The Blue Lights. Frederic Arnold Kummer
solemnly swears to the truth of her statements --that she turned away for a moment to observe passing vehicles in the road--turned back again to the child--and found that he was gone."
"Gone--but how?"
"How? That's the question. Here is this woman, sitting on the grass, with the child, a hundred yards from the road, in the middle of a large field of grass--a lawn. No one is within sight. The nearest person, it appears from her testimony, is the chauffeur, three hundred feet away, in the road. The woman turns her head for a moment, looks about--and the boy is gone. That is the story she tells, and which my wife has cabled to me. Do you wonder that I call it preposterous?"
"Hardly," remarked Duvall, with a grim smile. "The boy could not have vanished into thin air. The woman must be lying."
"That, Mr. Duvall, is what I cannot understand. I cannot believe that the woman is lying. My wife cannot believe it. She has been in our employ ever since the boy was born, and is devoted to him. Mrs. Stapleton cables that she is completely prostrated."
"But, Mr. Stapleton, you can hardly believe such a story! How could the child have been stolen, if her story is true? It is, as you say, preposterous."
"I do not say that the story is true, Mr. Duvall. I say that I do not think that Mary is lying. She is telling what she believes to be the truth. She turned her head for a moment--the boy was gone. That is what she says, and I believe her. The question is--how is it possible?"
"It isn't," Hodgman grunted.
"Everything is possible, Hodgman," said the banker, reprovingly. "The best proof of that, in this case, is that it has happened. What means were used, I cannot imagine; but the apparently impossible has happened. The boy is gone!"
"Is the nurse a young woman?" the detective inquired.
"About thirty, I should say."
"An American?"
"Yes. Of Irish parentage. Her name is Lanahan--Mary Lanahan."
"A New Yorker?"
"She comes from Paterson, New Jersey. Her people live there."
"Are there any other details--any other points of interest?"
"None, so far as I know. What I have told you, is what has been cabled to me by Mrs. Stapleton. She is naturally in a more or less hysterical condition. Nothing can be accomplished here. I want you to leave by today's steamer. I myself, I regret to say, cannot go until Saturday." He passed his hand nervously across his forehead. "Only matters of the most vital importance could keep me here at such a time, Mr. Duvall; but, unfortunately, such matters confront me now."
"Have you any reason to believe, Mr. Stapleton," Duvall inquired, "that the kidnapping is the act of persons from this side of the water? Have any such attempts been made in the past?"
Mr. Stapleton remained silent for sometime, buried in thought. Presently he spoke. "I am a rich man, Mr. Duvall---a very rich man. Men in my position are constantly in receipt of letters of a threatening nature. I have received many such letters, in the past."
"Was the matter of the child mentioned in any of them? Were threats made involving him?"
"There was one such letter."
"When did you receive it?"
"Last fall--perhaps six months ago."
"Have you the letter now?"
"Yes."
"May I see it?"
The banker rose, went to a heavy rosewood desk at one side of the room, drew open one of its drawers, and removed a steel despatch box. He opened it with a slender key and took out a package of letters. From these, after some hesitation, he selected one and silently handed it to Duvall.
The detective examined the letter carefully. It was enclosed in a cheap white envelope, such as are sold at all post offices, having the stamp printed on it. The letter itself was roughly printed in ink on a sheet of ruled paper evidently torn from an ordinary five-cent pad. It said:
"We demand fifty thousand dollars, to be placed in thousand-dollar bills inside a cigar box and expressed to John Smith, c/o Express Company, Paterson, N. J., next Monday afternoon. The man who will call for the package on Tuesday will know nothing about the matter, and if you arrest him, you will find out nothing. Keep this to yourself and do as we say, if you value the safety of your child."
There was no signature to the letter, Duvall read it through with great care, then turned to Mr. Stapleton.
"You have observed, I suppose, that the place to which the money was to be sent, Paterson, New Jersey, is the home of your child's nurse, Mary Lanahan."
Mr. Stapleton started. "I confess," he said "that, in the agitated state of mind into which this affair has thrown me, I had completely overlooked the coincidence. What do you infer from it?"
"Only this, Mr. Stapleton, that Mary Lanahan may know more about this matter than she is willing to let on. I must keep this letter for the present."
"Very well." The banker nodded. "It may prove a valuable clue."
"Possibly. And further, Mr, Stapleton, I shall not sail by today's steamer."
"But--why not?" Stapleton sat up in his chair in surprise. "You will lose two days."
"I do not think they will be lost. I must make some investigations in Paterson, before I leave here. Please give me, if you can, the address of Mary Lanahan's parents."
Mr. Stapleton frowned. "I am not sure that I can do so, Mr. Duvall. My wife has charge of these matters. But I recollect having heard that her father, Patrick Lanahan, is a florist in a small way, and no doubt you can readily locate him. But I fear you will be losing valuable time."
Duvall rose. "I feel, as you do, Mr. Stapleton, that I should be in Paris at the earliest possible moment; but I think you will agree with me that some Investigations on this side before I go are absolutely necessary, and may prove of inestimable value afterwards."
Mr. Stapleton was silent for several minutes. Presently he raised his head. "Under the circumstances, Mr. Duvall, I am forced to admit the truth of what you say. Conduct your investigations as quickly as possible, however; for we must positively sail by Saturday's boat."
"I shall be ready then." Duvall took up his hat. "Now I think I had better get a few hours' sleep, and in the morning I will make an early start for Paterson." He bowed to the banker and Mr. Hodgman. "Good night, gentlemen. I shall see you both on Saturday morning. The steamer sails shortly after noon, I believe. Suppose I come here at ten o'clock, and let you know what I have learned?"
Mr. Stapleton rose. "If I receive any further news of importance from Paris, Mr. Duvall, I will advise you at your hotel. Where arc you stopping?"
Duvall gave the name of a Times Square hotel at which he usually stopped, and with a quick "good night" left the house.
It was shortly after nine o'clock the next morning when he descended from the train at Paterson, and going to a nearby drug store, consulted the directory for the address of Patrick Lanahan. He found it without difficulty, and, by means of an electric car, was soon before the florist's door.
The place was situated on the outskirts of the town, and consisted of a small, rather mean-looking cottage, from which spread out on each side, like the two wings of an aeroplane, the long glass greenhouses.
A little gate opened to a short brick path, leading to the front door of the house.
Duvall went up the path and rang the door bell. A wholesome-looking Irish woman, of perhaps fifty, opened the door, and, in response to his questions, told him that her husband, Patrick, was out in the garden at the rear of the house, busy with his plants.
She directed the detective along a narrow areaway at the side of the house, and in a moment reappeared at the back door.
"Pat," she called. "Oh, Pat! Here's a gentleman to see you."
A short, heavy-set man, with