Through the Wall

AT THE HAIRDRESSER'S

What had happened was very simple. The confessional box from which Alice had vanished was one not in use at the moment, owing to repairs in the wall behind it. These repairs had necessitated the removal of several large stones, replaced temporarily by lengths of supporting timbers between which a person might easily pass. Coquenil, with his habit of careful observation, had remarked this fact during his night in the church, and now he had taken advantage of it to effect Alice's escape. The girl had entered the confessional in the usual way, had remained there long enough to let Groener hear her voice, and had then slipped out through the open wall into the sacristy passage beyond. And the priest was Tignol!

"I scored on him that time," chuckled Coquenil, rubbing away at the woodwork and thinking of Alice hastening to the safe place he had chosen for her.

"M. Matthieu!" called Groener. "Would you mind coming here a moment?"

"I was just going to ask you to look at these carvings," replied Matthieu, coming forward innocently.

"No, no," answered the other excitedly, "a most unfortunate thing has happened. Look at that!" and he opened the door of the confessional. "She has gone—run away!"

Matthieu stared in blank surprise. "Name of a pipe!" he muttered. "Not your cousin?"

Groener nodded with half-shut eyes in which the detective caught a flash of black rage, but only a flash. In a moment the man's face was placid and good-natured as before.

"Yes," he said quietly, "my cousin has run away. It makes me sad because—Sit down a minute, M. Matthieu, I'll tell you about it."

"We'll be more quiet in here," suggested Matthieu, indicating the sacristy.

The wood carver shook his head. "I'd sooner go outside, if you don't mind. Will you join me in a glass at the tavern?"

His companion, marveling inwardly, agreed to this, and a few moments later the two men were seated under the awning of the Three Wise Men.

"Now," began Groener, with perfect simplicity and friendliness, "I'll explain the trouble between Alice and me. I've had a hard time with that girl, M. Matthieu, a very hard time. If it wasn't for her mother, I'd have washed my hands of her long ago; but her mother was a fine woman, a noble woman. It's true she made one mistake that ruined her life and practically killed her, still——"

"What mistake was that?" inquired Matthieu with sympathy.

"Why, she married an American who was—the less we say about him the better. The point is, Alice is half American, and ever since she has been old enough to take notice, she has been crazy about American men." He leaned closer and, lowering his voice, added: "That's why I had to send her to Paris five years ago."

"You don't say!"

"She was only thirteen then, but well developed and very pretty and—M. Matthieu, she got gone on an American who was spending the winter in Brussels, a married man. I had to break it up somehow, so I sent her away. Yes, sir." He shook his head sorrowfully.

"And now it's another American, a man in prison, charged with a horrible crime. Think of that! As soon as Mother Bonneton wrote me about it, I saw I'd have to take the girl away again. I told her this morning she must pack up her things and go back to Brussels with me, and that made the trouble."

"Ah!" exclaimed Matthieu with an understanding nod. "Then she knew at luncheon that you would take her back to Brussels?"

"Of course she did. You know how she acted; she had made up her mind she wouldn't go. Only she was tricky about it. She knew I had my eye on her, so she got this priest to help her."

Now the other stared in genuine astonishment. "Why—was the priest in it?"

"Was he in it? Of course he was in it. He was the whole thing. This Father Anselm has been encouraging the girl for months, filling her up with nonsense about how it's right for a young girl to choose her own husband. Mother Bonneton told me."

"You mean that Father Anselm helped her to run away?" gasped Matthieu.

"Of course he did. You saw him come out of the confessional, didn't you?"

"I was too far away to see his face," replied the other, studying the wood carver closely. "Did you see his face?"

"Certainly I did. He passed within ten feet of me. I saw his face distinctly."

"Are you sure it was he? I don't doubt you, M. Groener, but I'm a sort of official here and this is a serious charge, so I ask if you are sure it was Father Anselm?".

"I'm absolutely sure it was Father Anselm," answered the wood carver positively. He paused a moment while the detective wondered what was the meaning of this extraordinary statement. Why was the man giving him these details about Alice, and how much of them was true? Did Groener know he was talking to Paul Coquenil? If so, he knew that Coquenil must know he was lying about Father Anselm. Then why say such a thing? What was his game?

