CHAPTER XVI
When Monsieur Lefevre touched Richard Duvall on the shoulder, in therestaurant in the Boulevard des Italiens, he was filled with a verygreat feeling of anxiety, although he concealed it behind a mask ofpleased surprise at the unexpected meeting.
Since early the evening before he had had no word from Grace. He knewfrom 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 heridentity from her husband any longer, and had joined him. He laterlearned from Vernet that this was not the case. Now the old gentlemanbegan to feel seriously alarmed at her continued absence.
"How goes everything, my friend?" he asked, with an elaborate show ofcarelessness. "Have you found the kidnappers yet?"
Duvall smiled. "Not yet. But I expect to have them, before the eveningis over."
"Indeed! I congratulate you. Have you seen anything of MademoiselleGoncourt?"
"No. Why?"
"I thought perhaps you might have met her. You two are after the samegame, you know."
Duvall smiled grimly. "I don't believe she's following the same trailthat 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 MonsieurStapleton's son will be returned to him without further delay, whoeverbrings about the result."
"Come to his house tonight, Monsieur. I have arranged a little matterwith Vernet which may surprise you. And then, too, we shall have to goand get the boy." He rose, and took up his hat. "We shall want you withus."
"By all means. I shall be there, my friend. What hour would yousuggest?"
"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 therestaurant and, going to his room at the hotel, proceeded to write along 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, amile away, watching with frightened eyes the kidnapper asleep on thepallet bed.
Duvall had arranged to be at Mr. Stapleton's house a little before eightthat night, and it still lacked twenty minutes of the hour when heascended the steps of the banker's residence and was ushered into thelibrary.
Mr. Stapleton sat in grim silence, awaiting the coming of his visitor.He did not seem particularly glad to see Duvall. The latter's apparentfailure to make any headway in the matter of recovering his missing boyhad 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." Heglanced at the package of banknotes which lay at the banker's elbow.
"Quite. You have done nothing to interfere with his coming or going, Itrust."
"Nothing."
Stapleton glanced at the clock. "He will be here very soon, now. May Iask you to wait in my study, upstairs? It would never do for you to behere. The man might be afraid to enter."
"No--you are right. I must not be here. But I prefer not to wait in thestudy. I have another plan."
"What is it?" inquired the banker, uneasily.
"Where is Francois, 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 wasjust finishing his dinner. "You will be very careful, Duvall," he said,anxiously. "I don't want anything done which will alarm these fellows."
"Oh, Francois won't see me. I shall keep out of his sight. Perhaps I hadbetter go up now." He nodded to the banker, and at once ascended thestairs which lead to the servants' quarters.
At the door of the chauffeur's room he paused. It was closed. He pushedit gently open, and in a moment was in the room. The place was quitedark; but by means of a pocket light Duvall soon found the closet, and amoment later was safely ensconced within. He left the door ajar, and tohis satisfaction found that he could see through the north windowwithout difficulty. Here he waited, until the chauffeur should arrive.
Mr. Stapleton, meanwhile, sat grimly in the library below, waiting forthe coming of the kidnapper. Promptly at eight o'clock, his butlerannounced that the man had arrived.
"Show him in at once," exclaimed the banker, as he rose and began towalk up and down the room.
In a moment the man came into the library. His powerful figure, hisblack beard, his assured manner, rendered him an easily recognizedfigure.
"I have come, Monsieur, as I said I would," he remarked, calmly. "Itrust you have the money in readiness."
Stapleton stepped over to the desk and picked up the package ofbanknotes. "Here it is," he growled. "I understand that you will, inreturn for this money, send me word at once as to where my son is to befound."
"Within half an hour, Monsieur, at the latest; provided, of course, I amnot interfered with in my escape."
"There will be no interference, until I get back my boy. After that, Ishall spend another hundred thousand dollars, if need be, to bring youto justice."
"That, Monsieur, is quite within the terms of our agreement. The momentyou receive the address, you are free from any obligation to me. May Isee the money?" He extended his hand.
Mr. Stapleton placed the banknotes in it. "Count them," he growled, "andassure yourself that you have received the amount you demand."
The kidnapper sat down with the utmost coolness and began to count overthe notes. They were all of large denomination, and the operationconsumed but a few moments. As soon as he had finished, the man placedthe bundle of notes carefully in an inside pocket and rose. "The amountis correct, Monsieur," he said. "Permit me to bid you a very goodevening." Without further delay, he bowed, took up his hat, and leftthe room.
At the door he glanced quickly at his watch, then strode off up thestreet at a rapid pace, toward the Arc de Triomphe.
For some eight or ten minutes he walked, at the expiration of which timehe arrived at the Place de l'Etoile, and at once crossed to the pavementsurrounding the great triumphal arch.
Up and down the twelve great avenues which radiate from the Place of theStar flashed innumerable automobiles, coming and going like huge jeweledfireflies.
The kidnapper paused at a point on the very outer edge of the circularpavement which surrounds the arch, and waited, expectant, his eyes fixedupon the broad sweep of the Champs Elysees.
For some moments he stood thus, rigid, motionless. Suddenly a big blackracing car swept from the line of traffic and approached the curb. Theman on the sidewalk raised his hand, and made a momentary gesture. Thecar quivered to the side of the street, pausing but the fraction of asecond 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 duBois de Boulogne.
Close behind it came a second car, which, like the first, contained buta single occupant in addition to the chauffeur. With scarcely fifty feetbetween them, the two machines swept down the broad street toward theintersection with the Avenue Malakoff.
