XXVI
THE WHITE SLAVE
Carton had sprung to his feet at the direct charge and was facingOgleby.
"Is that true--about the Montmartre?" he demanded.
Ogleby fairly sputtered. "She lies," he almost hissed.
"Just a moment," interrupted Dorgan. "What has that to do with MissBlackwell, anyhow?"
Sybil Seymour did not pause.
"It is true," she reiterated. "This is what it has to do with BettyBlackwell. Listen. He is the man who led me on, who would have done thesame to Betty Blackwell. I yielded, but she fought. They could notconquer her--neither by drugs nor drink, nor by clothes, nor a goodtime, nor force. I saw it all in the Montmartre and the beautyparlour--all."
"Lies--all lies," hissed Ogleby, beside himself with anger.
"No, no," cried Sybil. "I do not lie. Mr. Carton and this good woman,Miss Kendall, who is working for him, are the first people I have seensince you, Martin Ogleby, brought me to the Montmartre, who have evergiven me a chance to become again what I was before you and yourfriends got me."
"Have a care, young woman," interrupted Dorgan, recovering himself asshe proceeded. "There are laws and--"
"I don't care a rap about laws such as yours. As for gangs--that waswhat you were going to say--I'd snap my fingers in the face of Ike theDropper himself if he were here. You could kill me, but I would tellthe truth.
"Let me tell you my case," she continued, turning in appeal to the restof us, "the case of a poor girl in a small city near New York, wholiked a good time, liked pretty clothes, a ride in an automobile,theatres, excitement, bright lights, night life. I liked them. He knewthat. He led me on, made me like him. And when I began to show thestrain of the pace--we all show it more than the men--he cast me aside,like a squeezed-out lemon."
Sybil Seymour was talking rapidly, but she was not hysterical.
"Already you know Betty Blackwell's story--part of it," she hurried on."Miss Kendall has told me--how she was bribed to disappear. But beyondthat--what?"
For a moment she paused. No one said a word. Here at last was the oneperson who held the key to the mystery.
"She did disappear. She kept her word. At last she had money, the onething she had longed for. At last she was able to gratify those desiresto play the fashionable lady which her family had always felt. Whatmore natural, then, than while she must keep in hiding to make onevisit to the beauty parlour to which so many society womenwent--Margot's? It was there that she went on the day that shedisappeared."
We were hanging breathlessly now on the words of the girl as sheuntangled the sordid story.
"And then?" prompted Kennedy.
"Then came into play another arm of the System," she replied. "Theytried to make sure that she would disappear. They tried the same artson her that they had on me--this man and the gang about him. He playedon her love of beauty and Madame Margot helped him. He used theMontmartre and the Futurist to fascinate her, but still she was nothis. She let herself drift along, perhaps because she knew that herfamily was every bit the equal socially of his own. Madame Margot trieddrugs; first the doped cigarette, then drugs that had to be forced onher. She kept her in that joint for days by force; and there where Iwent for relief day after day from my own bitter thoughts I saw her, inthat hell which Miss Kendall now by her evidence will close forever.Still she would not yield.
"I saw it all. Maybe you will say I was jealous because I had lost him.I was not. I hated him. You do not know how close hate can be to lovein the heart of a woman. I could not help it. I had to write a letterthat might save her.
"Miss Kendall has told me about the typewritten letters; how you,Professor Kennedy, traced them to the Montmartre. I wrote them, Iadmit, for these people. I wrote that stuff about drugs for Dr. Harris.And I wrote the first letter of all to the District Attorney. I wroteit for myself and signed it as I am--God forgive me--'An Outcast.'"
The poor girl, overwrought by the strain of the confession that laidbare her very soul, sank back in her chair and cried, as Miss Kendallgently tried to soothe her.
Dorgan and Ogleby listened sullenly. Never in their lives had theydreamed of such a situation as this.
There was no air of triumph about Kennedy now over the confession,which with the aid of Miss Kendall, he had staged so effectively.Rather it was a spirit of earnestness, of retribution, justice.
"You know all this?" he inquired gently of the girl.
"I saw it," she said simply, raising her bowed head.
Dorgan had been doing some quick thinking. He leaned over and whisperedquickly to Ogleby.
"Why was she not discovered then when these detectives broke into theprivate house--an act which they themselves will have to answer forwhen the time comes?" demanded Ogleby.
