COQUENIL GETS IN THE GAME
It was a long night at the Ansonia and a hard night for M. Gritz. France is
a land of infinite red tape where even such simple things as getting born
or getting married lead to endless formalities. Judge, then, of the
complicated procedure involved in so serious a matter as getting
murdered--especially in a fashionable restaurant! Long before the
commissary had finished his report there arrived no less a person than M.
Simon, the chief of police, round-faced and affable, a brisk, dapper man
whose ready smile had led more than one trusting criminal into regretted
confidences.
And a little later came M. Hauteville, the judge in charge of the case, a
cold, severe figure, handsome in his younger days, but soured, it was said,
by social disappointments and ill health. He was in evening dress, having
been summoned posthaste from the theater. Both of these officials went over
the case with the commissary and the doctor, both viewed the body and
studied its surroundings and, having formed a theory of the crime, both
proceeded to draw up a report. And the doctor drew up _his_ report. And
already Gibelin (now at the prison with Kittredge) had made elaborate notes
for _his_ report. And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a score
of reporters all busy with _their_ reports. No doubt that, in the matter of
paper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of this
gallant billiard player!
Meantime the official police photographer and his assistants had arrived
(this was long after midnight) with special apparatus for photographing the
victim and the scene of the crime. And their work occupied two full hours
owing largely to the difficult manipulation of a queer, clumsy camera that
photographed the body _from above_ as it lay on the floor.
In the intervals of these formalities the officials discussed the case with
a wide variance in opinions and conclusions. The chief of police and M.
Pougeot were strong for the theory of murder, while M. Hauteville leaned
toward suicide. The doctor was undecided.
"But the shot was fired at the closest possible range," insisted the judge;
"the pistol was not a foot from the man's head. Isn't that true, doctor?"
"Yes," replied Joubert, "the eyebrows are badly singed, the skin is burned,
and the face shows unmistakable powder marks. I should say the pistol was
fired not six inches from the victim."
"Then it's suicide," declared the judge. "How else account for the facts?
Martinez was a strong, active man. He would never have allowed a murderer
to get so close to him without a struggle. But there is not the slightest
sign of a struggle, no disorder in the room, no disarrangement of the man's
clothing. It's evidently suicide."
"If it's suicide," objected Pougeot, "where is the weapon? The man died
instantly, didn't he, doctor?"
"Undoubtedly," agreed the doctor.
"Then the pistol must have fallen beside him or remained in his hand. Well,
where is it?"
"Ask the woman who was here. How do you know she didn't take it?"
"Nonsense!" put in the chief. "Why should she take it? To throw suspicion
on herself? Besides, I'll show you another reason why it's not suicide. The
man was shot through the right eye, the ball went in straight and clean,
tearing its way to the brain. Well, in the whole history of suicides, there
is not one case where a man has shot himself in the eye. Did you ever hear
of such a case, doctor?"
"Never," answered Joubert.
"A man will shoot himself in the mouth, in the temple, in the heart,
anywhere, but not in the eye. There would be an unconquerable shrinking
from that. So I say it's murder."
The judge shook his head. "And the murderer?"
"Ah, that's another question. We must find the woman. And we must
understand the rôle of this American."
"No woman ever fired that shot or planned this crime," declared the
commissary, unconsciously echoing Coquenil's opinion.
"There's better reason to argue that the American never did it," retorted
the judge.
"What reason?"
"The woman ran away, didn't she? And the American didn't. If he had killed
this man, do you think _anything_ would have brought him back here for that
cloak and bag?"
"A good point," nodded the chief. "We can't be sure of the murderer--yet,
but we can be reasonably sure it's murder."
Still the judge was unconvinced. "If it's murder, how do you account for
the singed eyebrows? How did the murderer get so near?"
"I answer as you did: 'Ask the woman.' She knows."
"Ah, yes, she knows," reflected the commissary. "And, gentlemen, all our
talk brings us back to this, _we must find that woman_."
At half past one Gibelin appeared to announce the arrest of Kittredge. He
had tried vainly to get from the American some clew to the owner of cloak
and bag, but the young man had refused to speak and, with sullen
indifference, had allowed himself to be locked up in the big room at the
depot.
"I'll see what _I_ can squeeze out of him in the morning," said Hauteville
grimly. There was no judge in the _parquet_ who had his reputation for
breaking down the resistance of obstinate prisoners.
"You've got your work cut out," snapped the detective. "He's a stubborn
devil."
In the midst of these perplexities and technicalities a note was brought in
for M. Pougeot. The commissary glanced at it quickly and then, with a word
of excuse, left the room, returning a few minutes later and whispering
earnestly to M. Simon.
"You say _he_ is here?" exclaimed the latter. "I thought he was sailing
for----"
M. Pougeot bent closer and whispered again.
"Paul Coquenil!" exclaimed the chief. "Why, certainly, ask him to come in."
