The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris/Chapter 14



OR an hour or more, M. Baudet, grim visaged, artful, domineering, showered questions upon Mr. John Smith, and to all of them he received the same answer, utter silence. Threats, pleadings, cajolings, taunts, they all came to the same. He twined his manicured fingers in his perfumed whiskers and plucked at them until devastation seemed imminent; he smoked vile cigarettes fiercely and continuously. If only this pig of an American, this impostor, would say something—just one word!

Apparently undisturbed, Mr. Smith permitted his straight staring eyes to linger upon M. Baudet meditatively, and occasionally, at some unusual outburst, there was a flicker of interest in them; but his lips were sealed. At first he had seen a possible avenue of escape, both for himself and for Clarke, a way of staying the avalanche that d’Aubigny was bringing down on them. If he could have reached Clarke before the police reached him, and closed his mouth! That was the hope. It died when d’Aubigny, accompanied by M. Remi, rushed away to bring Clarke. Not understanding the true condition of things, Clarke would babble, and then chaos would come. Hopelessly enough, Mr. Smith sat waiting for it.

Immediately after his arrest—arresting him seemed to be a habit with the police of Paris!—Mr. Smith submitted gracefully to a search. The bonds should have been on his person; M. Baudet had said it. They should have been on his person, because no man in his senses would leave seven and a half million francs knocking about his room. But they were not on his person. Upon discovery of this fact, M. Baudet had despatched two of his men to the Maison de Treville to search Mr. Smith’s room.

“I am informed,” he told them, “that there are one hundred and fifty of these bonds, in denominations of ten thousand dollars each. They should make a package four or five inches thick. And, since I think of it,” he went on shrewdly, “the bulk of the package probably accounts for the prisoner not carrying it about with him. That package is somewhere in that room. Find it!”

Alone with M. Baudet, who sat at his desk with a revolver beside him, Mr. Smith waited, while he stared placidly out the window. A short distance away, across the Place du Parvis, was the cathedral of Notre Dame. It reminded him of the granite church back home, the one with the double spires. Home! Passaic! In contemplation of that heavenly thought Mr. Smith temporarily forgot his troubles, and the questions of M. Baudet fell on deaf ears.

INALLY there came a clatter at the door, followed by the reappearance of Marquis d’Aubigny and M. Remi. Mr. Smith glanced around quickly; they were alone.

“M. Clarke?” demanded M. Baudet. “Where is he?”

“He is ill, dangerously ill,” replied the Marquis. “There has been a relapse. Two physicians and a nurse are with him. They refused to let us see him, or even to send word to him. It may be three or four days, even a week, before anyone is permitted to talk to him.”

Mr. Smith almost smiled. Here was a respite! There was still a possibility of reaching Clarke and shutting him up!

“Were the bonds found?” the Marquis asked.

“They will be found, Monsieur,” replied M. Baudet confidently. “My men haven’t returned; but I am expecting them any minute. They will tear the room to ribbons if necessary; but they will find them!”

M. le Marquis d’Aubigny went over and stood in front of Mr. Smith with a sneering smile about his thin lips, the evil eyes aglitter with triumph. “And how does Monsieur the Thief feel about it now?” he taunted.

Mr. Smith didn’t alter his position; he didn’t even look up. His powerful hands lay idly on the arms of his chair. “Look here, Cap,” he remarked calmly to M. Baudet, “if you let this little, dried up, shriveled shrimp come around here making unpleasant remarks to me. I’ll get up and push him all about.”

It was the first word Mr. Smith had uttered. Its effect was electrical upon M. Baudet. “Ah! You have decided to talk?”

Mr. Smith didn’t say.

“Will you admit that you stole the bonds?”

Mr. Smith didn’t say.

“Will you deny it?”

Mr. Smith didn’t say.

“Where have you hidden them?”

Mr. Smith didn’t say.

M. Baudet dropped down at his desk again hopelessly. M. le Marquis, with a malignant grin distorting his pasty face, addressed him.

“This man,” and he pointed at Mr. Smith, “has threatened me. You heard, Monsieur. He is a dangerous man. I demand that he be handcuffed!”

“But, M. le Marquis, I hardly—”

“I demand that he be handcuffed!”

Mr. Smith extended his hands without a word of protest, and at a nod from M. Baudet the slender steel bands were slipped about his wrists by M. Remi.

O he sat, until the door opened again, this time to admit one of the two sleuths who had been sent to search his room. He seemed crestfallen.

“Nothing, Monsieur,” he said simply.

“Nothing!”

“Nothing. We searched the room as no room was ever searched. We ransacked the closets, took the wardrobe to pieces, destroyed the mattress, took up the carpet, tore out the baseboards, examined M. Smith’s belongings, and found—nothing! The bonds are not there. I came for further orders.”

M. Baudet rose with an exclamation, and for half a minute he stood staring down on Mr. Smith, placid, unruffled; then, commandingly, “Where—are—those bonds?”

Mr. Smith didn’t say.

HEN came another interruption. A voice of protest was raised suddenly outside the door. It ceased as the door was flung open. There was a rush of skirts, and Edna Clarke, with flaming face, stood before them.

“They told me at the Maison de Treville that Mr. Smith was under arrest here,” she explained hurriedly. I must—”

Then her eyes, defiant, met the straight staring gaze of M. Smith. Mutely he extended his hands, bound together by the slender bands of steel. For an instant she shrank from him in horror, shuddering at what she saw, then rushed to him, clasping his hands in her own. “What does it mean?” she asked tensely.

“It means that I am under arrest, charged with the theft of one million five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds from your father,” Mr. Smith told her simply. Here was his salvation, this girl!

“You!” she gasped. “You the thief?”

“Of course you know I did not steal the bonds, Miss Clarke.” he went on calmly, and a warning flashed in his eyes. “I did not steal the bonds, and,” meaningly, “I haven’t them now. The police have searched me and my room. They found nothing.”

Fascinated, bewildered, yet knowing there was some hidden message in his words, the girl was silent. Finally the light of perfect understanding illumined her face. “Of course I know,” Mr. Smith went on placidly, with eyes rigidly fixed upon hers, “that your father did not have any bonds in Paris with him; but I haven’t told the police. If your father will tell them—”

“How do you know it?” interrupted the Marquis.

“Shut up, or I’ll throw you out the window!” replied Mr. Smith unemotionally. Then to M. Baudet, “If you want to know how I know it, I’ll tell you that I’m paying teller in the bank of which Mr. Clarke is president, and if you’ll inquire of him you’ll find that he had no bonds for me to steal.”

“But how—why—” d’Aubigny stammered. “He was to invest a million and a half dollars in— He was to invest it! He said the bonds had been stolen! So, why—how—”

“I’ll remain here in the jug, Cap,” and, heedless of the bewilderment in Marquis d’Aubigny’s manner, Mr. Smith turned to M. Baudet. “until Mr. Clarke is able to speak for himself. If he tells you there were no bonds to be stolen, that ends it, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” remarked M. Baudet after a puzzled pause, “if no bonds were stolen, of course—”

“Well, Cap, that’s the answer. He’ll tell you none was stolen.” He faced Edna again for an instant, and a whimsical smile curled the corners of his mouth. “My address will be the town calaboose for the next few days. I’ll be in any time you or your father choose to call.”