It seemed as if the mere sound of his voice roused the girl.
"Because it was dangerous to keep her there any longer," she replied."I heard the talk about the hotel, the rumour that someone was usingthis new French detective scheme. I heard them blame the DistrictAttorney--who was clever enough to have others working on the case whomyou did not know. While you were watching his officers, Mr. Kennedy andMiss Kendall were gathering evidence almost under your very eyes.
"But you were panic-stricken. You and your agents wanted to remove thedanger of discovery. Dr. Harris and Marie Margot had a plan which yougrasped at eagerly. There was Ike the Dropper, that scoundrel who liveson women. Between them you would spirit her away. You were glad to havethem do it, little realizing that, with every step, they had youinvolved deeper and worse. You forgot everything, all honour andmanhood in your panic; you were ready to consent, to urge any coursethat would relieve you--and you have taken the course that involves youworse than any other."
"Who will believe a story like that?" demanded Ogleby. "What areyou--according to your own confession? Am I to be charged witheverything this gang, as you call it, does? You are their agent,perhaps working for this blackmailing crew. But I tell you, I willfight, I will not be blackened by--"
Sybil laughed, half hysterically.
"Blackened?" she repeated. "You who would put this thing all off onothers who worked for you, who played on your vices and passions, notbecause you were weak, but because you thought you were above the law!
"You did not care what became of that girl, so long as she was whereshe could not accuse you. You left her to that gang, to Ike, to Marie,to Harris." She paused a moment, and flashed a quick glance of scorn athim. "Do you want to know what has become of her, what you areresponsible for?
"I will tell you. They had other ideas than just getting her out of theway of your selfish career. They are in this life for money. BettyBlackwell to them was a marketable article, a piece of merchandise inthe terrible traffic which they carry on. If she had been yielding,like the rest of us, she might now be apparently free, yet held by abondage as powerful and unescapable as if it were of iron, a life fromwhich she could not escape. But she was not yielding. They would breakher. Perhaps you have tried to ease your conscience, if you have any,by the thought that it is they, not you, who have her hidden awaysomewhere now. You cannot escape that way; it was you who made her, whomade others of us, what we are."
"Let her rave, Ogleby," sneered Dorgan.
"Yes--raving, that's it," echoed Ogleby. But his expression belied him.
"There it is," she continued. "You have not even an opinion of yourown. You repeat even the remarks of others. They have you in theirpower. You have put yourself there."
"All very pretty," remarked Dorgan with biting sarcasm. "All verycleverly thought out. So nice here! Wait until you have to tell thatstory in court. You know the first rule of equity? Do you go into courtwith clean hands? There is a day of reckoning coming to you, youngwoman, and to these other meddlers here--whether they are playingpolitics or meddling just because they are old-maidish busy-bodies."
She was facing the politician with burning cheeks.
"You," she scorned, "belong to an age that is passing
away. You cannotunderstand these people like Miss Kendall, like Mr. Carton, who cannotbe bought and controlled like your other creatures. You do not know howthe underworld can turn on the upperworld. You would not pull usup--you shoved us down deeper, in your greed. But if we go down, weshall drag you, too. What have we to lose? You and your creatures, likeMartin Ogleby, have taken everything from us. We--"
"Come, Ogleby," interposed Dorgan, deliberately turning his back on herand slowly placing his hat on his half-bald head. "We are indebted toProfessor Kennedy for a pleasant entertainment. When he has anothershow equally original we trust he will not forget the first-nighterswho have enjoyed this farce."
Dorgan had reached the door and had his hand on the knob. I hadexpected Kennedy to reply. But he said nothing. Instead his hand stolealong the edge of the table beside which he was standing.
"Good-night," bowed Dorgan with mock solemnity. "Thank you for layingthe cards on the table. We shall know how to play--"
Dorgan cut the words short.
Kennedy had touched the button of an electric attachment which wasunder the table by which he could lock every door and window of thelaboratory instantly and silently.
"Well?" demanded Dorgan fiercely, though there was a tremble in hisvoice that had never been heard before.
"Where is Betty Blackwell?" demanded Craig, turning to Sybil Seymour."Where did they take her?"
We hung breathlessly on the answer. Was she being held as a white slavein some obscure den? I knew that that did not mean that she wasnecessarily imprisoned behind locked doors and barred windows, althougheven that might be the case. I knew that the restraint might be just aseffective, even though it was not actually or wholly physical.
