Through the Wall

COQUENIL'S MOTHER

In accordance with orders, Papa Tignol appeared at the Villa Montmorency betimes the next morning. It was a perfect summer's day and the old man's heart was light as he walked up the Avenue des Tilleuls, past vine-covered walls and smiling gardens.

"Eh, eh!" he chuckled, "it's good to be alive on a day like this and to know what I know."

He was thinking, with a delicious thrill, of the rapid march of events in the last twenty-four hours, of the keen pursuit, the tricks and disguises, the anxiety and the capture and then of the great coup of the evening. Bon dieu, what a day!

And now the chase was over! The murderer was tucked away safely in a cell at the depot. Ouf, he had given them some bad moments, this wood carver! But for M. Paul they would never have caught the slippery devil, never! Ah, what a triumph for M. Paul! He would have the whole department bowing down to him now. And Gibelin! Eh, eh! Gibelin!

Tignol closed the iron gate carefully behind him and walked down the graveled walk with as little crunching as possible. He had an idea that Coquenil might still be sleeping and if anyone in Paris had earned a long sleep it was Paul Coquenil.

To his surprise, however, the detective was not only up and dressed, but he was on his knees in the study before a large leather bag into which he was hastily throwing various garments brought down by the faithful Melanie, whose joy at having her master home again was evidently clouded by this prospect of an imminent departure.

"Ah, Papa Tignol!" said M. Paul as the old man entered, but there was no heartiness in his tone. "Sit down, sit down."

Tignol sank back in one of the red-leather chairs and waited wonderingly. This was not the buoyant reception he had expected.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked finally.

"Why—er—why, yes," nodded Coquenil, but he went on packing and did not say what was wrong. And Tignol did not ask.

"Going away?" he ventured after a silence.

M. Paul shut the bag with a jerk and tightened the side straps, then he threw himself wearily into a chair.

"Yes, I—I'm going away."

The detective leaned back and closed his eyes, he looked worn and gray. Tignol watched him anxiously through a long silence. What could be the trouble? What had happened? He had never seen M. Paul like this, so broken and—one would say, discouraged. And this was the moment of his triumph, the proudest moment in his career. It must be the reaction from these days of strain, yes that was it.

M. Paul opened his eyes and said in a dull tone: "Did you take the girl to Pougeot last night?"

"Yes, she's all right. The commissary says he will look after her as if she were his own daughter until he hears from you."

"Good! And—you showed her the ring?"

The old man nodded. "She understands, she will be careful, but—there's nothing for her to worry about now—is there?"

Coquenil's face darkened. "You'd better let me have the ring before I forget it."

"Thanks!" He slipped the old talisman on his finger, and then, after a troubled pause, he said: "There is more for her to worry about than ever."

"More? You mean on account of Groener?"

"Yes."

"But he's caught, he's in prison."

The detective shook his head. "He's not in prison."

"Not in prison?"

"He was set at liberty about—about two o'clock this morning."

Tignol stared stupidly, scarcely taking in the words. "But—but he's guilty."

"I know."

"You have all this evidence against him?"

"Yes."

"Then—then how is he at liberty?" stammered the other.

Coquenil reached for a match, struck it deliberately and lighted a cigarette.

"By order of the Prime Minister," he said quietly, and blew out a long white fragrant cloud.

"You mean—without trial?"

"Yes—without trial. He's a very important person, Papa Tignol."

The old man scratched his head in perplexity. "I didn't know anybody was too important to be tried for murder."

"He can't be tried until he's committed for trial by a judge."

"Well? And Hauteville?"

"Hauteville will never commit him."

"Why not?"

"Because Hauteville has been removed from office."

"Wha-at?"

"His commission was revoked this morning by order of the Minister of Justice."

"Judge Hauteville—discharged!" murmured Tignol, in bewilderment.

Coquenil nodded and then added sorrowfully: "And you, too, my poor friend. Everyone who has had anything to do with this case, from the highest to the lowest, will suffer. We all made a frightful mistake, they say, in daring to arrest and persecute this most distinguished and honorable citizen. Ha, ha!" he concluded bitterly as he lighted another cigarette.

