Grace watched the other as he finished drinking his absinthe and lit a cigarette. Presently he went over to the cot and, throwing himself upon it, was soon snoring loudly.
The long hot afternoon wore itself on. Grace leaned back against the wall of the closet, weak from the nervous tension of the situation. The place was hot and close. She felt faint from lack of air, from hunger. At times she dozed off, then recovered herself with a start, and stood trembling, fearful lest she had made some noise which might attract the attention of the sleeping man.
After a time, the low complaining of the child began again, at first faint and seemingly far off, then growing in volume, until the tearful cries of "Let me out – let me out!" seemed to come from a point scarcely beyond the reach of her hand.
The child's complaints at last awoke the sleeping man. With a muttered curse he rose, crossed the room, and disappeared from sight. Grace heard a low scraping sound, as of a panel being drawn back, and presently the man again appeared with the child, and again supplied him with bread and milk.
After he had eaten, the man gave him a magazine with bright-colored pictures in it, to amuse him, and lay on the bed, smoking. The boy sat on the floor, looking at the book.
Once or twice he tried to speak, but the man sharply bade him be quiet. About sundown, a step was heard on the stairs, and once again the boy was hastily placed in his hiding place, with threats of punishment if he cried.
The new arrival was only a model, in search of work. The man spoke to her gruffly, and informed her that he had all the models he needed. After she left, he did not again release the child, but sat, reading, for a long time.
At last he rose, took up the short black cylinder, which Grace saw was an electric searchlight, from the table, and went over and sat in the sill of the large double window which faced to the north. The window was open, and the room in darkness.
Grace pushed the door of her closet open slightly, so as to get a better view. The window was directly opposite the closet, at the other end of the room. She could see the silent figure of the watcher, silhouetted blackly against the night sky without. Off to the north were many lights – the lights of the houses toward the Champs Élysées, and the Arc de Triomphe.
For many minutes she watched, over the man's shoulder, waiting for the signal which would set both herself and Mr. Stapleton's boy free from their long confinement.
Presently she heard the man utter a quick oath, and saw him peer out of the window, his figure tense and rigid, a pair of field glasses held to his eyes. In another moment he had dropped the glasses, picked up his electric searchlight, and flashed a signal into the darkness.
It took him but a moment. In another he had rushed to the door, and Grace heard him turn the key in the lock and clatter down the stairs.
She crept swiftly to the window and looked out. At first she could see nothing, but a confused maze of lights. In a moment she had seized the field glasses and was nervously sweeping the horizon. Suddenly she held them still for a moment, then drew back with a cry of dismay. Far off toward the Avenue Kleber there gleamed a light, high in the upper room of a house. It shone for a few moments, steady, baleful, full of unknown terror, then winked suddenly out and was gone. She dropped the field glasses upon the floor and staggered back against the table. The light was red! She was locked in. The two men would undoubtedly be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. And then – she shuddered as she thought of what they intended to do to the kidnapped child. To herself she gave scarcely a thought. Then Richard's face came before her eyes, and she fell upon the window seat, sobbing bitterly.
CHAPTER XVI
WHEN Monsieur Lefevre touched Richard Duvall on the shoulder, in the restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiens, he was filled with a very great feeling of anxiety, although he concealed it behind a mask of pleased surprise at the unexpected meeting.
Since early the evening before he had had no word from Grace. He knew from Mr. Stapleton that she had left his house a short while after nine; but since then she had completely disappeared.
The Prefect at first thought that she had been unable to keep her identity from her husband any longer, and had joined him. He later learned from Vernet that this was not the case. Now the old gentleman began to feel seriously alarmed at her continued absence.
"How goes everything, my friend?" he asked, with an elaborate show of carelessness. "Have you found the kidnappers yet?"
Duvall smiled. "Not yet. But I expect to have them, before the evening is over."
"Indeed! I congratulate you. Have you seen anything of Mademoiselle Goncourt?"
"No. Why?"
"I thought perhaps you might have met her. You two are after the same game, you know."
Duvall smiled grimly. "I don't believe she's following the same trail that I am," he said. "I expect to win that bet, Monsieur."
