Chapter II
The days that followed were like a hideous dream. An endless procession of men, a nightmare of misery. Mary scarcely knew how she lived through those awful hours. But the human body is a strange machine. In time it can adapt itself to almost anything.
But the soul, unlike the body, cannot be altered so easily. Under certain conditions it is best that it be destroyed. Memory is a curse, regret is a sharp knife turning about in an open wound.
Mary tried hard not to think of the past. She dreaded equally to peer into the future. Whenever she was free she read books, endlessly. When she was absorbed in a story at least her mind was not upon herself.
Half of everything she earned was turned over to her, less charges for her room and board and for clothes and other incidental things that she ordered. She could send out for anything she wished but she was not allowed to leave the house. She was a love-slave in a house where there was ho love. And for everything she needed she was overcharged outrageously.
But Mary made no complaint, nor did John Rott complain about her. She was attractive to men. She had many lovers. She was a competent actress. She received a great many tips from men which she hid and gloated over in secret like a miser. She wanted money, lots of money, and she wanted power.
She decided the best way to get it was to be friendly with John Rott. He was not particularly good-looking; there was a crafty look about him. He distrusted everyone and most people distrusted him, but in the underworld of the town he was a power. In political circles, too, he was not without influence. So his place was never molested.
Mary was always smiling, always friendly when he came to her. She always had a joke to tell or a bit of scandalous gossip. She knew that he enjoyed such tales.
"If there were more girls like you," he declared, "this world would be a helluva lot nicer place to live in."
"But," she pouted, "if there were more girls like me, perhaps nobody would bother looking at me at all."
"Say, girlie," he cried, "with your eyes and figure you could get by anywhere. In my time a thousand girls have passed through my life and never have I known one that aroused my interest to such an extent. I've never met a damn one whose body was more like creamy velvet. How'd you like to go off with me some night in my carriage and have dinner somewhere?"
"But what would my customers do?" she asked curtly.
"Hell with them!" he exclaimed. "I'm your best customer and besides I own you. Nobody is going to tell me what I can do with my own property."
She was on the verge of saying that she doubted if he could prove legal ownership. But she decided not to. No use arousing his suspicions. Instead she only looked at him and smiled. With a cry he sprang toward her.
"You're, a devil-girl," he panted, "and that dinner I spoke of must take place tonight."
She could not answer because his great lips were pressed against hers. She was busy thinking of a possible chance of escape tonight. She decided that she would take all her money with her.
No matter what happened she determined she would never return to that sinister house. She hated everything about it, the whispers, the constant traffic in the halls, the vile men who frequented it. Even the other girls who roomed at the house were unfriendly. There were four of them, uninteresting, spiteful, with hardly any personality. They all looked alike and acted alike. They were multigraphed copies of an average street lady. They took coke and walked about as though in dreams. For the most part, Mary remained in her own room reading or scheming.
One of the first things she had done on entering her new life was to change her name. She chose a fancy name because it was appropriate to her calling. Louella Leota. It was a pretty name. It appealed to men. Mary Blaine was dead. She would never be resurrected. In her place was Louella Leota, who was born old, a schemer, a treacherous charmer of men.
That night she and John Rott ate at a roadhouse many miles from the shadows and wraiths of that house. Rott had a handsome team of horses. They were thoroughbreds and he drove them himself. He was pleased at the fine appearance the carriage made as it rolled through the streets. No wonder people turned to stare at them. He was dressed flashily in a Prince Albert coat, a large blue cravanette ulster, and in his buttonhole was a red rose.
Louella Leota, sitting beside him, had never looked more beautiful. She was quietly dressed in a brown suit and a small bonnet-like hat. It was an artful ensemble, for it gave to her a demure air which was simply stunning. Men could not turn their eyes away from her and John Rott was justly proud. He would perhaps have felt rather differently had he known that she had all her money hidden about her person. This night was to be a farewell party.
"We're going to have a great time," he said.
"I hope so," she told him. "It's an absolute novelty to me. You see it is a long time since I've been out."
"From now on we'll go out together often."
She smiled. "You almost make it sound as though we're a couple of city lights."
"We are," he declared.
