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Roy Glashan's Library
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The Smart Set, June 1924, with "Synthetic Love"
Can drugs control the will to Love?—Society and its
darlings of the stage are threatened by a sinister power.
"KENNEDY, you must have observed this psychic crime wave—to me the most sinister undercurrent in the world that thinks it thinks. Between Freud and Volstead, the plea 'Not guilty' nowadays goes for nearly everything that used to be a felony."
The whimsical smile of Ogden Kent, famous young attorney in charge of the government's prosecutions against the profiteers, covered something more serious, as he watched little four-year-old Marjorie Kent sitting on my desk daintily playing with the keys of the portable typewriter.
"My wife—my former wife I suppose you'd call her—you know. Daphne Marvin, elder of the two Marvin sisters. Daphne and Diana?—well. I believe she is a victim of a group of—psychic gangsters!"
Being a yellow journalist. I knew the story of Daphne Marvin and Ogden Kent (at least I thought I did), of her ambition for a stage career, and of the estrangement over Gertner of the National Opera.
"They are a gang," reiterated Kent pugnaciously, "a gang of love wreckers, at the National Roof. Something ought to be done to expose and curb them, too. Young society is upturned by them, running wild. Old society is undermined, scandalized."
I knew that the Roof at the National Opera had obtained wide notoriety for its production of spectacles as staged by Gabriel Gertner and the famous ballet master, Michel Focher.
"Within a few months a half dozen divorces, two remarriages, as many suits for alienation of affections are directly traceable to them. It has set a new low-water mark in society, this enterprise which started so brilliantly."
Marjorie by this time had exhausted the mystery of the typewriter and stood gravely before Kennedy's laboratory table. Over a Bunsen burner merrily bubbled the water in a flask into which Kennedy had been about to introduce a sample of the stomach contents in a suspected poisoning case, just as the big Kent town-car pulled up before the laboratory. I knew that in the child's mind something occult was working.
"But what have they—any of them—done?" emphasized Kennedy.
"Why—just this. There's a new scandal brewing. You know Dr. Trask?"
"The psychoanalyst?" nodded Craig. "Slightly."
"Well. Donald Trask was a childhood lover of Diana. You hadn't heard of his failing health?"
"N-no. What seems to be the matter?"
"That's what I'd like to know. Is it another of those Freud theory psychoses? ... Or is there something sinister about it? Are Diana and Donald victims of psychoanalysis of themselves—or by others? Are they psychic prey ... or is there...?"
"Professor Kennedy." interrupted the pretty treble of Marjorie watching the shaking shoulders of the flask, "can you shimmy, too?"
Kennedy smiled, but Kent paused and scowled.
"You see, the decree hasn't yet been made final. As for Marjorie, by agreement this is my day. I've just been to get her and—well. I've been thinking about her a great deal. Kennedy, I don't want her to grow up in that life. Besides, I can't help feeling that if she is to inherit the Kent name and the Kent fortune I have the right to give her at least some of what I think the Kent name and fortune should carry with it."
Kennedy had always refused divorce cases. But this began to seem different.
"Some friends, the Barclay de Forests," urged Kent, "are trying to bring about a reconciliation between Daphne and myself. I want the advice of someone who is disinterested—someone I can trust. You see, a few days ago Daphne was displayed in the role of solo dancer by Diana. She feels sore over being given a minor part—hut I think it is a step in the right direction—for Daphne. Now, along comes this estrangement of Diana and Donald. It all looks queer to me. Won't you look into it? You would be doing my former wife and me a service. I assure you—perhap this other young couple—in reality, Kennedy, a public service...."
THUS it was that Kennedy and I attended a special forenoon
final dress rehearsal of the great spectacle, Lhassa.
Ostensibly we did so in the interest of the Star, with my friend. Alec Adair, the dramatic critic as our sponsor.
The rehearsal of the vivid and gorgeous Lhassa was a social occasion for some chosen few of the inner circle. Gertner, with the polished fascination of his professional culture, and Focher with his sophisticated embonpoint shone before an audience as brilliant as the spectacle. For the National Roof was backed by a syndicate headed by Carl Langley, head of the Anglo-Saxon Trading Company, and all society was there—at least all of a certain smart set.
Our success was even greater than I had anticipated. Here was one place at least where the press connection opened the door. Adair was on intimate terms with almost everybody.
During the intermission, we found ourselves introduced to the very girl we wanted most to meet and gradually Kennedy led the conversation, avoiding the sore spot of her displacement but skirting the subject on which we were most interested.
"Dancing is the safety valve, don't you think—the means of working off suppressed desires?" asked Daphne Kent, adding, "the outlet of suppressed emotions?"
"Or," flashed lack Kennedy, "is the dance craze merely the loosening of passions?"
His remark brought a slow, thoughtful response. "Well ... you see, I went into it because I believed it to be the outlet of emotion ... and now I find that these people ... well, often ... they are using it as a means to capture society and capitalize its vices."
Why had she said it? Was there lock of it a fixed idea? Under seeming condemnation of Gabriel Gertner and his National Opera for pandering to the fast set was there a subconscious fascination for Gertner?
