Children of the Whirlwind
“Loan me five thousand,” Larry returned evenly, “and I'll cover the bet
with even money--it being understood that I'm to sell the picture at a
price not less than the highest price you ever received for one of
your 'pretty pictures' which you delight to curse and which made your
fortune. Now bring down your pictures--or shut up!”
Hunt's jaw set. “Young fellow, I take that bet! And I'll not let you
off, either--you'll have to pay it! Which pictures do you want?”
“That young Italian woman sitting on the curb nursing her baby--and any
other picture you want to put with it.”
Hunt went clumping up the stairway. When he was out of earshot, the
Duchess remarked quietly:
“What did you really come for, Larry?”
Larry was somewhat taken aback by his grandmother's penetration, but he
did not try to evade the question nor the steady gaze of the old eyes.
“I thought you might know where Maggie is, and I came to ask.”
“That's what I thought.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
The old eyes were still steady upon him. “I don't know that I should
tell you. I want you to get on--and the less you have to do with Maggie,
the better for you.”
“I'd like to know, grandmother.”
The Duchess considered for a long space. “After all, you're of age--and
you've got to decide what's best for yourself. I'll tell you. Maggie was
here the other day--dressed simple--to get some letters she'd forgotten
to take and which I couldn't find. We had a talk. Maggie is living at
the Grantham under the name of Margaret Cameron. She has a suite there.”
“A suite at the Grantham!” exclaimed Larry, astounded. “Why, the
Grantham is in the same class with the Ritzmore, where she used to
work--or the Plaza! A suite at the Grantham!”
And then Larry gave a twitching start. “At the Grantham--alone?”
“Not alone--no. But it's not what just came into your mind. It's a woman
that's with her; a hired companion. And they're doing everything on a
swell scale.”
“What's Maggie up to?”
“She didn't tell me, except to say that the plan was a big one. She was
all excited over it. If you want to know just what it is, ask Barney
Palmer and Old Jimmie.”
“Barney and Old Jimmie!” ejaculated Larry. And then: “Barney and Old
Jimmie--and a suite at the Grantham!”
At that moment Hunt came back down the stairway, carrying a roll wrapped
in brown paper.
“Here you are, young fellow,” he announced. “De-mounted 'em so the junk
would be easier to handle. The Dago mother you asked for--the second
painting may be one you'd like to have for your own private gallery.
I'm not going to let you get away with your bluff--and don't you forget
it!... Duchess, don't you think he'd better beat it before Gavegan
and his loving friends take a tumble to his presence and mess up the
neighborhood?”
“Yes,” said the Duchess. “Good-night, Larry.”
“Good-night,” said he.
Mechanically he took the roll of paintings and slipped it under his
raincoat; mechanically he shook hands; mechanically he got out of the
pawnshop; mechanically he took all precautions in getting out of
the little rain-driven street and in getting into a taxicab which he
captured over near Cooper Institute. All his mind was upon what the
Duchess had told him and upon a new idea which was throbbingly growing
into a purpose. Maggie and Barney and Old Jimmie! Maggie in a suite at
the Grantham!
What Larry now did, as he got into the taxi, he would have called
footless and foolhardy an hour before, and at any other hour his
judgment might have restrained him. But just now he seemed controlled
by a force greater than smooth-running judgment--a composite of many
forces: by sudden jealousy, by a sudden desire to shield Maggie, by a
sudden desire to see her. So as he stepped into the taxi, he said:
“The Grantham--quick!”
CHAPTER XVII
The taxi went rocking up Fourth Avenue. But now that decision was made
and he was headed toward Maggie, a little of judgment reasserted itself.
It would not be safe for him to walk openly into the Grantham with a
mouthful of questions. He did not know the number of Maggie's suite. And
Maggie might not be in. So he revised his plan slightly. He called to
his driver:
“Go to the Claridge first.”
Five minutes later the taxi was in Forty-Fourth Street and Larry
was stepping out. Fortune favored him in one fact--or perhaps his
subconscious mind had based his plan upon this fact: the time was
half-past ten, the theaters still held their crowds, the streets were
empty, the restaurants were practically unoccupied. He was incurring the
minimum of risk.
“Wait for me,” he ordered the driver. “I'll be out in five minutes.”
In less than the half of the first of these minutes Larry had attained
his first objective: the secluded telephone-room down behind the grill.
It was unoccupied except for the telephone girl who was gazing raptly at
the sorrowful, romantic, and very soiled pages of “St. Elmo.” The next
moment she was gazing at something else--a five-dollar bill which Larry
had slipped into the open book.
“That's to pay for a telephone call; just keep the change,” he said
rapidly. “You're to do all the talking, and say just what I tell you.”
“I got you, general,” said the girl, emerging with alacrity from romance
to reality. “Shoot.”
“Call up the Hotel Grantham--say you're a florist with an order to
deliver some flowers direct to Miss Margaret Cameron--and ask for the
number of her suite--and keep the wire open.”
The girl obeyed promptly. In less than a minute she was reporting to
Larry:
“They say 1141-1142-1143.”
“Ask if she's in. If she is, get her on the 'phone, tell her long
distance is calling, but doesn't want to speak to her unless she is
alone. You get it?”
