Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle Read online

  “And Wednesday night, Monsieur, another strange thing happened. Monsieur Boissegur smokes many cigarettes, of a kind made especially for him in France, and shipped to him here. He keeps them in a case on his dressing-table. On Thursday morning his valet reported to me that this case of cigarettes had disappeared!”

  “Of course,” observed Mr. Grimm, “Monsieur Boissegur has a latch-key to the embassy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Anything unusual happen last night—that is, Thursday night?”

  “Nothing, Monsieur—that is, nothing we can find.”

  Mr. Grimm was silent for a time and fell to twisting the seal ring on his finger. Mr. Campbell turned around and moved a paper weight one inch to the left, where it belonged, while Monsieur Rigolot, disappointed at their amazing apathy, squirmed uneasily in his chair.

  “It would appear, then,” Mr. Grimm remarked musingly, “that after his mysterious disappearance the ambassador has either twice returned to his house at night, or else sent some one there, first to bring the letters to him for signature, and later to get his cigarettes?”

  “Certainement, Monsieur—I mean, that seems to be true. But where is he? Why should he not come back? What does it mean? Madame Boissegur is frantic, prostrated! She wanted me to go to the police, but I did not think it wise that it should become public, so I came here.”

  “Very well,” commented Mr. Grimm. “Let it rest as it is. Meanwhile you may reassure madame. Point out to her that if Monsieur Boissegur signed the letters Tuesday night he was, at least, alive; and if he came or sent for the cigarettes Wednesday night, he was still alive. I shall call at the embassy this afternoon. No, it isn’t advisable to go with you now. Give me your latch-key, please.”

  Monsieur Rigolot produced the key and passed it over without a word.

  “And one other thing,” Mr. Grimm continued, “please collect all the revolvers that may be in the house and take charge of them yourself. If any one, by chance, heard a burglar prowling around there to-night he might shoot, and in that event either kill Monsieur Boissegur or—or me!”

  When the secretary had gone Mr. Campbell idly drummed on his desk as he studied the face of his subordinate.

  “So much!” he commented finally.

  “It’s Miss Thorne again,” said the young man as if answering a question.

  “Perhaps these reports I have received to-day from the Latin capitals may aid you in dispelling that mystery,” Campbell suggested, and Mr. Grimm turned to them eagerly. “Meanwhile our royal visitor, Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi, remains unknown?”

  The young man’s teeth closed with a snap.

  “It’s only a question of time, Chief,” he said abruptly. “I’ll find him—I’ll find him!”

  And he sat down to read the reports.

  XIII

  A CONFERENCE IN THE DARK

  The white rays of a distant arc light filtered through the half-drawn velvet hangings and laid a faintly illumined path across the ambassador’s desk; the heavy leather chairs were mere impalpable splotches in the shadows; the cut-glass knobs of a mahogany cabinet caught the glint of light and reflected it dimly. Outside was the vague, indefinable night drone of a city asleep, unbroken by any sound that was distinguishable, until finally there came the distant boom of a clock. It struck twice.

  Seated on a couch in one corner of the ambassador’s office was Mr. Grimm. He was leaning against the high arm of leather, with his feet on the seat, thoughtfully nursing his knees. If his attitude indicated anything except sheer comfort, it was that he was listening. He had been there for two hours, wide-awake, and absolutely motionless. Five, ten, fifteen minutes more passed, and then Mr. Grimm heard the grind and whir of an automobile a block or so away, coming toward the embassy. Now it was in front.

  “Honk! Hon-on-onk!” it called plaintively. “Hon-on-onk! Honk!”

  The signal! At last! The automobile went rushing on, full tilt, while Mr. Grimm removed his feet from the seat and dropped them noiselessly to the floor. Thus, with his hands on his knees, and listening, listening with every faculty strained, he sat motionless, peering toward the open door that led into the hall. The car was gone now, the sound of it was swallowed up in the distance, still he sat there. It was obviously some noise in the house for which he was waiting.

