“Ah?” Jules de Grandin sat forward a little in his chair, regarding the caller narrowly. “They have disappeared, vanished, you do say? Perhaps they have decamped?”
“No-o,” Gervaise denied, “I don’t think that’s possible, sir. Our home is only a semi-public institution, you know, being supported entirely by voluntary gifts and benefits of wealthy patrons, and we do not open our doors to orphan children as a class. There are certain restrictions imposed. For this reason, we never entertain a greater number than we are able to care for in a fitting manner, and conditions at Springville are rather different from those obtaining in most institutions of a similar character. The children are well fed, well clothed and excellently housed, and—as far as anyone in their unfortunate situation can be—are perfectly contented and happy. During my tenure of office, more than ten years, we have never had a runaway; and that makes these disappearances all the harder to explain. In each case the surrounding facts have been essentially the same, too. The child was accounted for at night before the signal was given to extinguish the lights, and—and next morning he just wasn’t there. That’s all there is to say. There is nothing further I can tell you.”
“You have searched?” de Grandin asked.
“Naturally. The most careful and painstaking investigations have been made in every case. It was not possible to pursue the little ones with hue and cry, of course, but the home has been to considerable expense in hiring private investigators to obtain some information of the missing children, all without result. There is no question of kidnaping, either, for, in every case, the child was known to be safely inside not only the grounds, but in the dormitories, on the night preceding the disappearance. Several reputable witnesses vouch for that in each instance.
“U’m?” de Grandin commented once more. “You say you have been at considerable expense in the matter, Monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Very good. You will please be at some more considerable expense. Dr. Trowbridge and I are gens d’affaires—businessmen—as well as scientists, Monsieur, and while we shall esteem it an honor to serve the fatherless and motherless orphans of your home, we must receive an adequate consideration from Monsieur Richards. We shall undertake the matter of ascertaining the whereabouts of your missing charges at five hundred dollars apiece. Do you agree?”
“But that would be three thousand dollars—” the visitor began.
“Perfectly,” de Grandin interrupted. “The police will undertake the case for nothing.”
“But we can not have the police, as I have just explained—”
“You can not have us for less,” the Frenchman cut in. “This Monsieur Richards, I know him of old. He desires not the publicity of a search by the gendarmes, and, though he loves me not, he has confidence in my ability, otherwise he would not have sent you. Go to him and say Jules de Grandin will act for him for no less fee than that I have mentioned. Meantime, will you smoke?”
He passed a box of my cigars to the caller, held a lighted match for him, and refused to listen to another word concerning the business which had brought Gervaise on the twenty-mile jaunt from Springville.
“TROWBRIDGE, MON VIEUX,” HE informed me the following morning at breakfast, “I assure you it pays handsomely to be firm with these captains of industry, such as Monsieur Richards. Before you had arisen, my friend, that man of wealth was haggling with me over the telephone as though we were a pair of dealers in second-hand furniture. Morbleu, it was like an auction. Bid by bid he raised his offer for our services until he met my figure. Today his attorneys prepare a formal document, agreeing to pay us five hundred dollars for the explanation of the disappearance of each of those six little orphans. A good morning’s business, n’est-ce-pas?”
“De Grandin,” I told him, “you’re wasting your talents in this work. You should have gone into Wall Street.”
“Eh bien,” he twisted the tips of his little blond mustache complacently, “I think I do very well as it is. When I return to la belle France next mouth I shall take with me upward of fifty thousand dollars—more than a million francs—as a result of my work here. That sum is not to be sneezed upon, my friend. And what is of even more value to me, I take with me the gratitude of many of your countrymen whose burdens I have been able to lighten. Mordieu, yes, this trip has been of great use to me, my old one.”
“And—” I began.
“And tomorrow we shall visit this home of the orphans where Monsieur Gervaise nurses his totally inexplicable mystery. Parbleu, that mystery shall be explained, or Jules de Grandin is seven thousand francs poorer!
