The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
to follow them.
"I've been watched every minute since I started on this case," he said thoughtfully. "My house has been watched, my servant has been watched, my letters have been opened; there isn't one thing I've done that they don't know."
"They? Who?" asked the commissary.
"Ah, who?" repeated M. Paul. "If I only knew. You saw what they did with Gibelin to-night, set him after me when he is supposed to be handling this case. Fancy that! Who gave Gibelin his orders? Who had the authority? That's what I want to know. Not the chief, I swear; the chief is straight in this thing. It's some one above the chief. Lucien, I told you this was a great case and—it is."
"Then you didn't mean what you were saying in the automobile about having doubts?"
"Not a word of it."
"That was all for Gibelin?"
"Exactly. There's a chance that he may believe it, or believe some of it. He's such a conceited ass that he may think I only discovered him just at the last."
"And you're not thinking of going to Rio Janeiro?"
Coquenil shut his teeth hard, and there came into his eyes a look of indomitable purpose. "Not while the murderer of Martinez is walking about this town laughing at me. I expect to do some laughing myself before I get through with this case."
Both men stared at him. "But you are through."
"Am I? Ha! Through? I want to tell you, my friends, that I've barely begun."
"My dear Paul," reasoned the commissary, "what can you do off the force? How can you hope to succeed single-handed, when it was hard to succeed with the whole prefecture to help you?"
Coquenil paused, and then said mysteriously: "That's the point, did they help me? Or hinder me? One thing is certain: that if I work alone, I won't have to make daily reports for the guidance of some one higher up."
"You don't mean—" began the commissary with a startled look.
M. Paul nodded gravely. "I certainly do—there's no other way of explaining the facts. I was discharged for a trivial offense just as I had evidence that would prove this American innocent. They don't want him proved innocent. And they are so afraid I will discover the truth that they let the whole investigation wait while Gibelin shadows me. Well, he's off my track now, and by to-morrow they can search Paris with a fine-tooth comb and they won't find a trace of Paul Coquenil."
"You're going away?"
"No. I'm going to—to disappear," smiled the detective. "I shall work in the dark, and, when the time comes, I'll strike in the dark."
"You'll need money?"
Coquenil shook his head. "I have all the money I want, and know where to go for more. Besides, my old partner here is going to lay off for a few weeks and work with me. Eh, Papa Tignol?"
Tignol's eyes twinkled. "A few weeks or a few months is all the same to me. I'll follow you to the devil, M. Paul."
"That's right, that's where we're going. And when I need you, Lucien, you'll hear from me. I wanted you to understand the situation. I may have to call on you suddenly; you may get some strange message by some queer messenger. Look at this ring. Will you know it? A brown stone marked with Greek characters. It's debased Greek. The stone was dug up near Smyrna, where it had lain for fourteen hundred years. It's a talisman. You'll listen to anyone who brings you this ring, old friend? Eh?"
Pougeot grasped M. Paul's hand and wrung it affectionately. "And honor his request to the half of my kingdom," he laughed, but his eyes were moist. He had a vivid impression that his friend was entering on a way of great and unknown peril.
"Well," said Coquenil cheerfully, "I guess that's all for to-night. There's a couple of hours' work still for Papa Tignol and me, but it's half past two, Lucien, and, unless you think of something——"
"No, except to wish you luck," replied the commissary, and he started to go.
"Wait," put in Tignol, "there's something I think of. You forget I've been playing the flute to-day."
"Ah, yes, of course! Any news?" questioned the detective.
The old man rubbed his nose meditatively. "My news is asleep in the next room. If it wasn't so late I'd bring him in. He's a little shrimp of a photographer, but—he's seen your murderer, all right."
"The devil!" started M. Paul. "Where?"
Tignol drew back the double doors of a long window, and pointed out to a balcony running along the front of the hotel.
"There! Let me tell you first how this floor is arranged. There are six rooms opening on that balcony. See here," and taking a sheet of paper, he made a rough diagram.
"Now, then," continued Papa Tignol, surveying his handiwork with pride, "I think that is clear. B, here, is the balcony just outside, and there are the six rooms with windows opening on it. We are in this room D, and my friend, the little photographer, is in the next room E, peacefully sleeping; but he wasn't peaceful when he came home to-night and heard me playing that flute, although I played in my best manner, eh, eh! He stood it for about ten minutes, and then, eh, eh! It was another case of through the wall, first one boot, bang! then another boot, smash! only there were no holes for the boots to come through. And then it was profanity! For a small man he had a great deal of energy, eh, eh! that shrimp photographer! I called him a shrimp when he came bouncing in here."
"Well, well?" fretted Coquenil.
"Then we got acquainted. I apologized and offered him beer, which he likes; then he apologized and told me his troubles. Poor fellow, I don't wonder his nerves are unstrung! He's in love with a pretty dressmaker who lives in this room C. She is fair but fickle—he tells me she has made him unhappy by flirting with a medical student who lives in this room G. Just a minute, I'm coming to the point.
"It seems the little photographer has been getting more and more jealous lately. He was satisfied that his lady love and the medical student used this balcony as a lover's lane, and he began lying in wait at his window for the medical student to steal past toward the dress-maker's room."
"Yes?" urged the detective with growing interest.
"For several nights last week he waited and nothing happened. But he's a patient little shrimp, so he waited again Saturday night and—something did happen. Saturday night!"
"The night of the murder," reflected the commissary.
"That's it. It was a little after midnight, he says, and suddenly, as he stood waiting and listening, he heard a cautious step coming along the balcony from the direction of the medical student's room, G. Then he saw a man pass his window, and he was sure it was the medical student. He stepped out softly and followed him as far as the window of room C. Then, feeling certain his suspicions were justified, he sprang upon the man from behind, intending to chastise him, but he had caught the wrong pig by the ear, for the man turned on him like a flash and—it wasn't the medical student."
"Who was it? Go on!" exclaimed the others eagerly.
"He doesn't know who it was, or anything about the man except that his hand shut like a vise on the shrimp's throat and nearly choked the life out of him. You can see the nail marks still on the cheek and neck; but he remembers distinctly that the man carried something in his hand."
"My God! The missing pair of boots!" cried Coquenil. "Was it?"
Tignol nodded. "Sure! He was carrying 'em loose in his hand. I mean they were not wrapped up, he was going to leave 'em in Kittredge's room—here it is, A." He pointed to the diagram.
"It's true, it must be true," murmured M. Paul. "And what then?"
"Nothing. I guess the man saw it was only a shrimp he had hold of, so he shook him two or three times and dropped him back into his own room; and