The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
read it. It began 'Mon gros bebe,' and was signed 'Ta petite Anita,' and—naturally I was furious. I have often been jealous of Addison, but he has always managed to prove that I was in the wrong and that he was a perfect saint, so now I determined to see for myself. It was a splendid chance, as the exact rendezvous was given, nine o'clock Saturday evening, in private room Number Seven at the Ansonia. I had only to be there, but, of course, I couldn't go alone, so I got this man, Martinez—he was a perfect fool, I'm sorry he's been shot, but he was—I got him to take me, because, as I told you, he didn't know me, and being such a fool, he would do whatever I wished."
"What day was it you found the petit bleu?" put in Coquenil.
"It was Thursday. I saw Martinez that afternoon, and on Friday, he reserved private room Number Six for Saturday evening."
"And you are sure it was his scheme to bore the holes?"
"Yes, he said that would be an amusing way of watching Addison without making a scandal, and I agreed with him; it was the first clever idea I ever knew him to have."
"That's a good point!" reflected Coquenil.
"What is a good point?"
"Nothing, just a thought I had," he answered abstractedly.
"What a queer man you are!" she said with a little pout. She was not accustomed to have men inattentive when she sat near them.
"There's one thing that doesn't seem very clever, though," reflected the detective. "Didn't Martinez think your husband or Anita would see those holes in the wall?"
"No, because he had prepared for that. There was a tall palm in Number Seven that stood just before the holes and screened them."
Coquenil looked at her curiously.
"How do you know there was?"
"Martinez told me. He had taken the precaution to look in there on Friday when he engaged Number Six. He knew exactly where to bore the holes."
"I see. And he put them behind the curtain hangings so that your waiter wouldn't see them?"
"That's it."
"And you held the curtain hangings back while he used the auger?"
"Yes. You see he managed it very well."
"Very well except for one thing," mused Coquenil, "there wasn't any palm in Number Six."
"No?"
"No."
"That's strange!"
"Yes, it is strange," and again she felt that he was following a separate train of thought.
"Did you look through the holes at all?" he asked.
"No, I hadn't time."
"Did Martinez look through the first hole after it was bored?"
"Yes, but he couldn't see anything, as Number Seven was dark."
"Then you have absolutely no idea who fired the shot?"
"Absolutely none."
"Except you think it wasn't your husband?"
"I know it wasn't my husband."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I asked him. Ah, you needn't smile, I made him give me proof." When I got home that night I had a horrible feeling that Addison must have done it. Who else could have done it, since he had engaged Number Seven? So I waited until he came home. It was after twelve. I could hear him moving about in his room and I was afraid to speak to him, the thing seemed so awful; but, at last, I went in and asked him where he had been. He began to lie in the usual way—you know any man will if he's in a hole like that—but finally I couldn't stand it any longer and I said: 'Addison, for God's sake, don't lie to me. I know something terrible has happened, and if I can, I want to help you.'
"I was as white as a sheet and he jumped up in a great fright. 'What is it, Pussy? What is it?' he cried. And then I told him a murder had been committed at the Ansonia in private room Number Seven. I wish you could have seen his face. He never said a word, he just stared at me. 'Why don't you speak?' I begged. 'Addison, it wasn't you, tell me it wasn't you. Never mind this Anita woman, I'll forgive that if you'll only tell me where you've been to-night.'
"Well, it was the longest time before I could get anything out of him. You see, it was quite a shock for Addison getting all this together, caught with the woman and then the murder on top of it; I had to cry and scold and get him whisky before he could pull himself together, but he finally did and made a clean breast of everything."
"'Pussy,' he said, 'you're all right, you're a plucky little woman, and I'm a bad lot, but I'm not as bad as that. I wasn't in that room, I didn't go to the Ansonia to-night, and I swear to God I don't know any more about this murder than you do.'
"Then he explained what had happened in his blundering way, stopping every minute or so to tell me what a saint I am, and the Lord knows that's a joke, and the gist of it was that he had started for the Ansonia with this woman, but she had changed her mind in the cab and they had gone to the Café de Paris instead and spent the evening there. I was pretty sure he was telling the truth, for Addison isn't clever and I usually know when he's lying, although I don't tell him so; but this was such an awful thing that I couldn't take chances, so I said: 'Addison, put your things right on, we're going to the Café de Paris.' 'What for?' said he. 'To settle this business,' said I. And off we went and got there at half past one; but the waiters hadn't gone, and they all swore black and blue that Addison told the truth, he had really been there all the evening with this woman. And that," she concluded triumphantly, "is how I know my husband is innocent."
"Hm!" reflected Coquenil. "I wonder why Anita changed her mind?"
"I'm not responsible for Anita," answered Pussy with a dignified whisk of her shoulders.
"No, of course not, of course not," he murmured absently; then, after a moment's thought, he said gravely: "I never really doubted your husband's innocence, now I'm sure of it; unfortunately, this does not lessen your responsibility; you were in the room, you witnessed the crime; in fact, you were the only witness."
"But I know nothing about it, nothing," she protested.
"You know a great deal about this young man who is in prison."
"I know he is innocent."
Coquenil took off his glasses and rubbed them with characteristic deliberation. "I hope you can prove it."
"Of course I can prove it," she declared. "M. Kittredge was arrested because he called for my things, but I asked him to do that. I was in terrible trouble and—he was an old friend and—and I knew I could depend on him. He had no reason to kill Martinez. It's absurd!"
"I'm afraid it's not so absurd as you think. You say he was an old friend, he must have been a very particular kind of an old friend for you to ask a favor of him that you knew and he knew would bring him under suspicion. You did know that, didn't you?"
"Why—er—yes."
"I don't ask what there was between you and M. Kittredge, but if there had been everything between you he couldn't have done more, could he? And he couldn't have done less. So a jury might easily conclude, in the absence of contrary evidence, that there was everything between you."
"It's false," she cried, while Coquenil with keen discernment watched the outward signs of her trouble, the clinching of her hands, the heaving of her bosom, the indignant flashing of her eyes.
"I beg your pardon for expressing such a thought," he said simply. "It's a matter that concerns the judge, only ladies dislike going to the Palais de Justice."
She started in alarm. "You mean that I might have to go there?"
"Your