Children of chance

Front matter

Copyright U 0 C &,

COPYRIGHT ^>tPoj(n^

BY

II

The doors swung wide again. A stream of people, talking and laughing, began to emerge from the theatre. Taxis came slurring, one after another, up to the kerb.

Binny shook herself hurriedly free of her reminiscent mood and backed away from the crowd. There was a singing in her ears and her eyes were over-bright. Quite suddenly she was conscious of a determination to see Lola Arnaut. After all, she was practically “down and out” as “Mum” Jenkins had expressed it, and if Lola knew of the tie that existed between them she might help her.

Binny drew a long breath. She was trem¬ bling, but her expression was set, her lips compressed. The courage of desperation was surging through her. She slid, eel-like, through the throng of people and down the side street into which the stage doors opened. In a short few minutes now Lola Arnaut would be coming out. Binny made up her mind to stop her, speak to her . v ..

She sped on. Already round the stage door the usual crowd had gathered. Two or three cars were at the kerb, among them a small, dark, neat one in which, Binny knew, Lola invariably rode. This was not the first time she had hovered outside this particular stage door during the last few months. Only she never before had been desperate enough to do more than watch and envy. To-night was different. She had not felt as she felt to-night save once, when “Mum” Jenkins had forced her to drink nearly raw gin as a balm for raging toothache, and once when she had gone down with fever and had become light¬ headed.

She decided, vaguely, that the drink she had swallowed to-night was only just begin¬ ning to have effect. Certainly she was not herself. A strange mood of recklessness was growing upon her.

She drew her collar up close about her face, nearly concealing it, and took a place in the shadows opposite the dark, neat car. The interior was softly lighted. Binny caught a glimpse of Parma violets in a thin silver vase. A moment later she became aware of a man standing near. He wore a thick overcoat, the collar pulled up to his ears, and a soft cap drawn low over his eyes.

He, too, was watching the stage door, and it struck Binny that there was something furtive in his manner. Once a shaft of light struck fully upon his face, revealing it clearly. It was thick-featured, dark, and rather brutal. She wondered idly whom he was waiting for, the while, at the back of her brain, “Mum” Jenkins’s dying words hammered insistently.

“Lola Arnaut . . . your sister . . ... It may come in ’andy for you to know that . .

some day when you’re nearly down and out . .

There was a stir among the crowd. Binny noticed that the dark man had stepped swiftly off the kerb and was passing round at the back of the car. A moment later she saw him reach from the other side and the interior light went out.

Binny was still staring as Lola Arnaut, her fur wraps huddled about her, hurried through the drizzle of rain and reached the car. The chauffeur stretched a long arm back and opened the door, shutting it sharply upon her as she whisked in, and the car slid gently away up the street.

Binny stared after it. Dismay filled her soul. Then, upon an impulse which she could never afterwards understand, she began to run. Her dominant thought was that she must speak to Lola Arnaut to-night — to¬ night, while she was cold and hungry enough to cling to her courage.

The chauffeur was driving very slowly. He would have to turn off into yet another narrow side street. Binny ran more quickly, out¬ pacing him, until she reached the curve of the pavement where the streets merged. Then she stepped into the road.

She looked back at the approaching car, meaning to signal to the man to stop. But he mistook her gesture, growled something as he swerved to avoid her, and darkness engulfed her as the headlights swept by. The next instant, with a gasp, she jumped for the wide footboard.

Giddy, scared, astonished at her own action, she clung frantically to the handle of the door. The window on her side was open. She heard Lola’s voice, startled, angry, but very low:

“Gustav! What a fright you gave me i.. i., And then: “You have those jewels?”

Binny, urgently occupied with the task of keeping her position, listened with detach¬ ment.

A man’s laugh — a singularly unprepossess¬ ing laugh — answered.

“Eve got ’em all right! But you don’t sup¬ pose I’m going to be such a goldarned fool as to part with them? Come, kid! Be sensible! You can try the hysterical stunt on young Farrance — tell him you’ve been robbed. He’s in love enough to believe anything you like to say. It’s easy money, girl!”

“I will not!” . . .

