DIANA UNDERTAKES A STRANGE ERRAND
If I had not been tingling with anger against Lisa, who had seemed to
enjoy saying needlessly cruel things to me, perhaps I would have been
utterly discouraged when she pricked the bubble of my hope. She had made
me realise that the plan I had was useless, perhaps worse than useless;
but in my desperate mood I caught at another. I would try to see Ivor,
and find out some other way of helping him. At all events he should know
that I was for him, not against him, in this time of trouble.
Perhaps this new idea was a mad one, I told myself. Perhaps I should not
be allowed to see him, even in the presence of others. But while there
was a "perhaps" I wouldn't give up. Without waiting for a cooler or more
cowardly mood to set in, I almost ran out of my room, and downstairs,
for I hadn't taken off my hat and coat since coming in.
I had no knowledge of French law, or police etiquette, or anything of
that sort. But I knew the French as a gallant nation; and I thought that
if a girl should go to the right place begging for a short conversation
with an accused man, as his friend, an interview--probably with a
witness--might possibly be granted. The authorities might think that we
were engaged, for all I cared. I did not care about anything now, except
seeing Ivor, and helping him if I could.
I hardly knew what I meant to do at the beginning, by way of getting the
chance I wanted, until I had asked to have a motor-cab called for me.
Then, I suddenly thought of the British Ambassador, a great friend of
Uncle Eric's and Aunt Lilian's. Uncle Eric had already been to him, but
I fancied not with a view of trying to see Ivor. That idea had
apparently not been in his mind at all. Anyway, the Ambassador would
already understand that the family took a deep interest in the fate of
Ivor Dundas, and would not be wholly astonished at receiving a call from
me. Besides, hearing of some rather venturesome escapades of mine when I
first arrived in London, he had once, while visiting Uncle Eric, laughed
a good deal and said that in future he would be "surprised at nothing an
American girl might do."
I told the driver to go to the British Embassy as fast as he could.
There, I sent in my name, and the Ambassador received me at once. I
didn't explain much, but came to the point immediately, and said that I
wanted--oh, but wanted and needed very much indeed--to see Ivor Dundas.
Could he, would he help me to do that?
"Ought I to help you?" he asked. "Would Mountstuart and Lady Mountstuart
approve?"
"Yes," I said firmly. "They would approve. You see, it is necessary."
"Then, if it's necessary--and I believe you when you say that it is," he
answered, "I'll do what I can."
What he could do and did do, was to write a personal letter to the Chief
of Police in Paris, asking as a favour that his friend, Miss Forrest, a
young lady related through marriage to the British Foreign Secretary,
should be allowed five minutes' conversation with the Englishman accused
of murder, Mr. Ivor Dundas.
I took the letter to the Chief of Police myself, to save time, and
because I was so restless and excited that I must be doing something
every instant--something which I felt might bring me nearer to Ivor.
From the Chief of Police, who proved to be a most courteous person, I
received an order to give to the governor of the gaol or prison where
they had put Ivor. This, he explained, would procure me the interview I
wanted, but unfortunately, I must not hope to see my friend alone. A
warder who understood English would have to be present.
So far I had gone into the wild venture without once thinking what it
would be to find myself suddenly face to face with Ivor in such terrible
circumstances, or what he would think of me for coming in such a way now
that we were no longer anything to each other--not even friends. But a
kind of ague-terror crept over me while I sat waiting in an ugly little
bare, stuffy reception room. My head was going round and round, my heart
was pounding so that I could not make up my mind what to say to Ivor
when he came.
Then, suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door; and
when it opened, there stood Ivor, between two Frenchmen in blue
uniforms. One of them walked into the room with him--I suppose he must
have been a warder--but he stopped near the door, and in a second I had
forgotten all about him. He simply ceased to exist for me, when my eyes
and Ivor's had met.
I sprang up from my chair and began to talk as quickly as I could,
stammering and confused, hardly knowing what I said, but anxious to make
him understand in the beginning that I had not come to take back my
words of yesterday.
"We're all so dreadfully sorry, Mr. Dundas," I said. "I don't know if
Uncle Eric has been here yet--but he is doing all he can, and Aunt
Lilian is dreadfully upset. We're staying on in Paris on account of--on
account of this. So you see you've got friends near you. And I--we're
such old friends, I couldn't help trying as hard as I could for a sight
of you to--to cheer you up, and--and to help you, if that's possible."
I spoke very fast, not daring to look at him after the first, but
pretending to smooth out some wrinkles in one of my long gloves. My eyes
were full of tears, and I was afraid they'd go splashing down my cheeks,
if I even winked my lashes. I loved him more than ever now, and felt
capable of forgiving him anything, if only I had the chance to forgive,
and if only, _only_ he really loved me and not that other.