An ordinary girl, I reasoned, with little knowledge of her rights or ofthe powers which she might call to her aid if she knew how to summonthem, might she not be so hemmed in by the forces into whose hands shehad fallen as to be practically held in bonds which she could not break?
Here was Sybil herself! Once she had been like Betty Blackwell. Indeed,when she seemed to have every chance to escape she did not. She knewhow she could be pursued, hounded at every turn, forced back, and heronly course was to sink deeper into the life. The thought of what mightbe accomplished by drugs startled me.
Clare bent over the poor girl reassuringly. What was it that seemed tofreeze her tongue now? Was it still some vestige of the old fear underwhich she had been held so long? Clare strove, although we could nothear what she was saying, to calm her.
At last Sybil raised her head, with a wild cry, as if she were sealingher own doom.
"It was Ike. He kept us all in terror. Oh, if he hears he will killme," she blurted out.
"Where did he take her?" asked Clare.
She had broken down the girl's last fear.
"To that place on the West Side--that black and tan joint, where MarieMargot came from before the gang took her in."
"Carton," called Kennedy. "You and Walter will take Miss Kendall andMiss Seymour. Let me see. Dorgan, Ogleby, and myself will ride in thetaxicab."
Carton was toying ostentatiously with a police whistle as Dorganhesitated, then entered the cab.
I think at the joint, as we pulled up with a rush after our wild ridedowntown, they must have thought that a party of revellers had droppedin to see the sights. It was perhaps just as well that they did, forthere was no alarm at first.
As we entered the black and tan joint, I took another long look at itsforbidding exterior. Below, it was a saloon and dance hall; above, itwas a "hotel." It was weatherbeaten, dirty, and unsightly, without,except for the entrance; unsanitary, ramshackle, within, except for thetawdry decorations. At every window were awnings and all were down,although it was on the shady side of the street in the daytime and itwas now getting late. That was the mute sign post to the initiated ofthe character of the place.
Instead of turning downstairs where we had gone on our other visit,Kennedy led the way up through a door that read, "HotelEntrance--Office."
A clerk at a desk in a little alcove on the second floor mechanicallypushed out a register at us, then seeming to sense trouble, pulled itback quickly and with his foot gave a sharp kick at the door of alittle safe, locking the combination.
"I'm looking for someone," was all Kennedy said. "This is the DistrictAttorney. We'll go through--"
"Yes, you will!"
It was Ike the Dropper. He had heard the commotion, and, seeing ladies,came to the conclusion that it was not a police plainclothes raid, butsome new game of the reformers.
He stopped short in amazement at the sight of Dorgan and Ogleby.
"Well--I'll be--"
"Carton! Walter!" shouted Kennedy. "Take care of him. Watch out for aknife or gun. He's soft, though. Carton--the whistle!"
Our struggle with the redoubtable Ike was short and quickly over.Sullen, and with torn clothes and bleeding face, we held him until thepoliceman arrived, and turned him over to the law.
At a room on the same floor Craig knocked.
"Come in," answered a woman's voice.
He pushed open the door. There was the woman who had fled soprecipitately from the dope joint.
Evidently she did not recognize us. "You are under arrest," announcedKennedy.
The blonde woman laughed mockingly.
"Under arrest? For what?"
"You are Marie Margot. Never mind about your alias. All the arts ofyour employees and Dr. Harris himself cannot change you so that Icannot recognize you. You may feel safe from the portrait parle, butthere are other means of detection that you never dreamed of. Where isBetty Blackwell? Marie, it's all off!"
All the brazen assurance with which she had met us was gone. She lookedfrom one to the other and read that it was the end. With a shriek, shesuddenly darted past us, out of the door. Down the hall was Ike theDropper with the policeman and Carton. Beside her was a stairwayleading to the upper floors. She chose the stairs.
Following Kennedy we hurried through the hotel, from one dirty room toanother, with their loose and creaking floors, rotten and filthy,sagging as we walked, covered with matting that was rotting away. Dampand unventilated, the air was heavy and filled with foul odours oftobacco, perfumery, and cheap disinfectants. There seemed to have beenno attempt to keep the place clean.
The rooms were small and separated by thin partitions through whichconversations in even low tones could be heard. The furniture was cheapand worn with constant use.
