The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
of this unfortunate billiard player? And why did he hate Kittredge? Was it because the American loved Alice? And who was Alice, this girl whose dreams and fears changed the lives of serious men? From whichever side he studied the crime he always came back to her—Kittredge loved her, Martinez knew her, he himself had started on the case on her account. Who was Alice?
During these reflections Coquenil had been vaguely aware of gay sounds from the neighboring woods, and now a sudden burst of laughter brought him back to the consciousness of things about him.
"We're too serious, my boy," he said with an effort at lightness; "this is a bit of an outing, and we must enjoy it. Come, we'll move on!"
With the dog at his heels M. Paul turned his steps toward a beautiful cool glade, carpeted in gold and green as the sunbeams sprinkled down through the trees upon the spreading moss. Here he came into plain view of a company of ladies and gentlemen, who, having witnessed the review, had chosen this delightful spot for luncheon. They were evidently rich and fashionable people, for they had come as a coaching party on a very smart break, with four beautiful horses, and some in a flashing red-and-black automobile that was now drawn up beside the larger vehicle.
With an idle eye M. Paul observed the details of the luncheon, red-coated servants emptying bounteous hampers and passing tempting food from group to group, others opening bottles of champagne, with popping corks, and filling bubbling glasses, while the men of the party passed back and forth from break to automobile with jests and gay words, or strolled under the trees enjoying post-prandial cigars.
Altogether it was a pleasing picture, and Coquenil's interest was heightened when he overheard a passing couple say that these were the guests of no less a person than the Duke of Montreuil, whose lavish entertainments were the talk of Paris. There he was, on the break, this favorite of fortune! What a brilliant figure of a man! Famous as a sportsman, enormously rich, popular in society, at the head of vast industrial enterprises, and known to have almost controlling power in affairs of state!
"Never mind, old sport, it takes all kinds of people to make up the world. Now then, jump!"
So they went on, playing together, master and dog, and were passing around through the woods on the far side of the coaching party, when, suddenly, Cæsar ceased his romping and began to nose the ground excitedly. Then, running to his master, he stood with eager eyes, as if urging some pursuit.
The detective observed the dog in surprise. Was this some foolish whim to follow a squirrel or a rabbit? It wasn't like Cæsar.
"Come, come," he reasoned with friendly chiding, "don't be a baby."
Cæsar growled in vigorous protest, and darting away, began circling the ground before him, back and forth, in widening curves, as Coquenil had taught him.
"Have you found something—sure?"
The animal barked joyously.
M. Paul was puzzled. Evidently there was a scent here, but what scent? He had made no experiments with Cæsar since the night of the crime, when the dog had taken the scent of the pistol and found the alleyway footprints. But that was ten days ago; the dog could not still be on that same scent. Impossible! Yet he was on some scent, and very eagerly. Coquenil had never seen him more impatient for permission to be off. Could a dog remember a scent for ten days?
"After all, what harm can it do?" reflected the detective, becoming interested in his turn. Then, deciding quickly, he gave the word, "Cherche!" and instantly the dog was away.
"He means business," muttered M. Paul, hurrying after him.
On through the woods went Cæsar, nose down, tail rigid, following the scent, moving carefully among the trees, and once or twice losing the trail, but quickly finding it again, and, presently, as he reached more open ground, running ahead swiftly, straight toward the coaching party.
In a flash Coquenil realized the danger and called loudly to the dog, but the distance was too great, and his voice was drowned by the cries of ladies on the break, who, seeing the bounding animal, screamed their fright. And no wonder, for this powerful, close-clipped creature, in his sudden rush looked like some formidable beast of prey; even the men started up in alarm.
"Cæsar!" shouted M. Paul, but it was too late. The dog was flying full at the break, eyes fixed, body tense; now he was gathering strength to spring, and now, with a splendid effort, he was actually hurling himself through the air, when among the confused figures on the coach a man leaned forward suddenly, and something flashed in his hand. There was a feather of smoke, a sharp report, and then, with a stab of pain, Coquenil saw Cæsar fall back to the ground and lie still.
"My dog, my dog!" he cried, and coming up to the stricken creature, he knelt beside him with ashen face.
One glance showed there was nothing to be done, the bullet had crashed into the broad breast in front of the left shoulder and—it was all over with Cæsar.
"My friend, my dear old friend!" murmured M. Paul in broken tones, and he took the poor head in his arms. At the master's voice Cæsar opened his beautiful eyes weakly, in a last pitiful appeal, then the lids closed.
"You cowards!" flung out the heartsick man. "You have killed my dog!"
"It was your own fault," said one of the gentlemen coldly, "you had no business to leave a dangerous animal like that at liberty."
M. Paul did not speak or move; he was thinking bitterly of Alice's presentiment.
Then some one on the break said: "We had better move along, hadn't we, Raoul?"
"Yes," agreed another. "What a beastly bore!"
And a few moments later, with clanking harness and sounding horn, the gay party rolled away.
Coquenil sat silent by his dog.
Chapter XXI.
The Wood Carver
A detective, like an actor or a soldier, must go on fighting and playing his part, regardless of personal feelings. Sorrow brings him no reprieve from duty, so the next morning after the last sad offices for poor Cæsar, Coquenil faced the emergency before him with steady nerve and calm resolution. There was an assassin to be brought to justice and the time for action had come. This was, perhaps, the most momentous day of his whole career.
Up to the very hour of luncheon M. Paul doubted whether the wood carver would keep his appointment at the Bonnetons'. Why should he take such a risk? Why walk deliberately into a trap that he must suspect? It was true, Coquenil remembered with chagrin, that this man, if he really was the man, had once before walked into a trap (there on the Champs Elysées) and had then walked calmly out again; but this time the detective promised himself things should happen differently. His precautions were taken, and if Groener came within his clutches to-day, he would have a lively time getting out of them. There was a score to be settled between them, a heavy score, and—let the wood carver beware!
The wood carver kept his appointment. More than that, he seemed in excellent spirits, and as he sat down to Mother Bonneton's modest luncheon he nodded good-naturedly to Matthieu, the substitute watchman, whom the sacristan introduced, not too awkwardly, then he fell to eating with a hearty appetite and without any sign of embarrassment or suspicion.
"It's a strong game he's playing," reflected the detective, "but he's going to lose."
The wood carver appeared to be a man approaching forty, of medium height and stocky build, the embodiment of good health and good humor. His round, florid face was free from lines, his gray eyes were clear and friendly. He had thick, brown hair, a short, yellowish mustache, and a close-cut, brownish beard. He was dressed like a superior workingman, in a flannel shirt, a rough, blue suit, oil-stained and dust-sprinkled, and he wore thick-soled boots.