CHAPTER III

THE “TAG”

THE stage entrance of the Mirror Theater was on a sort of court or alley which ran at right angles from one of the side streets near Times Square. A high iron gateway which barred it except during theatrical working hours stood half open, and the little party made their way over the stone flags in the cool gloom cast by the shadow of the theater itself and the neighboring buildings—restaurants, offices, and shops. It looked really mysterious in its sudden dusk, after the midday glare of the open street.

“Do you know,” said Jim Barrison, “this is the first time I have ever gone into a theater by the stage door!”

“What a record!” laughed Miss Legaye. She was in excellent spirits, and inclined to flirt discreetly with the good-looking and well-mannered detective. “And so you never had a stage-door craze in all your properly conducted life! Don’t you think it’s high time you re—no, it isn’t reformed I mean, but the reverse of reformed. Anyway, you should make up for lost time, Mr. Barrison. Ah, Roberts! I suppose you thought we were never coming. Every one else here?”

She was speaking to the stage doorkeeper, a thickset man of middle age, with a stolid face that lighted up somewhat as she addressed him. He did not answer, but beamed vacuously at her. She was always charming to him, and he adored her.

They went on into the theater. Barrison was taken in tow by Dukane. “Hello, Willie! Mr. Barrison, this is Mr. Coster, my stage manager, and I am inclined to dislike him, he knows so much more than I do. Mr. Barrison is a detective, and has come to help us with those finger-print scenes, Willie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Willie, absently offering a limp, damp hand. “Gov’nor, is it true you’ve canned G. T.?”

“Quite true,” said Dukane cheerfully. “Let me present you to Miss Merivale. She will rehearse Lucille.”

“Lord!” groaned Willie, who was hot and tired and disposed to waste no time on tact. “About two weeks before——”

Mortimer lurched forward. “Say!” he began belligerently. “She’s my leading lady—see? Any one who doesn’t like——”

“Oh, go ’way and take a nap!” interrupted Willie, without heat. He was no respecter of persons. “So that’s it! All right, gov’nor. I’m glad to see any sort of a Lucille show up, anyhow. Even if she’s bad, she’ll be better than nothing. No offense, Miss Merivale.”

“I quite understand,” said Sybil, so sweetly that Willie turned all the way round to look her over once more with his pale, anxious eyes.

“Come on, folks; they’re all waiting,” he said, and led the way onto the big, bare stage.

Willie Coster was a small, nervous man with a cynical pose and the heart of a child. His scant hair was sandy, and his features unbeautiful, but he was a good, clever, and hard-working little chap, and even the companies he trained were fond of him. He constantly and loudly proclaimed his disgust with all humanity, especially the humanity of the theaters; but he was usually broke because he hated to refuse a “touch,” and every one on earth called him Willie.

He was a remarkable stage manager. He was a true artist, was Willie Coster, and he poured his soul into his work. After every first night he got profoundly drunk and stayed so for a week. Otherwise, he explained quite seriously—and as every one, including Dukane, could quite believe—he would have collapsed from nervous strain.

Only a few electric lights had been turned on. The stage looked dim and dingy, and the auditorium was a vast abyss of unfathomable blackness. Close to the edge of the stage, where the unlighted electric footlights made a dully beaded curve, stood a small table littered with the four acts of the play and some loose sheets of manuscript, presided over by a slim little youth who was Coster’s assistant. This was the prompt table, whence rehearsals were, technically speaking, conducted. As a matter of fact, Willie Coster never stayed there more than two minutes at a time.

The company had already assembled. They looked hot, resentful, and apprehensive. They stood around in small groups, fanning themselves with newspapers and handkerchiefs, and making pessimistic conjectures as to what was going to happen next.

Every one knew that something had gone wrong between Templeton and the management, and collectively they could not make up their minds whether they were glad or sorry. She had been the leading woman of the show, and every one felt a trifle nervous until reassured that another lead would be forthcoming.

It was Claire McAllister, one of the “extra ladies,” who first recognized Sybil.

“Gee, ain’t that the Merivale girl?” she exclaimed to the young man who played a junior officer in one very small scene. “I saw her in a real part once, and she got away with it in good shape, too.”

