IN THE LIMELIGHT
THE impatient crowd, regardless of the early hour, clamored for
admittance before the closed doors of the Belasco Theatre. From his
vantage point behind the ticket seller’s window, James Palmer smiled
at friends and acquaintances as they pressed forward to buy tickets
for the “Tableaux of the Allies,” or secure those already engaged. Not
only would the Red Cross reap a rich harvest from the tableaux, but
the amateur performance would be viewed by a representative Washington
audience, judging from the presence of high Government officials,
members of the Foreign Missions detailed to Washington, diplomats; and
army and navy officers among the men and women who thronged the lobby
of the theater.
Palmer watched the ticket seller’s deft manipulation of blue, red, and
white pasteboards and his swift counting of change for a while longer,
then hearing his name called he discovered Dr. Hayden waiting for him,
and he promptly hurried through the private office into the lobby.
Stopping to exchange a word of greeting with several friends just
back from their summer outing, Palmer and Hayden entered the theater
and made their way to Mrs. Burnham’s box. Mrs. Burnham, well gowned
as always, and wearing the jewels for which she was famous, turned on
their entrance and shook hands cordially, while Burnham offered his
seat to Hayden with an ingratiating smile.
“Don’t talk shop, old man,” he said. “My wife has already expressed her
opinion of my leaving my bed to come here, but----” His expression grew
hard. “Evelyn persisted in taking part in the tableaux to-night, so we
thought it, eh----” The playing of the “Star Spangled Banner” heralding
the approach of the President and his wife, drowned his words, and
rising, he and his guests and the whole house stood until the last bars
of the anthem were played.
After reseating herself Mrs. Burnham unfolded her lorgnette and
inspected first the audience and then her program.
“Upon my word, I had no idea so many of my friends were back,” she
remarked, exchanging bows with the hostess in the next box. “It is a
regular winter audience, and not such as you usually see in September.
What’s the first tableau on the program?”
“The Navy,” answered Hayden, to whom the question was addressed. There
was no further time for conversation as the lights went out and the
curtains parted on the tableau, which elicited rounds of applause, and
the Marine Band played the famous navy song: “Anchors Aweigh!”
There was some delay in the showing of the next tableau and Hayden,
idly glancing over the program which Mrs. Burnham held so that both
could read it, grew conscious that her eyes traveled more often to her
husband, who was talking in fits and starts to Palmer, than to the
printed words before her.
“What’s the idea of so many women in the tableaux and no men?” she
questioned abruptly, breaking the silence, and Hayden marveled inwardly
at the shrillness of her usually well modulated tone.
“I believe each girl personifies the spirit of our Allies in the
tableau picked out for her,” explained Palmer, who had caught Mrs.
Burnham’s question. “Some are most artistic; I was called in to advise
about the scenery and saw some of the rehearsals.”
“Hadn’t any idea we had so many Allies,” announced Burnham, glancing
over the program. “Here’s Siam and---- Hello, what’s this to be?”
“‘Somewhere in France.’” Hayden laid the program which had slipped out
of Mrs. Burnham’s hand, back in her lap.
With lights extinguished the audience sat in expectation. Suddenly
before them appeared a faint pink glow which, growing brighter,
disclosed a trench outpost overlooking No Man’s Land--the scene of
utter desolation and destruction confronting the solitary watchful
sentry, crouching gun aslant, was finely done, and Mrs. Burnham winked
away a tear as she whispered to Hayden:
“One of our boys----”
“Yes.” Hayden borrowed her opera-glasses. “Why, it’s Maynard!”
“It’s an excellent tableau!” exclaimed Burnham, taken out of himself,
and he applauded vigorously. “No mistake about it, Lillian, Maynard
makes a magnificent soldier. Strange, as handsome and fascinating as he
is, that he has never married!”
Mrs. Burnham nodded absent agreement as her foot kept time to the tune,
“Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” Repeated calls for an encore of the
tableau brought other views of trench life, so excellently portrayed
that Maynard was far over the time set aside for him to be the center
of the stage. He was hurrying to the wings, dodging scene shifters,
when he almost stumbled over Evelyn standing a woe-begone figure in one
corner away from a group of her merry companions who were eagerly or
nervously, as the case might be, awaiting their turn to appear in the
tableaux.
