Evening Star Newspaper, January 12, 1930, Page 82

ONE NIGHT N NICLE. Un Air of Suspense Hung Over the Gay Town When Rumors Were Spread of Mysterious Happenings on Board the Battleship That Lay in the Harbor. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. ARLIER in the day Tresholm had brought his éar to a standstill and had joined a crowd of people gaz- ing down into the harbor of Ville- franche where a battleship lay snchored. The reason for their mild excite- ment was easily apparent. Instead of being surrounded by the usual stream of boats com- ing and going, the sea around the ship was deserted, the gangway was drawn up, and a flag was flying, which perhaps Tresholm alone among that little company rightly understood— the navy flag warning off all visitors or trades- people of any description. The only craft visible was the battleship’s own pinnace, which bhad just left the landing-stage. Tresholm adjusted his field-glasses and studied the scene below. The two passengers who were being escorted on board were M. Desrolles, the chief de surete at Monaco, and & ocompanion whom Tresholm chanced to recognized as the chief de surete at Nice. Something had happened to disturb the serenity of life upon the battleship. His un- derstanding of the flags a dnhis recognition of the two men in the pinnace helped him to realizse the probable nature of the event. He watched the pinnace cutting through the water, leaving behind its trall of foam, watched the gangway let grudgingly down and the two vis- itors received on board, watched afterward the immediate drawing up of the gangway and the sheering off of the pinnace. Then he drove on to Nice. I'!‘ was & gay night at Maxim's, Nice's most fashionable Bohemian restaurant. The ex- hibition dancers never had been received with more favor. Tresholm, inclined to wonder why he had lingered on after a late dinner to the small hours of the morning, still felt no im- pulse to depart. There were two people and one circumstance in the room which inter- ested him—the girl with the misty eyes at the table opposite and the small man who was his left-hand neighbor, a man with rather high color, a wizened face, hair as stiffly upright as porcupine quills. He was correctly dressed for the evening and he ate his supper with an Eclaireur du Soir propped up in front of him. These were the two people whom Tresholm, always observant of the world around him, had singled out as being of interest. The circumstance was another matter—a long table laid for 14, at the end of the room, which had been unoccupied all the evening and which was now being slowly and unwillingly dismantled. Tresholm leaned forward as the maitre d’hotel passed. “You are disappointed of some guests to- night, Louis?” he remarked. “A party of officers from the battleship in Villefranche Harbor, sir,” the man confided. *“Some of them visit here most nights, but this was to be a very special affair. The wine and the supper were ordered a week ago. It was the fete-day of the one who has been our best patron here.” “The celebration has been postponed, then?” Fresholm asked. ‘The maitre d’hotel approached a step nearer. *“Monsieur has not heard, then, of what has arrived?” “I have heard nothing at all,” Tresholm replied. ‘The man leaned forward. “One knows noth- ing, though he hears sometimes wild stories,” he said. “Leave from the battleship has been stopped. It is a pity, for the supper has been cooked. They will come another day.” ‘The man bowed himself away, and Tresholm, aware of the cause of his sudden reticence, con- tinued his meal without remark. Presently he looked across at the opposite table. The girl with the misty eyes smiled at him slightly. With nothing in mind save the gratification of his almost impersonal interest, he rose to his feet and crossed the floor. “Mademoiselle will dance?” he invited. Mademoiselle hesitated, and, it seemed to . Tresholm, looked at his neighbor. Then she rose slowly. “If monsieur wishes,” she assented. The dance was a success, and as Tresholm Jed her back to her seat he was somewhat eonfident that his curiosity concerning her was Justified. “Mademoiselle would care to share my table for a time?” he suggested. “We both seem to be alone.” She demurred. “Sit with me for a few minutes,” she begged. “I like this side of the Foom better.” “Why do you prefer your table to mine?* he asked. “It is your neighbor,” she confided. “I do fot like him. He looks at me all the tume. I know very well that if we talked together e would Nsten.” ) “Why shouldn’t he, if it amuses him?” Tres- holm rejoined, smiling. “We are not going to discuss secrets of state, are we?” THE girl took out her vanity-case and dabbed at her lips. “I suppose you have something to say to me,” she ventured. “I do not know what it is, but I can guess. I would prefer that monsieur did not hear; so, I should , would you.” ‘Tresholm showed no signd «f surprise at her unexpected speech. There had certainly been no thought of adventure in his mind when he had decided to stay here for dinner. Yet old habits were strong. At this first breath of it, he felt himself back in the old life. He was playing a part, even before he knew it. .;dmmmupecttoheu!romne?"he Bheflnkhedwflhhervmuyenenndputlt deliberately away. “You will probably ask me first where Arthur is,” she said, with a faint smile. “After that, you will