  Minute after minute passed, and still nothing. There was not even the whisper of a wind-stirred drapery. He was about to rise when, suddenly, with no other noise than that of the sharp click of the switch, the electric lights in the room blazed up brilliantly. The glare dazzled Mr. Grimm with its blinding flood, but he didn’t move. Then softly, almost in a whisper:

  “Good evening, Mr. Grimm.”

  It was a woman’s voice, pleasant, unsurprised, perfectly modulated. Mr. Grimm certainly did not expect it now, but he knew it instantly—there was not another quite like it in the wide, wide world—and though he was still blinking a little, he came to his feet courteously.

  “Good morning, Miss Thorne,” he corrected gravely.

  Now his vision was clearing, and he saw her, a graceful figure, silhouetted against the rich green of the wall draperies. Her lips were curled the least bit, as if she might have been smiling, and her wonderful eyes reflected a glint of—of—was it amusement? The folds of her evening dress fell away from her, and one bare, white arm was extended, as her hand still rested on the switch.

  “And you didn’t hear me?” still in the half whisper. “I didn’t think you would. Now I’m going to put out the lights for an instant, while you pull the shades down, and then—then we must have a—a conference.”

  The switch snapped. The lights died as suddenly as they had been born, and Mr. Grimm, moving noiselessly, visited each of the four windows in turn. Then the lights blazed brilliantly again.

  “Just for a moment,” Miss Thorne explained to him quietly, and she handed him a sheet of paper. “I want you to read this—read it carefully—then I shall turn out the lights again. They are dangerous. After that we may discuss the matter at our leisure.”

  Mr. Grimm read the paper while Miss Thorne’s eyes questioned his impassive face. At length he looked up indolently, listlessly, and the switch snapped. She crossed the room and sat down; Mr. Grimm sat beside her.

  “I think,” Miss Thorne suggested tentatively, “that that accounts perfectly for Monsieur Boissegur’s disappearance.”

  “It gives one explanation, at least,” Mr. Grimm assented musingly. “Kidnapped—held prisoner—fifty thousand dollars demanded for his safety and release.” A pause. “And to whom, may I ask, was this demand addressed?”

  “To Madame Boissegur,” replied Miss Thorne. “I have the envelope in which it came. It was mailed at the general post-office at half-past one o’clock this afternoon, so the canceling stamp shows, and the envelope was addressed, as the letter was written, on a typewriter.”

  “And how,” inquired Mr. Grimm, after a long pause, “how did it come into your possession?” He waited a little. “Why didn’t Monsieur Rigolot report this development to me this afternoon when I was here?”

  “Monsieur Rigolot did not inform you of it because he didn’t know of it himself,” she replied, answering the last question first. “It came into my possession directly from the hands of Madame Boissegur—she gave it to me.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Grimm was peering through the inscrutable darkness, straight into her face—a white daub in the gloom, shapeless, indistinct.

  “I have known Madame Boissegur for half a dozen years,” Miss Thorne continued, in explanation. “We have been friends that long. I met her first in Tokio, later in Berlin, and within a few weeks, here in Washington. You see I have traveled in the time I have been an agent for my government. Well, Madame Boissegur received this letter about half-past four o’clock this afternoon; and about half-past five she sent for me and placed it in my hands, together with all the singular details following upon the ambassador’s disappearance. So, it would seem that you
and I are allies for this once, and the problem is already solved. There merely remains the task of finding and releasing the ambassador.”

  Mr. Grimm sat perfectly still.

  “And why,” he asked slowly, “are you here now?”

  “For the same reason that you are here,” she replied readily, “to see for myself if the—the person who twice came here at night—once for the ambassador’s letters and once for his cigarettes—would, by any chance, make another trip. I knew you were here, of course.”

  “You knew I was here,” repeated Mr. Grimm musingly. “And, may I—?”

  “Just as you knew that I, or some one, at least, had entered this house a few minutes ago,” she interrupted. “The automobile horn outside was a signal, wasn’t it? Hastings was in the car? Or was it Blair or Johnson?”

  Mr. Grimm did not say.

