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"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 of lawyers in Washington. My name is Johnson."
Lanahan, still suspicious, pointed to a couple of kitchen chairs that stood 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 fill his short clay pipe. "What would lawyers in Washington be wantin' with me?"
"That is what I wish to find out, Mr. Lanahan. We – my firm – have been advised that a certain Michael Lanahan, of Dublin, recently died, leaving a large estate. We are trying to find his heirs. Tell me something about yourself and your family."
The look of suspicion and reserve which the old man had up to this time shown 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. "His business?"
"Mike's? Faith – I never heard he had any, lest it was drinkin' all the good liquor he could lay his hands on."
Duvall pretended to make a series of entries in his notebook. "Now about yourself, Mr. Lanahan. Have you any children? Of course, should there 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 was tendin' bar, Mr. Johnson – over at Callahan's saloon, on the Bowery. He's wild – 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 daughter Mary, bless her. She's nurse in the family of old man Stapleton, the millionaire."
Duvall closed his book. "I see," he remarked, pleasantly. "She's not married, I suppose?"
"Mary? Divil a bit! For a time, she was sweet on a French chuffer that worked for Mr. Stapleton; but the fellow's gone, now, and she's clane forgot 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. A comic valentine he was, too, with his dinky little mustache and his cigarettes." He laughed loudly. "Imagine my Mary, married to a gink like that!"
Duvall replaced his notebook in his pocket and rose. "I'm mightily obliged to you, Mr. Lanahan. We will advise you at once, if our investigations show that you are related to the Michael Lanahan whose fortune 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 be a different breed. I never heard tell of any of my people makin' any fortune. 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 with blackmailers and kidnappers. Their honesty was as evident as the blueness of their eyes, or the redness of their hair. But the information 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, on the Bowery, near Canal Street. Here a disappointment awaited him. Barney Lanahan had thrown up his job and left two months before. Callahan had no idea where he had gone. He had not been about the place since. A negro porter volunteered the information that he had seen the man entering 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 his unexpected appearance caused his assistants unlimited surprise. He directed them to locate Barney Lanahan at the earliest possible moment. He then called up Mr. Stapleton's secretary, Mr. Hodgman, and inquired about the chauffeur.
Mr. Hodgman informed him that the banker had employed Valentin in Paris some eighteen months previous, and had brought him to this country, where he had remained in his employ for about six months. He had been discharged, through some dishonesty in the matter of purchasing supplies, and nothing further had been seen or heard of him.
Duvall, on receiving this information, proceeded at once to the office of the French line, and asked permission to inspect their passenger lists for the past year. He concluded that if Valentin had anything to do with the kidnapping of Mr. Stapleton's boy, he was, in all probability, in Paris, and, if so, would almost certainly have crossed by this line. He was therefore not at all surprised to find the name of Alphonse Valentin among those sailing during the preceding March.
There was little more that he could accomplish, now, beyond writing a long letter to Grace, whom he naturally supposed to be patiently awaiting his return in the country. He had a short interview with Mr. Hodgman in the evening, and was lucky enough to secure a photograph of Alphonse Valentin, the chauffeur, taken at the steering wheel of his machine. The car had, it seemed, been photographed, along with a party of guests, by a friend of Mr. Stapleton's with a leaning toward amateur photography. Duvall placed the photograph among his belongings with a smile of satisfaction. He felt that his delay had been by no means unprofitable.
One other step he took, before leaving. Accompanied by Mr. Hodgman, he made a careful inspection of the room which had been occupied by the nurse, Mary Lanahan, at the Stapleton house. The results were distressingly meager. All the woman's belongings she had evidently taken with her, on going abroad. There appeared to be nothing which would afford 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 of the bureau. "This woman, Mary Lanahan, is evidently an up-to-date sort of 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 burns on the varnish?" He pointed to a number of spots along the edge of the dresser. "Always find them somewhere about, where there's a cigarette smoker." He gazed out of the window for a moment. "Rooms tell a great deal about the personality of the people who have occupied them. For instance, I've never seen this Lanahan girl, but I know that she's not over 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 in waves, or curls, in front, is fond of the theater, and has a long narrow scar on the palm of her left hand."
He chuckled quietly, as he saw Mr. Hodgman's look of amazement. "All very simple – quite elementary, in fact. I won't even bother to tell you how I know – just little things here and there about the room. Here's one of 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 worn also proves that she's left handed. And here's another." He pointed to the electric bulb which hung over the head of the bed. "Nobody would use that light, except to read by in bed. The others in the room are more than sufficient for purposes of illumination. Yet the lamp has been used continuously, as its condition shows. See how blackened the glass is – and notice also how the white enamel of the back of the bed is worn off, just under the lamp. That's from propping a pillow against it, night after night." He turned toward the door. "Of course, those things aren't of any value, probably, in this case; but I can't help noticing them. Force of habit, I suppose."
