Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle Unknown (best fiction novels to read TXT) 📖

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.

XIII

A CONFERENCE IN THE DARK

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