In a few moments, both had reached it. But here their ways parted. Thefirst car, turning in a quick and dangerous quadrant, swept into theAvenue Malakoff and sped southward like the wind. The second carcontinued on toward the Porte Dauphine. As it passed the intersectionwith the Avenue Malakoff, the chauffeur, unobserved by his passenger,directed a cylindrical black object toward the southern sky and held itthere, motionless, until his car had disappeared in the shadow of thetrees to the west.
Just inside the Avenue Malakoff l
ay a third car, its powerful engineshaking it from end to end with its rapid pulsations. Two men sat in thetonneau. One of them was occupied in watching a distant window in therear of a house on the Avenue Kleber with a pair of field glasses. Theother kept his gaze fixed upon the road before him.
Suddenly the man with the field glasses turned, and pointed toward thecar which was just passing from sight along the Avenue du Bois deBoulogne. "Quick!" he muttered. "After him!"
The automobile shot forward like a racehorse under the whip, and in amoment was flying down the avenue in hot pursuit.
The foremost car was making high speed; but the one which pursued it wasclearly the faster of the two. Slowly the space which separated thembegan to decrease. The man in the first car spoke quietly to hischauffeur, and the great car jumped forward with renewed speed.
Vernet, in charge of the pursuing car, swore softly to himself as he sawhis quarry pull away from him. He had confidence, however, in the speedof his own machine, and urged his driver to greater efforts.
For several miles the two swept on, the rear car gaining slowly, inspite of the other's best efforts. They had passed the fortificationsand were now in the Bois de Boulogne, and with clearer roads ahead thechase seemed likely to be a long one.
Suddenly, to Vernet's astonishment, the forward car began to slow up. Ina moment the Prefect's men ranged alongside, and covered the solitarypassenger with their revolvers.
"Surrender!" Vernet cried. "You are my prisoner."
The man in the other car looked up, and calmly began to light acigarette. "Are you a bandit, my friend?" he inquired, calmly.
The detective was taken aback. The two cars had now come to a standstillat 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. "Whatdo you wish with me, gentlemen?" he asked, with a sarcastic smile. "Mywatch--my money?"
"The searchlight, first of all," replied the detective, "with which yousignaled."
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 appearto resemble in any way the prisoner he had sought. He was a clean-shavenyoung man, elegantly dressed, and quite evidently a gentleman. "Do youdeny," asked the detective, "that on passing the Avenue Malakoff a fewmoments ago you flashed a blue light toward the Avenue Kleber?"
The young man laughed. "Of course I deny it," he said. "Why the devilshould 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 andBossard." He handed a card to the dumbfounded Vernet. "I am trying a newautomobile, which I think of purchasing. My chauffeur proposed that wetry it out in the Bois, where there is more opportunity to speed than inthe city."
"Why did you then run away?"
"My dear sir, I saw you following me. I wish to own a fast car--thefastest car in Paris, if possible. I directed my driver to see what hecould do. I do not believe, however, that I shall now buy the car, sinceyours is faster. What make is it, Monsieur, if I may ask?"
Vernet smothered an oath. Clearly this man was telling the truth. Hedirected his companion to get in with Monsieur Lemaitre. "Drive to thePrefecture," he said, "and let the gentleman tell his story to MonsieurLefevre." He himself ordered his chauffeur to proceed with all despatchto Mr. Stapleton's house. The affair had ended in a fiasco. He felt thathe must see Duvall at once.
In fifteen minutes he was at the house. Mr. Stapleton was waitingpatiently in the library for the telephone call which would announce thehiding place of his boy. With him were Mrs. Stapleton and MonsieurLefevre.
The poor man and his wife were in a pitiable state, their eyes glued tothe clock which stood on the mantel. It was marked twenty-six minutespast eight. "Only four minutes more!" gasped Mrs. Stapleton, through hertears. "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 theevening in a few words. The Prefect smiled grimly. "So Monsieur Duvallhas failed again!" he remarked, in a low voice. "Mon Dieu! If we do notsoon hear from Mademoiselle Goncourt, I shall begin to feel nervousmyself."
Slowly the hands of the clock crept around. As the half hour wasreached, and the telephone bell remained silent, Mrs. Stapleton uttereda groan of despair, and sank upon the couch, weeping pitifully. Mr.Stapleton, watch in hand, paced up and down the room. "They have beeninterfered with," he stormed, "or they would have communicated with mebefore now!" He turned to Monsieur Lefevre. "You have done nothing, Ihope, to again prevent me from recovering my son?"
"Nothing, Monsieur."
Mr. Stapleton waited another five minutes. It now wanted twenty minutesto nine. The telephone bell remained persistently silent. The bankerclosed his watch with a snap and thrust it into his pocket. His face waspale with rage and suffering. Drops of perspiration collected on hisforehead. "The scoundrels!" he cried. "They have broken their word, androbbed me of a hundred thousand dollars in the bargain. I will giveanother hundred thousand to the man who will capture them, dead oralive, 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 gatheredin the hall without. In their devotion to their employer they hadcollected there to welcome the lost boy. There were exclamations, criesof astonishment--and dismay.
The occupants of the room turned in surprise toward the door. As theydid so, Richard Duvall appeared in the doorway. He staggered, and withdifficulty supported himself by clutching the side of the door. His facewas 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 fellheavily upon the library floor.