Federal officers, searching the hills found the camp
above Jackknife Cañon. They collected a number of
empty bottles bearing labels identical with those on the
bottles in the cases carried by the burros, and those
found in Custer Pennington’s room. That was all
they discovered, except that the camp was located on
the Pennington property.
The district attorney, realizing the paucity of evidence
calculated to convict the prisoner on any serious charge,
was inclined to drop the prosecution; but the prohibition
enforcement agents, backed by a band of women, most
of whom had never performed a woman’s first duty to
the state and society, and therefore had ample time to
meddle in affairs far beyond the scope of their intellects,
seized upon the prominence of the Pennington name to
gain notoriety for themselves on the score that the conviction
of a member of a prominent family would have
an excellent moral effect upon the community at large.
Just how they arrived at this conclusion it is difficult
to discern. Similarly one might argue that if it could
be proved that the Pope was a pickpocket, it would be
tremendously effective in regenerating the morals of the
world.
Be that as it may, the works of the righteous were not
without fruit, for on the 12th of October Custer Pennington
was found guilty and sentenced to six months in the
county jail for having had several hundred dollars’ worth
of stolen whisky in his possession. He was neither surprised
nor disheartened. His only concern was for the
sensibilities of his family, and these—represented at the
trial in the person of his father—seemed far from overwhelmed,
for the colonel was unalterably convinced of
his son’s innocence.
Eva, who had remained at home with her mother, was
more deeply affected than the others, though through a
sense of injustice rather than of shame. Shannon, depressed
by an unwarranted sense of responsibility for the
wrong that Custer had suffered, and chagrined that force
of circumstances should have prevented her from saving
the Penningtons from a stain upon their escutcheon, found
it increasingly difficult to continue her intimacy with these
loved friends. Carrying in her heart the knowledge and
the proof of his innocence, she regarded herself as a
traitor among them, and in consequence held herself more
and more aloof from their society, first upon one pretext
and then upon another.
At a loss to account for her change toward them,
Eva, in a moment of depression, attributed it to the disgrace
of Custer’s imprisonment.
“She is ashamed to associate with the family of a—a—jailbird!”
she cried.
“I don’t believe anything of the kind,” replied the
colonel. “Shannon’s got too much sense, and she’s too
loyal. That’s all damned poppycock!”
“I’m sure she couldn’t feel that way,” said Mrs. Pennington.
“She has been just as positive in her assertions of
Custer’s innocence as any of us.”
“You might as well think the same about Guy,” said
the colonel. “He’s scarcely been up here since Custer’s
arrest.”
“He’s very busy on a new story. Anyway, I asked
him about that very thing, and offered to break the engagement
if he felt our disgrace too keenly to want to
marry into the family.”
The colonel drew her down to his knee.
“You silly little girl!” he said. “Do you suppose that
this has made any difference in the affection that Guy or
any other of our real friends feel for us? Not in the
slightest. Even if Cus were guilty, they would not
change. Those who did we would be better off not to
know. I am rather jealous of the Pennington honor
myself, but I have never felt that this affair is any reflection
upon it, and you need not.”
“But I can’t help it, popsy. My brother, my dear
brother, in jail with a lot of thieves and murderers and
horrible people like that! It is just too awful! I lie
awake at night thinking about it. I am ashamed to go
to the village, for fear some one will point at me and
say, ‘There goes the girl whose brother is in jail!’”
“You are taking it much too hard, dear,” said her
mother. “One would think that our boy was really
guilty.”
“Oh, if he really were, I should kill myself!”
The only person, other than the officious reformers, to
derive any happiness from young Pennington’s fate was
Slick Allen. He occupied a cell not far from Custer’s,
and there were occasions when they were thrown together.
Several times Allen saw fit to fling gibes at his former
employer, much to the amusement of his fellows. They
were usually indirect.
One day, as Custer was passing, Allen remarked in a
loud tone:
“There’s a lot more of these damn fox-trottin’ dudes
that put on airs, but ain’t nothin’ but common thieves!”
Pennington turned and faced him.
“You remember what you got the last time you tried
calling me names, Allen? Well, don’t think for a minute
that just because we’re in jail I won’t hand you the
same thing again some day, if you get too funny. The
trouble with you, Allen, is that you are laboring under
the misapprehension that you are a humorist. You’re
not, and if I were you I wouldn’t make faces at the only
man in this jail who knows about you, and Bartolo, and—Gracial.
Don’t forget Gracial!”
Allen paled, and his eyes closed to two very narrow
slits. He made no more observations concerning Pennington;
but he devoted much thought to him, trying to arrive
at some reasonable explanation of the man’s silence, when
it was evident that he must have sufficient knowledge of
the guilt of others to clear himself of the charge upon
which he had been convicted.
