Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle (8 page)

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“Playing bridge,” replied Miss Thorne, with a sad little smile. “It is always so—at least twice a week, and she rarely returns before two or half-past.” She extended both hands impetuously, entreatingly. “Please be generous, Mr. Grimm. You have the gold; don’t destroy her.”

Senor Rodriguez, the minister from Venezuela, found the gold in his safe on the following morning, with a brief note from Mr. Grimm, in which there was no explanation of how or where it had been found…. And two hours later Monsieur Boissegur, ambassador from France to the United States, disappeared from the embassy, vanished!

It was three days after the ambassador’s disappearance that Monsieur Rigolot, secretary of the French embassy and temporary
charged’affaires
, reported the matter to Chief Campbell in the Secret Service Bureau, adding thereto a detailed statement of several singular incidents following close upon it. He told it in order, concisely and to the point, while Grimm and his chief listened.

“Monsieur Boissegur, the ambassador, you understand, is a man whose habits are remarkably regular,” he began. “He has made it a rule to be at his desk every morning at ten o’clock, and between that time and one o’clock he dictates his correspondence, and clears up whatever routine work there is before him. I have known him for many years, and have been secretary of the embassy under him in Germany and Japan and this country. I have never known him to vary this general order of work unless because of illness, or necessary absence.

“Well, Monsieur, last Tuesday—this is Friday—the ambassador was at his desk as usual. He dictated a dozen or more letters, and had begun another—a private letter to his sister in Paris. He was well along in this letter when, without any apparent reason, he rose from his desk and left the room, closing the door behind him. His stenographer’s impression was that some detail of business had occurred to him, and he had gone into the general office farther down the hall to attend to it. I may say, Monsieur, that this impression seemed strengthened by the fact that he left a fresh cigarette burning in his ash tray, and his pen was behind his ear. It was all as if he had merely stepped out, intending to return immediately—the sort of thing, Monsieur, that any man might have done.

“It so happened that when he went out he left a sentence of his letter incomplete. I tell you this to show that the impulse to go must have been a sudden one, yet there was nothing in his manner, so his stenographer says, to indicate excitement, or any other than his usual frame of mind. It was about five minutes of twelve o’clock—high noon—when he went out. When he didn’t return immediately the stenographer began transcribing the letters. At one o’clock Monsieur Boissegur still had not returned and his stenographer went to luncheon.”

As he talked some inbred excitement seemed to be growing upon him, due, perhaps, to his recital of the facts, and he paused at last to regain control of himself. Incidentally he wondered if Mr. Grimm was taking the slightest interest in what he was saying. Certainly there was nothing in his impassive face to indicate it.

“Understand, Monsieur,” the secretary continued, after a moment, “that I knew nothing whatever of all this until late that afternoon—that is, Tuesday afternoon about five o’clock. I was engaged all day upon some important work in my own office, and had had no occasion to see Monsieur Boissegur since a word or so when he came in at ten o’clock. My attention was called to the affair finally by his stenographer, Monsieur Netterville, who came to me for instructions. He had finished the letters and the ambassador had not returned to sign them. At this point I began an investigation, Monsieur, and the further I went the more uneasy I grew.

“Now, Monsieur, there are only two entrances to the embassy—the front door, where a servant is in constant attendance from nine in the morning until ten at night, and the rear door, which can only be reached through the kitchen. Neither of the two men who had been stationed at the front door had seen the ambassador since breakfast, therefore he could not have gone out that way.
Comprenez
? It seemed ridiculous, Monsieur, but then I went to the kitchen. The
chef
had been there all day, and he had not seen the ambassador at all. I inquired further. No one in the embassy, not a clerk, nor a servant, nor a member of the ambassador’s family had seen him since he left his office.”

Again he paused and ran one hand across his troubled brow.

“Monsieur,” he went on, and there was a tense note in his voice, “the ambassador of France had disappeared, gone, vanished! We searched the house from the cellar to the servants’ quarters, even the roof, but there was no trace of him. The hat he usually wore was in the hall, and all his other hats were accounted for. You may remember, Monsieur, that Tuesday was cold, but all his top-coats were found in their proper places. So it seems, Monsieur,” and repression ended in a burst of excitement, “if he left the embassy he did not go out by either door, and he went without hat or coat!”

He stopped helplessly and his gaze alternated inquiringly between the benevolent face of the chief and the expressionless countenance of Mr. Grimm.

“
If
he left the embassy?” Mr. Grimm repented. “If your search of the house proved conclusively that he wasn’t there, he
did
leave it, didn’t he?”

Monsieur Rigolot stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded.

“And there are windows, you know,” Mr. Grimm went on, then: “As I understand it, Monsieur, no one except you and the stenographer saw the ambassador after ten o’clock in the morning?”

“
Oui, Monsieur. C’est—
” Monsieur Rigolot began excitedly. “I beg pardon. I believe that is correct.”

“You saw him about ten, you say; therefore no one except the stenographer saw him after ten o’clock?”

“That is also true, as far as I know.”

“Any callers? Letters? Telegrams? Telephone messages?”

“I made inquiries in that direction, Monsieur,” was the reply. “I have the words of the servants at the door and of the stenographer that there were no callers, and the statement of the stenographer that there were no telephone calls or telegrams. There were only four letters for him personally. He left them all on his desk—here they are.”

Mr. Grimm looked them over leisurely. They were commonplace enough, containing nothing that might be construed into a reason for the disappearance.

“The letters Monsieur Boissegur had dictated were laid on his desk by the stenographer,” Monsieur Rigolot rushed on volubly, excitedly. “In the anxiety and uneasiness following the disappearance they were allowed to remain there overnight. On Wednesday morning, Monsieur”—and he hesitated impressively—”
those letters bore his signature in his own handwriting
!”

Mr. Grimm turned his listless eyes full upon Monsieur Rigolot’s perturbed face for one scant instant.

“No doubt of it being his signature?” he queried.

“
Non, Monsieur, non!
” the secretary exclaimed emphatically. “
Vous avez
—that is, I have known his signature for years. There is no doubt. The letters were not of a private nature. If you would care to look at copies of them?”

He offered the duplicates tentatively. Mr. Grimm read them over slowly, the while Monsieur Rigolot sat nervously staring at him. They, too, seemed meaningless as bearing on the matter in hand. Finally, Mr. Grimm nodded, and Monsieur Rigolot resumed:

“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.

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?”