CHAPTER XXII
“A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet and upon her head a crown of twelve stars. And she, being with child, cried, travailing in birth and pained to be delivered.”
The girl-shade heard the words intoned in mezzo voce. At the door of the throne-room she paused, loath to enter the next scene of the co-star piece. All the day following the completion of her story of earth she had lain within her chamber, in a state of narcosis, varied only by the dull ache of dread. All day she had expected the summons which now had come, that she appear before the King. Through the séances she had done her best; had whipped her spirit as a slave-seller might have lashed some modest, naked body on the block. She had come for the reckoning. If so be it she had met the royal expectations, her reward would be that lowest high office yet assigned in Greater Gehenna—She-Destroyer of Womankind. If she had failed——
“And the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born.”
Again the deep intonations. Glancing into the blaze of light which had confused her eyes after her approach through the dim, winding corridors, Dolores saw a tall figure in the full effect of male evening attire on earth, with back toward her and gestures directed into one of the mercurized walls.
Her hesitation was mastered by surprise. Even on closer view, she scarcely could believe that this superb copy of the men of Earth indeed was His Satanic Majesty. His hair, formerly pompadoured to conceal his horns, was clipped, parted on one side and slicked back, the indices of power evidently razored close. The auburn Vandyke which had been inseparable from her concept of him was the more noticeable now for its absence. In its place, a smile whose charm would have been hard to describe clothed the well-sculped lips.
The lines and color of His Highness’ costume adhered to what she knew was “latest” form—all except his tie. That was of a red which vividly reminded her of that Justice Roscoe Strang, whose independence of judicial precedent had been suggested by a like daring note in otherwise sombre dress.
“Ah, sweet Grief,” he saluted her. “I feel indebted to you for the basic idea of my sermon on ‘The Service of Suicide.’ You’ve caught me at a rehearsal. I was just reading my text, ‘To Hell with the Ill-Begot.’ We mustn’t overlook the propaganda out of the mouths of babes and sucklings in our new Drive of Destruction, eh?”
“Mustn’t we?” she evaded wretchedly.
“Come, cheer down! Did my mere mention of a sermon make you pull the doleful face of the average religionist in church? You haven’t said how you like my style to-night. Am I not beautiful and à la mode?”
He appeared to be in an unusually amiable mood. A turn or two he took around her, evidently to note the reflection on her face as well as in the mirror.
“Is it possible——” in sudden suspicion he peered at her—“that you don’t like me razored?”
“You look—very well.”
“I look—‘very well.’” He aped her effortful tone. “Didst note her burst of enthusiasm? In gratitude, she’s not so different from the rest of womankind. What one of them ever realized that a man would rather remove a mountain from the physiognomy of the earth than the beard from his face? As for the horns from his head!”
“But really, I do like it—very well indeed!”
“‘Very well indeed’!” Satan threw out his hands in a farcical gesture of despair. “What man who shaves his beard to please a woman ever really pleases her?”
“To please me, Your Lowness?”
“Sin’s idea. That silhouette you drew of your pet philanthropist shows you to have preconceived ideas of the looks of latter-day devils. I haven’t spent centuries catering to human preconceptions for nothing. Presto, even John Cabot’s crime toward you is no blacker than my cut-faced clothes! My tie is a bit off—that is on—color, as it were. But I notice that no man is held accountable for his taste in cravats. Maybe I was dressed like a character part.”
With the frank self-appreciation of a husband who has just been hectored into an evening suit by his wife, he turned for a critical survey of her appearance.
“Glad to see you looking fit to go out with me,” he approved. “I have planned to take you to a show.”
“To hear you preach?” She put the assumption rather eagerly. “I am so glad. I have hoped each night you would take me. Frequently when hearing you talk, I have wondered whether you would—whether you wouldn’t——”
She faltered at his look of amazement.
“If I wouldn’t just what, child?” he encouraged with all the unctuous kindliness of the Rev. Dr. Alexander Willard.
“Wouldn’t teach me the Scriptures. You seem to know them by heart.”
“By head, not by heart. There’s a difference, you know. Ingersoll knew them by head.” Satan’s chuckles began with contemplation of her idea. “Really, you are either the most naïve or the most intriguing of lost souls.”