To Allen’s hatred of Custer was now added a real
fear, for he had been present when Bartolo killed Gracial.
The other two witnesses had been Mexicans, and Allen
had no doubt but that if Bartolo were accused, the three
of them would swear that the American committed the
murder.
One of the first things to do, when he was released
from jail, would be to do away with Bartolo. Bartolo
disposed of, the other witnesses would join with Allen
to lay the guilt upon the departed. Such pleasant thoughts
occupied the time and mind of Slick Allen, as did also
his plans for paying one Wilson Crumb a little debt he
felt due this one-time friend.
Nor was Crumb free from apprehension for the time
that would see Allen’s jail sentence fulfilled. He well
knew the nature of the man. It is typical of drug addicts
to disregard the effect of their acts further than
the immediate serving of their own interests, and the
director had encompassed Allen’s arrest merely to meet
the emergency of the moment. Later, as time gave him
the opportunity to consider what must inevitably follow
Allen’s release, he began to take thought as to means
whereby he might escape the just deserts of his treachery.
He knew enough of Allen’s activities to send the man
to a Federal prison for a long term, but these matters he
could not divulge without equally incriminating himself.
There was, however, one little item of Allen’s past which
might be used against him without signal danger to
Crumb, and that was the murder of Gracial. It would
not be necessary for Crumb to appear in the matter at
all. An anonymous letter to the police would suffice to
direct suspicion of the crime toward Allen, and to insure
for Crumb, if not permanent immunity, at least a period
of reprieve.
With the natural predilection of the weak for avoiding
or delaying the consummation of their intentions, Crumb
postponed the writing of this letter of accusation. There
was no cause for hurry, he argued, since Allen’s time
would not expire until the 6th of the following August.
Crumb led a lonely life after the departure of Gaza.
His infatuation for the girl had as closely approximated
love as a creature of his type could reach. He had come
to depend upon her, and to look forward to finding her at
the Vista del Paso bungalow on his return from the studio.
Since her departure his evenings had been unbearable,
and with the passing weeks he developed a hatred for
the place that constantly reminded him of his loss. He
had been so confident that she would have to return to
him after she had consumed the small quantity of morphine
he had allotted her that only after the weeks had
run into months did he realize that she had probably
gone out of his life forever. How she had accomplished
it he could not understand, unless she had found means
of obtaining the narcotic elsewhere.
Not knowing where she had gone, he had no means
of searching for her. In his own mind, however, he
was convinced that she must have returned to Los
Angeles. Judging others by himself, he could conceive
of no existence that would be supportable beyond the
limits of a large city, where the means for the gratification
of his vice might be obtained.
That Gaza de Lure had successfully thrown off the
fetters into which he had tricked her never for a moment
entered his calculations. Finally, however, it was borne
in upon him that there was little likelihood of her returning;
and so depressing had become the familiar and
suggestive furnishings of the Vista del Paso bungalow
that he at last gave it up, stored his furniture, and took
a room at a local hotel. He took with him, carefully
concealed in a trunk, his supply of narcotics—which he
did not find it so easy to dispose of since the departure
of his accomplice.
During the first picture in which Grace Evans had
worked with him, Crumb had become more and more
impressed with her beauty and the subtle charm of her
refinement, which appealed to him by contrast with the
ordinary surroundings and personalities of the K. K. S.
studio. There was a quiet restfulness about her which
soothed his diseased nerves, and after Gaza’s desertion
he found himself more and more seeking her society. As
was his accustomed policy, his attentions were at first
so slight, and increased by such barely perceptible degrees,
that, taken in connection with his uniform courtesy, they
gave the girl no warning of his ultimate purposes.
The matter of the test had shocked and disgusted her
for the moment; but the thing having been done, and
no harm coming from it, she began to consider even that
with less revulsion than formerly. The purpose of it
she had never been able to fathom; but if Crumb had
intended it to place him insidiously upon a plane of
greater intimacy with the girl, he had succeeded. That
the effect was subjective rendered it none the less
effective.
Added to these factors in the budding intimacy between
the director and the extra girl was the factor which is
always most potent in similar associations—the fear that
the girl holds of offending a potent ally, and the hope of
propitiating a power in which lies the potentiality of success
upon the screen.
Lunches at Frank’s, dinners at the Ship, dances at the
Country Club, led by easy gradations to more protracted
parties at the Sunset Inn and the Green Mill. The purposes
of Crumb’s shrewdly conceived and carefully executed
plan were twofold. Primarily, he sought a companionship
to replace that of which Gaza de Lure had
robbed him. Secondarily, he needed a new tool to assist
in the disposal of the considerable store of narcotics that
he had succeeded in tricking Allen and his accomplices
into delivering to him with the understanding that he
would divide the profits of the sales with them—which,
however, Crumb had no intention of doing if he could
possibly avoid it.
