VIII
A HISTORY
Whitaker returned at once to the Theatre Max, but only to find the frontof the house dark, Forty-sixth Street gradually reassuming its normalnocturnal aspect.
At the stage-door he discovered that no one knew what had become of themanager. He might possibly be at home.... It appeared that Max occupiedexclusive quarters especially designed for him in the theatre buildingitself: an amiable idiosyncrasy not wholly lacking in advertising value,if one chose to consider it in that light.
His body-servant, a prematurely sour Japanese, suggested grudgingly thathis employer might not improbably be found at Rector's or LouisMartin's. But he wasn't; not by Whitaker, at least.
Eventually the latter realized that it wasn't absolutely essential tohis peace of mind or material welfare to find Max that night. He hadbeen, as a matter of fact, seeking him in thoughtless humour--movedsolely by the gregarious instinct in man, which made him want to discussthe amazing events of the evening with the one who, next to himself andSara Law, was most vitally concerned with them.
He consulted a telephone book without finding that Drummond had anyprivate residence connection, and then tried at random one of the clubsof which they had been members in common in the days when Hugh Whitakerwas a human entity in the knowledge of the town. Here he had betterluck--luck, that is, in as far as it put an end to his wanderings forthe night; he found a clerk who remembered his face without rememberinghis name, and who, consequently, was not unwilling to talk. Drummond, itseemed, had lived at the club; he had dined alone, that evening, in hisroom; had ordered his motor car from the adjacent garage for seveno'clock; and had left at about that hour with a small hand-bag and nocompanion. Nothing further was known of his actions save the policereport. The car had been found stationary on Washington Bridge, anddeserted, Drummond's motor coat and cap on the driver's seat. Bystandersaverred that a man had been seen to leave the car and precipitatehimself from the bridge to the stream below. The body was stillunrecovered. The club had notified by telegraph a brother in SanFrancisco, the only member of Drummond's family of whom it had anyrecord. Friends, fellow-members of the club, were looking afterthings--doing all that could and properly ought to be done under thecircumstances.
Whitaker walked back to his hotel. There was no other place to go: noplace, that is, that wooed his humour in that hour. He could call tomind, of course, names of friends and acquaintances of the old days towhom there was no reason why he shouldn't turn, now that he had electedto rediscover himself to the world; but there was none of them all thathe really wanted to see before he had regained complete control of hisemotions.
He was, indeed, profoundly shocked. He held himself measurablyresponsible for Drummond's act of desperation. If he had not wilfullysought to evade the burden of his duty to Mary Ladislas, when he foundthat he was to live rather than die--if he had been honest and generousinstead of allowing himself to drift into cowardly defalcation to hertrust--Drummond, doubtless, would still be alive. Or even if, havingchosen the recreant way, he had had the strength to stick to it, to stayburied....
Next to poor Peter Stark, whom his heart mourned without ceasing, he hadcared most for Drummond of all the men he had known and liked in the oldlife. Now ... he felt alone and very lonely, sick of heart and forlorn.There was, of course, Lynch, his partner in the Antipodes; Whitaker wasfond of Lynch, but not with the affection that a generous-spirited youthhad accorded Peter Stark and Drummond--a blind and unreasoning affectionthat asked no questions and made nothing of faults. The capacity forsuch sentiment was dead in him, as dead as Peter Stark, as dead asDrummond....
It was nearly midnight, but the hour found Whitaker in no humour for bedor the emptiness of his room. He strolled into the lounge, sat down at adetached table in a corner, and ordered something to drink. There werenot many others in the room, but still enough to mitigate to some extenthis temporary horror of utter loneliness.
He felt painfully the heaviness of his debt to the woman he had married.He who had promised her new life and the rich fulfilment thereof hadaccomplished only its waste and desolation. He had thrust upon her thechance to find happiness, and as rudely had snatched it away from her.Nor could he imagine any way in which he might be able to expiate hisbreach of trust--his sins of omission and commission, alike deadly andunpardonable!
Unless ... He caught eagerly at the thought: he might "die" again--goaway once more, and forever; bury himself deep beyond the gropingtentacles of civilization; disappear finally, notifying her of hisintention, so that she might seek legal freedom from his name. It onlyneeded Max's silence, which could unquestionably be secured, to insureher against the least breath of scandal, the faintest whisper ofgossip.... Not that Max really knew anything; but the name of Whitaker,as identified with Hugh Morten, might better be permitted to passunechoed into oblivion....
