CHAPTER XVIIN 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 exchangea 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 programwhich 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 whowere 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 gallantFrench 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 mutteredapology 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 Mitchellof 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 hiswords. 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 indignantejaculation 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 theMarseillaisenow; 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 companionsmore 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 theMarseillaise, 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 appearedat 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.