Daphne Marvin Kent was not a mere show girl. Back of that remark were the seeds of tragedy—perhaps of one personal tragedy—doubtless of others to follow.
We returned to the rehearsal again and after the intermission the second part of the spectacle was even more gorgeous than the first.
It was the Dance of the Gods in the New York's festivities before the great Jokhang in the Sacred City—a saturnalia in which the new little sensational solo dancer broke forth more dazzling than all the rest of the dazzling cast.
To some, it was a spectacle of innumerable lanterns shedding lights on colored figures in bas-relief, framed in arabesques of animals, birds and flowers—figures on an heroic scale representing the history of Buddha—a spectacle of the dance in such a setting as had never before been attempted on the Roof.
To the little solo dancer I now realized that it was more than to anyone else. Back of it showed through her inordinate desire to dance, raised now to the sublimity of art, of that perfection of all art that comes from spontaneity alone.
Flashed over me the thought: What was it to someone else in that theatre—the culmination of what deep-laid plan?
The curtain fell upon a spellbound, rapturous audience and for a full minute there was a hush, then, as the curtain rose again on the whole cast surrounding the lithe dancer there came a deafening wave of applause.
From the wings suddenly swarmed a dozen attendants as the audience pressed forward upon the stage. It had been a part of the plan of the management to give this intoxicating soupçon to the members of the syndicate whose money had made this production possible. To keep up the enthusiasm of the promoters it had been arranged that the audience was to have tea on the stage with the cast.
We found ourselves irresistibly watching the little solo dancer as Gertner and Focher crowded around and Langley joined them.
"That is my little sister, Diana Marvin," remarked Mrs. Kent, who had rejoined us. "Now Di's being drawn into the life."
"I thought," remarked Kennedy, "at least it was rumored, wasn't it?—that she was engaged to Dr. Donald Trask?"
Daphne shrugged with a bitter smile. "Diana and Donald are estranged... . It's more than a lovers' quarrel. And either Mr. Gertner or Mr. Langley is with her all the time. I'm frantic about it. I did not approve of the intimacy of Mr. Gertner—and I can hardly say I approve any more of Mr. Langley's friendship. You know, be represents the syndicate that is backing the show—the angel."
Her tone was such that she might just as well have added in words, "the fallen angel, I think."
"Donald was so much better fitted for her—really understands Di. They were brought up together. He loves her—deeply—oh, why can't she see it?"
A moment later she was over with them. What did it mean? All she said was an argument equally applicable to herself and Kent. Was Daphne one of those women consciously frigid, unconsciously passionate? And after all was she really the love-slave of Gertner?
From Adair we learned that some years before. Langley had purchased the old Trask estate.
"He calls it Langley Lodge. In it he established himself with Martha Maclean as housekeeper: she's now Diana's maid. The gossip is that she is an old flame of Langley's—snuffed out. Another member of his entourage is his Japanese assistant in his business, Izumo Tito—over there in that group."
Langley, Adair told us, had always been interested in the drama and a frequent visitor had been his friend, Gertner, and also Focher. Both of them were romantically inclined. It was Gertner who had won Daphne Kent from her husband. At the same time Focher had developed a fascination for Diana. What interested Craig most was when Adair recounted how, by a shifting of this kaleidoscope of passion, when Gertner and Focher were at odds over Diana. Langley had come into the field and seemed virtually carrying off the prize.
"I've persuaded Mr. Gertner to have some tea with us," flattered Daphne a moment later.
"Persuaded?" he bowed. "That's not the word. I don't need any reins or Minders to gallop here, with you."
"Whose idea was this?" asked Adair, looking about.
Gertner said nothing but his smile answered.
"The most wonderful promoter in the profession." complimented Adair. "You are a showman."
Daphne had gone ahead with the pouring, like many others, not waiting for the attendants. I set it down to her eagerness to hold Gertner.
As she landed the cup to him she curtsied whimsically. Daphne's hands were beautiful. So was the hollow of the back of her white shoulders as she bowed her head forward toward the producer. I wondered at Gertner's thoughts of the two. They were both beautiful girls. If I knew him aright by reputation it was: "Damned beautiful fillies—111 have to try them both out!"
Although with us, Daphne gave a glance now and then—was it of apprehension?—at the other group of Focher, Langley and Diana. Her attention seemed to be vibrating like a pendulum from the group about her to the other about her sister.
Gertner made an apology and was, like a good promoter, circulating from one knot of people to another.
I saw Focher detach himself from the other group. Daphne flitted away and for the moment Craig and I were alone.
I was about to say something when Craig checked me.
Langley had come up to Diana, alone, just apart from the rest, behind the fronds of a clump of artificial palms, on the other side of us.
Langley poured a cup of tea for her, his back for the moment toward her, then swung around quickly.
"Diana—after tonight you will be famous!"
"Oh, Carl—not with my own talent. Don't I know how you have helped—with Gabriel and Michel? And you know how I appreciate it! It was so kind of you to take such an interest in this little untried flapper!"
"My dear—here's my hand. When you are famous don't forget our friendship."
