CHAPTER VIII

TEN-THIRTY

The Earl of Valletort turned on his heel, and went out abruptly.

Therefore, he missed Steingall's first words to the hotel clerk, which

would have given him furiously to think, while it is reasonable to

suppose that he would have paid quite a large sum of money to have

heard the clerk's answer.

For the detective said:

"Do you happen to know anything about a Frenchman, name of Jean de

Courtois?"

And the clerk replied:

"Why, yes. He's in his room now, I believe."

"In his room--where?"

"Here, of course. He came in about 6.30, took his key and a

Marconigram, and has not showed up since."

Uncle Horace could withstand the strain no longer.

"Would you mind sending the waiter again?" he gasped. "If I don't get

a pick-me-up of some sort quickly, I'll collapse."

Aunt Louisa would dearly have loved to put in a word, but she knew not

what to say. Life at Bloomington supplied no parallel to the rapidity

of existence in New York that evening. She was aware of statements

being made in language which rang familiarly in her ears, but they had

no more coherence in her clogged understanding than the gabble of

dementia.

Steingall was the least surprised of the five people who listened to

the clerk's words. The notion that de Courtois might be close at hand

had dawned on him already; still, he was not prepared to hear that the

man was actually a resident in the hotel.

"Has Monsieur de Courtois lived here some time?" he asked, not without

a sharp glance at Curtis to see how the suspect was taking this new

phase in his adventure.

"About a month," said the clerk.

"Has he received many visitors?"

"A few, mostly foreigners. A Mr. Hunter called here occasionally, and

they dined together last evening. I believe Mr. Hunter is connected

with the press."

The clerk wondered why he was being catechized about the Frenchman. He

had no more notion that de Courtois and Hunter were connected with the

tragedy than the man in the moon.

"Take me to Monsieur de Courtois's room," Said Steingall, after a

momentary pause.

"May I come with you?" inquired Curtis.

"Why?"

"I am deeply interested in de Courtois, and I may be able to help you

in questioning him. I speak French well."

"So do I," said Steingall. "But, come if you like."

"For the love of Heaven, don't leave me out of this, Steingall,"

pleaded Devar.

The detective was blessed with a sense of humor; he realized that the

inquiry had long since passed the bounds of official decorum, and its

irregularities had proved so illuminative that he was not anxious to

check them yet a while.

"Yes," he said, "you'll do no harm if you keep a still tongue in your

head."

"You'll come back to us, John, won't you?" broke in Mrs. Curtis,

desperately contributing the first commonplace remark that occurred to

her bemused brain.

"Yes, aunt. I'll rejoin you here. Shall I have some supper sent in

for both of you?"

"No, my boy," said Uncle Horace, who had revived under the prospect of

a long drink. "If any feasting is to be done later it is up to me to

arrange it. The night is young. I hope to have the honor of toasting

your wife before I go to bed."

Curtis smiled at that, but made no reply, the moment being inopportune

for explanations, but Devar murmured, as they crossed the lobby with

Steingall and the clerk:

"That uncle of yours is a peach, John D. He points the moral like a

Greek chorus."

"I fear he will regard me as a hare-brained nephew," said Curtis. "As

for my aunt, poor lady, she must think me the most extraordinary human

being she has ever set eyes on. What puzzles me most is----"

"Wow! I know what aunts are capable of," broke in Devar rapidly, for

he was doubtful now how his friend would regard the publicity he had

not desired. "Mrs. Curtis, senior, is thanking her stars at this

minute that she will have a chance of paralyzing Bloomington with full

details of her nephew's marriage into the ranks of the British

aristocracy. The odd thing is that I'm tickled to death by the notion

that I, little Howard, put you in for this night's gorgeous doings.

Didn't you wonder why I passed up an introduction to _my_ aunt and my

cousins in the Customs shed? Man alive, if Mrs. Morgan Apjohn had made

your acquaintance to-day she would have insisted on your dining with

the family to-night, and at 7.30 P.M. your feet would have been safely

tucked under the mahogany in her home on Riverside Drive instead of

leading you into the maze you seem to have found so readily. All I

wanted was an excuse to get away soon. Gee whizz! What a fireworks

display you've put up in the meantime!"

"Fifth," said the clerk to the elevator attendant, and the four men

shot skyward.

