The Cafe Sinister stands like a gilded temple at the entrance to Chicago’s tenderloin. The fact is significant. The management, the appearance, the policy, if you please, of the place are all in keeping with this one potent circumstance of location. The Cafe Sinister beckons to the passerby. It appeals to him subtly with its music, its cheap splendor, its false gayety. To the sophisticated its allurements are those of the scarlet woman, to the innocent its voice is the voice of Joy.

Two pillars of carved glass, lighted from the inside by electricity, stand at the portal. Within a huge room, filled with drinking tables sparkling with many lights, gleaming and garish, suggests without revealing the enticements of evil.

This is the set trap. Above is that indispensable appurtenance to the pander’s trade—the private dining room. Above that is what, in the infinite courtesy of the police, is called a hotel. And behind and beyond lies the Levee itself—naked and unashamed, blatantly vicious, consuming itself in the caustic of its own vices.

To the trained observer of cities the words: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here,” are written as plainly over the door of the Cafe Sinister as if it were that other portal through which Dante passed with Beatrice. But the unlearned in vice cannot read the writing. By thousands every year they enter joyously and by thousands they are cast out into the Levee, wrecked in morals, ruined in health, racked by their own consciences.

The Cafe Sinister is not an institution peculiar to Chicago. Every great city in America possesses one. It is the place through which recruits are won to the underworld. It is the entrance to the labyrinth where lost souls wander. Viewed from its portal it is the Palace of Pleasure; seen from behind, through those haggard eyes from which vice has torn away the illusions of innocence, it is the Saddest Place in the World.

Druce owned the Cafe Sinister with Carter Anson; their lease was written for them by John Boland. Thus the upper world and the under were leagued for its maintenance. And though the press might shriek and the pulpit thunder the combination and the Cafe Sinister went on forever.

These three men had been drawn together by a common characteristic. Their consciences were dead. That atrophy of conscience made them all worshipers of the same idol—money. The motives that propelled each of the three to the altar were as diverse as their separate natures, but the sacrifice that each offered to the Moloch was the same—their souls.

Having forfeited by their deeds the thing that made them men, the three shrunk to the moral stature of animals. Boland was the tiger, brooding over the city with yellow eyes, seeking whom he might devour. Druce was the wolf; cunning, ruthless, prowling. Anson was the mastiff; savage, brutal, given to wild bursts of rending passion. Love of power lashed Boland to his crimes; lechery prompted Druce in his prowlings; and whisky was the fire that smouldered under Anson’s brutalities.

On an afternoon in June Druce and Anson sat together in conference in one of the little booths of the Cafe Sinister’s main dining room. The cafe, after its orgy of the night before, was quiet. Waiters, cat-footed and villain faced, gathered up the debris of the night’s revel, slinking about their work like men ashamed of it. The sunlight peered dimly through the curtained windows; the air was heavy with the lees of liquor and the dead smoke of tobacco.

The two men sat facing each other. A glass of whisky was cupped in Anson’s closed hand. His clothes, unbrushed and unpressed, flapped about his huge figure. His throat bagged with flabby dewlaps. His head was bullet-shaped, his eyes fierce, his mouth loose-lipped and brutal. He made a strange contrast to his companion. Druce was lithe, well made and gifted with a sort of Satanic handsomeness. He was immaculately dressed.

“It’s fixed, I tell you,” Druce was saying.

“Fixed, be damned,” rumbled Anson. “I know Boland. Nothing’s fixed with him until the lease is drawn and delivered.”

“I say the thing’s fixed,” insisted Druce. “All we’ve got to do now is carry out our part of the agreement and I’ve completed all of the arrangements. We’ve got a week.”

“I know,” said Anson, unconvinced. “It’s fixed and you’ve completed the arrangements. I’m from Missouri.”

“Boland wants this girl, Patience Welcome, brought in here next Saturday night,” said Druce. “He has arranged that his pious pup of a son, Harry, shall be here the same evening. We are to manage it so that he will get the impression that the girl has been amusing herself with him, that she has been kidding him along and playing this tenderloin game on the side. He’s not to be allowed to talk to her. He’ll see her—that will be enough. She’s to come here to help her mother earn a little cash. I sent a fellow to hire the old woman to start here on Saturday night as a scrub woman. She’s agreed to keep that part of it quiet. Then I’ll drag the other one in—mine, do you understand. We’ll make young Boland think the whole damned Welcome family belongs to us. We can see to it that the Patience girl gets some glad rags and some dope when she gets here. She’s seen me in Millville, so it’s up to you, Anson, to sign her up at good pay as a singer—” He stopped significantly.