"C'est épatant!" exclaimed Tignol. "He must be a rich devil!"

"He's rich and—much more."

"Whe-ew! He must be a senator or—or something like that?"

"Much more," said Coquenil grimly.

"More than a senator? Then—then a cabinet minister? No, it isn't possible?"

"He is more important than a cabinet minister, far more important."

"Holy snakes!" gasped Tignol. "I don't see anything left except the Prime Minister himself."

"This man is so highly placed," declared Coquenil gravely, "he is so powerful that——"

"Stop!" interrupted the other. "I know. He was in that coaching party; he killed the dog, it was—it was the Duke de Montreuil."

"No, it was not," replied Coquenil. "The Duke de Montreuil is rich and powerful, as men go in France, but this man is of international importance, his fortune amounts to a thousand million francs, at least, and his power is—well—he could treat the Duke de Montreuil like a valet."

"Who—who is he?"

Coquenil pointed to his table where a book lay open. "Do you see that red book? It's the Annuaire de la Noblesse Française. You'll find his name there—marked with a pencil."

Tignol went eagerly to the table, then, as he glanced at the printed page there came over his face an expression of utter amazement.

"It isn't possible!" he cried.

"I know," agreed Coquenil, "it isn't possible, but—it's true!"

"Dieu de Dieu de Dieu!" frowned the old man, bobbing his cropped head and tugging at his sweeping black mustache. Then slowly in awe-struck tones he read from the great authority on French titles:

"You see, it's all there," said M. Paul. "His name is Raoul and his wife's name was Margaret. She died in the Charity Bazaar fire, and his stepdaughter Mary is put down as having died there, too. We know where she is."

"The devil! The devil! The devil!" muttered Tignol, his nut-cracker face screwed up in comical perplexity. "This will rip things wide, wide open."

The detective shook his head. "It won't rip anything open."

"But if he is guilty?"

"No one will know it, no one would believe it."

"You know it, you can prove it."

"How can I prove it? The courts are closed against me. And even if they weren't, do you suppose it would be possible to convict the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck of any crime? Nonsense! He's the most powerful man in France. He controls the banks, the bourse, the government. He can cause a money panic by lifting his hand. He can upset the ministry by a word over the telephone. He financed the campaign that brought in the present radical government, and his sister is the wife of the Prime Minister."

"And he killed Martinez!" added Tignol.

"Yes."

For fully a minute the two men faced each other in silence. M. Paul lighted another cigarette.

"Couldn't you tell what you know in the newspapers?"

"No newspaper in France would dare to print it," said Coquenil gravely.

"Perhaps there is some mistake," suggested the other, "perhaps he isn't the man."

The detective opened his table drawer and drew out several photographs. "Look at those!"

One by one Tignol studied the photographs. "It's the man we arrested, all right—without the beard."

"It's the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck," said Coquenil.

Tignol gazed at the pictures with a kind of fascination.

"How many millions did you say he has?"

"A thousand—or more."

"A thousand millions!" He screwed up his face again and pulled reflectively on his long red nose. "And I put the handcuffs on him! Holy camels!"

Coquenil lighted another cigarette and breathed in the smoke deeply.

"Aren't you smoking too many of those things? That makes five in ten minutes."

M. Paul shrugged his shoulders. "What's the difference?"

"I see, you're thinking out some plan," approved the other.

"Plan for what?"

"For putting this thousand-million-franc devil where he belongs," grinned the old man.

The detective eyed his friend keenly. "Papa Tignol, that's the prettiest compliment anyone ever paid me. In spite of all I have said you have confidence that I could do this man up—somehow, eh?"

"Sure!"

"I don't know, I don't know," reflected Coquenil, and a shadow of sadness fell over his pale, weary face. "Perhaps I could, but—I'm not going to try."

"You—you're not going to try?"

"No, I'm through, I wash my hands of the case. The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck can sleep easily as far as I am concerned."