The Prefect seemed a trifle uneasy. "The evening is not yet over, Monsieur," he replied. "But, in any event, I hope that Monsieur Stapleton's son will be returned to him without further delay, whoever brings about the result."
"Come to his house tonight, Monsieur. I have arranged a little matter with Vernet which may surprise you. And then, too, we shall have to go and get the boy." He rose, and took up his hat. "We shall want you with us."
"By all means. I shall be there, my friend. What hour would you suggest?"
"Half past eight, at the latest."
"Good! I shall be there at that time. Good day, mon ami."
"Au revoir. Give my respects to Mademoiselle Goncourt." He left the restaurant and, going to his room at the hotel, proceeded to write a long letter to Grace. He reproached her for not having written to him. Here he had been in Paris four days, and had not heard a word from her! A letter, he felt, should have come by the very next steamer – several, in fact. He told her how greatly he missed her, how deeply he loved her, and how soon he hoped to return to her arms. And even as he wrote, Grace, half dead from fatigue, stood hidden in the closet at Passy, a mile away, watching with frightened eyes the kidnapper asleep on the pallet bed.
Duvall had arranged to be at Mr. Stapleton's house a little before eight that night, and it still lacked twenty minutes of the hour when he ascended the steps of the banker's residence and was ushered into the library.
Mr. Stapleton sat in grim silence, awaiting the coming of his visitor. He did not seem particularly glad to see Duvall. The latter's apparent failure to make any headway in the matter of recovering his missing boy had caused the banker to lose confidence in his abilities.
"Good evening, Duvall," he remarked, indifferently.
"Good evening, Mr. Stapleton. You are ready for your man, I see." He glanced at the package of banknotes which lay at the banker's elbow.
"Quite. You have done nothing to interfere with his coming or going, I trust."
"Nothing."
Stapleton glanced at the clock. "He will be here very soon, now. May I ask you to wait in my study, upstairs? It would never do for you to be here. The man might be afraid to enter."
"No – you are right. I must not be here. But I prefer not to wait in the study. I have another plan."
"What is it?" inquired the banker, uneasily.
"Where is François, your chauffeur?"
"At his dinner, I believe. Why?"
"Will you kindly find out for sure? I want to go to his room."
Mr. Stapleton summoned a servant, who told him that the chauffeur was just finishing his dinner. "You will be very careful, Duvall," he said, anxiously. "I don't want anything done which will alarm these fellows."
"Oh, François won't see me. I shall keep out of his sight. Perhaps I had better go up now." He nodded to the banker, and at once ascended the stairs which lead to the servants' quarters.
At the door of the chauffeur's room he paused. It was closed. He pushed it gently open, and in a moment was in the room. The place was quite dark; but by means of a pocket light Duvall soon found the closet, and a moment later was safely ensconced within. He left the door ajar, and to his satisfaction found that he could see through the north window without difficulty. Here he waited, until the chauffeur should arrive.
Mr. Stapleton, meanwhile, sat grimly in the library below, waiting for the coming of the kidnapper. Promptly at eight o'clock, his butler announced that the man had arrived.
"Show him in at once," exclaimed the banker, as he rose and began to walk up and down the room.
In a moment the man came into the library. His powerful figure, his black beard, his assured manner, rendered him an easily recognized figure.
"I have come, Monsieur, as I said I would," he remarked, calmly. "I trust you have the money in readiness."
Stapleton stepped over to the desk and picked up the package of banknotes. "Here it is," he growled. "I understand that you will, in return for this money, send me word at once as to where my son is to be found."
"Within half an hour, Monsieur, at the latest; provided, of course, I am not interfered with in my escape."
"There will be no interference, until I get back my boy. After that, I shall spend another hundred thousand dollars, if need be, to bring you to justice."
"That, Monsieur, is quite within the terms of our agreement. The moment you receive the address, you are free from any obligation to me. May I see the money?" He extended his hand.
Mr. Stapleton placed the banknotes in it. "Count them," he growled, "and assure yourself that you have received the amount you demand."
The kidnapper sat down with the utmost coolness and began to count over the notes. They were all of large denomination, and the operation consumed but a few moments. As soon as he had finished, the man placed the bundle of notes carefully in an inside pocket and rose. "The amount is correct, Monsieur," he said. "Permit me to bid you a very good evening." Without further delay, he bowed, took up his hat, and left the room.
