CHAPTER XVII
Richard Duvall, waiting with nervous impatience in the closet inFrancois' 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 hadbecome accustomed to the darkness, to enable him not only to recognizethe chauffeur as he entered the room, but to follow his movements withlittle or no difficulty.
The man seemed hurried. He groped his way to the dresser at the oppositeside of the room, and felt about for the searchlight which Duvall knewlay 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 listenintently.
The detective at once surmised that he was listening for the departureof his confederate, the man with the black beard.
Presently the chauffeur drew back, closing the door with a grunt ofsatisfaction, and once more approached the dresser. Duvall concludedthat he had gone to get the colored glasses by which he would be able tomake the required signals.
In a moment he returned to the window, and Duvall saw him place the twoglass cups upon the sill, and lean out expectantly.
It seemed a long time before he stirred. The detective, looking over hisshoulder, found that his line of vision was interrupted so that he couldnot see the lights which flashed past the entrance of the AvenueMalakoff. He was forced to content himself with keeping a close watchupon the chauffeur.
Suddenly the man, by an almost instantaneous movement, clapped one ofthe little glass cups over the end of the tube which formed thesearchlight, and directed it toward the street. Duvall could not tellwhether 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 secondsonly, then withdrew it, and started to cross the room toward the southwindow. As he did so, he swept the light into the room, and for aninstant it fell upon the crack in the closet door through which Duvallwas peering. He was conscious of a blinding blue radiance, close to hiseyes, and the sudden flash caused him to draw back with a quick andinvoluntary movement. He realized that the chauffeur had not seen him,and that, in a few moments more, the signal would be given which wouldbring untold happiness to both Mr. Stapleton and his wife.
The momentary recoil, however, was fatal to his plans. Although he movedhis head but a fraction of an inch, the suddenness of the movement wassufficient 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 theknob of the closet door, threw it open. In his hand he still clutchedthe tube of the searchlight.
Duvall at the same moment reached for the revolver which lay in a sidepocket of his coat. He realized instantly that, now that his presencehad been discovered, the chauffeur would of course not send the signalto his confederates in Passy which would result in the telephoning ofthe address to Mr. Stapleton, but would on the contrary flash a redsignal, which the detective fully believed would result in the child'sdeath.
It was imperative that this should be prevented. Duvall had determinedto be present in the chauffeur's room for two reasons,--first, to sendthe favorable signal to Passy himself, should things go wrong, and thechauffeur receive a red flash from the street; secondly, to arrestFrancois in the act of receiving and sending the signals.
He now realized that he must do both, and that, too, without a moment'sdelay.
As the chauffeur threw open the door he flashed the blue light full uponthe crouching figure of the detective.
The latter, revolver in hand, commanded him sharply to throw up hishands.
The chauffeur did so--thereby directing the light of the electric lamptoward the ceiling. The sudden change from the glare which an instantbefore had been in his eyes, to almost total darkness, left Duvallmomentarily blind. His eyes could not instantaneously respond to thewithdrawal of the light. The figure of the chauffeur appeared but a darkand formless shadow.
The latter, however, not having faced the glare of the light, was ableto see without difficulty. With lightning like quickness he spun aroundon one foot, until his back instead of his face was toward thedetective. Then his right foot rose, in the famous and deadly blow ofthe _savate_.
It has been said that this backward kick, so dear to the heart of theParisian crook, is more to be feared than any possible onslaught in goodold Anglo-Saxon style with the fists. Certainly in this instance it wastoo much for Richard Duvall. The unexpected blow, coming during themoment when the sudden darkness had left him blinded and confused, senthim crashing back into the depths of the closet, buried beneath a massof clothing. His arms, entangled in falling coats and waistcoats, werehelpless. The revolver flew from his hand, and lay useless on the floor.
The chauffeur went about his business calmly. His first move was todirect the searchlight carefully into the interior of the closet,slipping the blue cup from the end of it as he did so and allowing itto fall unheeded to the floor. His second was to draw a long andpeculiarly deadly looking knife.
His quick eye saw at once that the revolver was no longer in thedetective's grasp. His searchlight enabled him to discern it, lying onthe floor to one side of the closet. Before Duvall could extricatehimself from the articles of clothing in which he was entangled,Francois had stooped quickly, picked up the revolver, and slammed thedoor of the closet upon him. As he struggled to his feet, the detectiveheard 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 thetable, took up the cup-shaped bit of red glass, fitted it to the tube ofthe searchlight, and, going to the south window, placed it upon the sillin such a way that its crimson glare was directed almost due south. Itwas evident that the position in which the light was placed was markedby the two tiny scratches cut in the woodwork of the window sill. In amoment he had turned back toward the closet door.
Duvall, meanwhile, realized that only by instant and superhuman effortcould he hope to remedy the frightful situation which his unluckymovement 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 inhis body strove to force it open.
His movements had been quick. Just as the chauffeur turned back from thewindow toward the room, Duvall, his muscles knotted with effort, drovethe full force of his body against the closet door.
