by Talbot Mundy
One of the rusted steps broke under Consuelo’s weight, but Dad saved her from falling by main strength. Consuelo cried aloud to all the saints, but Dad lugged and hauled at her — the thin iron trembled — Jacqueline called encouragingly from below — and Consuelo’s faith in guardian angels somehow clung to her as far as the bottom step. But then Jacqueline swung herself over and dropped like a cat to the ground. Saints — angels vanished. Consuelo sat down.
“I’ll stay here!” she announced flatly. “Go on! You two go without me! I don’t matter — they won’t get a word out of me!”
She did not know who “they” were, but she was willing to face devils rather than that long drop to the ground. However, Dad and Jacqueline between them managed it. Dad jumped to the ground and found two garbage cans, one full, the other empty — piled one on the other, and laid a piece of wood on top of all. Jacqueline coaxed, Dad swore, and Consuelo was persuaded; she stepped down, and the whole structure toppled forward under her trembling weight, but it broke her fall, and Dad and Jacqueline between them saved her from breaking her neck.
Then, hand in hand, they hurried up the alley to the street to find an auto. The police patrol wagon was backed up to the front entrance of the El Toro, and they were putting Papa Pantopoulos and several of his waiters into it. Beside the patrol wagon was some one’s private car, and Sherry was talking to a man in a dress suit and overcoat about half a head taller than himself, a little to one side, beyond the café entrance. Dad did not look at the man hard enough to recognize him. He hurried the two women past Sherry, and got in Sherry’s way to prevent him from dallying with Jacqueline.
“Get an auto of some kind — quick!” he whispered. “We’ll wait at the next corner!”
Dad tugged at the women, for the police were coming out of the El Toro, and Wahl might follow them. The man Sherry had been talking to seemed much too interested. Dad did not dare look at him.
“Hurry!” he urged. “Best foot forward! Keep your faces covered, and look straight in front of you!”
But that damned young fool Sherry, instead of running for an auto, was talking to the man again!
“Hell! Is the boy crazy?”
Dad’s nerves were nearly as far gone by then as Consuelo’s. He almost jumped out of his skin when a man’s step came hurrying behind him and a man’s voice spoke close to his ear.
“Pardon me. Why not use my car?”
Dad faced about — gasped — grinned — recognized John Miro!
“This is perfectly all right,” said Miro, smiling. “They won’t interfere with any lady in my car. Take my arm, Miss Lanier!”
She obeyed, with an almost creepy sensation. It was like walking with Desmio, only this man was so much taller! He had the same way of holding her arm, and the same peculiar dignity in his stride. Strange, what idiotic thoughts occur to one in a crisis. She looked down at his feet, to see whether he was wearing the rubbers he so energetically advertised! He was not, and she was almost disappointed! She had not time to feel surprised at meeting him in that extraordinary crisis; in fact she was past being surprised at anything — and so disturbed on Sherry’s account that she could not think.
Miro helped her into the car — a great expensive closed one with the Miro coat-of-arms on the panel; then offered his arm to Consuelo. Dad whispered to the chauffeur — fiercely — repeating directions again and again. Miro slammed the door shut, cried “Go ahead!” and stood between Dad and Sherry, watching as the car threaded its way into the stream of traffic.
“Well — so here endeth this lesson!” Miro remarked after a moment.
“No, it doesn’t!”
Dad turned and faced him squarely. “That swine Wahl,” he went on, “has his story all written. It’s set up, ready to use the minute he phones them to spring it. What’s he doing now? Anybody seen him?”
Miro did not know Wahl by sight, and shook his head.
“He’s still inside there somewhere,” said Sherry.
“Damn it! We’ve got him beat,” said Dad, “unless he gets her story out of Ramon! Maybe he’s phoning already from the cafe — get in there, Sherry, and see if you can’t bust the instrument — or cut the wire. I’ll hunt for him upstairs. God! If I catch him in one of the rooms I’ll kill him!”
“Don’t quite kill him!” advised Miro. “I’ll wait here for both of you.”