"Yes," she said a trifle bitterly, "red lights."
He did not notice her odd tone or he might have suspected that Louella Leota was not as entirely reconciled to her new life as she pretended to be. Although John Rott was famous for his caution, which was a necessity in his nefarious business, he acted solely from impulse with Louella. Desire made him blind. Never had a woman so affected him, though he dealt in women. They were his stock in trade. He was a prosperous merchant who had suddenly grown to love one of the objets d'art which he kept for sale.
Rott had ordered dinner to be served in a small private dining room on the second floor of the Inn. "Here we can be alone," he said, "and if we desire a bit of affection, there is no one to be dismayed. I'll have the waiter bring everything at once and then I'll tell him to keep away until I ring."
"That'll be fine," said she, "and I can wait on you exactly as though I were your wife, serving supper to you in our own home."
"Hell, I'm glad I brought you here!" he cried. "You're a grand girl. I was a damn fool to share you with anybody. I should have kept you for myself."
"Is it too late to change?" she asked demurely.
Not till the waiter had deposited all the food on the sideboard did he even kiss her. Then when the man had gone, John Rott seized Mary in his arms and kissed her passionately.
"God, I never loved you more!" he muttered.
For a moment she permitted him to kiss her at will. Then she pushed him gently away. "The soup will be getting cold," she said.
"Hell with the soup!"
"Hell would warm it."
"I'm crazy about you."
"I'm crazy about food. I'm starving."
"And I'm starving for love."
"Why not save the love for dessert?" "You belong to me! And what I want I take."
Mary laughed softly. "That's cheaper than buying it," she said. "Cave man stuff is very appealing. I don't object to such tactics as long as I don't cave in."
"You mean you'll do what I want?" he asked eagerly.
"Certainly, why not? What right have I to complain? Now go over there and lie on the couch. Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them. I want to surprise you."
As she spoke she kissed him fervently.
John Rott turned the key in the door but he did not withdraw it from the lock. Then he stretched himself at full length on the couch.
"If the dinner gets cold," he said, "we can order another one. There isn't any reason to hurry."
"No peeking," she said.
"I won't," he told her. "I want it to be a complete surprise." Had John Rott been able to see the cruel gleam in her eyes and the nasty expression on her face he would not have been so trusting. In one thing they were much akin. They were both on fire. He was burning with desire; she was burning with hatred. Suddenly she seized a large iron poker which stood beside the open hearth. She raised it high in the air and crashed it down on his forehead with all her strength. This rat had made a prostitute of her. Now he meant to make her his personal slave. He wasn't fit to live.
John Rott did not move. Blood was trickling down his face as Mary bent over him. From his pocket she drew a roll of bills. She would need lots of money now. It was no worse to rob him of his money than it had been for him to rob her of her decency and her self-respect. She deliberately drew the bills from the wallet and then tossed the empty case back into his face.
Then on tip-toe she walked across the room and unlocked the door. Near at hand was a flight of stairs that led directly to a side entrance. The roadhouse was a shady resort and it was so constructed that guests, wanting to, could escape quite easily. She still had on her hat and she had not even taken off her coat. In a few moments she was outside the house.
Then the full horror of what she had done dawned upon her. She had perhaps killed a man! True John Rott needed killing, but if they caught her she might be hanged. In a panic she commenced to run. She imagined that she was being pursued, but no one had noticed her leaving the house. She was quite alone. Yet she continued to run onward until she was exhausted. Her own conscience was as bad as any pursuer.
At last from sheer exhaustion she fell in a heap by the roadside. Her heart was pounding terrifically. It was painful for her to breathe. She suddenly felt very young and helpless. She longed to be home. She wanted to be held in the sheltering arms of her mother.
She buried her face in her arms and commenced to sob' It was the best way to relieve her pent-up feelings. She had escaped from nauseous captivity. But was she free? Might she not be recaptured before the night was over?
As the thought came to her, she rose to her feet. She must push on. But she no longer ran. She was too exhausted.
It was a moonlight night. The moon was at the full and it was almost as light as day as she walked along the white dry dirt road. On each side of the road the bushes and trees loomed up in grotesque forms like animals or uncanny monsters from fairy tales. She shuddered. If only she were not alone.