A moment later Coquenil entered and all rose with cordial greetings, that
is, all except Gibelin, whose curt nod and suspicious glances showed that
he found anything but satisfaction in the presence of this formidable
rival.
"My dear Coquenil!" said Simon warmly. "This is like the old days! If you
were only with us now what a nut there would be for you to crack!"
"So I hear," smiled M. Paul, "and--er--the fact is, I have come to help
you crack it." He spoke with that quiet but confident seriousness which
always carried conviction, and M. Simon and the judge, feeling the man's
power, waited his further words with growing interest; but Gibelin blinked
his small eyes and muttered under his breath: "The cheek of the fellow!"
"As you know," explained Coquenil briefly, "I resigned from the force two
years ago. I need not go into details; the point is, I now ask to be taken
back. That is why I am here."
"But, my dear fellow," replied the chief in frank astonishment, "I
understood that you had received a magnificent offer with----"
"Yes, yes, I have."
"With a salary of a hundred thousand francs?"
"It's true, but--I have refused it."
Simon and Hauteville looked at Coquenil incredulously. How could a man
refuse a salary of a hundred thousand francs? The commissary watched his
friend with admiration, Gibelin with envious hostility.
"May I ask _why_ you have refused it?" asked the chief.
"Partly for personal reasons, largely because I want to have a hand in this
case."
Gibelin moved uneasily.
"You think this case so interesting?" put in the judge.
"The most interesting I have ever known," answered the other, and then he
added with all the authority of his fine, grave face: "It's more than
interesting, _it's the most important criminal case Paris has known for
three generations_."
Again they stared at him.
"My dear Coquenil, you exaggerate," objected M. Simon. "After all, we have
only the shooting of a billiard player."
M. Paul shook his head and replied impressively: "The billiard player was a
pawn in the game. He became troublesome and was sacrificed. He is of no
importance, but there's a greater game than billiards here with a master
player and--_I'm going to be in it_."
"Why do you think it's a great game?" questioned the judge.
"Why do I think anything? Why did I think a commonplace pickpocket at the
Bon Marché was a notorious criminal, wanted by two countries? Why did I
think we should find the real clew to that Bordeaux counterfeiting gang in
a Passy wine shop? Why did I think it necessary to-night to be _on_ the cab
this young American took and not _behind_ it in another cab?" He shot a
quick glance at Gibelin. "Because a good detective _knows_ certain things
before he can prove them and acts on his knowledge. That is what
distinguishes him from an ordinary detective."
"Meaning me?" challenged Gibelin.
"Not at all," replied M. Paul smoothly. "I only say that----"
"One moment," interrupted M. Simon. "Do I understand that you were with the
driver who took this American away from here to-night?"
Coquenil smiled. "I was not _with_ the driver, I _was the driver_ and I had
the honor of receiving five francs from my distinguished associate." He
bowed mockingly to Gibelin and held up a silver piece. "I shall keep this
among my curiosities."
"It was a foolish trick, a perfectly useless trick," declared Gibelin,
furious.
"Perhaps not," answered the other with aggravating politeness; "perhaps it
was a rather nice _coup_ leading to very important results."
"Huh! What results?"
"Yes. What results?" echoed the judge.
"Let me ask first," replied Coquenil deliberately, "what you regard as the
most important thing to be known in this case just now?"
"The name of the woman," answered Hauteville promptly.
"_Parbleu!_" agreed the commissary.
"Then the man who gives you this woman's name and address will render a
real service?"
"A service?" exclaimed Hauteville. "The whole case rests on this woman.
Without her, nothing can be understood."
"So it would be a good piece of work," continued Coquenil, "if a man had
discovered this name and address in the last few hours with nothing but his
wits to help him; in fact, with everything done to hinder him." He looked
meaningly at Gibelin.
"Come, come," interrupted the chief, "what are you driving at?"
"At this, _I have the woman's name and address_."
"Impossible!" they cried.
"I got them by my own efforts and I will give them up _on my own terms_."
He spoke with a look of fearless purpose that M. Simon well remembered from
the old days.
"A thousand devils! How did you do it?" cried Simon.
"I watched the American in the cab as he leaned forward toward the lantern
light and I saw exactly what he was doing. He opened the lady's bag and cut
out a leather flap that had her name and address stamped on it."
"No," contradicted Gibelin, "there was _no_ name in the bag. I examined it
myself."
"The name was on the _under side_ of the flap," laughed the other, "in gilt
letters."
Gibelin's heart sank.
"And you took this flap from the American?" asked M. Simon.
"No, no! Any violence would have brought my colleague into the thing, for
he was close behind, and I wanted this knowledge for myself."
"What did you do?" pursued the chief.
"I let the young man cut the flap into small pieces and drop them one by
one as we drove through dark little streets. And I noted where he dropped
the pieces. Then I drove back and picked them up, that is, all but two."
