Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “It is not our fault that she deserves to be pilloried,” Mansfield answered calmly. “This newspaper owes a duty to the public. However — pardon me — how do you know of our intentions?”

  “Never mind! I know! Your reporters are after her. You’re going to print another story about her, and I’m here to ask you not to do it!”

  Mansfield smiled again. He made no comment, except that his eyes hardened and grew a fraction less wide open as he watched her. He picked up a paper- knife from the desk behind him and began to play with it.

  “Is that blood on your dress?” he asked her suddenly.

  Too late, she remembered that her cape had no button in front, and clutched it. “It’s nothing — only a scratch,” she answered, but she saw renewed suspicion in his eyes.

  That frown of hers was dancing restlessly, belying indignation, making her look mischievous, and the effect of that was heightened by the veil that she was so careful to keep over her mouth. The veil rather muffled her voice; and the fact that she had on a spangled dancing dress under a cheap cape was decidedly not in her favor. If she had only covered her forehead instead of her chin, those lake-blue eyes might have convinced.

  “How do you come to know Jacqueline Lanier?” Mansfield asked abruptly.

  “I do know her!” she answered. “Isn’t that enough?”

  He shook his head. “You forget that we know her!” he answered.

  “You don’t, Mr. Mansfield! She’s—”

  He interrupted with a gesture. “Let me prove to you that we do,” he broke in. “Don’t hesitate to tell me if I’m wrong. She is dancing, and has been dancing for several nights past, in a lowdown cabaret called the El Toro, owned by a Greek of unsavory repute. She is living in the company of disreputable foreigners, and dancing in a mask. That, of itself, is evidence of her real character. People have a way of finding their true level, whatever the circumstances of their birth may happen to be. Am I right?”

  “Don’t you see that she’s there because you’ve left her nothing else to do, and nowhere to go? Are you going to deprive her of even that poor chance to make a living?”

  “It is part of a newspaper’s business to expose people of her type,” Mansfield answered, studying that dancing frown with increasing dislike. “Left to her own devices that girl would very soon repeat past performances. She would ruin more young men — and possibly more old ones. She is a public menace — a type of the greatest public menace in the world today, only she happens to be worse than most of them. Pity would be wasted on her. What pity had she for the man who went to his death on her account, and for poor Jack Calhoun, who shot himself? She laughed! Our correspondent saw her!”

  She did not, Mr. Mansfield!”

  “How do you know? Were you there?” he asked.

  Jacqueline hesitated, and the fact did not escape Mansfield’s notice. She was wondering whether to admit who she was, but the hard look in his eyes warned her that would be worse than useless. She tried another line.

  “Haven’t you a son?” she asked him.

  “Yes. What has that to do with it?” he snapped back.

  “Would you like your son to be found guilty by the newspapers, and condemned, and hounded from pillar to post — until there was almost nothing left but suicide?”

  Her voice almost broke as she said that, but Mansfield snorted and sat down at his desk. He had no intention of being won over by sob-stuff, nor of letting the interview drag out much longer. His eye was on the button at the end of the row on the wall; unless she had something more to the point to tell him, in another minute he would ring the bell and have her shown out. She read his intention, but she was there to save Sherry, and her next words made him sit upright and stare at her again.

  “Very well, Mr. Mansfield. You have ruined Jacqueline — you can’t hurt her any more. But do you realize that you’ve made her so notorious that any man would be ruined, too, whose name was mixed up with hers?”

  “That’s his look-out!” Mansfield answered cynically.

  “Listen, Mr. Mansfield. Your reporters — or one of them — caused the El Toro to be raided. There was an accident.”

  Mansfield raised his eyebrows. He thought of the blood he had noticed on her dress, and nodded.

  “There was some one in La Conchita’s room — a young man.”

  “A man, eh?”

  “Yes. And please, Mr. Mansfield, if there’s any mercy or justice in you, call off your reporters. Don’t let them find out who it was. If they do—”

  “Serve him right!” snapped Mansfield.