The car lurched; Binny, clinging desper¬ ately to her precarious perch, missed the next few sentences. Then: “Farrance is too decent to treat like that. He lent me the jewels to help me to make a show with Van Bevan. You know he’ll never look at a girl who doesn’t dress really well and look as if she’d some substantial backing . . . It’s thanks to Farrance and the loan of those jewels that I’m going to sign that contract to-night at Delorme’s. He’ll be there as well as Van Bevan and the rest ... I’ve got to give him back those jewels. They belong to the family — heirlooms. Young Farrance had no right to let me have them. He’d get into a fearful trouble if his people knew of it .

Binny groaned. The car was increasing speed, and this certainly was not a propitious moment to make known her presence to its occupants. It seemed to her she had perched here for hours, though she knew it was bare minutes. From beyond the open window there came a rustle of paper. The man spoke.

“See here,” he said—“did you mean all that you said in that letter you sent me to-night?”

Binny was conscious of a chill which was not entirely due to the sleety rain that beat through her thin coat. She was aware of an increasing and intense interest. She quite for¬ got the conversation was not meant for her ears, and listened eagerly for Lola’s reply. It came after an imperceptible pause.

“I did. I can’t help it, Gustav. I’ve been a fool where you’re concerned and I’ve helped you in a good many crooked transactions. And I’d stick to it, I suppose. But if you don’t give me back Farrance’s jewels, I’m through. I’ll tell you took them from me. I’ll make your record known, so that you’ll be utterly done. I’ll ruin myself and damn my best chances, I kqpw. But I happen to respect young Farrance as well as care for him —a bit. And I’ll do it! So now you know.”

Binny endeavored, cautiously, to peer within, but the light was still out, the figures of the man and the woman indistinct. There ensued a moment of intense silence. The man’s low voice broke it.

“Tell the driver the Embankment!” he commanded. “We’ve got to — square this.”

Binny, intrigued, breathless, sensed that the actress hesitated. Then she heard her speak¬ ing into the tube:

“Up and down the Embankment, twice!” she ordered. She turned to murmur some¬ thing to her companion, but the girl clinging to the door handle did not catch it.

The chauffeur swung the car round a corner and looked back as he did so. He caught sight of Binny.

“What in hell! —” he ejaculated. Binny burrowed deeper into her collar and gasped. Then came inspiration.

“ ’Sallright!” she assured him. “Thought you were a taxi . . . Practising a ‘movie’ stunt, that’s all! Go right ahead. I’ll drop off in a minute.”

IS

The man stared, but obeyed, growling.

As they swung on to the dark Embank¬ ment, he slowed down and it was borne in upon Binny that she must abandon her inten¬ tion of speaking to Lola, or else make known her presence without delay. Her ears were singing, and her fingers were growing cold. She tried, uncertainly, to come to a decision. From the interior of the car there came the sound of quick breathing, of movement, but no voices. Still undecided, Binny clung on while the car slid the length of the Embank¬ ment and turned. And still neither the man nor the woman within spoke.

With an effort Binny took her courage in both hands again. She had acted madly enough; she might as well carry the thing through. She leaned forward, thrusting her head in at the open window.

“Lola Arnaut!” she said.

But there came no answer. Puzzled, Binny leaned nearer, turning the handle. With something of difficulty she opened the door, squeezed in, and closed it again. She dropped onto the seat, breathing hard, and, as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she real¬ ized for the first time that the man was no longer in the car.

The woman sat in the opposite corner, side¬ ways, her face hidden and resting against the padded side of the seat. Her furs had slipped off one shoulder. The white arm dangled limply at her side. Conscious of a sudden, heart-shaking apprehension, Binny got up.

“Lola!” she whispered again, and caught at the bare shoulder. Instantly the actress’s body sagged forward, her head fell back, loosely, horribly. A passing light shone full upon her face. The eyes were wide and fixed. The mouth was distorted, swollen. Upon it was a fleck of blood and foam. Upon the slender throat the livid imprint of brutal fingers was already discoloring to a bruise.

Lola Arnaut was dead.

Ill

Binny had been brought up in the slums. She had seen death, sudden and otherwise, in many guises; and it had ceased greatly to shock her. She did not, therefore, scream now; but she sat down suddenly, feeling exceedingly sick. Momentarily she was numbed, physically and mentally. Her senses were rocking, her vision blurred. She put a chilly hand to her head.

