by Unknown
At the end of an hour he returned, passed on through to the diplomatist’s private office, sat down in front of the locked safe again, and set the dial at thirty-six. Senor Rodriguez looked on, astonished, as Mr. Grimm pressed the soft rubber sounder of a stethoscope against the safe door and began turning the dial back toward ten, slowly, slowly. Thirty-five minutes later the lock clicked. Mr. Grimm rose, turned the handle, and pulled the safe door open.
“That’s how it was done,” he explained to the amazed diplomatist. “And now, please, have a servant hand my card to Miss Thorne.”
XI
THE LACE HANDKERCHIEF
Still wearing the graceful, filmy morning gown, with an added touch, of scarlet in her hair—a single red rose—Miss Thorne came into the drawing-room where Mr. Grimm sat waiting. There was curiosity in her manner, thinly veiled, but the haunting smile still lingered about her lips. Mr. Grimm bowed low, and placed a chair for her, after which he stood for a time staring down at one slim, white hand at rest on the arm of the seat. At last, he, too, sat down.
“I believe,” he said slowly, without preliminaries, “this is your handkerchief?”
He offered the lacy trifle, odd in design, unique in workmanship, obviously of foreign texture, and she accepted it.
“Yes,” she agreed readily, “I must have dropped it again.”
“That is the one handed to you by Senor Rodriguez,” Mr. Grimm told her. “I think you said you lost it in his office yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes?” She nodded inquiringly.
“It may interest you to know that Senor Rodriguez’s butler positively identifies it as one he restored to you twice at dinner last evening, between seven and nine o’clock,” Mr. Grimm went on dispassionately.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Thorne.
“The senor identifies it as one he found this morning in his office,” Mr. Grimm explained obligingly. “During the night fifty thousand dollars in gold were stolen from his safe.”
There was not the slightest change of expression in her face; the blue-gray eyes were still inquiring in their gaze, the white hands still at rest, the scarlet lips still curled slightly, an echo of a smile.
“No force was used in opening the safe,” Mr. Grimm resumed. “It was unlocked. It’s an old model and I have demonstrated how it could have been opened either with the assistance of a stethoscope, which catches the sound of the tumbler in the lock, or by a person of acute hearing.”
Miss Thorne sat motionless, waiting.
“All this means—what?” she inquired, at length.
“I’ll trouble you, please, to return the money,” requested Mr. Grimm courteously. “No reason appears why you should have taken it. But I’m not seeking reasons, nor am I seeking disagreeable publicity—only the money.”
“It seems to me you attach undue importance to the handkerchief,” she objected.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Mr. Grimm remarked. “It would be useless, even tedious, to attempt to disprove a burglar theory, but against it is the difficulty of entrance, the weight of the gold, the ingenious method of opening the safe, and the assumption that not more than six persons knew the money was in the safe; while a person in the house might have learned it in any of a dozen ways. And, in addition, is the fact that the handkerchief is odd, therefore noticeable. A lace expert assures me there’s probably not another like it in the world.”
He stopped. Miss Thorne’s eyes sparkled and a smile seemed to be tugging at the corners of her mouth. She spread out the handkerchief on her knees.
“You could identify this again, of course?” she queried.
“Yes.”
She thoughtfully crumpled up the bit of lace in both hands, then opened them. There were two handkerchiefs now—they were identical.
“Which is it, please?” she asked.
If Mr. Grimm was disappointed there was not a trace of it on his face. She laughed outright, gleefully, mockingly, then, demurely:
“Pardon me! You see, it’s absurd. The handkerchief the butler restored to me at dinner, after I lost one in the senor’s office, might have been either of these, or one of ten other duplicates in my room, all given to me by her Maj—I mean,” she corrected quickly, “by a friend in Europe.” She was silent for a moment. “Is that all?”