The young man to whom she spoke looked up, startled, and then sprang forward eagerly, his eyes glowing.

“Sybil!” he cried gladly.

She turned quickly, and, laughing and flushing in her beautiful frank way, held out both her hands to him.

“Isn’t it luck, Norman?” she exclaimed gleefully. “I’m to have a chance at Lucille!”

Alan Mortimer had scarcely opened his lips since leaving the restaurant. Now, with a very lowering look, he swung his tall figure forward, confronting Norman Crane.

“I don’t think I remember you,” he remarked, with an insulting inflection. “Not in the cast, are you?”

Norman, flushing scarlet, started to retort angrily, but Dukane stopped him with a calm hand upon his arm.

“All right, all right, my boy,” he said evenly. “You’re in the cast, all right; but—come, come! We are rehearsing a play to-day, and not discussing personalities.”

In some occult fashion he contrived to convey his meaning to young Crane. It was not the smallest of Dukane’s undoubted and unique talents; he knew how to appeal directly and forcibly to a human consciousness without putting the thing into words. Crane, who was extraordinarily sensitive, understood instantly that the manager wished to excuse Mortimer on the grounds of his condition, and that he put it up to the younger man to drop the issue. Wherefore, Crane nodded quietly and stepped back without a word.

It is proverbial that red hair goes with a peppery disposition. Norman Crane’s short, crisply waving locks were not precisely red, and his temper was not too savage, but there was a generous touch of fire in both. His hair was a ruddy auburn, and there was in his personality a warmth and glow which could be genial or fierce, according to provocation or occasion. He was a lovable lad, young even for his twenty-three years, with a clean ardor about him that was very attractive, especially to older and more sophisticated persons. Norman Crane was in all ways a fine fellow, as fine for a man as Sybil Merivale was for a woman. They were the same age, buoyant, clear-eyed young people, touched both alike with the spark of pure passion and the distinction of honest bravery.

Dukane was too truly artistic not to appreciate sentiment; in his business he had both to appraise and exploit it. And as he saw the two standing together he experienced a distinct sensation of pleasure. They were so obviously made for each other, and were both such splendid specimens of youth, spirit, and wholesome charm. He determined mentally to cast them opposite each other some day, for they made a delightful picture. Not yet; but in a few years——

The managerial calculations came to an abrupt end as he chanced to catch sight of Alan Mortimer’s face.

Intense emotion is not generally to be despised by a manager when he beholds it mirrored in an actor’s face, but this passion was a bit too naked and brutal, and it was decidedly out of place at a rehearsal. The man could be charming when he liked, but to-day the strings of his self-restraint were unkeyed. His face had become loose in line; his eyes smoldered beneath lowered lids. Dukane saw clearly revealed in that look what he had already begun to suspect—a sudden, fierce passion for Sybil Merivale.

This sort of thing was nothing new for Mortimer. He was a man who attracted many types of women—some of them inexplicably, as it seemed to male onlookers—and whose loves were as fiery and as fleeting as falling stars. He had made love both to Kitty Legaye and Grace Templeton, playing them against each other not so much with skill as with a cavalier and amused mercilessness which might well have passed for skill. Now he was tired of the game, and, in a temporarily demoralized condition, was as so much tinder awaiting a new match.

Then the youth and freshness of the girl unquestionably attracted him. Alan Mortimer was in his late thirties and had lived hard and fast. Like most men of his kind, he was willing enough to dally by the wayside with the more sophisticated women; but it was youth that pulled him hardest—girlhood, unspoiled and delicate. Dukane, more than a bit of a philosopher, speculated for a passing minute as to whether it was the inextinguishable urge toward purity and decency even in a rotten temperament, or merely the brutish wish that that which he intended to corrupt should be as nearly incorruptible as possible.

But the manager permitted himself little meditation on the subject. He had no wish that others should surprise that expression upon the countenance of his new star.

“Last act!” he called sharply.

Willie Coster glanced at him in surprise. It was unusual for the “governor” to take an active hand in conducting rehearsals.

“How about Miss Merivale?” he said. “Isn’t she to read Lucille?”

