CHAPTER IV
"IN THE NAME OF THE LAW"
When Kittredge, with cloak and bag, stepped into his waiting cab and, for the second time on this villainous night, started down the Champs Elysées he was under no illusion as to his personal safety. He knew that he would be followed and presently arrested, he knew this without even glancing behind him, he had understood the whispers and searching looks in the hotel; it was certain that his moments of liberty were numbered, so he must make a clean job of this thing that had to be done while still there was time. He had told the driver to cross the bridge and go down the Boulevard St. Germain, but now he changed the order and, half opening the door, he bade the man turn to the right and drive on to the Rue de Vaugirard. He knew that this was a long, ill-lighted street, one of the longest streets in Paris.
"There's no number," he called out. "Just keep going."
The driver grumbled and cracked his whip, and a moment later, peering back through the front window, he saw his eccentric fare absorbed in examining a white leather bag. He could see him distinctly by the yellow light of his two side lanterns. The young man had opened one of the inner pockets of the bag, drawing out a flap of leather under which a name was stamped quite visibly in gilt letters. Presently he took out a pocket knife and tried to scrape off the name, but the letters were deeply marked and could not be removed so easily. After a moment's hesitation the young man carefully drew his blade across the base of the flap, severing it from the bag, which he then threw back on the seat, holding the flap in apparent perplexity.
All this the driver observed with increasing interest until presently Kittredge looked up and caught his eye.
"You've got a nerve," the young man muttered. "I'll fix you." And, drawing the two black curtains, he shut off the driver's view.
As they neared the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, the American opened the door again and told the man to turn and drive back, he wanted to have a look at Notre-Dame, three full miles away. The driver swore softly, but obeyed, and back they went, passing another cab just behind them which also turned immediately and followed, as Kittredge noticed with a gloomy smile.
On the way to Notre-Dame, Kittredge changed their direction half a dozen times, acting on accountable impulses, going by zigzags through narrow, dark streets, instead of by the straight and natural way, so that it was after midnight when they entered the Rue du Cloitre Notre-Dame, which runs just beside the cathedral, and drew up at a house indicated by the American. The other cab drew up behind them.
"Tell your friend back there," remarked Kittredge to his driver as he got out, "that I have important business here. There'll be plenty of time for him to get a drink." Then, with a nervous tug at the bell, he disappeared in the house, leaving the cloak and bag in the cab.
And now two important things happened, one of them unexpected. The expected thing was that M. Gibelin came forward immediately from the second cab followed by Papa Tignol and a policeman. The shadowing detective was in a vile humor which was not improved when he got the message left by the flippant American.
"Time for a drink! Infernal impudence! We'll teach him manners at the depot! This farce is over," he flung out. "See where he went, ask the concierge," he said to Tignol. And to the policeman: "Watch the courtyard. If he isn't down in ten minutes we'll go up."
Then, as his men obeyed, Gibelin turned to Kittredge's driver. "Here's your fare. You can go. I'm from headquarters. I have a warrant for this man's arrest." And he showed his credentials. "I'll take the things he has left."
"Don't I get a pourboire?" grumbled the driver.
"No, sir. You're lucky to get anything."
"Am I?" retorted the Jehu, gathering up his reins (and now came the unexpected happening): "Well, I'll tell you one thing, my friend, this is the night they made a fool of M. Gibelin!"
The detective started. "You know my name? What do you mean?"
The cab was already moving, but the driver turned on his seat and, waving his hand in derision, he called back: "Ask Beau Cocono!" And then to his horse: "Hue, cocotte!"
Meantime Kittredge had climbed the four flights of stairs leading to the sacristan's modest apartment. And, in order to explain how he happened to be making so untimely a visit it is necessary to go back several hours to a previous visit here that the young American had already made on this momentous evening.
After leaving the Ansonia banquet at about nine o'clock in the singular manner noted by the big doorkeeper, Kittredge, in accordance with his promise to Alice, had driven directly to the Rue du Cloitre Notre-Dame, and at twenty minutes past nine by the clock in the Tavern of the Three Wise Men he had drawn up at the house where the Bonnetons lived. Five minutes later the young man was seated in the sacristan's little salon assuring Alice that he didn't mind the rain, that the banquet was a bore, anyhow, and that he hoped she was now going to prove herself a sensible and reasonable little girl.
