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

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?”

“To Madame Boissegur,” replied Miss Thorne. “I have the envelope in which it came. It was mailed at the general post-office at half-past one o’clock this afternoon, so the canceling stamp shows, and the envelope was addressed, as the letter was written, on a typewriter.”

“And how,” inquired Mr. Grimm, after a long pause, “how did it come into your possession?” He waited a little. “Why didn’t Monsieur Rigolot report this development to me this afternoon when I was here?”

“Monsieur Rigolot did not inform you of it because he didn’t know of it himself,” she replied, answering the last question first. “It came into my possession directly from the hands of Madame Boissegur—she gave it to me.”

“Why?”

Mr. Grimm was peering through the inscrutable darkness, straight into her face—a white daub in the gloom, shapeless, indistinct.

“I have known Madame Boissegur for half a dozen years,” Miss Thorne continued, in explanation. “We have been friends that long. I met her first in Tokio, later in Berlin, and within a few weeks, here in Washington. You see I have traveled in the time I have been an agent for my government. Well, Madame Boissegur received this letter about half-past four o’clock this afternoon; and about half-past five she sent for me and placed it in my hands, together with all the singular details following upon the ambassador’s disappearance. So, it would seem that you and I are allies for this once, and the problem is already solved. There merely remains the task of finding and releasing the ambassador.”

Mr. Grimm sat perfectly still.

“And why,” he asked slowly, “are you here now?”

“For the same reason that you are here,” she replied readily, “to see for myself if the—the person who twice came here at night—once for the ambassador’s letters and once for his cigarettes—would, by any chance, make another trip. I knew you were here, of course.”

“You knew I was here,” repeated Mr. Grimm musingly. “And, may I—?”

“Just as you knew that I, or some one, at least, had entered this house a few minutes ago,” she interrupted. “The automobile horn outside was a signal, wasn’t it? Hastings was in the car? Or was it Blair or Johnson?”

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