“All arrangements have been made,” he confided as we drove over to Springville the following morning. “It would never do for us to announce ourselves as investigators, my friend, so what surer disguise can we assume than that of being ourselves? You and I, are we not physicians? But certainly. Very well. As physicians we shall appear at the home, and as physicians we shall proceed to inspect all the little ones—separately and alone—for are we not to give them the Schick test for diphtheria immunity! Most assuredly.”
“And then—?” I began, but he cut my question in two with a quick gesture and a smile.
“And then, my friend, we shall be guided by circumstances, and if there are no circumstances, cordieu, but we shall make them! Allons, there is much to do before we handle Monsieur Richards’ check.”
HOWEVER DARK THE MYSTERY overhanging the Springville Orphans’ Home might have been, nothing indicating it was apparent as de Grandin and I drove through the imposing stone gateway to the spacious grounds. Wide, smoothly kept lawns, dotted here and there with beds of brightly blooming flowers, clean, tastefully arranged buildings of red brick in the Georgian style, and a general air of prosperity, happiness and peace greeted us as we brought our car to a halt before the main building of the home. Within, the youngsters were at chapel, and their clear young voices rose pure and sweet as bird-songs in springtime to the accompaniment of a mellow-toned organ:
There’s a home for little children
Above the bright blue sky,
Where Jesus reigns in glory,
A home of peace and joy;
No earthly home is like it,
Nor can with it compare …
We tiptoed into the spacious assembly room, dimly lit through tall, painted windows, and waited at the rear of the hall till the morning exercises were concluded. Right and left de Grandin shot his keen, stock-taking glance, inspecting the rows of neatly clothed little ones in the pews, attractive young female attendants, and the mild-faced, gray-haired lady of matronly appearance who presided at the organ. “Mordieu, Friend Trowbridge,” he muttered in my ear, “truly, this is mysterious. Why should any of the pauvres orphelins voluntarily quit such a place as this?”
“S-s-sh!” I cut him off. His habit of talking in and out of season, whether at a funeral, a wedding or other religious service, had annoyed me more than once. As usual, he took the rebuke in good part and favored me with an elfish grin, then fell to studying an elongated figure representing a female saint in one of the stained-glass windows, winking at the beatified lady in a highly irreverent manner.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Mr. Gervaise greeted us as the home’s inmates filed past us, two by two. “Everything is arranged for your inspection. The children will be brought to you in my office as soon as you are ready for them. Mrs. Martin”—he turned with a smile to the white-haired organist who had joined us—“these are Dr. de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge. They are going to inspect the children for diphtheria immunity this morning.”
To us he added: “Mrs. Martin is our matron. Next to myself she has entire charge of the home. We call her ‘Mother Martin,’ and all our little ones love her as though she were really their own mother.”
“How do you do?” the matron acknowledged the introduction, favoring us with a smile of singular sweetness and extending her hand to each of us in turn.
“Madame,” de Grandin took her smo
oth, white hand in his, American fashion, then bowed above it, raising it to his lips, “your little charges are indeed more than fortunate to bask in the sunshine of your ministrations!” It seemed to me he held the lady’s hand longer than necessity required, but like all his countrymen my little friend was more than ordinarily susceptible to the influence of a pretty woman, young or elderly.
“And now, Monsieur, if you please—” He resigned Mother Martin’s plump hand regretfully and turned to the superintendent, his slim, black brows arched expectantly.
“Of course,” Gervaise replied. “This way, if you please.”
“It would be better if we examined the little ones separately and without any of the attendants being present,” de Grandin remarked in a businesslike tone, placing his medicine case on the desk and unfolding a white jacket.
“But surely you can not hope to glean any information from the children!” the superintendent protested. “I thought you were simply going to make a pretense of examining them as a blind. Mrs. Martin and I have questioned every one of them most carefully, and I assure you there is absolutely nothing to be gained by going over that ground again. Besides, some of them have become rather nervous, and we don’t want to have their little heads filled with disagreeable notions, you know. I think it would be much better if Mother Martin or I were present while the children are examined. It would give them greater confidence, you know—”
“Monsieur”—de Grandin spoke in the level, toneless voice he assumed before one of his wild outbursts of anger—“you will please do exactly as I command. Otherwise—” He paused significantly and began removing the clinical smock.