Then she was aware she was not alone. A man was walking beside her.
"Hello, sister," he said. "You certainly are choosing a late hour for walking."
His voice was cheerful and she was glad. After the first shock of his presence, she knew he was not one of the men from the roadhouse. His manner was much too easy and gentle. He gave no evidence of having been running, nor did he show the slightest trace of excitement.
"I've had a hideous experience," she told him frankly. "A man was attempting to abduct me, but I was able to make my escape."
"Where are you going now?"
"I don't know. To tell you the truth, I'm lost. I haven't the slightest idea where I am. All I know is that Eve been running and I am apparently not being followed."
The man smiled.
"My house is not far from here," he said. "Would you like to go there to rest?"
"Yes," she said slowly, "if it wouldn't be putting you to any bother. My mind is dreadfully upset."
"It naturally would be."
"I'd like to rest awhile. Perhaps then I could think more clearly."
"You come with me," he said, "and I'll make some coffee. That'll brace you up. Or if you'd prefer something stronger, I have that, too."
"Thank you," she said, "but the coffee will do."
"My house is only a stone's throw from here and we'll be there in no time."
Later as she sat opposite him at the table, sipping coffee and eating a cold roast beef sandwich, she decided that at last Providence had seen fit to be kind to her. It was a belated friendliness but nevertheless she was appreciative. Her companion was a talkative individual. His name was Ed Trine, he said, and he wrote stories and poetry for magazines when they would take them. He meant some day to do justice to his superb talent and write interviews with other great people.
He was a tall, lean, lanky individual with a breezy easy style and a large amount of self-love. While Mary ate he told her about his life. He had been about a bit, and to hear him tell it, no important pie was complete that didn't have his finger in it. She could not help wondering whether he considered that Washington and Lincoln were good too.
"And now," said he after rhapsodizing about himself for fully half an hour, '"you know something about me. What about you?"
"I don't know where to begin," Mary faltered.
"Begin at the end," he said airily, "and work up to the beginning. That's what I attribute my success to."
"Oh," she said naively, "so you're successful?"
"Slightly."
"And what is success?"
"Success is being able to eat four meals a day instead of three." "That's not a bad definition."
"We're getting off the track," he reminded her. "You haven't even told me your name."
"No objection to that. Louella Leota."
"That, sounds too good to be true."
"It isn't true," she admitted.
"At least it's as good as any other."
"It is better than my other."
"What do you do for a living?"
That was a poser. For a moment she hesitated, then she said, "I'm a salesgirl."
"What do you sell?"
"That depends on what you want to buy."
He rose to his feet and put his arm about her shoulder. "I think we're going to get along first rate," he said.
"Well go and sit down," she told him, "and we'll get along better. I was just joking. This house is so cozy and homelike it put me in a good humor. As a matter of fact, I'm out of work."
"You need money?" he asked.
"No," she replied quickly, "so don't make a bid for my virtue. I've got enough money to get along. And I intend to get a long way on it."
"You're not married."
"Thank God, no. Nor do I ever intend to be. I want to be free. I want to live my own life without anybody raising silly objections. At present I have only one desire. I want to get away from wherever I am. I don't know what this place is called, but nevertheless I want to get away."
"This is my home," he drawled.
"You know I don't mean that," she said a trifle irritably. "I mean I've got to get away from this town. If it is a town."
He puffed at his cigar before he spoke. "Say," he suggested, "how'd you like to stay here with me tonight? No harm meant, you know. Merely thinking of your safety. The doors are strong and nobody could get in."
"But could I get out?" she asked.
"Naturally, if you wanted to."
She shook her head. "I don't want to. I trust you absolutely. You're quite nice, I think."
"Tomorrow morning I'm leaving for Peoria on business. Of that you can rest assured. Nobody ever goes to Peoria except on business or for monkey business. You could go along if you wanted to."
"I'd love to," she said impulsively.
"At least with me you'd be safe."
"But not too safe, I hope?"
"I'd treat you," he said, "as though you were my own wife."
"That would be safe enough," said she.