"Carl!—bow could I?"
"Look up at me—Di—no, the hand will stay, dear. Why the flushes. Don't pull away—it's so wonderful to be close to you... . Your breath is like a breeze on a fire—it sets glowing all the man in me. ... Do you want me to let you go?"
"No—I want you to hold me ... hard! I—I—my mood is answering yours. Why am I this way? I feel when you have me close as if it were the realization of the desires of ages.
"I wish this were really a jungle! I'd lay your head on my shoulder, fling my arms about you—show you the joy of loving. Di ... I could hold you this way ... forever ... only there is a more wonderful joy in store for us ... as we realize love... . You must come to a little dinner which I am giving Saturday ... at the Lodge ... you must come ... I'll not take 'No'!"
There was silence. Was it the silence of a long, lingering kiss, shaded by the palms?
"You will. Di? ... Yes ... you will I ... When I see a thing I want ... I take it!"
I felt a gradual shift of interest from the troubles of Kent and Daphne to the throbbing case of Diana.
Craig and I moved quietly from the palms and ran into Focher and Adair, as Daphne was coming toward us.
Kennedy complimented Focher highly on his little pupil who had just given such a wonderful exhibition.
"Mais, oui—she is marrvelous!"
"But I think I—" smiled Daphne, coming up behind him.
"Ah—but you—madame—for the great Greek spectacle—ah—the gorgeous! That will be reserved for your talent—something far more difficult than this Lhassa!"
Was it camouflage—to cover something ulterior?
A moment later Focher and Daphne contrived to shift a couple of paces apart from us. I heard Langley's name mentioned. Could it be that she was delving into Langley's past and Focher was telling her of some discovery.
Had Daphne made an ally of Focher to combat both Gertner and Langley to save her little sister? Had she used Focher to alienate Diana from Gertner—and now was she trying to repeat it to alienate her from Langley?
Or was Focher playing a game against all three to capture Diana for himself? In other words, who had really displaced Diana as the solo dancer—had it been Gertner, or Focher, or Langley?...
IN the wake of Adair we sought the social flotsam and jetsam,
then, noticing that Langley had left Diana. Kennedy unobtrusively
began to edge over nearer her.
Daphne had not ceased her roving about with jealous eye for the welfare of Diana, and the sisters encountered each other just as we were coming nearer, separated by a flap of scenery.
"Di, you ought to be more careful."
"Careful? About what?"
"About—about Langley. You know—a man with a past—
"Oh, listen, Daph—you forget Gabriel—"
Daphne winced. "Just think a minute—your position—the Marvin name—this is social suicide!"
"That's old stuff, Daph! It makes me think of arguments you and Ogden used to have. Remember how you used to say: 'I feel the urge of self expression!' Well—this is Di speaking now—not Daph—light-hearted, care-free, dancing Di....
"It has come at last! Di has overcome Diana. I have found my profession—Dianne the dancer! And Di's destiny is more to her than Daphne. Donald, and all the other D's of your damned society!
"My urge had become a surge. I may be dead to you all—if you do go back to Ogden—but I'll enjoy the rarest freedom. At least there'll be no good hypocrites on my visiting list!"
The wordy battle of the sisters took itself to another part of the stage and Kennedy turned into the wings. We found ourselves in the greenroom and near the corridor to the dressing rooms.
A middle-aged woman was coming out of the door which bore a big star on it. We needed no introduction to know that this was Martha MacLean. I could not but think of Martha as a sort of duenna to Diana. Could that be a step in Langlcey's control? Were Gertner and Focher principals? Or were they merely pawns? Or was it a triangular struggle for the two famous beauties?...
The office of Focher was directly in front of us. Kennedy stepped in a moment.
Shoved under some disturbed papers as though hastily hidden. I caught sight of a small bottle. Curiously I pulled it out. In it were some brown capsules; but on the label was printed "SACCHARINE."
Kennedy took the bottle, opened it, and abstracted two or three of the capsules, then shoved it back under the papers.
Some moments later, down the corridor. Diana came almost skipping in exuberance to her dressing room.
Through the crack of the door as we passed we could hear the trilling voice of Diana. Martha had returned.
"Daphne worries a great deal about me. I tut you know, the truth is ... a woman is never really happy unless she is in love!"
Kennedy paused just past the door.
"Love?" trilled on Diana. "Do you know what love is?"
I could not help feeling the selfishness of youth, as she went on, not waiting for an answer.
"Love is two souls mating for the fulfilment of Nature's greatest joy—wise old Nature! I'm eager for love... . Every nerve is a-tingle, every limb ... every organ ... ripe for the fullest expression of Nature... But I want a man just as full of life as I am. I want a man who can give me the thrills of Cleopatra! I want a man, when I mockingly withhold my consent, who will seize me and force me to surrender! I want to feel arms that will break my restraint. I want to feel lips hotter than my own! I want to fed ... mastered! ... For that I would lose the world. Carl's love leaps to mine. He is a darer—a doer—and I—I am a wild Diana. I blow and a stolen kiss—they mean more to me than Donald Trask's polite, 'Kiss me good-night, Diana!'"
