Find the Woman

  FIND THE WOMAN

  _Clancy Dean, the heroine of "Find the Woman"---from thepainting by Dean Cornwell_]

  FIND THE WOMAN

  by

  ARTHUR SOMERS ROCHE

  Author of "Uneasy Street," etc.

  With four illustrations by Dean Cornwell

  New YorkCosmopolitan Book CorporationMCMXXI

  Copyright, 1921, by Cosmopolitan Book Corporation.--All rightsreserved, including that of translation into foreign languages,including the Scandinavian

  _To ETHEL PETTIT ROCHE_

  _Let Philip win his Clancy,_ _As heroes always do;_ _To each his own sweet fancy--_ _My fancy is for you._

  The Illustrations byDEAN CORNWELL

  CLANCY DEANE, THE HEROINE OF FIND THE WOMAN _Frontispiece_ CLANCY ROSE SLOWLY TO HER FEET--"UNLOCK THAT DOOR AND LET ME OUT----" 44 GRANNIS POINTED TO CLANCY--"ARREST HER, OFFICER," HE CRIED 146 "WHO'S GOING TO BELIEVE THAT KIND OF YARN?" CAREY DEMANDED 232

  I

  As the taxi stopped, Clancy leaned forward. Yes; she'd read the signaright! It was Fifth Avenue that she saw before her.

  Fifth Avenue! And she, Clancy Deane, of Zenith, Maine, was looking at itwith her own eyes! Dreams _did_ come true, after all. She, forty-eighthours ago a resident of a sleepy Maine town, was in the city whence camethose gorgeous women who, in the summer-time, thrilled her as theydisembarked from their yachts in Zenith Harbor, to stroll around thetown, amusement in their eyes.

  She looked to the left. A limousine, driven by a liveried chauffeur,beside whom sat another liveried man, was also stopped by the policemanin the center of the avenue. Furtively, Clancy eyed the slim matron whosat, leaning back, in the rear of the car. From the jaunty toque of bluecloth trimmed with gold, down the chinchilla-collared seal coat, pastthe edge of brown duveteen skirt to the short-vamped shoes that,although Clancy could not know it, had just come from Paris, the womanwas everything that Clancy was not.

  As the policeman blew a whistle and the taxi moved forward and turned upthe avenue, Clancy sat more stiffly. Oh, well, give her six months--She knew well enough that her tailor-made was not the real thing. But itwas the best that Bangor, nearest city to Zenith, could provide. And itwould do. So would her hat that, by the presence of the woman in thelimousine, was made to seem coarse, bucolic. Even her shoes, which shehad been assured were the very latest thing, were, she suddenly knew,altogether too long and narrow. But it didn't matter. In her pocketbookshe held the "Open Sesame" to New York.

  A few weeks, and Clancy Deane would be as well dressed as this woman towhom a moment ago she had been so close. Clothes! They were all thatClancy needed. She knew that. And it wasn't vanity that made her realizethat her faintly angular figure held all the elements that, ripening,would give her shape that lissomness envied by women and admired by men.It wasn't conceit that told her that her black hair, not lusterless butwith a satiny sheen, was rare in its soft luxuriousness. It wasn'tegotism that assured her that her face, with its broad mouth, whose redlips could curve or pout exquisitely, its straight nose with the narrownostrils, its wide-set gray eyes, and low, broad forehead, wasbeautiful.

  Conceit, vanity, egotism--these were not in the Clancy Deane make-up.But she recognized her assets, and was prepared to realize from theirsale the highest possible price. She could not forbear to peep into herpocketbook. Yes; it was still there--the card, oddly enough, quitesimply engraved, of "Mlle. Fanchon DeLisle." And, scrawled with a muddypen, were the mystic words: "Introducing my little friend, FlorineLadue, to Mr. Morris Beiner."

  Carefully, as the taxi glided up the avenue, Clancy put the card back inthe side compartment of the rather bulky pocketbook. At Forty-fifthStreet, the driver turned to the left toward Times Square. Sherecognized the Times Building from a photograph she had seen. The taxiturned again at the north end of the square, and, a door away, stoppedbefore what seemed to be a row of modiste's shops.

  "This is the Napoli, ma'am," the driver said. "The office is up-stairs.Help you with your bag, ma'am?"

  "Of course." It was with a quite careless air that she replied.

  She climbed the short and narrow flight of stairs that led to the officeof the Napoli with as much of an air as is possible for any human toassume mounting stairs.