“Sure, brother. This ain't the first time I helped a party out.”
There was more jabbing with the switch-board plug, evident switching at
the other end, several questions, and then the girl asked: “Is this Miss
Margaret Cameron? Miss Cameron--” and so on as per Larry's instructions.
The operator turned to Larry: “She says she's alone.”
“Tell her to hold the wire till you get better connections--the storm
has messed up connections terribly--and keep your own wire open and make
her hold her end.”
As Larry went out he heard his instructions being executed while an
adept hand safely banked the bill inside her shirt-waist. Within two
minutes his taxi set him down at the Grantham; and knowing that whatever
risks he ran would be lessened by his acting swiftly and without any
suspicious hesitation, he walked straight in and to the elevators, in
the manner of one having business there, his collar again pulled up,
his cap pulled down, and his face just then covered with a handkerchief
which was caring for a sniffling nose in a highly natural manner.
With his heart pounding he got without mishap to the doors numbered
1141, 1142, and 1143. Instinctively he knew in a general way what the
apartment was like: a set of rooms of various character which the hotel
could rent singly or throw together and rent en suite. But which of the
three was the main entrance? He dared not hesitate, for the slightest
queer action might get the attention of the floor clerk down
the corridor. So Larry chose the happy medium and pressed the
mother-of-pearl button of 1142.
The door opened, and before Larry stood a large, elderly, imposing woman
in a rigidly formal evening gown--a gown which, by the way, had been
part of Miss Grierson's equipment for many a year for helping raw young
things master the art of being ladies. Larry surmised at once that this
was the “hired companion” his grandmother had spoken of. In other days
Larry had had experience with this type and before Miss Grierson could
bar him out or ask a question, Larry was in the room and the door closed
behind him--and he had entered with the easiest, most natural, most
polite manner imaginable.
“You were expecting me?” inquired Larry with his disarming and wholly
engaging smile.
Neither Miss Grierson's mind nor body was geared for rapid action. She
was taken aback, and yet not offended. So being at a loss, she resorted
to the chief item in her stock in trade, her ever dependable dignity.
“I cannot say that I was. In fact, sir, I do not know who you are.”
“Miss Cameron knows--and she is expecting me,” Larry returned
pleasantly. His quick eyes had noted that this was a sitting-room: an
ornate, patterned affair which the great hotels seem to order in hundred
lots. “Where is Miss Cameron?”
“In the next room,” nodding at the connecting door. “She is engaged.
Telephoning. A long-distance call. I'm quite sure she is not expecting
you,” Miss Grierson went on to explain ponderously and elaborately,
but with politeness, for this young man was handsome and pleasant and
well-bred and might prove to be some one of real importance. “We were
to have had a theater party with supper afterwards; but owing to Miss
Cameron's indisposition we did not go to the theater. But she insisted
on keeping the engagement for the supper, but changing it to here.
Besides herself and myself, there are to be only her uncle, her cousin,
and just one guest. That is why I am so certain, sir, she is not
expecting you.”
“But you see,” smiled Larry, “I am that one guest.”
Miss Grierson shook her carefully coiffured transformation. “I've met
the guest who is coming, and I certainly have not met you.”
“Then she must have asked two of us. Anyhow, I'll just speak to her, and
if I'm mistaken and de trop, I'll withdraw.” And ere Miss Grierson could
even stir up an intention to intervene further, this well-mannered
young man had smiled his disarming smile and bowed to her and had passed
through the door, closing it behind him.
He halted, the knob in his hand. Maggie was standing sidewise to him,
holding a telephone in her hand, its receiver at her ear. She must have
supposed that it was Miss Grierson who had so quietly entered, for she
did not look around.
“Yes, I'm still waiting,” she was saying impatiently. “Can't you ever
get that connection?”
Larry had seen Maggie only in the plain dark suit which she had worn to
her daily business of selling cigarettes at the Ritzmore; and once, on
the night of his return from Sing Sing, in that stage gypsy costume,
which though effective was cheap and impromptu and did not at all lift
her out of the environment of the Duchess's ancient and grimy house.
But Larry was so startled by this changed Maggie that for the moment
he could not have moved from the door even had he so desired. She was
accoutered in the smartest of filmy evening gowns, with the short skirt
which was then the mode, with high-heeled silver slippers, her rounded
arms and shoulders and bosom bare, her abundant black hair piled high in
careful carelessness. The gown was cerise in color, and from her forearm
hung a great fan of green plumes. In all the hotels and theaters of New
York one could hardly have come upon a figure that night more striking
in its finished and fresh young womanhood. Larry trembled all over; his
heart tried to throb madly up out of his throat.
At length he spoke. And all he was able to say was:
“Maggie.”
She whirled about, and telephone and receiver almost fell from her
hands. She went pale, and stared at him, her mouth agape, her dark eyes
wide.
“La-Larry!” she whispered.
“Maggie!” he said again.
“La-Larry! I thought you were in Chicago.”
“I'm here now, Maggie--especially to see you.” He did not know it, but
his voice was husky. He noted that she was still holding the telephone
and receiver. “It was I who put in that long-distance call. But I came
instead. So you might as well hang up.”
She obeyed, and set the instrument upon its little table.