I could not hear Martha's comment. But I felt she was a strange confidante. At that moment she closed the door.
OUT on the street again, in the yellow sunlight of mid-afternoon. I felt a queer sense of the unreality of life. Which was real—the gorgeous spectacle in the theatre with its fetid love—or the hurrying throngs on upper Broadway with their well-masked, torpid passions?
Kennedy knew Trask slightly and I knew that it was to Trask that his next step was taking him.
Out of the tail of my eye I watched Craig. Ho seemed now to go at the case like a hound in his eagerness. What was it that was spurring him ahead—a psychic scent? The more I watched his manner, the more a half fear formed in my mind. It hail no solid basis beyond the fact that it was merely a horrible suspicion—perhaps born of my own fear.
Donald Trask, though still young, had already built up quite a reputation as a psychoanalyst. We found him, tall, spare, rather handsome. But he seemed to be lacking something in alertness. I thought his eyes heavy, a bit vacant; which was not natural for one with eyes such as his.
As we discussed the National Opera, I noted that it was always with bitterness that Trask heard the mention of it, especially once or twice when Kennedy casually mentioned Langley's name. Was this in the manner of a psychoanalytical fishing expedition for Craig.
"It was last fall," he rambled on, "when I came back from the continent—where I went mainly to pursue my studies—to help Diana... . And now—she cares nothing—apparently."
Then he launched forth in what I thought at first was a non-sequitur, but later came to see its bearing.
"She doesn't know that this desire to dance is in itself Nature's safeguard, that it is this intuitive inhibition that accounts for much in her life. I've been telling Kent all this and making him understand it. It's the means of working off the suppressed desires and making room in her complex nature for the 'good' elements in her character. I had hoped Kent could make Daphne understand. Diana—Diana could have learned it—through me—if she only would let me...."
We listened for perhaps half an hour to Trask's morbid psychoanalysis of Diana and the dance. Who, I wondered, would psychoanalyze the psychoanalyst?
Now and then Kennedy threw in a veiled remark touching on the physical condition of Trask, which was indeed evident in both his morbid manner and actual appearance. Each time in response to Kennedy's concealment under the mask of solicitude that he was working too hard. Trask turned it aside.
Mostly his answers regarding himself were listless. But finally to the point-blank inquiry whether there was anything physically wrung, Trask answered rather testily. "What of it?"
Kennedy managed to restore Trask's good humor and there followed some scientific fencing over "despondency" and "hypochondria." I could see that there was some suspicion working in Craig's mind.
Ultimately he persuaded Trask to submit to a perfunctory examination of his heart and lungs. Once I saw Craig glance sharply at the back of his neck. But apparently he found nothing. Finally he persuaded Trask to give him a couple of blood smears....
IT was by this time late in the afternoon. Kennedy went direct
to the laboratory, while I stopped around at our apartment, for
we were to go to the opening that night.
By the time that I rejoined Kennedy in the laboratory, I was astounded at the look on his face, the intensification of the look that I had notice! before our visit to Trask.
"What do I find?" he answered lo my query. "Trask's psychosis is really developed from a true neurosis."
"And the cause?"
"Pneumogastrin—-at least that is what I have named the substance I've identified."
"Pneumogastrin?"
"That's not its real name—it has no name—but it affects the pneumogastric nerve. At least that's how I account for the cooling of his ardor—and also killing him, as I believe, by its action on the sympathetic system."
My face could not have denoted very clear comprehension, so he went on, "I used that name for it because it appears to have an affinity for the tenth cranial nerve, the vagus, or wandering nerve, most extensively distributed of the cranial nerves, with branches to the lungs, heart, stomach, and so on. I suspected it from the depression, the melancholia, the apparent actual destruction of libido. Hut there was no mark on his neck of the cutting of the nerve, near the carotid. No ... it's a drug ... a synthetic drug."
My heart sank. "What—who—?" I stammered.
"Who? Only one person—Artifex!"
Artifex! My most horrible fear was realized. Again we were faced by this sinister shadow.
"Who is he—which is he?"
"I analyzed one of those capsules you found in Focher," avoided Kennedy. "Focher had a scientific love philtre!"
For the moment I was too astounded to speak.
"It was full of a grayish brown powder."
"Cantharides?" I hastened.
Kennedy shook his head. "No, that bug is an exploded superstition. I don't know what I would name this thing—something, perhaps based on glands, which effects glands and nerves—call it just an aphrodisiac, synthetic love! It's a drug that would make Vcronoff and Steinach jump off the roof of the National Opera for envy."
"The modern chemist goes beyond even what the old alchemists aspired to, the elixir of life and the philosopher's stone," I exclaimed.
"This Artifex does." shot out Craig. "The fountain of youth is nothing to him with his modern alchemy of the mind! He plays upon the most wonderful facts of life—heredity and character—which find their final explanation in the chemical composition of the components of life-producing germinal protoplasm! Pathological sexual hyperaesthesia!"
At once I thought of Diana's passionate nature, possibly heightened and intensified, of the cave-man actions and phrases of Langley. Was there any connection with this synthetic aphrodisiac, accentuating the urge of sex?
