Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle (9 page)

“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 unseeingly 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.

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.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

And then she found the switch; the lights flared up. Mr. Grimm was sitting thoughtfully on the floor.

“That simplifies the matter considerably,” he observed complacently, as he rose. “The men who signaled to me when you entered the embassy will never let that cab get out of their sight.”

Miss Thorne stood leaning forward a little, eagerly gazing at him with those wonderful blue-gray eyes, and an expression of—of—perhaps it was admiration on her face.

“Are you sure?” she demanded, at last.

“I know it,” was his response.

And just then Monsieur Rigolot, secretary of the embassy, thrust an inquisitive head timidly around the corner of the stairs. The crash of glass had aroused him.

“What happened?” he asked breathlessly.

“We don’t know just yet,” replied Mr. Grimm. “If the noise aroused any one else please assure them that there’s nothing the matter. And you might inform Madame Boissegur that the ambassador will return home to-morrow. Good night!”

At his hotel, when he reached there, Mr. Grimm found Miss Thorne’s card—and he drew a long breath; at his office he found another of her cards, and he drew another long breath. He did like corroborative details, did Mr. Grimm, and, of course, this—! On the following day Miss Thorne accompanied him to Alexandria, and they were driven in a closed carriage out toward the western edge of the city. Finally the carriage stopped at a signal from Mr. Grimm, and he assisted Miss Thorne out, after which he turned and spoke to some one remaining inside—a man.

“The house is two blocks west, along that street there,” he explained, and he indicated an intersecting thoroughfare just ahead. “It is number ninety-seven. Five minutes after we enter you will drive up in front of the door and wait. If we don’t return in fifteen minutes—come in after us!”

“Do you anticipate danger?” Miss Thorne queried quickly.

“If I had anticipated danger,” replied Mr. Grimm, “I should not have permitted you to come with me.”

They entered the house—number ninety-seven—with a key which Mr. Grimm produced, and a minute or so later walked into a room where three men were sitting. One of them was of a coarse, repulsive type, large and heavy; another rather dapper, of superficial polish, evidently a foreigner, and the third—the third was Ambassador Boissegur!

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Mr. Grimm greeted them, then ceremoniously: “Monsieur Boissegur, your carriage is at the door.”

The three men came to their feet instantly, and one of them—he of the heavy face—drew a revolver. Mr. Grimm faced him placidly.

“Do you know what would happen to you if you killed me?” he inquired pleasantly. “You wouldn’t live three minutes. Do you imagine I came in here blindly? There are a dozen men guarding the entrances to the house—a pistol shot would bring them in. Put down the gun!”