  Gesture — expression — attitude — finger ready for the bell — all indicated that the interview had no further possible purpose as far as he was concerned. But he did not press the bell-button; something in Jacqueline’s manner arrested him. She had grown calm suddenly; the effect was much more tragic than if she had pointed a finger and screamed at him.

  “The man was your son, Mr. Mansfield!” she said quietly.

  He was stung! He gaped at her. But then his face began to grow harder than a stone.

  “I am here to save your son,” she went on.

  “I’ll save him!” he said suddenly, and grabbed at the desk telephone. “I’ll let no woman of that type ruin him! Give me the desk!” he shouted. “Quick! Have every story that comes in about the raid at the El Toro sent to me first. D’you get that? Print nothing until I’ve seen it!”

  “If that’s all you came about, you needn’t worry,” he sneered. “We’ll keep his name out of it!”

  “And hound her?”

  “Certainly!”

  Well — she had saved Sherry. But divine rage — reckless, righteous anger seized Jacqueline. Suddenly she saw the smallness of this man — his meanness — his cowardice. Scorn arose in her and swamped every other sensation.

  “You miserable coward!” she exclaimed, not raising her voice, but looking at him as if he were a Negro. “So your notions of public duty don’t include yourself or your son! You contemptible creature! Sherry is worth ten million of you, or I would go myself and tell his name to every newspaper in the city! Don’t dare answer me! Listen! You have heard the truth tonight! If Jacqueline Lanier were all that you say she is, then you’re worse! But she’s nothing of the sort, and you’re worse than a murderer — you’re a yellow coward, and a liar! That’s all, Mr. Mansfield! You may ring your bell now!”

  She turned her back to him and waited for the office-boy to show her out, not once looking back at him, and for a moment Mansfield sat still, not enjoying his sensations. It was the first time in his life that any one had dared to say to his face anything remotely resembling Jacqueline’s words, and what appalled him was her impudence, not his own injustice. To be bearded in his own den and called a liar by — by that creature! For he knew who she was now — hadn’t the slightest doubt of it. She was La Conchita — none other than Jacqueline Lanier — the female who had vamped Sherry and cast a spell on him — here in his office to save herself by a hypocritical pretense of pleading for the boy! He grabbed the telephone.

  “O.K. that Lanier story!” he almost shouted. “I’ve identified her! Rush it through — and say: send some one from the news-room quick, to follow that woman downstairs. She’s just gone down in the elevator — it’s the Lanier in person — sure! — trace her — have him hurry!”

  But Jacqueline was into Miro’s limousine, and away, before the reporter ran out of the building, and all the news he brought back was that some one had told him she drove away in an expensive closed car.

  “Ham!” said Mansfield. “Another old man on the string, I dare say. She seems to like two at a time — an old one and a young one! I wonder where Wahl is all this time — he ought to play that up.”

  About ten minutes later he was rather annoyed than otherwise to learn that John Miro had called, and wished to speak with him. Normally he would have been glad to talk with Miro, as an advertiser nationally known, with whom it was good business to be on friendly t
erms. He had never met him, and would like to. But just now he wanted to keep his mind on the Lanier story, and to watch for any angle of it that might implicate Sherry. Also he wanted to consider what to say to Sherry — how to discipline him without arriving at an open quarrel. So, though he received Miro graciously enough, he told him he could only spare five minutes.

  “Time’s always scant about the time we’re going to press,” he explained.

  “So I judge, by the way the stuff’s written,” Miro answered, smiling amiably as he took the proffered arm-chair and crossed one leg over the other. “If I rushed into print with my advertisements as casually as you print news, I’d be bankrupt or in jail within the month. Will you have a cigar?”

  “No, thanks,” snapped Mansfield. “What is it I can do for you?”

  “Do you mind if I light one?”

  “Certainly not. Go ahead. But please come to the point — I’m rushed off my feet.”

  “You’re going to be rushed a great deal faster presently,” said Miro, carefully cutting the end from a cigar and lighting it. “I’ve a car outside that can catch its own shadow. How are the roads toward the mountains — pretty good?”

  “I wonder what you mean?” asked Mansfield, staring at him.

  “I know you do.”

  “The point — ?”

