The jacques futrelle meg.., p.121
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 121
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 Señora 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 Boisségur 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 Boisségur—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 Boisségur, 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 Boisségur’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 Boisségur 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.
CHAPTER XIV
A RESCUE AND AN ESCAPE
Miss Thorne’s voice startled Mr. Grimm a little, but he had no doubts. It was Monsieur Boisségur. 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 Boisségur 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 Boisségur!
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Mr. Grimm greeted them, then ceremoniously: “Monsieur Boisségur, 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!”
Eyes challenged eyes for one long tense instant, and the man carefully laid the weapon on the table. Mr. Grimm strolled over and picked it up, after which he glanced inquiringly at the other man—the ambassador’s second guard.
“And you are the gentleman, I dare say, who made the necessary trips to the ambassador’s house, probably using his latch-key?” he remarked interrogatively. “First for the letters to be signed, and again for the cigarettes?”
There was no answer and Mr. Grimm turned questioningly to Monsieur Boisségur, silent, white of face, motionless.
“Yes, Monsieur,” the ambassador burst out suddenly. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Miss Thorne.
“And your escape, Monsieur?” continued Mr. Grimm.
“I did escape, Monsieur, last night,” the ambassador explained, “but they knew it immediately—they pursued me into my own house, these two and another—and dragged me back here! Mon Dieu, Monsieur, c’est—!”
“That’s all that’s necessary,” remarked Mr. Grimm. “You are free to go now.”
“But there are others,” Monsieur Boisségur interposed desperately, “two more somewhere below, and they will not allow—they will attack—!”
Mr. Grimm’s listless eyes narrowed slightly and he turned to Miss Thorne. She was a little white, but he saw enough in her face to satisfy him.
“I shall escort Monsieur Boisségur to his carriage, Miss Thorne,” he said calmly. “These men will remain here until I return. Take the revolver. If either of them so much as wags his head—shoot! You are not—not afraid?”
“No.” She smiled faintly. “I am not afraid.”
Mr. Grimm and the ambassador went down the stairs, and out the front door. Mr. Grimm was just turning to reenter the house when from above came a muffled, venomous cra-as-ash!—a shot! He took the steps going up, two at a time. Miss Thorne was leaning against the wall as if dazed; the revolver lay at her feet. A door in a far corner of the room stood open; and the clatter of footsteps echoed through the house.
“One of them leaped at me and I fired,” she gasped in explanation. “He struck me, but I’m—I’m not hurt.”
She stooped quickly, picked up the revolver and made as if to follow the dying footsteps. Mr. Grimm stopped her.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “Let them go.” And after a while, earnestly: “If I had dreamed of such a—such a thing as this I should never have consented to allow you—”
“I understand,” she interrupted, and for one instant her outstretched hand rested on his arm. “The ambassador?”
“Perfectly safe,” responded Mr. Grimm. “Two of my men are with him.”
CHAPTER XV
MASTER OF THE SITUATION
As the women rose and started out, leaving the gentlemen over their coffee and cigars, Miss Thorne paused at the door and the blue-gray eyes flashed some subtle message to the French ambassador who, after an instant, nodded comprehendingly, then resumed his conversation. As he left the room a few minutes later he noticed that Mr. Grimm had joined a group of automaniacs of which Mr. Cadwallader was the enthusiastic center. He spoke to his hostess, the wife of the minister from Portugal, for a moment, then went to Miss Thorne and dropped into a seat beside her. She greeted him with a smile and was still smiling as she talked.
“I believe, Monsieur,” she said in French, “you sent a code message to the cable office this afternoon?”
His eyes questioned hers quickly.
“And please bear in mind that we probably are being watched as we talk,” she went on pleasantly. “Mr. Grimm is the man to be afraid of. Smile—don’t look so serious!” She laughed outright.
“Yes, I sent a code message,” he replied.
“It was your resignation?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it wasn’t sent, of course,” she informed him, and her eyes were sparkling as if something amusing had been said. “One of my agents stopped it. I may add that it will not be sent.”
The ambassador’s eyes grew steely, then blank again.
“Mademoiselle, what am I to understand from that?” he demanded.
“You are to understand that I am absolute master of the situation in Washington at this moment,” she replied positively. The smile on her lips and the tone of her voice were strangely at variance. “From the beginning I let you understand that ultimately you would receive your instructions from Paris; now I know they will reach you by cable to-morrow. Within a week the compact will be signed. Whether you approve of it or not it will be signed for your country by a special envoy whose authority is greater than yours—his Highness, the Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi.”
“Has he reached Washington?”
“He is in Washington. He has been here for some time, incognito.” She was silent a moment. “You have been a source of danger to our plans,” she added. “If it had not been for an accident you would still have been comfortably kept out in Alexandria where Mr. Grimm and I found you. Please remember, Monsieur, that we will accomplish what we set out to do. Nothing can stop us—nothing.”
At just about the same moment the name of Prince d’Abruzzi had been used in the dining-room, but in a different connection. Mr. Cadwallader was reciting some incident of an automobile trip in Italy when he had been connected with the British embassy there.
“The prince was driving,” he said, “and one of the best I ever saw. Corking chap, the prince; democratic, you know, and all that sort of thing. He was one scion of royalty who didn’t mind soiling his hands by diving in under a car and fixing it himself. At that time he was inclined to be wild—that was eight or nine years ago—but they say now he has settled down to work, and is one of the real diplomatic powers of Italy. I haven’t seen him for a half dozen years.”
“How old a man is he?” asked Mr. Grimm carelessly.
“Thirty-five, thirty-eight, perhaps; I don’t know,” replied Mr. Cadwallader. “It’s odd, you know, the number of princes and blue-bloods and all that sort of thing one can find knocking about in Italy and Germany and Spain. One never hears of half of them. I never had heard of the Prince d’Abruzzi until I went to Italy, and I’ve heard jolly well little of him since, except indirectly.”