As each floor above the street level was a replica of the next higher

one, Curtis happened to note that the route followed to the Frenchman's

room was similar to that leading to 605.

"What number does Monsieur de Courtois occupy?" he inquired.

"505," said the clerk.

"Then it is directly beneath mine?"

"Yes, sir. He must have heard us breaking open your door."

"I beg your pardon. Heard what?"

"We committed some minor offenses with regard to your property during

your absence," said Steingall, "but they were of slight account as

compared with your own extravagances. Let me warn you not to say too

much before de Courtois. Even taking your version of events, Mr.

Curtis, Lord Valletort will probably raise a wasps' nest about your

ears in the morning."

"But why _break open_ the door? Surely, there was a pass key----"

"Sh-s-sh! Here we are!"

Steingall tapped lightly on a panel of 505, and the four listened

silently for any response. None came--that is, there was nothing which

could be recognized as the sound of a voice or of human movement inside

the room. Nevertheless, they fancied they heard something, and the

detective knocked again, somewhat more insistently. Now they were

intent for the slightest noise behind that closed door, and they caught

a subdued groan or whine, followed by the metallic creak of a bed-frame.

At that instant a chamber-maid hurried up.

"I was just going to 'phone the office," she said to the clerk. "A

little while ago I tried to enter that room, but my key would not turn

in the lock."

"Did you hear anyone stirring within?" asked the clerk.

"No, sir. I knocked, and there was no answer."

"Listen now, then."

A third time did Steingall rap on the door, and the strange whine was

repeated, while there could be no question that a bed was being dragged

or shoved to and fro on a carpeted floor.

"My land!" whispered the girl in an awed tone. "There's something

wrong in there!"

"Let me try your key," said the clerk. He rattled the master-key in

the keyhole, but with no avail.

"I suppose it acts all right in every other lock?" he growled.

"Oh, yes, sir. I've been using it all the evening."

"Someone has tampered with the lock from the outside," he said

savagely. "There is nothing for it but to send for the engineer.

Before we're through with this business we'll pull the d--d hotel to

pieces. A nice reputation the place will get if all this door-forcing

appears in the papers to-morrow."

Certainly the clerk was to be pitied. Never before had the decorum of

the Central Hotel been so outraged. Its air of smug respectability

seemed to have vanished. Even to the clerk's own disturbed imagination

the establishment had suddenly grown raffish, and its dingy paint and

drab upholstery resembled the make-up and cloak of a scowling tragedian.

A strong-armed workman came joyously. He had already figured as a

personage below stairs, because of his earlier experiences, and it was

a cheering thing to be called on twice in one night to participate in a

mystery which was undoubtedly connected with the murder in the street.

Before adopting more strenuous methods he inserted a piece of strong

wire into the keyhole, thinking to pick the lock by that means; but he

soon desisted.

"Some joker has been at that game before me," he announced. "A chunk

of wire has been forced in there after the door was locked."

"From the outside?" inquired Steingall.

"Yes, sir. These locks work by a key only from without. There is a

handle inside. . . . Well, here goes!"

A few blows with a sharp chisel soon cut away sufficient of the frame

to allow the door to be forced open. On this occasion, there being no

wedge in the center, it was not necessary to attack the hinges, and,

once the lock was freed, the door swung back readily into the interior

darkness.

The engineer, remembering his needless alarm at falling head foremost

into Curtis's room, went forward boldly enough now, and paid for his

temerity. He was so anxious to be the first to discover whatever

horror existed there that he made for the center of the apartment

without waiting to turn on the light, and, as a consequence, when he

stumbled over something which he knew was a human body, and was greeted

with a subdued though savage whine, he was even more frightened than

before.

But no one was concerned about him or his feelings when Steingall

touched an electric switch and revealed a bound and gagged man fastened

to a leg of the bed. At first, owing to the extraordinary posture of

the body, it was feared that another tragedy had been enacted. The

victim of an uncanny outrage was lying on his side, and his arms and

legs were roughly but skillfully tied with a stout rope in such wise

that he resembled a fowl trussed for the oven. After securing him in

this fashion, his assailants had fastened the ends of the rope to the

iron frame of the bed, and his only possible movement was an

ignominious half roll, back and forth, in a space of less than eight

inches. This maneuver he had evidently been engaged in as soon as he

heard voices and knocking outside, but he had been gagged with such

brutal efficacy that his sole effort at speech was a species of whinny

through his nose.

