Richard Duvall, waiting with nervous impatience in the closet in
Francois' room, at last heard a soft and guarded step upon the stairs.
He drew back, his muscles tense, and gazed fixedly at the door.
Although the room was dark, the glow of the street lamps from without,
the faint light of the evening sky, sufficed, now that his eyes had
become accustomed to the darkness, to enable him not only to recognize
the chauffeur as he entered the room, but to follow his movements with
little or no difficulty.
The man seemed hurried. He groped his way to the dresser at the opposite
side of the room, and felt about for the searchlight which Duvall knew
lay within easy reach.
Having secured it, he directed it for a brief moment upon his watch,
noted the time, then, going to the door, opened it, and began to listen
intently.
The detective at once surmised that he was listening for the departure
of his confederate, the man with the black beard.
Presently the chauffeur drew back, closing the door with a grunt of
satisfaction, and once more approached the dresser. Duvall concluded
that he had gone to get the colored glasses by which he would be able to
make the required signals.
In a moment he returned to the window, and Duvall saw him place the two
glass cups upon the sill, and lean out expectantly.
It seemed a long time before he stirred. The detective, looking over his
shoulder, found that his line of vision was interrupted so that he could
not see the lights which flashed past the entrance of the Avenue
Malakoff. He was forced to content himself with keeping a close watch
upon the chauffeur.
Suddenly the man, by an almost instantaneous movement, clapped one of
the little glass cups over the end of the tube which formed the
searchlight, and directed it toward the street. Duvall could not tell
whether the signal was blue, or red. He had every reason to believe,
however, that it was the former.
The chauffeur held the tube upon the window sill for a few seconds
only, then withdrew it, and started to cross the room toward the south
window. As he did so, he swept the light into the room, and for an
instant it fell upon the crack in the closet door through which Duvall
was peering. He was conscious of a blinding blue radiance, close to his
eyes, and the sudden flash caused him to draw back with a quick and
involuntary movement. He realized that the chauffeur had not seen him,
and that, in a few moments more, the signal would be given which would
bring untold happiness to both Mr. Stapleton and his wife.
The momentary recoil, however, was fatal to his plans. Although he moved
his head but a fraction of an inch, the suddenness of the movement was
sufficient to cause a metal coat hanger, which hung, empty, from a hook,
to click sharply against its neighbor.
The chauffeur spun around with the quickness of a cat, and, grasping the
knob of the closet door, threw it open. In his hand he still clutched
the tube of the searchlight.
Duvall at the same moment reached for the revolver which lay in a side
pocket of his coat. He realized instantly that, now that his presence
had been discovered, the chauffeur would of course not send the signal
to his confederates in Passy which would result in the telephoning of
the address to Mr. Stapleton, but would on the contrary flash a red
signal, which the detective fully believed would result in the child's
death.
It was imperative that this should be prevented. Duvall had determined
to be present in the chauffeur's room for two reasons,--first, to send
the favorable signal to Passy himself, should things go wrong, and the
chauffeur receive a red flash from the street; secondly, to arrest
Francois in the act of receiving and sending the signals.
He now realized that he must do both, and that, too, without a moment's
delay.
As the chauffeur threw open the door he flashed the blue light full upon
the crouching figure of the detective.
The latter, revolver in hand, commanded him sharply to throw up his
hands.
The chauffeur did so--thereby directing the light of the electric lamp
toward the ceiling. The sudden change from the glare which an instant
before had been in his eyes, to almost total darkness, left Duvall
momentarily blind. His eyes could not instantaneously respond to the
withdrawal of the light. The figure of the chauffeur appeared but a dark
and formless shadow.
The latter, however, not having faced the glare of the light, was able
to see without difficulty. With lightning like quickness he spun around
on one foot, until his back instead of his face was toward the
detective. Then his right foot rose, in the famous and deadly blow of
the _savate_.
It has been said that this backward kick, so dear to the heart of the
Parisian crook, is more to be feared than any possible onslaught in good
old Anglo-Saxon style with the fists. Certainly in this instance it was
too much for Richard Duvall. The unexpected blow, coming during the
moment when the sudden darkness had left him blinded and confused, sent
him crashing back into the depths of the closet, buried beneath a mass
of clothing. His arms, entangled in falling coats and waistcoats, were
helpless. The revolver flew from his hand, and lay useless on the floor.
The chauffeur went about his business calmly. His first move was to
direct the searchlight carefully into the interior of the closet,
slipping the blue cup from the end of it as he did so and allowing it
to fall unheeded to the floor. His second was to draw a long and
peculiarly deadly looking knife.
His quick eye saw at once that the revolver was no longer in the
detective's grasp. His searchlight enabled him to discern it, lying on
the floor to one side of the closet. Before Duvall could extricate
himself from the articles of clothing in which he was entangled,
Francois had stooped quickly, picked up the revolver, and slammed the
door of the closet upon him. As he struggled to his feet, the detective
heard the click of the key as it turned in the lock. He was a prisoner.
Without losing a moment, the chauffeur tossed the revolver upon the
table, took up the cup-shaped bit of red glass, fitted it to the tube of
the searchlight, and, going to the south window, placed it upon the sill
in such a way that its crimson glare was directed almost due south. It
was evident that the position in which the light was placed was marked
by the two tiny scratches cut in the woodwork of the window sill. In a
moment he had turned back toward the closet door.
Duvall, meanwhile, realized that only by instant and superhuman effort
could he hope to remedy the frightful situation which his unlucky
movement had precipitated.
He braced his shoulders and back against the rear wall of the closet,
put his two feet against the door, and with every atom of strength in
his body strove to force it open.
His movements had been quick. Just as the chauffeur turned back from the
window toward the room, Duvall, his muscles knotted with effort, drove
the full force of his body against the closet door.
