The Voice of the City

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"Well," said the Fool-Killer, briskly, "I must be going. You had
better go home and sleep it off. Good-night."

At this I was moved by a sudden fear for Kerner to a softer and more
pleading mood. I leaned against the gray man's sleeve and besought
him:

"Good Mr. Fool-Killer, please don't kill little Kerner. Why can't you
go back South and kill Congressmen and clay-eaters and let us alone?
Why don't you go up on Fifth Avenue and kill millionaires that keep
their money locked up and won't let young fools marry because one of
'em lives on the wrong street? Come and have a drink, Jesse. Will you
never get on to your job?"

"Do you know this girl that your friend has made himself a fool
about?" asked the Fool-Killer.

"I have the honor," said I, "and that's why I called Kerner a fool.
He is a fool because he has waited so long before marrying her. He
is a fool because he has been waiting in the hopes of getting the
consent of some absurd two-million-dollar-fool parent or something of
the sort."

"Maybe," said the Fool-Killer--"maybe I--I might have looked at it
differently. Would you mind going back to the restaurant and bringing
your friend Kerner here?"

"Oh, what's the use, Jesse," I yawned. "He can't see you. He didn't
know you were talking to him at the table, You are a fictitious
character, you know."

"Maybe he can this time. Will you go fetch him?"

"All right," said I, "but I've a suspicion that you're not strictly
sober, Jesse. You seem to be wavering and losing your outlines. Don't
vanish before I get back."

I went back to Kerner and said:

"There's a man with an invisible homicidal mania waiting to see you
outside. I believe he wants to murder you. Come along. You won't see
him, so there's nothing to be frightened about."

Kerner looked anxious.

"Why," said he, "I had no idea one absinthe would do that. You'd
better stick to Wuerzburger. I'll walk home with you."

I led him to Jesse Holmes's.

"Rudolf," said the Fool-Killer, "I'll give in. Bring her up to the
house. Give me your hand, boy."

"Good for you, dad," said Kerner, shaking hands with the old man.
"You'll never regret it after you know her."

"So, you did see him when he was talking to you at the table?" I
asked Kerner.

"We hadn't spoken to each other in a year," said Kerner. "It's all
right now."

I walked away.

"Where are you going?" called Kerner.

"I am going to look for Jesse Holmes," I answered, with dignity and
reserve.




XIX

TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA


There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the
summer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are
finished in dark oak of a low temperature. Home-made breezes and
deep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences
of the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide
dreamily upward in its aerial elevators, attended by guides in brass
buttons, with a serene joy that Alpine climbers have never attained.
There is a chef in its kitchen who will prepare for you brook trout
better than the White Mountains ever served, sea food that would turn
Old Point Comfort--"by Gad, sah!"--green with envy, and Maine venison
that would melt the official heart of a game warden.

A few have found out this oasis in the July desert of Manhattan.
During that month you will see the hotel's reduced array of guests
scattered luxuriously about in the cool twilight of its lofty
dining-room, gazing at one another across the snowy waste of
unoccupied tables, silently congratulatory.

Superfluous, watchful, pneumatically moving waiters hover near,
supplying every want before it is expressed. The temperature
is perpetual April. The ceiling is painted in water colors to
counterfeit a summer sky across which delicate clouds drift and do
not vanish as those of nature do to our regret.

The pleasing, distant roar of Broadway is transformed in the
imagination of the happy guests to the noise of a waterfall filling
the woods with its restful sound. At every strange footstep the
guests turn an anxious ear, fearful lest their retreat be discovered
and invaded by the restless pleasure-seekers who are forever hounding
nature to her deepest lairs.

Thus in the depopulated caravansary the little band of connoisseurs
jealously hide themselves during the heated season, enjoying to the
uttermost the delights of mountain and seashore that art and skill
have gathered and served to them.

In this July came to the hotel one whose card that she sent to
the clerk for her name to be registered read "Mme. Heloise D'Arcy
Beaumont."

Madame Beaumont was a guest such as the Hotel Lotus loved. She
possessed the fine air of the elite, tempered and sweetened by a
cordial graciousness that made the hotel employees her slaves.
Bell-boys fought for the honor of answering her ring; the clerks, but
for the question of ownership, would have deeded to her the hotel
and its contents; the other guests regarded her as the final touch
of feminine exclusiveness and beauty that rendered the entourage
perfect.

This super-excellent guest rarely left the hotel. Her habits were
consonant with the customs of the discriminating patrons of the Hotel
Lotus. To enjoy that delectable hostelry one must forego the city as
though it were leagues away. By night a brief excursion to the nearby
roofs is in order; but during the torrid day one remains in the
umbrageous fastnesses of the Lotus as a trout hangs poised in the
pellucid sanctuaries of his favorite pool.

