THE CALL
MAYNARD’S hail was lost in the exhaust from a nearby automobile and he
watched the taxi-cab bearing René La Montagne continue down M Street
with mixed feelings, then started at a rapid walk in the direction
the cab was going. At Seventeenth Street he saw an empty car, bearing
the placard “For hire,” coming toward him and promptly stopped the
chauffeur.
“See if you can catch up with that car ahead,” he directed, pointing
to La Montagne’s taxi which could just be seen, and sprang into the
automobile. But the chauffeur, evidently one of the many inexperienced
men who had joined the great army of licensed motorists to supply
the public need of vehicles, had stalled his engine and when the car
finally started down M Street La Montagne’s taxi was nowhere in sight.
As they whirled around Thomas Circle Maynard, who had vented his
feelings by swearing a blue streak under his breath at each second’s
delay, called to the chauffeur to go to the Burlington apartment, and
the man changed his direction with such precipitancy that Maynard was
thrown forward. He had just regained his equilibrium as the car turned
into the driveway leading to the apartment-hotel.
“Has Captain La Montagne returned?” he asked the doorman.
“Yes, sir, just arrived,” and the man touched his cap respectfully.
“Wish to see him, sir?”
“Yes.” Maynard paused in getting out of his car and scanned the
numerous motors parked along the curbing. “Is Captain La Montagne’s
taxi waiting for him?”
“No, sir. The chauffeur picked up a party just leaving when the Captain
said he shouldn’t want him again to-day, and drove off.”
Maynard stared blankly at the doorman. Should he go in and see La
Montagne or try and locate Sam, the taxi-driver, first? His inclination
was for the latter course.
“Which way did the taxi go?” he asked.
“’Deed I didn’t notice, sir.” The doorman was too respectful to show
the surprise he felt at the continued questioning. “Another car drove
up and I went to open the door for the ladies in it. Do you wish to get
out, sir?”
“Yes,” and the servant swung back the door of his car. “Wait,” called
Maynard over his shoulder to his chauffeur and entered the building.
Not troubling to have his name telephoned up he hastened to the
elevator and told the boy to take him to La Montagne’s apartment. His
ring at the bell of the apartment was answered by La Montagne whose
face lighted at sight of his visitor.
“Most welcome,” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Come right in,” and he led
the way across the tiny entrance hall in the room which, with a bed
in an alcove, did for sitting room and bedroom. La Montagne dragged
forward a chair and perched himself on the only other one the room
boasted and then addressed Maynard in his own language.
“We are old friends; let us talk at ease,” he began. “Who is James
Palmer?”
“A Washington architect,” was Maynard’s concise reply.
“Of independent means?”
“I understand he is quite wealthy, but I really know very little about
the man. Why are you inquiring about him, René?” and Maynard looked at
his companion with quickened interest.
“Because,” explained La Montagne frankly. “I have puzzled much over the
scene before the door of Mr. Palmer’s apartment last night. Why did you
and he show such interest in my simple action of stopping to inquire
the way to Madame Van Ness’ apartment?”
Maynard studied the Frenchman as he considered the question. It was
surely only fair to answer it; La Montagne could not defend himself
until informed of the charges against him--after all, what were they?
His appearance at the door of Palmer’s apartment immediately following
the attempted assassination of Burnham could be a coincidence only;
stranger things than that had happened in Maynard’s experience. After
all the most serious phase of the affair was Burnham’s half delirious
statement that La Montagne had “tried to get him.” A man making a
charge had to prove it; therefore, it was up to Burnham to substantiate
his statement with evidence, and La Montague’s assertion that he had
seen the taxi-driver leave the apartment a second before he himself
reached the door was possible of confirmation as soon as he located
the chauffeur. As it stood, both Burnham and La Montagne had made
unsupported statements--and each man’s word was as good as the other’s
until proved a liar.
“Some one took a pot shot at Burnham as we sat in Palmer’s apartment,”
stated Maynard slowly. “The shot was evidently fired from the balcony
into the room.”
