IVOR IS LATE FOR AN APPOINTMENT
I was glad to be alone, for as I had said, I wanted to think quietly.
Maxine had taken the diamonds, but she had slipped the necklace into the
bosom of her dress, pressing it down through the rather low-cut opening
at the throat, and had therefore left the leather case. I picked the
thing up from the table where she had thrown it, and examined it
carefully for the first time.
It had not been originally intended as a jewel-case, that was clear; and
as Maxine's voice had rung unmistakably true when she denied all
previous knowledge of it to the police, I judged that the diamonds had
not been in it when the Duchess entrusted them to du Laurier. He would
almost certainly have described to Maxine the box or case which had been
stolen from him, and if the thing pulled out from the sofa-hiding-place
had recalled his description, she must have betrayed some emotion under
the keen eyes of the Commissary of Police.
The case which, it seemed, I had brought to Paris, looked as if it might
have been made to hold a peculiar kind of cigar, much longer than the
ordinary sort. Within, on either side, was a partition, and there was a
silver clasp on which the hallmark was English.
"English silver!" I said to myself, thoughtfully. The three men who had
travelled in the carriage with me from London to Dover were all English.
Of the trio, only the nervous little fellow who had reserved the
compartment for himself had found the smallest possible opportunity to
steal the treaty from me, and exchange for it this red leather case
containing a diamond necklace worth twenty thousand pounds. If he
possessed the skill and quick deftness of a conjurer or a marvellously
clever professional pickpocket, as well as the incentive of a paid spy,
he might conceivably have done the trick at the moment of alarm on the
boat's gangway, not afterwards; for when he had pressed near me in the
Gare du Nord he had been on the wrong side. But for my life I could not
guess the motive for such an exchange.
Supposing him a spy, employed to track and rob me of what I carried, why
should he have made me a present of these rare and precious diamonds?
Would the bribe for which he used his skill reach anything like the sum
he could obtain by selling the stones? I was almost sure it would not;
and therefore, having the diamonds, it would have been far more to his
advantage to keep them than to stuff them into my pocket, simply to fill
up the space where the case with the treaty had lain. There would not
have been time yet for the real diamonds to have been copied in
Amsterdam, therefore it would be useless to build up a theory that the
stones given me might be false.
Besides, I reminded myself, if the man were a spy whose business was to
watch and be near me, why hadn't he waited to see what I would do, where
I would go, instead of taking a compartment, carefully reserving it, and
trusting to such an unlikely chance as that I might force myself into it
with him? Even if the three men had been in some obscure way playing
into each others' hands, I could not see how their game had been
arranged to catch me.
Maxine and I had talked for a long time, but not two hours had passed
yet since I saw the last of the little rat of a man in the
railway-station. Though I could not understand any reason for his
tricking me, still I told myself that nobody else could have done it,
and I decided to go back at once to the Gare du Nord. There I might
still be able to find some trace of the little man and of my two other
fellow-travellers. If through a porter or cabman I could learn where
they had gone, I might have a chance even now of getting back the stolen
treaty. I had brought with me from London a loaded revolver, warned by
the Foreign Secretary that to do so would be a wise precaution; and I
was ready to make use of it if necessary.
I was beginning to be very hungry, but that was a detail of no
importance, for I had no time to waste in eating. I went to the
railway-station and looked about until I found a porter whose face I had
seen when I got out of the train. He had, in fact, appeared under the
window of my compartment, offering himself as a luggage carrier and had
been close behind me when my late travelling companion walked by my
side. Questioned, he appeared not to remember; but his wits being
sharpened by the gift of a franc, he reflected and recalled not only my
features but the features of the little man, whom he described with
sufficient accuracy. What had become of _le petit Monsieur_ he was not
certain, but fancied he had eventually driven away in a cab accompanied
by two other gentlemen. He recollected this circumstance, because the
face of the cabman was one that he knew; and it was now again in the
station, for the _voiture_ had returned. Would he point out the _cocher_
to me? He would, and did, receiving a second franc for his pains.