When Duvall arrived at the Stapleton house on Saturday morning, he found the banker somewhat disturbed by a cablegram he had just received. "Mary claims attempts made to poison her. Will recover. Come at once," it read.
The detective appeared to be somewhat astonished, on reading the cablegram. "Looks as though somebody was afraid she might be going to talk," he remarked. "The sooner we arrive in Paris, now, the better."
CHAPTER III
GRACE DUVALL'S first inclination, on finding herself en route for Europe, without her husband, was to send him a wireless, advising him of her movements. Then she decided, for several reasons, not to do so. Chief among these was the fear that such a startling piece of news would be likely to cause him a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. She knew that she could never hope to explain matters, within the limits of a marconigram. And then, too, it was highly inadvisable, she knew, to mention in a wireless message the real reason which had caused her to leave home.
So she decided to make the best of the matter, realizing that within a few days, she would see Richard in Paris, and explain everything to his satisfaction.
Immediately on reaching Paris, she drove to the office of the Prefect of Police, and sent in her card to Monsieur Lefevre. She thought it possible that he would expect her, as his agent in Washington would no doubt have communicated with him. Nor was she mistaken.
He rushed into the anteroom as soon as he received her card, and embraced her with true Gallic fervor, kissing her on both cheeks until she blushed. Then he drew her into his private office.
"Where is your husband?" he asked, eagerly, as soon as Grace was seated.
"I – I do not know. Probably on his way to Paris."
"But – my dear child! Did he not then come with you?"
"No. He – he had other business."
"Other business! But I understood that he had temporarily retired." The Prefect seemed greatly astonished.
"So he had; but an old friend, Mr. Stapleton" —
Lefevre did not allow her to finish. "Stapleton!" he fairly shouted. "He is employed by him? Mon Dieu!"
"Why not?" asked Grace in surprise.
"But – it was for that very case that I desired his assistance. And by this Stapleton, who cables that the whole police force of Paris are a lot of jumping jacks! Sacré! It is insufferable!"
"You wanted my husband for the same case?"
"Assuredly! What else? The child of this pig of a millionaire is stolen – what you call – kidnapped! We have been unable to find the slightest clue. I am in despair. My men assure me that it is the work of an American gang. I conceive the hope that Monsieur Duvall may know these men – that he may be in possession of information that will lead to their capture. This rich American, he has spoken with contempt of the Paris police. The efficiency of my office is questioned. My honor is at stake. I send for my friend Duvall, to assist me, and – sacré! – I find him already working for this man who has insulted me. It is monstrous!"
Grace could scarcely repress a smile. How excessively French the Prefect was, after all. "My husband did not know, when he agreed to take the case for Mr. Stapleton, that you wanted him. He does not know it now. He has not yet received your message."
"Then he does not know that you are in Paris?"
"No. I thought he would be crossing on the same boat. When I found that he wasn't, my first thought was to send him a wireless. Then I realized that I couldn't do so, without saying something about the business that had called me to Paris – without, in fact, mentioning you. I feared to do this – for there are so many people nowadays tapping the wireless. I thought it better to keep the matter a secret."
"And you did quite right. I wanted your husband to take up this case, quite independently, and without it being known to anyone that he was in my employ." He paused for a moment in deep thought. "No doubt his employment by Mr. Stapleton is to be kept equally secret."
"I suppose so. He asked me not to say anything about it. I had to tell you, to explain matters."
"And he doesn't know that you are in Paris?" The Prefect gave a sudden laugh. "Ma foi!– what a joke!"
"A joke?"
"Assuredly! Don't you see? I am going to ask you to take up this case, yourself. I must use every means to recover the child of this Stapleton, before others do so for him. My professional pride will not permit me to be beaten. If I can't have your husband, at least I shall have you."
"But – I shall be working in opposition to him."
"Not in opposition. You will both have the same object in view – the recovery of Mr. Stapleton's boy. Whichever of you does so first, the result will be the same – the boy will be restored to his parents. But I want you, my child, to be the one to do this."
"But, Monsieur Lefevre, I could not hope to accomplish anything – where trained men have failed."
"Who knows? I remember well the assistance you gave us, in the matter of the ivory snuff box. Without your help, we should never have recovered it. I have faith in a woman's intuition. You will find this child for me, and give your husband the surprise of his life."
"But," said Grace, smiling mischievously at the prospect which opened before her, "suppose he should see me?"
"You must disguise yourself somewhat. Change the color of your hair; it is easily done – here in Paris." The Prefect laughed. "A slight alteration in appearance only will be necessary. And do not recognize your husband, should you meet him face to face. That is most important."
"Why?"
"Because, should he become convinced that it is really you, I fear he would insist upon your dropping the case entirely, and that would not suit my plans at all. Come, my child." The Prefect's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Do this thing for me. It will be a little joke, between us. The honeymoon detectives, I called you, once. What an amusing thing, that now you should be working in competition with each other, on the same case!" He began to laugh heartily.