But Wahl had stolen a march. He was not yet ready to telephone to the Tribune to use the story. Even he did not dare to turn that scurrilous concoction loose without first positively identifying his victim; and he believed she was still hiding upstairs.
He wasted precious minutes trying to find some other way of invading the upper story, and nearly came to blows with a Negro cook who drove him headlong out of the kitchen by the back way. That brought him into the alley, at the rear, and it was not a minute after that before he thought of the fire-escape. But there were two fire-escapes; and the one he swung himself on to was at the end of the building, serving quite a different set of windows from the one that Dad had used. He peered in vainly at window after window, almost giving up hope, until he reached the top story and at last saw a small girl in a night-dress playing with a monkey on a bedroom floor. Without a moment’s hesitation then, he wrapped his fist in a handkerchief, smashed a pane of glass, unlatched, the window, and climbed in.
The child ran from him in terror, and Wahl did all he could to increase the terror, believing that would save time. He caught her — backed her up against the wall — made hideous grimaces in the child’s face.
“Where’s Conchita?” he demanded. “Tell me or I’ll hurt you!”
“Gone!” wailed Pepita. “She’s gone. I want her too! But she’s gone!”
“Gone where? Hurry up now! Tell me, if you don’t want to be hurt!”
“A man came and took her to the mountains. He promised he’d take me. I want to go soon!”
Pepita burst into tears, and Wahl turned away from her, stroking his chin.
Mountains — mountains? The man was Dad Lawrence undoubtedly. He had felt sure Dad was a traitor, but where would Dad take her, or send her to in the mountains? It was hardly likely Dad would go along. He would put her in a car and send her there. Might get the number of the car — no, no time for that, and not much chance of it. Dad must have thought of some place on the spur of the moment — what place? — wished he knew Dad better — Got it! Dad had told him he sometimes spent weekends in Mansfield’s cabin, and Mansfield himself hardly ever went there! That must be the place — where else? But could he find the way, he wondered. Well — he couldn’t find it by standing there stroking his chin. He knew the general direction — everybody in the neighborhood would know where Mansfield’s cabin was.
He went out by the window just as Dad entered the room in search for him. Dad, leaning out of the window, watched him hurrying down the iron ladder — saw Wahl grin as he recognized the face above him, and guessed the grin meant triumph. He shut the window down, and spent five minutes in comforting Pepita before he could coax the account from her of what Wahl had said and done, and what she had told Wahl. Then he tossed the child on to the bed, covered her, kissed her good night, and ran for it — downstairs — as hard as he could lay foot to the floor. He found Sherry by the phone booth.
“Where’s your car?” Dad demanded.
“In the garage. Haven’t used it since yesterday.”
“Take a taxi, and go get it, quick! Wahl’s wise! He’s after her — to your dad’s cabin in the mountains! Get on his trail! Smash him if you have to! Use a monkey-wrench! Anything to stop him! If he identifies her—”
But Sherry was gone. Wahl’s roadster, in which he had followed the police patrol wagon on the way to the raid, had been parked half a block away. That was gone too.
“It’s a race now — up to Sherry and a high-powered car,” said Dad, joining Miro on the sidewalk.
“Race for what?” asked Miro. “What next?”
Dad enlightened him. “If
Wahl phones the Tribune to spring that story, tomorrow’s first edition will about kill that girl! The story’s all in type. One word from him, and it’s on the press! All the other papers will copy it, and the evening editions will enlarge on it! Mansfield’s sure to put it on the wires, and every paper in the country will run columns about it! She’ll never be able to live it down.”
“No,” said Miro calmly, “she won’t. I know what publicity means!” He glanced up at his own glaring sky-sign several blocks away. “Let’s see: I use a lot of space in the Tribune. I’ve phoned for my other car — it’ll be here in a few minutes — I’ll go and see Mr. Mansfield!”
Dad touched his arm. “Be careful!” he warned: “Mansfield’s iron! Threats only make him savage.”
Miro smiled. “He won’t care to lose any full-page advertising.”
