The Blue Lights: A Detective Story

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

  CHAPTER II

  Richard Duvall arrived in New York at half past one o'clock Thursdaymorning. Hodgman, Mr. Stapleton's secretary, had wired ahead the news oftheir coming, and the banker's limousine awaited them at the railwaystation. Fifteen minutes later they were ascending the steps of Mr.Stapleton's residence on Fifth Avenue.

  Duvall had not been to the house before. His previous interviews withthe banker had taken place at the latter's office, in Broad Street. Hehad no time now, however, to observe the luxury of his surroundings. Mr.Hodgman hurried him at once to the library, and in a few moments Mr.Stapleton had joined them.

  He greeted Duvall with a nervous handshake, and thanked him for hisprompt coming. He was clearly laboring under an intense mental strain.

  "Mr. Hodgman has explained my reasons for sending for you, Mr. Duvall?"he inquired, sinking into a great leather-covered chair.

  "Yes." Duvall nodded.

  "Then you can appreciate my feelings." He sat in silence for severalmoments, looking gloomily at the floor.

  "Perfectly."

  "The devils! I wouldn't care if they were to steal my property--money,securities, anything like that. I can fight them--on that basis. But mychild! Don't you see why your coming was of the utmost importance to me?I don't dare move against these rascals openly. If I do, they willthreaten to retaliate by injuring my boy, and I am powerless. Whatever Ido, must be done secretly. No one must know that you are in my employ.No one must know your object in going to Paris. You see that?"

  "Most certainly. These fellows cannot hold you responsible for any movesthe police authorities of Paris may make; over them you of course haveno control. But if you make any efforts on your own account, anyindependent efforts, to recover your boy, they must by all means be madein secret."

  "Exactly. You understand, then, what you are to do?"

  "Yes. But first I must ask you, Mr. Stapleton, to give me some accountof the affair. Mr. Hodgman has told me only that your son has beenkidnapped. No doubt you have learned by this time how the thing wasdone."

  "What I have learned, Mr. Duvall, convinces me of the importance ofbeing on the ground at once. The affair, as cabled to me by my wife, ispreposterous--absurd!" He again gazed at the floor in gloomypreoccupation.

  "How so?" the detective inquired.

  "I will tell you. My boy, who, as you know, is six years old, has beenin the habit of driving, each morning, accompanied by his nurse, from myhouse in the Avenue Kleber, to the Bois de Boulogne. On arriving in theBois, it has been their habit to leave the automobile in which theycame, and spend an hour or more walking and playing on the grass. I haveinsisted on this, because the boy needs exercise, and he cannot get itdriving about in a motor car."

  "During this hour what becomes of the car?" asked Duvall.

  "Our orders have been, of course, for the chauffeur to wait, withinsight and call. I believe he has done so."

  "Thank you. Go ahead."

  "On Wednesday the nurse took Jack--the boy's name is Jack--to the Boisas usual. She played about with him on the grass for probably an hour.Then she sat down to rest. Jack was standing near her, playing with arubber ball. She says--and, gentlemen, my wife cables me that shesolemnly swears to the truth of her statements--that she turned away fora moment to observe passing vehicles in the road--turned back again tothe child--and found that he was gone."

  "Gone--but how?"

  "How? That's the question. Here is this woman, sitting on the grass,with the child, a hundred yards from the road, in the middle of a largefield of grass--a lawn. No one is within sight. The nearest person, itappears from her testimony, is the chauffeur, three hundred feet away,in the road. The woman turns her head for a moment, looks about--and theboy is gone. That is the story she tells, and which my wife has cabledto me. Do you wonder that I call it preposterous?"

  "Hardly," remarked Duvall, with a grim smile. "The boy could not havevanished into thin air. The woman must be lying."

  "That, Mr. Duvall, is what I cannot understand. I cannot believe thatthe woman is lying. My wife cannot believe it. She has been in ouremploy ever since the boy was born, and is devoted to him. Mrs.Stapleton cables that she is completely prostrated."

  "But, Mr. Stapleton, you can hardly believe such a story! How could thechild have been stolen, if her story is true? It is, as you say,preposterous."

  "I do not say that the story is true, Mr. Duvall. I say that I do notthink that Mary is lying. She is telling what she believes to be thetruth. She turned her head for a moment--the boy was gone. That is whatshe says, and I believe her. The question is--how is it possible?"

  "It isn't," Hodgman grunted.

  "Everything is possible, Hodgman," said the banker, reprovingly. "Thebest proof of that, in this case, is that it has happened. What meanswere used, I cannot imagine; but the apparently impossible _has_happened. The boy is gone!"