Tignol bounded to his feet and his little eyes flashed indignantly. "I don't believe it," he cried. "I won't have it. You can't tell me Paul Coquenil is afraid. Are you afraid?"

"I don't think so," smiled the other.

"And Paul Coquenil hasn't been bought? He can't be bought—can he?"

"I hope not."

"Then—then what in thunder do you mean," he demanded fiercely, "by saying you drop this case?"

M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram. "Read that, old friend," he answered with emotion, "and—and thank you for your good opinion."

Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet.

"Quel malheur! Quel malheur!" exclaimed the old man. "My poor M. Paul! Forgive me! I'm a stupid fool," and he grasped his companion's hand in quick sympathy.

"It's all right, you didn't understand," said the other gently.

"And you—you think it's his doing?"

"Of course. He must have given the order in that cipher dispatch to Dubois. Dubois is a secret agent of the government. He communicated with the Prime Minister, but the Prime Minister was away inaugurating a statue; he didn't return until after midnight. That is why the man wasn't set at liberty sooner. No wonder he kept looking at the clock."

"And Dubois telegraphed to have this hellish thing done?"

"Yes, yes, they had warned me, they had killed my dog, and—and now they have struck at my mother." He bent down his head on his hands. "She's all I've got, Tignol, she's seventy years old and—infirm and—no, no, I quit, I'm through."

In his distress and perplexity the old man could think of nothing to say; he simply tugged at his fierce mustache and swore hair-raising oaths under his breath.

"And the insurance?" he asked presently. "What does that mean?"

"I sent the renewal money to this lawyer Abel," answered Coquenil in a dull tone. "They have used him against me to—to take my savings. I had put about all that I had into this home for my mother. You see they want to break my heart and—they've just about done it."

He was silent a moment, then glanced quickly at his watch. "Come, we have no time to lose. My train leaves in an hour. I have important things to explain—messages for Pougeot and the girl—I'll tell you in the carriage."

Five minutes later they were speeding swiftly in an automobile toward the Eastern railway station.

There followed three days of pitiful anxiety for Coquenil. His mother's health was feeble at the best, and the shock of this catastrophe, the sudden awakening in the night to find flames roaring about her, the difficult rescue, and the destruction of her peaceful home, all this was very serious for the old lady; indeed, there were twenty-four hours during which the village doctor could offer small comfort to the distracted son.

Madam Coquenil, however, never wavered in her sweet faith that all was well. She was comfortable now in the home of a hospitable neighbor and declared she would soon be on her feet again. It was this faith that saved her, vowed Ernestine, her devoted companion; but the doctor laughed and said it was the presence of M. Paul.

At any rate, within the week all danger was past and Coquenil observed uneasily that, along with her strength and gay humor, his mother was rapidly recovering her faculty of asking embarrassing questions and of understanding things that had not been told her. In the matter of keen intuitions it was like mother like son.

So, delay as he would and evade as he would, the truth had finally to be told, the whole unqualified truth; he had given up this case that he had thought so important, he had abandoned a fight that he had called the greatest of his life.

"Why have you done it, my boy?" the old lady asked him gently, her searching eyes fixed gravely on him. "Tell me—tell me everything."

And he did as she bade him, just as he used to when he was little; he told her all that had happened from the crime to the capture, then of the assassin's release and his own baffling failure at the very moment of success.

His mother listened with absorbed interest, she thrilled, she radiated, she sympathized; and she shivered at the thought of such power for evil.

When he had finished, she lay silent, thinking it all over, not wishing to speak hastily, while Paul stroked her white hand.

"And the young man?" she asked presently. "The one who is innocent? What about him?"

"He is in prison, he will be tried."

"And then? They have evidence against him, you said so—the footprints, the pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture. Paul, he will be found guilty?"

"I—I don't know."

"But you think so?"

"It's possible, mother, but—I've done all I can."

"He will be found guilty," she repeated, "this innocent young man will be found guilty. You know it, and—you give up the case."