The cab driver proved to be a dull and surly fellow, like many another
_cocher_ of Paris, but the clink of silver and the sight of it mellowed
him. I began by saying that I was in search of three friends of mine
whom I was to have met when the boat train came in, but whom I had
unfortunately missed. I asked him to describe the men he had driven away
from the station at that time, and though he did it clumsily, betraying
an irritating lack of observation when it came to details, still such
information as I could draw from him sounded encouraging. He remembered
perfectly well the place at which he had deposited his three passengers,
and I decided to take the risk of following them.
When I say "risk," I mean the risk that the man I was starting to chase
might turn out not to be the man I wished to follow. Besides, as they
had been driven to Neuilly, the distance was so great that, if I went
there in a cab, and found at last that I had made a mistake, I should
have wasted a great deal of valuable time on the wrong tack. If the
driver had remembered the name of the street, and the number of the
house at which he had paused, I would have hired a motor and flashed out
to the place in a few minutes; but, despite a suggested bribe, he could
say no more than that, when he had come to a certain place, one of his
passengers had called, "Turn down the next street, to the left." He had
done so, and in front of a house, almost midway along that street, he
had been bidden to stop. He had not bothered to look at the name of the
street; but, though he was not very familiar with that neighbourhood,
various landmarks would guide him to the right place, when he came to
pass them again.
Having heard all he had to say, I reluctantly made up my mind that I
could do no better than take the man as my conductor; and accordingly,
with a horse already tired, I drove to Neuilly. There, the landmarks
were not deceiving, as I was half afraid they would be; and in a quiet
street of the suburb, we stopped at last before a fair-sized house with
lights in many windows. Evidently it was a _pension_.
Of the man-servant who answered my ring, I enquired if three English
gentlemen had lately arrived. He replied that they had, and were dining.
Would Monsieur give himself the pain of waiting a few minutes, until
dinner should be over?
My answer was to slip a five franc piece into the servant's hand, and
suggest that I should be shown at once into the dining-room, without
waiting.
My idea was to catch my birds while they fed, and take them by surprise,
lest they fly away. If I pounced upon them in the midst of a meal, at
least they could not escape before being recognised by me: and as to
what should come after recognition, the moment of meeting must decide.
The five franc piece worked like a charm. I was promptly ushered into
the dining-room, and standing just inside the door, I swept the long
table with a quick, eager glance. About eighteen or twenty people were
dining, but, though several were unmistakably English, I saw no one who
resembled my travelling companions.
Everyone turned and stared. There was no face of which I had not a good
view. In a low voice I asked the servant which were the new arrivals of
whom he had spoken. He pointed them out, and added that, though they had
come only that day from England, they were old patrons, well known in
the house.
As I lingered, deeply disappointed, the elderly proprietor of the
_pension_, who superintended the comfort of his guests, trotted fussily
up to enquire the stranger's business in his dining-room. I explained
that I had hoped to find friends, and was so polite that I contrived to
get permission for my cabman to have a peep through the crack of the
door. When he had identified his three passengers, all hope was over. I
had followed the wrong men.
There was nothing to do but go back to the Gare du Nord, and question
more porters and cabmen. Nobody could give me any information worth
having, it seemed; yet the little man must have left the station in a
vehicle of some sort, as he had a great deal of small luggage. Since I
could learn nothing of him or his movements, however, and dared not,
because of Maxine and the British Foreign Secretary, apply to the police
for help, I determined to lose no more time before consulting a private
detective, a man whose actions I could control, and to whom I need tell
only as much of the truth as I chose, without fear of having the rest
dragged out of me.
At my own hotel I enquired of the manager where I could find a good
private detective, got an address, and motored to it, the speed bracing
my nerves. Fortunately, (as I thought then) Monsieur Anatole Girard was
at home and able to receive me. I was shown into the plain but very neat
little sitting-room of a flat on the fifth floor of a big new apartment
house, and was impressed at first glance by the clever face of the dark,
thin Frenchman who politely bade me welcome. It was cunning, as well as
clever, no doubt: but then, I told myself, it was the business of a
person in Monsieur Girard's profession to be cunning.