  "Is the nurse a young woman?" the detective inquired.

  "About thirty, I should say."

  "An American?"

  "Yes. Of Irish parentage. Her name is Lanahan--Mary Lanahan."

  "A New Yorker?"

  "She comes from Paterson, New Jersey. Her people live there."

  "Are there any other details--any other points of interest?"

  "None, so far as I know. What I have told you, is what has been cabledto me by Mrs. Stapleton. She is naturally in a more or less hystericalcondition. Nothing can be accomplished here. I want you to leave bytoday's steamer. I myself, I regret to say, cannot go until Saturday."He passed his hand nervously across his forehead. "Only matters of themost vital importance could keep me here at such a time, Mr. Duvall;but, unfortunately, such matters confront me now."

  "Have you any reason to believe, Mr. Stapleton," Duvall inquired, "thatthe kidnapping is the act of persons from this side of the water? Haveany such attempts been made in the past?"

  Mr. Stapleton remained silent for sometime, buried in thought. Presentlyhe spoke. "I am a rich man, Mr. Duvall--a very rich man. Men in myposition are constantly in receipt of letters of a threatening nature. Ihave received many such letters, in the past."

  "Was the matter of the child mentioned in any of them? Were threats madeinvolving him?"

  "There was one such letter."

  "When did you receive it?"

  "Last fall--perhaps six months ago."

  "Have you the letter now?"

  "Yes."

  "May I see it?"

  The banker rose, went to a heavy rosewood desk at one side of the room,drew open one of its drawers, and removed a steel despatch box. Heopened it with a slender key and took out a package of letters. Fromthese, after some hesitation, he selected one and silently handed it toDuvall.

  The detective examined the letter carefully. It was enclosed in a cheapwhite envelope, such as are sold at all post offices, having the stampprinted on it. The letter itself was roughly printed in ink on a sheetof ruled paper evidently torn from an ordinary five-cent pad. It said:

  "We demand fifty thousand dollars, to be placed in thousand-dollar bills inside a cigar box and expressed to John Smith, c/o Express Company, Paterson, N. J., next Monday afternoon. The man who will call for the package on Tuesday will know nothing about the matter, and if you arrest him, you will find out nothing. Keep this to yourself and do as we say, if you value the safety of your child."

  There was no signature to the letter. Duvall read it through with greatcare, then turned to Mr. Stapleton.

  "You have observed, I suppose, that the place to which the money was tobe sent, Paterson, New Jersey, is the home of your child's nurse, MaryLanahan."

  Mr. Stapleton started. "I confess," he said "that, in the agitated stateof mind into which this affair has thrown me, I had completelyoverlooked the coincidence. What do you infer from it?"

  "Only this, Mr. Stapleton, that Mary Lanahan may know more about thismatter than she is willing to let on. I must keep this letter for thepresent."

  "Very well." The banker
nodded. "It may prove a valuable clue."

  "Possibly. And further, Mr. Stapleton, I shall not sail by today'ssteamer."

  "But--why not?" Stapleton sat up in his chair in surprise. "You willlose two days."

  "I do not think they will be lost. I must make some investigations inPaterson, before I leave here. Please give me, if you can, the addressof Mary Lanahan's parents."

  Mr. Stapleton frowned. "I am not sure that I can do so, Mr. Duvall. Mywife has charge of these matters. But I recollect having heard that herfather, Patrick Lanahan, is a florist in a small way, and no doubt youcan readily locate him. But I fear you will be losing valuable time."

  Duvall rose. "I feel, as you do, Mr. Stapleton, that I should be inParis at the earliest possible moment; but I think you will agree withme that some investigations on this side before I go are absolutelynecessary, and may prove of inestimable value afterwards."

  Mr. Stapleton was silent for several minutes. Presently he raised hishead. "Under the circumstances, Mr. Duvall, I am forced to admit thetruth of what you say. Conduct your investigations as quickly aspossible, however; for we must positively sail by Saturday's boat."

  "I shall be ready then." Duvall took up his hat. "Now I think I hadbetter get a few hours' sleep, and in the morning I will make an earlystart for Paterson." He bowed to the banker and Mr. Hodgman. "Goodnight, gentlemen. I shall see you both on Saturday morning. The steamersails shortly after noon, I believe. Suppose I come here at ten o'clock,and let you know what I have learned?"

  Mr. Stapleton rose. "If I receive any further news of importance fromParis, Mr. Duvall, I will advise you at your hotel. Where are youstopping?"

  Duvall gave the name of a Times Square hotel at which he usuallystopped, and with a quick "good night" left the house.