  “Didn’t you anticipate any personal danger when you entered?” he queried instead. “Weren’t you afraid I might shoot?”

  “No.”

  There was a long silence. Mr. Grimm still sat with his elbows on his knees, staring, staring at the vague white splotch which was Miss Thorne’s face and bare neck. One of her white arms hung at her side like a pallid serpent, and her hand was at rest on the seat of the couch.

  “It seems, Miss Thorne,” he said at length, casually, quite casually, “that our paths of duty are inextricably tangled. Twice previously we have met under circumstances that were more than strange, and now—this! Whatever injustice I may have done you in the past by my suspicions has, I hope, been forgiven; and in each instance we were able to work side by side toward a conclusion. I am wondering now if this singular affair will take a similar course.”

  He paused. Miss Thorne started to speak, but he silenced her with a slight gesture of his hand.

  “It is only fair to you to say that we—that is, the Secret Service—have learned many things about you,” he resumed in the same casual tone. “We have, through our foreign agents, traced you step by step from Rome to Washington. We know that you are, in a way, a representative of a sovereign of Europe; we know that you were on a secret mission to the Spanish court, perhaps for this sovereign, and remained in Madrid for a month; we know that from there you went to Paris, also on a secret mission—perhaps the same—and remained there for three weeks; we know that you met diplomatic agents of those governments later in London. We know all this; we know the manner of your coming to this country; of your coming to Washington. But we don’t know why you are here.”

  Again she started to speak, and again he stopped her.

  “We don’t know your name, but that is of no consequence. We do know that in Spain you were Senora Cassavant, in Paris Mademoiselle d’Aubinon, in London Miss Jane Kellog, and here Miss Isabel Thorne. We realize that exigencies arise in your calling, and mine, which make changes of name desirable, necessary even, and there is no criticism of that. Now as the representative of your government—rather a government—you have a right to be here, although unaccredited; you have a right to remain here as long as your acts are consistent with our laws; you have a right to your secrets as long as they do not, directly or indirectly, threaten the welfare of this country. Now, why are you here?”

  He received no answer; he expected none. After a moment he went on:

  “Admitting that you are a secret agent of Italy, admitting everything that you claim to be, you haven’t convinced me that you are not the person who came here for the letters and cigarettes. You have said nothing to prove to my satisfaction that you are not the individual I was waiting for to-night.”

  “You don’t mean that you suspect—?” she began in a tone of amazement.

  “I don’t mean that I suspect anything,” he interposed. “I mean merely that you haven’t convinced me. There’s nothing inconsistent in the fact that you are what you say you are, and that in spite of that, you came to-night for—”

  He was interrupted by a laugh, a throaty, silvery note that he remembered well. His idle hands closed spasmodically, only to be instantly relaxed.

  “Suppose, Mr. Grimm, I should tell you that immediately after Madame Boissegur placed the matter in my hands this afternoon I went straight to your office to show this letter to you and to ask your assistance?” she inquired. “Suppose that I left my card for you with a clerk there on being informed that you were out—remember I knew you were on the case from Madame Boissegur—would that indicate anything except that I wanted to put the matter squarely before you, and work with you?”

  “We will suppose that much,” Mr. Grimm agreed.

  “That is a statement of fact,” Miss Thorne added. “My card, which you will find at your office, will show that. And when I left your office I went to the hotel where you live, with the same purpose. You were not there, and I left a card for you. And that is a statement of fact. It was not difficult, owing to the extraordinary circumstances, to imagine that you would be here to-night—just as you are—and I came here. My purpose, still, was to inform you of what I knew, and work with you. Does that convince you?”

  “And how did you enter the embassy?” Mr. Grimm persisted.

  “Not with a latch-key, as you did,” she replied. “Madame Boissegur, at my suggestion, left the French window in the hall there unfastened, and I came in that way—the way, I may add, that Monsieur l’Ambassadeur went out when he disappeared.”