GROENER AT BAY

Two hours later (it was nearly seven) Judge Hauteville sat in his office at the Palais de Justice, hurrying through a meal that had been brought in from a restaurant.

"There," he muttered, wiping his mouth, "that will keep me going for a few hours," and he touched the bell.

"Is M. Coquenil back yet?" he asked when the clerk appeared.

"Yes, sir," replied the latter, "he's waiting."

"Good! I'll see him."

The clerk withdrew and presently ushered in the detective.

"Sit down," motioned the judge. "Coquenil, I've done a hard day's work and I'm tired, but I'm going to examine this man of yours to-night."

"I'm glad of that," said M. Paul, "I think it's important."

"Important? Humph! The morning would do just as well—however, we'll let that go. Remember, you have no standing in this case. The work has been done by Tignol, the warrant was served by Tignol, and the witnesses have been summoned by Tignol. Is that understood?"

"Of course."

"That is my official attitude," smiled Hauteville, unbending a little; "I needn't add that, between ourselves, I appreciate what you have done, and if this affair turns out as I hope it will, I shall do my best to have your services properly recognized."

Coquenil bowed.

"Now then," continued the judge, "have you got the witnesses?"

"They are all here except Father Anselm. He has been called to the bedside of a dying woman, but we have his signed statement that he had nothing to do with the girl's escape."

"Of course not, we knew that, anyway. And the girl?"

"I went for her myself. She is outside."

"And the prisoner?"

"He's in another room under guard. I thought it best he shouldn't see the witnesses."

"Quite right. He'd better not see them when he comes through the outer office. You attend to that."

"Bien!"

"Is there anything else before I send for him? Oh, the things he wore? Did you find them?"

The detective nodded. "We found that he has a room on the fifth floor, over Madam Cecile's. He keeps it by the year. He made his change there, and we found everything that he took off—the wig, the beard, and the rough clothes."

The judge rubbed his hands. "Capital! Capital! It's a great coup. We may as well begin. I want you to be present, Coquenil, at the examination."

"Ah, that's kind of you!" exclaimed M. Paul.

"Not kind at all, you'll be of great service. Get those witnesses out of sight and then bring in the man."

A few moments later the prisoner entered, walking with hands manacled, at the side of an imposing garde de Paris. He still wore his smart clothes, and was as coldly self-possessed as at the moment of his arrest. He seemed to regard both handcuffs and guard as petty details unworthy of his attention, and he eyed the judge and Coquenil with almost patronizing scrutiny.

"Sit there," said Hauteville, pointing to a chair, and the newcomer obeyed indifferently.

The clerk settled himself at his desk and prepared to write.

"What is your name?" began the judge.

"I don't care to give my name," answered the other.

"Why not?"

"That's my affair."

"Is your name Adolf Groener?"

"No."

"Are you a wood carver?"

"No."

"Have you recently been disguised as a wood carver?"

"No."

He spoke the three negatives with a listless, rather bored air.

"Groener, you are lying and I'll prove it shortly. Tell me, first, if you have money to employ a lawyer?"

"Possibly, but I wish no lawyer."

"That is not the question. You are under suspicion of having committed a crime and——"

"What crime?" asked the prisoner sharply.

"Murder," said the judge; then impressively, after a pause: "We have reason to think that you shot the billiard player, Martinez."

Both judge and detective watched the man closely as this name was spoken, but neither saw the slightest sign of emotion.

"Martinez?" echoed the prisoner indifferently. "I never heard of him."

"Ah! You'll hear enough of him before you get through," nodded Hauteville grimly. "The law requires that a prisoner have the advantage of counsel during examination. So I ask if you will provide a lawyer?"

"No," answered the accused.

"Then the court will assign a lawyer for your defense. Ask Maître Curé to come in," he directed the clerk.

"It's quite useless," shrugged the prisoner with careless arrogance, "I will have nothing to do with Maître Curé."

"I warn you, Groener, in your own interest, to drop this offensive tone."

"Ta, ta, ta! I'll take what tone I please. And I'll answer your questions as I please or—or not at all."