"'Ask Beau Cocono,' he called back."
Alice welcomed her lover eagerly. She had been anxious about him, she did not know why, and when the storm came she had been more anxious. But now she was reassured and—and happy. Her mantling color, her heaving bosom, and the fond, wistful lights in her dark eyes told how very happy she was. And how proud! After all he trusted her, it must be so! he had left his friends, left this fine banquet and, in spite of the pain she had given him, in spite of the bad night, he had come to her here in her humble home.
And it would have straightway been the love scene all over again, for Alice had never seemed so adorable, but for the sudden and ominous entrance of Mother Bonneton. She eyed the visitor with frank unfriendliness and, without mincing her words, proceeded to tell him certain things, notably that his attentions to Alice must cease and that his visits here would henceforth be unwelcome.
In vain the poor girl protested against this breach of hospitality. Mother Bonneton held her ground grimly, declaring that she had a duty to perform and would perform it.
"What duty?" asked the American.
"A duty to M. Groener."
At this name Alice started apprehensively. Kittredge knew that she had a cousin named Groener, a wood carver who lived in Belgium, and who came to Paris occasionally to see her and to get orders for his work. On one occasion he had met this cousin and had judged him a well-meaning but rather stupid fellow who need not be seriously considered in his efforts to win Alice.
"Do you mean that M. Groener does not approve of me?" pursued Kittredge.
"M. Groener knows nothing about you," answered Mother Bonneton, "except that you have been hanging around this foolish girl. But he understands his responsibility as the only relation she has in the world and he knows she will respect his wishes as the one who has paid her board, more or less, for five years."
"Well?"
"Well, the last time M. Groener was here, that's about a month ago, he asked me and my husband to make inquiries about you, and see what we could find out."
"It's abominable!" exclaimed Alice.
"Abominable? Why is it abominable? Your cousin wants to know if this young man is a proper person for you to have as a friend."
"I can decide that for myself," flashed the girl.
"Oh, can you? Ha, ha! How wise we are!"
"And—er—you have made inquiries about me?" resumed Kittredge with a strangely anxious look.
Mother Bonneton half closed her eyes and threw out her thick lips in an ugly leer. "I should say we have! And found out things—well, just a few!"
"What things?"
"We have found out, my pretty sir, that you lived for months last year by gambling. I suppose you will deny it?"
"No," answered Kittredge in a low tone, "it's true."
"Ah! We found out also that the money you made by gambling you spent with a brazen creature who——"
"Stop!" interrupted the American, and turning to the girl he said: "Alice, I didn't mean to go into these details, I didn't see the need of it, but——"
"I don't want to know the details," she interrupted. "I know you, Lloyd, that is enough."
She looked him in the eyes trustingly and he blinked a little.
"Plucky!" he murmured. "They're trying to queer me and maybe they will, but I'm not going to lie about it. Listen. I came to Paris a year ago on account of a certain person. I thought I loved her and—I made a fool of myself. I gave up a good position in New York and—after I had been here a while I went broke. So I gambled. It's pretty bad—I don't defend myself, only there's one thing I want you to know. This person was not a low woman, she was a lady."
"Huh!" grunted Mother Bonneton. "A lady! The kind of a lady who dines alone with gay young gentlemen in private rooms! Aha, we have the facts!"
The young man's eyes kindled. "No matter where she dined, I say she was a lady, and the proof of it is I—I wanted her to get a divorce and—and marry me."
"Oh!" winced Alice.
"You see what he is," triumphed the sacristan's wife, "running after a married woman."
But Kittredge went on doggedly: "You've got to hear the rest now. One day something happened that—that made me realize what an idiot I had been. When I say this person was a lady I'm not denying that she raised the devil with me. She did that good and plenty, so at last I decided to break away and I did. It wasn't exactly a path of roses for me those weeks, but I stuck to it, because—because I had some one to help me," he paused and looked tenderly at Alice, "and—well, I cut the whole thing out, gambling and all. That was six months ago."