"That's unfair. I give up the case because your life is more precious to me than the lives of fifty young men."

The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach: "My son, do you think your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?"

"Why—why, no," he said.

"It isn't, but we can't shirk our burdens, Paul." She pointed simply to the picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face. "If we are men we do our work; if we are women, we bear what comes. That is how your father felt when he left me to—to—you understand, my boy?"

"Yes, mother."

"I want you to decide in that spirit. If it's right to drop this case, I shall be glad, but I don't want you to drop it because you are afraid—for me, or—for anything."

"But mother——"

"Listen, Paul; I know how you love me, but you mustn't put me first in this matter, you must put your honor first, and the honor of your father's name."

"I've decided the thing"—he frowned—"it's all settled. I have sent word by Tignol to the Brazilian embassy that I will accept that position in Rio Janeiro. It's still open, and—mother," he went on eagerly, "I'm going to take you with me."

Her face brightened under its beautiful crown of silver-white hair, but she shook her head.

"I couldn't go, Paul; I could never bear that long sea journey, and I should be unhappy away from these dear old mountains. If you go, you must go alone. I don't say you mustn't go, I only ask you to think, to think."

"I have thought," he answered impatiently. "I've done nothing but think, ever since Ernestine sent that telegram."

"You have thought about me," she chided. "Have you thought about the case? Have you thought that, if you give it up, an innocent man will suffer and a guilty man will go unpunished?"

"Hah! The guilty man! It's a jolly sure thing he'll go unpunished, whatever I do."

"I don't believe it," cried the old lady, springing forward excitedly in her invalid's chair, "such wickedness cannot go unpunished. No, my boy, you can conquer, you will conquer."

"I can't fight the whole of France," he retorted sharply. "You don't understand this man's power, mother; I might as well try to conquer the devil."

"I don't ask you to do that," she laughed, "but—isn't there anything you can think of? You've always won out in the past, and—what is this man's intelligence to yours?" She paused and then went on more earnestly: "Paul, I'm so proud of you, and—you can't rest under this wrong that has been done you. I want the Government to make amends for putting you off the force. I want them to publicly recognize your splendid services. And they will, my son, they must, if you will only go ahead now, and—there I'm getting foolish." She brushed away some springing tears. "Come, we'll talk of something else."

Nothing more was said about the case, but the seed was sown, and as the evening passed, the wise old lady remarked that her son fell into moody silences and strode about restlessly. And, knowing the signs, she left him to his thoughts.

When bedtime came, Paul kissed her tenderly good night and then turned to withdraw, but he paused at the door, and with a look that she remembered well from the days of his boyhood transgressions, a look of mingled frankness and shamefacedness, he came back to her bedside.

"Mother," he said, "I want to be perfectly honest about this thing; I told you there is nothing that I could do against this man; as a matter of fact, there is one thing that I could possibly do. It's a long shot, with the odds all against me, and, if I should fail, he would do me up, that's sure; still, I must admit that I see a chance, one small chance of—landing him. I thought I'd tell you because—well, I thought I'd tell you."

"My boy!" she cried. "My brave boy! I'm happy now. All I wanted was to have you think this thing over alone, and—decide alone. Good night, Paul! God bless you and—help you!"

"Good night, mother," he said fondly. "I will decide before to-morrow, and—whatever I do, I—I'll remember what you say."

Then he went to his room and for hours through the night Ernestine, watching by the patient, saw his light burning.

The next morning he came again to his mother's bedside with his old buoyant smile, and after loving greetings, he said simply: "It's all right, little mother, I see my way. I'm going to take the chance, and," he nodded confidently, "between you and me, it isn't such a slim chance, either."

THE DIARY

Coquenil's effort during the next month might be set forth in great detail. It may also be told briefly, which is better, since the result rather than the means is of moment.

