of early autumn leaves, and her dark eyes gazed straight before her with a composure so complete that it seemed to announce a haughty indifference to all the world.

“Mary Regan!” ejaculated Clifford, stupefied.

Uncle George seemed not the least startled by Clifford’s exclamation. He turned—and then there was surprise enough in his voice:—

“Hello—Peter Loveman with her!”

Clifford, recovered from his brief paralysis, arose and hurried between the tables. But the pair had already turned into the entrance and did not note[12] him. As Clifford came into the gilded and bepalmed lobby, he saw her, aided by four eager Grand Alcazar flunkeys and by Loveman, looking a grotesquely small grand opera impresario in his silk hat and fur coat, stepping into a closed car. By running Clifford could have caught her, or by calling he could have gained her attention. But at that instant he remembered the essence of their bargain, that he should make no attempt to seek her out until she sent for him. That remembrance checked him; the door closed upon the rose-velvet figure, the car slid off through Broadway’s incandescent brilliance, and she was gone.

Forgetful of where he was, Clifford stood bare-headed and stockstill in the lobby. Mary Regan’s sudden reappearance out of the silence, the vacancy, of six months’ absence, sent his mind flashing over the past, the present, the future, touching in chaotic wonderment the high spots of his strange relationship with her.... Daughter of that one-time famous cynic and famous master criminal, “Gentleman Jim” Regan, dead these five years, she had passed her girlhood in the cynical philosophy of the little court surrounding her father,—had made that philosophy her own,—and, grown into young womanhood, she had joined that great crime entrepreneur, her Uncle Joe Russell, in many of his more subtle enterprises. It was at the beginning of this career that Clifford’s life had come into contact with hers. Police Commissioner Thorne had ordered him[13] to “cover” the pair. From the first Clifford had conceived the idea that her criminal point of view was not an expression of her true nature, but was a habit of mind developed in her by association: and he had

proceeded upon the theory that a bigger rôle, than merely to make arrests, would be to arouse the real Mary Regan to her true self.... The conflicts between the two!—her hostility to him!—his ultimate success, or seeming success, when he had broken through her shell of defensive cynicism—and last of all, that parting scene down in Washington Square in the dusk of the on-coming dawn!...

He lived through that scene for a briefest moment—he was always living over that scene. He had told her that he loved her; and she, admitting that she loved him, had said, “But that doesn’t mean I can marry you.” “Then, what does it mean?” he had demanded. A look of decision had come into her face—how vividly he recalled every minutia of their one love-scene!—and she had said:—

“Before we can talk definitely about such things, I want to go off somewhere, alone, and think over what you have said about me. If I am not what I used to be—if I am really that different person you say I am, I want to get acquainted with myself. I seem so strange to myself, it all seems so strange. I hope you are right—but I must be sure—very sure—and so I am going away.”

“But when you come back?” he had cried.

[14]“A lot may happen before that,” she had answered gravely. “A lot to you, and a lot to me.”

“But when you come back?” he had insisted.

“When I come back,” she had breathed quaveringly, “if you still think the same way about my being that sort of person—and if I find that it’s really true—”

And then his arms had closed about her and he had kissed her. But even as she had let him, she had murmured almost fearfully: “Remember—a lot—may happen—before then....”

Clifford’s mind leaped forward from that long-gone night to the present. And now she was back—back out of the unknown into which she had disappeared—and back without having sent him a word of any kind! What did it mean, this unannounced return? And what did it mean, her being in company with dapper little Peter Loveman?—man-about-town, and carrying behind that round, amiable smile the shrewdest legal brain of its variety in New York.

Clifford had in reality been standing in the gilded lobby for no more than a minute, though his mind had traversed so wide a space, when a gray-and-black town-car, with a long hood that suggested power ample for a racer, slowed down at the curb and a young man stepped out and hurried into the Grand Alcazar. Fifth Avenue tailors and hatters and haberdashers had equipped him with their best and costliest.

[15]“Sink my ship if it’s not old Bob Clifford!” he cried, giving Clifford a slender, soft hand. “How’s the old boy?”

“Same as always. And how’s Jackie Morton? You’ve been missing for months.”

“I’ve a wonderful tale to unfold—but no time to unfold it now.”