“Too complicated,” was Anson’s rejoinder. “Sounds good on paper, but it won’t work, I tell you, it won’t work. I don’t like the way things have been going lately.” He drained the whisky glass. “This vice commission and this crazy yap of a Mary Randall—”

“O, hell!” interrupted Druce in disgust. “You’ve got it, too, have you? Mary Randall! My God, you talk like an old woman!”

“I tell you—” Anson began.

“You can’t tell me nothing. I’m sick and tired of framing stuff and then have you throw it down because you’ve lost your nerve and are afraid of a girl. I’m done, I tell you. If you think you can improve on my plans, go ahead. I’m through. I won’t—”

Anson capitulated immediately. “Now don’t get sore, Mart,” he whined, “I know I’m no good on this frameup stuff. Maybe I am a little nervous. Go ahead with your plan—I guess it’s the best one. Don’t let’s fight about it.”

“All right,” rejoined Druce. “Now that’s settled. I’ll handle this thing. All you’ve got to do is keep your trap shut and stand pat.”

The conversation was interrupted by the angry and maudlin exclamations of a girl. She had been sitting at a distant table half asleep. A porter had wakened her.

“I won’t go home and sleep,” she shrieked. “Keep your hands off me, you dirty nigger.”

“Now what’s the trouble?” demanded Druce of Anson.

“Swede Rose has been drunk all night.”

“We’ve got to get rid of her. She’s always pulling this rough stuff.”

“Not now,” warned Anson. “It’s too hard to get new girls. When she’s sober she’s a wise money getter.”

“Damn her,” muttered Druce, “I don’t like her anyway. She had the nerve to slap my face the other night because I wouldn’t give her money for hop. As soon as this lease is signed I’m going down state. I’ll bring back some new stock and then it’s ‘On your way’ for that wildcat.”

“Let me handle her,” advised Anson. He got up and walked over to the table where the girl was having the altercation with the negro. She was still young, but drink and drugs had left ineffaceable lines upon her face. She was beautiful, even this morning after her night’s debauch, for she possessed a regularity of feature and a fine contour of figure that not even death itself could wreck. Her disheveled hair showed here and there traces of gray. Her skin was a dead white, save where two pink spots blazed in either cheek.

“Here he comes,” called the girl, catching sight of Anson. “Good old Carter. Ans,” she went on, “chase this coon out of here; he won’t let me sleep.” Anson motioned the porter to keep his distance. “An’ say, Ans,” the girl went on, “gimme a quarter. I’m broke and I got to have some hop or die.”

Anson handed the negro a quarter without a word. The porter hurried out of the cafe.

“He wanted to chase me out,” the girl whimpered.

“Well, Rose,” Anson went on pacifically, “you’ve got to cut out this all night booze thing. You’re hurting the house.”

The girl looked up at the dive keeper with dull eyes.

“Hurting the house, eh?” she echoed. “What about me? Think I ain’t hurting myself? Say, it’s got so I’d rather be drunk than sober. I can’t stand to be sober. I always start thinking. Some of these days you’ll hear of me walking out of this place and making a dent in the lake—”

The negro returned with the drug. The girl seized it with trembling hands. While the two men stood and looked she drew a small lancet from the bosom of her dress, inserted its point under the skin of her white forearm and drove a few drops of the drug into the vein. The effect was instantaneous. She laughed loudly.

“Now, you get to bed,” ordered Anson.

“Bed, hell,” retorted the girl.

“I said get to bed.” Anson glowered at her.

“There’ll be a big night tonight, and—”

“You can’t give me no orders.”

Anson had held in his temper as long as he was able. His fierce eyes twinkled and his brutal mouth twitched. Without a word he reached across the table, clutched the girl by the throat and dragged her out of her seat. He hurled her, half strangled, on the floor.

“Here,” he bellowed to some of his servitors, “take this damn hell-cat out of here. Take her up to the hotel. If she won’t go to bed, throw her into the street.”

“You—you—” gasped the girl, struggling to her feet.

“Don’t talk back to me,” roared Anson, “or I’ll kill you. I’ll show you what you are and who’s running this place.” Then to the waiters: “Get her out of here.”

The girl was dragged out of the room, screaming and fighting. A wisp of curses came back into the big room as she was lugged up the stairs towards the hotel.

Anson stood panting with anger. A mail carrier entered and placed a letter in his hand. He opened and read:

“Mr. Carter Anson: Take your choice. Close the Cafe Sinister, or I’ll see that it is closed. Mary Randall.”

The big man flushed crimson with rage. He tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat. He crumpled the letter and hurled it with a curse across the room.

“Druce,” he bellowed.

Druce hurried across the room.

“Did you see that?”