"And the lady?" sneered Mother Bonneton. "Do you mean to tell us you haven't had anything to do with her for six months?"
"I haven't even seen her," he declared, "for more than six months."
"A likely story! Besides, what we know is enough. I shall write M. Groener to-night and tell him the facts. Meantime—" She rose and pointed to the door.
Alice and Kittredge rose also, the one indignant and aggrieved at this wanton affront to her lover, the other gloomily resigned to what seemed to be his fate.
"Well," said he, facing Alice with a discouraged gesture, "things are against us. I'm grateful to you for believing in me and I—I'd like to know why you turned me down this afternoon. But I probably never shall. I—I'll be going now."
He was actually moving toward the door, and she, almost fainting with emotion, was rallying her strength for a last appeal when the bell in the hall tinkled sharply. Mother Bonneton answered the call and returned a moment later followed by the doorkeeper from below, a cheery little woman who bustled in carrying a note.
"It's for the gentleman," she explained, "from a lady waiting in a carriage. It's very important." With this she delivered a note to Kittredge and added in an exultant whisper to the sacristan's wife that the lady had given her a franc for her trouble.
"A lady waiting in a carriage!" chuckled Mother Bonneton. "What kind of a lady?"
"Oh, very swell," replied the doorkeeper mysteriously "Grande toilette, bare shoulders, and no hat. I should think she'd take cold."
"Poor thing!" jeered the other. And then to Kittredge: "I suppose this is another one you haven't seen for six months."
Kittredge stood as if in a daze staring at the note. He read it, then read it again, then he crumpled it in his hand, muttering: "O God!" And his face was white.
"Good-by!" he said to Alice in extreme agitation. "I don't know what you think of this, I can't stop to explain, I—I must go at once!" And taking up his hat and cane he started away.
"But you'll come back?" cried the girl.
"No, no! This is the end!"
She went to him swiftly and laid a hand on his arm. "Lloyd, you must come back. You must come back to-night. It's the last thing I'll ever ask you. You need never see me again but—you must come back to-night."
She stood transformed as she spoke, not pleading but commanding and beautiful beyond words.
"It may be very late," he stammered.
"I'll wait until you come," she said simply, "no matter what time. I'll wait. But you'll surely come, Lloyd?"
He hesitated a moment and then, before the power of her eyes: "I'll surely come," he promised, and a moment later he was gone.
Then the hours passed, anxious, ominous hours! Ten, eleven, twelve! And still Alice waited for her lover, silencing Mother Bonneton's grumblings with a look that this hard old woman had once or twice seen in the girl's face and had learned to respect. At half past twelve a carriage sounded in the quiet street, then a quick step on the stairs. Kittredge had kept his word.
The door was opened by Mother Bonneton, very sleepy and arrayed in a wrapper of purple and gold pieced together from discarded altar coverings. She eyed the young man sternly but said nothing, for Alice was at her back holding the lamp and there was something in the American's face, something half reckless, half appealing, that startled her. She felt the cold breath of a sinister happening and regretted Bonneton's absence at the church.
"Well, I'm here," said Kittredge with a queer little smile. "I couldn't come any sooner and—I can't stay."
The girl questioned him with frightened eyes. "Isn't it over yet?"
He looked at her sharply. "I don't know what you mean by 'it,' but, as a matter of fact, it hasn't begun yet. If you have any questions you'd better ask 'em."
Alice turned and said quietly: "Was the woman who came in the carriage the one you told us about?"
"Yes."
"Have you been with her ever since?"
"No. I was with her only about ten minutes."
"Is she in trouble?"
"Yes."
"And you?"
Kittredge nodded slowly. "Oh, I'm in trouble, all right."
"Can I help you?"
He shook his head. "The only way you can help is by believing in me. I haven't lied to you. I hadn't seen that woman for over six months. I didn't know she was coming here. I don't love her, I love you, but I did love her, and what I have done to-night I—I had to do." He spoke with growing agitation which he tried vainly to control.