Though alone in the Hotel Lotus, Madame Beaumont preserved the state
of a queen whose loneliness was of position only. She breakfasted at
ten, a cool, sweet, leisurely, delicate being who glowed softly in
the dimness like a jasmine flower in the dusk.

But at dinner was Madame's glory at its height. She wore a gown as
beautiful and immaterial as the mist from an unseen cataract in a
mountain gorge. The nomenclature of this gown is beyond the guess of
the scribe. Always pale-red roses reposed against its lace-garnished
front. It was a gown that the head-waiter viewed with respect and
met at the door. You thought of Paris when you saw it, and maybe of
mysterious countesses, and certainly of Versailles and rapiers and
Mrs. Fiske and rouge-et-noir. There was an untraceable rumor in the
Hotel Lotus that Madame was a cosmopolite, and that she was pulling
with her slender white hands certain strings between the nations in
the favor of Russia. Being a citizeness of the world's smoothest
roads it was small wonder that she was quick to recognize in the
refined purlieus of the Hotel Lotus the most desirable spot in
America for a restful sojourn during the heat of mid-summer.

On the third day of Madame Beaumont's residence in the hotel a young
man entered and registered himself as a guest. His clothing--to
speak of his points in approved order--was quietly in the mode;
his features good and regular; his expression that of a poised and
sophisticated man of the world. He informed the clerk that he would
remain three or four days, inquired concerning the sailing of
European steamships, and sank into the blissful inanition of the
nonpareil hotel with the contented air of a traveller in his favorite
inn.

The young man--not to question the veracity of the register--was
Harold Farrington. He drifted into the exclusive and calm current of
life in the Lotus so tactfully and silently that not a ripple alarmed
his fellow-seekers after rest. He ate in the Lotus and of its
patronym, and was lulled into blissful peace with the other fortunate
mariners. In one day he acquired his table and his waiter and the
fear lest the panting chasers after repose that kept Broadway warm
should pounce upon and destroy this contiguous but covert haven.

After dinner on the next day after the arrival of Harold Farrington
Madame Beaumont dropped her handkerchief in passing out. Mr.
Farrington recovered and returned it without the effusiveness of a
seeker after acquaintance.

Perhaps there was a mystic freemasonry between the discriminating
guests of the Lotus. Perhaps they were drawn one to another by the
fact of their common good fortune in discovering the acme of summer
resorts in a Broadway hotel. Words delicate in courtesy and tentative
in departure from formality passed between the two. And, as if in the
expedient atmosphere of a real summer resort, an acquaintance grew,
flowered and fructified on the spot as does the mystic plant of the
conjuror. For a few moments they stood on a balcony upon which the
corridor ended, and tossed the feathery ball of conversation.

"One tires of the old resorts," said Madame Beaumont, with a faint
but sweet smile. "What is the use to fly to the mountains or the
seashore to escape noise and dust when the very people that make both
follow us there?"

"Even on the ocean," remarked Farrington, sadly, "the Philistines be
upon you. The most exclusive steamers are getting to be scarcely more
than ferry boats. Heaven help us when the summer resorter discovers
that the Lotus is further away from Broadway than Thousand Islands or
Mackinac."

"I hope our secret will be safe for a week, anyhow," said Madame,
with a sigh and a smile. "I do not know where I would go if they
should descend upon the dear Lotus. I know of but one place so
delightful in summer, and that is the castle of Count Polinski, in
the Ural Mountains."

"I hear that Baden-Baden and Cannes are almost deserted this season,"
said Farrington. "Year by year the old resorts fall in disrepute.
Perhaps many others, like ourselves, are seeking out the quiet nooks
that are overlooked by the majority."

"I promise myself three days more of this delicious rest," said
Madame Beaumont. "On Monday the _Cedric_ sails."

Harold Farrington's eyes proclaimed his regret. "I too must leave on
Monday," he said, "but I do not go abroad."

Madame Beaumont shrugged one round shoulder in a foreign gesture.

"One cannot hide here forever, charming though it may be. The chateau
has been in preparation for me longer than a month. Those house
parties that one must give--what a nuisance! But I shall never forget
my week in the Hotel Lotus."

"Nor shall I," said Farrington in a low voice, "and I shall never
FORGIVE the _Cedric_."

On Sunday evening, three days afterward, the two sat at a little
table on the same balcony. A discreet waiter brought ices and small
glasses of claret cup.