  “Is this,” said Miro. “When you make mistakes, are you big enough to retract them? Or are you one of those big I Am’s, who have to have it proved to them how small they really are?”

  “What the hell d’you mean?” demanded Mansfield, growing angry. “Is there anything wrong with your copy? If so, I’ll—”

  “Oh, no. That all emanates from my office, and is checked up very carefully.”

  “Then what the—”

  “I am coming to that.”

  “Then I wish you’d be quicker about it!”

  “We will what they call ‘step on her’ presently,” said Miro suavely. “I occasionally read your paper.”

  Mansfield’s expression softened a little. He was always ready to talk about the Tribune.

  “The advertisements are now and then excellent,” Miro went on — apparently deadly serious now.

  “We’re the greatest advertising medium on the West Coast,” said Mansfield.

  “Yes. Many of your advertisers tell the truth. They make sure of their facts, I suspect, before asking for other people’s money. It occurred to me to ask you why you don’t consider taking a feather out of their cap.”

  “For instance?”

  Mansfield had a hand on each arm of his chair, and his feet were under him, as if he were ready to spring up and fight.

  “Miss Jacqueline Lanier is the particular instance I have in mind,” said Miro, just as suavely as ever, leaning back, blowing smoke rings — nevertheless, watching Mansfield with a pair of very bright brown eyes.

  Mansfield struck his fist on the desk. “There,” he exclaimed, “I have you! There was never a case in which we were more certain of our facts!”

  “And never a case where you perpetrated a more rank injustice,” Miro answered calmly. “Who supplied your facts?”

  Mansfield ignored the question.

  “Injustice? Where’s the injustice in exposing a woman of that type? She’s a public menace! You’re the last man who should uphold her! She as good as murdered a relative of yours. She’s the type that breaks up families, — disorganizes society — ruins the lives of young men—”

  “She’s a good, sweet, honest little woman, beautifully bred and delicately poised,” said Miro, “and you’ve turned her into a poor little soiled bird caught in the lime.”

  “Why pick on me?” demanded Mansfield. “The Tribune isn’t the only paper that has printed her story.”

  “I pick on you because you’re handy, and one of the worst offenders,” Miro retorted calmly. “The cheaper rags will copy you. Is that clear?”

  Mansfield jerked his drawer open. “See here!” he snapped. “Here’s a wire in this afternoon. Another scalp on her belt. Donna Isabella — dead of a broken heart!”

  “And in hell — I suspect,” added Miro. “I was at Don Andres’ funeral, although I noticed your reporters overlooked the fact. I had an interview with Donna Isabella. I shall not attend hers.” He uncrossed his legs, and laid his gloves and hat down very carefully on the floor before he went on. “The funeral of the Tribune is the next that I propose to attend — unless you and I arrive at an understanding before I leave this office!”

  “Hah!” Mansfield jumped from his chair with every fighting instinct uppermost. “Is that the lay of the land? Cancel your advertising! Good! Just put it in writing!”

  “Not at all,” Miro answered calmly. “You will carry my advertising as long as your newspaper has a leg to stand on. The contract has nearly a year to run, and I have an option to renew at the same rates.”

  “Then what’s your game?” snapped Mansfield.

  “I’m not playing any game. I’m deadly serious,” Miro answered. “I propose to confront you with actual facts.”

  “Facts? I know all about her!” Mansfield snorted.

  “More than you’d ever guess! She’s been dancing in a low-down cabaret known as the El Toro, and was caught red-handed with—”

  He checked himself. He was not going to implicate Sherry, even in order to confound this man.

  “I know all about that,” Miro answered, smiling. “I know the name of the young man who was in her bedroom. I have had some of the brightest young men from my office hunting for Jacqueline Lanier for several days. Two of them, working independently, identified her this evening, and I arrived on the scene just as that raid was pulled off. You, may say — if you like — in your paper that I assisted to rescue her. It was then hardly half an hour ago — that I made up my mind to fight you to your knees.”

  “You? Fight me?” demanded Mansfield.