At the door he glanced quickly at his watch, then strode off up the street at a rapid pace, toward the Arc de Triomphe.
For some eight or ten minutes he walked, at the expiration of which time he arrived at the Place de l'Étoile, and at once crossed to the pavement surrounding the great triumphal arch.
Up and down the twelve great avenues which radiate from the Place of the Star flashed innumerable automobiles, coming and going like huge jeweled fireflies.
The kidnapper paused at a point on the very outer edge of the circular pavement which surrounds the arch, and waited, expectant, his eyes fixed upon the broad sweep of the Champs Élysées.
For some moments he stood thus, rigid, motionless. Suddenly a big black racing car swept from the line of traffic and approached the curb. The man on the sidewalk raised his hand, and made a momentary gesture. The car quivered to the side of the street, pausing but the fraction of a second as the tall figure of the kidnapper stepped in. Another moment, and it had swept around the great arch and was flying down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.
Close behind it came a second car, which, like the first, contained but a single occupant in addition to the chauffeur. With scarcely fifty feet between them, the two machines swept down the broad street toward the intersection with the Avenue Malakoff.
In a few moments, both had reached it. But here their ways parted. The first car, turning in a quick and dangerous quadrant, swept into the Avenue Malakoff and sped southward like the wind. The second car continued on toward the Porte Dauphine. As it passed the intersection with the Avenue Malakoff, the chauffeur, unobserved by his passenger, directed a cylindrical black object toward the southern sky and held it there, motionless, until his car had disappeared in the shadow of the trees to the west.
Just inside the Avenue Malakoff lay a third car, its powerful engine shaking it from end to end with its rapid pulsations. Two men sat in the tonneau. One of them was occupied in watching a distant window in the rear of a house on the Avenue Kleber with a pair of field glasses. The other kept his gaze fixed upon the road before him.
Suddenly the man with the field glasses turned, and pointed toward the car which was just passing from sight along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. "Quick!" he muttered. "After him!"
The automobile shot forward like a racehorse under the whip, and in a moment was flying down the avenue in hot pursuit.
The foremost car was making high speed; but the one which pursued it was clearly the faster of the two. Slowly the space which separated them began to decrease. The man in the first car spoke quietly to his chauffeur, and the great car jumped forward with renewed speed.
Vernet, in charge of the pursuing car, swore softly to himself as he saw his quarry pull away from him. He had confidence, however, in the speed of his own machine, and urged his driver to greater efforts.
For several miles the two swept on, the rear car gaining slowly, in spite of the other's best efforts. They had passed the fortifications and were now in the Bois de Boulogne, and with clearer roads ahead the chase seemed likely to be a long one.
Suddenly, to Vernet's astonishment, the forward car began to slow up. In a moment the Prefect's men ranged alongside, and covered the solitary passenger with their revolvers.
"Surrender!" Vernet cried. "You are my prisoner."
The man in the other car looked up, and calmly began to light a cigarette. "Are you a bandit, my friend?" he inquired, calmly.
The detective was taken aback. The two cars had now come to a standstill at one side of the road. "Search him!" he said quickly to his companion.
The second man climbed into the car. Its occupant made no protest. "What do you wish with me, gentlemen?" he asked, with a sarcastic smile. "My watch – my money?"
"The searchlight, first of all," replied the detective, "with which you signaled."
The man looked at him in astonishment. "What are you talking about, Monsieur?" he inquired. "Is this then a joke?"
Vernet began to feel a trifle uneasy. This man certainly did not appear to resemble in any way the prisoner he had sought. He was a clean-shaven young man, elegantly dressed, and quite evidently a gentleman. "Do you deny," asked the detective, "that on passing the Avenue Malakoff a few moments ago you flashed a blue light toward the Avenue Kleber?"
The young man laughed. "Of course I deny it," he said. "Why the devil should I be flashing blue lights at the Avenue Kleber? And who are you, to ask me any such nonsensical questions?"
"I am an agent of the police, Monsieur. Who are you?"