The detective's knife speedily liberated him; when he was lifted from

the floor and laid gently on the bed, he remained there, quite

speechless and overcome.

Steingall turned to the agitated chambermaid, whose eyes were round

with terror, and who would certainly have alarmed the hotel with her

screams had she come upon the occupant of the room in the course of her

rounds.

"Bring a glass of hot milk, as quickly as you can," he said, and the

girl sped away to the service telephone.

"Wouldn't brandy be better?" inquired Devar.

"No. Milk is the most soothing liquid in a case like this. The man's

jaws are sore and aching. Probably, too, he is faint from fright and

want of food. If we can get him to sip some milk he will be able to

tell us, perhaps, just what has happened."

While they awaited the return of the chamber-maid, the party of

rescuers gazed curiously at the prostrate figure on the bed. They saw

a small, slight, neatly built man, attired in evening dress, whose

sallow face was in harmony with a shock of black hair. A large and

somewhat vicious mouth was partly concealed by a heavy black mustache,

and the long-fingered, nervous hands were sure tokens of the artistic

temperament. There could be no manner of doubt that this hapless

individual was Jean de Courtois. He looked exactly what he was, a

French musician, while initials on his boxes, and a number of letters

on the dressing-table, all testified to his identity.

Curtis, Devar, and the hotel clerk seemed to be more interested in the

appearance of the half-insensible de Courtois than Steingall. He gave

him one penetrating glance, and would have known the man again after

ten years had they been parted that instant; but, if he favored the

Frenchman with scant attention, he made no scruples about examining the

documents on the table, though his first care was to thank the workman,

and send him from the room.

"Now," he muttered to the others in a low tone, "leave the questioning

to me, and mention no names."

He picked up a Marconigram lying among the letters, and read it.

Without a word, but smiling slightly, he handed it unobtrusively to

Curtis. It bore that day's date, and the decoded time of delivery was

4 P.M.

"Arriving to-night," it ran. "Coming direct Fifty-Ninth Street.

Expect us there about eight-thirty."

Curtis smiled, too. He grasped the detective's unspoken thought.

Steingall had as good as said that the message bore out Curtis's

counter charge against Count Vassilan and the Earl of Valletort of

conspiring with de Courtois himself to defeat Lady Hermione's marriage

project. Indeed, before replacing the slip of paper on the table, the

detective produced a note-book, and entered therein particulars which

would secure proof of the Marconigram's origin if necessary.

The maid hurried in with the milk, and Steingall, who had covered more

ground among the Frenchman's correspondence than the others gave him

credit for, now acted as nurse. With some difficulty he succeeded in

persuading the stricken man on the bed to relax his firmly closed jaws

and endeavor to swallow the fluid. It was a tedious business, but

progress became more rapid when de Courtois realized that he was in the

hands of those who meant well by him. It was noticeable, too, as his

senses returned and the panic glare left his eyes, that his expression

changed from one of abject fear to a lowering look of suspicious

uncertainty. He peered at Steingall and the hotel clerk many times,

but gave Curtis and Devar only a perfunctory glance. Oddly enough, the

fact that the two latter were in evening dress seemed to reassure him,

and it became evident later that the presence of the clerk led him to

regard these strangers as guests in the hotel who had been attracted to

his room by the mere accident of propinquity.

His first intelligible words, uttered in broken English, were:

"Vat time ees eet?"

"Ten-thirty," said Steingall.

"_Ah, cre nom d'un nom_! I haf to go, queek!"

"Where to?"

"No mattaire. I tank you all to-morrow. I explain eferyting den.

Now, I go."

"You had better stay where you are, Monsieur de Courtois," said

Steingall in French. "Milord Valletort and Count Vassilan have

arrived. I have seen them, and nothing more can be done with respect

to their affair tonight. I am the chief of the New York Detective

Bureau, and I want you to tell me how you came to be in the state in

which you were found."

But de Courtois was regaining his wits rapidly, and the clarifying of

his senses rendered him obviously unwilling to give any information as

to the cause of his own plight. Nor would he speak French. For some

reason, probably because of a permissible vagueness in statements

couched in a foreign tongue, he insisted on using English.

"Eef you haf seen my frien's you tell me vare I fin' dem. I come your

office to-morrow, an' make ze complete explanation," he said.