  It was shortly after nine o'clock the next morning when he descendedfrom the train at Paterson, and going to a nearby drug store, consultedthe directory for the address of Patrick Lanahan. He found it withoutdifficulty, and, by means of an electric car, was soon before theflorist's door.

  The place was situated on the outskirts of the town, and consisted of asmall, rather mean-looking cottage, from which spread out on each side,like the two wings of an aeroplane, the long glass greenhouses.

  A little gate opened to a short brick path, leading to the front door ofthe house.

  Duvall went up the path and rang the door bell. A wholesome-lookingIrish woman, of perhaps fifty, opened the door, and, in response to hisquestions, told him that her husband, Patrick, was out in the garden atthe rear of the house, busy with his plants.

  She directed the detective along a narrow areaway at the side of thehouse, and in a moment reappeared at the back door.

  "Pat," she called. "Oh, Pat! Here's a gentleman to see you."

  A short, heavy-set man, with gray hair and mustache and a ruddy andweatherbeaten face, arose from among a litter of flower pots and bulbs.

  "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, coming forward and wiping hishands upon his overalls.

  The detective studied the man before him intently. The honest andclear-looking eyes told him nothing that was not favorable.

  "I came to ask you a few questions, Mr. Lanahan."

  "Questions, is it? About what?" The blue eyes showed a sudden flare ofsuspicion.

  "About yourself, and your family."

  "Who may you be, then? Is it the tax man?"

  Duvall smiled. "Not the tax man," he said. "I represent a firm oflawyers in Washington. My name is Johnson."

  Lanahan, still suspicious, pointed to a couple of kitchen chairs thatstood on the brick-paved yard beneath a trellis covered with hop vines."Sit down, sir. I'll have a smoke, if you don't mind." He began to fillhis short clay pipe. "What would lawyers in Washington be wantin' withme?"

  "That is what I wish to find out, Mr. Lanahan. We--my firm--have beenadvised that a certain Michael Lanahan, of Dublin, recently died,leaving a large estate. We are trying to find his heirs. Tell mesomething about yourself and your family."

  The look of suspicion and reserve which the old man had up to this timeshown faded from his face, and was replaced by a smile of incredulity."Money, is it?" he laughed. "Mary--that's my wife--has been seein'bubbles in her tay for the week past. What is it you would know?"

  "Are you from Dublin?"

  "Me father was. I was born right here in Jersey, meself."

  "What was his name?"

  "Patrick, the same as me own. But he had a brother, Mike."

  "Ah. It may be the same." Duvall pretended a sudden interest. "Hisbusiness?"

  "Mike's? Faith--I never heard he had any, lest it was drinkin' all thegood liquor he could lay his hands on."

  Duvall pretended to make a series of entries in his notebook. "Nowabout yourself, Mr. Lanahan. Have you any children? Of course, shouldthere be any money coming to you, they would share in it."

  "Children, is it? I have two."

  "Boys?"

  "One is a boy--a man be now, I should say. He's in the city--workin'.His name is Barney."

  "What does he do?"

  Lanahan looked up with a quick frown. "The last I heard tell, he wastendin' bar, Mr. Johnson--over at Callahan's saloon, on the Bowery. He'swild--wild--like me uncle Mike, I should say."

  "And the other?"

  The old man's face took on a contented look. "The other is me daughterMary, bless her. She's nurse in the family of old man Stapleton, themillionaire."

  Duvall closed his book. "I see," he remarked, pleasantly. "She's notmarried, I suppose?"

  "Mary? Divil a bit! For a time, she was sweet on a French chuffer thatworked for Mr. Stapleton; but the fellow's gone, now, and she's claneforgot him. That was near a year ago."

  "Ah, yes. Do you happen to remember his name?"

  "Alphonse, it was--Alphonse Valentin, or some such joke of a name. Acomic valentine he was, too, with his dinky little mustache and hiscigarettes." He laughed loudly. "Imagine my Mary, married to a gink likethat!"

  Duvall replaced his notebook in his pocket and rose. "I'm mightilyobliged to you, Mr. Lanahan. We will advise you at once, if ourinvestigations show that you are related to the Michael Lanahan whosefortune is in our hands. I'm obliged to you for your courtesy."

  The florist nodded. "You're welcome, sir. I guess them Lanahan's must bea different breed. I never heard tell of any of my people makin' anyfortune. Good day, sir." He turned to his work, chuckling.

  Duvall rode back to the station, and took the first train for New York.It was clear that Mary Lanahan's parents had nothing in common withblackmailers and kidnappers. Their honesty was as evident as theblueness of their eyes, or the redness of their hair. But theinformation about Alphonse Valentin, the chauffeur, and Barney, Mr.Lanahan's son, seemed more promising.