And with this very thought in mind he became aware of the echo of thatname in his hearing.
A page, bearing something on a salver, ambled through the lounge, nowand again opening his mouth to bleat, dispassionately: "Mista Whitaker,Mista Whitaker!"
The owner of that name experienced a flush of exasperation. What righthad the management to cause him to be advertised in every public room ofthe establishment?... But the next instant his resentment evaporated,when he remembered that he remained Mr. Hugh Morten in the managerialcomprehension.
He lifted a finger; the boy swerved toward him, tendered a blueenvelope, accepted a gratuity and departed.
It was a cable message: very probably an answer to his to Grace Pettit.Whitaker tore the envelope and unfolded the enclosure, glancing first atthe signature to verify his surmise. As he did so, he heard his name asecond time.
"Pardon me; this is Mr. Whitaker?"
A man stood beside the little table--one whom Whitaker had indifferentlynoticed on entering as an equally lonely lounger at another table.
Though he frowned involuntarily with annoyance, he couldn't well denyhis identity.
"Yes," he said shortly, looking the man up and down with a captious eye.
Yet it was hard to find much fault with this invader of hispreoccupation. He had the poise and the dress of a gentleman: dignitywithout aggressiveness, completeness without ostentation. He had aspare, not ungraceful body, a plain, dark face, a humorous mouth, steadyeyes: a man easily forgotten or overlooked unless he willed itotherwise.
"My name is Ember," he said quietly. "If you'll permit me--my card." Heoffered a slip of pasteboard engraved with the name of Martin Ember."And I'll sit down, because I want to talk to you for a few minutes."
Accordingly he sat down. Whitaker glanced at the card, and questioninglyback at Mr. Ember's face.
"I don't know you, but ... What are we to talk about, please?"
The man smiled, not unpleasingly.
"Mrs. Whitaker," he said.
Whitaker stared, frowned, and jumped at a conclusion.
"You represent Mrs. Whitaker?"
Mr. Ember shook his head. "I'm no lawyer, thank God! But I happen toknow a good deal it would be to your advantage to know; so I've takenthis liberty."
"Mrs. Whitaker didn't send you to me? Then how--? What the deuce--!"
"I happened to have a seat near your box at the theatre to-night," Mr.Ember explained coolly. "From--what I saw there, I inferred that youmust be--yourself. Afterwards I got hold of Max, confirmed my suspicion,and extracted your address from him."
"I see," said Whitaker, slowly--not comprehending the main issue at all."But I'm not known here by the name of Whitaker."
"So I discovered," said Ember, with his quiet, engaging smile. "If Ihadn't remembered that you sometimes registered as Hugh Morten--as, forinstance, at the Commercial House six years ago--"
"You were there!"
"A considerable time after the event--yes." The man nodded, his eyesglimmering.
Whitaker shot a quick glance round the room, and was relieved to findthey were not within earshot of any of the other occupie
d tables.
"Who the devil are you?" he demanded bluntly.
"I was," said the other slowly, "once, a private detective. Now--I'm aperson of no particular employment, of independent means, with apenchant--you're at liberty to assume--for poking my nose into otherpeople's business."
"Oh...."
A word, "blackmail," leapt into Whitaker's consciousness, and served toharden the hostility in his attitude.
"Mrs. George Pettit once employed me to find her sister, Miss MaryLadislas, who had run away with a chauffeur named Morton," pursued theman, evenly. "That was about the time--shortly after--the death ofThurlow Ladislas; say, two months after the so-called elopement."
"Just a minute," said Whitaker suddenly--"by your leave--"
Ember bowed gravely. For a thought longer Whitaker's gaze bored into hiseyes in vain effort to fathom what was going on behind them, the animusundiscovered by his words; then, remembering, he looked down at thecable message in his hand.
"_Martin Ember_ (it ran) _private agency 1435 Broadway Grace Pettit_."
Whitaker folded the paper and put it away in a pocket.
"Go on, please," he said quietly.
"In those days," Mr. Ember resumed, "I did such things indifferentlywell. I had little trouble in following the runaways from Southampton toGreenport. There they parted. The girl crossed to the Connecticut shore,while the man went back to New York with the automobile. He turned themachine in at the Ladislas garage, by the way, and promptly fell intothe hands of the police. He was wanted for theft in a former position,was arrested, convicted and sent to Sing Sing; where he presently died,I'm glad to say.... I thought this information might interest you."