In much the same manner that he had tricked Gaza de
Lure, he tricked Grace Evans into the use of cocaine;
and after that the rest was easy. Renting another and
less pretentious bungalow on Circle Terrace, he installed
the girl there, and transferred the trunk of narcotics to
her care, retaining his room at the hotel for himself.
Grace’s fall was more easily accomplished than in the
case of Gaza, and was more complete, for the former
had neither the courage nor the strength of character that
had enabled the other to withstand the more degrading
advances of her tempter. To assume that the girl made
no effort to oppose his importunings would be both unfair
and unjust, for both heredity and training had endowed
her with a love of honor and a horror of the sordidness
of vice; but the gradual undermining of her will
by the subtle inroads of narcotics rendered her powerless
to withstand the final assault upon the citadel of her
scruples.
One evening, toward the middle of October, they were
dining together at the Winter Garden. Crumb had
bought an evening paper on the street, and was glancing
through it as they sat waiting for their dinner to be
served. Presently he looked up at the girl seated opposite
him.
“Didn’t you come from a little jerk-water place up the
line, called Ganado?” he asked.
She nodded affirmatively.
“Why?”
“Here’s a guy from there been sent up for bootlegging—fellow
by the name of Pennington.”
She half closed her eyes, as if in pain.
“I know,” she said. “It has been in the newspapers
for the last couple of weeks.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes—he has been out to see me since his arrest, and
he called up once.”
“Did you see him?”
“No—I would be ashamed to see any decent person!”
“Decent!” snorted Crumb. “You don’t call a damned
bootlegger decent, do you?”
“I don’t believe he ever did it,” said the girl. “I have
known him all my life, and his family. I’m certain that
he couldn’t have done it.”
A sudden light came into Crumb’s eye.
“By God!” he exclaimed, bringing his fist down upon
the table.
“What is the matter?” Grace inquired.
“Well, wouldn’t that get you?” he exclaimed. “I
never connected you at all!”
“What do you mean?”
“This fellow Pennington may not be guilty, but I know
who is.”
“How do you know? I don’t understand you. Why
do you look at me that way?”
“Well, if that isn’t the best ever!” exclaimed the man.
“And here you have been handing me a long line of talk
about the decent family you came from, and how it
would kill them if they knew you sniffed a little coke
now and then. Well, wouldn’t that get you? You certainly
are a fine one to preach!”
“I don’t understand you,” said the girl. “What has
this to do with me? I am not related to Mr. Pennington,
but it would make no difference if I were, for I
know he never did anything of the sort. The idea of
a Pennington bootlegging! Why, they have more money
than they need, and always have had.”
“It isn’t Pennington who ought to be in jail,” he said.
“It’s your brother.”
She looked at him in surprise, and then she laughed.
“You must have been hitting it up strong to-day,
Wilson,” she said.
“Oh, no, I haven’t; but it’s funny I never thought of
it before. Allen told me a long while ago that a fellow
by the name of Evans was handling the hootch for him.
He said he got a job from the Penningtons as stableman
in order to be near the camp where they had the
stuff cached in the hills. He described Evans as a young
blood, so I guess there isn’t any doubt about it. You
have a brother—I’ve heard you speak of him.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“It don’t make any difference whether you believe me
or not. I could put your brother in the pen, and they’ve
only got Pennington in the county jail. All they could
get on him, according to this article, was having stolen
goods in his possession; but your brother was in on the
whole proposition. It was hidden in his hay barn. He
delivered it to a fellow who came up there every week,
ostensibly to get hay, and your brother collected the
money. Gosh, they’d send him up for sure if I ever
tipped them off to what I know!”
And thus was fashioned the power he used to force
her to his will.
A week later the bungalow on Circle Terrace was engaged,
and Grace Evans took up the work of peddling
narcotics, which Shannon Burke had laid down a few
months before. With this difference—Gaza de Lure had
shared in the profits of the traffic, while Grace Evans got
nothing more than her living, and what drugs she craved
for her personal use.
Her life, her surroundings, every environment of this
new and terrible world into which her ambition had introduced
her, tended rapidly to ravish her beauty. She
faded with a rapidity that was surprising even to Crumb—surprising
and annoying. He had wanted her for her
beauty, and now she was losing it; but still he must keep
her, because of her value in his nefarious commerce.
As weeks and months went by, he no longer took
pleasure in her society, and was seldom at the bungalow
save when he came to demand an accounting and to collect
the proceeds of her sales. Her pleas and reproaches had
no other effect upon him than to arouse his anger. One
day, when she clung to him, begging him not to desert
her, he pushed her roughly from him so that she fell,
and in falling she struck the edge of a table and hurt
herself.
This happened in April. On the following day Custer
Pennington, his term in the county jail expired, was
liberated.
