THE WEAPON
Right across from the Ansonia on the Rue Marboeuf was a little wine shop
that remained open all night for the accommodation of cab drivers and
belated pedestrians and to this Coquenil and the commissary now withdrew.
Before anything else the detective wished to get from M. Pougeot his
impressions of the case. And he asked Papa Tignol to come with them for a
fortifying glass.
"By the way," said the commissary to Tignol when they were seated in the
back room, "did you find out how that woman left the hotel without her
wraps and without being seen?"
The old man nodded. "When she came out of the telephone booth she slipped
on a long black rain coat that was hanging there. It belonged to the
telephone girl and it's missing. The rain coat had a hood to it which the
woman pulled over her head. Then she walked out quietly and no one paid any
attention to her."
"Good work, Papa Tignol," approved Coquenil.
"It's you, M. Paul, who have done good work this night," chuckled Tignol.
"Eh! Eh! What a lesson for Gibelin!"
"The brute!" muttered Pougeot.
Then they turned to the commissary's report of his investigation, Coquenil
listening with intense concentration, interrupting now and then with a
question or to consult the rough plan drawn by Pougeot.
"Are you sure there is no exit from the banquet room and from these private
rooms except by the corridor?" he asked.
"They tell me not."
"So, if the murderer went out, he must have passed Joseph?"
"Yes."
"And the only persons who passed Joseph were the woman and this American?"
"Exactly."
"Too easy!" he muttered. "Too easy!"
"What do you mean?"
"That would put the guilt on one or the other of those two?"
"Apparently."
"And end the case?"
"Why--er----"
"Yes, it would. A case is ended when the murderer is discovered. Well, this
case is _not_ ended, you can be sure of that. The murderer I am looking for
_is not that kind of a murderer_. To begin with, he's not a fool. If he
made up his mind to shoot a man in a private room he would know _exactly_
what he was doing and _exactly_ how he was going to escape."
"But the facts are there--I've given them to you," retorted the commissary
a little nettled.
Coquenil shook his head.
"My dear Lucien, you have given me _some_ of the facts; before morning I
hope we'll have others and--hello!"
He stopped abruptly to look at a comical little man with a very large
mouth, the owner of the place, who had been hovering about for some moments
as if anxious to say something.
"What is it, my friend?" asked Coquenil good-naturedly.
At this the proprietor coughed in embarrassment and motioned to a prim,
thin-faced woman in the front room who came forward with fidgety shyness,
begging the gentlemen to forgive her if she had done wrong, but there was
something on her conscience and she couldn't sleep without telling it.
"Well?" broke in Pougeot impatiently, but Coquenil gave the woman a
reassuring look and she went on to explain that she was a spinster living
in a little attic room of the next house, overlooking the Rue Marboeuf. She
worked as a seamstress all day in a hot, crowded _atelier_, and when she
came home at night she loved to go out on her balcony, especially these
fine summer evenings. She would stand there and brush her hair while she
watched the sunset deepen and the swallows circle over the chimney tops. It
was an excellent thing for a woman's hair to brush it a long time every
night; she always brushed hers for half an hour--that was why it was so
thick and glossy.
"But, my dear woman," smiled Coquenil, "what has that to do with me? I have
very little hair and no time to brush it."
The seamstress begged his pardon, the point was that on the previous
evening, just as she had nearly finished brushing her hair, she suddenly
heard a sound like a pistol shot from across the street, and looking down,
she saw a glittering object thrown from a window. She saw it distinctly and
watched where it fell beyond the high wall that separated the Ansonia Hotel
from an adjoining courtyard. She had not thought much about it at the
moment, but, having heard that something dreadful had happened----
Coquenil could contain himself no longer and, taking the woman's arm, he
hurried her to the door.
"Now," he said, "show me just _where_ you saw this glittering object thrown
over the wall."
"There," she replied, pointing, "it lies to the left of that heavy doorway
on the courtyard stones. I could see it from my balcony."
[Illustration: "'There it lies to the left of that heavy doorway.'"]
"Wait!" and, speaking to Tignol in a low tone, M. Paul gave him quick
instructions, whereupon the old man hurried across the street and pulled
the bell at the doorway indicated.
"Is he going to see what it was?" asked the spinster eagerly.
