The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
me what you were doing with this billiard player when he was shot last Saturday night."
"It's false; I never knew the man," she cried. "It's an outrage for you to—to intrude on a lady and—and insult her."
"You used to back his game at the Olympia," continued Coquenil coolly.
"What of it? I'm fond of billiards. Is that a crime?"
"You left your cloak and a small leather bag in the vestiaire at the Ansonia," pursued M. Paul.
"It isn't true!"
"Your name was found stamped in gold letters under a leather flap in the bag."
She shot a frightened glance at him and then faltered: "It—it was?"
Coquenil nodded. "Your friend, M. Kittredge, tore the flap out of the bag and then cut it into small pieces and scattered the pieces from his cab through dark streets, but I picked up the pieces."
"You—you did?" she stammered.
"Yes. Now what were you doing with Martinez in that room?"
For some moments she did not answer but studied him with frightened, puzzled eyes. Then suddenly her whole manner changed.
"Excuse me," she smiled, "I didn't get your name?"
"M. Coquenil," he said.
"Won't you sit over here? This chair is more comfortable. That's right. Now, I will tell you exactly what happened." And, settling herself near him, Pussy Wilmott entered bravely upon the hardest half hour of her life. After all, he was a man and she would do the best she could!
"You see, M. Coquelin—I beg your pardon, M. Coquenil. The names are alike, aren't they?"
"Yes," said the other dryly.
"Well," she went on quite charmingly, "I have done some foolish things in my life, but this is the most foolish. I did give Martinez the five-pound notes. You see, he was to play a match this week with a Russian and he offered to lay the money for me. He said he could get good odds and he was sure to win."
"But the dinner? The private room?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I went there for a perfectly proper reason. I needed some one to help me and I—I couldn't ask a man who knew me so——"
"Then Martinez didn't know you?"
"Of course not. He was foolish enough to think himself in love with me and—well, I found it convenient and—amusing to—utilize him."
"For what?"
Mrs. Wilmott bit her red lips and then with some dignity replied that she did not see what bearing her purpose had on the case since it had not been accomplished.
"Why wasn't it accomplished?" he asked.
"Because the man was shot."
"Who shot him?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"No idea."
"But you were present in the room?"
"Ye-es."
"You heard the shot? You saw Martinez fall?"
"Yes, but——"
"Well?"
Now her agitation, increased, she seemed about to make some statement, but checked herself and simply insisted that she knew nothing about the shooting. No one had entered the room except herself and Martinez and the waiter who served them. They had finished the soup; Martinez had left his seat for a moment; he was standing near her when—when the shot was fired and he fell to the floor. She had no idea where the shot came from or who fired it. She was frightened and hurried away from the hotel. That was all.
Coquenil smiled indulgently. "What did you do with the auger?" he asked.
"The auger?" she gasped.
"Yes, it was seen by the cab driver you took when you slipped out of the hotel in the telephone girl's rain coat."
"You know that?"
He nodded and went on: "This cab driver remembers that you had something under your arm wrapped in a newspaper. Was that the auger?"
"Yes," she answered weakly.
"And you threw it into the Seine as you crossed the Concorde bridge?"
She stared at him in genuine admiration: "My God, you're the cleverest man I ever met!"
M. Paul bowed politely, and glancing at a well-spread tea table, he said: "Mrs. Wilmott, if you think so well of me, perhaps you won't mind giving me a cup of tea. The fact is, I have been so busy with this case I forgot to eat and I—I feel a little faint." He pressed a hand against his forehead and Pussy saw that he was very white.
"You poor man!" she cried in concern. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'll fix it myself. There! Take some of these toasted muffins. What an extraordinary life you must lead! I can almost forgive you for being so outrageous because you're so—so interesting." She let her siren eyes shine on him in a way that had wrought the discomfiture of many a man.
M. Paul smiled. "I can return the compliment by saying that it isn't every lady who could throw a clumsy thing like an auger from a moving cab over a wide roadway and a stone wall and land it in a river. I suppose you threw it over on the right-hand side?"
"Yes."
"How far across the bridge had you got when you threw it? This may help the divers."
She thought a moment. "We were a little more than halfway across, I should say."
"Thanks. Now who bought this auger?"
"Martinez."
"Did you suggest the holes through the wall?"
"No, he did."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"But the holes were bored for you?"
"Of course."
"Because you wanted to see into the next room?"
"Yes," in a low tone.
"And why?"
She hesitated a moment and then burst out in a flash of feeling: "Because I knew that a wretched dancing girl was going to be there with——"
"Yes?" eagerly.
"With my husband!"
Chapter XV.
Pussy Wilmott's Confession
"Then your husband was the person you thought guilty that night?" questioned Coquenil.
"Yes."
"You told M. Kittredge when you called for him in the cab that you thought your husband guilty?"
"Yes, but afterwards I changed my mind. My husband had nothing to do with it. If he had, do you suppose I would have told you this? No doubt he has misconducted himself, but——"
"You mean Anita?"
It was a chance shot, but it went true.
She stared at him in amazement. "I believe you are the devil," she said, and the detective, recalling his talk with M. Gritz, muttered to himself: "The tall blonde! Of course!"
And now Pussy, feeling that she could gain nothing against Coquenil by ruse or deceit, took refuge in simple truth and told quite charmingly how this whole tragic adventure had grown out of a foolish fit of jealousy.
"You see, I found a petit bleu on my husband's dressing table one morning—I wish to Heaven he would be