“Have you seen Marian anywhere?” she asked, and her disappointment was
evident at his negative answer. “Where in the world can she be?”
“In one of the dressing rooms perhaps,” suggested Maynard.
“No; the stage manager said she had not come, and he is wild because
her tableau follows mine.” Evelyn came a little nearer and lowered her
voice, a needless precaution as the noise about them, added to the
playing of the Marine Band, made it almost impossible to hear even a
shout. Maynard would not have understood her but for his ability to
read lips.
“Have you seen René La Montagne?”
“Not yet,” he shouted and she whitened under her make-up.
There was no opportunity to question him further as the stage manager
demanded her presence. Maynard lent his aid in arranging her tableau
which represented Belgium, and assisted in lashing her to the wheel of
the gun carriage. It was a very effective tableau. Evelyn half knelt,
half crouched against the wheel, and raised her eyes at the stage
manager’s husky command and gazed in despair ahead of her, the hushed
audience nowhere in sight as her mental vision conjured up her gallant
French lover in the toils of circumstantial evidence.
Maynard halted near one of the wings out of sight of the audience to
watch the tableau. A sudden draught of cold air caused him to look
around and he saw Marian Van Ness just emerging from the circular
staircase, which gave access not only to the dressing rooms under the
stage, but to the stage door opening upon the alley. Marian did not
pause until she reached the wing where he was standing, and he forbore
to address her, noting her absorption in the tableau.
“And what does Jeanne d’Arc think of modern Belgium?” he inquired a few
minutes later.
Marian started violently at sound of his voice.
“Jeanne’s mantle has fallen on the women and men of Belgium,” she
answered readily, but her hand tightened its grasp on the sword she
carried. “How lovely Evelyn is to-night.”
“Yes.” Maynard, who had drawn nearer to let a stage hand pass, made her
a courtly bow. “Congratulations on your costume. You have carried out
every detail of the celebrated picture of the Maid of Orleans.”
“Thanks.” Under the armor she wore, Marian’s heart beat faster as
she caught the fascination of his eyes, and the soft cadence of his
alluring voice. “Evelyn is having great applause. Ah! the tableau is
over.”
“Mrs. Van Ness!” The agitated stage manager pounced upon her. “I feared
you hadn’t come.”
“We worked late at the State Department----” but what else she said was
lost to Maynard, who had gone to Evelyn’s assistance.
“Mrs. Van Ness will be in the next tableau,” he said, as Marian,
stopping but a second to congratulate Evelyn, followed the stage
manager to the center of the stage. “We can’t see it very well from the
wings, suppose we slip out in the audience; we can come back again,” he
added, as Evelyn made no move to accompany him.
“Won’t we be seen?” she asked.
“No, we can stand in the aisle. Come this way,” and his familiarity
with the playhouse enabled him to guide her to the door opening into
the auditorium. They stopped just beyond the entrance in the aisle
and from there had an excellent view of the tableau. Marian’s pose
was striking and something of the fire and mysticism of the heroic
Frenchwoman whom she impersonated lighted her beautiful face.
“She is wonderful!” whispered Evelyn, enthralled, as spontaneous
applause filled the theater. In the semi-darkness a man, hurrying
to the stage door, bumped into Maynard and at his muttered apology
the latter recognized Detective Mitchell. His expression caught his
attention and he checked him.
“What’s up, Mitchell?” he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper so
that his words would not reach Evelyn who, absorbed in the tableau
being shown again, had slipped into a vacant aisle seat.
“Mr. Maynard!” Mitchell halted. “Beg pardon, I didn’t recognize you.
Can you slip out here just a minute?” observing Maynard’s backward
glance at Evelyn.
Maynard tiptoed to Evelyn’s side and whispered in her ear. “Come out
through that door when you are ready; I’ll wait for you on the stage.”
She nodded her comprehension and Maynard stole out after Mitchell. He
found the detective impatiently waiting at the foot of the circular
iron steps leading to the stage.
“Headquarters has just been notified that Captain La Montagne is to
sing here to-night,” he said, taking care to keep his voice low. “I’ve
got to see him.”
“But not here,” protested Maynard sharply. “Tut! you don’t want a
scandal.”