“I’m dopey! . . she whispered. Then she shuddered. The light of a street lamp illumined the car. Lola’s body had slipped to the floor. It was as if Binny looked upon her own upturned dead face. . . .

It shocked her from her stupor. Her mind cleared. Only the sensation of physical sick¬ ness remained. With one hand clenched tight against her mouth, she began rapidly to review the events of the last half-hour.

It was not difficult to hazard a guess at what had happened, in view of what little she had learned from the snatches of conversation she had heard. Some one had loaned Lola valuable jewels. Those jewels had come, somehow, into the possession of a dark-eyed and unpleasant-featured person named “Gus¬ tav.” He had refused to give them up. Obviously Lola had been associated with him on previous occasions in negotiations of a questionable, and possibly “crooked,” charac¬ ter. She had known enough about him to be able to bring disaster upon him. This she had threatened to do. The result . ...

Binny looked down at the still face, and hastily away again, shuddering anew. She surmised that the brutal crime had not been wholly unpremeditated. She remembered that the man had hidden himself in the car to await Lola’s coming. Under ordinary cir¬ cumstances no one would ever have known he was with her to-night. And she had been so utterly unprepared for attack that she had not been able to utter a cry.

It was simple — horribly simple. Lola would be found dead, strangled, in her car. No one would dream of connecting this “Gustav” with her death. Farrance, whoever he might be, was expecting her, with the jewels, at Delorme’s. She had, of course, been seen wearing them, since they had been loaned to her for the purpose of impressing a new manager. What more plausible than that she had been followed, robbed, and killed . . .

And then, suddenly, in a flash, Binny saw what her own position might be if found here, with Lola’s dead body, in the car. Sheer panic brought her to her feet, her face white. Then she dropped back again. The car was running very swiftly. She could not jump out now, unnoticed. In only a moment or two they would be in the brilliantly lighted street again . . .in only a moment or two the chauffeur would be asking for further orders. And he had seen her on the footboard

She must do something, quickly, very quickly. She must have a little more time to think. She looked down. Lola was lying against her feet. In slipping to the ground the body had become entirely free of the huge, loose fur coat. It lay on the opposite seat. Binny’s eye fell upon it, she reached out, touched it, drew a quivering breath. The next moment she caught it up, discarded her own coat and wrapped it round her. As she straightened herself, she caught sight of her dim reflection in a small mirror opposite. With an effort she stifled a cry, then grew very still. In her agitation she had pulled her soft little hat off. With her hair pushed back off her forehead, in that wonderful fur coat she was no longer Binny Clay. She was the personification of Lola Arnaut.

And it was in that moment that the great idea leaped, flaming, in her brain. Holding the cloak about her, she knelt beside the dead woman. “Gustav’s” face rose before her, a spasm of rage against him shook her—a queer, fierce longing for revenge. She wanted to make him pay for the dastardly thing that he had done . . . deep down in her heart she vowed that he should pay. She thought of the man named Farrance. And all the while she thought, the plan at the back of her mind was maturing — mad, fantastic, grotesque.

Very gently she wrapped her own shabby coat round the dead woman. Very carefully she pulled her cloth hat well down over the shining hair, right to the brows. Exerting all her strength, she raised the body, lifting it with an effort to the seat, propped it in the corner. With steady fingers she buttoned the high collar up about the mouth and chin.

Then, deliberately and violently, she pulled the check cord. As the car slowed she pushed the door open and leaned forward. The chauffeur was looking back. She met his eyes steadily, and nearly laughed aloud because in them there was no faintest flickering of suspicion or surprise — merely a wooden inquiry. She said, rather breathlessly:

“You paid to drive in your sleep? Here’s a girl been hanging on to the door whimpering like a scared rabbit! Says she was doing it for the movies, and lost her nerve . . t . Looks like having hysterics in a minute and wants to go back to Fulgarth Street! You’d better beat it back there — Whitechapel way, isn’t it? — and forget the speed limit! ”

Up to that moment her intention had been, at any cost, to get taken back to her home. Now it occurred to her that, arrived at Ful¬ garth Street, the chauffeur would quite nat¬ urally ask questions. Afterwards, even if he did not discover that the limp figure in the corner was that of a dead woman, he might talk.