"Thank you, a hundred times--more than I can express," he said, with a
faint quiver in his voice--his beautiful voice, which was the first
thing that charmed me after knowing him. "It _does_ cheer me to see you.
It gives me strength and courage. You wouldn't have come if you
didn't--trust me, and believe me innocent."
"Why, of course, I--we--believe you innocent of any crime," I faltered.
"And of any lack of faith?"
"Oh, as for that, how can--but don't let's speak of that. What can it
matter now?"
"It matters more than anything else in the world. If only you could say
that you will have faith!"
"I'll try to say it then, if it can give you any comfort."
"Not unless you mean it."
"Then--I'll try to mean it. Will that satisfy you?"
"It's better than nothing. And I thank you again. As for the rest,
you're not to be anxious. Everything will come right for me sooner or
later, though I may have to suffer some annoyances first."
"Annoyances?" I echoed. "If there were nothing worse!"
"There won't be. I shall be well defended. It will all be shown up as a
huge mistake--another warning against trusting to circumstantial
evidence."
"Is there nothing we can do then? Or--that we would urge _others_ to
do?" I asked, hoping he would understand that I meant _one_
other--Maxine de Renzie.
I guessed by his look that he did understand. It was a look of gloom;
but suddenly a light flashed in his eyes.
"There is one thing _you_ could do for me--you and no one else," he
said. "But I have no right to ask it."
"Tell me what it is," I implored.
"I would not, if it didn't mean more than my life to me." He hesitated,
and then, while I wondered what was to come, he bent forward and spoke a
few hurried words in Spanish. He knew that to me Spanish was almost as
familiar as English. He had heard me talk of the Spanish customs still
existing in the part of California where I was born. He had heard me
sing Spanish songs. We had sung them together--one or two I had taught
him. But I had not taught him the language. He learned that, and three
or four others at least, as a boy, when first he thought of taking up a
diplomatic career.
They were so few words, and so quickly spoken, that I--remembering the
warder--almost hoped they might pass unnoticed. But the man in uniform
came nearer to us at once, looking angry and suspicious.
"That is forbidden," he said to Ivor. Then, turning sharply to me. "What
language was that?"
"Spanish," I answered. "He only bade me good-bye. We have been--very
dear friends, and there was a misunderstanding, but--it's over now. It
was natural he shouldn't want you to hear his last words to me."
"Nevertheless, it is forbidden," repeated the warder obstinately, "and
though the five minutes you were granted together are not over yet, the
prisoner must go with me now. He has forfeited the rest of his time, and
must be reported."
With this, he ordered Ivor to leave the room, in a tone which sounded to
me so brutal that I should have liked him to be shot, and the whole
French police force exterminated. To hear a little underbred policeman
dare to speak like that to my big, brave, handsome Englishman, and to
know that it would be childish and undignified of Ivor to resist--oh, I
could have killed the creature with my own hands--I think!
As for Ivor, he said not another word, except "good-bye," smiling half
sadly, half with a twinkle of grim humour. Then he went out, with his
head high: and just at the door he threw me back one look. It said as
plainly as if he had spoken: "Remember, I know you won't fail me."
I did indeed remember, and I prayed that I should have pluck and courage
not to fail. But it was a very hard thing that he had asked me to do,
and he had said well in saying that he would not ask it of me if it did
not mean more than his life.
The words he had whispered so hastily and unexpectedly in Spanish, were
these: "Go to the room of the murder alone, and on the window balcony
find in a box under flower-pots a folded document. Take this to Maxine.
Every moment counts."
So it seemed that it was always of her he thought--of Maxine de Renzie!
And I, of all people in the world, was to help him, with her.
As I thought of this task he'd set me, and of all it meant, it appeared
more and more incredible that he should have had the heart to ask such a
thing of me. But--it "meant more than his life." And I would do the
thing, if it could be done, because of my pride.
As I drove away from the prison a kind of fury grew in me and possessed
me. I felt as if I had fire instead of blood in my veins. If I had known
that death, or worse than death, waited for me in the ghastly house to
which Ivor had sent me, I would still have gone there.
My first thought was to go instantly, and get it over--with success or
failure. But calmer thoughts prevailed.
I hadn't looked at the papers yet. My only knowledge of last night's
dreadful happenings had come from Uncle Eric and Lord Robert West. I had
said to myself that I didn't wish to read the newspaper accounts of the
murder, and of Ivor's supposed part in it. I remembered now, however,
that I did not even know in what part of Paris the house of the murder
was. I recalled only the name of the street, because it was a curiously
grim one--like the tragedy that had been acted in it.
I couldn't tell the chaffeur to drive me to the street and house. That
would be a stupid thing to do. I must search the papers, and find out
from them something about the neighbourhood, for there would surely be
plenty of details of that sort. And I must do this without first going
back to the hotel, as it might be very difficult to get away again, once
I was there. Now, nobody knew where I was, and I was free to do as I
pleased, no matter what the consequences might be afterwards.
