The room in which the reception was being held was decorated with a valuable collection of original drawings by Maurice Leioir, representing episodes in the novels of Alexandre Dumas. Rapiers, pistols, muskets adorned the walls. Here was a suit of armour which had once belonged to Louis XIII; there a red hat in a glass case, which, according to an inscription, had been worn by that king’s subtle minister, the Cardinal de Richelieu. There were powder boxes, mirrors and jewels, once the property of Anne of Austria. These his torical objects, and many others, arrested the glance in every direction.
Lola Dumas wore an emerald-green robe, or rest gown, its gauzy texture scarcely more than veiling her slender body. She was surrounded by a group of enthusiastic journalists. Her father was attired in a sort of velvet smock tied with a loose black bow at his neck. He, also, held court.
As a prominent supporter, and frequently the host, of Harvey Bragg, he had entered upon a new term of notoriety. These two, father and daughter, by virtue of their beauty alone—for Emmanuel Dumas was a strikingly handsome man—must have focussed interest in almost any gathering.
The room was packed from end to end. Prominent society people, who once would have shunned the Dumas’ apartment, might be seen in groups admiring the strange ornaments, studying the paintings; eager to attract the attention of this singular man once taboo, but now bathed in a blaze of limelight.
Politicians of all shades of opinion were represented.
The air was heavy with tobacco smoke; the buzz of chatter simian; champagne flowed almost as freely as water from the fountains of Versailles. Many notable people came and went unnoticed from this omnium-gatherum, for the dazzling personalities of the hostess and her father outshone them all. One would have thought that no man and few women could have diverted attention from the glittering pair; yet when, unheralded, Harvey Bragg came striding into the room, instantly the Dumas were forgotten.
All eyes turned in Bragg’s direction. Sascha lamps appeared from leather cases in which they had lain ready; a platoon of cameras came into action; notebooks were hastily opened.
Bluebeard Bragg was certainly an arresting figure. His nick-name was double-edged, Bragg’s marital record alone would have explained it; the man’s intense swarthiness equally might have accounted for the “bluebeard”. Slightly above medium height, he was built like an acrobat. The span of his shoulders was enormous: his waist measurement would have pleased many women. Withal, he had that enormous development of thigh and the muscular shapely calves seen in male members of the Russian Ballet. He had , too, the light, springy walk of a boxer; and his truculent, black-brown face, lighted by clear hazel eyes that danced with humour, was crowned by a profusion of straight, gleaming, black hair. Closely though he was shaved—for Harvey Bragg was meticulous in his person—his jaw and chin showed blue through the powder.
“Folks!” he cried—his voice resembled that of a ship’s officer bellowing orders through a gale—”I’m real sorry to be late, but Mr. and Miss Dumas will have been taking good care of you, I guess. To tell you the truth, folks, I had a bad hangover . . .”
This admission was greeted by laughter from his followers.
“I’ve just got up, that’s the truth. Knew I was expected to see people; jumped in the bath, shaved and here I am!”
There came a dazzling flash of light. The cameras had secured a record, in characteristic pose and costume, of this ex-lord of the backwoods who aimed at the White House.
He wore a sky-blue bathrobe, and apart from a pair of red slippers, apparently nothing else. But he was Harvey Bragg— Bluebeard; the man who threatened the Constitution, the coming Hitler of the United States. His ugliness—for despite his power and the athletic lines of his figure the man was ugly—dominated that gathering. His circus showman’s voice shouted down all opposition. No normal personality could live near him. He was Harvey Bragg. He was “It.” He was the omnipresent potential Dictator of America.
Among the group of reporters hanging on Bragg’s words was one strange to the others; a newcomer representing New York’s smartest weekly. He was tall, taciturn, and slightly built. He had thick, untidy hair, greying over the temples, a stubbly black beard and moustache, and wore spectacles. His wide-brimmed black hat and caped coat spoke of Greenwich Village.
His deep-set eyes had missed nothing, and nobody, of importance in the room. He had made few notes. Now he was watching Bluebeard intently.
“Boys and girls!”—arms raised, Harvey Bragg gave his benediction to everyone present—”I know what you all want to hear. You want to hear what I’m going to say to Orwin Prescott at Carnegie Hall.”
He lowered his arms in acknowledgement of the excited buzz followed by silence which greeted this remark.
“I’m going to say just one thing. And this goes, boys”—he included with a sweeping gesture of his left hand the whole of the newspaper men present—”with you as well as with everybody else. I’m going to say just this: Our country, which we all love, is unhappy. We have seen hard times—but we’ve battled through. We’ve got sand. We’re not dead yet by a long shot. No, sir! But we’re alive to the dangers ahead. Are you peddling junk for the Abbot of Holy Thorn or are you selling goods of your own?”
Loud applause followed this, led by Dumas pere et fille.
“I’m not saying, folks, that Abbot Donegal’s stuff is all backfire. I’m saying that second-hand promises are bad debts. I want to hear of anything that Orwin Prescott has promised which Orwin Prescott has done. I don’t promise things. I do things. No decent citizen ever reported for work to a depot of the League of Good Americans who didn’t get a job!”
Again he was interrupted by loud applause. . . .
“The man we’re all looking for is the man who does things. Very well. Seconds out! The fight starts! On my right:
Donegal—Prescott. On my left: Harvey Bragg! America for every man and every man for America!”
Cheers and a deafening clapping of hands rewarded the speaker. Harvey Bragg stood, arms upraised forensically, dominating that gathering excited by his crude oratory. At which moment, even as Sascha lights flashed and cameras clicked:
“A lady to see you, Mr. Bragg,” came a discreet whisper.
Harvey Bragg lowered his arms, reluctantly relinquishing that heroic pose, and glanced aside. His confidential secretary, Salvaletti, stood at his elbow. There was an interchange of glances. Reporters surged around them.
“Urgent?” Harvey Bragg whispered.
“Number 12.”
Bragg started, but recovered himself.
“Easy-looking?”
“A beauty.”
“Excuse me, folks!” Bragg cried, his tremendous voice audible above the excitement, “I’ll be right back in two minutes.”
Of those who actually overheard this whispered conversation, Lola Dumas was one. She bit her lip, turned, and crossed to a senator from the South who was no friend of Harvey Bragg’s. The other was the new reporter. He followed Lola Dumas and presently engaged her in conversation.
More wine was uncorked. Newspaper men always welcomed an assignment to the Dumas’ apartment. . . .
Rather more than five minutes had elapsed when Harvey Bragg came back. He was holding the hand of a very pretty young woman whose smart frock did justice to a perfect figure, and whose little French hat displayed mahogany curls to their best advantage.
“Folks!” he roared. “I want you all to know my new secretary.” His roving glances sought and found Lola Dumas: he smiled wickedly. “What this little girl doesn’t know about the political situation not even Harvey Bragg can tell her. . . .”
Although one calling might not have suspected the fact, the whole of the Regal Tower, most expensive and fashionable part of the Regal-Athenian Hotel, was held by police officers and federal agents. Those visitors who applied for accommodation in this section of the hotel were informed that it was full; those who had been in occupation had very courteously been moved elsewhere on the plea of urgent alterations.