said. “Her name is Dreamboat McKenna.” He seemed to pronounce the words with difficulty. “Dreamboat McKenna.”
“Dreamboat McKenna,” Stanton repeated.
“Yes. . . ah . . . her professional name, that is. She formerly was a dancer on the stage, in musical comedies. She now is a . . . ah . . . divorce co-respondent, for hire. You know, the lady in the lacy black negligee who is apprehended in the midtown hotel room with the erring husband?”
“I’ve heard,” Stanton said. “Go on.”
“In private life—” the lawyer hesitated—“she is Mrs. Billy Paige.”
Stanton stared at him.
“Mrs. Billy Paige,” he said. “I didn’t know Paige was married.”
“No. Well, I’m not surprised. They used to be a theatrical team, but for the last few years they’ve been separated, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“They aren’t legally separated, but they’ve been living apart, except when their . . . ah . . . mutual inclinations draw them together, if I may put it that way.”
“And—?”
“Apparently they had a bad time together when they were on the stage—starved most of the time, I gather. More than that involved, but I don’t know what. Then Paige suddenly hit the headlights, in this new play of his. What’s the title?”
“It’s called The Lonely Road.”
“That’s it. That’s the play. So it appears that Mr. Paige has been neglecting his wife, this . . . ah . . . this Dreamboat person. Financially, and . . . ah . . . in general. And she——”
“Yes?”
“She is distressed, shall we say? She is planning to do something about it, get revenge on her husband, and——”
“And what, Mr. Hazen?”
“She is getting ready to divorce Paige, Stanton, in New York. You know what that means?”
Stanton nodded.
“She has a lawyer—I might call him a scavenger of the law,” Hazen said. “Bad chap, no doubt about it. One of those people we have on the fringes of the profession. Our man Woods doesn’t know whether he’s put her up to it, or whether she thought for herself and told him to. They haven’t done anything yet.”
“What is she planning to do, Mr. Hazen? You said she was going to divorce Paige.”
“Yes, Stanton. In New York. For adultery. You know, that requires a . . . ah . . . partner.”
Stanton reflected that it inevitably took two to break the Seventh Commandment. Reflected idly, at mental arm’s length, because he didn’t connect with what Hazen was saying, didn’t quite understand what he heard.
“And this Dreamboat person is going to sue for divorce and name . . . Stanton . . . name your wife as co-respondent. Having gone that far, I’ll tell you the rest of it,” Hazen said with a rush. “Woods doesn’t know whether they have blackmail in mind, or whether she’s a jealous, vindictive woman. . . . Stanton!”
“It’s all right. Go on.”
“You looked so white, are you—?”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“Here’s the worst of it,” the lawyer said. He was standing in front of the windows. “They’ve outlawed alienation of affection suits in New York, but there’s a law about . . . adultery. They call it unlawful cohabitation, Stanton, and it’s a criminal offense. It could mean a prison sentence, and . . . blackmail would be simpler, Stanton. But this Dreamboat person may be one of those women . . . vindictive . . . and the lawyer—— She may want most of all to put Paige in jail. And she can do it. And if he goes, there’s a chance that your wife might go with him. At least, your name would be—— It’s an awful mess, boy.”
Stanton had the stunned, dumb, uncomprehending look of an animal.
“You see, when I heard this from Woods, I couldn’t believe it. I told him it was impossible, but . . . he knew what he was talking about. We have a fellow in the office, smart fellow, use him as an investigator when we need to. I sent him out to check up, Wednesday. He gave me his report Thursday morning. I . . . I’m afraid there’s no argument, Stanton. Your wife has been coming into New York to see this Billy Paige fellow, and——” He sighed. “Don’t ask me to go into details, Stanton.”
Stanton said nothing.
“This morning, when I asked you all those questions about Paige, I wanted to find out if you knew the situation. It was a . . . possibility. I’ve been ashamed of myself for imagining it, but—well, lawyers have to think about those things. In one way I hoped you would know about it, condone and so forth, because that—— Well, I wouldn’t be here, telling you all this. But of course you didn’t, knew you wouldn’t, not a suspicion, was there? I nearly called you yesterday afternoon,” he went on hastily. “Told you that, didn’t I? But I wanted a double check before I talked to you, so I waited to get a second report from our investigator. . . . Oh, Stanton!”
“It can’t be true.” Stanton spoke from the depths of a nightmare. “It just can’t be true. Not Betsy—Mrs. Wylie——”
“I knew that would be your reaction,” Hazen said. “It does you credit. Stanton, you’re one of the best men I ever knew, last chap in the world that a thing like this should happen to. If there was any doubt whatever I wouldn’t have said a word—especially today, when you’re ready to make this speech, and all that. I wanted to put it off until next week, but Mrs. Hazen’s expecting me down South, and I wasn’t able to change my train reservations. So I came today. I thought if you had to know, it would be a little easier coming from a friend than from a stranger. Perhaps I was wrong. As I say, I’m completely out of my depth in this sort of business.”
“Not Betsy,” Stanton murmured. “Not Betsy.”
“I know. Stanton, people can be awful disappointments. Sometimes the people who owe you the most let you down the hardest. See it all the time in the law. Seen it in my own family, for that matter. . . . Take my boy Freddie—a drunkard. Never be anything else. In a sanitarium one month, out for a few weeks, back in the sanitarium again. No good to himself or anyone else. . . . Take my daughter Cynthia—she’s in Reno now for her third divorce, says she’s going to marry one of those fake cowboys who live off rich fools—I don’t mind saying it—like my daughter. That’s why I called Woods the other day,” he added. “See if he could put a stop to this cowboy idea.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Hazen. I didn’t know,”
“Well, there you are. Children brought up with everything in the world—everything, that is, but a few guts and a few brains and a sense of decency. I know I sound bitter; I am bitter. I don’t know. Maybe it was my fault—mine and Mrs. Hazen’s. Maybe we did too much for the kids, or too little, or something. I know we did our best, though, and it wasn’t good enough.
“But I think there’s something more than that—something we couldn’t