Whitaker nodded grimly.
"Can I order you something to drink?"
"No, thank you--and I'm already smoking." Mr. Ember dropped the ash froma cigar. "On the Connecticut side (because it was my business to findout things) I discovered that Miss Ladislas had registered at theCommercial House as Mrs. Morton. She was there, alone, under that name,for nearly a week before you registered as Hugh Morten, and in the spaceof a few hours married her, under your true name, and shipped her off toNew York."
"Right," Whitaker agreed steadily. "And then--?"
"I traced her to the Hotel Belmont, where she stopped overnight, thenlost her completely; and so reported to Mrs. Pettit. I must mentionhere, in confidence, in order that you may understand my subsequentaction, that my bill for the investigation was never paid. Mr. Pettitwas not in very comfortable circumstances at the time.... No matter. Ididn't press him, and later was glad of it, for it left me a freeagent--under no obligation to make further report."
"I don't understand you."
"In a moment.... I came into a little money about that time, and gave upmy business: gave it up, that is, as far as placing myself at theservice of the public was concerned. I retained my devouring curiosityabout things that didn't concern me personally, although they were oftenmatters of extreme interest to the general public. In other words, Icontinued to employ my time professionally, but only for my privateamusement or in the interests of my friends.... After some time Mr.Drummond sought me out and begged me to renew my search for Mrs.Whitaker; you were dead, he told me; she was due to come into yourestate--a comfortable living for an independent woman."
"And you found her and told Drummond--?"
Whitaker leaned over the table, studying the man's face with intenseinterest.
"No--and yes. I found Mrs. Whitaker. I didn't report to Drummond."
"But why--in Heaven's name?"
Ember smiled sombrely at the drooping ash of his cigar. "There wereseveral reasons. In the first place I didn't have to: I had asked noretainer from Drummond, and I rendered no bill: what I had found out wasmine, to keep or to sell, as I chose. I chose not to sell because--well,because Mrs. Whitaker begged me not to."
"Ah!" Whitaker breathed, sitting back. "Why?"
"This was all of a year, I think, after your marriage. Mrs. Whitaker hadtasted the sweets of independence and--got the habit. She had adopted aprofession looked upon with abhorrence by her family; she was succeedingin it; I may say her work was foreshadowing that extraordinary powerwhich made her the Sara Law whom you saw to-night. If she came forwardas the widow of Hugh Whitaker, it meant renunciation of the stage; itmeant painful scenes with her family if she refused to abandon herprofession; it meant the loss of liberty, of freedom of action anddevelopment, which was hers in her decent obscurity. She was alreadysuccessful in a small way, had little need of the money she would get asclaimant of your estate. She enlisted my sympathy, and--I held mytongue."
"That was decent of you."
The man bowed a quiet acknowledgment. "I thought you'd think so....There was a third reason."
He paused, until Whitaker encouraged him with a "Yes--?"
"Mr. Whitaker"--the query came point-blank--"do you love your wife?"
Whitaker caught his breath. "What right--!" he began, and checkedabruptly. The blood darkened his lean cheeks.
"Mrs. Whitaker gave me to understand that you didn't. It wasn't hard toperceive, everything considered, that your motive was purechivalry--Quixotism. I should like to go to my grave with anything halfas honourable and unselfish to my credit."
"I beg your pardon," Whitaker muttered thickly.
"You don't, then?"
"Love her? No."
There was a slight pause. Then, "I do," said this extraordinary man,meeting Whitaker's gaze openly. "I do," he repeated, flushing in histurn, "but ... hopelessly.... However, that was the third reason," hepursued in a more level voice--"I thought you ought to know aboutit--that induced me to keep Sara Law's secret.... I loved her from theday I found her. She has never looked twice at me.... But that's why Inever lost interest."
"You mean," Whitaker took him up diffidently--"you continued to--ah--?"
"Court her--as we say? No." Ember's shoulders, lifting, emphasized thedisclaimer. "I'm no fool: I mean I'm able to recognize a hopeless casewhen it's as intimate to me as mine was--and is. Doubtless Mrs. Whitakerunderstands--if she hasn't forgotten me by this time--but, if so, whollythrough intuition. I have had the sense not to invite the thunderbolt.I've sat quietly in the background, watching her work out herdestiny--feeling a good deal like a god in the machine. She doesn't knowit, unless Max told her against my wish; but it was I who induced him totake her from the ranks of a provincial stock company and bring herbefore the public, four years ago, as _Joan Thursday_. Since then herdestiny has been rather too big a thing for me to tamper with; but I'vewatched and wondered, sensing forces at work about her of which even shewas unsuspicious."