At this moment the clerk returned followed by Maître Curé, a florid-faced, brisk-moving, bushy-haired man in tight frock coat, who suggested an opera impresario. He seemed amused when told that the prisoner rejected his services, and established himself comfortably in a corner of the room as an interested spectator.

Then the magistrate resumed sternly: "You were arrested, sir, this afternoon in the company of a woman. Do you know who she is?"

"I do. She is a lady of my acquaintance."

"A lady whom you met at Madam Cecile's?"

"Why not?"

"You met her there by appointment?"

"Ye-es."

The judge snorted incredulously. "You don't even know her name?"

"You think not?"

"Well, what is it?"

"Why should I tell you? Is she charged with murder?" was the sneering answer.

"Groener," said Hauteville sternly, "you say this woman is a person of your acquaintance. We'll see." He touched the bell, and as the door opened, "Madam Cecile," he said.

A moment later, with a breath of perfume, there swept in a large, overdressed woman of forty-five with bold, dark eyes and hair that was too red to be real. She bowed to the judge with excessive affability and sat down.

"You are Madam Cecile?"

"Yes, sir."

"You keep a maison de rendez-vous on the Place de la Madeleine?"

"Yes, sir."

"Look at this man," he pointed to the prisoner. "Have you ever seen him before?"

"I have seen him—once."

"When was that?"

"This afternoon. He called at my place and—" she hesitated.

"Tell me what happened—everything."

"He spoke to me and—he said he wanted a lady. I asked him what kind of a lady he wanted, and he said he wanted a real lady, not a fake. I told him I had a very pretty widow and he looked at her, but she wasn't chic enough. Then I told him I had something special, a young married woman, a beauty, whose husband has plenty of money only——"

"Never mind that," cut in the judge. "What then?"

"He looked her over and said she would do. He offered her five hundred francs if she would leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage. It seemed queer but we see lots of queer things, and five hundred francs is a nice sum. He paid it in advance, so I told her to go ahead and—she did."

"Do you think he knew the woman?"

"I'm sure he did not."

"He simply paid her five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"

"Exactly."

"That will do. You may go."

With a sigh of relief and a swish of her perfumed skirts, Madam Cecile left the room.

"What do you say to that, Groener?" questioned the judge.

"She's a disreputable person and her testimony has no value," answered the prisoner unconcernedly.

"Did you pay five hundred francs to the woman who left the house with you?"

"Certainly not."

"Do you still maintain that she is a lady whom you know personally?"

"I do."

Again Hauteville touched the bell. "The lady who was brought with this man," he directed.

Outside there sounded a murmur of voices and presently a young woman, handsomely dressed and closely veiled, was led in by a guard. She was almost fainting with fright.

The judge rose courteously and pointed to a chair. "Sit down, madam. Try to control yourself. I shall detain you only a minute. Now—what is your name?"

The woman sat silent, wringing her hands in distress, then she burst out: "It will disgrace me, it will ruin me."

"Not at all," assured Hauteville. "Your name will not go on the records—you need not even speak it aloud. Simply whisper it to me."

Rising in agitation the lady went to the judge's desk and spoke to him inaudibly.

"Really!" he exclaimed, eying her in surprise as she stood before him, face down, the picture of shame.

"I have only two questions to ask," he proceeded. "Look at this man and tell me if you know him," he pointed to the accused.

She shook her head and answered in a low tone: "I never saw him before this afternoon."

"You met him at Madam Cecile's?"

"Ye-es," very faintly.

"And he paid you five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"

She nodded but did not speak.

"That was the only service you were to render, was it, for this sum of money, simply to leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage?"

"That was all."

"Thank you, madam. I hope you will learn a lesson from this experience. You may go."

Staggering, gasping for breath, clinging weakly to the guard's arm, the lady left the room.

"Now, sir, what have you to say?" demanded the judge, facing the prisoner.

"Nothing."

"You admit that the lady told the truth?"

"Ha, ha!" the other laughed harshly. "A lady would naturally tell the truth in such a predicament, wouldn't she?"

At this the judge leaned over to Coquenil and, after some low words, he spoke to the clerk who bowed and went out.

"You denied a moment ago," resumed the questioner, "that your name is Groener. Also that you were disguised this afternoon as a wood carver. Do you deny that you have a room, rented by the year, in the house where Madam Cecile has her apartment? Ah, that went home!" he exclaimed. "You thought we would overlook the little fifth-floor room, eh?"