talk business.” “Then where is Arthur?” Tresholm de- manded. “In the Casino.” She paused, expectant, for his next question. Then she caught the air of b!fl)dummthhhlm,nndherownem— sion changed. “Eh bien?” “It seems to me,” Tresholm confessed, “that this is where I break down. Shall we dance again?” The girl shrugged. She was evidently ill at ease. - “Fonight I am tired,” she pleaded. “I prefer not to dance any more. Perhaps monsieur had better return to his table. I am expecting—a— a friend.” He rose. “I trust that I have not offended in any way.” She looked at him keenly. ing to be what you are not.” She suddenly rose, and Tresholm became aware of one of the professional dancers stand- ing at the table. She accepted his invitation to dance, and Tresholm returned to his place. His neighbor glanced up from the newspaper as he sat down, and addressed him in English, which showed only the slightest trace of a for- eign accent. “Scarcely a success, eh?” “I am afraid,” Tresholm admitted, conceal- ing his surprise, “that I was not exactly popu- lar with the young lady.” The little man dropped his eyeglasses, folded up his newspaper and leaned toward his com- panion. “Am I right in believing that your name is Tresholm,” he asked, “and that when you reg- istered at your hotel in Monte Carlo, you de- scribed yourself as a professional gambler?” “Quite right,” Tresholm admitted. “An ef- fort at humor which has led to several mis- understandings. The hotel clerk was persistent that I should fill in the space, and I could think of nothing else for the moment.” “Not being anxious to disclose your real pro- fession,” the other suggested. “Having retired from it, whatever it may have been,” was the swift rejoinder. “Retired?” “Formally and actually.” “Then what are you doing here tonight?" “I am here entirely by accident.” “Yes, I know all that”” was the somewhat impatient interruption. “With me it is un- necessary.” “May I ask who you are?” “I will tell you,” the other replied, “although I expect you know already. My name is Vigaud —Charles Vigaud—not unknown to the head- quarters of the police here. Now, Mr. Tresholm, we know one another. Presently I may have a suggestion to make to you. But wait. Things are about to happen.” “Only by seem- THER.I was a disturbance at the door, a hur- rying forward of the vestiaire, a vision of bowing waiters, a maitre d'hotel hastening to- ward the place where the long table had been dismantled. Ten or twelve new arrivals were divesting themselves of hats and coats. \‘Ilisaud turned to Tresholm with a queer smile. “Our friends, the naval officers,” he re- marked. “The commander must be in a gra- cious mood.” “Do they belong to the ship that was flying the warning-off flag?” Tresholm inquired. Vigaud nodded. “This has been their usual meeting place for many nights,” he confided. “This morning all leave was stopped, and they were not expected.” “Why?"” ‘The other shrugged. one hears.” They came presently down the room—10 very presentable young men. They were popular, evidentaly for shouts of welcome greeted them. The girl with the misty eyes alone looked “A robbery on board, THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, ]ANUARY 2, 1930. down at her plate and never once gianced wp as the long file trooped past her. . Tresholm, happening by chance to notice the fact, watched the young men curiously. The first half dozen, either by design or accident, ignored her completely. Toward the end of the procession, however, one of the youngest look- ing of the officers glanced anxiously across at her table. Tresholm’s gaze followed the lad curiously. He fancied there was a certain tenseness in his expression, shared by none of his com- panions. They took their places noisily. Vig- aud chuckled. “An idea,” he commented—*“without a doubt an idea!” “What's it all about?” Tresholm inquired good naturedly. His companion appeared to have become less communicative. “One asks oneself,” he murmured. The young men from the battleship settled down to enjoy themselves, and no one was more swiftly uproarious than the youth whose entrance had attracted Tresholm's attention. Ladies with inclinations toward dancing seemed to arrive as though by magic from all direc- tions. Every one of the party danced, includ- ing the boy. His partner, however, was a little, fair-haired Frenchwoman, from whose eyes he scarcely once looked away. Tresholm, who was beginning to be intrigued by a situation which he utterly failed to understand, ordered an- other bottle of wine and postponed his inten- tion of leaving. The girl with the misty eyes suddenly smiled across at him, with a little gesture of invitation. Tresholm hastened to her side, and she slipped eagerly into his arms. “But your hands are cold!” he exclaimed, as they swung down the room. “As cold as my heart, monsieur—cold with fear,” she answered. He looked at her, puzzled. There was little doubt but tbat she was speaking the truth. Such natural color as she may have possessed had left her cheeks so completely that the rouge remained like an ugly daub upon her livid skin. Her body was quivering. “Come to the bar,” she begged. “I am not fit to dance. I thought at first that you brought me a message from George. We had a little code arranged—that is of no conse- quence—you must help me. Indeed, you must help me.” THEY sat on stools, and with a