La Montagne straightened up and gazed intently at Maynard. “Yes,
continue----” he urged.
“Access to the balcony is from the hall of the apartment; there was
time, René, for an active man to have slipped back from the balcony
into the corridor after having fired the shot and been standing just
where we found you when we rushed into the hall.” Maynard checked
off his remarks on his fingers. “The long French window which gives
admittance from the hall to the balcony was open as well as the outer
door leading from the apartment to the corridor where you stood.”
“Well, well, what then? Just because I stopped before a strange door
does not mean I am a criminal!” La Montagne jerked out his sentences.
“Even in this mad America!”
Maynard was silent for a second. “Burnham fainted from excitement,” he
said. “However, he caught a glimpse of you before Palmer closed the
door and called out that you had ‘tried to kill him’.”
La Montagne gazed at Maynard in blank astonishment. “_Mon Dieu!_ Is the
man possessed?”
“It would seem so,” agreed Maynard. “But I think another word fits
the case better, ‘obsessed’,” and as the Frenchman looked puzzled, he
added, “Burnham appears to hate you.”
“Hate me!” La Montagne threw himself back in his chair. “Everywhere I
hear of such animosity on his part, and why?” he laughed vexedly. “It
is a German trait to ‘_strafe_’ and not an American characteristic.”
Maynard stopped fingering his wrist watch and stared at his companion.
“You mean the animosity is all on his side?”
“Absolutely. Our intercourse has been little but friendly----”
“But--but you know he opposes your engagement to Evelyn----?”
“So I have understood recently.” La Montagne shot a questioning look at
Maynard. “Are you trying to establish a motive for my so-called attempt
to shoot Burnham?”
“Frankly, yes. Now, keep calm, René; this thing has got to be thrashed
out in sober earnest and if Burnham is determined to involve you in
the attempted shooting, it is up to us to prove him a liar,” continued
Maynard. “We can only do that by discussing the matter at every angle.”
“True,” admitted the Frenchman, but his hot color had not gone down,
although his manner was more tranquil. “Aside from all else there is
one point which establishes my innocence.”
“What is that? The presence of the taxi-driver?”
“_Non, non!_ If I had shot at Burnham I would have killed him! See----”
touching one of his medals which he wore. “It is for marksmanship. If
you do not believe----” His hand sought his desk drawer and he whipped
out his revolver--the tinkle of the shattered glass of the small
incandescent electric light bulb, one of a cluster of imitation candles
in the hall, broke the tense silence. “_Voilà!_”
Maynard sprang to his feet, his eyes glued to the automatic pistol.
“Good God! You have a Maxim silencer on your gun!”
“But yes,” responded La Montague composedly.
“But, but----?” Maynard’s words tumbled over themselves. “It is
forbidden by law to put a Maxim silencer on any weapon.”
“Laws are broken daily in America, _mon ami_; why so excited over
trifles?”
“Trifles!” Maynard ruffled his hair. “René, the man who shot at Burnham
used a revolver or pistol with a Maxim silencer on it.”
“_Eh bien!_ What then?”
“This,” tersely. “You have an automatic equipped with a Maxim silencer;
you were standing within a few yards of where the shooting took
place--the door and window both open; and your engagement to Evelyn is
opposed by her step-father.” Maynard drew a long breath. “There you
are; weapon, presence, motive.”
“Bah!” La Montague’s scornful laugh was short. “You forget the presence
of the taxi-driver whom I saw depart from the apartment before I
reached the door.”
“Who is going to confirm your statement that he was there?”
“Why, the taxi-driver.”
Maynard shrugged his shoulders. “Do you think he is going to convict
himself to clear you?”
“You mean----?”
“I mean you are going to have some difficulty in clearing yourself of
having taken a pot shot at Burnham when you found the opportunity open
to you, because”--Maynard spoke impressively--“if you did not attempt
to shoot Burnham, the taxi-driver is the only other person who could
have shot at him, and he is hardly likely to incriminate himself.”
La Montagne listened with ever growing impatience and increasing anger.