"Marvelous!" muttered Hauteville.
"I had a small searchlight lantern to help me. That was one of the things I
took from my desk," he added to Pougeot.
"And these pieces of leather with the name and address, you have them?"
continued the chief.
"I have them."
"With you?"
"Yes."
"May I see them?"
"Certainly. If you will promise to respect them as my personal property?"
Simon hesitated. "You mean--" he frowned, and then impatiently: "Oh, yes, I
promise that."
Coquenil drew an envelope from his breast pocket and from it he took a
number of white-leather fragments. And he showed the chief that most of
these fragments were stamped in gold letters or parts of letters.
"I'm satisfied," declared Simon after examining several of the fragments
and returning them. "_Bon Dieu!_" he stormed at Gibelin. "And you had that
bag in your hands!"
Gibelin sat silent. This was the wretchedest moment in his career.
"Well," continued the chief, "we _must_ have these pieces of leather. What
are your terms?"
"I told you," said Coquenil, "I want to be put back on the force. I want to
handle this case."
M. Simon thought a moment. "That ought to be easily arranged. I will see
the _préfet de police_ about it in the morning."
But the other demurred. "I ask you to see him to-night. It's ten minutes to
his house in an automobile. I'll wait here."
The chief smiled. "You're in a hurry, aren't you? Well, so are we. Will you
come with me, Hauteville?"
"If you like."
"And I'll go, if you don't mind," put in the commissary. "I may have some
influence with the _préfet_."
"He won't refuse me," declared Simon. "After all, I am responsible for the
pursuit of criminals in this city, and if I tell him that I absolutely need
Paul Coquenil back on the force, as I do, he will sign the commission at
once. Come, gentlemen."
A moment later the three had hurried off, leaving Coquenil and Gibelin
together.
"Have one?" said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case.
"Thanks," snapped Gibelin with deliberate insolence, "I prefer my own."
"There's no use being ugly about it," replied the other good-naturedly, as
he lighted a cigarette. His companion did the same and the two smoked in
silence, Gibelin gnawing savagely at his little red mustache.
"See here," broke in the latter, "wouldn't you be ugly if somebody butted
into a case that had been given to you?"
"Why," smiled Coquenil, "if he thought he could handle it better than I
could, I--I think I'd let him try."
[Illustration: "'Have one?' said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case."]
Then there was another silence, broken presently by Gibelin.
"Do you imagine the _préfet de police_ is going to stand being pulled out
of bed at three in the morning just because Paul Coquenil wants something?
Well, I guess not."
"No? What do you think he'll do?" asked Coquenil.
"Do? He'll tell those men they are three idiots, that's what he'll do. And
you'll never get your appointment. Bet you five louis you don't."
M. Paul shook his head. "I don't want your money."
"_Bon sang!_ You think the whole police department must bow down to you."
"It's not a case of bowing down to me, it's a case of _needing_ me."
"Huh!" snorted the other. "I'm going to walk around." He rose and moved
toward the door. Then he turned sharply: "Say, how much did you pay that
driver?"
"Ten louis. It was cheap enough. He might have lost his place."
"You think it's a great joke on me because I paid you five francs? Don't
forget that it was raining and dark and you had that rubber cape pulled up
over half your face, so it wasn't such a wonderful disguise."
"I didn't say it was."
"Anyhow, I'll get square with you," retorted the other, exasperated by M.
Paul's good nature. "The best men make mistakes and _look out that you
don't make one_."
"If I do, I'll call on you for help."
"And _if_ you do, I'll take jolly good care that you don't get it," snarled
the other.
"Nonsense!" laughed Coquenil. "You're a good soldier, Gibelin; you like to
kick and growl, but you do your work. Tell you what I'll do as soon as I'm
put in charge of this case. Want to know what I'll do?"
"Well?"
"I'll have to set you to work on it. Ha, ha! Upon my soul, I will."
"You'd better look out," menaced the red-haired man with an ugly look, "or
I'll do some work on this case you'll wish I hadn't done." With this he
flung himself out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"What did he mean by that?" muttered M. Paul, and he sat silent, lost in
thought, until the others returned. In a glance, he read the answer in
their faces.
"It's all right," said the chief.
"Congratulations, old friend," beamed Pougeot, squeezing Coquenil's hand.
"The _préfet_ was extremely nice," added M. Hauteville; "he took our view
at once."
"Then my commission is signed?"
"Precisely," answered the chief; "you are one of us again, and--I'm glad."
"Thank you, both of you," said M. Paul with a quiver of emotion.
"I give you full charge of this case," went on M. Simon, "and I will see
that you have every possible assistance. I expect you to be on deck
to-morrow morning."
Coquenil hesitated a moment and then, with a flash of his tireless energy,
he said: "If it's all the same to you, chief, I'll go on deck
to-night--now."