The detective began by admitting the practical worthlessness of the evidence in hand against this formidable adversary, and he abandoned, for the moment, his purpose of proving that De Heidelmann-Bruck had killed Martinez. Under the circumstances there was no way of proving it, for how can the wheels of justice be made to turn against an individual who absolutely controls the manner of their turning, who is able to remove annoying magistrates with a snap of his fingers, and can use the full power of government, the whole authority of the Prime Minister of France and the Minister of Justice for his personal convenience and protection?

The case was so extraordinary and unprecedented that it could obviously be met only (if at all) by extraordinary and unprecedented measures. Such measures Coquenil proceeded to conceive and carry out, realizing fully that, in so doing, he was taking his life in his hands. His first intuition had come true, he was facing a great criminal and must either destroy or be destroyed; it was to be a ruthless fight to a finish between Paul Coquenil and the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck.

And, true to his intuitions, as he had been from the start, M. Paul resolved to seek the special and deadly arm that he needed against this sinister enemy in the baron's immediate entourage; in fact, in his own house and home. That was the detective's task, to be received, unsuspected, as an inmate of De Heidelmann-Bruck's great establishment on the Rue de Varennes, the very center of the ancient nobility of Paris.

In this purpose he finally succeeded, after what wiles and pains need not be stated, being hired at moderate wages as a stable helper, with a small room over the carriage house, and miscellaneous duties that included much drudgery in cleaning the baron's numerous automobiles. It may truthfully be said that no more willing pair of arms ever rubbed and scrubbed their aristocratic brasses.

The next thing was to gain the confidence, then the complicity of one of the men servants in the hôtel itself, so that he might be given access to the baron's private apartments at the opportune moment. In the horde of hirelings about a great man there is always one whose ear is open to temptation, and the baron's household was no exception to this rule. Coquenil (known now as Jacques and looking the stable man to perfection) found a dignified flunky in black side whiskers and white-silk stockings who was not above accepting some hundred-franc notes in return for sure information as to the master's absences from home and for necessary assistance in the way of keys and other things.

Thus it came to pass that on a certain night in August, about two in the morning, Paul Coquenil found himself alone in the baron's spacious, silent library before a massive safe. The opening of this safe is another matter that need not be gone into—a desperate case justifies desperate risk, and an experienced burglar chaser naturally becomes a bit of a burglar himself; at any rate, the safe swung open in due course, without accident or interference, and the detective stood before it.

All this Coquenil had done on a chance, without positive knowledge, save for the assurance of the black-whiskered valet that the baron wrote frequently in a diary which he kept locked in the safe. Whether this was true, and, if so, whether the baron had been mad enough to put down with his own hand a record of his own wickedness, were matters of pure conjecture. Coquenil was convinced that this journal would contain what he wanted; he did not believe that a man like De Heidelmann-Bruck would keep a diary simply to fill in with insipidities. If he kept it at all, it would be because it pleased him to analyze, fearlessly, his own extraordinary doings, good or bad. The very fact that the baron was different from ordinary men, a law unto himself, made it likely that he would disregard what ordinary men would call prudence in a matter like this; there is no such word as imprudence for one who is practically all-powerful, and, if it tickled the baron's fancy to keep a journal of crime, it was tolerably certain he would keep it.

The event proved that he did keep it. On one of the shelves of the safe, among valuable papers and securities, the detective found a thick book bound in black leather and fastened with heavy gold clasps. It was the diary.

With a thrill of triumph, Coquenil seized upon the volume, then, closing the safe carefully, without touching anything else, he returned to his room in the stable. His purpose was accomplished, and now he had only one thought—to leave the hôtel as quickly as possible; it would be a matter of a few moments to pack his modest belongings, then he could rouse the doorkeeper and be off with his bag and the precious record.

As he started to act on this decision, however, and steal softly down to the courtyard, the detective paused and looked at his watch. It was not yet three o'clock, and M. Paul, in the real burglar spirit, reflected that his departure with a bag, at this unseasonable hour, might arouse the doorkeeper's suspicion; whereas, if he waited until half past five, the gate would be open and he could go out unnoticed. So he decided to wait. After all, there was no danger, the baron was away from Paris, and no one would enter the library before seven or eight.

