Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle

by Unknown

  “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!”

  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 Boissegur, 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 Boissegur 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 Boissegur 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.”

  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.”

&
nbsp; 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.”

  Mr. Cadwallader lapsed into silence as he sat staring at a large group photograph which was framed on a wall of the dining-room.

  “Isn’t that the royal family of Italy?” he asked. He rose and went over to it. “By Jove, it is, and here is the prince in the group. The picture was taken, I should say, about the time I knew him.”

  Mr. Grimm strolled over idly and stood for a long time staring at the photograph.

  “He can drive a motor, you know,” said Mr. Cadwallader admiringly. “And Italy is the place to drive them. They forgot to make any speed laws over there, and if a chap gets in your way and you knock him silly they arrest him for obstructing traffic, you know. Over here if a chap really starts to go any place in a hurry some bally idiot holds him up.”

  “Have you ever been held up?” queried Mr. Grimm.

  “No, but I expect to be every day,” was the reply. “I’ve got a new motor, you know, and I’ve never been able to see how fast it is. The other evening I ran up to Baltimore with it in an hour and thirty-seven minutes from Alexandria to Druid Hill Park, and that’s better than forty miles. I never did let the motor out, you know, because we ran in the dark most of the way.”

  Mr. Grimm was still gazing at the photograph.

  “Did you go alone?” he asked.

  “There’s no fun motoring alone, you know. Senorita Rodriguez was with me. Charming girl, what?”

  A little while later Mr. Grimm sauntered out into the drawing-room and made his way toward Miss Thorne and the French ambassador. Monsieur Boissegur rose, and offered his hand cordially.

  “I hope, Monsieur,” said Mr. Grimm, “that you are no worse off for your—your unpleasant experience?”

  “Not at all, thanks to you,” was the reply. “I have just thanked Miss Thorne for her part in the affair, and—”

  “I’m glad to have been of service,” interrupted Mr. Grimm lightly.

  The ambassador bowed ceremoniously and moved away. Mr. Grimm dropped into the seat he had just left.

  “You’ve left the legation, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “You drove me out,” she laughed.

  “Drove you out?” he repeated. “Drove you out?”

  “Why, it was not only uncomfortable, but it was rather conspicuous because of the constant espionage of your Mr. Blair and your Mr. Johnson and your Mr. Hastings,” she explained, still laughing. “So I have moved to the Hotel Hilliard.”

  Mr. Grimm was twisting the seal ring on his little finger.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve made it uncomfortable for you,” he apologized. “You see it’s necessary to—”

  “No explanation,” Miss Thorne interrupted. “I understand.”

  “I’m glad you do,” he replied seriously. “How long do you intend to remain in the city?”

  “Really I don’t know—two, three, four weeks, perhaps. Why?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  Senorita Rodriguez came toward them.

  “We’re going to play bridge,” she said, “and we need you, Isabel, to make the four. Come. I hate to take her away, Mr. Grimm.”

  Mr. Grimm and Miss Thorne rose together. For an instant her slim white hand rested on Mr. Grimm’s sleeve and she stared into his eyes understandingly with a little of melancholy in her own. They left Mr. Grimm there.

  XVI

  LETTERS FROM JAIL

  For two weeks Signor Pietro Petrozinni, known to the Secret Service as an unaccredited agent of the Italian government, and the self-confessed assailant of Senor Alvarez of the Mexican legation, had been taking his ease in a cell. He had been formally arraigned and committed without bail to await the result of the bullet wound which had been inflicted upon the diplomatist from Mexico at the German Embassy Ball, and, since then, undisturbed and apparently careless of the outcome, he had spent his time in reading and smoking. He had answered questions with only a curt yes or no when he deigned to answer them at all; and there had been no callers or inquiries for him. He had abruptly declined a suggestion of counsel.

  Twice each day, morning and night, he had asked a question of the jailer who brought his simple meals.

  “How is Senor Alvarez?”

  “He is still in a critical condition.” The answer was always the same.

  Whereupon the secret agent would return to his reading with not a shadow of uneasiness or concern on his face.