She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. Then she nearly laughed again. Chance, that had so strangely ruled to-night’s happenings, took a hand in the game again. The chauffeur was speaking protestingly, with an air of injury.

“It’s late, miss! And Mr. Farrance said as ’ow I could go off duty the minute I’d dropped you at Delorme’s. Got to get right down into Gloucester by morning, an’ have to garage this car an’ take the motor-bike. Bein’ married, miss — Mr. Farrance couldn’t let me off any sooner. But ’e promised ...”

Surreptitiously Binny lifted a hand to her throat. A passing taxi caught her glance.

“Call that cab, then . . . ” Her voice held command. She turned back into the car as the man obeyed. As he opened the door, she bent over the huddled figure, and her voice lifted, seemingly in exasperation. “Lord! She’s fainted . . . Oh, well, lift her into the taxi, then, and, for Heaven’s sake, be quick! No, no! Don’t light up! If any one recognizes me, we’ll have a crowd round . . Here, wait a moment!”

She helped the man lift Lola, watched him, sick with fear, as he bundled her, without a glance at the sagging head, into the taxi. The voice of the taxi-driver rose protestingly, muttering something about not caring about carrying “drunks,” but Binny, cold to the heart of her, silenced him peremptorily and turned to the chauffeur.

“Cut along to Delorme’s!” she told him breathlessly. “Tell Mr. Farrance I’m coming

. . No, no, don’t wait. I’ll get another cab!”

The chauffeur grunted, heaved himself into his seat and proceeded on his way. Binny, faint, and with trembling knees, stumbled into the taxi.

“Thirteen Fulgarth Street,” she com¬ manded, her face hidden in the collar. “And get a move on. My friend’s sick.”

The man opened his mouth, shut it, and after a moment’s hesitation started the cab. At thirteen Fulgarth Street he stopped.

Binny tumbled out, thrust a ten-shilling note into his hand, and whispered: “Carry her up for me — quietly. Fourth floor. Don’t want any one to hear — landlady prides her¬ self she’s extra respectable ...”

The man grinned in the darkness, gave a shrug, and, reaching into the cab, hauled out the limp figure. Binny, shuddering, led the way up the dirty wooden stairs. Still in dark¬ ness they found her room — the taxi-driver dumped his burden into the nearest chair and backed out.

Binny stood motionless until, far down in the street below, she heard the taxi start again and go throbbing on its way. Then, fiercely, she stifled a sob, locked the door, and tipped a chair-back under its handle.

Half an hour later she emerged, silently, from the silent room. She wore Lola Arnaut’s clothes, her jewelled watch, her rings. She carried her big silver chain purse. Stumbling down the stairs, she knew that never, in all her life, would she forget that half-hour. She felt like a ghoul — the touch of the scented clothes made her flesh creep. But her white lips were set grimly; in her unnaturally bright eyes was a feverish, unwavering resolution.

How long it was before she reached Delorme’s little, rose-lit restaurant she did not know. Her pulses were throbbing and her blood hot as fire in her veins. She saw her¬ self in the huge mirrors, and it was as if Lola Arnaut’s ghost moved there.

A waiter hurried forward. Two men seated at a corner table rose quickly and came towards her. Interested glances followed her.

And she went her way like a woman in a dream. One of the men was young, clean-cut, with blue eyes that warmed her with their glance even at this moment. The other was short, fat, and benign of aspect.

: The young man said her name, eagerly: “Lola!” His hands caught hers. “Why, you’re ill — cold as ice . He put her

into a chair.

For a moment she sat quite still. Then she laughed. “Oh, no! Only — horribly hun¬ gry!” she said. She met his amazed stare, and giggled helplessly. She knew that at that moment she was on the verge of hysterics. But the first mouthful of hot soup wrought a change. Halfway through the meal she had command of herself.

“Had a trying day!” she explained. “Not much time for meals.” She looked vaguely from the benign man to the young one and smiled. “Where — where’s Gustav?”