  It was close to one o'clock when Duvall arrived at Callahan's saloon, onthe Bowery, near Canal Street. Here a disappointment awaited him. BarneyLanahan had thrown up his job and left two months before. Callahan hadno idea where he had gone. He had not been about the place since. Anegro porter volunteered the information that he had seen the manentering the Broadway saloon of an ex-prizefighter some weeks before;but, beyond that, Duvall could learn nothing.

  After a hasty luncheon he went to his office on Union Square, where hisunexpected appearance caused his assistants unlimited surprise. Hedirected them to locate Barney Lanahan at the earliest possible moment.He then called up Mr. Stapleton's secretary, Mr. Hodgman, and inquiredabout the chauffeur.

  Mr. Hodgman informed him that the banker had employed Valentin in Parissome eighteen months previous, and had brought him to this country,where he had remained in his employ for about six months. He had beendischarged, through some dishonesty in the matter of purchasingsupplies, and nothing further had been seen or heard of him.

  Duvall, on receiving this information, proceeded at once to the officeof the French line, and asked permission to inspect their passengerlists for the past year. He concluded that if Valentin had anything todo with the
kidnapping of Mr. Stapleton's boy, he was, in allprobability, in Paris, and, if so, would almost certainly have crossedby this line. He was therefore not at all surprised to find the name ofAlphonse Valentin among those sailing during the preceding March.

  There was little more that he could accomplish, now, beyond writing along letter to Grace, whom he naturally supposed to be patientlyawaiting his return in the country. He had a short interview with Mr.Hodgman in the evening, and was lucky enough to secure a photograph ofAlphonse Valentin, the chauffeur, taken at the steering wheel of hismachine. The car had, it seemed, been photographed, along with a partyof guests, by a friend of Mr. Stapleton's with a leaning toward amateurphotography. Duvall placed the photograph among his belongings with asmile of satisfaction. He felt that his delay had been by no meansunprofitable.

  One other step he took, before leaving. Accompanied by Mr. Hodgman, hemade a careful inspection of the room which had been occupied by thenurse, Mary Lanahan, at the Stapleton house. The results weredistressingly meager. All the woman's belongings she had evidently takenwith her, on going abroad. There appeared to be nothing which wouldafford the slightest clue to her character or habits.

  Mr. Hodgman turned to the door with an impatient frown. "Nothing here,"he growled, and was about to leave the room.

  "Nothing much," said Duvall, glancing carelessly at the wooden edge ofthe bureau. "This woman, Mary Lanahan, is evidently an up-to-date sortof person."

  Hodgman paused. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

  "Smokes cigarettes, I see."

  "That so. How do you know?"

  Duvall smiled. "Too simple even to mention, Mr. Hodgman. See those burnson the varnish?" He pointed to a number of spots along the edge of thedresser. "Always find them somewhere about, where there's a cigarettesmoker." He gazed out of the window for a moment. "Rooms tell a greatdeal about the personality of the people who have occupied them. Forinstance, I've never seen this Lanahan girl, but I know that she's notover five feet four, that she has light hair, that she reads in bed,that she writes with a stub pen, and that she's a Roman Catholic.Furthermore, she is left handed, inclined to be vain, wears her hair inwaves, or curls, in front, is fond of the theater, and has a long narrowscar on the palm of her left hand."

  He chuckled quietly, as he saw Mr. Hodgman's look of amazement. "Allvery simple--quite elementary, in fact. I won't even bother to tell youhow I know--just little things here and there about the room. Here's oneof them," he said, as he picked up a rusty pen point from the desk."That shows she uses a stub, of course; but the way the point is wornalso proves that she's left handed. And here's another." He pointed tothe electric bulb which hung over the head of the bed. "Nobody would usethat light, except to read by in bed. The others in the room are morethan sufficient for purposes of illumination. Yet the lamp has been usedcontinuously, as its condition shows. See how blackened the glassis--and notice also how the white enamel of the back of the bed is wornoff, just under the lamp. That's from propping a pillow against it,night after night." He turned toward the door. "Of course, those thingsaren't of any value, probably, in this case; but I can't help noticingthem. Force of habit, I suppose."

  When Duvall arrived at the Stapleton house on Saturday morning, he foundthe banker somewhat disturbed by a cablegram he had just received. "Maryclaims attempts made to poison her. Will recover. Come at once," itread.

  The detective appeared to be somewhat astonished, on reading thecablegram. "Looks as though somebody was afraid she might be going totalk," he remarked. "The sooner we arrive in Paris, now, the better."