Downstairs we could hear the uproar as the news spread that theDistrict Attorney was raiding the place. As fast as they could thesordid crowd in the dance hall and cabaret was disappearing. Now andthen we could hear a door bang, a hasty conference, and then silence assome of the inmates realized that upstairs all escape was cut off.
On the top floor we came to a door, locked and bolted. With all theforce that he could gather in the narrow hall, Kennedy catapultedhimself against it. It yielded in its rottenness with a crash.
A woman, in all her finery, lay across the foot of a bed, a formlessheap. Kennedy turned her over. It was Marie, motionless, but stillbreathing faintly. In an armchair, with his hands hanging limply downalmost to the floor, his head sagging forward on his chest, sprawledHarris.
Kennedy picked up a little silver receptacle on the floor where it laynear his right hand. It was nearly empty, but as he looked from itquickly to the two insensible figures before us he muttered: "Morphine.They have robbed the law of its punishment."
He bent over the suicides, but it was too late to do anything for them.They had paid the price.
"My heavens!" he exclaimed suddenly, as a thought flashed over hismind. "I hope they have not carried the secret of Betty Blackwell withthem to the grave. Where is Miss Kendall?"
Down the hall, cut off from the rest of the hotel into a sort ofprivate suite, Clare had entered one of the rooms and was bending overa pale, wan shadow of a girl, tossing restlessly on a bed. The room wasscantily furnished with a dilapidated bureau in one corne
r and arickety washstand equipped with a dirty washbowl and pitcher. A fewcheap chromos on the walls were the only decorations, and a small badlysoiled rug covered a floor innocent for many years of soap.
I looked sharply at the girl lying before us. Somehow it did not occurto me who she was. She was so worn that anyone might safely havetransported her through the streets and never have been questioned, inspite of the fact that every paper in the country which prints pictureshad published her photograph, not once but many times.
It was Betty Blackwell at last, struggling against the drugs that hadbeen forced on her, half conscious, but with one firm and acute feelingleft--resistance to the end.
Kennedy had dropped on his knees before her and was examining herclosely.
"Open the windows--more air," he ordered. "Walter, see if you can findsome ice water and a little stimulant."
While Craig was taking such restorative measures as were possible onthe spur of the moment, Miss Kendall gently massaged her head and hands.
She seemed to understand that she was in the hands of friends, andthough she did not know us her mute look of thanks was touching.
"Don't get excited, my dear," breathed Miss Kendall into her ear. "Youwill be all right soon."
As the wronged girl relaxed from her constant tension of watching, itseemed as if she fell into a stupor. Now and then she moaned feebly,and words, half-formed, seemed to come to her lips only to die away.
Suddenly she seemed to have a vision more vivid than the rest.
"No--no--Mr. Ogleby--leave me. Where--my mother--oh, where is mother?"she cried hysterically, sitting bolt upright and staring at us withoutseeing us.
Kennedy passed the broad palm of his hand over her forehead andmurmured, "There, there, you are all right now." Then he added to us:"I did not send for her mother because I wasn't sure that we might findher even as well as this. Will someone find Carton? Get the address andsend a messenger for Mrs. Blackwell."
Sybil was on her knees by the bedside of the girl, holding Betty's handin both of her own.
"You poor, poor girl," she cried softly. "It is--dreadful."
She had sunk her head into the worn and dirty covers of the bed.Kennedy reached over and took hold of her arm. "She will be all right,soon," he said reassuringly. "Miss Kendall will take good care of her."
As we descended the stairs, we could see Carton at the foot. A patrolwagon had been backed up to the curb in front and the inmates of theplace were being taken out, protesting violently at being detained.
Further down the hall, by the "office," Dorgan and Ogleby werestorming, protesting that "influence" would "break" everyone concerned,from Carton down to the innocent patrolmen.
Kennedy listened a moment, then turned to Clare Kendall.
"I will leave Miss Blackwell in your care," he said quietly. "It is onher we must rely to prove the contents of the Black Book."
Clare nodded, as, with a clang, Carton drove off with his prisoners tosee them safely entered on the "blotter."
"Our work is over," remarked Kennedy, turning again to Miss Kendall, ina tone as if he might have said more, but refrained.
Looking Craig frankly in the eye, she extended her hand in that samecordial straight-arm shake with which she had first greeted us, andadded, "But not the memory of this fight we have won."