True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland
at the meager results of Alice's visit to the prison. This was merely one move in the game, and it had not been entirely vain, since he had learned that Kittredge might have used his left hand in firing a pistol and that he did not suffer with gout or rheumatism. This last point was of extreme importance.
And the detective was speedily put in excellent humor by news awaiting him at the Palais de Justice Monday morning that the man sent to London to trace the burned photograph and the five-pound notes had already met with success and had telegraphed that the notes in question had been issued to Addison Wilmott, whose bankers were Munroe and Co., Rue Scribe.
Quick inquiries revealed the fact that Addison Wilmott was a well-known New Yorker, living in Paris, a man of leisure who was enjoying to the full a large inherited fortune. He and his dashing wife lived in a private hôtel on the Avenue Kleber, where they led a gay existence in the smartest and most spectacular circle of the American Colony. They gave brilliant dinners, they had several automobiles, they did all the foolish and extravagant things that the others did and a few more.
He was dull, good-natured, and a little fat; she was a beautiful woman with extraordinary charm and a lithe, girlish figure of which she took infinite care; he was supposed to kick up his heels in a quiet way while she did the thing brilliantly and kept the wheels of American Colony gossip (busy enough, anyway) turning and spinning until they groaned in utter weariness.
What was there that Pussy Wilmott had not done or would not do if the impulse seized her? This was a matter of tireless speculation in the ultra-chic salons through which this fascinating lady flitted, envied and censured. She was known to be the daughter of a California millionaire who had left her a fortune, of which the last shred was long ago dispersed. Before marrying Wilmott she had divorced two husbands, had traveled all over the world, had hunted tigers in India and canoed the breakers, native style, in Hawaii; she had lived like a cowboy on the Texas plains, where, it was said, she had worn men's clothes; she could swim and shoot and swear and love; she was altogether selfish, altogether delightful, altogether impossible; in short, she was a law unto herself, and her brilliant personality so far overshadowed Addison that, although he had the money and most of the right in their frequent quarrels, no one ever spoke of him except as "Pussy Wilmott's husband."
In spite of her willfulness and caprices Mrs. Wilmott was full of generous impulses and loyal to her friends. She was certainly not a snob, as witness the fact that she had openly snubbed a certain grand duke, not for his immoralities, which she declared afterwards were nobody's business, but because of his insufferable stupidity. She rather liked a sinner, but she couldn't stand a fool!
Such was the information M. Paul had been able to gather from swift and special police sources when he presented himself at the Wilmott hôtel, about luncheon time on Monday. Addison was just starting with some friends for a run down to Fontainebleau in his new Panhard, and he listened impatiently to Coquenil's explanation that he had come in regard to some English bank notes recently paid to Mr. Wilmott, and possibly clever forgeries.
"Really!" exclaimed Addison.
Coquenil hoped that Mr. Wilmott would give him the notes in question in exchange for genuine ones. This would help the investigation.
"Of course, my dear sir," said the American, "but I haven't the notes, they were spent long ago."
Coquenil was sorry to hear this—he wondered if Mr. Wilmott could remember where the notes were spent. After an intellectual effort Addison remembered that he had changed one into French money at Henry's and had paid two or three to a shirt maker on the Rue de la Paix, and the rest—he reflected again, and then said positively: "Why, yes, I gave five or six of them, I think there were six, I'm sure there were, because—" He stopped with a new idea.
"You remember whom you paid them to?" questioned the detective.
"I didn't pay them to anyone," replied Wilmott, "I gave them to my wife."
"Ah!" said Coquenil, and presently he took his departure with polite assurances, whereupon the unsuspecting Addison tooted away complacently for Fontainebleau.
It was now about two o'clock, and the next three hours M. Paul spent with his sources of information studying the career of Pussy Wilmott from special points of view in preparation for a call upon the lady, which he proposed to make later in the afternoon.
He discovered two significant things: first, that, whatever her actual conduct, Mrs. Wilmott had never openly compromised herself. Love affairs she might have had, but no one could say when or where or with whom she had had them; and if, as seemed likely, she was the woman in this Ansonia case, then she had kept her relations with Kittredge in profoundest secrecy.
As offsetting this, however, Coquenil secured information that connected Mrs. Wilmott directly with Martinez. It appeared that, among her other excitements, Pussy was passionately fond of gambling. She was known to have won and lost large sums at Monte Carlo, and she was a regular follower of the fashionable races in Paris. She had also been seen at the Olympia billiard academy, near the Grand Hotel, where Martinez and other experts played regularly before eager audiences, among whom betting on the games was the great attraction. The detective found two bet markers who remembered distinctly that, on several occasions, a handsome woman, answering to the description of Mrs. Wilmott, had wagered five or ten louis on Martinez and had shown a decided admiration for his remarkable skill with the cue.
"He used to talk about this lady," said one of the markers; "he called her his 'belle Américaine,' but I am sure he did not know her real name." The man smiled at Martinez's inordinate vanity over his supposed fascination for women—he was convinced that no member of the fair sex could resist his advances.
With so much in mind Coquenil started up the Champs Elysées about five o'clock. He counted on finding Mrs. Wilmott home at tea time, and as he strolled along, turning the problem over in his mind, he found it conceivable that this eccentric lady, in a moment of ennui or for the novelty of the thing, might have consented to dine with Martinez in a private room. It was certain no scruples would have deterred her if the adventure had seemed amusing, especially as Martinez had no idea who she was. With her, excitement and a new sensation were the only rules of conduct, and her husband's opinion was a matter of the smallest possible consequence. Besides, he would probably never know it!
Mrs. Wilmott, very languid and stunning, amidst her luxurious surroundings, received M. Paul with the patronizing indifference that bored rich women extend to tradespeople. But presently when he explained that he was a detective and began to question her about the Ansonia affair, she rose with a haughty gesture that was meant to banish him in confusion from her presence. Coquenil, however, did not "banish" so easily. He had dealt with haughty ladies before.
"My dear madam, please sit down," he said quietly. "I must ask you to explain how it happens that a number of five-pound notes, given to you by your husband some days ago, were found on the body of this murdered man."
"How do I know?" she replied sharply. "I spent the notes in shops; I'm not responsible for what became of them. Besides, I am dining out to-night, and! I must dress. I really don't see any point to this conversation."
"No," he smiled, and the keenness of his glance: pierced her like a blade. "The point is, my dear lady, that I want you to tell me what you were doing with this billiard player when he was shot last Saturday night."
"It's false; I never knew the man," she cried. "It's an outrage for you to—to intrude on a lady and—and insult her."
"You used to back his game at the Olympia," continued Coquenil coolly.
"What of it? I'm fond of billiards. Is that a crime?"
"You left your cloak and a small leather bag in the vestiaire at the Ansonia," pursued M. Paul.
"It isn't true!"
"Your name was found stamped in gold letters under a leather flap in the bag."
She shot a frightened glance at him and then faltered: "It—it was?"
Coquenil nodded. "Your friend, M. Kittredge, tore the flap out of the bag and then cut it into small pieces and scattered the pieces