The little man waved his hands. “Our friend Gustav is distrait to-night . . . He was here but a moment since, much concerned at your delay, Miss Lola. He’ll be back pres¬ ently. Meantime here’s the rough contract, for you to sign. Mr. Farrance will witness it — and Gustav, when he returns. It will be put in proper order, in due course. And may we both have the best of luck when you’re under my management, young lady!”

He pushed a paper towards her, and a foun¬ tain pen. Mechanically she took the latter, held it poised. She hesitated, laughed — then laid the pen to the paper. It was all a mad, big bluff. But for to-night, at least, she was the popular actress. The dead woman who would be found at thirteen Fulgarth Street was Binny Clay. With a flourish she signed: “Lola Arnaut! ” and looked up into Farrance’s face. “The wine’s gone to my head!” she said. “I — I can’t write straight! . .... .” And then paused.

Van Bevan was waving his wine-glass to a man who had just entered the room. Binny turned slowly. Her eyes smiled into Gustav’s suddenly ashen face. Very slowly she held out a welcoming hand. Lola’s jewels gleamed upon it, and as if impelled against his will Gustav came forward. His mouth was dry. There was terror and bewilderment in his eyes. Binny flourished the paper before him.

“I’ve signed the contract!” she declared gaily. “And now we’re going to celebrate!

Mr. Van Bevan, go and find that waiter! I want some more champagne!”

As Van Bevan jumped up to obey and went across the room, Binny leaned across to Farrance. Gustav had dropped limply into a chair, still staring at her.

“Mr. Farrance,” she said confidentially, but with a catch in her voice, “I’m more than obliged for those jewels. They’ve done the trick. Gustav has been looking after them for me. I want you to take them back now, before Mr. Van Bevan comes back! Gustav — please.”

She smiled anew into the amazed malevo¬ lence of the man’s dark eyes. Very slowly he put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a flat, wide case. Binny opened it, and with something very like a sob pushed it across the table to Farrance.

IV

For a little while after that Binny was not at all clear what was happening. She knew that Farrance was speaking to her; that Van Bevan had come back, beaming, a waiter following — that Gustav sat immovable, star¬ ing at her.

All these things she knew, yet she felt far away, like a person looking on at her own image playing a part. Just exactly what was going to happen next she did not know, and, at the moment, did not particularly care.

Up to the present she had been actuated solely by a fierce desire to revenge her sister — to bring her horrible, unnecessary, and cruel death to the door of the man who had murdered her — to see that the other man, Farrance, was not robbed. Lola had wished that. Whatever of wrong she had done during her intimacy with Gustav, whatever her short¬ comings morally, she had meant — had fought —to act squarely by the man who had helped her; who had, in all trust, given into her charge, for her adornment, jewels which, because of their history, were priceless.

For a little while it was as if the soul of Lola had entered into Binny. Utterly reck¬ less, finding a grim, terrible humour in the situation, she had played her part. Now the strain was beginning to tell. She sagged in her chair, and Farrance, looking at her, broke off in the middle of a sentence and frowned.

“You’re awfully done up!” he asserted boy¬ ishly. “You ought to go straight home, and to bed!”

Binny smiled at him vaguely. In a de¬ tached sort of way she decided that his eyes were awfully nice, his clean-cut young face very good to look upon. For a second time she was conscious of a glow of warmth. She blinked drowsily, becoming instantly aware that his frown deepened to disapproval and half-startled wonder. Unexpectedly she found his hand, long and fine, and sensitively strong, closing upon her wrist.

“You’re not yourself, little girl!” he urged; and, with a jerk, Binny roused herself. From her other side the man Gustav laughed, shortly, unpleasantly, his dark eyes gleaming.

Immediately she was upon the defensive. She clutched frantically after her self-control, mustered anew her failing faculties. She had a game to play still — just what it might be she was not quite sure yet — but she meant to play it. She was still Lola Arnaut. She would continue to be Lola Arnaut for a little while longer.

She looked, searchingly, for suspicion in Farrance’s eyes, superbly ignoring Gustav, and, finding only a still faintly flickering dis¬ approval, coloured faintly, smiling up at him in deprecation.

“Fm not . . . not quite!” she agreed, with an audacity which surprised herself. “But, then, what girl could be — under the circum¬ stances?”