Alice looked at him steadily for a moment and then in a low voice she spoke the words that were pressing on her heart: "What have you done?"
"There's no use going into that," he answered unsteadily. "I can only ask you to trust me."
"I trust you, Lloyd," she said.
While they were talking Mother Bonneton had gone to the window attracted by sounds from below, and as she peered down her face showed surprise and then intense excitement.
"Kind saints!" she muttered. "The courtyard is full of policemen." Then with sudden understanding she exclaimed: "Perhaps we will know now what he has been doing." As she spoke a heavy tread was heard on the stairs and the murmur of voices.
"It's nothing," said Alice weakly.
"Nothing?" mocked the old woman. "Hear that!"
An impatient hand sounded at the door while a harsh voice called out those terrifying words: "Open in the name of the law."
With a mingling of alarm and satisfaction Mother Bonneton obeyed the summons, and a moment later, as she unlatched the door, a fat man with a bristling red mustache and keen eyes pushed forward into the room where the lovers were waiting. Two burly policemen followed him.
"Ah!" exclaimed Gibelin with a gesture of relief as his eye fell on Kittredge. Then producing a paper he said: "I am from headquarters. I am looking for"—he studied the writing in perplexity—"for M. Lo-eed Keetredge. What is your name?"
"That's it," replied the American, "you made a good stab at it."
"You are M. Lo-eed Keetredge?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must come with me. I have a warrant for your arrest." And he showed the paper.
But Alice staggered forward. "Why do you arrest him? What has he done?"
The man from headquarters answered, shrugging his shoulders: "I don't know what he's done, he's charged with murder."
"Murder!" echoed the sacristan's wife. "Holy angels! A murderer in my house!"
"Take him," ordered the detective, and the two policemen laid hold of Kittredge on either side.
"Alice!" cried the young man, and his eyes yearned toward her. "Alice, I am innocent."
"Come," said the men gruffly, and Kittredge felt a sickening sense of shame as he realized that he was a prisoner.
"Wait! One moment!" protested the girl, and the men paused. Then, going close to her lover, Alice spoke to him in low, thrilling words that came straight from her soul:
"Lloyd, I believe you, I trust you, I love you. No matter what you have done, I love you. It was because my love is so great that I refused you this afternoon. But you need me now, you're in trouble now, and, Lloyd, if—if you want me still, I'm yours, all yours."
"O God!" murmured Kittredge, and even the hardened policeman choked a little. "I'm the happiest man in Paris, but—" He could say no more except with a last longing look: "Good-by."
Wildly, fiercely she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately on the mouth—their first kiss. And she murmured: "I love you, I love you."
Then they led Kittredge away.
"'Alice, I am innocent.'"
CHAPTER V
COQUENIL GETS IN THE GAME
It was a long night at the Ansonia and a hard night for M. Gritz. France is a land of infinite red tape where even such simple things as getting born or getting married lead to endless formalities. Judge, then, of the complicated procedure involved in so serious a matter as getting murdered—especially in a fashionable restaurant! Long before the commissary had finished his report there arrived no less a person than M. Simon, the chief of police, round-faced and affable, a brisk, dapper man whose ready smile had led more than one trusting criminal into regretted confidences.
And a little later came M. Hauteville, the judge in charge of the case, a cold, severe figure, handsome in his younger days, but soured, it was said, by social disappointments and ill health. He was in evening dress, having been summoned posthaste from the theater. Both of these officials went over the case with the commissary and the doctor, both viewed the body and studied its surroundings and, having formed a theory of the crime, both proceeded to draw up a report. And the doctor drew up his report. And already Gibelin (now at the prison with Kittredge) had made elaborate notes for his report. And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a score of reporters all busy with their reports. No doubt that, in the matter of paper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of this gallant billiard player!
Meantime the official police photographer and his assistants had arrived (this was long after midnight) with special apparatus for photographing the victim and the scene of the crime. And their work occupied two full hours owing largely to the difficult manipulation of a queer, clumsy camera that photographed the body from above as it lay on the floor.