"Yes, he is going to see what it was," and at that moment the door swung
open and Papa Tignol disappeared within.
"Did you happen to see the person who threw this thing?" continued M. Paul
gently.
"No, but I saw his arm."
Coquenil gave a start of satisfaction. "His arm? Then a man threw it?"
"Oh, yes, I saw his black coat sleeve and his white cuff quite plainly."
"But not his face?"
"No, only the arm."
"Do you remember the window from which he threw this object?" The detective
looked at her anxiously.
"Yes, indeed, it is easy to remember; it's the end window, on the first
floor of the hotel. There!"
Coquenil felt a thrill of excitement, for, unless he had misunderstood the
commissary's diagram, the seamstress was pointing not to private room
Number Six, _but to private room Number Seven!_
"Lucien!" he called, and, taking his friend aside, he asked: "Does that end
window on the first floor belong to Number Six or Number Seven?"
"Number Seven."
"And the window next to it?"
"Number Six."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely sure."
"Thanks. Just a moment," and he rejoined the seamstress.
"You are giving us great assistance," he said to her politely. "I shall
speak of you to the chief."
"Oh, sir," she murmured in confusion.
"But one point is not quite clear. Just look across again. You see two
open windows, the end window and the one next to it. Isn't it possible that
this bright thing was thrown from the window _next_ to the end one?"
"No, no."
"They are both alike and, both being open, one might easily make a
mistake."
She shook her head positively. "I have made no mistake, _it was the end
window_."
Just then Coquenil heard the click of the door opposite and, looking over,
he saw Papa Tignol beckoning to him.
"Excuse me," he said and hurried across the street.
"It's there," whispered Tignol.
"The pistol?"
"Yes."
"You remembered what I told you?"
The old man looked hurt. "Of course I did. I haven't touched it. Nothing
could make me touch it."
"Good! Papa Tignol, I want you to stay here until I come back. Things are
marching along."
Again he rejoined the seamstress and, with his serious, friendly air, he
began: "And you still think that shining object was thrown from the
_second_ window?"
"No, no! How stupid you are!" And then in confusion: "I beg a thousand
pardons, I am nervous. I thought I told you plainly it was the end window."
"Thanks, my good woman," replied M. Paul. "Now go right back to your room
and don't breathe a word of this to anyone."
"But," she stammered, "would monsieur be so kind as to say what the bright
object was?"
The detective bent nearer and whispered mysteriously: "It was a comb, a
silver comb!"
"_Mon Dieu!_ A silver comb!" exclaimed the unsuspecting spinster.
"Now back to your room and finish brushing your hair," he urged, and the
woman hurried away trembling with excitement.
A few moments later Coquenil and the commissary and Papa Tignol were
standing in the courtyard near two green tubs of foliage plants between
which the pistol had fallen. The doorkeeper of the house, a crabbed
individual who had only become mildly respectful when he learned that he
was dealing with the police, had joined them, his crustiness tempered by
curiosity.
"See here," said the detective, addressing him, "do you want to earn five
francs?" The doorkeeper brightened. "I'll make it ten", continued the
other, "if you do exactly what I say. You are to take a cab, here is the
money, and drive to Notre-Dame. At the right of the church is a high iron
railing around the archbishop's house. In the railing is an iron gate with
a night bell for Extreme Unction. Ring this bell and ask to see the
sacristan Bonneton, and when he comes out give him this." Coquenil wrote
hastily on a card. "It's an order to let you have a dog named Caesar--my
dog--he's guarding the church with Bonneton. Pat Caesar and tell him he's
going to see M. Paul, that's me. Tell him to jump in the cab and keep
still. He'll understand--he knows more than most men. Then drive back here
as quick as you can."
The doorkeeper touched his cap and departed.
Coquenil turned to Tignol. "Watch the pistol. When the doorkeeper comes
back send him over to the hotel. I'll be there."
"Right," nodded the old man.
Then the detective said to Pougeot: "I must talk to Gritz. You know him,
don't you?"
The commissary glanced at his watch. "Yes, but do you realize it's after
three o'clock?"
"Never mind, I must see him. A lot depends on it. Get him out of bed for
me, Lucien, and--then you can go home."
"I'll try," grumbled the other, "but what in Heaven's name are you going to
do with that dog?"
"_Use him,_" answered Coquenil.