"What in blazes do you mean?" Whitaker demanded, mystified.
"Did it strike you to wonder at the extraordinary mob her farewellperformance attracted to-night--the rabble that packed the street,though quite hopeless of even seeing the inside of the theatre?"
"Why--yes. It struck me as rather unusual. But then, Max had donenothing but tell me of her tremendous popularity."
"That alone, great as it is, wouldn't have brought so many peopletogether to stare at the outside of a theatre. The magnet was somethingstronger--the morbid curiosity of New York. Those people were waiting,thrilled with expectancy, on tiptoe for--what do you think?"
"I shall think you mad in another moment, if you don't explainyourself," Whitaker told him candidly.
Ember's smile flashed and vanished. "They were waiting for the sensationthat presently came to them: the report of Drummond's death."
"What the devil--!"
"Patience!... It had been discounted: if something of the sort hadn'thappened, New York would have gone to bed disappointed. The reason? Thisis the third time it has happened--the same thing, practically: Sara Lawon the verge of leaving the stage to marry, a fatal accidentintervening. Did Max by any chance mention the nickname New York hasbestowed on Sara Law?"
"Nickname? No!"
"They call her 'The Destroying Angel.'"
"What
damnable rot!"
"Yes; but what damnable coincidence. Three men loved her--and one by onethey died. And now the fourth. Do you wonder...?"
"Oh, but--'The Destroying Angel'--!" Whitaker cried indignantly. "Howcan they blame her?"
"It isn't blame--it's superstition. Listen...."
Ember bent forward, holding Whitaker's gaze with intent, grave eyes."The first time," he said in a rapid undertone, "was a year or so afterher triumph as _Joan Thursday_. There were then two men openlyinfatuated with her, a boy named Custer, and a man I believe youknew--William Hamilton."
"I knew them both."
"Custer was making the pace; the announcement of his engagement to SaraLaw was confidently anticipated. He died suddenly; the coroner's jurydecided that he had misjudged the intentions of a loaded revolver.People whispered of suicide, but it didn't look quite like that to me.However ... Hamilton stepped into his place. Presently we heard thatSara Law was to marry him and leave the stage. Hamilton had to go abroadon business; on the return trip--the wedding was set for the day afterhe landed here--he disappeared, no one knew how. Presumably he felloverboard by accident one night; sane men with everything in the worldto live for do such things, you know--according to the newspapers."
"I understand you. Please go on."
"Approximately eighteen months later a man named Thurston--MitchellThurston--was considered a dangerous aspirant for the hand of Sara Law.He was exceedingly well fixed in a money way--a sort of dilettantisharchitect, with offices in the Metropolitan Tower. One day at high noonhe left his desk to go to lunch at Martin's; crossing Madison Square, hesuddenly fell dead, with a bullet in his brain. It was a rifle bullet,but though the square was crowded, no one had heard the report of theshot, and no one was seen carrying a rifle. The conclusion was that hehad been shot down by somebody using a gun with a Maxim silencer, from awindow on the south side of the square. There were no clues."
"And now Drummond!" Whitaker exclaimed in horror. "Poor fellow! Poorwoman!"
A slightly sardonic expression modified the lines of Ember's mouth. "Sofar as Mrs. Whitaker is concerned," he said with the somewhat pedanticmode of speech which Whitaker was to learn to associate with his momentsof most serious concentration--"I echo the sentiment. But let us suspendjudgment on Drummond's case until we know more. It is not as yet anestablished fact that he is dead."
"You mean there's hope--?"
"There's doubt," Ember corrected acidly--"doubt, at least, in my mind.You see, I saw Drummond in the flesh, alive and vigorous, a good halfhour after he is reported to have leaped to his death."
"Where?"
"Coming up the stairs from the down-town Subway station in front of thePark Avenue Hotel. He wore a hat pulled down over his eyes and an oldovercoat buttoned tight up to his chin. He was carrying a satchelbearing the initials C. S. D., but was otherwise pretty thoroughlydisguised, and, I fancied, anxious enough to escape recognition."