Van Bevan, filling her glass, joined in her rather hysterical laugh. He exuded amia¬ bility, and she drank, gratefully, smiling at him. “Not one in a million!” he was assur¬ ing her. “Not one in a million, m’dear! You’ve the chance of a lifetime in that con¬ tract— the chance of a lifetime, and don’t you forget it! If you’ve got it in you to make good — really good — something better an’ deeper’n just the beauty stunt, you’ll do it under me! A chance in a lifetime, my girl — a chance in a lifetime! . . . ”

He spoke somewhat truculently, and Binny sensed a threat, but he had dined well, and he waved his glass at her benevolently.

She responded in kind. “I know. I promise I’ll work very hard — really!”

She smiled grimly, yet in the same moment her eyes grew intent A little breath fluttered and caught in her throat, the colour deepened to brilliant rose in her cheek. She remem¬ bered how she had envied Lola — had watched her, night after night, fascinated by her beauty, irritated in her own artist’s soul by the lack of artistic power in the other girl. She remembered Mrs. Jenkins’s words — they hummed insistently, almost as if spoken, at the back of her mind: “Lola Arnaut — she ’asn’t no talent, an’ no voice . . you’d leave her at the ropes where singin’s con¬ cerned . . .”

She herself had talent, of a sort. She felt it, stirring in her, like a live thing. But, greater than this, she had a voice. Not a great voice, perhaps, but a good one. Un¬ trained, ill-used, but a voice. Her throat swelled even now — she recollected how she had sung Lola Arnaut’s songs, over and over again, in the solitude of her one dingy, dis¬ heartening room, alilt and aglow with the melody.

She looked at Van Bevan over her glass with a new gleam of speculation in her eyes, her delicate lower lip caught between her teeth, her nostrils ever so slightly dilated. She hardly knew what thoughts were forming at the back of her mind, but once more she had a grip of herself, the mists had faded from about her, her brain was clear, alert. Slowly it was being borne in upon her that there was something really remarkable in Farrance’s and Van Bevan’s unquestioning acceptance of her in her role of Lola Arnaut. What Gustav was thinking, she could not guess. She did not try to.

Surreptitiously, sideways, she glanced at herself in one of the many mirrors; and, imperceptibly, she shivered. It seemed im¬ possible that it could be herself — Binny Clay, of dreary, dingy Fulgarth Street — reflected there. After all, the fact that these men believed her to be the other girl might be remarkable, but it was easy to understand. With Lola’s clothes she seemed to have assumed the other woman’s characteristics and mannerisms. Watching Lola from her humble perch in the gallery, not once but many times, particularly of late, Binny had unconsciously learned her little tricks of movement, of facial expression. Only half consciously now, born mimic that she undoubtedly was, she was employing those tricks, subtly, wonderfully.

She was living, actually, the part she was playing. In her present mood, her abnormal condition of mind, she was Lola Arnaut . . the living, breathing personification of a dead woman. She knew it, intuitively. Knew it because of the way Farrance and Van Bevan spoke to her; knew it more surely because of the look of fear and real horror that still lingered in Gustav’s eyes.

She glowed with a curious triumph, naively proud of herself for “getting away” so bril¬ liantly with an impersonation which one would have thought impossible. But, until this moment, beyond to-night’s ending, she had not thought. She had been prepared to play the part of Cinderella in conventional fashion, if with a difference. Throughout she had acted like a person just a little mad. Her object had been to terrify, utterly, the man who was her sister’s murderer, and then, dra¬ matically, to denounce him.

She had signed the Van Bevan contract in a spirit of hysterical excitement and sheer bravado; for the same reason she had con¬ tinued her impersonation of Lola long after it was necessary. But now . . . she drew a long, deep breath. She looked down into her glass, and up into Van Bevan’s red, jolly face; and then down again at Farrance’s long, fine fingers that were still resting upon her wrist. New ideas, new desires assailed her. She began to tremble a little, her eyes dilat¬ ing. A voice that urged, while it mocked, seemed to be at her ear: Binny Clay! Binny Clay! Binny Clay was lying, very still, in a dirty top room in Fulgarth Street .. .. . and Binny Clay was dead /