“Meat and drink for him!” Dad answered. “He’ll leave the space blank, and run a paragraph in big type in the middle explaining why you canceled your ad! He’s fought and won that kind of fight a dozen times.”
“Where’s the joint in his armor them” asked Miro — almost pleasantly — the way a surgeon might ask to see a patient’s leg.
“Sherry!” Dad answered. “Mansfield wants to break Miss Lanier because he suspects Sherry of being under her influence. Sherry has as much iron as his father, and won’t quit. Mansfield will cut Sherry off without a nickel.”
“And you?” asked Miro.
“Oh, I’m done for! I’ll be hunting a job tomorrow morning.”
“Try me first,” suggested Miro. “Here’s my car. Well — glad to have met you, Mr. — what name? — Lawrence. And this place in the mountains — just where is it?”
“Mansfield’s cabin.”
“Oh he’ll know the way then. Good night. Don’t forget to come to see me. And before I forget it will you do me a favor? Phone the Ursuline Convent — get Sister Michaela — tell her where Jacqueline is and have a car put at her disposal. Send me the bill.” He saw Dad’s bewilderment. “That’s just in case the rest of us fall down. — Good night.”
CHAPTER 30.
“I’ve heard threats before — lots of ’em!”
At seventeen moods flash from one extreme to the other, and Jacqueline in John Miro’s limousine behind a liveried driver was a totally different person from La Conchita in a shabby cabaret. She began instantly to readjust herself to the new surroundings, and to think in corresponding terms. Noblesse oblige. That is almost the only age-worn proverb that can not be controverted. The other is, “Put a beggar on a horse and he will ride you down.”
Hedged in by elegance, and safe for the moment, she thought of nothing but Sherry and how to save him from the disaster of being mixed up with herself. She was willing to make any sacrifice for Sherry — but what sacrifice would help? There was no prospect now that Sherry would listen to reason and drop her out of his life; she knew he would stick to her through thick and thin, quarrel with his father, and be ruined — by what? By his own father’s newspaper’s lies about herself! And reporters were probably already hunting like wolves to discover who the man was who had been in her bedroom, because she had no doubt but that Ramon was already talking.
Who would help? To whom could she turn? Dad Lawrence had been an angel, but what more could he do? John Miro had turned up like a person in a dream, and had helped by lending his car. She supposed he was awfully rich, but — he was just a gentleman, behaving as such — he could hardly have refused the loan of his car — he and Desmio had been at daggers drawn — but Desmio would certainly have done as much for John Miro — it was no use looking to John Miro for any further, aid — besides, he would certainly think she had plotted to deprive him of the Miro estates in Louisiana. He very likely believed the newspapers and that Desmio’s death was her fault. Why should he not believe the newspapers? Everybody always did.
She almost wished she had stayed and confronted Wahl. If she told him the plain truth, wouldn’t he listen? She knew he would not listen! She remembered Wahl’s face — and his hand on her wrist — knew, too, that she could never force herself to say a word to him; even the memory of him made her feel cold all over.
How did any one come to believe what such a person as Wahl said, she wondered. Why did the people who owned the newspapers place any confidence in him? Why did Sherry’s father trust him? Oh, if only she could see Sherry’s father, and tell him the truth for one minute, she felt sure she could convince him! She would warn him of Sherry’s danger.
Why not? Was he invisible? Was she afraid? Yes! Of what — for herself? Yes! What did that matter? She owed it to Sherry! What was love for if you didn’t sacrifice yourself to save the man you loved?
She nudged Consuelo. “Tell him to stop!” she commanded. But Consuelo had no mind for anything but flight — and the luxury of being in a limousine again.
“No, no, honey—”
Jacqueline leaned forward and slid the glass partition.
“Drive first to the Tribune Building!” she commanded, and the man swung the car around obediently. The die was cast!
“But what are you going to do, honey? Are you—”
“Never you mind. You wait in the car while I attend to something.”