"You're positive about this?"
"My dear man," said Ember with an air, "I saw his ear distinctly."
"His ear!"
"I never forget an ear; I've made a special study of them. They'rethe last parts of the human anatomy that criminals ever thinkto disguise; and, to the trained eye, as infallible a means ofidentification--nearly--as thumb-prints. The man I saw coming up fromthe Subway kept as much as possible away from the light; he hadsuccessfully hidden most of his face; but he wore the inches, thehand-bag, and the ear of Carter S. Drummond. I don't think I can bemistaken."
"Did you stop him--speak to him?"
Ember shook his head. "No. I doubt if he would have remembered me. Ouracquaintance has been of the slightest, limited to a couple of meetings.Besides, I was in a hurry to get to the theatre, and at that time hadheard nothing of this reputed suicide."
"Which way did he go?"
"Toward the Pennsylvania station, I fancy; that is, he turned westthrough Thirty-third Street. I didn't follow--I was getting into a taxiwhen I caught sight of him."
"But what did you think to see him disguised? Didn't it strike you ascurious?"
"Very," said Ember dryly. "At the same time, it was none of myaffair--then. Nor did it present itself to me as a matter worth meddlingwith until, later, my suspicions were aroused by the scene in thetheatre--obviously the result of your appearance there--and still later,when I heard the suicide report."
"But--good Lord!" Whitaker passed a hand across his dazed eyes. "Whatcan it mean? Why should he do this thing?"
"There are several possible explanations.... How long has Drummond knownthat you were alive?"
"Since noon to-day."
"Not before?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Still, it's possible. If he has a sensitive nature--I think hehasn't--the shame of being found out, caught trying to marry your wifewhen he had positive knowledge you still lived, may have driven him todrop out of sight. Again.... May I ask, what was the extent of yourproperty in his trust?"
"A couple of hundred-thousands."
"And he believed you dead and was unable to find your widow ..."
"Oh, I don't think _that_!" Whitaker expostulated.
"Nor do I. We're merely considering possible explanations. There's athird ..."
"Well?"
"He may have received a strong hint that he was nominated for the fatethat overtook young Custer, Hamilton and Thurston; and so planned togive his disappearance the colour of a similar end."
"You don't mean to say _you_ think there was any method in that train oftragedies?"
"I'm not in the least superstitious, my dear man. I don't for an instantbelieve, as some people claim to, that Sara Law is a destroying angel,hounded by a tragic fate: that her love is equivalent to the deathwarrant of the man who wins it."
"But what do you think, then?"
"I think," said Ember, slowly, his gaze on the table, "that some onewith a very strong interest in keeping the young woman single--and onthe stage--"
"Max! Impossible!"
Ember shrugged. "In human nature, no madness is impossible. There's nota shred of evidence against Jules Max. And yet--he's a gambler. Alltheatrical managers are, of course; but Max is a card-fiend. The tale ofhis plunging runs like wild-fire up and down Broadway, day by day. Adozen times he's been on the verge of ruin, yet always he has had SaraLaw to rely upon; always he's been able to fall back upon that asset,sure that her popularity would stave off bankruptcy. And he'ssuperstitious: he believes she is his mascot. I don't accuse him--Isuspect him, knowing him to be capable of many weird extravagances....Furthermore, it's a fact that Max was a fellow-passenger with BillyHamilton when the latter disappeared in mid-ocean."
Ember paused and sat up, preparatory to rising. "All of which," heconcluded, "explains why I have trespassed upon your patience and yourprivacy. It seemed only right that you should get the straight,undistorted story from an unprejudiced onlooker. May I venture to add aword of advice?"
"By all means."
"Have you told Max of your relations with Sara Law?"
"No."
"Or anybody else?"
"No."
"Then keep the truth to yourself--at least until this coil isstraightened out."
Ember got up. "Good night," he said pleasantly.
Whitaker took his hand, staring. "Good night," he echoed blankly."But--I say--why keep it quiet?"
Ember, turning to go, paused, his glance quietly quizzical. "You don'tmean to claim your wife?"
"On the contrary, I expect to offer no defence to her action fordivorce."
"Grounds of desertion?"
"I presume so."
"Just the same, keep it as quiet as possible until the divorce isgranted. If you live till then ... you may possibly continue to livethereafter."
The Destroying Angel Page 8