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Czech Security
Dilemma
Russia as a Friend or Enemy?

Edited by
Jan Holzer · Miroslav Mareš
New Security Challenges

Series Editor
George Christou
University of Warwick
Coventry, UK
The last decade has demonstrated that threats to security vary greatly in
their causes and manifestations and that they invite interest and demand
responses from the social sciences, civil society, and a very broad policy
community. In the past, the avoidance of war was the primary objective,
but with the end of the Cold War the retention of military defence as
the centrepiece of international security agenda became untenable. There
has been, therefore, a significant shift in emphasis away from traditional
approaches to security to a new agenda that talks of the softer side of
security, in terms of human security, economic security, and environmen-
tal security. The topical New Security Challenges series reflects this press-
ing political and research agenda.

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14732
Jan Holzer · Miroslav Mareš
Editors

Czech Security
Dilemma
Russia as a Friend or Enemy?
Editors
Jan Holzer Miroslav Mareš
Department of Political Science Department of Political Science
Masaryk University Masaryk University
Brno, Czech Republic Brno, Czech Republic

New Security Challenges

ISBN 978-3-030-20545-4 ISBN 978-3-030-20546-1 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-20546-1

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2020
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights
of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction
on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology
now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and
information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication.
Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied,
with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published
maps and institutional affiliations.

Cover image: © metamorworks/Shutterstock

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
 Preface

The book is an outcome of a project titled Russia as a Friend or

Enemy? Czech Security Dilemma in an Interdisciplinary Perspective,
funded by the Grant Agency of the Masaryk University (project code
MUNI/M/0921/2015). This was a three-year research project dealing
with the process of securitization of the Russian issue in current Czech
politics. None of the chapters has been previously published. At the same
time, we emphasise that the contributions to this volume summarise
latest research of their authors; the findings discussed in the respective
chapters have appeared in several dozen scholarly journals in English,
Czech, Polish, and Russian. In that sense, the working theses, method-
ologies, factual claims and conclusions of this book reflect the comments
and feedback by a number of anonymous reviewers who have de facto
also contributed to this book. We would like to express our thanks to
them as well.
Although the individual chapters have clearly defined authorship, the
book has consciously been written as a collective piece, as the respective
contributions took into consideration the content of the other chapters
in the book. All authors (who included not only political scientists and
experts in security studies but also scholars of international relations,
historians, linguists, and economists) provided feedback on each other’s
drafts and participated in extensive debates on security and politics in
Central Europe, Russian history, culture, economy, current internal and
foreign politics, and democracy and non-democracy. Numerous other
Czech and international colleagues have also contributed in their own

v
vi    Preface

way to the individual studies. On the whole, the book thus reflects the
perspective of a truly interdisciplinary team of contributors, and corre-
sponds with the broadly conceptualized goals of the research project.
Brno, February 2019, on behalf of the team of authors, Jan Holzer
and Miroslav Mareš.

Brno, Czech Republic Jan Holzer

Miroslav Mareš
 Contents

1 Russia as a Czech Security Enigma: Introductory Remarks 1

Jan Holzer and Miroslav Mareš

2 The Hybrid Campaign Concept and Contemporary

Czech–Russian Relations 15
Miroslav Mareš, Jan Holzer and Tomáš Šmíd

3 Russia as Viewed by the Main Czech Political Actors 55

Jan Holzer, Martin Jirušek and Petra Kuchyňková

4 The Big Partner with a Small Turnover: Czech–Russian

Economic Relations and Their Dynamics 91
Lucie Coufalová and Libor Žídek

5 Business as Usual or Geopolitical Games? Russian

Activities in Energy Sector of the Czech Republic 117
Martin Jirušek, Petra Kuchyňková and Tomáš Vlček

6 The Russian and North Caucasus Diaspora in the Czech

Republic: Between Loyalty, Crime and Extremism 151
Miroslav Mareš and Tomáš Šmíd

vii
viii    Contents

7 Slavonic Brothers? Current Language, Literature and

Cultural Interaction Between Russia and the Czech
Republic in Light of the Security Issue 177
Jiří Gazda and Josef Šaur

8 Czech Images of Russian History as a Societal

Security Issue 197
Pavel Boček, Jan Holzer and Radomír Vlček

9 In the Shadow of Russia: The Czech Republic

as a Small Central European State 221
Jan Holzer and Miroslav Mareš

Index 233
 Notes on Contributors

Pavel Boček is an Associate Professor in History in the Faculty of Arts,

Masaryk University, Czech Republic. He specialises in Central European,
particularly Czech history, and also Russian history.
Lucie Coufalová is a Lecturer in the Faculty of Economics and
Administration at Masaryk University, Czech Republic. She specialises
and lectures on economic history and macroeconomics. She also has a
background and a Ph.D. in Hispanic studies.
Jiří Gazda is a Linguist, Russian Studies Scholar, Associate Professor in
the Department of Slavonic Studies, Faculty of Arts, Masaryk University,
Brno, Czech Republic. Dr. Gazda is the author of a monograph enti-
tled The Dynamics and Internationalisation of Vocabulary of the Modern
Russian Language (Masaryk University, 2002; in Czech) and co-author
of several monographs: The Modifications of Language and Literature
in Contemporary Russian Texts (Masaryk University, 2007; with I.
Pospíšil; in Czech) and Languages in the Integrating World (Muenchen:
Lincom Europa, 2010; with M. Krčmová et al.), and around 60 articles
and chapters. Habilitation Thesis: Dynamics of Language Processes in the
Transformation and Post-transformation Periods of the Russian Society
(2013).
Jan Holzer is a Professor in the Department of Political Science and
Researcher at the International Institute for Political Science, Faculty
of Social Studies, Masaryk University, Brno, Czech Republic. Professor,

ix
x    Notes on Contributors

Department of Theory and Methodology of Politics, Faculty of Political

Science, Maria Curie-Sklodowska University, Lublin, Poland. Dr. Holzer
is E.MA Director, European Inter University Center, Venice, Italy. He
is also author and co-author of 12 monographs, most recent Militant
Right-Wing Extremism in Putin’s Russia: Legacies, Forms and Threats
(Routledge, UK, 2018; with M. Mareš and M. Laryš), Czech Politics:
From West to East and Back Again (Barbara Budrich Verlag, 2017; with
S. Balík et al.), and 100 articles and chapters.
Martin Jirušek is a Researcher in the International Institute of Political
Science and a Lecturer in the Department of International Relations and
European Studies, Faculty of Social Studies, Masaryk University, Czech
Republic. His research focuses on energy security in the post-communist
Europe, Russia’s role in the European energy sector and the global and
transatlantic dimensions of energy security. He published articles on the
conceptual foundations of energy policy in Central-East and South-East
European countries and the European Union, the role of Russia in the
natural gas and nuclear sectors in Central-East and South-East Europe,
and the role of the United States in the global energy sector. Martin
leads a number of research projects focused on the aforementioned
regions and topics. He also co-organizes the Masaryk University’s annual
summer school on energy security.
Petra Kuchyňková is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of
International Relations and European Studies, Researcher at the
International Institute for Political Science, Faculty of Social Studies,
Masaryk University, Brno, Czech Republic. Dr. Kuchyňková is author
and co-author of dozens of articles, e.g. The Conduct of Gazprom in
Central and Eastern Europe: A Tool of the Kremlin, or Just an Adaptable
Player? (East European Politics and Societies, 2018; with M. Jirušek),
monographs, e.g. Energetická bezpečnost asisjských zemí a Ruské fed-
erace (Energy Security of Asian countries and the Russian Federation;
Masarykova univerzita, 2014; with H. Koďousková, A. Leshchenko and
M. Jirušek) and book chapters.
Miroslav Mareš is a Political Scientist, Professor in the Department of
Political Science and Principal Researcher in the International Institute
of Political Science, Faculty of Social Studies, Masaryk University, Brno,
Czech Republic. He is a member of the International Association of
 Notes on Contributors    xi

Political Science, European Expert Network on Terrorism Issues (chair

of the subgroup on Right-wing extremist, Left-wing extremist and sep-
aratist violence in Europe between 2015 and 2017) and member of the
editorial board of the Radicalisation Awareness Network. His research
interests are in political extremism and terrorism and security policy
in East Central Europe. He has published a number of books, numer-
ous academic papers and book chapters. His most recent books include
Militant Right-Wing Extremism in Putin’s Russia: Legacies, Forms and
Threats (Routledge, UK, 2018, with J. Holzer and M. Laryš); and
Challenges to Democracies in East Central Europe (Routledge, UK, 2016,
with J. Holzer).
Josef Šaur is a historian and literary critic, Senior Lecturer in the
Department of Slavonic Studies, Faculty of Arts, Masaryk University,
Brno, Czech Republic. Dr. Šaur is executive editor of Novaia rusistika
journal and author of a monograph Boris N. Čičerin o ruských dějinách:
státní škola jako historiografický a společenský fenomén (2015, Boris N.
Chicherin on Russian History: State School as a Historiographic and Social
Phenomenon), and 40 articles and chapters.
Tomáš Šmíd is a political scientist and security expert, Senior lecturer in
the Department of Political Science, Faculty of Social Studies, Masaryk
University, Brno, Czech Republic. Dr. Šmíd is former Fulbrigt Fellow at
Central Asia-Caucasus Institute, SAIS, The Johns Hopkins University,
Washington, DC (2010–2011) and author and co-author of several
monograph and numerous articles.
Radomír Vlček is a Senior Researcher in the Institute of History,
Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic. He is also the Head of
Eastern Europe Research Centre and the Chairman of the Czech Society
for Slavonic, Balkan and Byzantine Studies. He is an external lecturer at
the Faculties of Arts and Education at Masaryk University. He specialises
in the history of Central and Eastern Europe between the eighteenth and
twentieth Centuries, particularly Russian history and ideology.
Tomáš Vlček is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of International
Relations and European Studies and the International Institute of
Political Science of Masaryk University, Czech Republic. He is a mem-
ber of the Center for Energy Studies, an independent research platform,
and of the Czech Nuclear Education Network academic association.
xii    Notes on Contributors

He has taken part in numerous government and academic projects

on energy security and energy policy and has undertaken a number of
research forays to Russia, USA, and countries in Europe, especially
the Central and Eastern Europe, as well as South Eastern Europe. His
research focuses on the nuclear and oil sectors from a commodity per-
spective, and the energy security of Central and Eastern and South
Eastern Europe from geographical perspective.
Libor Žídek is an Associate Professor in the Faculty of Economics
and Administration at Masaryk University, Czech Republic. He is the
author and co-author of several monographs (Žídek, L.: Transformation
in Central Europe, CEU Press, Budapest-New York, 2017; Žídek,
L., Centrally Planned Economies: Theory and Practice in Socialist
Czechoslovakia, Routledge, 2019; Žídek, L.: Transformace české ekono-
miky, 1989–2004. C. H. Beck, 2006) and articles focused on economic
transformation in Central Europe. He has given invited lectures on eco-
nomic transformation in a number of countries, including the USA,
Canada, Japan, Germany, the UK, Poland, Finland, Ukraine, Jamaica
and Hungary. His research primarily focuses on economic history, cen-
trally planned economies and economic transformation in Central and
Eastern Europe after the fall of the communist regimes. He lectures
in Macroeconomics I, World Economic History I, II, Economics of
Transformation.
 List of Figures

Fig. 4.1 The volume of Czech exports to and imports from Russia
(left axis, CZK thousand) and the Russian share of total
Czech exports and imports (right axis, %) 98
Fig. 4.2 Net flows of Czech OFDI to Russia (CZK thousand) 104
Fig. 4.3 Total IFDI into the Czech Republic (CZK thousand)
and the volume of IFDI from Russia 106
Fig. 4.4 The long-term trend in IFDI from Russia and Cyprus into
the Czech Republic (CZK million; the principle
of an immediate investor) 107
Fig. 4.5 Czech migration from/to Russia and Russians living
in the Czech Republic (2000–2016) 109
Fig. 4.6 The number of Russian tourists staying overnight
in the Czech Republic(left axis) and the Carlsbad region
(right axis) in the period 2000–2017 (Since 2012,
the methodology used by the CZSO has been improved
and therefore the data series starting in that year are
collected in a different way. Nevertheless, as data obtained
in both ways are available for the year 2012 and 2013
and the differences between the two methods are very
small, we consider the series to be uniform) 110

xiii
 List of Tables

Table 4.1 Macroeconomic indicators of the Russian economy from

2000 to 2017 (data for 2016 and 2017 are estimates;
GDP in US$) 94
Table 4.2 Territorial orientation of cross-border trade
of Czechoslovakia between 1948 and 1985 (%) 97
Table 4.3 Czech exports to and imports from Russia (CZK million;
SITC1 classification), Russia’s share of total Czech exports
and imports in each category of goods and each category
as a proportion of total exports and imports
to and from Russia 100
Table 4.4 The stock of Czech OFDI in Russia and Russia’s share
of total Czech OFDI 102
Table 4.5 Major Czech investors operating in the Russian market
in 2013 103
Table 4.6 Russian investments in the Czech Republic and their type 107
Table 5.1 Binding preliminary contracts of The Consortium 131
Table 5.2 Major energy-related companies in the Czech Republic
with Russian ownership 134

xv
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“You did not hear me,” Evelyn retorted. “Mrs. Ward was in here.”
“Mrs. Ward!” Burnham turned and gazed uneasily about the room,
and back at Evelyn. “What was she doing here?”
“She said she came in to straighten the room.” Evelyn paused in her
contemplation of Burnham and also glanced about the room. Mrs.
Ward had evidently arranged the shades and curtains so as to
darken the library, and Evelyn, her eyes accustomed to the sun-lit
hall, made out the familiar objects with some difficulty. “I hope Mrs.
Ward did not dust,” she added as Burnham kept silent. “Detective
Mitchell expressly stated we were not to dust in here.”
“And pray where have you seen Mitchell?” asked Burnham quickly.
“Here,” meeting his irate gaze calmly. “The detective spends a great
deal of time in and about the house. Don’t you think you had better
go back to bed?”
Burnham muttered something she did not catch. “Have you seen
that jackass, Jones?” he asked in a louder key.
“Yes, he is looking for Mother.” Evelyn’s eyes were growing more
used to the light and she saw that a drawer of the desk table was
opened, and an over-turned scrap-basket lay on the floor near at
hand. “Why did you lock the library door?”
“To prevent intrusions,” replied Burnham shortly. “The police have
ordered this room closed; very well, it shall remain closed. Please
notify Mrs. Ward to that effect, and also kindly tell Jones to bring me
my clothes. I’ll——” a coughing spell interrupted him. “Tell Jones I’ll
discharge him if he doesn’t,” he added as soon as he could speak.
“Also ask him if he sent that telephone for Dr. Hayden.”
“I heard him do that,” volunteered Evelyn. “The doctor said he would
be in after his morning office hours were over.”
“Oh, all right.” Burnham moved to the desk and picked up a pencil
sharpener from among the brass ornaments lying about. “Hurry,
Evelyn, and send Jones to my room with my clothes.”
But Evelyn did not start at once on her errand; there was a feverish
anxiety about Burnham which puzzled her. His explanation of his
presence in the room was plausible; it was a natural impulse to look
in the library if he heard any one moving about in the room closed
by order of the coroner, and perfectly proper to lock the door to
prevent others entering. But why had he not looked into the hall on
first entering the library to see who had left the room? Why wait
nearly five minutes, for that time at least had elapsed while she,
Evelyn, had engaged the housekeeper in conversation, before
jerking open the door? And why select the moment when she and
not Mrs. Ward was standing before it? Come to think of it, she had
rattled the knob in trying to open the door; of course, that would
attract Burnham’s attention and cause him to find out who was
trying to enter. Satisfied with the sudden solution which had
occurred to her, Evelyn woke up to the fact that Burnham was
thumping nervously on the door which he held invitingly open.
“Hurry, hurry,” he reiterated, and Evelyn sped out of the room.
Burnham waited a moment after closing the hall door and locking it
securely, then taking out his bunch of keys he slipped the key on its
silver ring and dropped them back in his pocket. Next he hurried
over to the desk and gathered some papers from the drawer, closed
it, picked up the scrap-basket and placed it under the desk, and
taking a pocket chess board from the table he returned to his
bedroom through the communicating door, closing it carefully behind
him. After pulling up the shades and pushing back the curtains and
flooding the room with light, he clambered back into bed and
commenced reading over the papers he still clutched in his hand. He
was absorbed in working out a difficult chess problem on the pocket
board when a rap on his hall door disturbed him.
“Come in, Jones,” he called, but instead of his butler, Dr. Hayden
walked in. Burnham’s worried expression changed to one of relief. “I
thought you would never come,” he exclaimed, pushing aside the
chess diagrams lying on the counterpane. “Draw up a chair and let’s
talk; don’t bother about that thermometer,” frowning. “My
temperature is normal, I’ve taken it,” pointing to a silver encased
instrument lying on the bed stand.
Hayden smiled as he sat down, having first, however, poured out a
glass of water from a carafe on the stand and put his thermometer
in the glass of water.
“Amateur diagnosticians make work for the physicians,” he said good
naturedly. “What are your symptoms to-day, Burnham?”
But Burnham did not smile. “I know what ails me,” he retorted
doggedly, his eyes shifting about the room and then back at Hayden.
“Worry has played the devil with my digestive organs. I’ll admit I
had a beastly night, but I am all right now. I don’t like the baby’s
food my wife insists on sending up to me, gruel and such stuff. I
want a square meal.”
“We’ll see.” Hayden laid his fingers on Burnham’s wrist. “Pulse all
right,” he said cheerily. “Stop worrying, Burnham, and give your
nervous system a rest. I have told you before that you work yourself
into these excitements.”
“Work myself up!” exclaimed Burnham bitterly. “Nothing of the sort.
Do you think a man of my temperament can keep calm after finding
a dead man in one of my rooms and being shot at two nights ago—
and the murderer still at large? Why, man, my life’s in danger any
hour, any moment until René La Montagne is put under restraint.”
Hayden held up a cautioning hand. “Hold on, Burnham, we do not
know for certain that La Montagne shot at you on Thursday night;
your charge is unsubstantiated.”
“I am morally certain of it,” declared Burnham, sitting bolt upright.
“Not only that he tried to get me then, but that he killed the
unknown man here on Monday night in mistake for me.”
“What!” Hayden regarded Burnham’s flushed countenance with keen
attention. “Come, come, Burnham, don’t talk nonsense; be sensible.”
“You can think me cracked if you like.” Burnham’s jaw protruded
obstinately. “Let me tell you something: La Montagne expected to
find me here Monday night because I wrote him to meet me here.”
“You did!” Hayden stared in astonishment at his patient. “Why did
you make an appointment with him if you did not like or trust the
man?”
“Because I wanted him to understand, once and for all, that neither
Mrs. Burnham nor I would permit Evelyn to marry him.” Burnham
cleared his throat, his voice having grown husky. “Evelyn was
expected in Washington and I wanted the Frenchman told before
they met.”
“Well, did you see La Montagne Monday night?” asked Hayden.
“No, business in Philadelphia upset my plans.” Burnham’s eyes again
shifted from his physician. “I did not reach Washington until
Tuesday.”
“Oh!” Hayden stroked his chin reflectively. Burnham was certainly
working himself into a state of nervous agitation, and the astute
physician was wondering how much reliance to place upon his
statements. It was very obvious, however, that Burnham was bent
on talking to some one, and Hayden decided it was better to thresh
the subject out with him, rather than have him bottle up his spleen
and nurse his wrongs, fancied or otherwise.
“Let us look at the situation sensibly and without excitement,” he
said. “You believe La Montagne killed this unknown man in mistake
for you?”
“Yes.”
Hayden’s next question was checked by the entrance of Evelyn
whose over-bright eyes indicated suppressed excitement.
“Jones has gone,” she announced, hardly greeting Hayden as she
walked over to the bed.
“Gone! Gone where?” Burnham half rose.
“I don’t know—no one knows.” Evelyn waved her hands. “He just
left.”
“Walked out?”
“I suppose so,” glancing in surprise at Burnham who had almost
shouted the question. He noted her expression and modified his
tone. “What have you in your hand, Evelyn?”
For answer she laid a small package on the bed and Burnham half
extended his hand and then drew it back.
“It’s been opened,” he exclaimed. “Who opened it?”
“I don’t know. I found the package on the hall table downstairs
when I went to answer the front door.”
Burnham pulled off the outer covering of the package with such
vigor that its contents fell in a shower over the bed.
“It’s only your chess problem diagrams from Europe,” exclaimed
Evelyn, picking up one which fell at her feet. “Why make such a fuss
about them?” observing Burnham’s growing wrath.
He changed the subject with abruptness. “Your mother has
repeatedly told you not to go to the door, Evelyn, but to wait for one
of the servants. It is not dignified for you to answer the door bell.”
“I only went because I did not wish to keep Detective Mitchell
standing on the steps any longer,” she protested, coloring under his
rebuke. “Mr. Mitchell said you had telephoned for him.”
“So I did. Why didn’t you say at once that he was here?” glaring at
her. “Ask him to come in,” and as Evelyn made for the door he added
in an aside to Hayden: “When I send important messages I
telephone from the library.” He leaned over and spoke in a
confidential whisper. “I know I’m watched; they can’t fool me. Come
in, Mitchell,” he called more loudly and frowned as Evelyn, her
curiosity piqued by the situation, walked determinedly in behind the
detective; then his frown changed to a smile and he dropped his
eyes so that the others might not see the sudden crafty malice
which lit them.
“Draw up a chair, Evelyn,” he suggested politely, but disregarding his
remark she walked over to the bed and leaned against the
footboard. Detective Mitchell likewise remained standing by Hayden
and waited for Burnham to address him.
“Found the murderer yet?” asked Burnham.
“No, sir.”
“Identified the dead man?”
“Not yet, sir.” Mitchell shifted his weight somewhat and rested one
hand on the bed. “It is only a matter of hours now.”
“Ah, indeed. Well, I’ll assist in pushing the clock hands forward.”
Burnham paused to sip some water from a glass on the bedstand;
his throat was getting dry. When he addressed his companions he
spoke with deliberate impressiveness. “The dead man was murdered
in mistake for me,” he began. “And by the same man who on
Thursday night again tried to kill me, that time by shooting.”
Mitchell bent eagerly forward. “Who is this man?”
“René La Montagne of France.”
“You lie!” Evelyn, her eyes blazing with wrath, shook the bed to
emphasize her words. “You lie!”
“I don’t!” Burnham glared back at her and smiled triumphantly. “I
can prove my statement. Take down the charge, Mitchell.”
“One moment.” Hayden rose. “Let us talk this over a bit, Burnham.
You say that the unidentified dead man was murdered in mistake for
you by Captain La Montagne. Did Captain La Montagne know you by
sight then?”
“Of course he did,” testily. “We met years ago in Paris.”
Hayden shook his head in bewilderment. “Then your theory that La
Montagne mistook this unidentified dead man for you, Burnham,
hardly is borne out by the medical evidence.”
“What d’ye mean?” The question shot from Burnham, down whose
hot face perspiration was trickling.
“Why, simply that the man was killed by a dose of hydrocyanic acid.”
Hayden spoke deliberately to make sure the excited man understood
him. “If these two men were drinking together, as seems a natural
supposition, La Montagne would have known his companion was not
you and would not have administered the poison. He wasn’t
shooting at you in the dark.”
“Not then, perhaps——” Evelyn, who had shot a grateful look at
Hayden, whitened as she caught the venom in Burnham’s tone.
“Listen to me, Mitchell; I want your full attention. La Montagne has
great reason to dislike me, to even fear me. Be quiet,” as Evelyn
endeavored to speak. “I had an appointment to meet La Montagne
here on Monday night.”
“You did!” Evelyn stared astounded at her step-father.
“But I was detained and could not keep the appointment,” went on
Burnham. He moistened his dry lips before continuing. “I take back
what I said about La Montagne mistaking the dead man for me. He
undoubtedly brought the man here to assist in assassinating me
and, finding I did not arrive, killed the man from a double motive—to
get rid of a witness who might possibly betray him and to convict me
of the crime.”
Evelyn stared at Burnham and then at her companions, her eyes half
out of her head.
“You are mad! Utterly mad!” she gasped.
“So that is your cue, is it?” Burnham laughed heartily, immoderately,
and Hayden edged nearer the bed, ready for any emergency.
Mitchell was the first to speak.
“That’s a very neat theory,” he said, and his calm manner had a
quieting effect upon Burnham. “You say you had an engagement to
meet Captain La Montagne here, sir, but that you did not keep it.
Then how did Captain La Montagne and this unidentified man—you
claim, his companion—get inside your house?”
Burnham slipped his hand under the pillow and dragged out a sheet
of note paper. “Here is a copy of my letter to Captain La Montagne
making the appointment for Monday night. In it you will see that I
said that my train might be late, and not wishing to keep him
standing on the doorstep in what might be inclement weather, I
enclosed my latch key.”
Evelyn gazed aghast at Burnham and then vaguely about the room;
its familiar objects wavered and danced before her vision and with a
pitiful cry she sank fainting into Detective Mitchell’s arms.
 CHAPTER XV
THE BEST LAID PLANS....

MAYNARD, pacing with nervous strides back and forth in Palmer’s

apartment, paused in front of Dr. Hayden.
“Things look black,” he admitted. “Devilish black for René La
Montagne.”
Hayden made a last entry in his day book and slipped it inside his
pocket before answering.
“I am afraid they do,” he agreed. “Any news from Police
Headquarters?”
“Only to say that Detective Mitchell is still out; I left word for him to
call here.” Maynard flung himself down on the lounge by Hayden. “I
wish I had been with you when Burnham preferred charges against
René; rotten luck being detained down town and missing all the
excitement.”
Any comment Hayden might have made was checked by the noisy
entrance of Palmer from his work-shop, a small room at the back of
his apartment which he had fitted up with office appliances and
draughtsman’s tools.
“Have you seen Siki?” he asked.
“I have,” replied Maynard, “I sent him on an errand, Palmer. Siki told
me it was his time off so——”
“That’s all right; glad you got some work out of the beggar.” Palmer
wheeled an arm chair forward and dropped wearily into it. “Night
work is playing the devil with me. What is the latest bulletin from the
Burnhams’, Hayden?”
“Burnham ill and Evelyn better,” answered the physician tersely.
Maynard laid down his cigarette case unopened. “Had Jones
reported back when you were there, Hayden?” At the butler’s name
Palmer looked up inquisitively.
“Come to think of it, I didn’t inquire,” exclaimed Hayden. “The
housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, opened the door for me and I went right
upstairs to see my two patients.”
Palmer stared abstractedly at his highly polished shoes then looked
over at Maynard. “Have you notified Chief Connor that Jones has
decamped?” he inquired.
Maynard waited until his cigarette was lighted before replying.
“I have not,” he said. “Chiefly because I am not altogether certain
Jones has decamped. On inquiry I found that Jones has taken
‘French’ leave in the past, always to return some days later with
some very pat explanation for his absence.”
Hayden laughed. “The Burnham household is a singular one,” he
said, “whichever way you take it. There are Mr. and Mrs. Burnham,
two totally opposite characters; there is Evelyn, young, impulsive,
and charming; there is Mrs. Ward——” He hesitated. “A curious sort
of woman, morose, secretive; then there is Jones;” he laughed
again. “Jones is an oddity.”
“So odd that I have spent nearly twenty-four hours looking up his
past career,” said Palmer dryly. “And I’ve dug up some interesting
facts; for instance, Jones has never taken out his naturalization
papers.”
“His naturalization papers?” Hayden sat bolt upright. “Isn’t Jones an
American?”
“He is not,” replied Palmer. “Some day, Hayden, if this District is ever
declared a barred zone for enemy aliens, many Washington
hostesses will find themselves left servantless and the Kaiser will get
just so much less first hand information about American war
preparations.”
“Do you mean Jones is a German?” demanded Maynard, and into his
mind flashed the recollection of his first impression when Jones
admitted him on Tuesday night at the Burnhams’; he had then
detected the faint trace of a foreign accent in his speech, but the
butler’s knowledge of English had made him forget his first
impression.
“He is a German.” Palmer was enjoying the surprise his information
was creating. “Not liking his full name of Johannes, the butler, then
about twenty-two years of age, shortened it to Jones and
lengthened his given name, ‘Adolph,’ to Adolphus. Now, Maynard,”
Palmer’s manner grew serious, “we must tell Burnham of his
servant’s double dealing.”
“Just a moment, sir, if you please,” put in a voice behind Palmer, and
he jumped at the nearness of Detective Mitchell who had walked in a
second before, unperceived by the three men. “Kindly make no
mention of Jones to Mr. Burnham; Chief Connor is handling the
matter now, and it’s not for us to interfere.”
Palmer colored warmly at the detective’s peremptory tone, but
controlled his anger as he remarked: “So Chief Connor has come
around to my theory that the dead man was a German spy, has he?”
“I can’t say, sir, what Chief Connor thinks; he does not confide in
me,” replied Mitchell. “But I do know that when he requests a person
not to interfere in the handling of a case, it is healthier for the
person to do what he says.”
Seeing the gathering wrath in Palmer’s still flushed countenance,
Maynard hastily broke into the conversation.
“Your spy theory doesn’t seem tenable, Palmer,” he remarked. “If the
man was caught spying, why doesn’t the man who killed him come
forward and state the case? No one is going to be condemned these
days for exposing, aye, even killing, a German spy in line of duty.”
“That’s a specious argument,” scoffed Palmer. “It is just as
convincing to say that if the dead man had been a member of the
Secret Service killed by a German, his identity would be known to
American officials.”
“Well, so it would,” declared Hayden, glancing in surprise at Maynard
and Palmer. Maynard’s usually tranquil manner had deserted him,
while Palmer’s expression was a clear indication of his feelings. “It
may be that the dead man was a member of the Secret Service, but
that does not necessarily mean that the Secret Service is going to
announce that fact to the public, eh, Mitchell?”
“Quite true, doctor,” answered the detective. “And it may also be
that the dead man was just an ordinary American citizen, a law
abiding gentleman who placed too much confidence in——” Mitchell
paused, then added, “in Captain La Montagne.”
“Nonsense!” protested Maynard vigorously. “You surely don’t place
any credence in Burnham’s charges, Mitchell; the man’s out of his
head.”
Mitchell looked dubious. “That remains to be proved, sir; and until
the charges are refuted by Captain La Montagne they will stand
against him.”
“Well, why not hurry up and give him a chance to clear himself?”
demanded Maynard. “It strikes me, Mitchell, you are not giving the
captain a square deal.”
Instead of replying, the detective shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve done
my best,” he insisted a moment later. “I’ve tried to find the captain
ever since the scene this morning; but he is not at his quarters or at
the hangar, nor could I find him at the office of the French High
Commission.”
“Did you try the French Embassy?”
“I did, but he had not been there to-day.”
Palmer rose and offered the detective a cigar and match. “Sit down,”
he suggested as Hayden made room for Mitchell on the lounge, then
asked, “Can you arrest a French officer detailed here for murder?”
“If I can prove he’s guilty, yes, Mr. Palmer.” Mitchell puffed
contentedly at his cigar. “I’ve an operative waiting for Captain La
Montagne at his apartment and at his official headquarters. They will
notify me instantly upon his return.” Mitchell turned and gazed about
the room and then at his companions. “I hadn’t an opportunity,
doctor, when helping you carry Miss Preston to her room, to ask
what Mr. Burnham meant when he said Captain La Montagne shot
him on Thursday evening. Can any of you tell me where the
shooting took place?”
“Here,” replied Hayden and Maynard in concert. Palmer, whose pipe
had gone out, was having difficulty in making it draw again, and for
the moment listened in silence to his companions.
Mitchell viewed the room with increased interest, and then inspected
the three men. “Why have you never reported the affair to
Headquarters?” he asked.
Maynard answered for the others. “I suggested that we investigate
the affair ourselves first,” he said. “Burnham’s statement that La
Montagne had shot at him appeared to have so little foundation to
go on that——” Recollection of the scene in La Montagne’s
apartment, the Maxim silencer, and the automatic brought him to a
halt, confused; but he recovered himself almost instantly and,
making no allusion to what had disconcerted him, he talked on
—“that we decided to keep the affair quiet until more had
developed.”
Mitchell listened with fixed attention and then turned abruptly to
Hayden. “Suppose you tell me exactly what occurred here on
Thursday night,” he suggested.
“Palmer can answer that better than I,” replied Hayden, but as
Palmer remained silent he added, “I found Palmer and Burnham
playing chess when I got back after dinner, and being fagged out I
took a nap on the lounge and only woke up when Maynard arrived.”
“Then we had supper,” concluded Palmer, breaking his long silence.
“That’s our dining table. We had just about finished when a bullet
whistled by Burnham and struck the wall there.”
Springing to his feet, Mitchell went over and inspected the hole.
“Where’s the bullet?” he asked.
“Palmer pried it out,” remarked Hayden, rising. “Where did you put
it?”
Palmer leaned forward and tipped up a small bronze vase which
stood on the table and out rolled the bullet. “It’s chipped and
mushroomed out of shape,” he said as Mitchell pounced on it. “But a
gunsmith told me that it was undoubtedly of thirty-two caliber.”
Maynard kept his face expressionless but his heart sank; the bullet,
safely tucked in his pocket, which he had dug out of the outer wall
of La Montage’s apartment, was also of thirty-two caliber. Could it be
that that also was merely a coincidence? Shaking off his depression
with an effort, he joined the others about the dining table just as
Mitchell asked:
“Exactly where were you sitting on Thursday night?”
Hayden and Maynard indicated their seats, and the former added:
“Burnham sat there, almost with his back to the window.”
“And Mr. Palmer sat facing Mr. Burnham.” Mitchell laid his hand on a
chair and looked from where he stood across the room. “Surely, Mr.
Palmer, you had a good view of the window; you must have caught
a glimpse of any one standing in the window.”
“But I wasn’t facing the window,” protested Palmer. “I left the table a
little before the shooting.”
“Where did you go?” asked Mitchell.
“Over to the window.” Palmer joined the group about the table. “It
was an overcast foggy night and I did not see any one on the
balcony. I had just turned my back to the window when the shot
was fired at Burnham.”
Mitchell thought for a moment, then walked over to the window and
looked out. The balcony in effect was an Italian loggia, shaded with
Venetian blinds from the glare of the sun, and ran the length of the
living room and on past the French window opening into the hall of
Palmer’s apartment. The balcony was fairly wide and Palmer had
fitted it up with wicker lounging chairs, a canvas couch, a number of
pretty mats, and a table. Several artistic wicker bird-cage swinging
electric lamps added to the attractiveness of the cool little retreat.
“And none of you heard a sound?” asked Mitchell.
“We heard no sound.” Palmer had suddenly become the spokesman.
“The man evidently used a Maxim silencer. Thugs do, you know,” he
commented as Mitchell raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, thugs do,” admitted Mitchell. “But how about Captain La
Montagne? Where does he come in?”
“He didn’t come in.” Palmer, as he spoke, strolled over to the door
and into the reception hall. “When Burnham and I rushed out here
we found La Montagne standing in the corridor just outside my door.
The door was open as well as the hall window opening on the
balcony.”
“I see.” Mitchell jotted down several notes in his memorandum book
and then dropped it in his pocket as he turned to Maynard. “Were
you the last person to come into the apartment before the
shooting?”
“To the best of my knowledge I was.” Maynard looked at his
companions. “That is right, Palmer, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Mitchell opened the hall door and examined the lock. “Did you
happen to notice, Mr. Maynard, if the door was closed firmly behind
you?”
“I never noticed,” admitted Maynard. “Siki closed the door; I didn’t.”
The detective addressed Palmer. “Is it your custom to leave the night
latch down?”
“Sometimes; not often.”
Before closing the outer door Mitchell stepped into the corridor and
surveyed it, after which he reëntered the apartment. “Have any of
you taken up this matter with Captain La Montagne?” he asked.
“We did.” Palmer laid his hand on Maynard’s shoulder. “La Montagne
told us he stopped only to inquire the way to Mrs. Van Ness’
apartment, and that he saw a chauffeur leave here a second before
he arrived, and that he found the door partly open.”
“Ah, indeed.” Mitchell frowned in indecision before he again spoke.
“Have you taken any steps to prove the truth of his statement?”
There was a faint pause before Maynard spoke. “I’ve tried to locate
the taxi-driver but without success.”
“Too bad.” Mitchell’s frown deepened. “Did Captain La Montagne
describe the man’s appearance?”
“Only to state that he wore a chauffeur’s outfit.” Maynard hesitated
before adding, “Captain La Montagne said he did not obtain a good
look at the man’s face as he ran away from him and up the
staircase.”
“But I can describe his looks,” broke in Palmer. “He’s the man we
saw on the next floor—medium height, red hair, and freckles,
Mitchell,” and the detective took down the description. “His first
name is Sam,” added Palmer. “He drives for me quite often and
works for the Potomac Garage.”
“Hold on,” Maynard interrupted in his turn. “I’ve seen Sam and he
declares he did not stop here Thursday night.”
“Oh!” Mitchell stared at Maynard. “That puts a crimp in La
Montagne’s story.”
“Not necessarily,” objected Hayden. “More than one taxi-driver
comes to this apartment house. Have you asked the janitor or the
elevator boys, Maynard, if they saw other chauffeurs than Sam here
on Thursday night?”
“Suppose you leave that investigation to me,” suggested Mitchell
good naturedly. “Now I’m in this chase I must handle it; not that
your idea isn’t a good one, doctor, but I can think of a better now.
Can I see your Jap servant, Mr. Palmer?”
“Certainly.” Palmer rang the bell impatiently. “I am not sure he has
returned; yes, here he is,” as the Japanese appeared in the hall.
Palmer raised his voice. “Siki, this gentleman,” indicating Mitchell,
“wants to talk to you.”
The servant moved rapidly toward them and bowed profoundly, then
stood silently waiting.
“Siki,” began Mitchell. “Did a taxi-driver stop here about—” he
wheeled back to Palmer. “What was the time?”
“Between nine and ten o’clock, on Thursday night last,” answered
Palmer. “Did he come here, Siki?”
“No, honorable sir,” Siki again bowed, finger-tips together and
elbows aslant.
“No taxi-driver came?” Maynard looked eagerly at the Jap. “Think,
Siki; don’t make a mistake.”
“My memory is of the most good.” Siki spoke with positiveness. “No
such man called. You, honorable Mr. Maynard, were the last that
night.”
“See here, Siki.” The Jap turned to face Hayden as the latter
addressed him. “If the taxi-driver didn’t come to this apartment at
that hour on Thursday, what were you doing in the hall just at that
moment?”
“I came to answer the bell, honorable doctor,” responded Siki. “It
rang.”
“We did not hear it,” declared Maynard.
“It rang in the pantry.” Siki’s oblique black eyes stared unwinkingly at
his questioners.
“How long a time elapsed between the ringing of the bell and your
answering it?” asked Mitchell.
“Just so long as it take me slip on white jacket and come from
pantry here,” and Siki sped lightly down the hall and back again.
“Just so long, honorable sirs,” he said, and there was no quickening
of his breath, although he had moved with unusual rapidity.
“Obviously La Montagne rang the bell,” commented Palmer, as
Mitchell picked up his hat from the hall stand.
“Obviously, but not proven,” retorted Maynard, and he also took up
his hat. “Wait, Mitchell, I’ll walk along with you. See you later,
Palmer. Will you be at the tableaux to-night, doctor?”
“Yes. Mrs. Burnham has very kindly asked Palmer and me to go with
them in their box.”
“Then we’ll meet at the theater.” Maynard nodded good-bye and
stepped into the corridor; he had taken but a few steps when Siki
hurried to his side.
“Here is the answer, honorable sir,” he said, handing him an
envelope.
“Oh, thanks, Siki, I had forgotten.” Maynard slipped some loose
change into the servant’s hand and then hastened down the corridor
to where Mitchell waited for him.
“That’s an odd coincidence,” remarked the detective, keeping step
with him. “Did you notice it?”
“No, what?”
“Why the ringing of a bell preceded the discovery of the dead man in
Burnham’s library, and the ringing of another bell preceded the
attempt to kill Burnham in Palmer’s apartment.”
“It did not precede, it followed in this case,” corrected Maynard. His
attention was caught by the elevator, which shot upward past their
floor, and he paused to wave his hand to Mrs. Burnham, its one
passenger.
Outside the apartment Maynard turned again to Mitchell. “Do me a
favor, will you; lend me a photograph of the dead man?”
“Sure.” Mitchell accompanied him around the corner and stopped in
front of the Burnham house. “Shall I send it here?”
“Y-yes.” Maynard hesitated. “Yes. I have rented permanent
quarters;” he glanced at the unopened letter in his hand. “But I’ll be
at the Burnhams’ a day longer. Don’t forget, Mitchell.”
“I’ll send the photograph by special messenger this afternoon; good-
bye, sir,” and Mitchell swung on down the street.
Maynard, while waiting for the Burnhams’ front door to be opened,
took out the enclosure in the envelope handed him by Siki. The
letterhead bore the firm name of a well known real estate dealer.
“September 19, 1917.
“My dear Mr. Maynard:
“Pursuant to your telephone call this morning, advising us
that you would rent Apartment 25 in the Bellevue, we
took up the matter with the owner. We regret to inform
you that the owner had early this morning leased the
apartment to Mrs. Marian Van Ness.
“We understand Mrs. Van Ness plans to furnish and sublet
the apartment, therefore we advise that you get in touch
with her——”
Maynard read no further. Thrusting the letter into his pocket he
walked mechanically into the house, totally ignoring Mrs. Ward, who
stood holding the door open with every intention of addressing him
if opportunity offered.
 CHAPTER XVI
IN THE LIMELIGHT

THE impatient crowd, regardless of the early hour, clamored for

admittance before the closed doors of the Belasco Theatre. From his
vantage point behind the ticket seller’s window, James Palmer smiled
at friends and acquaintances as they pressed forward to buy tickets
for the “Tableaux of the Allies,” or secure those already engaged.
Not only would the Red Cross reap a rich harvest from the tableaux,
but the amateur performance would be viewed by a representative
Washington audience, judging from the presence of high
Government officials, members of the Foreign Missions detailed to
Washington, diplomats; and army and navy officers among the men
and women who thronged the lobby of the theater.
Palmer watched the ticket seller’s deft manipulation of blue, red, and
white pasteboards and his swift counting of change for a while
longer, then hearing his name called he discovered Dr. Hayden
waiting for him, and he promptly hurried through the private office
into the lobby. Stopping to exchange a word of greeting with several
friends just back from their summer outing, Palmer and Hayden
entered the theater and made their way to Mrs. Burnham’s box. Mrs.
Burnham, well gowned as always, and wearing the jewels for which
she was famous, turned on their entrance and shook hands cordially,
while Burnham offered his seat to Hayden with an ingratiating smile.
“Don’t talk shop, old man,” he said. “My wife has already expressed
her opinion of my leaving my bed to come here, but——” His
expression grew hard. “Evelyn persisted in taking part in the
tableaux to-night, so we thought it, eh——” The playing of the “Star
Spangled Banner” heralding the approach of the President and his
wife, drowned his words, and rising, he and his guests and the
whole house stood until the last bars of the anthem were played.
After reseating herself Mrs. Burnham unfolded her lorgnette and
inspected first the audience and then her program.
“Upon my word, I had no idea so many of my friends were back,”
she remarked, exchanging bows with the hostess in the next box. “It
is a regular winter audience, and not such as you usually see in
September. What’s the first tableau on the program?”
“The Navy,” answered Hayden, to whom the question was
addressed. There was no further time for conversation as the lights
went out and the curtains parted on the tableau, which elicited
rounds of applause, and the Marine Band played the famous navy
song: “Anchors Aweigh!”
There was some delay in the showing of the next tableau and
Hayden, idly glancing over the program which Mrs. Burnham held so
that both could read it, grew conscious that her eyes traveled more
often to her husband, who was talking in fits and starts to Palmer,
than to the printed words before her.
“What’s the idea of so many women in the tableaux and no men?”
she questioned abruptly, breaking the silence, and Hayden marveled
inwardly at the shrillness of her usually well modulated tone.
“I believe each girl personifies the spirit of our Allies in the tableau
picked out for her,” explained Palmer, who had caught Mrs.
Burnham’s question. “Some are most artistic; I was called in to
advise about the scenery and saw some of the rehearsals.”
“Hadn’t any idea we had so many Allies,” announced Burnham,
glancing over the program. “Here’s Siam and—— Hello, what’s this
to be?”
“‘Somewhere in France.’” Hayden laid the program which had slipped
out of Mrs. Burnham’s hand, back in her lap.
With lights extinguished the audience sat in expectation. Suddenly
before them appeared a faint pink glow which, growing brighter,
disclosed a trench outpost overlooking No Man’s Land—the scene of
utter desolation and destruction confronting the solitary watchful
sentry, crouching gun aslant, was finely done, and Mrs. Burnham
winked away a tear as she whispered to Hayden:
“One of our boys——”
“Yes.” Hayden borrowed her opera-glasses. “Why, it’s Maynard!”
“It’s an excellent tableau!” exclaimed Burnham, taken out of himself,
and he applauded vigorously. “No mistake about it, Lillian, Maynard
makes a magnificent soldier. Strange, as handsome and fascinating
as he is, that he has never married!”
Mrs. Burnham nodded absent agreement as her foot kept time to
the tune, “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” Repeated calls for an
encore of the tableau brought other views of trench life, so
excellently portrayed that Maynard was far over the time set aside
for him to be the center of the stage. He was hurrying to the wings,
dodging scene shifters, when he almost stumbled over Evelyn
standing a woe-begone figure in one corner away from a group of
her merry companions who were eagerly or nervously, as the case
might be, awaiting their turn to appear in the tableaux.
“Have you seen Marian anywhere?” she asked, and her
disappointment was evident at his negative answer. “Where in the
world can she be?”
“In one of the dressing rooms perhaps,” suggested Maynard.
“No; the stage manager said she had not come, and he is wild
because her tableau follows mine.” Evelyn came a little nearer and
lowered her voice, a needless precaution as the noise about them,
added to the playing of the Marine Band, made it almost impossible
to hear even a shout. Maynard would not have understood her but
for his ability to read lips.
“Have you seen René La Montagne?”
“Not yet,” he shouted and she whitened under her make-up.
There was no opportunity to question him further as the stage
manager demanded her presence. Maynard lent his aid in arranging
her tableau which represented Belgium, and assisted in lashing her
to the wheel of the gun carriage. It was a very effective tableau.
Evelyn half knelt, half crouched against the wheel, and raised her
eyes at the stage manager’s husky command and gazed in despair
ahead of her, the hushed audience nowhere in sight as her mental
vision conjured up her gallant French lover in the toils of
circumstantial evidence.
Maynard halted near one of the wings out of sight of the audience to
watch the tableau. A sudden draught of cold air caused him to look
around and he saw Marian Van Ness just emerging from the circular
staircase, which gave access not only to the dressing rooms under
the stage, but to the stage door opening upon the alley. Marian did
not pause until she reached the wing where he was standing, and he
forbore to address her, noting her absorption in the tableau.
“And what does Jeanne d’Arc think of modern Belgium?” he inquired
a few minutes later.
Marian started violently at sound of his voice.
“Jeanne’s mantle has fallen on the women and men of Belgium,” she
answered readily, but her hand tightened its grasp on the sword she
carried. “How lovely Evelyn is to-night.”
“Yes.” Maynard, who had drawn nearer to let a stage hand pass,
made her a courtly bow. “Congratulations on your costume. You
have carried out every detail of the celebrated picture of the Maid of
Orleans.”
“Thanks.” Under the armor she wore, Marian’s heart beat faster as
she caught the fascination of his eyes, and the soft cadence of his
alluring voice. “Evelyn is having great applause. Ah! the tableau is
over.”
“Mrs. Van Ness!” The agitated stage manager pounced upon her. “I
feared you hadn’t come.”
“We worked late at the State Department——” but what else she
said was lost to Maynard, who had gone to Evelyn’s assistance.
“Mrs. Van Ness will be in the next tableau,” he said, as Marian,
stopping but a second to congratulate Evelyn, followed the stage
manager to the center of the stage. “We can’t see it very well from
the wings, suppose we slip out in the audience; we can come back
again,” he added, as Evelyn made no move to accompany him.
“Won’t we be seen?” she asked.
“No, we can stand in the aisle. Come this way,” and his familiarity
with the playhouse enabled him to guide her to the door opening
into the auditorium. They stopped just beyond the entrance in the
aisle and from there had an excellent view of the tableau. Marian’s
pose was striking and something of the fire and mysticism of the
heroic Frenchwoman whom she impersonated lighted her beautiful
face.
“She is wonderful!” whispered Evelyn, enthralled, as spontaneous
applause filled the theater. In the semi-darkness a man, hurrying to
the stage door, bumped into Maynard and at his muttered apology
the latter recognized Detective Mitchell. His expression caught his
attention and he checked him.
“What’s up, Mitchell?” he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper so
that his words would not reach Evelyn who, absorbed in the tableau
being shown again, had slipped into a vacant aisle seat.
“Mr. Maynard!” Mitchell halted. “Beg pardon, I didn’t recognize you.
Can you slip out here just a minute?” observing Maynard’s backward
glance at Evelyn.
Maynard tiptoed to Evelyn’s side and whispered in her ear. “Come
out through that door when you are ready; I’ll wait for you on the
stage.” She nodded her comprehension and Maynard stole out after
Mitchell. He found the detective impatiently waiting at the foot of the
circular iron steps leading to the stage.
“Headquarters has just been notified that Captain La Montagne is to
sing here to-night,” he said, taking care to keep his voice low. “I’ve
got to see him.”
“But not here,” protested Maynard sharply. “Tut! you don’t want a
scandal.”
“It’s bound to come,” retorted Mitchell philosophically. “We can’t
postpone making an arrest any longer over this Burnham business;
why, the whole town is holding us up to ridicule.”
“Better be ridiculed for masterly inactivity than be excoriated for
committing a blunder,” cautioned Maynard. “Let me talk to La
Montagne first.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, wait and get him alone at his apartment.”
“I’ve been trying for twelve hours to reach him at his apartment,”
replied Mitchell. “He is too elusive to let out of my sight. Coming up
with me?” as Maynard lagged back. Before the latter could step
forward, the door opening upon the alley swung in and René La
Montagne appeared. He started past Maynard with but a courteous
salute at sight of the latter’s uniform, but his voice halted him.
“Ah, mon ami, is your tableau over then?” he exclaimed. “I have
tried many times to speak with you on the telephone, but alas, the
Central would not listen to my directions.” He paused in his rapid
French to glance upward at Mitchell, who loitered on the step above
them, and addressed the detective in English. “Pardon, monsieur,
will you permit that we pass?”
“In just a minute.” Mitchell looked significantly at Maynard. “Please
explain to Captain La Montagne who I am,” he requested. His
manner was not to be denied and Maynard accepted the situation.
“René,” he began, “this is Detective Mitchell of the Central Office. He
is in charge of the investigation of the Burnham mystery.”
“The Burnham mystery?” The Frenchman wrinkled his forehead.
“You refer to——”
“The dead man found in the Burnham library,” volunteered Mitchell.
“This morning, Captain La Montagne, Mr. Burnham made the
statement that you were responsible for the man’s death.”
“I responsible!” La Montagne in his astonishment stepped backward
on the narrow platform and but for Maynard would have lost his
balance and fallen off the step and down the circular staircase to the
floor below. “Mon Dieu! you are not sane!”
“Yes, I am,” responded Mitchell, nettled by La Montagne’s
contemptuous smile. “Mr. Burnham preferred the charges against
you.”
At Burnham’s name La Montagne’s surprise changed to indignation.
“And does he dare to go to such lengths in his hatred as to accuse
me, a cadet of a noble house, of a crime so base!” With a violent
effort La Montagne controlled his temper. “Upon what grounds does
he make such a charge?” he inquired more calmly.
“That he had an appointment to meet you Monday night in his house
and that he sent you his latch-key to get in with, so that you would
not have to wait outside the house for him,” explained Mitchell,
watching carefully to see the effect of his words. But his long
statement had given the Frenchman time to pull himself together,
and he was master of his feelings as he answered.
“I had the appointment,” he stated. “But I did not keep it.”
“Why not?” demanded Mitchell.
“Because I lost my way in the storm—you recall the storm of
Monday——” Mitchell mumbled a reluctant “yes,” and La Montagne
continued rapidly. “I am not familiarly acquainted with your circles
and streets, and I lost my way in the blinding rain and hail. I
wandered about for many weary hours, and returned to my hotel
drenched to the skin.”
Mitchell stared at him. “Have you any witnesses to prove your
statement?” he asked, and the Frenchman flushed hotly.
“My word, monsieur, is good——”
“Yes, yes—but you may have to face a court of law,” warned
Mitchell.
“Go slow!” commanded Maynard, breaking into the conversation.
“Recollect, Mitchell, in your zeal you may overstep your authority.”
Mitchell contented himself with a glare at Maynard as he again
addressed the Frenchman.
“Witnesses are very good things, sir,” he said wisely. “Just a word
more; do you admit that Mr. Burnham sent you his latch-key?”
La Montagne disregarded Maynard’s indignant ejaculation and
answered promptly. “I received the key, Monsieur; what then?”
“Well, I guess that’s enough——” Mitchell stepped nearer the
Frenchman who faced him calmly.
“I will add,” said La Montagne and his voice was very quiet, “the
latch-key was not in my possession on Monday night.”
“It wasn’t?” Mitchell almost shouted the question, while Maynard
stared in wonder at the Frenchman.
“Non, monsieur,” continued La Montagne tranquilly. “The latch-key
had been stolen from my apartment on Monday afternoon.”
Mitchell gazed open-mouthed at his two companions, but before he
could think of anything to say the stage manager ran down a few
steps and stopped at sight of La Montagne.
“Hurry up!” he exclaimed much relieved. “You are to sing the
Marseillaise now; the audience is waiting,” and he almost dragged
the Frenchman up the few steps, Mitchell standing back to let him
pass. But he was hard on his heels a moment later and only stopped
in the wings as La Montagne walked out toward the center of the
brilliantly lighted stage.
Maynard, who had followed his companions more slowly, came face
to face with Marian Van Ness at the head of the stairs.
“Have you seen Evelyn?” she asked anxiously. “I want her to go
home with me.”
“I’ll tell her,” he promised and she smiled gratefully at him.
“Do, please; I’ll run and get my cloak, which one of the maids put in
our dressing room,” and she disappeared as Maynard hastened down
the steps. He had been gone but a second when Mrs. Burnham,
assisted by Dr. Hayden, clambered up the staircase and looked
helplessly at the busy scene.
“Dear me, where will we find Evelyn?” She turned to address a
scene-shifter, but the man passed without paying the slightest
attention to her hail.
“Just sit here, Mrs. Burnham,” Hayden guided her to a chair standing
against the wall. “I’ll look up the stage manager; he will know where
Evelyn is to be found,” and he darted behind some scenery.
Mrs. Burnham listened with interest to the echoing chorus of the
Marseillaise, which was being played by the Marine Band and sung
by the audience. Suddenly spying a bevy of girls toward the back of
the stage she rose and walked in their direction.
Mitchell, observing that La Montagne was singing an encore, turned
away just as Hayden appeared at the entrance to the wing and
promptly accosted him.
“Have you seen Miss Preston?” he asked as the detective paused by
him.
“Haven’t laid eyes on her.” Mitchell looked over toward the staircase.
“Isn’t that she?” and he and Hayden stared at a heavily cloaked
woman standing with her back toward them. She was peering
intently at the floor when Hayden’s approaching footsteps caused
her to look around and he recognized Marian Van Ness.
“Good evening,” he exclaimed, raising his hat. “Have you lost
anything?”
“Yes—I, that is, no——” Marian laughed to hide her embarrassment.
“Have you seen Evelyn?”
“No. I am searching myself for that elusive damsel,” laughed
Hayden. “Her mother is waiting to take her home.”
“Oh!” Marian looked blank. “Then in that case I’ll run along. Good-
night; don’t trouble to come with me,” and she hurried down the
circular staircase.
Mitchell, who had listened unobtrusively in the background, stepped
up to Hayden. “She’s a beauty and no mistake!” he remarked
admiringly. “Gee, don’t fall!” Seeing her stumble on the last step he
sprang forward, tripped over one of the iron uprights of the stair
railing, and went sprawling. His out-flung hand closed over a small
object to which he clung instinctively as Hayden helped him
somewhat shakily to his feet.
“Thanks,” he muttered, as the physician brushed off some of the
dust, accumulated in his fall. Unclosing his fingers he looked at the
object in his hand; his breath entirely left him, and he pointed with
his right hand to the decoration.
“Look, doctor!” he gasped and Hayden bent nearer, then his glance
traveled upward and he and Mitchell contemplated each other in
silence. A hand on Mitchell’s shoulder caused him to start violently.
“What have you there?” asked Maynard.
For answer the detective raised his hand until the nearest electric
light fell full upon it.
“The Iron Cross!” he exclaimed and his voice was shaky.
“So it is,” answered Maynard, looking more closely at it and the
string attached to the cross. “Stage property or genuine article,
Mitchell?”
An irate voice from the foot of the staircase hailed Hayden.
“Heh! Hayden, do you think I want to stay here all night?”
demanded Burnham. “Here’s Evelyn,” as the stage door opened and
his step-daughter joined him on the platform of the staircase.
“Where’s my wife?”
Hayden looked around. What had become of Mrs. Burnham? His
unspoken question was answered by finding her almost at his elbow.
“I am coming, Peter,” she called. “Don’t excite yourself,” and bowing
to Maynard, she accepted the physician’s assistance, but Hayden as
he helped her carefully down the staircase and into the waiting
carriage wondered at the hotness of her hand.