Part 8 (1/2)
”What the devil makes _you_ so bitter?”
”Was I bitter? I thought I was philosophizing.” Courtlandt consulted his watch. Half after four. ”Come over to the Maurice and dine with me to-morrow night, that is, if you do not find your prima donna. I've an engagement at five-thirty, and must be off.”
”I was about to ask you to dine with me to-night,” disappointedly.
”Can't; awfully sorry, Abby. It was only luck that I met you in the Luxembourg. Be over about seven. I was very glad to see you again.”
Abbott kicked a broken easel into a corner. ”All right. If anything turns up I'll let you know. You're at the Grand?”
”Yes. By-by.”
”I know what's the matter with him,” mused the artist, alone. ”Some woman has chucked him. Silly little fool, probably.”
Courtlandt went down-stairs and out into the boulevard. Frankly, he was beginning to feel concerned. He still held to his original opinion that the diva had disappeared of her own free will; but if the machinery of the police had been started, he realized that his own safety would eventually become involved. By this time, he reasoned, there would not be a hotel in Paris free of surveillance. Naturally, blond strangers would be in demand.
The complications that would follow his own arrest were not to be ignored.
He agreed with his conscience that he had not acted with dignity in forcing his way into her apartment. But that night he had been at odds with convention; his spirit had been that of the marauding old Dutchman of the seventeenth century. He perfectly well knew that she was in the right as far as the pistol-shot was concerned. Further, he knew that he could quash any charge she might make in that direction by the simplest of declarations; and to avoid this simplest of declarations she would prefer silence above all things. They knew each other tolerably well.
It was extremely fortunate that he had not been to the hotel since Sat.u.r.day. He went directly to the war-office. The great and powerful man there was the only hope left. They had met some years before in Algiers, where Courtlandt had rendered him a very real service.
”I did not expect you to the minute,” the great man said pleasantly. ”You will not mind waiting for a few minutes.”
”Not in the least. Only, I'm in a deuce of a mess,” frankly and directly.
”Innocently enough, I've stuck my head into the police net.”
”Is it possible that now I can pay my debt to you?”
”Such as it is. Have you read the article in the newspapers regarding the disappearance of Signorina da Toscana, the singer?”
”Yes.”
”I am the unknown blond. To-morrow morning I want you to go with me to the prefecture and state that I was with you all of Sat.u.r.day and Sunday; that on Monday you and your wife dined with me, that yesterday we went to the aviation meet, and later to the Odeon.”
”In brief, an alibi?” smiling now.
”Exactly. I shall need one.”
”And a perfectly good alibi. But I have your word that you are in nowise concerned? Pardon the question, but between us it is really necessary if I am to be of service to you.”
”On my word as a gentleman.”
”That is sufficient.”
”In fact, I do not believe that she has been abducted at all. Will you let me use your pad and pen for a minute?”
The other pushed over the required articles. Courtlandt scrawled a few words and pa.s.sed back the pad.
”For me to read?”
”Yes,” moodily.