“Yes, I saw you beat her up. Why don’t you let ’em alone? You’ll kill one of them some of these days.”

“Naw, not her. I mean the letter. Mary Randall—she says she’s going to close us.” A waiter recovered the letter and brought it to Druce. He read it.

“Say, listen, are you turning yellow—”

“No, I ain’t yellow,” returned Anson, “but this thing is getting my goat. You’re sure about that lease?”

“Sure?—say, I thought we’d settled that—”

“Well,” pursued Anson, “I don’t like this. What have you done with this other girl—the one you married? She’ll be getting us into a row next.”

“I married her, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, it’s about time she started earning her bread. This Randall woman hasn’t got me scared. You know why I married her. Well, I’m going through with it. I—”

The rest of his sentence died on his lips. A girl scarcely more than a child came in from the hotel entrance. She was dressed in a lacey gown, a size too large for her. The slit skirt displayed her slim ankles in pink silk stockings. The French heeled shoes were decorated with rhinestone buckles. In spite of this outrageous dress she was still pretty. It was Elsie Welcome.

“Hello, kid,” said Druce, his manner changing.

“I want to see you, Martin,” Elsie replied. Druce noticed that she seemed deeply agitated. There were signs of recently shed tears on her cheeks.

“I’ll run along,” said Anson, seeing the girl’s agitation. When he was gone Druce drew the girl into a booth and demanded sharply:

“What the devil do you want and how did you get here?”

“I came in a taxicab,” the girl answered.

“A taxi, eh? Well, you’re learning. Who paid for it?”

“It isn’t paid for, Martin. I wanted to see you and—”

“And what?”

“The man’s waiting outside.”

Druce flushed angrily. “Look here,” he demanded. “Don’t play me for a boob. Get someone else to pay your taxi bills.”

“But, Martin, I thought—”

Druce did not wait for the rest of the sentence. With a muttered oath he rushed outside and paid the waiting chauffeur.

“Now, what do you want?” he demanded when he returned.

Elsie looked at him piteously. “Martin,” she said, “I can’t stay in that place any longer.”

“Say, don’t my aunt treat you all right?”

The girl burst out sobbing. “She isn’t your aunt, Martin. She told me so herself. And that flat—”

“Well, what about it?”

“I—I can’t tell you. I can’t say it. I never knew until tonight.” Elsie clutched Druce’s arm pleadingly. “Martin,” she said, “a man came into my room.”

Druce saw that the time had come for him to lay his cards on the table. He folded his arms and looked at the girl.

“Well?” he demanded coolly.

“He had been drinking and—he took hold of me.”

There was a long pause. Druce gazed at the girl satirically. She quailed with sinking heart under that look. She began sobbing again.

“Don’t look at me like that, Martin,” she wailed. “Don’t—or I shall go mad. I left home to marry you.”

“Well, I married you, didn’t I?” Druce sneered.

Elsie attempted to control her voice.

“That woman you call your aunt laughed at me when I told her I was your wife. She said I was a country fool.”

“Damn her,” muttered Druce. “I’ll settle with her.”

The girl grasped Druce frantically.

“Tell me she lied,” she cried, “or I’ll go crazy. Tell me she lied.”

“Yes, she lied,” answered Druce glibly. “See here, kid, it’s about time you began helping to support the family.”

Elsie dried her tears. “I’m—I’m ready,” she said. “I’ve practiced my songs—”

“O, the songs,” said Druce. “That isn’t all.”

“What do you mean, Martin?”

“Why—don’t be so stand-offish. When a man offers to buy you a bottle of wine, let him.”

“Martin!”

Druce stopped her sharply. “Now don’t begin that Millville Sunday school stuff,” he said. “This is business.”

“Is it?” Elsie spoke in a whisper.

“Sure. When a man’s got a wad of bills and he’s willing to buy, string him along!”

“But I’m your wife, Martin.” Elsie was dead white and calm.

“Well, don’t let that worry you. Go as far as you like—or as far as he likes.”

The girl stood motionless, looking straight before her.

“Is—is that what you brought me here for?” she asked with forced calmness.

“Sure. Why do you suppose I dressed you up like that? Your stock in trade is your good looks. Sell it.”

The girl drew herself up rigidly.

“I won’t do it,” she said. She started toward the door.

“You will!” grated Druce, following her.

“Never,” she answered. “I’ll die first. Good-by!” The door closed after her.

Anson had returned to the room and had witnessed the scene.

“Well,” he sneered, “there goes the first move in your plan. You’ve lost that one.”

“You think so?” Druce sneered in return. “Well, don’t lose any sleep worrying about that one. She ain’t got a dime. She’ll be back.”