“You--you----” he stammered. “You call yourself my friend, and yet you
tell me to my face that my word is not as good as a common chauffeur’s!
I tell you I saw the man leave the apartment just before I got there.
Enough--good-bye.”
But Maynard did not rise though the Frenchman stepped menacingly toward
him.
“I said in the commencement, René, that we had to discuss this affair
from every angle,” he began. “Be reasonable and sit down.”
Instead of complying, the Frenchman tramped excitedly up and down the
room.
“What is your next angle?” he demanded. “More insults?”
“No, René; the taxi-driver----”
“To be sure, the taxi-driver. Have you talked with him?”
“Not yet.”
“No? Ah, you would rather come and insult me; you could not go on my
simple word and arrest him as the murderer, but you think me guilty!”
La Montagne, gesticulating wildly, moved about the room as if on
springs.
“For heaven’s sake sit down and keep quiet,” begged Maynard. “I tried
to see the taxi-driver, Sam, but he was with you----”
“With me?” La Montagne stepped back, astounded.
“Yes; I saw him driving your car and chased after you, hoping to see
you together,” explained Maynard. “Did you question him?”
“I? _Mon Dieu, non!_” La Montagne’s eyes were twice their usual size.
“I did not recognize the man--but now you speak of it”--he checked
himself and continued his nervous walk about the apartment. Suddenly he
stopped and turned to his silent companion. “Let us go and talk with
the chauffeur,” he suggested briskly.
Maynard looked at his watch. “Perhaps we will find him at his garage,”
he said. “He should be back by this time, especially as the manager of
the garage told Palmer he had taken a party to Camp Meade and back.”
“I was the party.” La Montagne paused to lock his desk and bolt
the windows, then he picked up his cap. “_En avant, mon ami!_” he
exclaimed, his anger a thing of the past. “We will prove Burnham a
liar, we two, and Evelyn shall be my bride before many days.”
“Evelyn!” Maynard clapped his hand into his pocket as her name recalled
her message. “Evelyn gave me a letter for you.”
“Give it here.” In his eagerness La Montagne almost snatched the letter
from Maynard and left the closing of the door of his apartment to him
as he moved down the corridor reading the letter. Maynard was about
to follow when his glance happened to fall on the outer wall of La
Montagne’s apartment and he saw a flattened bullet slightly projecting
from it. Taking out his penknife he pried the bullet out of the lath
and plaster and slipping it inside his pocket, he joined La Montagne at
the elevator shaft.
“I know something of firearms,” he said, lowering his voice although
they had the corridor to themselves. “Your automatic is loaded with
reduced charges.”
“And why not?” La Montagne raised his eyebrows. “It will still kill a
man!”
“René,” Maynard’s manner grew stern. “Your conduct bears but one
interpretation--you go armed because you fear an attack.”
La Montague’s smile was enigmatic. “Life is held very cheap in
war-time,” he remarked, and stepped forward as the crowded elevator
stopped at their floor. “Enter.”
It was not until they were inside the closed taxi and the car speeding
on its way to the Potomac garage that La Montagne addressed his equally
silent companion.
“Evelyn writes that her mother is much incensed that I met her as she
states, clandestinely, and forbids that she go again to stay with
Madame Van Ness,” he said. “It is unfair--unjust! Next time----” His
mouth closed like a steel trap. “I begin to think like Madame Van Ness.”
Maynard looked at him keenly. “What do you mean?”
“Madame Van Ness told me Wednesday afternoon that Mr. and Mrs. Burnham
both disliked me; for what I know not, but she suggested----”
“Yes, go on!” There was subdued eagerness in Maynard’s tone.
“She suggested that while Mrs. Burnham’s prejudice against me might
be prompted by her husband, his dislike was traceable to an event in
Paris. But it hardly seems possible,” he broke off to add.
“Oh, go on, man; I can judge better perhaps than you.”
“Burnham had his face slapped by André de Sartiges at the club in
Paris; he did not challenge, as is the French custom.” Maynard,
drinking in what he said, nodded comprehension. “Later Burnham
cut short his visit in Paris, or so I heard afterward; I was but
a spectator at the quarrel in the club; in fact the scene was
ridiculously funny and I laughed.”