The lock, a cheap affair, was torn loose in a twinkling, and an instant
later the two men had grappled in the center of the room.
The detective's one desire was to get to the window, remove the red
light which he knew was flashing its fateful message across the
housetops, and substitute for it a blue light, which he hoped even now
might shine forth in time to redeem the situation.
This, however, the chauffeur was equally determined to prevent. He
realized that he was caught, that his complicity in the affair was
known, and that he must warn his comrades of his danger, so that, by
refusing to give up the boy, they might effect his release. He was
fighting for his liberty as desperately as Duvall was fighting for that
of Mr. Stapleton's child.
The two men were evenly matched. The chauffeur was perhaps the stronger,
in shoulders and arms, due to his profession. The constant grip upon the
steering wheel had given to his upper body muscles like steel.
The detective, though somewhat less powerful in this direction, was
stronger in the back and legs. He had been an athlete, at college, and
his recent life upon the farm at home had toughened and hardened him
from head to foot.
He rushed at his opponent, threw his arms around the latter's waist, and
strove to lift him and throw him to the floor.
The chauffeur at the same time got his right arm about Duvall's throat,
and with his left did his best to gouge out one of the latter's eyes.
His was the style of fighting that considers not means, but results.
For a moment they swayed heavily about the room, the detective burying
his face in his opponent's side to protect his eyes, and at the same
time striving with all his might to force him back toward the bed.
Francois, however, fought well. He began to compress his adversary's
throat in a choking grip of wrist and forearm which threatened to put an
end to the struggle in short order. At the same time his left thumb
continually sought the detective's eyes.
Suddenly it reached one of them. Duvall felt a blinding sense of pain as
the thumb nail sank into the soft and tender muscles about the eye. The
shock was fatal to the plans of the chauffeur; for it raised up in his
opponent a great and deadly rage, that for an instant gave him the
strength of a madman. He raised his opponent from the floor as though
the latter had been a child, broke the grip upon his throat by
straightening his head, and with a mighty heave hurled him to the floor.
The fellow struck upon his side, his temple crashing loudly against the
wooden floor. Duvall stood over him for an instant, breathing heavily,
convulsively, then turned and snatched the searchlight from the window
sill and threw it upon the bed.
There was a trunk against the wall of the room, near the window, and
about it a broad leather strap. Duvall tore the strap from its place,
and in a few moments had fastened it about the chauffeur's arms and
body.
A towel, knotted about his ankles, rendered him helpless. Then the
detective began to search upon the floor for the bit of blue glass.
In his heart there was no joy at the victory he had just won. He had
captured one of the kidnappers, it was true; but on the other hand he
had, by his own carelessness, prevented the safe return of the kidnapped
boy to his parents.
He pictured the father and mother, patiently waiting below for the
telephone message which would never come, and wondered how he would dare
to tell them the truth.
At last his nervous fingers closed upon the little glass cup, where it
had rolled under the edge of the dresser when Francois had thrown it
down. Trembling with haste, he fixed it to the searchlight which he took
from the bed, and, with a hopeless feeling, approached the window, and
began to wave the light frantically in the direction of Passy.
For several moments there was no response. As a matter of fact, he
scarcely expected any. Then all of a sudden he saw a faint red gleam,
like a star, flash from the distant night, and then go out.
He stood, helpless, waiting for it to reappear, hardly daring to hope
that it would do so. Suddenly it shone again, this time for a longer
period, and then disappeared. He wondered what it meant, and was
scarcely surprised when the light again flashed, this time making five
quick flashes, which he instantly recognized as Morse code for the
letter "P." There was a brief interval, then once more the signals began
to flash. This time he read them without difficulty. There were four
letters, spelling the word "Help."
For an instant he leveled the tube of the searchlight toward the point
from which the flashes came, guiding it by the scratches on the sill,
and began pressing the button which turned the light on and off. "Where
are you?" he spelled out, then waited fearfully for the reply. He dared
send no other message. The person at the other end, the one who sent
this ominous word, "help," must be one of the kidnappers; yet why should
he signal for assistance? He could make nothing of the matter, but he
reasoned that anyone calling for help would be sure to give their
location, otherwise how could they expect to receive it.
For a moment the red flashes began again, and this time he began to get
the numbers. There were four quick flashes and a long dash, then others
in rapid succession: "4-2-R-u-e-N-i-c-o-l-o, P-a-s-s-y," the message
read. "C-o-m-e q-u-i-c-k."
Duvall's head reeled, as he spelled out the words. He had not realized
until now that he was wounded. The blood, pouring down his face from the
great gash in his cheek, spattered thickly upon the window sill. He
turned from the window, then realized that he must send some answer, to
let this mysterious person at the other end of the line know that his
message had been safely received.
"Will come at once. Who are you?" he spelled out, laboriously, his head
spinning, his fingers trembling from weakness as he tried to stop the
flow of blood from his wound.
"G-R-A-C-E D-U-V-A-L-L" came back the flashes, quick, clear cut,
unmistakable.
Duvall dropped the searchlight to the floor with a harsh laugh. His
brain was reeling--the whole thing became a foolish, senseless
nightmare. He wondered if he was delirious, and had dreamed it all.
Again he flashed a signal into the darkness. "Who are you?" he spelled
out again. He did not believe that he had read the former answer aright.
Evidently his imagination was playing him tricks--Grace had been on his
mind so constantly, throughout the day. He wiped the blood from his eyes
and stared eagerly out into the darkness. There was no response.
Then he remembered the words of the message, "Come quick." There was no
time for idle speculations as to the identity of the person who had sent
him the message.
He rushed to the stairs, and with tottering footsteps descended to the
library below. Francois, the chauffeur, still lay, bound and
unconscious, upon the floor.