Firm lips — eyes full of conquest — seat erect — courage. She wished she knew beforehand what a newspaper office was like. She imagined Mansfield senior in a den between whirring machinery and oil-cans, and supposed she would have to shout her loudest in order to make him hear above the clatter. Well — it would help if she had to shout; she would yell the truth at him, and all his men would hear, and would be convinced too! She had a vision of a dozen men in overalls crowding around Mansfield senior and forcing him to withdraw his accusations against her — forcing him to print a special edition exonerating her — and of Mansfield begging her pardon, just as Sherry would beg anybody’s pardon, bluntly, almost rudely, but with absolute sincerity! If they did find out that Sherry had been in her room, it wouldn’t matter, if only all the newspapers withdrew all those awful lies about her!
She saw Mansfield senior as a big bloated copy of Sherry, with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, and one hand on a wheel that controlled all the machinery.
Then, suddenly, there she was in front of the Tribune Building, with her heart in her mouth, and all the inspiration gone! Consuelo begged and implored her not to do anything foolish, but the driver got down and held the door open, which kept her from changing her mind if nothing else did. She wrapped the heavy veil twice around the lower part of her face, jumped out before Consuelo could stop her, and ran into the building.
She thought at first she had made a mistake; it was not in the least like the newspaper den she had imagined — just a great gilded hallway, with well-dressed people hurrying to and fro. But a man in uniform told her which floor to go to, and showed her into the elevator; in another moment she had stepped into a corridor with doors to right and left and a desk at one corner, at which a pale-faced boy sat behind a piece of painted wood marked “Information.” She supposed that meant that the boy would tell her things.
But it was he who insisted on information. He wanted to know her name and business. Had she a card? Would she write her name then on a slip of paper? When she shook her head the boy grew impudent, and that settled that problem. He learned, at once, at least something about dignity.
“Tell Mr. Mansfield that a lady is waiting to see him.”
The boy looked at her and left his desk. A moment later he bowed her in through Mansfield’s office door, and Mansfield senior rose from his leather- covered chair, as she stood hesitating while the door clicked behind her.
It was all so different from what she had imagined that she could not speak at all at first. Mansfield looked something, though not much, like Sherry, and was as well dressed as any man she had ever seen. The office was almost like a private library, with a fireplace, arm-chairs and an expensive carpet. There was no noise. Mansfield remained standing at his desk and seeme
d to expect her to speak first, and to be very suspicious.
“Are you Mr. Mansfield?” she asked suddenly.
He nodded, and she walked half a dozen steps toward him.
“I — I wanted to talk to you about — about something.” His expression showed that he supposed that was why she was there; it was dry — hard — uncompromising. He did not make the slightest effort to put her at her ease.
“About what?” he asked after a moment’s pause; and the very abruptness of the question nerved her to the fighting point.
“About your newspaper, Mr. Mansfield, and about untruths you’ve printed, and—”
There! It was out! But instead of looking startled, Mansfield smiled dryly and motioned her to a chair. “Won’t you remove your veil?” he asked.
“No, thank you. You’ve printed disgraceful accounts of Jacqueline Lanier,” she went on, “and I happen to know they are absolutely false. I’ve come to tell you that, so that anything you print from now on will be done with your eyes open. You’ve ruined Jacqueline Lanier — ruined her life and all her hopes. You’ve blackened her character, without knowing anything about the real circumstances and you’ve reduced her to the point where she simply can’t face people — where she is afraid to let people know who she is, because of the things the newspapers have said of her.”
Jacqueline paused for breath. Mansfield again motioned her to a chair, but she continued standing, so he leaned back against his desk and stood at ease.
“Jacqueline Lanier is one of those evil characters who should be exposed, in the public interest,” he answered sternly. “We have all the facts about her. Our special correspondent was present at the tragedy that made her notorious. He interviewed her. His impressions and his information are first hand.”
“He knows nothing!” she retorted. “You’ve let that — that devil destroy a girl’s character, and — you’ve worse than murdered her! She’s forced to run away and hide — and now you’re trying to kill her all over again!”