“Oh, by no means, my dear sir,” the superintendent hastened to assure him. “No, no; I wouldn’t for the world have you think I was trying to put difficulties in your way. Oh, no; I only thought—”
“Monsieur,” the little Frenchman repeated, “from this time onward, until we dismiss the case, I shall do the thinking. You will kindly have the children brought to me, one at a time.”
To see the spruce little scientist among the children was a revelation to me. Always tart of speech to the verge of bitterness, with a keen, mordant wit which cut like a razor or scratched like a briar, de Grandin seemed the last one to glean information from children naturally timid in the presence of a doctor. But his smile grew brighter and brighter and his humor better and better as child after child entered the office, answered a few seemingly idle questions and passed from the room. At length a little girl, some four or five years old, came in, the hem of her blue pinafore twisted between her plump baby fingers in embarrassment.
“Ah,” de Grandin breathed, “here is one from whom we shall obtain something of value, my friend, or I much miss my guess.
“Holà, ma petite tête de chou!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers at the tot. “Come hither and tell Dr. de Grandin all about it!”
His “little cabbage-head” gave him an answering smile, but one of somewhat doubtful quality. “Dr. Grandin not hurt Betsy?” she asked, half confidently, half fearsomely.
“Parbleu, not I, my pigeon,” he replied as he lifted her to the desk. “Regardez-vous!” from the pocket of his jacket he produced a little box of bonbons and thrust them into her chubby hand. “Eat them, my little onion,” he commanded. “Tête du diable, but they are an excellent medicine for loosening the tongue!”
Nothing loth, the little girl began munching the sweetmeats, regarding her new friend with wide, wondering eyes. “They said you would hurt me—cut my tongue out with a knife if I talked to you,” she informed him, then paused to pop another chocolate button into her mouth.
“Mort d’un chat, did they, indeed?” he demanded. “And who was the vile, detestable one who so slandered Jules de Grandin? I shall—s-s-sh!” he interrupted himself, turning and crossing the office in three long, catlike leaps. At the entrance he paused a moment, then grasped the handle and jerked the door suddenly open.
On the sill, looking decidedly surprised, stood Mr. Gervaise.
“Ah, Monsieur,” de Grandin’s voice held an ugly, rasping note as he glared directly into the superintendent’s eyes, “you are perhaps seeking for something? Yes?”
“Er—yes,” Gervaise coughed softly, dropping his gaze before the Frenchman’s blazing stare. “Er—that is—you see, I left my pencil here this morning, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I came to get it. I was just going to rap when—”
“When I saved you the labor, n’est-ce-pas?” the other interrupted. “Very good, my friend. Here”—hastening to the desk he grabbed a handful of miscellaneous pencils, pens and other writing implements, including a stick of marking chalk—“take these, and get gone, in the name of the good God.” He thrust the utensils into the astonished superintendent’s hands, then turned to me, the gleam in his little blue eyes and the heightened color in his usually pale cheeks showing his barely suppressed rage. “Trowbridge, mon vieux,” he almost hissed, “I fear I shall have to impress you into service as a guard. Stand at the outer door, my friend, and should anyone come seeking pens, pencils, paint-brushes or printing presses, have the goodness to boot him away. Me, I do not relish having people looking for pencils through the keyhole of the door while I interrogate the children!”
Thereafter I remained on guard outside the office while child after child filed into the room, talked briefly with de Grandin, and left by the farther door.
“WELL, DID YOU FIND out anything worth while?” I asked when the examination was finally ended.
“U’m,” he responded, stroking his mustache thoughtfully, “yes and no. With children of a tender age, as you know, the line of demarcation between recollection and imagination is none too clearly drawn. The older ones could tell me nothing; the younger ones relate a tale of a ‘white lady’ who visited the dormitory on each night a little one disappeared, but what does that mean? Some attendant making a nightly round? Perhaps a window curtain blown by the evening breeze? Maybe it had no surer foundation than some childish whim, seized and enlarged upon by the other little ones. There is little we can go on at this time, I fear.