  A fat, jolly-seeming woman sat at a desk perched so that it commandednot merely the long, narrow dining-room but the stairs to the street.Although Clancy didn't know it, the Napoli, the best known theatricalhotel in America, had been made by throwing several old dwelling-housestogether.

  "A room?" suggested Clancy.

  The stout woman nodded pleasantly. Whereupon Clancy paid and tipped hertaxi-man. The landlady, Madame Napoli, as Clancy was soon to learn,shoved the register toward her. With a flourish Clancy signed "FlorineLadue." To append the town of Zenith as her residence was too much of ananticlimax after the "Florine Ladue." Portland was a bit morecosmopolitan, and Portland, therefore, appeared on the register.

  "You have a trunk?" asked Madame Napoli.

  Clancy shook her head.

  "Then the terms, for a room by the week, will be fourteen dollars--inadvance," said _madame_.

  Clancy shrugged. Nonchalantly she opened her purse and drew forth atwenty-dollar bill. _Madame_ beamed upon her.

  "You may sign checks for one week, Miss"--she consulted theregister--"Miss Ladue."

  "'Sign checks?'" Clancy was puzzled.

  _Madame_ beamed. Also, a smaller edition of _madame_, with the samekindly smile, chuckled.

  "You see," said _madame_, "my children--these are all my children." Andshe waved a fat hand toward the dining-room, where a few men and womenwere gayly chattering incomprehensible badinage to each other betweenmouthfuls. "But children are careless. And so--I let them sign checksfor one week. If they do not pay at the end of one week----"

  Clancy squared her shoulders haughtily.

  "I think you need have no apprehension about me," she said stiltedly.

  "Oh, I won't--not for one week," beamed _madame_. "Paul!" she called. A'bus-boy emerged from the dining-room, wiping his hands upon a soiledapron.

  "Take Miss--Ladue's bag to one hundred and eighteen," ordered _madame_.She beamed again upon Clancy. "If you like chocolate-cake, Miss Ladue,better come down early. My children gobble it up quickly."

  "Thank you," said Clancy, and followed the 'bus-boy porter up twoflights of stairs. Her room, fairly large, with a basin for runningwater and an ample closet, and, as Paul pointed out, only two doors fromthe bathroom, had two wide windows, and they looked out upon TimesSquare.

  The afternoon was waning. Dots of light embellished the awesome TimesBuilding. Back, lower down Broadway, an automobile leaped into being,poised high in the air, its wheels spinning realistically. A huge andplayful kitten chased a ball of twine. A petticoat flapped back andforth in an electrically created gale.

  There was a wide seat before one window, and Clancy stretched out uponit, elbows upon the sill and her cheeks pressed into her two palms.Zenith was ten million miles away. She wondered why people had hopedthat she wouldn't be lonely. As if anyone _could_ be lonely in New York!

  Why, the city was crowded! There were scores of things to do, scores ofplaces to go. While, back home in Zenith, two days ago, she had finisheda day just like a hundred preceding, a thousand preceding days. She hadwashed her hands in the women's dressing-room at Miller & Company's. Shehad walked home, tired out after a hard day pounding a typewriter forMr. Frank Miller. Her aunt Hetty--she wasn't really Clancy'saunt--Clancy was an orphan--but she'd lived at Mehitabel Baker'sboarding-house since her mother died, four years ago--had met her at thedoor and said that there was apple pie for supper and she'd saved anextra piece for her. After
supper, there'd been a movie, then bed. Oh,occasionally there was a dance, and sometimes a dramatic company,fourth-rate, played at the opera-house. She thought of "Mlle. FanchonDeLisle," whose card she carried, whose card was the "Open Sesame."

  Mademoiselle DeLisle had been in the "New York Blondes." Clancyremembered how, a year ago, when the "flu" first ravaged the country,Mademoiselle DeLisle had been stricken, on the night the Blondes playedZenith. She'd almost died, too. She said herself that, if it hadn't beenfor Clancy, when nurses were so scarce and hard to get, that she surewould have kicked in. She'd been mighty grateful to Clancy. And when sheleft, a fortnight after her company, she'd given Clancy this card.