“Here is the part.” Dukane took it from his pocket and dropped it on the prompt table. “Miss Templeton—er—turned it in this noon.” He suppressed a smile as he recalled the vigor with which Grace Templeton had thrown the little blue-bound booklet at him across his desk. He added: “Let Miss Merivale take the complete script home with her to-night; that will give her the best idea of the character.” For Dukane, unlike most of his trade, believed in letting his people use as much brain as God had given them in studying their rôles.

“Then we start at the beginning of Act Four,” said Coster. “Here’s the part, Miss Merivale. Just read it through for this rehearsal, and get a line on the business and where you stand. Everybody, please! Miss Merivale, you’re not on till Mr. Mortimer’s line, ‘The girl I would give my life for.’ Then you enter up stage, right. Ready, Mr. Mortimer?”

The company breathed one deep, unanimous sigh of relief. They had feared that the advent of a new Lucille would mean going back and doing the whole morning’s work over again. But Dukane was—yes, he really was almost human—for a manager!

There were three other persons who had seen Mortimer’s self-betraying look as his eyes rested on Sybil Merivale’s eager young beauty. One was Norman Crane, one was Kitty Legaye, and one was the detective, Jim Barrison.

Barrison’s eyes met those of Dukane for a moment, and he had a shrewd idea that the manager was telegraphing him a sort of message. He resolved to hang around as long as he could and get a word alone with Dukane after rehearsal was over.

At this point John Carlton, the author, arrived. He was a dark, haggard young man, but, though looking thoroughly subdued after a fortnight under the managerial blue pencil, he quite brightened up on being introduced to Barrison.

“Thankful, no end,” he muttered in a hasty aside. “Was afraid they’d cut out the whole finger-print business.”

“Cut it! Why? No good?”

“Too good!” sighed the discouraged playwright. He had, however, hauled a lagging sense of humor out of the ordeal, for shortly after, he went with Barrison to sit in a box in the dark auditorium, and evolved epigrams of cynic derision as he watched the rehearsal of his play. Barrison found him not half a bad fellow, and before the hot afternoon wore itself out, they had grown quite friendly.

Barrison’s own part in the rehearsal was soon disposed of. After he had explained the way the police detect finger prints upon objects that seem innocent of the smallest impression, and illustrated on a page of paper, a tumbler, and the surface of the table, his work was over for the day. Mortimer promised to practice a bit, that the effect might be quite technical and expert-looking. Barrison was to come to another rehearsal in a few days and see how it looked. Then the detective found himself free to enjoy the rest of the rehearsal, such as it was.

“Which won’t be much,” Carlton warned him. “This is just a running over of lines for the company, and to start Miss Merivale off. Nobody will do any acting.”

“The last act ought to be the most important, I should think,” said Barrison.

“Oh, well, so far as action and hullabaloo goes—shots and soldiers and that sort of thing. But it’s a one-man play, anyway, and I’ve had to make that last act a regular monologue. It’s all Mortimer. He’s A1, too, when he cares to take the trouble. Drunk now, of course, but he’s no fool. He’ll keep sober for the opening, and if the women don’t go dippy over his looks and his voice and his love-making, I miss my guess. Now, watch—this is going to be one of the exciting scenes in the play, so far as action goes. Pure melodrama, but the real thing, if I say it as shouldn’t—girl in the power of a gang of ruffians, spies and so forth. Night—dark scene, you know—a really dark scene, with all the lights out, front and back. Pitch black. Just a bit of a wait to get people jumpy, and then the shots.”

Willie Coster cried out: “Hold the suspense, folks! No one move. Lights are out now.” He waited while ten could be counted; then deliberately began to strike the table with his fist. “One—two——”

“Those are supposed to be shots,” explained Carlton.

“Three—four—five—six——”

“That’s enough!” interposed Dukane. “The women don’t like shooting, anyway.”

“All right. Six shots, Mortimer. Now you’re coming on, carrying Lucille—never mind the business. Miss Merivale, read your line: ‘Thank God, it’s you—in time!’ Right! All the rest of you—hurry up! You’re carrying torches, you boobs; don’t you know by this time what you do during the rescue? Oh; for the love of——”

He began to tell the company what he thought of it collectively and individually, and Carlton turned to Barrison.