“But seriously,” she insisted.
“Oh, seriously!” He laughed the more. “Well, seriously, my poor child, I’d advise you to remember the clay feet of the ‘Sporting Parson.’ Far be it from me to try to improve a perfectly bad mind. ‘The Little Book shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey, but shall make thy belly bitter.’ That’s one of my own handy, illiterate translations. M’lady, the carriage awaits. Time we were on our way.”
He was pleased to drive her to the promised entertainment in his favorite Hawk. While drifting through the drab air of night in Gehenna, lit only by that “pale, abiding light” whose dynamo was beyond control of his electricians, he explained the kind of “show” to which he was escorting her. In it he was not to star, no. It was only a motion picture, but one in which he felt that she, as well as he, would take interest.
They were to see, in fact, a picturization of certain unfinished details connected with her own career on earth, over which he, for one, felt curiosity. He had ordered the life-films to date of John Cabot brought from the supply house and cut to give a comprehensive exposé of a character that would refuse to heed the death cries of a girl whom, by the honor code of Earth, he was bound to protect. Satan himself had hit on an apt title, but had not previewed the picture and had left the sub-titling to his first fiend-scenarist. He hoped for an entertaining and regardless presentation.
At the Devil’s Own Playhouse it was evident that the feature had been extensively billed. The capacity of the theater was taxed to standing-room when the King led his interesting guest into the royal box. Down over the billows of faces that waved back at their entrance, Dolores looked with pitying eyes. On a few was apathy; on more, fevered eagerness; on most, apprehension. The Sea of the Fear of Despair they were—a Dead Sea, indeed. She, too, soon was carried out toward its white-caps of hoping thoughts, caught in its undertow. This she realized from the emotion within herself which began with the curtain’s rise—the deeps of heartbreak disturbed by the high-winds of hope.
The camera was said not to lie. If His Highness’ boasted topical review was bona-fide, some excuse might evolve for him who had refused to heed her call.
The series of incidents unfolded upon the super-quick silver screen may most readily be grasped, perhaps, by a perusal of the working synopsis to which the master-director of Hell Films cut the production.
THE TURN TURTLE
HIS SATANIC MAJESTY
Presents
John Cabot
In Facts from His Natural History
Shown in Three Turns.
(On Screen)
The turn turtle is an insignificant reptile, great only in its cowardice. It never looks danger in the face, but at first alarm pulls in its head and scuddles away. Watch this one.
Turtle enters slowly. Protrudes head. Looks around. Face changes to that of John Cabot. A pair of hands—recognizably Dolores Trent’s—appear. Stretch toward turtle. Face shows fright. Head withdraws into shell. Turtle crawls off.
(On Screen)
THE FIRST TURN
John Cabot enters his Broad Street office. Seats himself at desk. Goes through pile of letters in weary manner. Stops to study one.
(Show, in Dolores’ Handwriting—Envelope of Dolores’ note, with “Personal” underscored and the return address of Retreat for Wayward Girls in corner.)
John interrupted by arrival of Rufus Holt who looks worried, but tries to cheer up when John asks about Dolores. Attorney assures John:
(Insert) “Miss Trent is comfortably settled at a shore resort, as well and happy as can be expected until matters are settled.”
With a gesture John asks Holt to wait until he has finished his mail. Again takes up Dolores’ letter. Is unfolding enclosure when Catherine, in street costume, enters. She shows amused surprise at Holt’s presence, but insists that he remain when he attempts to leave.
She takes chair which John places for her. From her purse produces a ticket which she offers for his inspection.
(Show—Transportation on Trans-Atlantic Blimp.)
At John’s surprise, Catherine offers plaintive explanation:
(Insert) “In two weeks I am going abroad as a sort of memorial to Jackie—to help mother the war orphans over there.”
John studies her coldly, taps forefinger on desk as replies:
(Insert) “Another of your trick trips! Well, Europe is not far these days. A radiogram, a quick flight home and better luck with your suit-for-absolute next time—perhaps.”