  "Morris Beiner ain't the biggest guy in the world, kid," she'd said,"but he's big enough. And he can land you a job. He got me mine," shestated. Then, as she caught a glint of pity in Clancy's eyes, she wenton: "Don't judge the stage by the Blondes, and don't judge actresses byme. I'm an old-timer, kid. I never could _act_. But if the movies hadbeen in existence twenty years ago, I'd 'a' cleaned up, kid; hear metell it. It's a crime for a girl with your looks to be pounding the keysin a two-by-four canning factory in a jerk Maine town. Why, with yourlooks--a clean-up in the movies--you don't have to be an actress, youknow. Just look pretty and collect the salary. And a husband withkale--that's what a girl like you _really_ wants. And you can get it.Think it over, kid."

  Clancy had thought it over. But it had been one of those absurdlyhopeless dreams that could never be realized. And then, two months ago,had come from California an inquiry as to her possible relationship tothe late Stephen Burgess. Aunt Hetty had visited the court-house,looked up marriage records, with the result that, two days ago, Clancyhad received a draft for seven hundred and thirty-two dollars andforty-one cents, one-eighth of the estate of Stephen Burgess, cousin ofClancy's mother.

  It wasn't a fortune, but Clancy, after a shriek, and showing theprecious draft to aunt Hetty, had run up-stairs and found the card thatFanchon DeLisle had given her. She stood before the mirror. Shepirouetted, turned, twisted. And made her decision. If she stayed inZenith, she might, if lucky, marry a traveling man. One hundred dollarsa week at the outside.

  Better to sink in New York than float in Zenith! And Fanchon DeLisle hadbeen so certain of Clancy's future, so roseate in her predictions, sopositive that Morris Beiner would place her!

  Not a regret could Clancy find in her heart for having, on the day afterthe receipt of the draft, left Zenith. Forever! She repeated the word toherself, gritting her teeth.

  "What's the matter, kid? Did he insult you?"

  Clancy looked up. In the doorway--she had left the door ajar--stood atall young woman, a blonde. She entered without invitation and smiledcheerfully at Clancy. She whirled on one shapely foot.

  "Hook me up, will you, kid? I can't fix the darned thing to save mylife."

  Clancy leaped to her feet and began fastening the opened dress of thewoman. She worked silently, too overcome by embarrassment to speak. Theblonde wriggled in her dress, making it fit more smoothly over hersomewhat prominent hips. She faced Clancy.

  "My name's Fay Marston. What's yours?"

  "Cl--Florine Ladue," replied Clancy.

  "Y-e-s, it is," grinned the other. "But it don't matter a darn, kid.It's what others call you, not what you call yourself. On the stage?"

  "I expect to enter the movies," said Clancy.

  "'_Enter_' them, eh? Wish I could crawl in! I'm too blamed big, they alltell me. Still, I should worry, while Mr. Ziegfeld runs the 'Follies.'"

  "Are you in the 'Follies'?" asked Clancy. This was life!

  Fay winked.

  "Not when they're on the road, old thing. You got your job?"

  "Oh, I will!" said Clancy.

  Miss Marston eyed her.

  "I'll say you will. With a skin like that, you'll get anywhereunder God's blue canopy that you want to go. That's the secret,Flo--Florine--skin. I tell you so. Oh, well, much obliged, kid. Do asmuch for you sometime."

  She walked to the door but hesitated on the threshold.

  "Like wild parties, Florine?" she asked.

  "I--I don't know," said Clancy.

  "Nothing rough, you know. I never forget that I'm a lady and what's dueme from gentlemen," said Fay. "But--Ike Weber 'phoned me that his littlefriend was laid up sick with somethin' or other, and if I could bringanother girl along, he'd be obliged. Dinner and dance--at the Chateau dela Reine. Jazzy place, kid. You'd better come."

  Clancy was thrilled. If a momentary doubt assailed her, she dismissedit at once. She could take care of herself.

  "I--I'd love to. If I have anything to wear----" She hesitated.

  "Well, unpack the old gripsack," grinned Fay, "and we'll soon find out."

  A moment later, she was shaking out the folds of an extremely simplefoulard. Another moment, and Clancy was in her knickers. Fay eyed her.

  "Dance? Stage-dances, I mean. No? You oughta learn. Some pretty shape,kid. Here, lemme button this."

  For a moment, Clancy hesitated. Fay patted her on the shoulder.

  "Don't make any mistake about me, Florine. I'm the right kind of peoplefor a little girl to know, all right."

  "Why--why, of course you are!" said Clancy. Without further delay shepermitted Fay to return her service of a while ago and hook up thepretty foulard.