“It’s bound to come,” retorted Mitchell philosophically. “We can’t
postpone making an arrest any longer over this Burnham business; why,
the whole town is holding us up to ridicule.”
“Better be ridiculed for masterly inactivity than be excoriated for
committing a blunder,” cautioned Maynard. “Let me talk to La Montagne
first.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, wait and get him alone at his apartment.”
“I’ve been trying for twelve hours to reach him at his apartment,”
replied Mitchell. “He is too elusive to let out of my sight. Coming up
with me?” as Maynard lagged back. Before the latter could step forward,
the door opening upon the alley swung in and René La Montagne appeared.
He started past Maynard with but a courteous salute at sight of the
latter’s uniform, but his voice halted him.
“Ah, _mon ami_, is your tableau over then?” he exclaimed. “I have tried
many times to speak with you on the telephone, but alas, the Central
would not listen to my directions.” He paused in his rapid French to
glance upward at Mitchell, who loitered on the step above them, and
addressed the detective in English. “Pardon, monsieur, will you permit
that we pass?”
“In just a minute.” Mitchell looked significantly at Maynard. “Please
explain to Captain La Montagne who I am,” he requested. His manner was
not to be denied and Maynard accepted the situation.
“René,” he began, “this is Detective Mitchell of the Central Office.
He is in charge of the investigation of the Burnham mystery.”
“The Burnham mystery?” The Frenchman wrinkled his forehead. “You refer
to----”
“The dead man found in the Burnham library,” volunteered Mitchell.
“This morning, Captain La Montagne, Mr. Burnham made the statement that
you were responsible for the man’s death.”
“I responsible!” La Montagne in his astonishment stepped backward on
the narrow platform and but for Maynard would have lost his balance and
fallen off the step and down the circular staircase to the floor below.
“Mon Dieu! you are not sane!”
“Yes, I am,” responded Mitchell, nettled by La Montagne’s contemptuous
smile. “Mr. Burnham preferred the charges against you.”
At Burnham’s name La Montagne’s surprise changed to indignation. “And
does he dare to go to such lengths in his hatred as to accuse me, a
cadet of a noble house, of a crime so base!” With a violent effort La
Montagne controlled his temper. “Upon what grounds does he make such a
charge?” he inquired more calmly.
“That he had an appointment to meet you Monday night in his house and
that he sent you his latch-key to get in with, so that you would not
have to wait outside the house for him,” explained Mitchell, watching
carefully to see the effect of his words. But his long statement had
given the Frenchman time to pull himself together, and he was master of
his feelings as he answered.
“I had the appointment,” he stated. “But I did not keep it.”
“Why not?” demanded Mitchell.
“Because I lost my way in the storm--you recall the storm of
Monday----” Mitchell mumbled a reluctant “yes,” and La Montagne
continued rapidly. “I am not familiarly acquainted with your circles
and streets, and I lost my way in the blinding rain and hail. I
wandered about for many weary hours, and returned to my hotel drenched
to the skin.”
Mitchell stared at him. “Have you any witnesses to prove your
statement?” he asked, and the Frenchman flushed hotly.
“My word, monsieur, is good----”
“Yes, yes--but you may have to face a court of law,” warned Mitchell.
“Go slow!” commanded Maynard, breaking into the conversation.
“Recollect, Mitchell, in your zeal you may overstep your authority.”
Mitchell contented himself with a glare at Maynard as he again
addressed the Frenchman.
“Witnesses are very good things, sir,” he said wisely. “Just a word
more; do you admit that Mr. Burnham sent you his latch-key?”
La Montagne disregarded Maynard’s indignant ejaculation and answered
promptly. “I received the key, Monsieur; what then?”
“Well, I guess that’s enough----” Mitchell stepped nearer the Frenchman
who faced him calmly.
“I will add,” said La Montagne and his voice was very quiet, “the
latch-key was not in my possession on Monday night.”
“It wasn’t?” Mitchell almost shouted the question, while Maynard stared
in wonder at the Frenchman.
“_Non, monsieur_,” continued La Montagne tranquilly. “The latch-key had
been stolen from my apartment on Monday afternoon.”
