CHAPTER XIITHE 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 Burlingtonapartment, 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 shoulderto 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 theapartment; 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. “Itis 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 youdo 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-driverwhom 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 tothemselves. “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, evidentlythe 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.”