I introduced myself as Mr. Sanford, the name I had been told to give at
the Élysée Palace Hotel. This seemed best, as it was in the hotel that I
had been recommended to Monsieur Girard, and complications might arise
if George Sandford suddenly turned into Ivor Dundas. Besides, as there
were a good many things which I did not want brought to light, Sandford
seemed the man to fit the situation. Later, he could easily disappear
and leave no trace.
I said that I had been robbed of a thing which was of immense value to
me, but as it was the gift of a lady whose name must not on any account
appear in the case, I did not wish to consult the police. All I asked of
Monsieur Girard's well-known ability was the discovery of the supposed
thief, whom I thereupon described. I added the fact that we had
travelled together, mentioned the incident at the gangway, and explained
that I had not suspected my loss until I arrived at the Élysée Palace
Hotel.
Girard listened quietly, evidently realising that I talked to him from
behind a screen of reserve, yet not seeking to force me to put aside
that screen. He asked several intelligent questions, very much to the
point, and I answered them--as seemed best. When he touched on points
which I considered too delicate to be handled by a stranger, even a
detective in my employ, I frankly replied that they had nothing to do
with the case in hand. Shrugging his shoulders almost imperceptibly, yet
expressively, he took my refusals without comment; and merely bowed when
I said that, if the scoundrel could be unearthed within twenty-four
hours, I would pay a hundred pounds: if within twelve, a hundred and
fifty: if within six, two hundred. I added that there was not a second
to waste, as the fellow might slip out of Paris at any minute; but
whatever happened, Monsieur Girard was to keep the matter quiet.
The detective promised to do his best, (which was said to be very good),
held out hopes of success, and assured me of his discretion. On the
whole, I was pleased with him. He looked like a man who thoroughly knew
his business; and had it not been for the solemn warning of the Foreign
Secretary, and the risk for Maxine, I would gladly have put more
efficient weapons in Girard's hands, by telling him everything.
By the time that the detective had been primed with such facts and
details as I could give, it was past ten o'clock. I could see my way to
do nothing more for the moment, and as I was half famished, I whizzed
back in my hired automobile to the Élysée Palace Hotel. There I had food
served in my own sitting-room, lest George Sandford should chance
inconveniently upon some acquaintance of Ivor Dundas, in the restaurant.
I did not hurry over the meal, for all I wanted now was to arrive at
Maxine de Renzie's house at twelve o'clock, and tell her my news--or
lack of news. She would be there waiting for me, I was sure, no matter
how prompt I might be, for though in ordinary circumstances, after the
first performance of a new play, either Maxine would have gone out to
supper, or invited guests to sup with her, she would have accepted no
invitation, given none, for to-night. She would hurry out of the
theatre, probably without waiting to remove her stage make-up, and she
would go home unaccompanied, except by her maid.
Maxine lives in a charming little old-fashioned house, set back in its
own garden, a great "find" in a good quarter of Paris; and her house
could he reached in ten minutes' drive from my hotel. I would not go as
far as the gate, but would dismiss my cab at the corner of the quiet
street, as it would not he wise to advertise the fact that Mademoiselle
de Renzie was receiving a visit from a young man at midnight. Fifteen
minutes would give me plenty of time for all this: therefore, at about a
quarter to twelve I started to go downstairs, and in the entrance hall
almost ran against the last person on earth I expected to see--Diana
Forrest.
She was not alone, of course; but for a second or two I saw no one else.
There was none other except her precious and beautiful face in the
world; and for a wild instant I asked myself if she had come here to see
me, to take back all her cruel words of misunderstanding, and to take me
hack also. But it was only for an instant--a very mad instant.
Then I realised that she couldn't have known I was to be at the Élysée
Palace Hotel, and that even if she had, she would not have dreamed of
coming to me. As common sense swept my brain clear, I saw near the
precious and beautiful face other faces: Lady Mountstuart's, Lord
Mountstuart's, Lisa Drummond's, and Bob West's.
They were all in evening dress, the ladies in charming wraps which
appeared to consist mostly of lace and chiffon, and evidently they had
just come into the hotel from some place of amusement. The beautiful
face, which had been pale, grew rosy at sight of me, though whether with
amazement or anger, or both, I couldn't tell. Lisa smiled, looking more
impish even than usual; but it was plain that the others, Lord
Mountstuart among them, were surprised to see me here.