In the intervals of these formalities the officials discussed the case with a wide variance in opinions and conclusions. The chief of police and M. Pougeot were strong for the theory of murder, while M. Hauteville leaned toward suicide. The doctor was undecided.
"But the shot was fired at the closest possible range," insisted the judge; "the pistol was not a foot from the man's head. Isn't that true, doctor?"
"Yes," replied Joubert, "the eyebrows are badly singed, the skin is burned, and the face shows unmistakable powder marks. I should say the pistol was fired not six inches from the victim."
"Then it's suicide," declared the judge. "How else account for the facts? Martinez was a strong, active man. He would never have allowed a murderer to get so close to him without a struggle. But there is not the slightest sign of a struggle, no disorder in the room, no disarrangement of the man's clothing. It's evidently suicide."
"If it's suicide," objected Pougeot, "where is the weapon? The man died instantly, didn't he, doctor?"
"Undoubtedly," agreed the doctor.
"Then the pistol must have fallen beside him or remained in his hand. Well, where is it?"
"Ask the woman who was here. How do you know she didn't take it?"
"Nonsense!" put in the chief. "Why should she take it? To throw suspicion on herself? Besides, I'll show you another reason why it's not suicide. The man was shot through the right eye, the ball went in straight and clean, tearing its way to the brain. Well, in the whole history of suicides, there is not one case where a man has shot himself in the eye. Did you ever hear of such a case, doctor?"
"Never," answered Joubert.
"A man will shoot himself in the mouth, in the temple, in the heart, anywhere, but not in the eye. There would be an unconquerable shrinking from that. So I say it's murder."
The judge shook his head. "And the murderer?"
"Ah, that's another question. We must find the woman. And we must understand the rôle of this American."
"No woman ever fired that shot or planned this crime," declared the commissary, unconsciously echoing Coquenil's opinion.
"There's better reason to argue that the American never did it," retorted the judge.
"What reason?"
"The woman ran away, didn't she? And the American didn't. If he had killed this man, do you think anything would have brought him back here for that cloak and bag?"
"A good point," nodded the chief. "We can't be sure of the murderer—yet, but we can be reasonably sure it's murder."
Still the judge was unconvinced. "If it's murder, how do you account for the singed eyebrows? How did the murderer get so near?"
"I answer as you did: 'Ask the woman.' She knows."
"Ah, yes, she knows," reflected the commissary. "And, gentlemen, all our talk brings us back to this, we must find that woman."
At half past one Gibelin appeared to announce the arrest of Kittredge. He had tried vainly to get from the American some clew to the owner of cloak and bag, but the young man had refused to speak and, with sullen indifference, had allowed himself to be locked up in the big room at the depot.
"I'll see what I can squeeze out of him in the morning," said Hauteville grimly. There was no judge in the parquet who had his reputation for breaking down the resistance of obstinate prisoners.
"You've got your work cut out," snapped the detective. "He's a stubborn devil."
In the midst of these perplexities and technicalities a note was brought in for M. Pougeot. The commissary glanced at it quickly and then, with a word of excuse, left the room, returning a few minutes later and whispering earnestly to M. Simon.
"You say he is here?" exclaimed the latter. "I thought he was sailing for——"
M. Pougeot bent closer and whispered again.
"Paul Coquenil!" exclaimed the chief. "Why, certainly, ask him to come in."
A moment later Coquenil entered and all rose with cordial greetings, that is, all except Gibelin, whose curt nod and suspicious glances showed that he found anything but satisfaction in the presence of this formidable rival.
"My dear Coquenil!" said Simon warmly. "This is like the old days! If you were only with us now what a nut there would be for you to crack!"
"So I hear," smiled M. Paul, "and—er—the fact is, I have come to help you crack it." He spoke with that quiet but confident seriousness which always carried conviction, and M. Simon and the judge, feeling the man's power, waited his further words with growing interest; but Gibelin blinked his small eyes and muttered under his breath: "The cheek of the fellow!"
"As you know," explained Coquenil briefly, "I resigned from the force two years ago. I need not go into details; the point is, I now ask to be taken back. That is why I am here."