Madame Beaumont wore the same beautiful evening gown that she had
worn each day at dinner. She seemed thoughtful. Near her hand on the
table lay a small chatelaine purse. After she had eaten her ice she
opened the purse and took out a one-dollar bill.

"Mr. Farrington," she said, with the smile that had won the Hotel
Lotus, "I want to tell you something. I'm going to leave before
breakfast in the morning, because I've got to go back to my work.
I'm behind the hosiery counter at Casey's Mammoth Store, and my
vacation's up at eight o'clock to-morrow. That paper-dollar is the
last cent I'll see till I draw my eight dollars salary next Saturday
night. You're a real gentleman, and you've been good to me, and I
wanted to tell you before I went.

"I've been saving up out of my wages for a year just for this
vacation. I wanted to spend one week like a lady if I never do
another one. I wanted to get up when I please instead of having to
crawl out at seven every morning; and I wanted to live on the best
and be waited on and ring bells for things just like rich folks
do. Now I've done it, and I've had the happiest time I ever expect
to have in my life. I'm going back to my work and my little hall
bedroom satisfied for another year. I wanted to tell you about it,
Mr. Farrington, because I--I thought you kind of liked me, and I--I
liked you. But, oh, I couldn't help deceiving you up till now, for it
was all just like a fairy tale to me. So I talked about Europe and
the things I've read about in other countries, and made you think I
was a great lady.

"This dress I've got on--it's the only one I have that's fit to
wear--I bought from O'Dowd & Levinsky on the instalment plan.

"Seventy-five dollars is the price, and it was made to measure. I
paid $10 down, and they're to collect $1 a week till it's paid for.
That'll be about all I have to say, Mr. Farrington, except that my
name is Mamie Siviter instead of Madame Beaumont, and I thank you for
your attentions. This dollar will pay the instalment due on the dress
to-morrow. I guess I'll go up to my room now."

Harold Farrington listened to the recital of the Lotus's loveliest
guest with an impassive countenance. When she had concluded he drew
a small book like a checkbook from his coat pocket. He wrote upon a
blank form in this with a stub of pencil, tore out the leaf, tossed
it over to his companion and took up the paper dollar.

"I've got to go to work, too, in the morning," he said, "and I might
as well begin now. There's a receipt for the dollar instalment.
I've been a collector for O'Dowd & Levinsky for three years. Funny,
ain't it, that you and me both had the same idea about spending our
vacation? I've always wanted to put up at a swell hotel, and I saved
up out of my twenty per, and did it. Say, Mame, how about a trip to
Coney Saturday night on the boat--what?"

The face of the pseudo Madame Heloise D'Arcy Beaumont beamed.

"Oh, you bet I'll go, Mr. Farrington. The store closes at twelve on
Saturdays. I guess Coney'll be all right even if we did spend a week
with the swells."

Below the balcony the sweltering city growled and buzzed in the July
night. Inside the Hotel Lotus the tempered, cool shadows reigned, and
the solicitous waiter single-footed near the low windows, ready at a
nod to serve Madame and her escort.

At the door of the elevator Farrington took his leave, and Madame
Beaumont made her last ascent. But before they reached the noiseless
cage he said: "Just forget that 'Harold Farrington,' will you?--
McManus is the name--James McManus. Some call me Jimmy."

"Good-night, Jimmy," said Madame.




XX

THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE


Miss Posie Carrington had earned her success. She began life
handicapped by the family name of "Boggs," in the small town known
as Cranberry Corners. At the age of eighteen she had acquired the
name of "Carrington" and a position in the chorus of a metropolitan
burlesque company. Thence upward she had ascended by the legitimate
and delectable steps of "broiler," member of the famous "Dickey-bird"
octette, in the successful musical comedy, "Fudge and Fellows,"
leader of the potato-bug dance in "Fol-de-Rol," and at length to
the part of the maid "'Toinette" in "The King's Bath-Robe," which
captured the critics and gave her her chance. And when we come to
consider Miss Carrington she is in the heydey of flattery, fame
and fizz; and that astute manager, Herr Timothy Goldstein, has her
signature to iron-clad papers that she will star the coming season in
Dyde Rich's new play, "Paresis by Gaslight."

Promptly there came to Herr Timothy a capable twentieth-century young
character actor by the name of Highsmith, who besought engagement as
"Sol Haytosser," the comic and chief male character part in "Paresis
by Gaslight."