"Goodness, is it you or your ghost?" exclaimed Lady Mountstuart, in the
soft accents of California, which have never changed in spite of the
long years of her married life in England.
If it had been my ghost it would have vanished immediately, to save Di
from embarrassment, and also to prevent any delay in getting to
Maxine's. But, unfortunately, a flesh and blood young man must stop for
conventional politeness before he can disappear, no matter what presses.
I said "How do you do?" to everyone, adding that I was as surprised to
see them as they could be to see me. I even grinned civilly at Lord
Robert West, though finding him here with Di, looking particularly
pleased with himself, made me want to knock him down.
"Oh, it was a plan, as far as Mounty and Lord Robert and I are
concerned," explained Lady Mountstuart. "Of course, Lord Robert ought to
have been at the Duchess's bazaar this afternoon, but then he won't show
up at such things, even to please his sister, and Di and Lisa were to
have represented me there. To-day and to-morrow are the only days all
three of us could possibly steal to get away and look at a most
wonderful motor car; made for a Rajah who died before it was ready. Lord
Robert certainly knows more about automobiles than any other human being
does, and he thought this was just what I would want. Di had the most
horrid headache this morning, poor child, and wasn't fit for the fatigue
of a big crush, so, as she's a splendid sailor, I persuaded her to come
with us--and Lisa, too, of course. We caught the afternoon train to
Boulogne, and had such a glorious crossing that we actually all had the
courage to dress and dine at Madrid--wasn't it plucky of us? But we're
collapsing now, and have come back early, as we must inspect the car the
first thing to-morrow morning and do a heap of shopping afterwards."
"If you're collapsing, I mustn't keep you standing here a moment," I
said, anxious for more than one reason to get away. Di wasn't looking at
me. Half turned from me, purposely I didn't doubt, she had begun a
conversation with Bob West, who beamed with joy over her kindness to him
and her apparent indifference to me.
"'Collapsing' is an exaggeration perhaps," laughed Lady Mountstuart.
"But, instead of keeping us standing here, come up to our sitting-room
and have a little talk--and whisky and soda."
"Yes, do come, Dundas," her husband added.
"Thank you both," I stammered, trying not to look embarrassed. "But--I
know you're all tired, and--."
"And perhaps you have some nice engagement," piped Lisa.
"It's too late for respectable British young men to have engagements in
naughty Paris," said Lady Mountstuart, laughing again (she looks very
handsome when she laughs, and knows it). "Isn't that true, Mr. Dundas?"
"It depends upon the engagement," I managed to reply calmly. But then,
as Di suddenly turned and looked straight at me with marked coldness,
the blood sprang up to my face. I began to stammer again like a young
ass of a schoolboy. "I'm afraid that I--er--the fact is, I _am_ engaged.
A matter of business. I wish I could get out of it, but I can't,
and--er--I shall have to run off, or I will be late.
Good-bye,--good-bye." Then I mumbled something about hoping to see them
again before they left Paris, and escaped, knowing that I had made a
horrid mess of my excuses. Di was laughing at something West said, as I
turned away, and though perhaps his remark and her laugh had nothing to
do with me, my ears burned, and there was a cold lump of iron, or
something that felt like it, where my heart ought to have been.
Now was Lord Robert's time to propose--now, when she believed me
faithless and unworthy--if he but knew it. And I was afraid that he
would know it.
I got out into the open air, feeling half-dazed as one of the under
porters called me a cab. I gave the name of a street in the direction,
but at some distance from Maxine's, lest ears should hear which ought
not to hear: and it was only when we were well away from the hotel that
I amended my first instructions. Even then, I mentioned the street
leading into the one where I was due, not the street itself.
"_Depêchez vous_" I added, for I had delayed eight or ten minutes longer
than I ought, and this had upset the exactness of my calculations. The
man obeyed; nevertheless, instead of reaching the top of Maxine's street
at two or three minutes before twelve, as I had intended, it was nearly
ten minutes past when I got out of my cab at the corner: and when I came
to the gate of the house a clock somewhere was striking the quarter hour
after midnight.
MAXINE DE RENZIE'S PART