  Occasionally there came a courteous little note from Miss Thorne, which he read without emotion, afterward casting them aside or tearing them up. He never answered them. And then one day there came another note which, for no apparent reason, seemed to stir him from his lethargy. Outwardly it was like all the others, but when Signor Petrozinni scanned the sheet his eyes lighted strangely, and he stood staring down at it as though to hide a sudden change of expression in his face. His gaze was concentrated on two small splotches of ink where, it seemed, the pen had scratched as Miss Thorne signed her name.

  The guard stood at the barred door for a moment, then started to turn away. The prisoner stopped him with a quick gesture.

  “Oh, Guard, may I have a glass of milk, please?” he asked. “No ice. I prefer it tepid.”

  He thrust a small coin between the bars; the guard accepted it and passed on. Then, still standing at the door, the prisoner read the note again:

  “MY DEAR FRIEND:

  “I understand, from an indirect source, that there has been a marked improvement in Senor Alvarez’s condition, and I am hastening to send you the good news. There is every hope that within a short while, if he continues to improve, we can arrange a bail bond, and you will be free until the time of trial anyway.

  “Might it not be well for you to consult an attorney at once? Drop me a line to let me know you received this.

  “Sincerely,

  “ISABEL THORNE.”

  Finally the prisoner tossed the note on a tiny table in a corner of his cell, and resumed his reading. After a time the guard returned with the milk.

  “Would it be against the rules for me to write an answer to this?” queried Signor Petrozinni, and he indicated the note.

  “Certainly not,” was the reply.

  “If I might trouble you, then, for pen and ink and paper?” suggested the signor and he smiled a little. “Believe me, I would prefer to get them for myself.”

  “I guess that’s right,” the guard grinned good-naturedly.

  Again he went away and the prisoner sat thoughtfully sipping the milk. He took half of it, then lighted a cigarette, puffed it once or twice and permitted the light to die. After a little there came again the clatter of the guard’s feet on the cement pavement, and the writing materials were thrust through the bars.

  “Thank you,” said the prisoner.

  The guard went on, with a nod, and a moment later the signor heard the clangor of a steel door down the corridor as it was closed an
d locked. He leaned forward in his chair with half-closed eyes, listening for a long time, then rose and noiselessly approached the cell door. Again he listened intently, after which he resumed his seat. He tossed away the cigarette he had and lighted a fresh one, afterward holding the note over the flame of the match. Here and there, where the paper charred in the heat, a letter or word stood out from the bare whiteness of the paper, and finally, a message complete appeared between the innocuous ink-written lines. The prisoner read it greedily:

  “Am privately informed there is little chance of Alvarez’s recovery. Shall I arrange escape for you, or have ambassador intercede? Would advise former, as the other might take months, and meeting to sign treaty alliance would be dangerously delayed.”

  Signor Petrozinni permitted the sputtering flame to ignite the paper, and thoughtfully watched the blaze destroy it. The last tiny scrap dropped on the floor, burned out, and he crushed the ashes under his heel. Then he began to write:

  “My Dear Miss Thorne:

  “Many thanks for your courteous little note. I am delighted to know of the improvement in Senor Alvarez’s condition. I had hoped that my impulsive act in shooting him would not end in a tragedy. Please keep me informed of any further change in his condition. As yet I do not see the necessity of consulting an attorney, but later I may be compelled to do so.

  “Respectfully,

  “Pietro Petrozinni.”

  This done the secret agent carefully cleaned the ink from the pen, wiping it dry with his handkerchief, then thrust it into the half empty glass of milk. The fluid clung to the steel nib thinly; he went on writing with it, between the lines of ink:

  “I am in no danger. I hold credentials to United States, which, when presented, will make me responsible only to the Italian government as special envoy, according to international law. Arrange escape for one week from to-night; use any money necessary. Make careful arrangements for the test and signing of compact for two nights after.”

  Again the prisoner cleaned the steel nib, after which he put it back in the bottle of ink, leaving it there. He waved the sheet of paper back and forth to dry it, and at last scrutinized it minutely, standing under the light from the high-up window of his cell. Letter by letter the milk evaporated, leaving the sheet perfectly clean and white except for the ink-written message. This sheet he folded, placed in an envelope, and addressed.