Passing a Duval restaurant, I suddenly ordered my motor-cab to stop.
Having paid, and sent it away, I went upstairs and asked for a cup of
chocolate at one of the little, deadly respectable-looking marble
tables. Also I asked to see an evening paper.
It was a shock to find Ivor's photograph, horribly reproduced, gazing at
me from the front page. The photograph was an old one, which had been a
good deal shown in shop windows, much to Ivor's disgust, at about the
time when he returned from his great expedition and published his really
wonderful book. I had seen it before I met him, and as it must have been
on sale in Paris as well as London, it had been easy enough for the
newspaper people to get it. Then there came the story of the murder,
built up dramatically. Hating it, sickened by it, I yet read it all. I
knew where to go to find the house, and I knew that the murder had been
committed in a back room on the top floor. Also I saw the picture of the
window with the balcony. Ivor was supposed--according to Girard, the
detective--to have tried in vain to escape by way of this high balcony,
on hearing sounds outside the door while busy in searching the dead
man's room. Girard said that he had seen him first, by the light of a
bull's-eye lantern, which he--Girard--carried, standing at bay in the
open window. There was a photograph of this window, taken from outside.
There was the balcony: and there was the balcony of another window with
another balcony just like it, on the adjoining house. I looked at the
picture, and judged that there would not be more than two feet of
distance between the railings of those two balconies.
"That would be my way to get there--if I can get there at all," I said
to myself. But there was hardly any "if" left in my mind now. I meant to
get there.
By this time it was after five o'clock. I left the Duval restaurant, and
again took a cab. The first thing I did was to send a _petit bleu_ to
Aunt Lilian, saying that she wasn't to worry about me. I'd been hipped
and nervous, and had gone out to see a friend who was--I'd just found
out--staying in Paris. Perhaps I should stop with the friend to dinner;
but at latest I should be back by nine or ten o'clock. That would save a
bother at the hotel (for Aunt Lilian knew I had heaps of American
friends who came every year to Paris), yet no one would know where to
search for me, even if they were inclined.
Next, I drove to a street near the Rue de la Fille Sauvage, and
dismissed my cab. I asked for no directions, but after one or two
mistakes, found the street I wanted. Instead of going to the house of
the murder, I passed on to the next house on the left--the house of the
balcony almost adjoining the dead man's.
I rang the bell for the concierge, and asked him if there were any rooms
to let in the house. I knew already that there were, for I could see the
advertisement of "_Chambres à louer_" staring me in the face: but I
spoke French as badly as I could, making three mistakes to every
sentence, and begged the man to talk slowly in answering me.
There were several rooms to be had, it appeared, but it would have been
too good to be true that the one I wanted should be empty. After we had
jabbered awhile, I made the concierge understand that I was a young
American journalist, employed by a New York paper. I wanted to "write
up" the murder of last night, according to my own ideas, and as of
course the police wouldn't let me go into the room where it happened,
the next best thing would be to take the room close to it, in the house
adjoining. I wanted to be there only long enough to "get the emotion,
the sensation," I explained, so as to make my article really dramatic.
Would the people who occupied that room let it to me for a few hours?
Long before bedtime they could have it back again, if I got on well with
my writing.
The concierge, to whom I gave ten francs as a kind of retaining fee, was
almost sure the occupants of the room (an old man and his wife) would
willingly agree to such a proposal, if I paid them well enough for their
trouble in turning out.
Would three louis be enough? I asked. The concierge--whose eyes
brightened--thought that it would. I knew by his look that he would take
a large commission for managing the affair, as he quickly offered to do;
but that didn't matter to me.
He confirmed my idea that it would have been hopeless to try and get
into the room of the murder itself, even if I could have borne it,
saying that the door, and window too, had been sealed by the police, who
were also guarding the house from curiosity seekers; but he added that I
could see the shut window from the balcony of the room I was going to
hire.
I waited for him, and played with his very unattractive baby while he
went upstairs to make enquiries. He was gone for some time, explaining
to the people; but at last, when my patience was almost too far
strained, he came back to say that Monsieur and Madame Nissot had
consented to go out of their room for the evening. They were dining at
the moment, however, and Mademoiselle must be pleased to wait a few
moments until they finished the meal and gathered up a few things which
they could carry to a neighbour's: books, and work for their hours of
absence, the concierge politely suggested. But that was to save my
feelings, no doubt, for I was sure the husband and wife meant to make a
parcel of any valuables which could possibly be carried off by an
unscrupulous American journalist. Also, they stipulated that payment
must be made in advance. To this I agreed willingly. And then--I waited,
waited. It was tedious, but after all, the tediousness didn't matter
much when I came to think of it. It would be impossible to do the thing
I had made up my mind to do, till after dark.
MAXINE DE RENZIE'S PART