whispered word of mingled excuse and injunction, she left him for a few moments. The barman leaned across the counter. “Monsieur knows the young lady well?” he asked. “I never saw her before this evening” Tresholm replied. “If monsieur is ignorant of certain things,” the man advised, “if he is concerned, he would do well to be careful. It is a night, this, when disaster might come.” “I wish I knew what you are talking about!'" Tresholm exclaimed. The man leaned a little farther over the counter. He looked furtively to the right and to the left. Then suddenly he stiffened. Mademoiselle stood once more by Tresholm's side. She had washed the rouge from her face and, although she was terribly pale, she looked once more herself. “I have engaged a salon prive,” she whis- pered. ‘“Monsieur will come. I have something to say to him.” He followed her down the passage and the young barman looked after them anxiously. With a lttle sigh the latter drew his account block from his pocket, scrib- bled a few lines upon one of the pages torn from it and handed it to a gray-haired maitre d’hotel. The man nodded and made his way up the crowded room to where Tresholm’'s neighbor was still seated. He handed the note to him without a word and slipped away. Vigaud ad- justed his eyeglass and read the few lines care- fully. Then he glanced across at the empty place opposite and shrugged. His bill was al- ready paid, as though in expectation of seme such emergency. He made his way threugh the throng and strolled out into the night. “But your hands are cold!” he ex- claimed, as they swung down the room. “A4s cold as my heart, Monsieur—cold with fear,” she answered. Tresholm was & man rarely ill at ease, but & certain fineness of sensibility inspired in him a swift revulsion to his tawdry and meretricious environment. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “you must forgive me, but I find these surroundings distasteful. Unless you can offer me an immediate explana-~ tion of the service which you require from me I must leave you.” “I shall explain,” she assured him quickly. “Have patience for a few moments, I beg.” “At least, let me unlock the door,” he begged. “Not yet,” she insisted. “There must always be that delay. Now I explain.” He stood icily upon the other side of the table. She poured out two glasses of cham- pagne, drank one and threw the other upom the floor. “You know my nationality,” she began. “For the last few years there has been unrest in this part of the world. I speak both languages. I have many acquaintances. In the war I was in a government bureau.” She paused to listen for a moment. “Go on,” he invited, a little less coldly. “My instructions came to me a month ago, but first I had to wait for three weeks. Since then I have been working. There is a battle- ship in the harbor. My task was to make friends with one of the officers. The ship is fitted with some secret device for resisting tor- pedoes. Half-way across the Atlantic she was submitted to tests—you understand, monsieur?” “Quite well,” Tresholm assented. “Go on.” “The result of those tests,” she continued, “was entered in the admiral’'s private diary. My task was to obtain the page upon which the results were written, while he was in Toulon. I succeeded.” ‘““Are you sure you haven't been hoaxed?” he asked her. SHE shook her head. “A great deal was dene for me,” she confided. “On the first visitors’ day some one whom I have never seen in my life took a wax impression of the key of the small cupboard where the diary is kept. The key was given to me four days ago. I gave it to my friend. Yesterday he .brought me the page, cut out.” “Have you parted with it yet?" “They won’t let me,” she cried almost hys- terically. “I have been driven crazy. The French police are suspicious. They have not ventured to search my rooms, but there is an agent of the police outside my door who pre- tends to be a fireman, and they follow me in the street so that I dare not post a letter or approach any of my intimates here. My tele- phone, I know, is guarded. I have been nearly crazy with anxiety. The man into whose hands I was to pass the page of the diary has been in the restaurant tonight, but I had to signal him to go away. Opposite me sits Vigaud. an agent of the French police. I am terrified.” “Where is this page of the diary at the present moment?” Tresholm asked. “I have it with me,” she confided. “I throw myself upon your generosity, Monsieur. My heart has ached ever since I did this thing. I repent. I sob at night with terror. That poor boy! I saw his face this evening.” “You mean the tall youth at the end of the procession?” “Yes. They tell me if it is discovered he will be shot. I want the page restored to him.” “What would be the good of that?” Tres- holm pointed out. “You can't cut a page out of a diary and replace it.” “This is different,” she told him eagerly. “The book is of a different fabrication. Each day of the week is on a separate page, with holes at the top through which two clips pass. The poor boy still has the key. He could at least take his chance of replacing it.” “How are you going to communicate with him.” “I can't,” she cried, “but you could.” “Even if I did,” Tresholm deliberated, “it seems to me long odds about his being able to replace it. Has any one discovered it is miss- ing?” “I will tell you, monsieur, what has hap-