“All over but the shouting—and the love scene. Mortimer can do that in great form, but you’ll get no idea of it to-day, of course. He isn’t even trying.”

“He’s a good bit soberer than he was, though,” said Barrison, who was watching the star carefully.

“Well, I’m inclined to think he is. Maybe he’ll wake up and do his tricks, but you never can tell with him. There go the extras off; it’s the love scene now.”

The last scene in the play was a short, sentimental dialogue between Tarrant, the hero, and Lucille. Sybil read her lines from the part; Mortimer knew his, but recited them without interest or expression, giving her her cues almost mechanically, though his eyes never left her face, and as they played on toward the “curtain,” he began to move nearer to her.

“A little more down front, Lucille” said Coster from the prompt table. “Tarrant is watching you, and we want his full face. All right; that’s it. Go on, Tarrant——”

“‘What do you suppose all this counts for with me,’” said Mortimer, speaking slowly and with more feeling than he had used that afternoon. “‘What does it all amount to, if I have not the greatest reward of all—Lucille?’”

Barrison, listening to the sudden passion vibrating in the genuinely splendid voice, thought he could begin to understand something of the man’s magnetism. If he really tried, he could make a tremendous effect.

“‘But the honors that have been heaped upon you!’” read Sybil, her eyes bent earnestly upon the page before her. “‘Your success, your achievements, your——’” She stopped.

“Catch her up quicker, Mortimer!” exclaimed Coster. “We don’t want a wait here, for Heaven’s sake! Speak on ‘your success, your’—speak on ‘your.’ Now, once more, Miss Merivale!”

“‘Your success,’” read Sybil again, “‘your achievements, your——’”

“‘Honors! Success! Achievements!’” Mortimer’s tone was ringing and heartfelt. “‘What do they mean to me, Lucille—without you? They are so many empty cups; only you can fill them with the wine of life and love——’”

“Noah’s-ark stuff,” murmured Carlton. “Likewise Third Avenue melodrama. But it’ll all go if he does it like that!”

“‘Lucille—speak to me——’”

“‘You are one who has much to be thankful for, much to be proud of! Your medal of honor—surely that means something to you?’”

“‘Ah, yes! I am proud of it—the gift of my country! But it is given to the soldier. The man still waits for his prize! There is only one decoration which I want in all this life, Lucille, only one——’”

“And so forth—all right!” said Willie, closing the manuscript; for the final line of the play, the “tag,” as it is called, is never given at rehearsals.

But Mortimer appeared to have forgotten this ancient superstition of the theater—seemed, indeed, to have forgotten everything and everybody save Sybil and the opportunity given him by the situation.

He caught the girl in his arms and delivered the closing line in a voice that was broken with passion:

“‘The decoration that I want is your love, Lucille—your kiss!’”

And he pressed his lips upon hers.

Sybil wrenched herself free, flaming with indignation. Crane, very white, started forward. Mortimer, white also, but with a very slight, very insolent smile, wheeled to meet him. But Dukane, moving with incredible swiftness, stood between them. His face was rather stern, but his voice was as level and equable as ever as he said quietly:

“All right, all right—it is the business of the piece. But just a bit premature, Mortimer, don’t you think? Suppose we let Miss Merivale get her lines first? There will be plenty of time to work up the action later. Rehearsal dismissed, Willie. Have every one here at nine sharp to-morrow. What’s the matter with you?”

For Willie Coster was sitting, pale and furious, by the prompt table, swearing under his breath with a lurid eloquence which would have astonished any one who did not know him of old.

“Damn him!” he ended up, after he had exhausted his more picturesque and spectacular vocabulary. “He’s said the tag, gov’nor—he’s spoken the tag—and queered our show!”

“Oh, rot, Willie!” said Dukane impatiently. “You’re too old a bird to believe in fairy tales of that sort!”

But Willie shook his sandy, half-bald head and swore a little more, though more sorrowfully now.

“You mark my words, there’ll never be any luck for this show,” he declared solemnly. “Never any luck! And when we open, gov’nor, you just remember what I said to-day!”