While he waited, Coquenil opened the diary and began to read. There were some four hundred neatly written pages, brief separate entries without dates, separate thoughts as it were, and, as he turned through them he found himself more and more absorbed until, presently, he forgot time, place, danger, everything; an hour passed, two hours, and still the detective read on while his candle guttered down to the stick and the brightening day filled his mean stable room; he was absolutely lost in a most extraordinary human document, in one of those terrible utterances, shameless and fearless, that are flung out, once in a century or so, from the hot somber depths of a man's being.

Coquenil had reached this point in his reading and was pressing on through the pages, utterly oblivious to everything, when a harsh voice broke in upon him: "You seem to have an interesting book, my friend?"

Looking up with a start, M. Paul saw De Heidelmann-Bruck himself standing in the open doorway. His hands were thrust carelessly in his coat pockets and a mocking smile played about his lips, the smile that Coquenil had learned to fear.

"It's more than interesting, it's marvelous, it's unbelievable," answered the detective quietly. "Please shut that door. There's a draught coming in."

As he spoke he sneezed twice and reached naturally toward his coat as if for a handkerchief.

"No, no! None of that!" warned the other sharply. "Hands up!" And Coquenil obeyed. "My pistol is on you in this side pocket. If you move, I'll shoot through the cloth."

"That's a cowboy trick; you must have traveled in the Far West," said M. Paul lightly.

"Stand over there!" came the order. "Face against the wall! Hands high! Now keep still!"

Coquenil did as he was bidden. He stood against the wall while quick fingers went through his clothes, he felt his pistol taken from him, then something soft and wet pressed under his nostrils. He gasped and a sweetish, sickening breath filled his lungs, he tried to struggle, but iron arms held him helpless. He felt himself drifting into unconsciousness and strove vainly against it. He knew he had lost the battle, there was nothing to hope for from this man—nothing. Well—it had been a finish fight and—one or the other had to go. He was the one, he was going—going. He—he couldn't fix his thoughts. What queer lights! Hey, Cæsar! How silly! Cæsar was dead—Oh! he must tell Papa Tignol that—a man shouldn't swear so with a—red—nose. Stop! this must be the—end and——

With a last rally of his darkening consciousness, Coquenil called up his mother's face and, looking at it through the eyes of his soul, he spoke to her across the miles, in a wild, voiceless cry: "I did the best I could, little mother, the—the best I—could."

Then utter blackness!

A GREAT CRIMINAL

Coquenil came back to consciousness his first thought was that the adventure had brought him no pain; he moved his arms and legs and discovered no injury, then he reached out a hand and found that he was lying on a cold stone floor with his head on a rough sack filled apparently with shavings.

He did not open his eyes, but tried to think where he could be and to imagine what had happened. It was not conceivable that his enemy would let him escape, this delay was merely preliminary to something else and—he was certainly a prisoner—somewhere.

Reasoning thus he caught a sound as of rustling paper, then a faint scratching. With eyes still shut, he turned his face toward the scratching sound, then away from it, then toward it, then away from it. Now he sniffed the air about him, now he rubbed a finger on the floor and smelled it, now he lay quiet and listened. He had found a fascinating problem, and for a long time he studied it without moving and without opening his eyes.

Finally he spoke aloud in playful reproach: "It's a pity, baron, to write in that wonderful diary of yours with a lead pencil."

Instantly there came the scraping of a chair and quick approaching steps.

"How did you see me?" asked a harsh voice.

Coquenil smiled toward a faint light, but kept his eyes closed. "I didn't, I haven't seen you yet."

"But you knew I was writing in my diary?"

"Because you were so absorbed that you did not hear me stir."

"Humph! And the lead pencil?"

"I heard you sharpen it. That was just before you stopped to eat the orange."

The light came nearer. M. Paul felt that the baron was bending over him.

"What's the matter? Your eyes are shut."

"It amuses me to keep them shut. Do you mind?"

"Singular man!" mattered the other. "What makes you think I ate an orange?"