“No,” replied Mr. Grimm gravely, decisively. “I’m not satisfied. I shall insist upon the return of the money, and if it is not forthcoming I dare say Count di Rosini, the Italian ambassador, would be pleased to give his personal check rather than have the matter become public.” She started to interrupt; he went on. “In any event you will be requested to leave the country.”
Then, and not until then, a decided change came over Miss Thorne’s face. A deeper color leaped to her cheeks, the smile faded from her lips, and there was a flash of uneasiness in her eyes.
“But if I am innocent?” she protested.
“You must prove it,” continued Mr. Grimm mercilessly. “Personally, I am convinced, and Count di Rosini has practically assured me that—”
“It’s unjust!” she interrupted passionately. “It’s—it’s—you have proved nothing. It’s unheard of! It’s beyond—!”
Suddenly she became silent. A minute, two minutes, three minutes passed; Mr. Grimm waited patiently.
“Will you give me time and opportunity to prove my innocence?” she demanded finally. “And if I do convince you—?”
“I should be delighted to believe that I have made a mistake,” Mr. Grimm assured her. “How much time? One day? Two days?”
“I will let you know within an hour at your office,” she told him.
Mr. Grimm rose.
“And meanwhile, in case of accident, I shall look to Count di Rosini for adjustment,” he added pointedly. “Good morning.”
One hour and ten minutes later he received this note, unsigned:
“Closed carriage will stop for you at southeast corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street to-night at one.”
He was there; the carriage was on time; and my lady of mystery was inside. He stepped in and they swung out into Pennsylvania Avenue, noiselessly over the asphalt.
“Should the gold be placed in your hands now, within the hour,” she queried solicitously, “would it be necessary for you to know who was the—the thief?”
“It would,” Mr. Grimm responded without hesitation.
“Even if it destroyed a reputation?” she pleaded.
“The Secret Service rarely destroys a reputation, Miss Thorne, although it holds itself in readiness to do so. I dare say in this case there would be no arrest or prosecution, because of—of reasons which appear to be good.”
“There wouldn’t?” and there was a note of eagerness in her voice. “The identity of the guilty person would never appear?”
“It would become a matter of record in our office, but beyond that I think not—at least in this one instance.”
Miss Thorne sat silent for a block or more.
“You’ll admit, Mr. Grimm, that you have forced me into a most remarkable position. You seemed convinced of my guilt, and, if you’ll pardon me, without reason; then you made it compulsory upon me to establish my innocence. The only way for me to do that was to find the guilty one. I have done it, and I’m sorry, because it’s a little tragedy.”
Mr. Grimm waited.
“It’s a girl high in diplomatic society. Her father’s position is an honorable rather than a lucrative one; he has no fortune. This girl moves in a certain set devoted to bridge, and stakes are high. She played and won, and played and won, and on and on, until her winnings were about eight thousand dollars. Then luck turned. She began to lose. Her money went, but she continued to play desperately. Finally some old family jewels were pawned without her father’s knowledge, and ultimately they were lost. One day she awoke to the fact that she owed some nine or ten thousand dollars in bridge debts. They were pressing and there was no way to meet them. This meant exposure and utter ruin,
and women do strange things, Mr. Grimm, to postpone such an ending to social aspirations. I know this much is true, for she related it all to me herself.
“At last, in some way—a misplaced letter, perhaps, or a word overheard—she learned that fifty thousand dollars would be in the legation safe overnight, and evidently she learned the precise night.” She paused a moment. “Here is the address of a man in Baltimore, Thomas Q. Griswold,” and she passed a card to Mr. Grimm, who sat motionless, listening. “About four years ago the combination on the legation safe was changed. This man was sent here to make the change, therefore some one besides Senor Rodriguez does know the combination. I have communicated with this man to-day, for I saw the possibility of just such a thing as this instead of your stethoscope. By a trick and a forged letter this girl obtained the combination from this man.”
Mr. Grimm drew a long breath.
“She intended to take, perhaps, only what she desperately needed—but at sight of it all—do you see what must have been the temptation then? We get out here.”