  “Very well!” commented Mr. Grimm, and finally: “I think, perhaps, I owe you an apology, Miss Thorne—another one. The circumstances now, as they were at our previous meetings, are so unusual that—is it necessary to go on?” There was a certain growing deference in his tone. “I wonder if you account for Monsieur Boissegur’s disappearance as I do?” he inquired.

  “I dare say,” and Miss Thorne leaned toward him with sudden eagerness in her manner and voice. “Your theory is—?” she questioned.

  “If we believe the servants we know that Monsieur Boissegur did not go out either by the front door or rear,” Mr. Grimm explained. “That being true the French window by which you entered seems to have been the way.”

  “Yes, yes,” Miss Thorne interpolated. “And the circumstances attending the disappearance? How do you account for the fact that he went, evidently of his own will?”

  “Precisely as you must account for it if you have studied the situation here as I have,” responded Mr. Grimm. “For instance, sitting at his desk there”—and he turned to indicate it—“he could readily see out the windows overlooking the street. There is only a narrow strip of lawn between the house and the sidewalk. Now, if some one on the sidewalk, or—or—”

  “In a carriage?” promptly suggested Miss Thorne.

  “Or in a carriage,” Mr. Grimm supplemented, “had attracted his attention—some one he knew—it is not at all unlikely that he rose, for no apparent reason, as he did do, passed along the hall—”

  “And through the French window, across the lawn to the carriage, and not a person in the house would have seen him go out? Precisely! There seems no doubt that was the way,” she mused. “And, of course, he must have entered the carriage of his own free will?”

  “In other words, on some pretext or other, he was lured in, then made prisoner, and—!”

  He paused suddenly and his hand met Miss Thorne’s warningly. The silence of the night was broken by the violent clatter of footsteps, apparently approaching the embassy. The noise was unmistakable—some one was running.

  “The window!” Miss Thorne whispered.

  She rose quickly and started to cross the room, to look out; Mr. Grimm sat motionless, listening. An instant later and there came a tremendous crash of glass—the French window in the hallway by the sound—then rapid footsteps, still running, along the hall. Mr. Grimm moved toward the door unruffled, perfectly self-possessed; there was only a narrowing of his eyes at the abruptness and clatter of it all. And then the electric lights in the hall flashed up.

  Before Mr. Grimm stood a man, framed by the doorway, staring unsee
ingly into the darkened room. His face was haggard and white as death; his mouth agape as if from exertion, and the lips bloodless; his eyes were widely distended as if from fright—clothing disarranged, collar unfastened and dangling.

  “The ambassador!” Miss Thorne whispered thrillingly.

  XIV

  A RESCUE AND AN ESCAPE

  Miss Thorne’s voice startled Mr. Grimm a little, but he had no doubts. It was Monsieur Boissegur. Mr. Grimm was going toward the enframed figure when, without any apparent reason, the ambassador turned and ran along the hall; and at that instant the lights went out again. For one moment Grimm stood still, dazed and blinded by the sudden blackness, and again he started toward the door. Miss Thorne was beside him.

  “The lights!” he whispered tensely. “Find the switch!”

  He heard the rustle of her skirts as she moved away, and stepped out into the hall, feeling with both his hands along the wall. A few feet away, in the direction the ambassador had gone, there seemed to be a violent struggle in progress—there was the scuffling of feet, and quick-drawn breaths as muscle strained against muscle. The lights! If he could only find the switch! Then, as his hands moved along the wall, they came in contact with another hand—a hand pressed firmly against the plastering, barring his progress. A light blow in the face caused him to step back quickly.

  The scuffling sound suddenly resolved itself into moving footsteps, and the front door opened and closed with a bang. Mr. Grimm’s listless eyes snapped, and his white teeth came together sharply as he started toward the front door. But fate seemed to be against him still. He stumbled over a chair, and his own impetus forward sent him sprawling; his head struck the wall with a resounding whack; and then, over the house, came utter silence. From outside he heard the clatter of a cab. Finally that died away in the distance.

  “Miss Thorne?” he inquired quietly.

  “I’m here,” she answered in a despairing voice. “But I can’t find the switch.”