Through the Wall

"FROM HIGHER UP"

A great detective must have infinite patience. That is, the quality next to imagination that will serve him best. Indeed, without patience, his imagination will serve him but indifferently. Take, for instance, so small a thing as the auger used at the Ansonia. Coquenil felt sure it had been bought for the occasion—billiard players do not have augers conveniently at hand. It was probably a new one, and somewhere in Paris there was a clerk who might remember selling it and might be able to say whether the purchaser was Martinez or some other man. M. Paul believed it was another man. His imagination told him that the person who committed this crime had suggested the manner of it, and overseen the details of it down to even the precise placing of the eye holes. It must be so or the plan would not have succeeded. The assassin, then, was a friend of Martinez—that is, the Spaniard had considered him a friend, and, as it was of the last importance that these holes through the wall be large enough and not too large, this friend might well have seen personally to the purchase of the auger, not leaving it to a rattle-brained billiard player who, doubtless, regarded the whole affair as a joke. It was not a joke!

So, as part of his day's work, M. Paul had taken steps for the finding of this smallish object dropped into the Seine by Pussy Wilmott, and, betimes on the morning after that lady's examination, a diver began work along the Concorde bridge under the guidance of a young detective named Bobet, selected for this duty by M. Paul himself. This was one thread to be followed, a thread that might lead poor Bobet through weary days and nights until, among all the hardware shops in Paris, he had found the particular one where that particular auger had been sold!

Another thread, meanwhile, was leading another trustworthy man in and out among friends of Martinez, whom he must study one by one until the false friend had been discovered. And another thread was hurrying still another man along the trail of the fascinating Anita, for Coquenil wanted to find out why she had changed her mind that night, and what she knew about the key to the alleyway door. Somebody gave that key to the assassin!

Besides all this, and more important, M. Paul had planned a piece of work for Papa Tignol when the old man reported for instructions this same Wednesday morning just as the detective was finishing his chocolate and toast under the trees in the garden.

"Ah, Tignol!" he exclaimed with a buoyant smile. "It's a fine day, all the birds are singing and—we're going to do great things." He rubbed his hands exultantly, "I want you to do a little job at the Hôtel des Étrangers, where Kittredge lived. You are to take a room on the sixth floor, if possible, and spend your time playing the flute."

"Playing the flute?" gasped Tignol. "I don't know how to play the flute."

"All the better! Spend your time learning! There is no one who gets so quickly in touch with his neighbors as a man learning to play the flute."

"Ah!" grinned the other shrewdly. "You're after information from the sixth floor?"

M. Paul nodded and told his assistant exactly what he wanted.

"Eh, eh!" chuckled the old man. "A droll idea! I'll learn to play the flute!"

"Meet me at nine to-night at the Three Wise Men and—good luck. I'm off to the Santé."

As he drove to the prison Coquenil thought with absorbed interest of the test he was planning to settle this question of the footprints. He was satisfied, from a study of the plaster casts, that the assassin had limped slightly on his left foot as he escaped through the alleyway. The impressions showed this, the left heel being heavily marked, while the ball of the left foot was much fainter, as if the left ankle movement had been hampered by rheumatism or gout. It was for this reason that Coquenil had been at such pains to learn whether Kittredge suffered from these maladies. It appeared that he did not. Indeed, M. Paul himself remembered the young man's quick, springy step when he left the cab that fatal night to enter Bonneton's house. So now he proposed to make Lloyd walk back and forth several times in a pair of his own boots over soft earth in the prison yard and then show that impressions of these new footprints were different in the pressure marks, and probably in the length of stride, from those left in the alleyway. This would be further indication, along with the differences already noted in the nails, that the alleyway footprints were not made by Kittredge.

Not made by Kittredge, reflected the detective, but by a man wearing Kittredge's boots, a man wearing the missing third pair, the stolen pair! Ah, there was a nut to crack! This man must have stolen the boots, as he had doubtless stolen the pistol, to throw suspicion on an innocent person. No other conclusion was possible; yet, he had not returned the boots to Kittredge's room after the crime. Why not? It was essential to his purpose that they be found in Kittredge's room, he must have intended to return them, something quite unforeseen must have prevented him from doing so. What had prevented the assassin from returning Kittredge's boots?

As soon as Coquenil reached the prison he was shown into the director's private room, and he noticed that M. Dedet received him with a strange mixture of surliness and suspicion.

"What's the trouble?" asked the detective.

"Everything," snarled the other, then he burst out: "What the devil did you mean by sending that girl to me?"

"What did I mean?" repeated Coquenil, puzzled by the jailer's hostility. "Didn't she tell you what she wanted?"

Dedet made no reply, but unlocking a drawer, he searched among some envelopes, and producing a square of faded blotting paper, he opened it before his visitor.

"There!" he said, and with a heavy finger he pointed to a scrawl of words. "There's what she wrote, and you know damned well you put her up to it."

Coquenil studied the words with increasing perplexity. "I have no idea what this means," he declared.

"You lie!" retorted the jailer.

M. Paul sprang to his feet. "Take that back," he ordered with a look of menace, and the rough man grumbled an apology. "Just the same," he muttered, "it's mighty queer how she knew it unless you told her."

"Knew what?"

The jailer eyed Coquenil searchingly. "Nom d'un chien, I guess you're straight, after all, but—how did she come to write that?" He scratched his dull head in mystification.

"I have no idea."

"See here," went on Dedet, almost appealingly, "do you believe a girl I never saw could know a thing about me that nobody knows?"

"Strange!" mused the detective. "Is it an important thing?"

"Is it? If it hadn't been about the most important thing, do you think I'd have broken a prison rule and let her see that man? Well, I guess not. But I was up against it and—I took a chance."

Coquenil thought a moment. "I don't suppose you want to tell me what these words mean that she wrote?"