There were many unanswered questions in Mr. Grimm’s mind. He repressed them for the time, stepped out and assisted Miss Thorne to alight. The carriage had turned out of Pennsylvania Avenue, and at the moment he didn’t quite place himself. A narrow passageway opened before them—evidently the rear entrance to a house possibly in the next street. Miss Thorne led the way unhesitatingly, cautiously unlocked the door, and together they entered a hall. Then there was a short flight of stairs, and they stepped into a room, one of a suite. She closed the door and turned on the lights.
“The bags of gold are in the next room,” she said with the utmost composure.
Mr. Grimm dragged them out of a dark closet, opened one—there were ten—and allowed the coins to dribble through his fingers. Finally he turned and stared at Miss Thorne, who, pallid and weary, stood looking on.
“Where are we?” he asked. “What house is this?”
“The Venezuelan legation,” she answered. “We are standing less than forty feet from the safe that was robbed. You see how easy—!”
“And whose room?” inquired Mr. Grimm slowly.
“Must I answer?” she asked appealingly.
“You must!”
“Senorita Rodriguez—my hostess! Don’t you see what you’ve made me do? She and Mr. Cadwallader made the trip to Baltimore in his automobile, and—and—!” She stopped. “He knows nothing of it,” she added.
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Grimm.
He stood looking at her in silence for a moment, staring deeply into the pleading eyes; and a certain tense expression about his lips passed. For an instant her hand trembled on his arm, and he caught the fragrance of her hair.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“Playing bridge,” replied Miss Thorne, with a sad little smile. “It is always so—at least twice a week, and she rarely returns before two or half-past.” She extended both hands impetuously, entreatingly. “Please be generous, Mr. Grimm. You have the gold; don’t destroy her.”
Senor Rodriguez, the minister from Venezuela, found the gold in his safe on the following morning, with a brief note from Mr. Grimm, in which there was no explanation of how or where it had been found…. And two hours later Monsieur Boissegur, ambassador from France to the United States, disappeared from the embassy, vanished!
XII
THE VANISHING DIPLOMATIST
It was three days after the ambassador’s disappearance that Monsieur Rigolot, secretary of the French embassy and temporary charged’affaires, reported the matter to Chief Campbell in the Secret Service Bureau, adding thereto a detailed statement of several singular incidents following close upon it. He told it in order, concisely and to the point, while Grimm and his chief listened.
“Monsieur Boissegur, the ambassador, you understand, is a man whose habits are remarkably regular,” he began. “He has made it a rule to be at his desk every morning at ten o’clock, and between that time and one o’clock he dictates his correspondence, and clears up whatever routine work there is before him. I have known him for many years, and have been secretary of the embassy under him in Germany and Japan and this country. I have never known him to vary this general order of work unless because of illness, or necessary absence.
“Well, Monsieur, last Tuesday—this is Friday—the ambassador was at his desk as usual. He dictated a dozen or more letters, and had begun another—a private letter to his sister in Paris. He was well along in this letter when, without any apparent reason, he rose from his desk and left the room, closing the door behind him. His stenographer’s impression was that some detail of business had occurred to him, and he had gone into the general office farther down the hall to attend to it. I may say, Monsieur, that this impression seemed strengthened by the fact that he left a fresh cigarette burning in his ash tray, and his pen was behind his ear. It was all as if he had merely stepped out, intending to return immediately—the sort of thing, Monsieur, that any man might have done.
“It so happened that when he went out he left a sentence of his letter incomplete. I tell you this to show that the impulse to go must have been a sudden one, yet there was nothing in his manner, so his stenographer says, to indicate excitement, or any other than his usual frame of mind. It was about five minutes of twelve o’clock—high noon—when he went out. When he didn’t return immediately the stenographer began transcribing the letters. At one o’clock Monsieur Boissegur still had not returned and his stenographer went to luncheon.”