"But, my dear fellow," replied the chief in frank astonishment, "I understood that you had received a magnificent offer with——"
"Yes, yes, I have."
"With a salary of a hundred thousand francs?"
"It's true, but—I have refused it."
Simon and Hauteville looked at Coquenil incredulously. How could a man refuse a salary of a hundred thousand francs? The commissary watched his friend with admiration, Gibelin with envious hostility.
"May I ask why you have refused it?" asked the chief.
"Partly for personal reasons, largely because I want to have a hand in this case."
Gibelin moved uneasily.
"You think this case so interesting?" put in the judge.
"The most interesting I have ever known," answered the other, and then he added with all the authority of his fine, grave face: "It's more than interesting, it's the most important criminal case Paris has known for three generations."
Again they stared at him.
"My dear Coquenil, you exaggerate," objected M. Simon. "After all, we have only the shooting of a billiard player."
M. Paul shook his head and replied impressively: "The billiard player was a pawn in the game. He became troublesome and was sacrificed. He is of no importance, but there's a greater game than billiards here with a master player and—I'm going to be in it."
"Why do you think it's a great game?" questioned the judge.
"Why do I think anything? Why did I think a commonplace pickpocket at the Bon Marché was a notorious criminal, wanted by two countries? Why did I think we should find the real clew to that Bordeaux counterfeiting gang in a Passy wine shop? Why did I think it necessary to-night to be on the cab this young American took and not behind it in another cab?" He shot a quick glance at Gibelin. "Because a good detective knows certain things before he can prove them and acts on his knowledge. That is what distinguishes him from an ordinary detective."
"Meaning me?" challenged Gibelin.
"Not at all," replied M. Paul smoothly. "I only say that——"
"One moment," interrupted M. Simon. "Do I understand that you were with the driver who took this American away from here to-night?"
Coquenil smiled. "I was not with the driver, I was the driver and I had the honor of receiving five francs from my distinguished associate." He bowed mockingly to Gibelin and held up a silver piece. "I shall keep this among my curiosities."
"It was a foolish trick, a perfectly useless trick," declared Gibelin, furious.
"Perhaps not," answered the other with aggravating politeness; "perhaps it was a rather nice coup leading to very important results."
"Huh! What results?"
"Yes. What results?" echoed the judge.
"Let me ask first," replied Coquenil deliberately, "what you regard as the most important thing to be known in this case just now?"
"The name of the woman," answered Hauteville promptly.
"Parbleu!" agreed the commissary.
"Then the man who gives you this woman's name and address will render a real service?"
"A service?" exclaimed Hauteville. "The whole case rests on this woman. Without her, nothing can be understood."
"So it would be a good piece of work," continued Coquenil, "if a man had discovered this name and address in the last few hours with nothing but his wits to help him; in fact, with everything done to hinder him." He looked meaningly at Gibelin.
"Come, come," interrupted the chief, "what are you driving at?"
"At this, I have the woman's name and address."
"Impossible!" they cried.
"I got them by my own efforts and I will give them up on my own terms." He spoke with a look of fearless purpose that M. Simon well remembered from the old days.
"A thousand devils! How did you do it?" cried Simon.
"I watched the American in the cab as he leaned forward toward the lantern light and I saw exactly what he was doing. He opened the lady's bag and cut out a leather flap that had her name and address stamped on it."
"No," contradicted Gibelin, "there was no name in the bag. I examined it myself."
"The name was on the under side of the flap," laughed the other, "in gilt letters."
Gibelin's heart sank.
"And you took this flap from the American?" asked M. Simon.
"No, no! Any violence would have brought my colleague into the thing, for he was close behind, and I wanted this knowledge for myself."
"What did you do?" pursued the chief.
"I let the young man cut the flap into small pieces and drop them one by one as we drove through dark little streets. And I noted where he dropped the pieces. Then I drove back and picked them up, that is, all but two."
"Marvelous!" muttered Hauteville.
"I had a small searchlight lantern to help me. That was one of the things I took from my desk," he added to Pougeot.
"And these pieces of leather with the name and address, you have them?" continued the chief.
"I have them."
"With you?"
"Yes."