"No, I don't," said the jailer dryly.

"All right. Anyhow, you see I had nothing to do with it." He paused, and then in a businesslike tone: "Well, I'd better get to work. I want that prisoner out in the courtyard."

"Can't have him."

"No? Here's the judge's order."

But the other shook his head. "I've had later orders, just got 'em over the telephone, saying you're not to see the prisoner."

"What?"

"That's right, and he wants to see you."

"He? Who?"

"The judge. They've called me down, now it's your turn."

Coquenil took off his glasses and rubbed them carefully. Then, without more discussion, he left the prison and drove directly to the Palais de Justice; he was perplexed and indignant, and vaguely anxious. What did this mean? What could it mean?

As he approached the lower arm of the river where it enfolds the old island city, he saw Bobet sauntering along the quay and drew up to speak to him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I told you to watch that diver."

The young detective shrugged his shoulders. "The job's done, he found the auger."

"Ah! Where is it?"

"I gave it to M. Gibelin."

Coquenil could scarcely believe his ears.

"You gave the auger to Gibelin? Why?"

"Because he told me to."

"You must be crazy! Gibelin had nothing to do with this. You take your orders from me."

"Do I?" laughed the other. "M. Gibelin says I take orders from him."

"We'll see about this," muttered M. Paul, and crossing the little bridge, he entered the courtyard of the Palais de Justice and hurried up to the office of Judge Hauteville. On the stairs he met Gibelin, fat and perspiring.

"See here," he said abruptly, "what have you done with that auger?"

"Put it in the department of old iron," rasped the other. "We can't waste time on foolish clews."

Coquenil glared at him. "We can't, eh? I suppose you have decided that?"

"Precisely," retorted Gibelin, his red mustache bristling.

"And you've been giving orders to young Bobet?"

"Yes, sir."

"By what authority?"

"Go in there and you'll find out," sneered the fat man, jerking a derisive thumb toward Hauteville's door.

A moment later M. Paul entered the judge's private room, and the latter, rising from his desk, came forward with a look of genuine friendliness and concern.

"My dear Coquenil," exclaimed Hauteville, with cordial hand extended. "I'm glad to see you but—you must prepare for bad news."

Coquenil eyed him steadily. "I see, they have taken me off this case."

The judge nodded gravely. "Worse than that, they have taken you off the force. Your commission is canceled."

"But—but why?" stammered the other.

"For influencing Dedet to break a rule about a prisoner au secret; as a matter of fact, you were foolish to write that letter."

"I thought the girl might get important evidence from her lover."

"No doubt, but you ought to have asked me for an order. I would have given it to you, and then there would have been no trouble."

"It was late and the matter was urgent. After all you approve of what I did?"

"Yes, but not of the way you did it. Technically you were at fault, and—I'm afraid you will have to suffer."

M. Paul thought a moment.

"Did you make the complaint against me?"

"No, no! Between ourselves, I should have passed the thing over as unimportant, but—well, the order came from higher up."

"You mean the chief revoked my commission?"

"I don't know, I haven't seen the chief, but the order came from his office."

"With this prison affair given as the reason?"

"Yes."

"And now Gibelin is in charge of the case?"

"Yes."

"And I am discharged from the force? Discharged in disgrace?"

"It's a great pity, but——"

"Do you think I'll stand for it? Do you know me so little as that?" cut in the other with increasing heat.

"I don't see what you're going to do," opposed the judge mildly.

"You don't? Then I'll tell you that—" Coquenil checked himself at a sudden thought. "After all, what I do is not important, but I'll tell you what Gibelin will do, and that is important, he will let this American go to trial and be found guilty for want of evidence that would save him."

"Not if I can help it," replied Hauteville, ruffled at this reflection on his judicial guidance of the investigation.

"No offense," said M. Paul, "but this is a case where even as able a judge as yourself must have special assistance and—Gibelin couldn't find the truth in a thousand years. Do you think he's fit to handle this case?"

"Officially I have no opinion," answered Hauteville guardedly, "but I don't mind telling you personally that I—I'm sorry to lose you."

"Thanks," said M. Paul. "I think I'll have a word with the chief."

In the outer office Coquenil learned that M. Simon was just then in conference with one of the other judges and for some minutes he walked slowly up and down the long corridor, smiling bitterly, until presently one of the doors opened and the chief came out followed by a black bearded judge, who was bidding him obsequious farewell.

As M. Simon moved away briskly, his eye fell on the waiting detective, and his genial face clouded.

"Ah, Coquenil," he said, and with a kindly movement he took M. Paul's arm in his. "I want a word with you—over here," and he led the way to a wide window space. "I'm sorry about this business."

"Sorry?" exclaimed M. Paul. "So is Hauteville sorry, but—if you're sorry, why did you let the thing happen?"

"Not so loud," cautioned M. Simon. "My dear fellow, I assure you I couldn't help it, I had nothing to do with it."

Coquenil stared at him incredulously. "Aren't you chief of the detective bureau?"

"Yes," answered the other in a low tone, "but the order came from—from higher up."

"You mean from the préfet de police?"

M. Simon laid a warning finger on his lips. "This is in strictest confidence, the order came through his office, but I don't believe the préfet issued it personally. It came from higher up!"

"From higher up!" repeated M. Paul, and his thoughts flashed back to that sinister meeting on the Champs Elysées, to that harsh voice and flaunting defiance.

"He said he had power, that left-handed devil," muttered the detective, "he said he had the biggest kind of power, and—I guess he has."

A LONG LITTLE FINGER

Coquenil kept his appointment that night at the Three Wise Men and found Papa Tignol waiting for him, his face troubled even to the tip of his luminous purple nose. In vain the old man tried to show interest in a neighboring game of dominoes; the detective saw at a glance that his faithful friend had heard the bad news and was mourning over it.

"Ah, M. Paul," cried Tignol. "This is a pretty thing they tell me. Nom d'un chien, what a pack of fools they are!"

"Not so loud," cautioned Coquenil with a quiet smile. "It's all right, Papa Tignol, it's all for the best."

"All for the best?" stared the other. "But if you're off the force?"

"Wait a little and you'll understand," said the detective in a low tone, then as the tavern door opened: "Here is Pougeot! I telephoned him. Good evening, Lucien," and he shook hands cordially with the commissary, whose face wore a serious, inquiring look. "Will you have something, or shall we move on?" and, under his breath, he added: "Say you don't want anything."

"I don't want anything," obeyed Pougeot with a puzzled glance.

"Then come, it's a quarter past ten," and tossing some money to the waiter, Coquenil led the way out.

Drawn up in front of the tavern was a taxi-auto, the chauffeur bundled up to the ears in bushy gray furs, despite the mild night. There was a leather bag beside him.

"Is this your man?" asked Pougeot.

"Yes," said M. Paul, "get in. If you don't mind I'll lower this front window so that we can feel the air." Then, when the commissary and Tignol were seated, he gave directions to the driver. "We will drive through the bois and go out by the Porte Dauphine. Not too fast."

The man touched his cap respectfully, and a few moments later they were running smoothly to the west, over the wooden pavement of the Rue de Rivoli.

"Now we can talk," said Coquenil with an air of relief. "I suppose you both know what has happened?"

The two men replied with sympathetic nods.

"I regard you, Lucien, as my best friend, and you, Papa Tignol, are the only man on the force I believe I can absolutely trust."

Tignol bobbed his little bullet head back and forth, and pulled furiously at his absurd black mustache. This, was the greatest compliment he had ever received. The commissary laid an affectionate hand on Coquenil's arm. "You know I'll stand by you absolutely, Paul; I'll do anything that is possible. How do you feel about this thing yourself?"

"I felt badly at first," answered the other. "I was mortified and bitter. You know what I gave up to undertake this case, and you know how I have thrown myself into it. This is Wednesday night, the crime was committed last Saturday, and in these four days I haven't slept twelve hours. As to eating—well, never mind that. The point is, I was in it, heart and soul, and—now I'm out of it."

"An infernal shame!" muttered Tignol.

"Perhaps not. I've done some hard thinking since I got word this morning that my commission was canceled, and I have reached an important conclusion. In the first place, I am not sure that I haven't fallen into the old error of allowing my judgment to be too much influenced by a preconceived theory. I wouldn't admit this for the world to anyone but you two. I'd rather cut my tongue out than let Gibelin know it. Careful, there," he said sharply, as their wheels swung dangerously near a stone shelter in the Place de la Concorde.

Both Pougeot and Tignol noted with surprise the half-resigned, half-discouraged tone of the famous detective.

"You don't mean that you think the American may be guilty?" questioned the commissary.

"Never in the world!" grumbled Tignol.

"I don't say he is guilty," answered M. Paul, "but I am not so sure he is innocent. And, if there is doubt about that, then there is doubt whether this case is really a great one. I have assumed that Martinez was killed by an extraordinary criminal, for some extraordinary reason, but—I may have been mistaken."

"Of course," agreed Pougeot. "And if you were mistaken?"

"Then I've been wasting my time on a second-class investigation that a second-class man like Gibelin could have carried on as well as I; and losing the Rio Janeiro offer besides." He leaned forward suddenly toward the chauffeur. "See here, what are you trying to do?" As he spoke they barely escaped colliding with a cab coming down the Champs Elysées.

"It was his fault; one of his lanterns is out," declared the chauffeur, and, half turning, he exchanged curses with the departing jehu.

They had now reached Napoleon's arch, and, at greater speed, the automobile descended the Avenue de la Grande Armée.

"Are you thinking of accepting the Rio Janeiro offer?" asked the commissary presently.

"Very seriously; but I don't know whether it's still open. I thought perhaps you would go to the Brazilian Embassy and ask about it delicately. I don't like to go myself, after this affair. Do you mind?"

"No, I don't mind, of course I don't mind," answered, Pougeot, "but, my dear Paul, aren't you a little on your nerves to-night; oughtn't you to think the whole matter over before deciding?"

"That's right," agreed Tignol.

"What is there to think about?" said Coquenil. "If you've got anything to say, either of you, say it now. Run on through the bois," he directed the chauffeur, "and then out on the St. Cloud road. This air is doing me a lot of good," he added, drawing in deep breaths.

For some minutes they sat silent, speeding along through the Bois de Boulogne, dimly beautiful under a crescent moon, on past crowded restaurants with red-clad musicians on the terraces, on past the silent lake and then through narrow and deserted roads until they had crossed the great park and emerged upon the high-way.

"Where are we going, anyway?" inquired Tignol.

"For a little ride, for a little change," sighed M. Paul.

"Come, come," urged Pougeot, "you are giving way too much. Now listen to me."

Then, clearly and concisely, the commissary went over the situation, considering his friend's problem from various points of view; and so absorbed was he in fairly setting forth the advantages and disadvantages of the Rio Janeiro position that he did not observe Coquenil's utter indifference to what he was saying. But Papa Tignol saw this, and gradually, as he watched the detective with his shrewd little eyes, it dawned upon the old man that they were not speeding along here in the night, a dozen miles out of Paris, simply for their health, but that something special was preparing.

"What in the mischief is Coquenil up to?" wondered Tignol.

And presently, even Pougeot, in spite of his preoccupation, began to realize that there was something peculiar about this night promenade, for as they reached a crossroad, M. Paul ordered the chauffeur to turn into it and go ahead as fast as he pleased. The chauffeur hesitated, muttered some words of protest, and then obeyed.

"We are getting right out into wild country," remarked the commissary.

"Don't you like wild country?" laughed Coquenil. "I do." It was plain that his spirits were reviving.

They ran along this rough way for several miles, and presently came to a small house standing some distance back from the road.

"Stop here!" ordered the detective. "Now," he turned to Pougeot, "I shall learn something that may fix my decision." Then, leaning forward to the chauffeur, he said impressively: "Ten francs extra if you help me now."

These words had an immediate effect upon the man, who touched his cap and asked what he was to do.

"Go to this house," pointed M. Paul, "ring the bell and ask if there is a note for M. Robert. If there is, bring the note to me; if there isn't, never mind. If anyone asks who sent you, say M. Robert himself. Understand?"

"Oui, m'sieur," replied the chauffeur, and, saluting again, he strode away toward the house.

The detective watched his receding figure as it disappeared in the shadows, then he called out: "Wait, I forgot something."

The chauffeur turned obediently and came back.

"Take a good look at him now," said Coquenil to Tignol in a low tone. Then to the man: "There's a bad piece of ground in the yard; you'd better have this," and, without warning, he flashed his electric lantern full in the chauffeur's face.

"Merci, m'sieur," said the latter stolidly after a slight start, and again he moved away, while Tignol clutched M. Paul's arm in excitement.

"You saw him?" whispered the detective.

"Did I see him!" exulted the other. "Oh, the cheek of that fellow!"

"You recognized him?"

"Did I? I'd know those little pig eyes anywhere. And that brush of a mustache! Only half of it was blacked."

"Good; that's all I want," and, stepping out of the auto, Coquenil changed quickly to the front seat. Then he drew the starting lever and the machine began to move.

"Halloa! What are you doing?" cried the chauffeur, running toward them.

"Going back to Paris!" laughed Coquenil. "Hope you find the walking good, Gibelin!"

"It's only fifteen miles," taunted Tignol.

"You loafer, you blackguard, you dirty dog!" yelled Gibelin, dancing in a rage.

"Try to be more original in your detective work," called M. Paul. "Au revoir."

They shot away rapidly, while the outraged and discomfited fat man stood in the middle of the road hurling after them torrents of blasphemous abuse that soon grew faint and died away.

"What in the world does this mean?" asked Pougeot in astonishment.

Coquenil slowed down the machine and turned. "I can't talk now; I've got to drive this thing. It's lucky I know how."

"But—just a moment. That note for M. Robert? There was no Robert?"

"Of course not."

"And—and you knew it was Gibelin all the time?"

"Yes. Be patient, Lucien, until we get back and I'll tell you everything."

The run to Paris took nearly an hour, for they made a détour, and Coquenil drove cautiously; but they arrived safely, shortly after one, and left the automobile at the company's garage, with the explanation (readily accepted, since a police commissary gave it) that the man who belonged with the machine had met with an accident; indeed, this was true, for the genuine chauffeur had used Gibelin's bribe money in unwise libations and appeared the next morning with a battered head and a glib story that was never fully investigated.

"Now," said Coquenil, as they left the garage, "where can we go and be quiet? A café is out of the question—we mustn't be seen. Ah, that room you were to take," he turned to Tignol. "Did you get it?"

"I should say I did," grumbled the old man, "I've something to tell you."

"Tell me later," cut in the detective. "We'll go there. We can have something to eat sent in and—" he smiled indulgently at Tignol—"and something to drink. Hey, cocher!" he called to a passing cab, and a moment later the three men were rolling away to the Latin Quarter, with Coquenil's leather bag on the front seat.

"Enfin!" sighed Pougeot, when they were finally settled in Tignol's room, which they reached after infinite precautions, for M. Paul seemed to imagine that all Paris was in a conspiracy to follow them.

"I've been watched every minute since I started on this case," he said thoughtfully. "My house has been watched, my servant has been watched, my letters have been opened; there isn't one thing I've done that they don't know."

"They? Who?" asked the commissary.

"Ah, who?" repeated M. Paul. "If I only knew. You saw what they did with Gibelin to-night, set him after me when he is supposed to be handling this case. Fancy that! Who gave Gibelin his orders? Who had the authority? That's what I want to know. Not the chief, I swear; the chief is straight in this thing. It's some one above the chief. Lucien, I told you this was a great case and—it is."

"Then you didn't mean what you were saying in the automobile about having doubts?"

"Not a word of it."

"That was all for Gibelin?"

"Exactly. There's a chance that he may believe it, or believe some of it. He's such a conceited ass that he may think I only discovered him just at the last."

"And you're not thinking of going to Rio Janeiro?"

Coquenil shut his teeth hard, and there came into his eyes a look of indomitable purpose. "Not while the murderer of Martinez is walking about this town laughing at me. I expect to do some laughing myself before I get through with this case."

Both men stared at him. "But you are through."

"Am I? Ha! Through? I want to tell you, my friends, that I've barely begun."

"My dear Paul," reasoned the commissary, "what can you do off the force? How can you hope to succeed single-handed, when it was hard to succeed with the whole prefecture to help you?"

Coquenil paused, and then said mysteriously: "That's the point, did they help me? Or hinder me? One thing is certain: that if I work alone, I won't have to make daily reports for the guidance of some one higher up."

"You don't mean—" began the commissary with a startled look.

M. Paul nodded gravely. "I certainly do—there's no other way of explaining the facts. I was discharged for a trivial offense just as I had evidence that would prove this American innocent. They don't want him proved innocent. And they are so afraid I will discover the truth that they let the whole investigation wait while Gibelin shadows me. Well, he's off my track now, and by to-morrow they can search Paris with a fine-tooth comb and they won't find a trace of Paul Coquenil."

"You're going away?"

"No. I'm going to—to disappear," smiled the detective. "I shall work in the dark, and, when the time comes, I'll strike in the dark."

"You'll need money?"

Coquenil shook his head. "I have all the money I want, and know where to go for more. Besides, my old partner here is going to lay off for a few weeks and work with me. Eh, Papa Tignol?"

Tignol's eyes twinkled. "A few weeks or a few months is all the same to me. I'll follow you to the devil, M. Paul."

"That's right, that's where we're going. And when I need you, Lucien, you'll hear from me. I wanted you to understand the situation. I may have to call on you suddenly; you may get some strange message by some queer messenger. Look at this ring. Will you know it? A brown stone marked with Greek characters. It's debased Greek. The stone was dug up near Smyrna, where it had lain for fourteen hundred years. It's a talisman. You'll listen to anyone who brings you this ring, old friend? Eh?"

Pougeot grasped M. Paul's hand and wrung it affectionately. "And honor his request to the half of my kingdom," he laughed, but his eyes were moist. He had a vivid impression that his friend was entering on a way of great and unknown peril.

"Well," said Coquenil cheerfully, "I guess that's all for to-night. There's a couple of hours' work still for Papa Tignol and me, but it's half past two, Lucien, and, unless you think of something——"

"No, except to wish you luck," replied the commissary, and he started to go.

"Wait," put in Tignol, "there's something I think of. You forget I've been playing the flute to-day."

"Ah, yes, of course! Any news?" questioned the detective.

The old man rubbed his nose meditatively. "My news is asleep in the next room. If it wasn't so late I'd bring him in. He's a little shrimp of a photographer, but—he's seen your murderer, all right."

"The devil!" started M. Paul. "Where?"

Tignol drew back the double doors of a long window, and pointed out to a balcony running along the front of the hotel.

"There! Let me tell you first how this floor is arranged. There are six rooms opening on that balcony. See here," and taking a sheet of paper, he made a rough diagram.

"Now, then," continued Papa Tignol, surveying his handiwork with pride, "I think that is clear. B, here, is the balcony just outside, and there are the six rooms with windows opening on it. We are in this room D, and my friend, the little photographer, is in the next room E, peacefully sleeping; but he wasn't peaceful when he came home to-night and heard me playing that flute, although I played in my best manner, eh, eh! He stood it for about ten minutes, and then, eh, eh! It was another case of through the wall, first one boot, bang! then another boot, smash! only there were no holes for the boots to come through. And then it was profanity! For a small man he had a great deal of energy, eh, eh! that shrimp photographer! I called him a shrimp when he came bouncing in here."

"Well, well?" fretted Coquenil.

"Then we got acquainted. I apologized and offered him beer, which he likes; then he apologized and told me his troubles. Poor fellow, I don't wonder his nerves are unstrung! He's in love with a pretty dressmaker who lives in this room C. She is fair but fickle—he tells me she has made him unhappy by flirting with a medical student who lives in this room G. Just a minute, I'm coming to the point.

"It seems the little photographer has been getting more and more jealous lately. He was satisfied that his lady love and the medical student used this balcony as a lover's lane, and he began lying in wait at his window for the medical student to steal past toward the dress-maker's room."

"Yes?" urged the detective with growing interest.

"For several nights last week he waited and nothing happened. But he's a patient little shrimp, so he waited again Saturday night and—something did happen. Saturday night!"

"The night of the murder," reflected the commissary.

"That's it. It was a little after midnight, he says, and suddenly, as he stood waiting and listening, he heard a cautious step coming along the balcony from the direction of the medical student's room, G. Then he saw a man pass his window, and he was sure it was the medical student. He stepped out softly and followed him as far as the window of room C. Then, feeling certain his suspicions were justified, he sprang upon the man from behind, intending to chastise him, but he had caught the wrong pig by the ear, for the man turned on him like a flash and—it wasn't the medical student."

"Who was it? Go on!" exclaimed the others eagerly.

"He doesn't know who it was, or anything about the man except that his hand shut like a vise on the shrimp's throat and nearly choked the life out of him. You can see the nail marks still on the cheek and neck; but he remembers distinctly that the man carried something in his hand."

"My God! The missing pair of boots!" cried Coquenil. "Was it?"

Tignol nodded. "Sure! He was carrying 'em loose in his hand. I mean they were not wrapped up, he was going to leave 'em in Kittredge's room—here it is, A." He pointed to the diagram.

"It's true, it must be true," murmured M. Paul. "And what then?"

"Nothing. I guess the man saw it was only a shrimp he had hold of, so he shook him two or three times and dropped him back into his own room; and he never said a word."

"And the boots?"

"He must have taken the boots with him. The shrimp peeped out and saw him go back into this room F, which has been empty for several weeks. Then he heard steps on the stairs and the slam of the heavy street door. The man was gone."

Coquenil's face grew somber. "It was the assassin," he said; "there's no doubt about it."

"Mightn't it have been some one he sent?" suggested Pougeot.

"No—that would have meant trusting his secret to another man, and he hasn't trusted anyone. Besides, the fierce way he turned on the photographer shows his nervous tension. It was the murderer himself and—" The detective stopped short at the flash of a new thought. "Great heavens!" he cried, "I can prove it, I can settle the thing right now. You say his nail marks show?"

Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "They show as little scratches, but not enough for any funny business with a microscope."

"Little scratches are all I want," said the other, snapping his fingers excitedly. "It's simply a question which side of his throat bears the thumb mark. We know the murderer is a left-handed man, and, being suddenly attacked, he certainly used the full strength of his left hand in the first desperate clutch. He was facing the man as he took him by the throat, so, if he used his left hand, the thumb mark must be on the left side of the photographer's throat, whereas if a right-handed man had done it, the thumb mark would be on the right side. Stand up here and take me by the throat. That's it! Now with your left hand! Don't you see?"

"Yes," said Tignol, making the experiment, "I see."

"Now bring the man in here, wake him, tell him—tell him anything you like. I must know this."

"I'll get him in," said the commissary. "Come," and he followed Tignol into the hall.

A few moments later they returned with a thin, sleepy little person wrapped in a red dressing gown. It was the shrimp.

"There!" exclaimed Papa Tignol with a gesture of satisfaction.

The photographer, under the spell of Pougeot's authority, stood meekly for inspection, while Coquenil, holding a candle close, studied the marks on his face. There, plainly marked on the left side of the throat was a single imprint, the curving red mark where a thumb nail had closed hard against the jugular vein (this man knew the deadly pressure points), while on the right side of the photographer's face were prints of the fingers.

"He used his left hand, all right," said Coquenil, "and, sapristi, he had sharp nails!"

"Parbleu!" mumbled the shrimp.

"Here over the cheek bone is the mark of his first finger. And here, in front of the ear, is his second finger, and here is his third finger, just behind the ear, and here, way down on the neck, is his little finger. Lord of heaven, what a reach! Let's see if I can put my fingers on these marks. There's the thumb, there's the first finger—stand still, I won't hurt you! There's the second finger, and the third, and—look at that, see that mark of the little finger nail. I've got long fingers myself, but I can't come within an inch of it. You try."

TOUCHING A YELLOW TOOTH

It was a quarter past four, and still night, when Coquenil left the Hôtel des Étrangers; he wore a soft black hat pulled down over his eyes, and a shabby black coat turned up around his throat; and he carried the leather bag taken from the automobile. The streets were silent and deserted, yet the detective studied every doorway and corner with vigilant care, while a hundred yards behind him, in exactly similar dress, came Papa Tignol, peering into the shadows with sharpest watchfulness against human shadows bent on harming M. Paul.

So they moved cautiously down the Boulevard St. Michel, then over the bridge and along the river to Notre-Dame, whose massive towers stood out in mysterious beauty against the faintly lighted eastern sky. Here the leader paused for his companion.

"There's nothing," he said, as the latter joined him.

"Nothing."

"Good! Take the bag and wait for me, but keep out of sight."

"Entendu."

Coquenil walked across the square to the cathedral, moving slowly, thinking over the events of the night. They had crossed the track of the assassin, that was sure, but they had discovered nothing that could help in his capture except the fact of the long little finger. The man had left absolutely nothing in his room at the hotel (this they verified with the help of false keys), and had never returned after the night of the crime, although he had taken the room for a month, and paid the rent in advance. He had made two visits to this room, one at about three in the afternoon of the fatal day, when he spent an hour there, and entered Kittredge's room, no doubt, for the boots and the pistol; the other visit he made the same night when he tried to return the boots and was prevented from doing so. How he must have cursed that little photographer!

As to the assassin's personal appearance, there was a startling difference of opinion between the hotel doorkeeper and the garçon, both of whom saw him and spoke to him. The one declared he had light hair and a beard, the other that he had dark hair and no beard; the one thought he was a Frenchman, the other was sure he was a foreigner. Evidently the man was disguised either coming or going, so this testimony was practically worthless.

Despite all this, Coquenil was pleased and confident as he rang the night bell at the archbishop's house beside the cathedral, for he had one precious clew, he had the indication of this extraordinarily long little finger, and he did not believe that in all France there were two men with hands like that. And he knew there was one such man, for Alice had seen him. Where had she seen him? She said she had often noticed his long little finger, so she must often have been close enough to him to observe such a small peculiarity. But Alice went about very little, she had few friends, and all of them must be known to the Bonnetons. It ought to be easy to get from the sacristan this information which the girl herself might withhold. Hence this nocturnal visit to Notre Dame—it was of the utmost importance that Coquenil have an immediate talk with Papa Bonneton.

And presently, after a sleepy salutation from the archbishop's servant, and a brief explanation, M. Paul was shown through a stone passageway that connects the church with the house, and on pushing open a wide door covered with red velvet, he found himself alone in Notre Dame, alone in utter darkness save for a point of red light on the shadowy altar before the Blessed Sacrament.

As he stood uncertain which way to turn, the detective heard a step and a low growl, and peering among the arches of the choir he saw a lantern advancing, then a figure holding the lantern, then another crouching figure moving before the lantern. Then he recognized Cæsar.

"Phee-et, phee-et!" he whistled softly, and with a start and a glad rush, the dog came bounding to his master, while the sacristan stared in alarm.

"Good old Cæsar! There, there!" murmured Coquenil, fondling the eager head. "It's all right, Bonneton," and coming forward, he held out his hand as the guardian lifted his lantern in suspicious scrutiny.

"M. Paul, upon my soul!" exclaimed the sacristan. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"It's a little—er—personal matter," coughed Coquenil discreetly, "partly about Cæsar. Can we sit down somewhere?"

Still wondering, Bonneton led the way to a small room adjoining the treasure chamber, where a dim lamp was burning; here he and his associates got alternate snatches of sleep during the night.

"Hey, François!" He shook a sleeping figure on a cot bed, and the latter roused himself and sat up. "It's time to make the round."

François looked stupidly at Coquenil and then, with a yawn and a shrug of indifference, he called to the dog, while Cæsar growled his reluctance.

"It's all right, old fellow," encouraged Coquenil, "I'll see you again," whereupon Cæsar trotted away reassured.

"Take this chair," said the sacristan. "I'll sit on the bed. We don't have many visitors."

"Now, then," began M. Paul. "I'll come to the dog in a minute—don't worry. I'm not going to take him away. But first I want to ask about that girl who sells candles. She boards with you, doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"You know she's in love with this American who's in prison?"

"I know."

"She came to see me the other day."

"She did?"

"Yes, and the result of her visit was—well, it has made a lot of trouble. What I'm going to say is absolutely between ourselves—you mustn't tell a soul, least of all your wife."

"You can trust me, M. Paul," declared Papa Bonneton rubbing his hands in excitement.

"To begin with, who is the man with the long little finger that she told me about?" He put the questions carelessly, as if it were of no particular moment.

"Why, that's Groener," answered Bonneton simply.

"Groener? Oh, her cousin?"

"Yes."

"I'm interested," went on the detective with the same indifferent air, "because I have a collection of plaster hands at my house—I'll show it to you some day—and there's one with a long little finger that the candle girl noticed. Is her cousin's little finger really very long?"

"It's pretty long," said Bonneton. "I used to think it had been stretched in some machine. You know he's a wood carver."

"I know. Well, that's neither here nor there. The point is, this girl had a dream that—why, what's the matter?"

"Don't talk to me about her dreams!" exclaimed the sacristan. "She used to have us scared to death with 'em. My wife won't let her tell 'em any more, and it's a good thing she won't." For a mild man he spoke with surprising vehemence.

"Bonneton," continued the detective mysteriously, "I don't know whether it's from her dreams or in some other way, but that girl knows things that—that she has no business to know."

Then, briefly and impressively, Coquenil told of the extraordinary revelations that Alice had made, not only to him, but to the director of the Santé prison.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" muttered the old man. "I think she's possessed of the devil."

"She's possessed of dangerous knowledge, and I want to know where she got it. I want to know all about this girl, who she is, where she came from, everything. And that's where you can help me."

Bonneton shook his head. "We know very little about her, and, the queer thing is, she seems to know very little about herself."

"Perhaps she knows more than she wants to tell."

"Perhaps, but—I don't think so. I believe she is perfectly honest. Anyhow, her cousin is a stupid fellow. He comes on from Brussels every five or six months and spends two nights with us—never more, never less. He eats his meals, attends to his commissions for wood carving, takes Alice out once in the afternoon or evening, gives my wife the money for her board, and that's all. For five years it's been the same—you know as much about him in one visit as you would in a hundred. There's nothing much to know; he's just a stupid wood carver."

"You say he takes Alice out every time he comes? Is she fond of him?"

"Why—er—yes, I think so, but he upsets her. I've noticed she's nervous just before his visits, and sort of sad after them. My wife says the girl has her worst dreams then."

Coquenil took out a box of cigarettes. "You don't mind if I smoke?" And, without waiting for permission, he lighted one of his Egyptians and inhaled long breaths of the fragrant smoke. "Not a word, Bonneton! I want to think." Then for full five minutes he sat silent.

"I have it!" he exclaimed presently. "Tell me about this man François."

"François?" answered the sacristan in surprise. "Why, he helps me with the night work here."

"Where does he live?"

"In a room near here."

"Where does he eat?"

"He takes two meals with us."

"Ah! Do you think he would like to make a hundred francs by doing nothing? Of course he would. And you would like to make five hundred?"

"Five hundred francs?" exclaimed Bonneton, with a frightened look.

"Don't be afraid," laughed the other. "I'm not planning to steal the treasure. When do you expect this wood carver again?"

"It's odd you should ask that, for my wife only told me this morning she's had a letter from him. We didn't expect him for six weeks yet, but it seems he'll be here next Wednesday. Something must have happened."

"Next Wednesday," reflected Coquenil. "He always comes when he says he will?"

"Always. He's as regular as clockwork."

"And he spends two nights with you?"

"Yes."

"That will be Wednesday night and Thursday night of next week?"

"Yes."

"Good! Now I'll show you how you're going to make this money. I want François to have a little vacation; he looks tired. I want him to go into the country on Tuesday and stay until Friday."

"And his work? Who will do his work?"

Coquenil smiled quietly and tapped his breast.

"You?"

"I will take François's place. I'll be the best assistant you ever had and I shall enjoy Mother Bonneton's cooking."

"You will take your meals with us?" cried the sacristan aghast. "But they all know you."

"None of them will know me; you won't know me yourself."

"Ah, I see," nodded the old man wisely. "You will have a disguise. But my wife has sharp eyes."

"If she knows me, or if the candle girl knows me, I'll give you a thousand francs instead of five hundred. Now, here is the money for François"—he handed the sacristan a hundred-franc note—"and here are five hundred francs for you. I shall come on Tuesday, ready for work. When do you want me?"

"At six o'clock," answered the sacristan doubtfully. "But what shall I say if anyone asks me about it?"

"Say François was sick, and you got your old friend Matthieu to replace him for a few days. I'm Matthieu!"

Papa Bonneton touched the five crisp bank notes caressingly; their clean blue and white attracted him irresistibly.

"You wouldn't get me into trouble, M. Paul?" he appealed weakly.

"Papa Bonneton," answered Coquenil earnestly, "have I ever shown you anything but friendship? When old Max died and you asked me to lend you Cæsar I did it, didn't I? And you know what Cæsar is to me. I love that dog, if anything happened to him—well, I don't like to think of it, but I let you have him, didn't I? That proves my trust; now I want yours. I can't explain my reasons; it isn't necessary, but I tell you that what I'm asking cannot do you the least harm, and may do me the greatest good. There, it's up to you."

M. Paul held out his hand frankly and the sacristan took it, with emotion.

"That settles it," he murmured. "I never doubted you, but—my wife has an infernal tongue and——"

"She will never know anything about this," smiled the other, "and, if she should, give her one or two of these bank notes. It's wonderful how they change a woman's point of view. Besides, you can prepare her by talking about François's bad health."

"A good idea!" brightened Bonneton.

"Then it's understood. Tuesday, at six, your friend Matthieu will be here to replace François. Remember—Matthieu!"

"I'll remember."

The detective rose to go. "Good night—or, rather, good morning, for the day is shining through that rose window. Pretty, isn't it? Ouf, I wonder when I'll get the sleep I need!" He moved toward the door. "Oh, I forgot about the dog. Tignol will come for him Tuesday morning with a line from me. I shall want Cæsar in the afternoon, but I'll bring him back at six."

"All right," nodded the sacristan; "he'll be ready. Au revoir—until Tuesday."

M. Paul went through the side door and then through the high iron gateway before the archbishop's house. He glanced at his watch and it was after five. Across the square Papa Tignol was waiting.

"Things are marching along," smiled Coquenil some minutes later as they rolled along toward the Eastern railway station. "You know what you have to do. And I know what I have to do! Bon Dieu! what a life! You'd better have more money—here," and he handed the other some bank notes. "We meet Tuesday at noon near the Auteuil station beneath the first arch of the viaduct."

"Do you know what day Tuesday is?"

M. Paul thought a moment. "The fourteenth of July! Our national holiday! And the crime was committed on the American Independence Day. Strange, isn't it?"

"There will be a great crowd about."

"There's safety in a crowd. Besides, I've got to suit my time to his."

"Then you really expect to see—him?" questioned the old man.

"Yes," nodded the other briefly. "Remember this, don't join me on Tuesday or speak to me or make any sign to me unless you are absolutely sure you have not been followed. If you are in any doubt, put your message under the dog's collar and let him find me. By the way, you'd better have Cæsar clipped. It's a pity, but—it's safer."

Now they were rattling up the Rue Lafayette in the full light of day.

"Ten minutes to six," remarked Tignol. "My train leaves at six forty."

"You'll have time to get breakfast. I'll leave you now. There's nothing more to say. You have my letter—for her. You'll explain that it isn't safe for me to write through the post office. And she mustn't try to write me. I'll come to her as soon as I can. You have the money for her; say I want her to buy a new dress, a nice one, and if there's anything else she wants, why, she must have it. Understand?"

Tignol nodded.

Then, dropping the cab window, M. Paul told the driver to stop, and they drew up before the terraced fountains of the Trinité church.

"Good-by and good luck," said Coquenil, clasping Tignol's hand, "and—don't let her worry."

The cab rolled on, and M. Paul, bag in hand, strode down a side street; but just at the corner he turned and looked after the hurrying vehicle, and his eyes were full of sadness and yearning.

Tuesday, the fourteenth of July! The great French holiday! All Paris in the streets, bands playing, soldiers marching, everybody happy or looking happy! And from early morning all trains, 'buses, cabs, automobiles, in short, all moving things in the gay city were rolling a jubilant multitude toward the Bois de Boulogne, where the President of the Republique was to review the troops before a million or so of his fellow-citizens. Coquenil had certainly chosen the busiest end of Paris for his meeting with Papa Tignol.

Their rendezvous was at noon, but two hours earlier Tignol took the train at the St. Lazare station. And with him came Cæsar, such a changed, unrecognizable Cæsar! Poor dog! His beautiful, glossy coat of brown and white had been clipped to ridiculous shortness, and he crouched at the old man's feet in evident humiliation.

"It was a shame, old fellow," said Tignol consolingly, "but we had to obey orders, eh? Never mind, it will grow out again."

Leaving the train at Auteuil, they walked down the Rue La Fontaine to a tavern near the Rue Mozart, where the old man left Cæsar in charge of the proprietor, a friend of his. It was now a quarter to eleven, and Tignol spent the next hour riding back and forth on the circular railway between Auteuil and various other stations; he did this because Coquenil had charged him to be sure he was not followed; he felt reasonably certain that he was not, but he wished to be absolutely certain.

So he rode back to the Avenue Henri Martin, where he crossed the platform and boarded a returning train for the Champs de Mars, telling the guard he had made a mistake. Two other passengers did the same, a young fellow and a man of about fifty, with a rough gray beard. Tignol did not see the young fellow again, but when he got off at the Champs de Mars, the gray-bearded man got off also and followed across the bridge to the opposite platform, where both took the train back to Auteuil.

This was suspicious, so at Auteuil Tignol left the station quickly, only to return a few minutes later and buy another ticket for the Avenue Henri Martin. There once more he crossed the platform and took a train for the Champs de Mars, and this time he congratulated himself that no one had followed him; but when he got off, as before, at the Champs de Mars and crossed the bridge, he saw the same gray-bearded man crossing behind him. There was no doubt of it, he was being shadowed.

And now Tignol waited until the train back to Auteuil was about starting, then he deliberately got into a compartment where the gray-bearded man was seated alone. And, taking out pencil and paper, he proceeded to write a note for Coquenil. Their meeting was now impossible, so he must fasten this explanation, along with his full report, under Cæsar's collar and let the dog be messenger, as had been arranged.

"I am sending this by Cæsar," he wrote, "because I am watched. The man following me is a bad-looking brute with dirty gray beard and no mustache. He has a nervous trick of half shutting his eyes and jerking up the corners of his mouth, which shows the worst set of ugly yellow teeth I ever saw. I'd like to have one of them for a curiosity."

"Would you?" said the man suddenly, as if answering a question.

Tignol stared at him.

"Excuse me," explained the other, "but I read handwriting upside down."

"Oh!"

"You say you would like one of my teeth?"

"Don't trouble," smiled Tignol.

"It's no trouble," declared the stranger. "On the contrary!" and seizing one of his yellow fangs between thumb and first finger he gave a quick wrench. "There!" he said with a hideous grin, and he handed Tignol the tooth.

They were just coming into the Auteuil station as this extraordinary maneuver was accomplished.

"I'll be damned!" exclaimed Tignol.