"I know nothing about such a room," declared the other.

"I suppose you didn't go there to change your clothes before you called at Madam Cecile's?"

"Certainly not."

"Call Jules," said Hauteville to the sleepy guard standing at the door, and straightway the clerk reappeared with a large leather bag.

"Open it," directed the magistrate. "Spread the things on the table. Let the prisoner look at them. Now then, my stubborn friend, what about these garments? What about this wig and false beard?"

Groener rose wearily from his chair, walked deliberately to the table and glanced at the exposed objects without betraying the slightest interest or confusion.

"I've never seen these things before, I know nothing about them," he said.

"Name of a camel!" muttered Coquenil. "He's got his nerve with him all right!"

The judge sat silent, playing with his lead pencil, then he folded a sheet of paper and proceeded to mark it with a series of rough geometrical patterns, afterwards going over them again, shading them carefully. Finally he looked up and said quietly to the guard: "Take off his handcuffs."

The guard obeyed.

"Now take off his coat."

This was done also, the prisoner offering no resistance.

"Now his shirt," and the shirt was taken off.

"Now his boots and trousers."

All this was done, and a few moments later the accused stood in his socks and underclothing. And still he made no protest.

Here M. Paul whispered to Hauteville, who nodded in assent.

"Certainly. Take off his garters and pull up his drawers. I want his legs bare below the knees."

"It's an outrage!" cried Groener, for the first time showing feeling.

"Silence, sir!" glared the magistrate.

"You'll be bare above the knees in the morning when your measurements are taken." Then to the guard: "Do what I said."

Again the guard obeyed, and Coquenil stood by in eager watchfulness as the prisoner's lower legs were uncovered.

"Ah!" he cried in triumph, "I knew it, I was sure of it! There!" he pointed to an egg-shaped wound on the right calf, two red semicircles plainly imprinted in the white flesh. "It's the first time I ever marked a man with my teeth and—it's a jolly good thing I did."

"How about this, Groener?" questioned the judge. "Do you admit having had a struggle with Paul Coquenil one night on the street?"

"No."

"What made that mark on your leg?"

"I—I was bitten by a dog."

"It's a wonder you didn't shoot the dog," flashed the detective.

"What do you mean?" retorted the other.

Coquenil bent close, black wrath burning in his deep-set eyes, and spoke three words that came to him by lightning intuition, three simple words that, nevertheless, seemed to smite the prisoner with sudden fear: "Oh, nothing, Raoul!"

So evident was the prisoner's emotion that Hauteville turned for an explanation to the detective, who said something under his breath.

"Very strange! Very important!" reflected the magistrate. Then to the accused: "In the morning we'll have that wound studied by experts who will tell us whether it was made by a dog or a man. Now I want you to put on the things that were in that bag."

For the first time a sense of his humiliation seemed to possess the prisoner. He clinched his hands fiercely and a wave of uncontrollable anger swept over him.

"No," he cried hoarsely, "I won't do it, I'll never do it!"

Both the judge and Coquenil gave satisfied nods at this sign of a breakdown, but they rejoiced too soon, for by a marvelous effort of the will, the man recovered his self-mastery and calm.

"After all," he corrected himself, "what does it matter? I'll put the things on," and, with his old impassive air, he went to the table and, aided by the guard, quickly donned the boots and garments of the wood carver. He even smiled contemptuously as he did so.

"What a man! What a man!" thought Coquenil, watching him admiringly.

"There!" said the prisoner when the thing was done.

But the judge shook his head. "You've forgotten the beard and the wig. Suppose you help make up his face," he said to the detective.

M. Paul fell to work zealously at this task and, using an elaborate collection of paints, powders, and brushes that were in the bag, he presently had accomplished a startling change in the unresisting prisoner—he had literally transformed him into the wood carver.

"If you're not Groener now," said Coquenil, surveying his work with a satisfied smile, "I'll swear you're his twin brother. It's the best disguise I ever saw, I'll take my hat off to you on that."

"Extraordinary!" murmured the judge. "Groener, do you still deny that this disguise belongs to you?"