"May I see them?"
"Certainly. If you will promise to respect them as my personal property?"
Simon hesitated. "You mean—" he frowned, and then impatiently: "Oh, yes, I promise that."
Coquenil drew an envelope from his breast pocket and from it he took a number of white-leather fragments. And he showed the chief that most of these fragments were stamped in gold letters or parts of letters.
"I'm satisfied," declared Simon after examining several of the fragments and returning them. "Bon Dieu!" he stormed at Gibelin. "And you had that bag in your hands!"
Gibelin sat silent. This was the wretchedest moment in his career.
"Well," continued the chief, "we must have these pieces of leather. What are your terms?"
"I told you," said Coquenil, "I want to be put back on the force. I want to handle this case."
M. Simon thought a moment. "That ought to be easily arranged. I will see the préfet de police about it in the morning."
But the other demurred. "I ask you to see him to-night. It's ten minutes to his house in an automobile. I'll wait here."
The chief smiled. "You're in a hurry, aren't you? Well, so are we. Will you come with me, Hauteville?"
"If you like."
"And I'll go, if you don't mind," put in the commissary. "I may have some influence with the préfet."
"He won't refuse me," declared Simon. "After all, I am responsible for the pursuit of criminals in this city, and if I tell him that I absolutely need Paul Coquenil back on the force, as I do, he will sign the commission at once. Come, gentlemen."
A moment later the three had hurried off, leaving Coquenil and Gibelin together.
"Have one?" said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case.
"Thanks," snapped Gibelin with deliberate insolence, "I prefer my own."
"There's no use being ugly about it," replied the other good-naturedly, as he lighted a cigarette. His companion did the same and the two smoked in silence, Gibelin gnawing savagely at his little red mustache.
"See here," broke in the latter, "wouldn't you be ugly if somebody butted into a case that had been given to you?"
"Why," smiled Coquenil, "if he thought he could handle it better than I could, I—I think I'd let him try."
"'Have one?' said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case."
Then there was another silence, broken presently by Gibelin.
"Do you imagine the préfet de police is going to stand being pulled out of bed at three in the morning just because Paul Coquenil wants something? Well, I guess not."
"No? What do you think he'll do?" asked Coquenil.
"Do? He'll tell those men they are three idiots, that's what he'll do. And you'll never get your appointment. Bet you five louis you don't."
M. Paul shook his head. "I don't want your money."
"Bon sang! You think the whole police department must bow down to you."
"It's not a case of bowing down to me, it's a case of needing me."
"Huh!" snorted the other. "I'm going to walk around." He rose and moved toward the door. Then he turned sharply: "Say, how much did you pay that driver?"
"Ten louis. It was cheap enough. He might have lost his place."
"You think it's a great joke on me because I paid you five francs? Don't forget that it was raining and dark and you had that rubber cape pulled up over half your face, so it wasn't such a wonderful disguise."
"I didn't say it was."
"Anyhow, I'll get square with you," retorted the other, exasperated by M. Paul's good nature. "The best men make mistakes and look out that you don't make one."
"If I do, I'll call on you for help."
"And if you do, I'll take jolly good care that you don't get it," snarled the other.
"Nonsense!" laughed Coquenil. "You're a good soldier, Gibelin; you like to kick and growl, but you do your work. Tell you what I'll do as soon as I'm put in charge of this case. Want to know what I'll do?"
"Well?"
"I'll have to set you to work on it. Ha, ha! Upon my soul, I will."
"You'd better look out," menaced the red-haired man with an ugly look, "or I'll do some work on this case you'll wish I hadn't done." With this he flung himself out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"What did he mean by that?" muttered M. Paul, and he sat silent, lost in thought, until the others returned. In a glance, he read the answer in their faces.
"It's all right," said the chief.
"Congratulations, old friend," beamed Pougeot, squeezing Coquenil's hand.
"The préfet was extremely nice," added M. Hauteville; "he took our view at once."
"Then my commission is signed?"
"Precisely," answered the chief; "you are one of us again, and—I'm glad."
"Thank you, both of you," said M. Paul with a quiver of emotion.