  “Why not?” Miro answered. “It will be the sort of public duty that I dote on. I suspect that I own about twenty-five or thirty dollars to your one. I have no family — no heirs whom I care to leave money to. And nothing in the world appeals to me half as much as smashing a public nuisance like your newspaper. There will be libel suits, of course; and you will inevitably lose them; but those will be no more than a preliminary skirmish.”

  “You mean, you propose to dictate to me what the Tribune shall print — whom it shall attack, and whom let alone?”

  “Not at all. I should find that very uninteresting, and I hate above all things to be bored. I propose either to force you to reapproach this whole subject of Jacqueline Lanier with an open mind, and to retract in full — and handsomely — whatever mistakes I may convince you you have made — or else to smash you so completely that you will never raise your head again. I shall also, of course, be at great pains to let the public know why you were smashed.”

  “Go to it!” snapped Mansfield. “I’ve heard threats before — lots of ’em!”

  “My first step will be to give the true story tonight to all the other newspapers — including the name of your son,” said Miro. “The other newspapers are just as sensational as yours, and they’ll revel in it, but they’ll be supplied with proofs — which your — ah — special correspondent overlooked. They will also be permitted an interview with Miss Lanier. It will make great news, won’t it, that your son has — ah — taken the part of the lady whom you persist in vilifying!”

  Mansfield was ready with a retort, but checked it. He was stung. He knew the other newspapers would harp on that string mercilessly. Hating him — jealous of his mounting circulation — they would pounce on the opportunity.

  “What are these facts and proofs that you hope to convince me with?” he demanded, and Miro carefully smoothed out a smile.

  “I propose, first of all, that you shall come with me and meet Miss Lanier in person,” he answered.

  “Useless!” snapped Mansfield. “I’ve met her! She left this room ten minutes before you entered! I had a lon
g talk with her. She convinced me she’s a bad lot!”

  That statement rather took the wind out of Miro’s sails. He began to gather up his hat and gloves, but he managed to mask his disappointment.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ve had a most delightful interview. I always like to discover a man’s weaknesses before I fight him! Thanks for the — ah — intelligence, the armies call it. Good night.”

  He was striding for the door, when it opened and Dad Lawrence burst in, breathless, nodding to Miro and trying to force himself to feel and look calm.

  “I just came in to say I’m through,” he explained. “I won’t wait to be fired. Thought I’d warn you that Wahl’s on his way to your cabin after Jacqueline Lanier—”

  “My cabin! Who sent her there?”

  “I did. I gave her the key! — and Sherry’s in his own car hellbent after Wahl. He’ll catch him, sure. I doubt if Wahl knows the way, and Sherry’s sure to overtake him. There’ll be a fight. It seemed a good idea to let you know it.”

  John Miro stood with his hand on the door-knob, smiling. “Don’t you think Sherry will win?” he asked, watching Mansfield’s face, which was a picture of all the violent emotions.

  Mansfield snatched at the desk telephone. “My car!” he yelled. “Order it round in front — rush!”

  “Why not mine?” asked Miro. “Yours is probably as unreliable as the news you print! Mine’s waiting.”

  Mansfield snatched up the telephone again. “Cancel that!” he yelled. “I’ve another car! — Come, then!” he snapped at Miro. “What are we waiting for?”

  “Only for Mr. Lawrence. Aren’t you coming?” Miro asked; and Dad, nothing loath, hurried behind them into the elevator.

  In less than two minutes they were scooting through the traffic like a fire-engine answering a fourth alarm — Mansfield with his hat off, in order that the traffic-cops might recognize him, and let them by.

  CHAPTER 31.

  “The devil — half-roasted!”

  It cost Sherry exactly twenty minutes to cross town to the garage where he kept his own car, to put in gas and to be under way again. But Wahl lost fifteen minutes asking for directions and procuring a road map; and Sherry’s car could overhaul Wahl’s cheap roadster at the rate of almost two to one. Nothing but traffic and the speed-laws made a real race of it, but the luck was with Wahl from the start; perhaps because his car looked incapable of high speed, he slipped away unnoticed, whereas Sherry was held up twice in the first ten miles and served with notice to appear before the judge; each of those interludes cost him several minutes.