As he talked some inbred excitement seemed to be growing upon him, due, perhaps, to his recital of the facts, and he paused at last to regain control of himself. Incidentally he wondered if Mr. Grimm was taking the slightest interest in what he was saying. Certainly there was nothing in his impassive face to indicate it.
“Understand, Monsieur,” the secretary continued, after a moment, “that I knew nothing whatever of all this until late that afternoon—that is, Tuesday afternoon about five o’clock. I was engaged all day upon some important work in my own office, and had had no occasion to see Monsieur Boissegur since a word or so when he came in at ten o’clock. My attention was called to the affair finally by his stenographer, Monsieur Netterville, who came to me for instructions. He had finished the letters and the ambassador had not returned to sign them. At this point I began an investigation, Monsieur, and the further I went the more uneasy I grew.
“Now, Monsieur, there are only two entrances to the embassy—the front door, where a servant is in constant attendance from nine in the morning until ten at night, and the rear door, which can only be reached through the kitchen. Neither of the two men who had been stationed at the front door had seen the ambassador since breakfast, therefore he could not have gone out that way. Comprenez? It seemed ridiculous, Monsieur, but then I went to the kitchen. The chef had been there all day, and he had not seen the ambassador at all. I inquired further. No one in the embassy, not a clerk, nor a servant, nor a member of the ambassador’s family had seen him since he left his office.”
Again he paused and ran one hand across his troubled brow.
“Monsieur,” he went on, and there was a tense note in his voice, “the ambassador of France had disappeared, gone, vanished! We searched the house from the cellar to the servants’ quarters, even the roof, but there was no trace of him. The hat he usually wore was in the hall, and all his other hats were accounted for. You may remember, Monsieur, that Tuesday was cold, but all his top-coats were found in their proper places. So it seems, Monsieur,” and repression ended in a burst of excitement, “if he left the embassy he did not go out by either door, and he went without hat or coat!”
He stopped helplessly and his gaze alternated inquiringly between the benevolent face of the chief and the expressionless countenance of Mr. Grimm.
“If he left the embassy?” Mr. Grimm repented. “If your search of the house proved conclusively that he wasn’t there, he did leave it, didn’t he?”
Monsieur Rigolot st
ared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded.
“And there are windows, you know,” Mr. Grimm went on, then: “As I understand it, Monsieur, no one except you and the stenographer saw the ambassador after ten o’clock in the morning?”
“Oui, Monsieur. C’est—” Monsieur Rigolot began excitedly. “I beg pardon. I believe that is correct.”
“You saw him about ten, you say; therefore no one except the stenographer saw him after ten o’clock?”
“That is also true, as far as I know.”
“Any callers? Letters? Telegrams? Telephone messages?”
“I made inquiries in that direction, Monsieur,” was the reply. “I have the words of the servants at the door and of the stenographer that there were no callers, and the statement of the stenographer that there were no telephone calls or telegrams. There were only four letters for him personally. He left them all on his desk—here they are.”
Mr. Grimm looked them over leisurely. They were commonplace enough, containing nothing that might be construed into a reason for the disappearance.
“The letters Monsieur Boissegur had dictated were laid on his desk by the stenographer,” Monsieur Rigolot rushed on volubly, excitedly. “In the anxiety and uneasiness following the disappearance they were allowed to remain there overnight. On Wednesday morning, Monsieur”—and he hesitated impressively—”those letters bore his signature in his own handwriting!”
Mr. Grimm turned his listless eyes full upon Monsieur Rigolot’s perturbed face for one scant instant.
“No doubt of it being his signature?” he queried.
“Non, Monsieur, non!” the secretary exclaimed emphatically. “Vous avez—that is, I have known his signature for years. There is no doubt. The letters were not of a private nature. If you would care to look at copies of them?”
He offered the duplicates tentatively. Mr. Grimm read them over slowly, the while Monsieur Rigolot sat nervously staring at him. They, too, seemed meaningless as bearing on the matter in hand. Finally, Mr. Grimm nodded, and Monsieur Rigolot resumed: