Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle by Unknown (good short books .TXT) 📗

“Certainly not,” was the reply.

“If I might trouble you, then, for pen and ink and paper?” suggested the signor and he smiled a little. “Believe me, I would prefer to get them for myself.”

“I guess that’s right,” the guard grinned good-naturedly.

Again he went away and the prisoner sat thoughtfully sipping the milk. He took half of it, then lighted a cigarette, puffed it once or twice and permitted the light to die. After a little there came again the clatter of the guard’s feet on the cement pavement, and the writing materials were thrust through the bars.

“Thank you,” said the prisoner.

The guard went on, with a nod, and a moment later the signor heard the clangor of a steel door down the corridor as it was closed and locked. He leaned forward in his chair with half-closed eyes, listening for a long time, then rose and noiselessly approached the cell door. Again he listened intently, after which he resumed his seat. He tossed away the cigarette he had and lighted a fresh one, afterward holding the note over the flame of the match. Here and there, where the paper charred in the heat, a letter or word stood out from the bare whiteness of the paper, and finally, a message complete appeared between the innocuous ink-written lines. The prisoner read it greedily:

“Am privately informed there is little chance of Alvarez’s recovery. Shall I arrange escape for you, or have ambassador intercede? Would advise former, as the other might take months, and meeting to sign treaty alliance would be dangerously delayed.”

Signor Petrozinni permitted the sputtering flame to ignite the paper, and thoughtfully watched the blaze destroy it. The last tiny scrap dropped on the floor, burned out, and he crushed the ashes under his heel. Then he began to write:

“My Dear Miss Thorne:

“Many thanks for your courteous little note. I am delighted to know of the improvement in Senor Alvarez’s condition. I had hoped that my impulsive act in shooting him would not end in a tragedy. Please keep me informed of any further change in his condition. As yet I do not see the necessity of consulting an attorney, but later I may be compelled to do so.

“Respectfully,

“Pietro Petrozinni.”

This done the secret agent carefully cleaned the ink from the pen, wiping it dry with his handkerchief, then thrust it into the half empty glass of milk. The fluid clung to the steel nib thinly; he went on writing with it, between the lines of ink:

“I am in no danger. I hold credentials to United States, which, when presented, will make me responsible only to the Italian government as special envoy, according to international law. Arrange escape for one week from to-night; use any money necessary. Make careful arrangements for the test and signing of compact for two nights after.”

Again the prisoner cleaned the steel nib, after which he put it back in the bottle of ink, leaving it there. He waved the sheet of paper back and forth to dry it, and at last scrutinized it minutely, standing under the light from the high-up window of his cell. Letter by letter the milk evaporated, leaving the sheet perfectly clean and white except for the ink-written message. This sheet he folded, placed in an envelope, and addressed.

Later the guard passed along the corridor, and Signor Petrozinni thrust the letter out to him.

“Be good enough to post that, please,” he requested. “It isn’t sealed. I don’t know if your prison rules require you to read the letters that go out. If so, read it, or have it read, then seal it.”

For answer the guard dampened the flap of the envelope, sealed it, thrust it into his pocket and passed on. The secret agent sat down again, and sipped his milk meditatively.

One hour later Mr. Grimm, accompanied by Johnson, came out of a photographer’s dark room in Pennsylvania Avenue with a developed negative which he set on a rack to dry. At the end of another hour he was sitting at his desk studying, under a magnifying glass, a finished print of the negative. Word by word he was writing on a slip of paper what his magnifying glass gave him and so, curiously enough, it came to pass that Miss Thorne and Chief Campbell of the Secret Service were reading the hidden, milk-written message at almost the identical moment.

“Johnson got Petrozinni’s letter from the postman,” Mr. Grimm was explaining. “I opened it, photographed it, sealed it again and remailed it. There was not more than half an hour’s delay; and Miss Thorne can not possibly know of it.” He paused a moment. “It’s an odd thing that writing such as that is absolutely invisible to the naked eye, and yet when photographed becomes decipherable in the negative.”

“What do you make of it?” Mr. Campbell asked. The guileless blue eyes were alive with eagerness.

“Well, he’s right, of course, about not being in danger,” said Mr. Grimm. “If he came with credentials as special envoy this government must respect them, even if Senor Alvarez dies, and leave it to his own government to punish him. If we were officially aware that he has such credentials I doubt if we would have the right to keep him confined; we would merely have to hand him over to the Italian embassy and demand his punishment. And, of course, all that makes him more dangerous than ever.”

“Yes, I know that,” said the chief a little impatiently. “But who is this man?”

“Who is this man?” Mr. Grimm repeated as if surprised at the question. “I was looking for Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi, of Italy. I have found him.”

Mr. Campbell’s clock-like brain ticked over the situation in detail.

“It’s like this,” Mr. Grimm elucidated. “He has credentials which he knows will free him if he is forced to present them, but I imagine they were given to him more for protection in an emergency like this than for introducing him to our government. As the