"My boy," said Goldstein, "take the part if you can get it. Miss
Carrington won't listen to any of my suggestions. She has turned down
half a dozen of the best imitators of the rural dub in the city. She
declares she won't set a foot on the stage unless 'Haytosser' is the
best that can be raked up. She was raised in a village, you know, and
when a Broadway orchid sticks a straw in his hair and tries to call
himself a clover blossom she's on, all right. I asked her, in a
sarcastic vein, if she thought Denman Thompson would make any kind
of a show in the part. 'Oh, no,' says she. 'I don't want him or John
Drew or Jim Corbett or any of these swell actors that don't know a
turnip from a turnstile. I want the real article.' So, my boy, if
you want to play 'Sol Haytosser' you will have to convince Miss
Carrington. Luck be with you."

Highsmith took the train the next day for Cranberry Corners. He
remained in that forsaken and inanimate village three days. He found
the Boggs family and corkscrewed their history unto the third and
fourth generation. He amassed the facts and the local color of
Cranberry Corners. The village had not grown as rapidly as had Miss
Carrington. The actor estimated that it had suffered as few actual
changes since the departure of its solitary follower of Thespis as
had a stage upon which "four years is supposed to have elapsed." He
absorbed Cranberry Corners and returned to the city of chameleon
changes.

It was in the rathskeller that Highsmith made the hit of his
histrionic career. There is no need to name the place; there is but
one rathskeller where you could hope to find Miss Posie Carrington
after a performance of "The King's Bath-Robe."

There was a jolly small party at one of the tables that drew many
eyes. Miss Carrington, petite, marvellous, bubbling, electric,
fame-drunken, shall be named first. Herr Goldstein follows, sonorous,
curly-haired, heavy, a trifle anxious, as some bear that had caught,
somehow, a butterfly in his claws. Next, a man condemned to a
newspaper, sad, courted, armed, analyzing for press agent's dross
every sentence that was poured over him, eating his a la Newburg in
the silence of greatness. To conclude, a youth with parted hair, a
name that is ochre to red journals and gold on the back of a supper
check. These sat at a table while the musicians played, while waiters
moved in the mazy performance of their duties with their backs toward
all who desired their service, and all was bizarre and merry because
it was nine feet below the level of the sidewalk.

At 11.45 a being entered the rathskeller. The first violin
perceptibly flatted a C that should have been natural; the
clarionet blew a bubble instead of a grace note; Miss Carrington
giggled and the youth with parted hair swallowed an olive seed.

Exquisitely and irreproachably rural was the new entry. A lank,
disconcerted, hesitating young man it was, flaxen-haired, gaping of
mouth, awkward, stricken to misery by the lights and company. His
clothing was butternut, with bright blue tie, showing four inches of
bony wrist and white-socked ankle. He upset a chair, sat in another
one, curled a foot around a table leg and cringed at the approach of
a waiter.

"You may fetch me a glass of lager beer," he said, in response to the
discreet questioning of the servitor.

The eyes of the rathskeller were upon him. He was as fresh as a
collard and as ingenuous as a hay rake. He let his eye rove about
the place as one who regards, big-eyed, hogs in the potato patch.
His gaze rested at length upon Miss Carrington. He rose and went
to her table with a lateral, shining smile and a blush of pleased
trepidation.

"How're ye, Miss Posie?" he said in accents not to be doubted. "Don't
ye remember me--Bill Summers--the Summerses that lived back of the
blacksmith shop? I reckon I've growed up some since ye left Cranberry
Corners.

"'Liza Perry 'lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You
know 'Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says--"

"Ah, say!" interrupted Miss Carrington, brightly, "Lize Perry is
never married--what! Oh, the freckles of her!"

"Married in June," grinned the gossip, "and livin' in the old Tatum
Place. Ham Riley perfessed religion; old Mrs. Blithers sold her place
to Cap'n Spooner; the youngest Waters girl run away with a music
teacher; the court-house burned up last March; your uncle Wiley was
elected constable; Matilda Hoskins died from runnin' a needle in her
hand, and Tom Beedle is courtin' Sallie Lathrop--they say he don't
miss a night but what he's settin' on their porch."

"The wall-eyed thing!" exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity.
"Why, Tom Beedle once--say, you folks, excuse me a while--this is
an old friend of mine--Mr.--what was it? Yes, Mr. Summers--Mr.
Goldstein, Mr. Ricketts, Mr.-- Oh, what's yours? 'Johnny''ll do--come
on over here and tell me some more."

She swept him to an isolated table in a corner. Herr Goldstein
shrugged his fat shoulders and beckoned to the waiter. The newspaper
man brightened a little and mentioned absinthe. The youth with parted
hair was plunged into melancholy. The guests of the rathskeller
laughed, clinked glasses and enjoyed the comedy that Posie Carrington
was treating them to after her regular performance. A few cynical
ones whispered "press agent"' and smiled wisely.