And Daphne, was there a more logical explanation for her actions? Had something gone wrong in the effect of the synthetic love potion—if indeed it had been used? And was something more than a mere antidote for it needed?
My mind spun like a wheel racing, Artifex, the fantastic crime master, with his drugs of passion and drugs of destruction of libido, was working toward the discredit of our society—working in a spot rotten and decadent of itself!
Quickly I ran over our slender knowledge of Gertner, of Focher, of Langley.
While my brain was spinning. Kennedy's did not stop. Briskly he picked up a small ounce bottle.
"Come—put on your hat. Before you came in, I developed what should prove to be an antidote to this pneumogastrin. I can't waste any time giving it to Trask. Besides. I want him at the opening performance tonight, sick or well."
Trask was peevishly astounded at our quick return visit. But it was only for a moment. No sooner had Kennedy launched into his discovery than Trask's eyes bulged as though he had bad a sudden attack of exophthalmic goitre.
Never shall I forget the relief that passed over his face as Kennedy slowly and deliberately drew from his pocket the ounce bottle in which he had placed his hastily synthesized antidote.
Back in our apartment, we had barely time to dress for the première of the great Lhassa. Abstractedly Kennedy unburdened himself as he fumbled with his studs, swore at his collar and tie.
"Every vice. Walter," he snapped out, "is now hedged in by sumptory laws—with the result that humanity reacts against restraints—and welcomes the old vices in new forms more intoxicating than ever.
"At the same time," he went on, "with this attempted restraint comes the new freedom of women, with a breaking down of social and sexual standards. Here we have the ingredients that Artifex is playing upon—a covert attack, as I believe, upon society itself!"
I was doing my best to hurry him, but he was full of the subject. "I can't enter into what started this wave of sex mystery cases which I am finding constitute the new criminality, but the fact that they are in the news must be evident to you, Walter—whether it is in your newspapers, the magazines, the novels, the plays, the pictures, the songs, the dances, the clothes—or the lack of them!"
To bring home his point. Kennedy was digressing into his philosophy of modern life, and I let him, chiefly because I had no control over him, but also because I figured that we ought to be late, anyhow.
"Multiplying laws, we have multiplied crimes ... and every time one of these fool laws is broken it weakens respect for really fundamental laws. Take prohibition. It attempts to save the weak and, as Herbert Spencer I think it was, said, the unfit to survive ... and already I see it producing a new type, the most dangerous type of criminal from a social standpoint with whom we have had to contend ... an efficient criminal ... but one who—when every harmless outlet for his energies has been removed ... finds left only that instinct with which Nature has endowed men and women! It's making a strange age of libertinism and puritanism; of moral crooks and sumptuary hypocrites!
"Now, the moment I came into this case, I knew it would prove one of the most fascinating, to me, of this new series of sex mysteries. For new customs create new crimes. We may expect more of such cases. Art if ex knows it ... knows that in the present topsy-turvy world of sex relations a new outlet for criminal impulses is being developed ... knows it, and he has set to work to intensify it!"
AT Lhassa we were slated to occupy seats with Ogden Kent at a box party given by Mr. and Mrs. Barclay de Forest. The Barclay de Forests had arranged a little meeting after the show at their apartment which was to bring Daphne and Kent together—perhaps.
Mrs. de Forest confided to me that to the best of her observation the time was ripe. She had noticed, she said, a hearty disgust in Daphne with all the stage and its trappings. I did not venture to gainsay it. But I did wonder whether what we had seen in the forenoon had been a revival of the old Daphne through jealousy.
We were just the other side of being politely late, but in our case there was an excuse, for de Forest had been forced to wait outside for Mrs. de Forest, who insisted on paying a visit to Daphne in her dressing-room. However, Mrs. de Forest appeared at last and we made our way to the box, de Forest taking Kent, while Mrs. de Forest contrived to lag behind.
She had a purpose. In an undertone I caught a hasty aside to Kennedy and it conveyed startling information. Even Craig had to grip himself not to betray it.
"Do you suppose ... Daphne could have contracted any of those habits ... I hear are so prevalent nowadays ... in these piping days of prohibition? On her dressing-table ... I saw a little box ... of queer little brown capsules...."
I glanced at Craig. Fortunately Mrs. de Forest had suggested the alibi and he was vehemently scouting the idea of Daphne being a drug fiend.
Hut I got it. Daphne liad obtained some of the scientific love philtre herself!
Where did she get it? From Focher? As Mrs. de Forest, having unburdened her discovery, now rattled on. I began to wonder: For what purpose? Something in her remarks must have put the same idea into Kennedy's head. If Daphne were really keen on reconciliation....
Craig contrived even as we were seating ourselves to have a few seconds aside with Kent. Ry the expression on his face I knew that he was tactfully putting him on guard.
Amidst the rustle of silks and sparkle of eyes, the flutter and glitter, grace and animation, the very auqjence at Lhassa was a show in itself.