"Well," said Grace, her sense of mischief getting the better of her, "now that I'm here, I suppose I might as well keep busy. Richard won't be here for two days, and I may find out something in that time."
"Excellent!" The Prefect clapped his hand smartly upon his knee. "You have two days' start. In two days, much may be accomplished. Come, let us go over the case in detail."
An hour later, Grace left the Prefect's office in a taxicab, having arranged to have her baggage sent to Monsieur Lefevre's house, where she was to stay while in Paris. Her previous acquaintance with Madame Lefevre made this an ideal arrangement. She was to pose as a friend, in Paris on a visit.
She ordered the driver of the taxicab to take her to Mr. Stapleton's house in the Avenue Kleber.
She found Mrs. Stapleton to be a very pretty and stylish woman of thirty; whose beauty, however, was sadly marred by the intense suffering through which she was passing. The poor creature had scarcely slept for over a week, and her distress was pitiable.
She answered Grace's questions as well as she could, under the circumstances. There was, after all, little to say. The nurse, it appeared, stuck to her story – that the boy had vanished, in the twinkling of an eye, while her back had been turned for but a few moments. Mrs. Stapleton could offer no explanation – attempted none.
"It is all so mysterious – so terrible!" she cried. "Poor Mary – she is too ill to see you, I fear, or I would have her tell you the story herself."
"Too ill?" inquired Grace, who had come more to question the maid, than Mrs. Stapleton. "What is the matter with her?"
"They tried to poison her – last Friday."
"They? Who?"
"I do not know. She went out for a walk. The poor woman was half dead, from nervous exhaustion and loss of sleep. She tells me that she stopped to get a cup of chocolate at a café in the Rue St. Honoré. After that she came back to the Champs Élysées, and sat upon a bench. She began suddenly to feel deathly ill, and, calling a cab, was driven home. When she arrived here, she was unconscious, and had to be carried to her room by the servants. She has been in bed ever since. I am glad to say, however, that she is better, and I think she could see you, by morning."
Grace left the Stapleton house, feeling somewhat baffled. The more she heard of this curious affair, the more inexplicable it seemed. She had hoped to visit the scene of the kidnapping, in company with the nurse, and examine the spot with her own eyes. This she now realized she could not do until the following day. She was walking in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe, revolving the affair in her mind, when a young man, evidently a Frenchman, of good appearance and not unpleasant face, came up beside her, bowed politely, and in excellent English asked her regarding Mary Lanahan.
"Miss Lanahan – is she better?" he inquired.
"Who are you, monsieur?" asked Grace, suppressing her inclination to resent the man's action, in her hope that she might learn something from him of value. His question showed Grace at once that he was acquainted with at least one member of the Stapleton household.
"I am a friend of Miss Lanahan's," the man replied. "I hear that she is ill. I saw you enter and leave the house, and I ventured to ask you if she is better."
"I was told that she is. I did not see her."
A peculiar expression crossed the young man's face; but Grace could not determine, so fleeting was it, whether it indicated pleasure or disappointment.
They walked along in silence for a few moments, and had almost reached the arch, when a ragged little urchin, a veritable Paris gamin, came up to Grace's companion and thrust a crumpled bit of paper into his hand, then darted off, whistling shrilly.
The man looked after him a moment, then examined the note. Whatever its contents, they made a startling impression upon him. He looked about, an expression of fear upon his face, turned to Grace with a hurried bow, and a quick good evening, and at once walked off in the opposite direction at full speed, at the same time fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat, as though searching for something in it. In his efforts, he dropped several papers to the street. Grace watched him as he picked them hurriedly up and moved off into the gathering darkness.
She fancied that one of the bits of paper had escaped his notice, and, on going back to the spot, found that she was correct. A small visiting card lay upon the sidewalk. She picked it up, and read the name as she walked away. It was Alphonse Valentin, Boulevard St. Michel.
Grace slipped the card into her pocketbook. The man's name meant nothing to her – she fancied that he was some friend of Miss Lanahan's, concerned about her condition. Yet why did he not inquire for her at the house, in the ordinary way? And why should the note, handed to him by the street urchin, have caused him such evident alarm?
She glanced at her watch, and saw that it was close to seven o'clock. She had intended to return to Monsieur Lefevre's for dinner; but a sudden determination to find out more about this man Valentin caused her to proceed at once to a hotel near the Louvre, where she ate her dinner alone.
An hour later she descended from a cab at the number on the Boulevard St. Michel, which was inscribed upon Alphonse Valentin's card.
The place was a dingy old building, the main floor of which was occupied by a dealer in cheese. A narrow doorway at one side gave access to the upper floors. Grace rang the bell, and waited in some trepidation. This going about Paris at night was rather an unusual experience. She thought of the simple joys of her life at home, and for a moment regretted that she had not stayed there. The opening of the door interrupted her thoughts.
The woman who stood in the hallway regarded her without particular interest, and inquired her business. "I wish to see Monsieur Valentin," said Grace.
"He is not in."