"I am Anton Lemaitre, stock broker, of the firm of Lemaitre and Bossard." He handed a card to the dumbfounded Vernet. "I am trying a new automobile, which I think of purchasing. My chauffeur proposed that we try it out in the Bois, where there is more opportunity to speed than in the city."
"Why did you then run away?"
"My dear sir, I saw you following me. I wish to own a fast car – the fastest car in Paris, if possible. I directed my driver to see what he could do. I do not believe, however, that I shall now buy the car, since yours is faster. What make is it, Monsieur, if I may ask?"
Vernet smothered an oath. Clearly this man was telling the truth. He directed his companion to get in with Monsieur Lemaitre. "Drive to the Prefecture," he said, "and let the gentleman tell his story to Monsieur Lefevre." He himself ordered his chauffeur to proceed with all despatch to Mr. Stapleton's house. The affair had ended in a fiasco. He felt that he must see Duvall at once.
In fifteen minutes he was at the house. Mr. Stapleton was waiting patiently in the library for the telephone call which would announce the hiding place of his boy. With him were Mrs. Stapleton and Monsieur Lefevre.
The poor man and his wife were in a pitiable state, their eyes glued to the clock which stood on the mantel. It was marked twenty-six minutes past eight. "Only four minutes more!" gasped Mrs. Stapleton, through her tears. "My God! why don't they hurry?"
Her husband endeavored to console her. "They may be a few moments late, my dear. Don't excite yourself. I am sure they will keep their word."
Vernet went over to Monsieur Lefevre and explained the events of the evening in a few words. The Prefect smiled grimly. "So Monsieur Duvall has failed again!" he remarked, in a low voice. "Mon Dieu! If we do not soon hear from Mademoiselle Goncourt, I shall begin to feel nervous myself."
Slowly the hands of the clock crept around. As the half hour was reached, and the telephone bell remained silent, Mrs. Stapleton uttered a groan of despair, and sank upon the couch, weeping pitifully. Mr. Stapleton, watch in hand, paced up and down the room. "They have been interfered with," he stormed, "or they would have communicated with me before now!" He turned to Monsieur Lefevre. "You have done nothing, I hope, to again prevent me from recovering my son?"
"Nothing, Monsieur."
Mr. Stapleton waited another five minutes. It now wanted twenty minutes to nine. The telephone bell remained persistently silent. The banker closed his watch with a snap and thrust it into his pocket. His face was pale with rage and suffering. Drops of perspiration collected on his forehead. "The scoundrels!" he cried. "They have broken their word, and robbed me of a hundred thousand dollars in the bargain. I will give another hundred thousand to the man who will capture them, dead or alive, and find my boy!"
There was a profound silence, broken only by the quick sobbing of Mrs. Stapleton. Neither Lefevre nor Vernet ventured to speak.
Suddenly there arose sounds of a commotion among the servants gathered in the hall without. In their devotion to their employer they had collected there to welcome the lost boy. There were exclamations, cries of astonishment – and dismay.
The occupants of the room turned in surprise toward the door. As they did so, Richard Duvall appeared in the doorway. He staggered, and with difficulty supported himself by clutching the side of the door. His face was covered with blood, his clothes torn and disheveled.
He swayed a moment, unsteadily in the door.
"What is it – what is wrong?" cried Stapleton, starting toward him.
"The child is at 42 Rue Nicolo, Passy," gasped the detective, then fell heavily upon the library floor.
CHAPTER XVII
RICHARD DUVALL, waiting with nervous impatience in the closet in François' room, at last heard a soft and guarded step upon the stairs. He drew back, his muscles tense, and gazed fixedly at the door.
Although the room was dark, the glow of the street lamps from without, the faint light of the evening sky, sufficed, now that his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, to enable him not only to recognize the chauffeur as he entered the room, but to follow his movements with little or no difficulty.
The man seemed hurried. He groped his way to the dresser at the opposite side of the room, and felt about for the searchlight which Duvall knew lay within easy reach.
Having secured it, he directed it for a brief moment upon his watch, noted the time, then, going to the door, opened it, and began to listen intently.
The detective at once surmised that he was listening for the departure of his confederate, the man with the black beard.
Presently the chauffeur drew back, closing the door with a grunt of satisfaction, and once more approached the dresser. Duvall concluded that he had gone to get the colored glasses by which he would be able to make the required signals.
In a moment he returned to the window, and Duvall saw him place the two glass cups upon the sill, and lean out expectantly.
It seemed a long time before he stirred. The detective, looking over his shoulder, found that his line of vision was interrupted so that he could not see the lights which flashed past the entrance of the Avenue Malakoff. He was forced to content himself with keeping a close watch upon the chauffeur.
Suddenly the man, by an almost instantaneous movement, clapped one of the little glass cups over the end of the tube which formed the searchlight, and directed it toward the street. Duvall could not tell whether the signal was blue, or red. He had every reason to believe, however, that it was the former.
The chauffeur held the tube upon the window sill for a few seconds only, then withdrew it, and started to cross the room toward the south window. As he did so, he swept the light into the room, and for an instant it fell upon the crack in the closet door through which Duvall was peering. He was conscious of a blinding blue radiance, close to his eyes, and the sudden flash caused him to draw back with a quick and involuntary movement. He realized that the chauffeur had not seen him, and that, in a few moments more, the signal would be given which would bring untold happiness to both Mr. Stapleton and his wife.
The momentary recoil, however, was fatal to his plans. Although he moved his head but a fraction of an inch, the suddenness of the movement was sufficient to cause a metal coat hanger, which hung, empty, from a hook, to click sharply against its neighbor.
The chauffeur spun around with the quickness of a cat, and, grasping the knob of the closet door, threw it open. In his hand he still clutched the tube of the searchlight.
Duvall at the same moment reached for the revolver which lay in a side pocket of his coat. He realized instantly that, now that his presence had been discovered, the chauffeur would of course not send the signal to his confederates in Passy which would result in the telephoning of the address to Mr. Stapleton, but would on the contrary flash a red signal, which the detective fully believed would result in the child's death.
It was imperative that this should be prevented. Duvall had determined to be present in the chauffeur's room for two reasons, – first, to send the favorable signal to Passy himself, should things go wrong, and the chauffeur receive a red flash from the street; secondly, to arrest François in the act of receiving and sending the signals.
He now realized that he must do both, and that, too, without a moment's delay.
As the chauffeur threw open the door he flashed the blue light full upon the crouching figure of the detective.
The latter, revolver in hand, commanded him sharply to throw up his hands.
The chauffeur did so – thereby directing the light of the electric lamp toward the ceiling. The sudden change from the glare which an instant before had been in his eyes, to almost total darkness, left Duvall momentarily blind. His eyes could not instantaneously respond to the withdrawal of the light. The figure of the chauffeur appeared but a dark and formless shadow.
The latter, however, not having faced the glare of the light, was able to see without difficulty. With lightning like quickness he spun around on one foot, until his back instead of his face was toward the detective. Then his right foot rose, in the famous and deadly blow of the savate.
It has been said that this backward kick, so dear to the heart of the Parisian crook, is more to be feared than any possible onslaught in good old Anglo-Saxon style with the fists. Certainly in this instance it was too much for Richard Duvall. The unexpected blow, coming during the moment when the sudden darkness had left him blinded and confused, sent him crashing back into the depths of the closet, buried beneath a mass of clothing. His arms, entangled in falling coats and waistcoats, were helpless. The revolver flew from his hand, and lay useless on the floor.
The chauffeur went about his business calmly. His first move was to direct the searchlight carefully into the interior of the closet, slipping the blue cup from the end of it as he did so and allowing it to fall unheeded to the floor. His second was to draw a long and peculiarly deadly looking knife.
His quick eye saw at once that the revolver was no longer in the detective's grasp. His searchlight enabled him to discern it, lying on the floor to one side of the closet. Before Duvall could extricate himself from the articles of clothing in which he was entangled, François had stooped quickly, picked up the revolver, and slammed the door of the closet upon him. As he struggled to his feet, the detective heard the click of the key as it turned in the lock. He was a prisoner.
Without losing a moment, the chauffeur tossed the revolver upon the table, took up the cup-shaped bit of red glass, fitted it to the tube of the searchlight, and, going to the south window, placed it upon the sill in such a way that its crimson glare was directed almost due south. It was evident that the position in which the light was placed was marked by the two tiny scratches cut in the woodwork of the window sill. In a moment he had turned back toward the closet door.
Duvall, meanwhile, realized that only by instant and superhuman effort could he hope to remedy the frightful situation which his unlucky movement had precipitated.
He braced his shoulders and back against the rear wall of the closet, put his two feet against the door, and with every atom of strength in his body strove to force it open.
His movements had been quick. Just as the chauffeur turned back from the window toward the room, Duvall, his muscles knotted with effort, drove the full force of his body against the closet door.
The lock, a cheap affair, was torn loose in a twinkling, and an instant later the two men had grappled in the center of the room.
The detective's one desire was to get to the window, remove the red light which he knew was flashing its fateful message across the housetops, and substitute for it a blue light, which he hoped even now might shine forth in time to redeem the situation.
This, however, the chauffeur was equally determined to prevent. He realized that he was caught, that his complicity in the affair was known, and that he must warn his comrades of his danger, so that, by refusing to give up the boy, they might effect his release. He was fighting for his liberty as desperately as Duvall was fighting for that of Mr. Stapleton's child.
The two men were evenly matched. The chauffeur was perhaps the stronger, in shoulders and arms, due to his profession. The constant grip upon the steering wheel had given to his upper body muscles like steel.
The detective, though somewhat less powerful in this direction, was stronger in the back and legs. He had been an athlete, at college, and his recent life upon the farm at home had toughened and hardened him from head to foot.
He rushed at his opponent, threw his arms around the latter's waist, and strove to lift him and throw him to the floor.
The chauffeur at the same time got his right arm about Duvall's throat, and with his left did his best to gouge out one of the latter's eyes. His was the style of fighting that considers not means, but results.
For a moment they swayed heavily about the room, the detective burying his face in his opponent's side to protect his eyes, and at the same time striving with all his might to force him back toward the bed.
François, however, fought well. He began to compress his adversary's throat in a choking grip of wrist and forearm which threatened to put an end to the struggle in short order. At the same time his left thumb continually sought the detective's eyes.
Suddenly it reached one of them. Duvall felt a blinding sense of pain as the thumb nail sank into the soft and tender muscles about the eye. The shock was fatal to the plans of the chauffeur; for it raised up in his opponent a great and deadly rage, that for an instant gave him the strength of a madman. He raised his opponent from the floor as though the latter had been a child, broke the grip upon his throat by straightening his head, and with a mighty heave hurled him to the floor.
The fellow struck upon his side, his temple crashing loudly against the wooden floor. Duvall stood over him for an instant, breathing heavily, convulsively, then turned and snatched the searchlight from the window sill and threw it upon the bed.
There was a trunk against the wall of the room, near the window, and about it a broad leather strap. Duvall tore the strap from its place, and in a few moments had fastened it about the chauffeur's arms and body.
A towel, knotted about his ankles, rendered him helpless. Then the detective began to search upon the floor for the bit of blue glass.
In his heart there was no joy at the victory he had just won. He had captured one of the kidnappers, it was true; but on the other hand he had, by his own carelessness, prevented the safe return of the kidnapped boy to his parents.
He pictured the father and mother, patiently waiting below for the telephone message which would never come, and wondered how he would dare to tell them the truth.
At last his nervous fingers closed upon the little glass cup, where it had rolled under the edge of the dresser when François had thrown it down. Trembling with haste, he fixed it to the searchlight which he took from the bed, and, with a hopeless feeling, approached the window, and began to wave the light frantically in the direction of Passy.
For several moments there was no response. As a matter of fact, he scarcely expected any. Then all of a sudden he saw a faint red gleam, like a star, flash from the distant night, and then go out.
He stood, helpless, waiting for it to reappear, hardly daring to hope that it would do so. Suddenly it shone again, this time for a longer period, and then disappeared. He wondered what it meant, and was scarcely surprised when the light again flashed, this time making five quick flashes, which he instantly recognized as Morse code for the letter "P." There was a brief interval, then once more the signals began to flash. This time he read them without difficulty. There were four letters, spelling the word "Help."