The Blue Lights Part 23

He seemed, on entering the room, to have but one object in view. He went at once to the mantel, and, taking from it the two small bottle-shaped vases which stood upon it, shook them both vigorously. A faint rattling sound came from the second. He turned it upside down upon the palm of his hand, and there tumbled out a quant.i.ty of ashes, and the b.u.t.ts of several partly smoked cigarettes. With a quiet smile he replaced them in the vase, and returned to the library.

"Mary, you may go now," he said.

When the woman had gone, he turned to Mr. Stapleton. "It was Mary Lanahan herself who smoked the cigarette which I found in the gra.s.s," he said.

"Well, what of it?" The matter seemed to the banker to be utterly without significance.

"She had, no doubt, stolen them from Mrs. Stapleton."

"Very likely. Not a very serious matter, however."

"No. But the question now arises, Why did she turn the box over to Valentin, and subsequently ask him to destroy it?"

"I cannot imagine."

"And why, later, were these cigarettes stolen from Valentin, as I understand they were?"

"It's too much for me. What do you make of it?"

"I have a theory, Mr. Stapleton; but I cannot say just what it is--yet.

By the way, where is your man, Francois, tonight?"

"He is visiting his people, somewhere in the suburbs."

"Ah! Then I would like to search his room, as well."

"Go ahead. You will find nothing, I fear. The police have gone over it with a fine-tooth comb." He rose. "Come along, I'll go with you."

The room occupied by the chauffeur was at the very top of the house, with two windows opening through the slanting mansard roof. One of these, Duvall noted, commanded a view over the houses adjoining toward the north, beyond which could be seen the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. A second window, toward the south, commanded an extensive view toward Pa.s.sy.

Mr. Stapleton, puffing because of the unaccustomed stairs, sat down upon the bed. "I cannot imagine what you hope to find here, Duvall," he grumbled.

The detective made no reply, but began a systematic inspection of the room. One of the first objects which attracted his attention was an ordinary electric searchlight, of the pocket variety, lying on the man's dresser. He picked it up, and examined it carefully.

"I got it for Francois," observed Mr. Stapleton, "so that he could examine the car, at night, in case of any accident or repair."

"Of course. Very useful, too. But why, I wonder, does he keep it here in his room, instead of in the garage?"

"Possibly to light himself up the stairs, at night," said Stapleton.

"Then I should think he would have it with him," remarked Duvall, dryly.

"Wouldn't be of much use to him tonight, for instance." He was about to put the thing down, when his attention was attracted by two objects, hanging one on each side of the dresser, from its two uprights. They were apparently Christmas tree ornaments, made of thin gla.s.s, and they hung from the back of the dresser by means of two bits of ribbon.

They seemed at first glance to be merely souvenirs of some party, some entertainment, which the chauffeur had preserved as mementos of the occasion. They were shaped like little cups, with a paper fringe about the top, to which the gay ribbons were attached. Duvall had seen such ornaments often before, at Christmas time. They were intended to be hung from the tree by their ribbons, and were filled with small candies or bonbons. He had almost pa.s.sed them by, when something in their colors caused him to pause. One was a deep blue, the other an equally deep red.

He examined the wooden uprights of the dresser with great care. All along the top of the dresser at its back was a heavy coating of dust.

The top of the uprights, over which the loops of ribbon which supported the little baskets had been pa.s.sed, contained no dust whatever.

Evidently the baskets had been taken down, and that too quite recently.

For what purpose? he wondered. Suddenly he had an inspiration. He took down the little blue basket, and quickly placed it over the end of the searchlight. It fitted perfectly, the paper collar at its top holding the gla.s.s hemisphere snugly in place.

Mr. Stapleton was watching Duvall without particular interest. Suddenly the detective pointed the searchlight toward him and pressed the b.u.t.ton which threw on the current. Mr. Stapleton started back, as his face was flooded with a beam of brilliant blue light.

Duvall replaced the little basket in the same position in which he had found it, and laid the searchlight upon the dresser. "Rather neat, isn't it?" he exclaimed.

"What do you make of it?" asked the banker.

"Your man Francois evidently is in the habit of making signals," the detective replied, laughing. He was beginning to feel hopeful. The search of the two rooms was bearing fruit.

For the next half-hour, Duvall went over the contents of the chauffeur's room with the utmost care. He removed and replaced, just as he found them, the contents of the dresser drawers. He opened a small wooden trunk which stood at one side of the room, and examined its contents minutely. He explored the closet, looked behind the pictures, sounded the walls. Nothing further of an unusual nature rewarded his efforts.

Still he seemed unsatisfied.

"What more can you hope to find, Mr. Duvall?" inquired the banker, who had begun to find the proceedings tiresome.

The detective stood in the center of the room, and glanced about in some perplexity. "I had hoped to find one thing more," he said; "but I am afraid it isn't here."

Suddenly he strode over to the mantel, upon which stood a small nickel-plated alarm clock of American make.

"This clock doesn't seem to be going," he remarked, then whipped out his magnifying gla.s.s and carefully studied the bra.s.s handle which projected from the back, by which it was wound up. "It hasn't been wound for several days, either. The back is covered with dust." He picked up the clock and tried to wind it; but the handle resisted his efforts.

In an instant he took out his knife, and a moment later was removing the screws which held the metal back of the clock in place.

Mr. Stapleton watched him curiously. Duvall's methods savored, to him, of the accepted sleuth of fiction. He took little stock in the tiny clues upon which the whole modern science of criminology is built.

In a few moments the detective had removed the screws and lifted out the rear plate of the clock. As he did so, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

A small pasteboard box fell out upon the mantel.

"What is it?" asked Stapleton.

"The box of cigarettes," remarked Duvall, as he opened it. "There are three missing. I shall take a fourth." He selected one of the paper-covered tubes, placed it within his pocketbook, then thrust the box back into the clock, and rapidly replaced the metal plate.

"I don't think there is anything further to be done here, Mr.

Stapleton," he remarked. "I think I'll be getting along to my room.

Tomorrow I shall be quite busy."

He stopped for a moment, on his way out, to glance from the window which faced toward the north. Between the buildings and trees ran the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, its course illuminated by many street lamps, and the flas.h.i.+ng lights of pa.s.sing motor cars. Duvall gazed intently at the scene before him for a few moments, then turned to the door, and, accompanied by Mr. Stapleton, descended the stairs.

As he was about to leave the house, the banker, who evidently had something on his mind, stopped him.

"Mr. Duvall," he said, earnestly, "I would like very much to know what you intend to do."

"I'm going to catch these fellows, if I possibly can," the detective replied, earnestly.

"What steps do you propose to take?"

"I cannot exactly say--yet. Why do you ask?"

"I'll tell you. The fellow who was here tonight, the one with the black beard, is coming to see me tomorrow night, at eight o'clock. I cannot tell you more than that. I did not intend to tell you that much--but I am obliged to do so."