"I must trouble you to-night, please," insisted Steingall quietly.

"You don't understand what has occurred while you were fastened up

here. You know Mr. Henry R. Hunter?"

"Yes, yes. I know heem."

"Well, he was stabbed while alighting from an automobile outside this

hotel shortly before eight o'clock, and I imagine he was coming to see

you."

"Stabbed! Did zey keel heem?"

"Yes. Now, tell me who 'they' were."

Monsieur Jean de Courtois was taken instantly and violently ill. He

dropped back on the bed, from which he had risen valiantly in his

eagerness to be stirring, and faintly proclaimed his inability to grasp

what the detective was saying.

"Ah, _Grand Dieu_!" he murmured. "I am eel; fetch a doctaire. My

brain, eet ees, vat you say, _etourdi_."

"You will soon recover from your illness. Come, now, pull yourself

together, and tell me who the men were who tied you up, and why, if you

can give a reason."

The Frenchman shut his eyes, and groaned.

"I am stranjare here, Monsieur le Commissaire," he said brokenly. "I

know no ones, nodings. Milor' Valletort, he ees acquaint. Send for

heem, and bring ze doctaire."

"Don't you understand that your friend, Mr. Hunter, the journalist who

was helping you in the matter of Lady Hermione Grandison's marriage,

has been murdered?"

The other men in the room caught a new quality in Steingall's voice.

Contempt, disgust, utter disdain of a type of rascal whom he would

prefer to deal with most fittingly by kicking him, were revealed in

each syllable; but Jean de Courtois was apparently deaf to the mean

opinion his conduct was inducing among those who had extricated him

from a disagreeable if not actually dangerous predicament. He squirmed

convulsively, and half sobbed his inability to realize the true nature

of anything that had happened either to himself or to any other person.

"Very well," said the detective, "if you are so thoroughly knocked out

I'll see that you are kept quiet for the rest of the evening."

He turned to the clerk.

"Kindly arrange that two trustworthy men shall undress this ill-used

gentleman. He may be given anything to eat or drink that he requires,

but if he shows signs of delirium, such as a desire to go out, or write

letters, or use the telephone, he must be stopped, forcibly if

necessary. Should he become violent, ring up the nearest police

station-house. I'll send a doctor to him in a few minutes."

De Courtois revived slightly under the stimulus of these emphatic

directions.

"I haf not done ze wrong," he protested. "Eet ees me who suffare, and

I do not permeet dis interference wid my leebairty."

"You see," said Steingall coolly. "His mind is wandering already.

Just 'phone for a couple of attendants, will you, and I'll give them

instructions. I take full responsibility, of course."

"But, monsieur----" cried the Frenchman.

"Would you mind getting a move on? I am losing time here," said

Steingall quietly to the clerk.

"I claim ze protection of my consul," sputtered de Courtois.

"Poor fellow! He is quite light-headed," said the detective

sympathetically, addressing the company at large but speaking in

French. "I do hope most sincerely that I may arrest those infernal

Hungarians to-night. Not only did they kill Hunter but they have

brought this little man to death's door."

The effect of these few harmless sounding words was electrical.

Monsieur de Courtois' angry demeanor suddenly changed to that of a

sufferer almost as seriously injured as Steingall made out. He

collapsed utterly, and never lifted his head even when most drastic

measures were enjoined on a couple of sturdy negroes as to the care

that must be devoted to the invalid.

Steingall was astonishingly outspoken to Curtis and Devar while they

were walking to the elevator.

"I am surprised that that miserable whelp escaped with his life," he

said. "Usually, in cases of this sort, the rascal who betrays his

friends receives short shrift from those who make use of him. He knows

too much for their safety, and gets a knife between his ribs as soon as

his services cease to be valuable."

"I must confess that I don't begin to grasp the bearings of this

affair," admitted Curtis. "It is almost grotesque to imagine that a

number of men could be found in New York who would stop short of no

crime, however daring, simply to prevent a young lady from marrying in

despite of her father's wishes."

"Of course, the young lady figures large in your eyes," said Steingall

with a dry laugh. "You haven't thought this matter out, Mr. Curtis.