Catherine affects sadness at his suspicion. Droops toward him over desk with reproachful, luring smile. Seems about to weep. Feels for ’kerchief. Drops eyelids. Is able to read Dolores’ envelope. Picks it up. Studies it. Sneers:
(Insert) “What a heart you have for wayward girls! Is this a love letter or a dun?”
Ends interview with steady stare of suspicion at Holt, who stands nervously beside a window.
When Catherine has gone, John settles his own wonder on subject.
(Show in Dolores’ handwriting—“Soon a rosebud will open its petals to the world. I may not stay to care for it. I depend on you.”)
John turns upon Holt. Without explaining, accuses him of perfidy. Holt departs, depressed by their danger of exposure.
John calls a taxi. Drives at once to the Retreat. Is putting his query to the matron when Vincent Seff emerges from room marked “Private.” Mutual recognitions instant. Seff does the lofty philanthropic. In answer to John’s demands claims to know nothing of Miss Trent except that duty forced him to eject her from Home the previous day.
Matron tries to proffer her information, but is cut short by Seff, who assures her aside:
(Insert) “It is for the girl’s best good that we throw this blood-hound off the scent. Trust my judgment.”
Matron retires from scene without giving address. Seff, with exaggerated courtesy draped over his triumph and sneers, shows John the door.
John drives at once to a detective agency. There, with hard-suppressed impatience, he retains them to find the girl he had not known was lost. Suggests:
(Insert) “Comb all the taxi and express stands in the vicinity, grill the matron of the Retreat and shadow Seff.”
Scene shifts to hallway outside Dolores’ room. Aged landlady emerges. Puts on spectacles. Reads advertisement entrusted to her.
(On Screen in Dolores’ Handwriting)
Wasted
Unless you come to me at once.
979 East 17th Street.
Counts money given for its insertion. Departs kitchen-ward. Mutters:
(Insert) “Money’s a sure thing. This ad. ain’t. I owe something to myself and sure, so does she.”
As days pass John is tortured by alternate hope and disappointment. Detectives make reports, but nothing comes of their search. He grows haggard and desperate.
Catherine comes again to office with an appeal to his patriotism. Expresses herself as shocked by change in him. Gets generous check for her proposed philanthropy abroad. Suggests sarcastically:
(Insert) “Better join me in this sail overseas. With your money and your sympathy for waywardness, you’d find a lot to do in demoralized Europe.”
John scorns even to refuse. Once outside office, Catherine seeks a telephone booth. Gets her own detective agency. Orders extra close watch on husband’s movements.
(On Screen)
THE SECOND TURN
At his club John finds himself distracted. Cannot listen to conversation of friends. Seeks office. Over telephone gets the usual assurance from his detective that “something” is about to happen. Decides to wait at office. Looks at desk calendar.
(Show—October 31, date of Dolores’ death.)
John paces floor through terrible night. Imagines forms of Amor and Innocentia pleading with him. Sees reproachful face of Jack peering at him from the shadows. Curses past weakness and present impotency.
The while, in bedroom at Cabot town-house, Catherine sleeps. Smiles like innocent child in her guilty dreams.
Dolores’ landlady arises from sound slumber. Goes about her sordid tasks. Smells gas. Traces it. Airedale is on guard outside tenant’s door. Landlady entices him away with bit of meat from kitchen below. Breaks into room. Makes startling discovery. Mother and babe dead upon the bed. Her first thought after turning off gas is for meter. Reads it. Gets greatly excited.
In kitchen landlady retrieves Dolores’ advertisement and money for payment. On consideration, decides that best chance of getting bill paid by a dead tenant lies in possible live answer to the ad. Goes to Times office on belated errand. Proffers “personal.”
(On Screen)
In this wise—and only one day late—the “Personal” of Dolores Trent appears.
In office of afternoon newspaper veiled ad. catches eye of sub-editor.
(On Screen in Print)
Wasted
Unless you come to me at once.
979 East 17th Street.
Editor calls reporter, who goes to East Side address.
John emerges from club with copy of Times under arm. At curb buys copies of two other newspapers. As gets into limousine, lets one—the Times—fall into mud.
(On Screen)
As usually happens, the “Personal” is not read by the person for whom intended.