Mitchell gazed open-mouthed at his two companions, but before he could
think of anything to say the stage manager ran down a few steps and
stopped at sight of La Montagne.
“Hurry up!” he exclaimed much relieved. “You are to sing the
_Marseillaise_ now; the audience is waiting,” and he almost dragged the
Frenchman up the few steps, Mitchell standing back to let him pass. But
he was hard on his heels a moment later and only stopped in the wings
as La Montagne walked out toward the center of the brilliantly lighted
stage.
Maynard, who had followed his companions more slowly, came face to
face with Marian Van Ness at the head of the stairs.
“Have you seen Evelyn?” she asked anxiously. “I want her to go home
with me.”
“I’ll tell her,” he promised and she smiled gratefully at him.
“Do, please; I’ll run and get my cloak, which one of the maids put in
our dressing room,” and she disappeared as Maynard hastened down the
steps. He had been gone but a second when Mrs. Burnham, assisted by Dr.
Hayden, clambered up the staircase and looked helplessly at the busy
scene.
“Dear me, where will we find Evelyn?” She turned to address a
scene-shifter, but the man passed without paying the slightest
attention to her hail.
“Just sit here, Mrs. Burnham,” Hayden guided her to a chair standing
against the wall. “I’ll look up the stage manager; he will know where
Evelyn is to be found,” and he darted behind some scenery.
Mrs. Burnham listened with interest to the echoing chorus of the
_Marseillaise_, which was being played by the Marine Band and sung by
the audience. Suddenly spying a bevy of girls toward the back of the
stage she rose and walked in their direction.
Mitchell, observing that La Montagne was singing an encore, turned
away just as Hayden appeared at the entrance to the wing and promptly
accosted him.
“Have you seen Miss Preston?” he asked as the detective paused by him.
“Haven’t laid eyes on her.” Mitchell looked over toward the staircase.
“Isn’t that she?” and he and Hayden stared at a heavily cloaked woman
standing with her back toward them. She was peering intently at the
floor when Hayden’s approaching footsteps caused her to look around and
he recognized Marian Van Ness.
“Good evening,” he exclaimed, raising his hat. “Have you lost anything?”
“Yes--I, that is, no----” Marian laughed to hide her embarrassment.
“Have you seen Evelyn?”
“No. I am searching myself for that elusive damsel,” laughed Hayden.
“Her mother is waiting to take her home.”
“Oh!” Marian looked blank. “Then in that case I’ll run along.
Good-night; don’t trouble to come with me,” and she hurried down the
circular staircase.
Mitchell, who had listened unobtrusively in the background, stepped up
to Hayden. “She’s a beauty and no mistake!” he remarked admiringly.
“Gee, don’t fall!” Seeing her stumble on the last step he sprang
forward, tripped over one of the iron uprights of the stair railing,
and went sprawling. His out-flung hand closed over a small object to
which he clung instinctively as Hayden helped him somewhat shakily to
his feet.
“Thanks,” he muttered, as the physician brushed off some of the dust,
accumulated in his fall. Unclosing his fingers he looked at the object
in his hand; his breath entirely left him, and he pointed with his
right hand to the decoration.
“Look, doctor!” he gasped and Hayden bent nearer, then his glance
traveled upward and he and Mitchell contemplated each other in silence.
A hand on Mitchell’s shoulder caused him to start violently.
“What have you there?” asked Maynard.
For answer the detective raised his hand until the nearest electric
light fell full upon it.
“The Iron Cross!” he exclaimed and his voice was shaky.
“So it is,” answered Maynard, looking more closely at it and the string
attached to the cross. “Stage property or genuine article, Mitchell?”
An irate voice from the foot of the staircase hailed Hayden.
“Heh! Hayden, do you think I want to stay here all night?” demanded
Burnham. “Here’s Evelyn,” as the stage door opened and his
step-daughter joined him on the platform of the staircase. “Where’s my
wife?”
Hayden looked around. What had become of Mrs. Burnham? His unspoken
question was answered by finding her almost at his elbow.
“I am coming, Peter,” she called. “Don’t excite yourself,” and bowing
to Maynard, she accepted the physician’s assistance, but Hayden as he
helped her carefully down the staircase and into the waiting carriage
wondered at the hotness of her hand.