Back to Maynard’s memory came Evelyn’s words: “Mr. Burnham hates to be
made ridiculous.”
“Hump! It looks as if your sense of humor had cost you a bride,” he
remarked dryly. “Burnham has apparently brooded over your untimely
mirth until he has exaggerated it into a capital offense.”
“But then he is of unbalanced mind!” exclaimed La Montagne, astonished.
“To think of a laugh seven years old and charge me with an attempt to
kill because of it--_Mon Dieu!_” He shook his head. “Are such things
possible? But yet Madame Van Ness believes Burnham’s enmity is of the
past, and she is discerning.”
“You have discussed the matter with her?” Something odd in Maynard’s
tone caused the Frenchman to glance at him quickly, but his face was
expressionless.
“But yes, she is Evelyn’s best friend,” La Montagne answered simply.
“She has been most kind in aiding me to set straight certain
misunderstandings with Evelyn. She has a most sympathetic nature. You
like her, _n’est ce pas_?”
“Yes, oh, yes.” Maynard drew out his cigarette case and offered it to
his companion. “Have one?”
There was silence as the Frenchman busied himself in striking a match
which he first held against Maynard’s cigarette before lighting his own.
“She is very beautiful, that Madame Van Ness,” pursued La Montagne. “Is
she a divorcée or a widow?”
Maynard, gazing into the street, saw that their chauffeur was passing
the Potomac Garage instead of stopping and tapped upon the plate glass
partition and signed to the chauffeur to pull up at the curb.
“What did you say, René?” he asked.
“Is Madame Van Ness a divorcée or a widow?”
“There is no Mr. Van Ness--here we are; come on,” and opening the door
he sprang to the sidewalk, followed by the Frenchman. A man, evidently
the foreman from his manner and dress, sauntered up and Maynard spoke
to him.
“Is there a chauffeur named Sam employed here? He drives frequently
for Mr. James Palmer,” he added by way of explanation, as he saw the
foreman looked dubious.
“Oh, aye.” Ferguson turned and called to a helper lounging near the
entrance. “Tell Dutch to come here,” and the man threw down his tools
and ran in the building. The foreman turned back to Maynard. “Dropped
anything in his car?” he asked.
“No.”
Further conversation was cut short by the appearance of Sam, still
carrying the waste he had been busily wiping his hands on when sent
for. A streak of black grease showed plainly where he had pushed his
red hair off his forehead.
“What’s wanted, Boss?” he asked. Ferguson with a jerk of his thumb
indicated Maynard and the chauffeur looked at him and bobbed his head
in recognition. Ferguson, mildly curious, propped himself against a
lamp-post and prepared to listen to the interview, but the arrival of
several taxi-cabs called him away to his duties.
Maynard waited an appreciable moment for La Montagne to speak, but as
the Frenchman said nothing, he addressed the waiting taxi-driver.
“You were in the Bellevue apartment house last night between nine and
ten o’clock----” It was an assertion, but Sam took it as a question and
answered briskly.
“Yes, sir; I went there to take Colonel Jean,” Sam’s pronunciation was
somewhat faulty, “to the train. He kept me waiting so long we ’most
missed it.”
“Why did you stop at Mr. Palmer’s apartment on your way to the
Colonel’s rooms?”
“I didn’t stop, Boss,” quickly. “I went up in the elevator without
getting off until I struck the Colonel’s floor. I wasn’t near Mr.
Palmer’s apartment.” Sam’s eyes never flickered under Maynard’s level
gaze.
There was a brief silence, then La Montagne, who had been studying Sam
with eager intentness, shook his head.
“He is of similar build and height, and his clothes the same as the man
I saw leave Mr. Palmer’s apartment,” he said. “But I cannot swear to
his identity.”
“You cannot!” Maynard stared aghast at him.
“No.” La Montagne looked hard at Sam, who gazed back at him unmoved.
“No, I did not see the taxi-driver’s face.”