John glances at fallen paper regretfully. As cab starts, turns to financial pages of other paper.
Up street wind drives copy of Times. Blows it open.
(On Screen in Print)
Wasted
Unless you come to me at once.
979 East 17th Street.
Hoof of dray horse stamps out legibility of printed words.
(On Screen)
Well it is for the solving of mysteries that the public need not depend upon the mysterious ways of detective agencies.
Reporter finds East Seventeenth Street address. Frightens landlady with questions about ad. Persuades her to let him into Dolores’ room. Recognizes face of notorious girl. Emerges under thrill of a “beat.”
Rewrite man in evening newspaper office takes discovery over telephone. Rattles sensational story through typewriter and composing room into print.
In another office an un-wise old “owl” of John’s detective agency gets start from headlines of latest edition.
(On Screen in Print)
Dolores Trent a Suicide
Goes to End by Gas
Takes Birthling for Company.
Agency chief shows himself capable of real speed after things have been detected for him. Makes for John’s office. Must prepare employer for shock, he declares. They have found the girl, although dead. The address is John’s only demand. It is supplied without reference to newspaper. He hastens there.
Pessimistic landlady will let none except authorities into bedroom until bills are paid.
(Insert) “It uses up a sight of gas to kill a woman grown and a healthy baby.”
John crushes green-backs into her hand and strides into room.
Upon bed lies dead girl.
(On Screen)
With backthrown silken hair her mourning veil, all smileless in death as she had been through life, she clasps to her breast the clay of his child and hers, of whose existence a detective had told him. “Grief to Men” at last teaches one man the acme of grief.
John bends over her. His lips move.
(Insert) “I have murdered what I love. Can you forgive?”
Sinks to knees beside bed. Lays face in her hair. Shudders in agony of regret.
THE THIRD TURN
(On Screen)
The digit of death points back to the divorce case of Cabot vs. Cabot.
In imposing room of Bar Association, Rufus Holt stands trial for his professional life. Is charged with having thrown the first divorce case he ever lost. Faces of jury of brother lawyers grow contemptuous when prosecutor sums up evidence against him—his visit to Judge Strang’s apartment with Cabot co-respondent, as reported by elevator man, later protectorate of girl and payment of her bills, as proved by florist and manager of up-town hotel, and continued friendship with John Cabot. Now suicide of girl and death of infant conceived during period of sojourn in philanthropist’s home clinches case.
Holt to be formally disbarred. Is broken by disgrace and denied friendship of man for whom he took risk. Leaves trial room.
(On Screen)
Mrs. Cabot finds a new use for “blimps.”
In her quarters at Cabot town-house, Catherine and maid are engaged in packing trunks. Two society friends announced. Shown into disordered suite. Ask questions. Is it true, as papers say, that Mrs. Cabot is going to make trans-Atlantic flight? Catherine gives laughing assurance:
(Insert) “I’ve always enjoyed being first, my dears. I guess I am first to fly from unpleasant notoriety. It will be a joy-ride, as my new lawyer is sure of winning my reopened suit.”
(On Screen)
DUST TO DUST
Beside grave of Trevor Trent, jovial digger finishes double task. Enters auto hearse, followed by single limousine. John steps from car as coffin is lowered. Carries arm-load of roses. Holds face emotionless. Tears off handful of rose petals. Scatters them into grave. Lips move.
(Insert) “God teach me that nothing is wasted. God grant that nothing is wasted.”
As he turns away, with last offices performed, is halted and questioned by reporter who first published news of Dolores’ death. John at first refuses to answer. Shows deep thought, then inspiration.
(Insert) “You may say that I am sailing for Europe in the trans-Atlantic blimp. Yes, with Mrs. Cabot.”
Reporter stands astonished. Stares.
(On Screen)
That John Cabot deserves his reputation for shrewdness is the news-hound’s thought. So that is his latest scheme for protecting the name of the Trent girl—to stop the possible reopening of his wife’s suit by flying abroad with her, Whether she wants him or not!
(Cut Back) Turtle appears. Protrudes head. Sees appealing hands. Withdraws head. Turns. Scuddles away.
THE END
(Passed by Board of Censure)
HELL FILMS