When you have slept on it, and the fact dawns on you that there are

other people in the world than the charming Lady Hermione, you will

realize that she is a mere pawn around whom a number of very important

persons are contending. I don't wish to say a word to depreciate her

as a star of the first magnitude, but I am greatly mistaken if there is

not another woman, either here or in Europe, whose personality, if

known, would attract far more attention from the police. . . . By the

way, has it occurred to you that Providence has certainly befriended

you to-night? The dare-devils who murdered Hunter were inclined to

kill you in error. . . . Now, I want you to concentrate your mind on

the face and expression of that chauffeur, Anatole. Keep him

constantly in your thoughts. If you can swear to him when we parade

him before you with half-a-dozen other men, I shall soon strip the

inquiry of its mystery."

In the hall they were surrounded by a squad of reporters, and three

photographers took flashlight pictures.

"Hello!" muttered the detective to Curtis, "they've found you! Now we

must use our brains to get you out of this."

They escaped the journalists by closing the door of the office on them.

Then the clerk was summoned, and solved the first difficulty by

revealing a back-stairs exit by way of the basement. An attendant was

sent to Curtis's room, to pack a grip with some clothes and linen, and,

by adroit maneuvering, the whole party got away from the hotel.

Steingall insisted on interviewing Lady Hermione that night. He

pointed out, reasonably enough, that she might possess a good deal of

valuable information concerning Count Ladislas Vassilan; if, as Curtis

believed was the case, she had already retired to rest, she must be

aroused. The hour was not so late, and Vassilan's movements in New

York might be elucidated by knowledge of his previous career.

So Curtis announced that his bride was installed in the Plaza Hotel,

and, while he and Devar escaped through the cellars, Steingall took

Uncle Horace and Aunt Louisa boldly through the lobby. A taxi was

waiting there, and he gave the driver the address of the police

headquarters downtown, but re-directed him when they were safe from

pursuit, and the three, so oddly assorted as companions, arrived at the

Plaza within a minute of the two young men.

Steingall went straight to the telephone room, and Curtis ascended to

his suite of apartments. He knocked at Hermione's door, and her "Yes,

who is there?" came with disconcerting speed. Evidently, she was far

from being asleep yet.

"It is I--dear," said Curtis, in whom the mere sense of being near his

"wife" induced a species of vertigo. Indeed, he was horribly nervous,

since he could not form the slightest notion as to the manner in which

she would receive the latest news of de Courtois.

The door was opened without delay, and Hermione appeared, dressed

exactly as she was when he bade her farewell.

"I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but it cannot be helped. Things

have been happening since I left you."

Her face blanched, but she tried to smile, though the corners of her

mouth drooped piteously.

"They are not here already?" she cried, and he had no occasion to ask

who "they" were.

"No," he said, with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. "The fact

is I--I--have brought some friends to see you. That is, some of them

will, I hope, be your very good friends--my uncle and aunt, and young

Howard Devar, whom I spoke about earlier. There is a detective, too--a

very decent fellow named Steingall. Shall I bring them here? It will

be pleasanter than being stared at in a crowded supper room."

She was surprised, but the relief in her tone was unmistakable.

"I don't want any supper," she said. "I shall be glad to meet your

relatives, of course, though----"

"Though you think I might have mentioned them sooner? Well, the

strangest part of the business is that they should be in New York at

all. I haven't the remotest idea as to why they are here, or how they

dropped across me. But isn't it a rather fortunate thing? They may

prove useful in a hundred ways."

"Please don't keep them waiting. What does the detective want?"

"Every syllable you can tell him about Count Vassilan."

"I hardly know the man at all. I always avoided him in Paris."

"You may be astonished by the number of facts you will produce when

Steingall questions you. And, I had better warn you that my uncle is

even now consulting the head-waiter about a wedding feast. He has

adopted you without reservation on my poor description."

His frankly admiring look brought a blush to her cheeks; but she only

laughed a little constrainedly, and murmured that she would try to be

as complacent as the occasion demanded. Events were certainly in

league to lend her wedding night a remarkably close semblance to the

real thing. And as Curtis descended to the foyer to summon their

waiting guests he decided then and there not to mar the festivities by

any explanations concerning Jean de Courtois's second time on earth.

Steingall had practically settled the question by confining the

Frenchman to his room for the remainder of the night. Why interfere

with an admirable arrangement? Let the wretched intriguer be forgotten

till the morrow, at any rate!