Posie Carrington laid her dimpled and desirable chin upon her hands,
and forgot her audience--a faculty that had won her laurels for her.

"I don't seem to recollect any Bill Summers," she said, thoughtfully
gazing straight into the innocent blue eyes of the rustic young
man. "But I know the Summerses, all right. I guess there ain't many
changes in the old town. You see any of my folks lately?"

And then Highsmith played his trump. The part of "Sol Haytosser"
called for pathos as well as comedy. Miss Carrington should see that
he could do that as well.

"Miss Posie," said "Bill Summers," "I was up to your folkeses house
jist two or three days ago. No, there ain't many changes to speak of.
The lilac bush by the kitchen window is over a foot higher, and the
elm in the front yard died and had to be cut down. And yet it don't
seem the same place that it used to be."

"How's ma?" asked Miss Carrington.

"She was settin' by the front door, crocheting a lamp-mat when I
saw her last," said "Bill." "She's older'n she was, Miss Posie. But
everything in the house looked jest the same. Your ma asked me to set
down. 'Don't touch that willow rocker, William,' says she. 'It ain't
been moved since Posie left; and that's the apron she was hemmin',
layin' over the arm of it, jist as she flung it. I'm in hopes,' she
goes on, 'that Posie'll finish runnin' out that hem some day.'"

Miss Carrington beckoned peremptorily to a waiter.

"A pint of extra dry," she ordered, briefly; "and give the check to
Goldstein."

"The sun was shinin' in the door," went on the chronicler from
Cranberry, "and your ma was settin' right in it. I asked her if she
hadn't better move back a little. 'William,' says she, 'when I get
sot down and lookin' down the road, I can't bear to move. Never a
day,' says she, 'but what I set here every minute that I can spare
and watch over them palin's for Posie. She went away down that road
in the night, for we seen her little shoe tracks in the dust, and
somethin' tells me she'll come back that way ag'in when she's weary
of the world and begins to think about her old mother.'

"When I was comin' away," concluded "Bill," "I pulled this off'n the
bush by the front steps. I thought maybe I might see you in the city,
and I knowed you'd like somethin' from the old home."

He took from his coat pocket a rose--a drooping, yellow, velvet,
odorous rose, that hung its head in the foul atmosphere of that
tainted rathskeller like a virgin bowing before the hot breath of the
lions in a Roman arena.

Miss Carrington's penetrating but musical laugh rose above the
orchestra's rendering of "Bluebells."

"Oh, say!" she cried, with glee, "ain't those poky places the limit?
I just know that two hours at Cranberry Corners would give me the
horrors now. Well, I'm awful glad to have seen you, Mr. Summers.
Guess I'll bustle around to the hotel now and get my beauty sleep."

She thrust the yellow rose into the bosom of her wonderful, dainty,
silken garments, stood up and nodded imperiously at Herr Goldstein.

Her three companions and "Bill Summers" attended her to her cab. When
her flounces and streamers were all safely tucked inside she dazzled
them with au revoirs from her shining eyes and teeth.

"Come around to the hotel and see me, Bill, before you leave the
city," she called as the glittering cab rolled away.

Highsmith, still in his make-up, went with Herr Goldstein to a cafe
booth.

"Bright idea, eh?" asked the smiling actor. "Ought to land 'Sol
Haytosser' for me, don't you think? The little lady never once
tumbled."

"I didn't hear your conversation," said Goldstein, "but your make-up
and acting was O. K. Here's to your success. You'd better call on
Miss Carrington early to-morrow and strike her for the part. I don't
see how she can keep from being satisfied with your exhibition of
ability."

At 11.45 A. M. on the next day Highsmith, handsome, dressed in the
latest mode, confident, with a fuchsia in his button-hole, sent up
his card to Miss Carrington in her select apartment hotel.

He was shown up and received by the actress's French maid.

"I am sorree," said Mlle. Hortense, "but I am to say this to all. It
is with great regret. Mees Carrington have cancelled all engagements
on the stage and have returned to live in that--how you call that
town? Cranberry Cornaire!"




XXI

THE CLARION CALL


Half of this story can be found in the records of the Police
Department; the other half belongs behind the business counter of a
newspaper office.

One afternoon two weeks after Millionaire Norcross was found in
his apartment murdered by a burglar, the murderer, while strolling
serenely down Broadway ran plump against Detective Barney Woods.