The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
"You don't mean that you think the American may be guilty?" questioned the commissary.
"Never in the world!" grumbled Tignol.
"I don't say he is guilty," answered M. Paul, "but I am not so sure he is innocent. And, if there is doubt about that, then there is doubt whether this case is really a great one. I have assumed that Martinez was killed by an extraordinary criminal, for some extraordinary reason, but—I may have been mistaken."
"Of course," agreed Pougeot. "And if you were mistaken?"
"Then I've been wasting my time on a second-class investigation that a second-class man like Gibelin could have carried on as well as I; and losing the Rio Janeiro offer besides." He leaned forward suddenly toward the chauffeur. "See here, what are you trying to do?" As he spoke they barely escaped colliding with a cab coming down the Champs Elysées.
"It was his fault; one of his lanterns is out," declared the chauffeur, and, half turning, he exchanged curses with the departing jehu.
They had now reached Napoleon's arch, and, at greater speed, the automobile descended the Avenue de la Grande Armée.
"Are you thinking of accepting the Rio Janeiro offer?" asked the commissary presently.
"Very seriously; but I don't know whether it's still open. I thought perhaps you would go to the Brazilian Embassy and ask about it delicately. I don't like to go myself, after this affair. Do you mind?"
"No, I don't mind, of course I don't mind," answered, Pougeot, "but, my dear Paul, aren't you a little on your nerves to-night; oughtn't you to think the whole matter over before deciding?"
"That's right," agreed Tignol.
"What is there to think about?" said Coquenil. "If you've got anything to say, either of you, say it now. Run on through the bois," he directed the chauffeur, "and then out on the St. Cloud road. This air is doing me a lot of good," he added, drawing in deep breaths.
For some minutes they sat silent, speeding along through the Bois de Boulogne, dimly beautiful under a crescent moon, on past crowded restaurants with red-clad musicians on the terraces, on past the silent lake and then through narrow and deserted roads until they had crossed the great park and emerged upon the high-way.
"Where are we going, anyway?" inquired Tignol.
"For a little ride, for a little change," sighed M. Paul.
"Come, come," urged Pougeot, "you are giving way too much. Now listen to me."
Then, clearly and concisely, the commissary went over the situation, considering his friend's problem from various points of view; and so absorbed was he in fairly setting forth the advantages and disadvantages of the Rio Janeiro position that he did not observe Coquenil's utter indifference to what he was saying. But Papa Tignol saw this, and gradually, as he watched the detective with his shrewd little eyes, it dawned upon the old man that they were not speeding along here in the night, a dozen miles out of Paris, simply for their health, but that something special was preparing.
"What in the mischief is Coquenil up to?" wondered Tignol.
And presently, even Pougeot, in spite of his preoccupation, began to realize that there was something peculiar about this night promenade, for as they reached a crossroad, M. Paul ordered the chauffeur to turn into it and go ahead as fast as he pleased. The chauffeur hesitated, muttered some words of protest, and then obeyed.
"We are getting right out into wild country," remarked the commissary.
"Don't you like wild country?" laughed Coquenil. "I do." It was plain that his spirits were reviving.
They ran along this rough way for several miles, and presently came to a small house standing some distance back from the road.
"Stop here!" ordered the detective. "Now," he turned to Pougeot, "I shall learn something that may fix my decision." Then, leaning forward to the chauffeur, he said impressively: "Ten francs extra if you help me now."
These words had an immediate effect upon the man, who touched his cap and asked what he was to do.
"Go to this house," pointed M. Paul, "ring the bell and ask if there is a note for M. Robert. If there is, bring the note to me; if there isn't, never mind. If anyone asks who sent you, say M. Robert himself. Understand?"
"Oui, m'sieur," replied the chauffeur, and, saluting again, he strode away toward the house.
The detective watched his receding figure as it disappeared in the shadows, then he called out: "Wait, I forgot something."
The chauffeur turned obediently and came back.
"Take a good look at him now," said Coquenil to Tignol in a low tone. Then to the man: "There's a bad piece of ground in the yard; you'd better have this," and, without warning, he flashed his electric lantern full in the chauffeur's face.
"Merci, m'sieur," said the latter stolidly after a slight start, and again he moved away, while Tignol clutched M. Paul's arm in excitement.
"You saw him?" whispered the detective.
"Did I see him!" exulted the other. "Oh, the cheek of that fellow!"
"You recognized him?"
"Did I? I'd know those little pig eyes anywhere. And that brush of a mustache! Only half of it was blacked."
"Good; that's all I want," and, stepping out of the auto, Coquenil changed quickly to the front seat. Then he drew the starting lever and the machine began to move.
"Halloa! What are you doing?" cried the chauffeur, running toward them.
"Going back to Paris!" laughed Coquenil. "Hope you find the walking good, Gibelin!"
"It's only fifteen miles," taunted Tignol.
"You loafer, you blackguard, you dirty dog!" yelled Gibelin, dancing in a rage.
"Try to be more original in your detective work," called M. Paul. "Au revoir."
They shot away rapidly, while the outraged and discomfited fat man stood in the middle of the road hurling after them torrents of blasphemous abuse that soon grew faint and died away.
"What in the world does this mean?" asked Pougeot in astonishment.
Coquenil slowed down the machine and turned. "I can't talk now; I've got to drive this thing. It's lucky I know how."
"But—just a moment. That note for M. Robert? There was no Robert?"
"Of course not."
"And—and you knew it was Gibelin all the time?"
"Yes. Be patient, Lucien, until we get back and I'll tell you everything."
The run to Paris took nearly an hour, for they made a détour, and Coquenil drove cautiously; but they arrived safely, shortly after one, and left the automobile at the company's garage, with the explanation (readily accepted, since a police commissary gave it) that the man who belonged with the machine had met with an accident; indeed, this was true, for the genuine chauffeur had used Gibelin's bribe money in unwise libations and appeared the next morning with a battered head and a glib story that was never fully investigated.
"Now," said Coquenil, as they left the garage, "where can we go and be quiet? A café is out of the question—we mustn't be seen. Ah, that room you were to take," he turned to Tignol. "Did you get it?"
"I should say I did," grumbled the old man, "I've something to tell you."
"Tell me later," cut in the detective. "We'll go there. We can have something to eat sent in and—" he smiled indulgently at Tignol—"and something to drink. Hey, cocher!" he called to a passing cab, and a moment later the three men were rolling away to the Latin Quarter, with Coquenil's leather bag on the front seat.
"Enfin!" sighed Pougeot, when they were finally settled in Tignol's room, which they reached after infinite precautions, for M. Paul seemed to imagine that