The lock, a cheap affair, was torn loose in a twinkling, and an instantlater the two men had grappled in the center of the room.
The detective's one desire was to get to the window, remove the redlight which he knew was flashing its fateful message across thehousetops, and substitute for it a blue light, which he hoped even nowmight shine forth in time to redeem the situation.
This, however, the chauffeur was equally determined to prevent. Herealized that he was caught, that his complicity in the affair wasknown, and that he must warn his comrades of his danger, so that, byrefusing to give up the boy, they might effect his release. He wasfighting for his liberty as desperately as Duvall was fighting for thatof 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 thesteering wheel had given to his upper body muscles like steel.
The detective, though somewhat less powerful in this direction, wasstronger in the back and legs. He had been an athlete, at college, andhis recent life upon the farm at home had toughened and hardened himfrom head to foot.
He rushed at his opponent, threw his arms around the latter's waist, andstrove 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 buryinghis face in his opponent's side to protect his eyes, and at the sametime striving with all his might to force him back toward the bed.
Francois, however, fought well. He began to compress his adversary'sthroat in a choking grip of wrist and forearm which threatened to put anend to the struggle in short order. At the same time his left thumbcontinually sought the detective's eyes.
Suddenly it reached one of them. Duvall felt a blinding sense of pain asthe thumb nail sank into the soft and tender muscles about the eye. Theshock was fatal to the plans of the chauffeur; for it raised up in hisopponent a great and deadly rage, that for an instant gave him thestrength of a madman. He raised his opponent from the floor as thoughthe latter had been a child, broke the grip upon his throat bystraightening his head, and with a mighty heave hurled him to the floor.
The fellow struck upon his side, his temple crashing loudly against thewooden floor. Duvall stood over him for an instant, breathing heavily,convulsively, then turned and snatched the searchlight from the windowsill and threw it upon the bed.
There was a trunk against the wall of the room, near the window, andabout 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 andbody.
A towel, knotted about his ankles, rendered him helpless. Then thedetective 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 hadcaptured one of the kidnappers, it was true; but on the other hand hehad, by his own carelessness, prevented the safe return of the kidnappedboy to his parents.
He pictured the father and mother, patiently waiting below for thetelephone message which would never come, and wondered how he would dareto tell them the truth.
At last his nervous fingers closed upon the little glass cup, where ithad rolled under the edge of the dresser when Francois had thrown itdown. Trembling with haste, he fixed it to the searchlight which he tookfrom the bed, and, with a hopeless feeling, approached the window, andbegan to wave the light frantically in the direction of Passy.
For several moments there was no response. As a matter of fact, hescarcely 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 hopethat it would do so. Suddenly it shone again, this time for a longerperiod, and then disappeared. He wondered what it meant, and wasscarcely surprised when the light again flashed, this time making fivequick flashes, which he instantly recognized as Morse code for theletter "P." There was a brief interval, then once more the signals beganto flash. This time he read them without difficulty. There were fourletters, spelling the word "Help."
For an instant he leveled the tube of the searchlight toward the pointfrom which the flashes came, guiding it by the scratches on the sill,and began pressing the button which turned the light on and off. "Whereare you?" he spelled out, then waited fearfully for the reply. He daredsend no other message. The person at the other end, the one who sentthis ominous word, "help," must be one of the kidnappers; yet why shouldhe signal for assistance? He could make nothing of the matter, but hereasoned that anyone calling for help would be sure to give theirlocation, otherwise how could they expect to receive it.
For a moment the red flashes began again, and this time he began to getthe numbers. There were four quick flashes and a long dash, then othersin rapid succession: "4-2-R-u-e-N-i-c-o-l-o, P-a-s-s-y," the messageread. "C-o-m-e q-u-i-c-k."
Duvall's head reeled, as he spelled out the words. He had not realizeduntil now that he was wounded. The blood, pouring down his face from thegreat gash in his cheek, spattered thickly upon the window sill. Heturned from the window, then realized that he must send some answer, tolet this mysterious person at the other end of the line know that hismessage had been safely received.
"Will come at once. Who are you?" he spelled out, laboriously, his headspinning, his fingers trembling from weakness as he tried to stop theflow of blood from his wound.
"G-R-A-C-E D-U-V-A-L-L" came back the flashes, quick, clear cut,unmistakable.
Duvall dropped the searchlight to the floor with a harsh laugh. Hisbrain was reeling--the whole thing became a foolish, senselessnightmare. He wondered if he was delirious, and had dreamed it all.Again he flashed a signal into the darkness. "Who are you?" he spelledout again. He did not believe that he had read the former answer aright.Evidently his imagination was playing him tricks--Grace had been on hismind so constantly, throughout the day. He wiped the blood from his eyesand stared eagerly out into the darkness. There was no response.
Then he remembered the words of the message, "Come quick." There was notime for idle speculations as to the identity of the person who had senthim the message.
He rushed to the stairs, and with tottering footsteps descended to thelibrary below. Francois, the chauffeur, still lay, bound andunconscious, upon the floor.
The Blue Lights: A Detective Story Page 17