As for Lhassa, that is a part of dramatic history—Lhassa, quivering, sonorous, passionate, seductive It is enough to say that the première was a triumph, a triumph for all the dazzling cast, for Gertner, for Focher—and above all for Diana—the sensational, new-found Dianne.
We went around after the performance to the greenroom. There, surfeited with the glamor of her dancing, all the gorgeous cast crowded about Diana—not because she was Diana Marvin, pet of society in which she moved by her birthright, but sheerly for the sincerity and spontaneity of her art such as had never before enthralled a dance-crazed audience even in the history of the wonderful offerings of Gertner and Focher.
I watched Diana for a moment. With her stood Focher and at some distance Langley. I could not help feeling that, after all. Langley was a handsome specimen of manhood, a powerful man, with every faculty and function in pagan accord with the spirit of the performance.
I felt also that Carl exhibited the keenest enjoyment in the reception of the little dancer. But, more, he betrayed an assurance that seemed nothing short of pride of possession of the real self, as it were, of the lithe, graceful Diana.
Surrounded by her friends of the company, among whom was Tito, who had been a valuable adviser. I learned, on much of the truly Oriental atmosphere of the spectacle. Diana could not conceal the thrill of exaltation at the commendation of the great Focher. It was the moment for which she had lived.
Apart from the crowd, as if waiting a favorable chance. I caught sight of Trask. He seemed marvelously improved, whether it was physically from the antidote or mentally, between Kennedy and the excitement.
Gertner passed. I thought he looked worried, played out.
Transported as though to the fourth dimension. Diana caught the dominating eyes of Langley as the brilliant motley of youth and beauty instinctively made way for him.
Ardently Langley spoke of the glory of her success. Vet there was a smile on the handsome face as he bent over her that was an enigma. It was as though he had been certain of this moment. Diana seemed to be swept into a state of trance, for the moment, by the warm greeting of Carl. His touch awakened in her a response that no hand of all those in the greenroom had inspired. She was whirled into a vortex of passion.
It was not until some minutes later when, alone, she had turned toward her dressing-room, that she saw Trask.
"Even my wildest dreams, Diana, have never pictured such a triumph as this!" he said.
For the flash of an instant Diana could not conceal the conflict within herself inspired by these two men. It was as though two natures within herself responded to them, as though Duma must put forth a superhuman effort as one nature turned from its response to Carl and refused to let her go, while the other nature within her soul leaped to respond to the renewed attentions of Donald.
"Can't you love me," he asked, in a tense low tone, "—just a little—Diana?"
The babble of the crowd caught her ears.
"Don—I like you. Sometimes I think it is more—but you are so—so reliable. I almost know what you will say lie fore you say it, what you will do before you do it... .
"And, dear old Don, any man to keep my heart palpitating must keep my mind guessing, too. My love is a restless, vibrant love. Yours is a settled, matter-of-fact love. I'd die of ennui after the third night of the honeymoon. I would even know how you would arrange your clothes for the rest of your life. Horrors! Marriage would make little difference in your manner of living....
"Why, I could jazz for sheer joy to imagine your face if I should handspring like a filmy cloud from my boudoir into your arms. ... It would shock all the Eros out of you!... I want a man who will burst in on me like... like a sheik!"
"Diana—how can I win you? My love and respect for you keep me from using your own weapons. Think, dear, how it was when we used to be together. You and I are mud-pie sweethearts, darling. Are all those loving, playful hours forgotten. Diana? Don't they mean anything to you? Oh. Diana, how can you forget so soon? If could only put you in my coat—and carry you off to love—to safety... . Now you are laughing at me. I can't stand it—it is too much for any man!"
She had really been smiling vaguely at Langley, who was approaching as though he scented danger.
Beside the slender girl the two men's eyes met in an encounter that portended a struggle of opposing forces that root back to the ages before Adam.
Langley, as he spoke to her, laid his hand on the arm of Diana. He spoke with a studied ease of irrelevant things, but his action was as though to show to her and to the world and above all to Donald Trask the invisible lines of force, stronger than any magnet, that drew the nature of Diana irresistibly to himself like a human armature.
With equally studied absent-mindedness Donald made some reply to Carl and turned to Diana. As he did so, he took her hand, in such manner as to insure the sliding off of Carl's hand from her arm. Yet it was the antithesis of the greeting, a few moments before, of Langley.
How far the conflict of the two men or of the two natures within the slight girl would have gone it is difficult to say. Langley, side wise, caught sight of Martha, who was standing with a wrap. At an almost imperceptible motion of his head she came forward and threw the wrap over the exquisite shoulders of the little dancer, whispering something of the draughts.
"Yes—Martha—I shall lie with you—directly."
A second later Diana released her hand from the grasp of Donald, flashed a glance at Langley, then flew to her dressing-room, leaving the men with lips that belied the rapier glances of the thinly-veneered twentieth century.
As she passed toward her dressing-room Diana murmured to Martha, "If he did put me inside his coat with a hug—and a kiss—I might want to stay there!"
SUDDENLY there was an outcry.
"Gertner has collapsed!"