“Meanwhile,” his manner brightened, “I think I hear the sound of the dinner gong. Parbleu, I am as hungry as a carp and empty as a kettledrum. Let us hasten to the refectory.”
Dinner was a silent meal. Superintendent Gervaise seemed ill at ease under de Grandin’s sarcastic stare, and the other attendants who shared the table with us took their cue from their chief and conversation languished before the second course was served. Nevertheless, de Grandin seemed to enjoy everything set before him to the uttermost, and made strenuous efforts to entertain Mrs. Martin, who sat immediately to his right.
“But Madame,” he insisted when the lady refused a serving of the excellent beef which constituted the roast course, “surely you will not reject this so excellent roast! Remember, it is the best food possible for humanity, for not only does it contain the nourishment we need, but great quantities of iron are to be found in it, as well. Come, permit that I help you to that which is at once food and tonic!”
“No, thank you,” the matron replied, looking at the juicy roast with a glance almost of repugnance. “I am a vegetarian.”
“How terrible!” de Grandin commiserated, as though she had confessed some overwhelming calamity.
“Yes, Mother Martin’s been subsisting entirely on vegetables for the last six months,” one of the nurses, a plump, red-cheeked girl, volunteered. “She used to eat as much meat as any of us, but all of a sudden she turned against, it, and—oh, Mrs. Martin!”
The matron had risen from her chair, leaning half-way across the table, and the expression on her countenance was enough to justify the girl’s exclamation. Her face had gone pale—absolutely livid—her lips were drawn back against her teeth like those of a snarling animal, and her eyes seemed to protrude from their sockets as they blazed into the startled girl’s. It seemed to me that not only rage, but something like loathing and fear were expressed in h
er blazing orbs as she spoke in a low, passionate voice: “Miss Bosworth, what I used to do and what I do now are entirely my own business. Please do not meddle with my affairs!”
For a moment silence reigned at the table, but the Frenchman saved the situation by remarking, “Tiens, Madame, the fervor of the convert is ever greater than that of those to the manner born. The Buddhist, who eats no meat from his birth, is not half so strong in defense of his diet as the lately converted European vegetarian!”
To me, as we left the dining hall, he confided, “A charming meal, most interesting and instructive. Now, my friend, I would that you drive me home at once, immediately. I wish to borrow a dog from Sergeant Costello.”
“What!” I responded incredulously. “You want to borrow a—”
“Perfectly. A dog. A police dog, if you please. I think we shall have use for the animal this night.”
“Oh, all right,” I agreed. The workings of his agile mind were beyond me, and I knew it would be useless to question him.
SHORTLY AFTER SUNDOWN WE returned to the Springville home, a large and by no means amiable police dog, lent us by the local constabulary, sharing the car with us.
“You will engage Monsieur Gervaise in conversation, if you please,” my companion commanded as we stopped before the younger children’s dormitory. “While you do so, I shall assist this so excellent brute into the hall where the little ones sleep and tether him in such manner that he can not reach any of his little room-mates, yet can easily dispute passage with anyone attempting to enter the apartment. Tomorrow morning we shall be here early enough to remove him before any of the attendants who may enter the dormitory on legitimate business can be bitten. As for others—” He shrugged his shoulders and prepared to lead the lumbering brute into the sleeping quarters.
His program worked perfectly. Mr. Gervaise was nothing loth to talk with me about the case, and I gathered that he had taken de Grandin’s evident dislike much to heart. Again and again he assured me, almost with tears in his eyes, that he had not the least intention of eavesdropping when he was discovered at the office door, but that he had really come in search of a pencil. It seemed he used a special indelible lead in making out his reports, and had discovered that the only one he possessed was in the office after we had taken possession. His protestations were so earnest that I left him convinced de Grandin had done him an injustice.
The Horror on the Links Page 41
