The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
"And you, too, my poor friend. Everyone who has had anything to do with this case, from the highest to the lowest, will suffer. We all made a frightful mistake, they say, in daring to arrest and persecute this most distinguished and honorable citizen. Ha, ha!" he concluded bitterly as he lighted another cigarette.
"C'est épatant!" exclaimed Tignol. "He must be a rich devil!"
"He's rich and—much more."
"Whe-ew! He must be a senator or—or something like that?"
"Much more," said Coquenil grimly.
"More than a senator? Then—then a cabinet minister? No, it isn't possible?"
"He is more important than a cabinet minister, far more important."
"Holy snakes!" gasped Tignol. "I don't see anything left except the Prime Minister himself."
"This man is so highly placed," declared Coquenil gravely, "he is so powerful that——"
"Stop!" interrupted the other. "I know. He was in that coaching party; he killed the dog, it was—it was the Duke de Montreuil."
"No, it was not," replied Coquenil. "The Duke de Montreuil is rich and powerful, as men go in France, but this man is of international importance, his fortune amounts to a thousand million francs, at least, and his power is—well—he could treat the Duke de Montreuil like a valet."
"Who—who is he?"
Coquenil pointed to his table where a book lay open. "Do you see that red book? It's the Annuaire de la Noblesse Française. You'll find his name there—marked with a pencil."
Tignol went eagerly to the table, then, as he glanced at the printed page there came over his face an expression of utter amazement.
"It isn't possible!" he cried.
"I know," agreed Coquenil, "it isn't possible, but—it's true!"
"Dieu de Dieu de Dieu!" frowned the old man, bobbing his cropped head and tugging at his sweeping black mustache. Then slowly in awe-struck tones he read from the great authority on French titles:
BARON FELIX RAOUL DE HEIDELMANN-BRUCK, only son of the Baron Georges Raoul de Heidelmann-Bruck, upon whom the title was conferred for industrial activities under the Second Empire. B. Jan. 19, 1863. Lieutenant in the 45th cuirassiers, now retired. Has extensive iron and steel works near St. Etienne. Also naval construction yards at Brest. Member of the Jockey Club, the Cercle de la Rue Royale, the Yacht Club of France, the Automobile Club, the Aero Club, etc. Decorations: Commander of the Legion of Honor, the order of St. Maurice and Lazare (Italy), the order of Christ (Portugal), etc. Address: Paris, Hotel Rue de Varennes Château near Langier, Touraine. Married Mrs. Elizabeth Coogan, who perished with her daughter Mary in the Charity Bazaar fire.
"You see, it's all there," said M. Paul. "His name is Raoul and his wife's name was Margaret. She died in the Charity Bazaar fire, and his stepdaughter Mary is put down as having died there, too. We know where she is."
"The devil! The devil! The devil!" muttered Tignol, his nut-cracker face screwed up in comical perplexity. "This will rip things wide, wide open."
The detective shook his head. "It won't rip anything open."
"But if he is guilty?"
"No one will know it, no one would believe it."
"You know it, you can prove it."
"How can I prove it? The courts are closed against me. And even if they weren't, do you suppose it would be possible to convict the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck of any crime? Nonsense! He's the most powerful man in France. He controls the banks, the bourse, the government. He can cause a money panic by lifting his hand. He can upset the ministry by a word over the telephone. He financed the campaign that brought in the present radical government, and his sister is the wife of the Prime Minister."
"And he killed Martinez!" added Tignol.
"Yes."
For fully a minute the two men faced each other in silence. M. Paul lighted another cigarette.
"Couldn't you tell what you know in the newspapers?"
"No newspaper in France would dare to print it," said Coquenil gravely.
"Perhaps there is some mistake," suggested the other, "perhaps he isn't the man."
The detective opened his table drawer and drew out several photographs. "Look at those!"
One by one Tignol studied the photographs. "It's the man we arrested, all right—without the beard."
"It's the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck," said Coquenil.
Tignol gazed at the pictures with a kind of fascination.
"How many millions did you say he has?"
"A thousand—or more."
"A thousand millions!" He screwed up his face again and pulled reflectively on his long red nose. "And I put the handcuffs on him! Holy camels!"
Coquenil lighted another cigarette and breathed in the smoke deeply.
"Aren't you smoking too many of those things? That makes five in ten minutes."
M. Paul shrugged his shoulders. "What's the difference?"
"I see, you're thinking out some plan," approved the other.
"Plan for what?"
"For putting this thousand-million-franc devil where he belongs," grinned the old man.
The detective eyed his friend keenly. "Papa Tignol, that's the prettiest compliment anyone ever paid me. In spite of all I have said you have confidence that I could do this man up—somehow, eh?"
"Sure!"
"I don't know, I don't know," reflected Coquenil, and a shadow of sadness fell over his pale, weary face. "Perhaps I could, but—I'm not going to try."
"You—you're not going to try?"
"No, I'm through, I wash my hands of the case. The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck can sleep easily as far as I am concerned."
Tignol bounded to his feet and his little eyes flashed indignantly. "I don't believe it," he cried. "I won't have it. You can't tell me Paul Coquenil is afraid. Are you afraid?"
"I don't think so," smiled the other.
"And Paul Coquenil hasn't been bought? He can't be bought—can he?"
"I hope not."
"Then—then what in thunder do you mean," he demanded fiercely, "by saying you drop this case?"
M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram. "Read that, old friend," he answered with emotion, "and—and thank you for your good opinion."
Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet.
M. PAUL COQUENIL,
Villa Montmorency, Paris.
House and barn destroyed by incendiary fire in night. Your mother saved, but seriously injured. M. Abel says insurance policy had lapsed. Come at once.
ERNESTINE.
"Quel malheur! Quel malheur!" exclaimed the old man. "My poor M. Paul! Forgive me! I'm a stupid fool," and he grasped his companion's hand in quick sympathy.
"It's all right, you didn't understand," said the other gently.
"And you—you think it's his doing?"
"Of course. He must have given the order in that cipher dispatch to Dubois. Dubois is a secret agent of the government. He communicated with the Prime Minister, but the Prime Minister was away inaugurating a statue; he didn't return until after midnight. That is why the man wasn't set at liberty sooner. No wonder he kept looking at the clock."
"And Dubois telegraphed to