We crowded forward in the confusion with the rest. "He's poisoned!" whispered one fearsomely. "Is he dying?" queried another. For Kennedy one glance was enough, as Gertner opened his eyes after the brief collapse. The expression on his face, in his eyes, was only too similar to that we had seen in Trask.
Daphne, wild-eyed, encountered us in the corridor, just as Diana's door opened to the cries of alarm that penetrated.
"Wh-what's the matter?"
Kennedy shook his head gravely, then spoke deliberately. "Everywhere—I find strange new drugs—one to curb the passions—another—in little brown capsules—to create them—really a scientific love philtre."
Diana did not seem to take it in. But Daphne almost tainted.
Kennedy with a meaning glance drew Daphne down the corridor away from the rest.
Tearfully she whispered. "At the tea—this forenoon—I don't know what made me do it—I was wild with jealousy—when I poured—I put something—in Gabriel's tea—the thing I was going to use—to win back Ogden!"
With a shock I saw the tragedy of it. I saw her as a jealous woman, a woman scorned, a woman who could not allow any other woman, even her sister, to outshine her and keep men from worshipping at her feet, a woman who era veil admiration.
The immediate point was that this thing, unlike the capsule Kennedy had analyzed, had been poisoned. It had not acted until near midnight. But there was pneumogastrin in it. Kennedy lost not a second in administering the last of the antidote which Trask had, to Gertner.
All thought now of the after-theatre reconciliation had been knocked from Daphne's mind.
As for Craig his sole idea was uncovering a new clue to Artifex. Daphne admitted obtaining the capsules from Focher. But who had poisoned them? Foe her by this time had had a chance to recover his balance. Neither through Daphne, nor later with a direct threat could Kennedy get a word out of Focher. Focher had shut up like a sphinx.
THE première had been on Thursday night and the regular run was to begin the following Monday.
Over the week-end Langley went out to Langley Lodge and Gertner, much improved the following day, decided to week-end at the Lodge also, to recuperate. Focher also decided to join them.
In Kennedy's judgment it was the best policy to let events take their course, especially as the week-end was also to see Diana back at Marvin Manor, adjoining the Lodge. With Diana, of course, went Martha. For the time it seemed all ideas of reconciliation were in abeyance with Daphne, and Kennedy seemed rather glad to learn that she, too, had decided to return to the Manor. He seemed to be evolving a plan for the interplay of these conflicting elements.
It was perhaps an hour after midnight on Friday when we were awakened by an insistent chauffeur at our buzzer at the apartment.
There was Trask, his face cut and clotted with blood, half in a daze still, supported by the chauffeur and another man.
It seemed that, with Diana back at Marvin Manor, in such close proximity to Langley's lodge. Trask had worried all Friday, until he could stand it no longer. Thither, too, he had journeyed, oblivious to all but Diana.
He had found her restless and morbid. He had plead with her. But Diana had resented even the suggestion of any change in her career or her manner of "self expression."
Wilfully she insisted on her way, as she had before the death of her father, about her night prowling over the countryside. She had wanted again to wander over the meadows and the forests of the estate.
Trask had been in a quandary. It was not that he opposed it. It was solely fear for her safety—knowing the nearness of Langley. He had followed her on her ramble—and he was right. Langley and Tito, walking in the twilight, passed, Langley eyeing him cynically, confidently.
As Trask saw Diana disappear after a final pettish fling, he became conscious that another was watching from the shadows. It was Martha.
He had said just a trifling kind word to her before he started in pursuit of Diana. Others had scorned her and thrust her dawn as a ruined woman. This man seemed human.
Trask started after the flitting shadow, unmindful of Langley not many yards away in the darkness.
Suddenly Trask had been confronted by him. Not a word was spoken. Each knew that it was a physical crisis.
It had been a terrific battle of man to man, for Trask was no weakling, barring only the effect of the pneumogastrin. Indeed Trask seemed endowed with power even greater than in any ordinary ordeal—the strength he had once felt in a championship game behind the line when they had gone in, beaten on the score board, to win by the slashing attack of Trask, fullback.
Momentarily the battle was swinging in his favor, and then Langley, with the eternal desperate desire to win at any cost and in any manner, fumbled with a blackjack in his pocket. Cut and bleeding. Trask lay as though dead. Langley sprang up and darted after Diana....
In the moonlight the startled face of Martha peered through the parted shrubltery. Reassured that Langley was gone, she glided across and bent down over Trask. He was not dead. As she wiped his face and tried to bind up an ugly gash, he muttered Craig's name—"Professor Kennedy!"—then his voice must have trailed off.
It had been at least an hour before Martha could obtain a car and place Trask in it, less than half conscious. It was with great relief that she saw him driven off to us, herself in great conflict, now.
Trask lay almost a wreck, bandaged and tossing deliriously, but toward morning he grew calmer and more lucid and during the following day in our apartment he was much improved in strength.
IT was nearly evening when Kent dropped in, in his sport car,
having just learned of Trask's shindy with Langley.
The telephone rang and Kennedy answered. The call seemed to be from Martha, evidently a regenerated Martha. As nearly as I could make out Langley had persuaded Diana to attend a dinner at the Lodge that night, a dinner at which Gertner. Focher and a couple of the other Lotharios of the opera clique had been invited, together with Diana, Daphne and three of the best dancers in the company.