"I give you full charge of this case," went on M. Simon, "and I will see that you have every possible assistance. I expect you to be on deck to-morrow morning."
Coquenil hesitated a moment and then, with a flash of his tireless energy, he said: "If it's all the same to you, chief, I'll go on deck to-night—now."
CHAPTER VI
THE WEAPON
Right across from the Ansonia on the Rue Marboeuf was a little wine shop that remained open all night for the accommodation of cab drivers and belated pedestrians and to this Coquenil and the commissary now withdrew. Before anything else the detective wished to get from M. Pougeot his impressions of the case. And he asked Papa Tignol to come with them for a fortifying glass.
"By the way," said the commissary to Tignol when they were seated in the back room, "did you find out how that woman left the hotel without her wraps and without being seen?"
The old man nodded. "When she came out of the telephone booth she slipped on a long black rain coat that was hanging there. It belonged to the telephone girl and it's missing. The rain coat had a hood to it which the woman pulled over her head. Then she walked out quietly and no one paid any attention to her."
"Good work, Papa Tignol," approved Coquenil.
"It's you, M. Paul, who have done good work this night," chuckled Tignol. "Eh! Eh! What a lesson for Gibelin!"
"The brute!" muttered Pougeot.
Then they turned to the commissary's report of his investigation, Coquenil listening with intense concentration, interrupting now and then with a question or to consult the rough plan drawn by Pougeot.
"Are you sure there is no exit from the banquet room and from these private rooms except by the corridor?" he asked.
"They tell me not."
"So, if the murderer went out, he must have passed Joseph?"
"Yes."
"And the only persons who passed Joseph were the woman and this American?"
"Exactly."
"Too easy!" he muttered. "Too easy!"
"What do you mean?"
"That would put the guilt on one or the other of those two?"
"Apparently."
"And end the case?"
"Why—er——"
"Yes, it would. A case is ended when the murderer is discovered. Well, this case is not ended, you can be sure of that. The murderer I am looking for is not that kind of a murderer. To begin with, he's not a fool. If he made up his mind to shoot a man in a private room he would know exactly what he was doing and exactly how he was going to escape."
"But the facts are there—I've given them to you," retorted the commissary a little nettled.
Coquenil shook his head.
"My dear Lucien, you have given me some of the facts; before morning I hope we'll have others and—hello!"
He stopped abruptly to look at a comical little man with a very large mouth, the owner of the place, who had been hovering about for some moments as if anxious to say something.
"What is it, my friend?" asked Coquenil good-naturedly.
At this the proprietor coughed in embarrassment and motioned to a prim, thin-faced woman in the front room who came forward with fidgety shyness, begging the gentlemen to forgive her if she had done wrong, but there was something on her conscience and she couldn't sleep without telling it.
"Well?" broke in Pougeot impatiently, but Coquenil gave the woman a reassuring look and she went on to explain that she was a spinster living in a little attic room of the next house, overlooking the Rue Marboeuf. She worked as a seamstress all day in a hot, crowded atelier, and when she came home at night she loved to go out on her balcony, especially these fine summer evenings. She would stand there and brush her hair while she watched the sunset deepen and the swallows circle over the chimney tops. It was an excellent thing for a woman's hair to brush it a long time every night; she always brushed hers for half an hour—that was why it was so thick and glossy.
"But, my dear woman," smiled Coquenil, "what has that to do with me? I have very little hair and no time to brush it."
The seamstress begged his pardon, the point was that on the previous evening, just as she had nearly finished brushing her hair, she suddenly heard a sound like a pistol shot from across the street, and looking down, she saw a glittering object thrown from a window. She saw it distinctly and watched where it fell beyond the high wall that separated the Ansonia Hotel from an adjoining courtyard. She had not thought much about it at the moment, but, having heard that something dreadful had happened——
Coquenil could contain himself no longer and, taking the woman's arm, he hurried her to the door.
"Now," he said, "show me just where you saw this glittering object thrown over the wall."
"There," she replied, pointing, "it lies to the left of that heavy doorway on the courtyard stones. I could see it from my balcony."