The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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."
Chapter XVIII.
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