None of us were obtuse.
"I can well imagine that occasion," fumed Trask, thinking impotently of his former own house, "half a dozen of that fast set in the gun-room—with cocktails—the big banquet hall—for the revellers—the foyer with the beautiful medieval staircase brought from the old Castle of Cawthorne—and—and Langley lord of the orgy!"
"What's he inveigled Diana into?" analyzed Kent. "Do you suppose Daphne's gone to protect her little sister? Shell need someone to protect her. By God—I've got the car—I'm on my way!"
Martha's appeal to Kennedy seemed to give Trask new power. Kennedy expostulated, but Trask smiled grimly through his bandages. Ten minutes later Kennedy. Trask and myself piled into the sport car with Kent and swung off.
Kent's frenzy fed on Trask's as his car reeled off the Westchester miles, crossed Putnam county, and then into Dutchess.
Faster and more furious, evidently, had progressed the bacchanal dinner. At the moment we entered the banquet hall, all had paused in an instant of expectancy, and stood clinking glasses.
Trask, who of course knew the house like a book, led the way. We paused and followed the direction of their eyes.
To the top of the stairs strode Langley, then started slowly down, one step at a time, around the sweep of the curve.
It was a beautiful scene—at least it might have been but for what it meant to the actors in it. For Langley held in his arms Diana, wrapped in some diaphanous filmy thing, the drapery flying. Evidently she had promised some wild dance.
Langley was now half way down the stairs, as the diners called. Martha, in fascinated curiosity, was peering around the head of the staircase, her hand behind her in a fold of her dress.
Langley, around the curve, advanced down another step.
"STOP!"
I turned. It was Trask. In his outstretched hand was levelled a gun.
A hush of silence, then consternation fell over the bacchanals.
Above all came a strident order from Langley. It seemed to gather the scattered wits of the wastrels. With a mutter of anger, all began to gravitate toward Trask, eyes riveted on the gun pointed at Langley.
There was a blinding flash—all over the hall.
It might almost have been tricked—for it seemed to me to be a double flash, with only a split second between the parts of it—a flash from the gun of Trask—and another back of Langley and Diana.
With a gasp Langley pitched forward, flinging out his arms as Diana fell the half flight of stairs—and lay still—both of them—at the very feet of Trask and the startled revelers.
INSTANTLY Focher, Gertner and another pinioned Trask with the
still smoking revolver. Tito and the servants had fled in terror.
Only Craig seemed to keen his head.
With the girls he bent over in quick attention to Diana then turned to Langley. Kennedy rose. Langley was dead.
In the hysterical terror of the little dancers there was a shock of soberness to the five men. Murmurings of Gertner. Focher and the others grew. On Trask's face was merely a smile of grim satisfaction. He pushed them aside in scorn and dropped on his knees beside Diana who had by this time been lifted to a divan.
I turned suddenly to see Kennedy backing Focher into a corner.
"Yes—yes, sir," cowered Focher. "I'll tell. Mr. Langley—was a specialist in imported scientific love potions—he created a cave man out of himself—sought love slaves—through the drugs—sought Dianne. What? Yes, sir, Dr. Trask stood in his way!"
I wondered whether Kennedy would spare Daphne and keep silent of the love philtre and Gertner. There was no need. Not three feet from me, Daphne, in terror, wide-eyed, had flung herself upon Kent.
"There—there. Probably I owe my life to your jealousy. Think. Daphne, if you had really given it to me—who don't need it to love you! I see it now—why, it was poisoned—for me! In my safe are the papers in the government's case against the profiteering of the Anglo-Saxon Trading Company—"
Kennedy was marching Focher before him into the library. At last we would clear up all about Art if ex.
As we entered the library, I saw that there was unmistakable evidence that it had been visited hurriedly and ransacked.
"He has been here!" I exclaimed breathlessly.
Without a word Kennedy started to examine the room. It was empty.
Artifex had won the heat. We had lost him again. Someone had been getting too close to Artifex—and he had allowed the lips of Langley to be sealed.
In the hall, a couple of the diners, a bit worse for the liquor, were urging forward a motorcycle officer whom someone had called.
Finally he laid his hand heavily on Trask's shoulder as he smoothed Diana's brow.
"You are under arrest for murder!"
"No—no—no!" cried Diana, shocked into consciousness, opening her eyes wide.
Suddenly, Kennedy, striding from the library, took command. He gestured. Pale, gaunt, staring, Martha glided across from the staircase. Her waist was torn and her arm was bandaged with the strips of it.
"Two shots were fired!" exclaimed Kennedy.
Startled, all paused.
"One was Dr. Trask's—" Kennedy eyed her searchingly. "—the other—yours!" Martha's bowed head acquiesced. Everyone crowded a bit closer. "One bullet struck Carl Langley!"
In an ecstasy, despite the pain, Martha stripped the bandage from her arm:
"The other—his—Dr. Trask's—is—in my arm!"
With a sigh of relief Diana clung closer, then sank limp in the arms of Trask.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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