THE FOOTPRINTS
One of the great lessons Coquenil had learned in his long experience with
mysterious crimes was to be careful of hastily rejecting any evidence
because it conflicted with some preconceived theory. It would have been
easy now, for instance, to assume that this prim spinster was mistaken in
declaring that she had seen the pistol thrown from the window of Number
Seven. That, of course, seemed most unlikely, since the shooting was done
in Number Six, yet how account for the woman's positiveness? She seemed a
truthful, well-meaning person, and the murderer _might_ have gone into
Number Seven after committing the crime. It was evidently important to get
as much light as possible on this point. Hence the need of M. Gritz.
M. Herman Gritz was a short, massive man with hard, puffy eyes and thin
black hair, rather curly and oily, and a rapacious nose. He appeared
(having been induced to come down by the commissary) in a richly
embroidered blue-silk house garment, and his efforts at affability were
obviously based on apprehension.
Coquenil began at once with questions about private room Number Seven. We
had reserved this room and what had prevented the person from occupying it?
M. Gritz replied that Number Seven had been engaged some days before by an
old client, who, at the last moment, had sent a _petit bleu_ to say that he
had changed his plans and would not require the room. The _petit bleu_ did
not arrive until after the crime was discovered, so the room remained
empty. More than that, the door was locked.
"Locked on the outside?"
"Yes."
"With the key in the lock?"
"Yes."
"Then anyone coming along the corridor might have turned the key and
entered Number Seven?"
"It is possible," admitted M. Gritz, "but very improbable. The room was
dark, and an ordinary person seeing a door locked and a room dark----"
"We are not talking about an ordinary person," retorted the detective, "we
are talking about a murderer. Come, we must look into this," and he led the
way down the corridor, nodding to the policeman outside Number Six and
stopping at the next door, the last in the line, the door to Number Seven.
"You know I haven't been in _there_ yet." He glanced toward the adjoining
room of the tragedy, then, turning the key in Number Seven, he tried to
open the door.
"Hello! It's locked on the inside, too!"
"_Tiens!_ You're right," said Gritz, and he rumpled his scanty locks in
perplexity.
"Some one has been inside, some one may be inside now."
The proprietor shook his head and, rather reluctantly, went on to explain
that Number Seven was different from the other private rooms in this, that
it had a separate exit with separate stairs leading to an alleyway between
the hotel and a wall surrounding it. A few habitues knew of this exit and
used it occasionally for greater privacy. The alleyway led to a gate in the
wall opening on the Rue Marboeuf, so a particularly discreet couple, let us
say, could drive up to this gate, pass through the alleyway, and then, by
the private stairs, enter Number Seven without being seen by anyone,
assuming, of course, that they had a key to the alleyway door. And they
could leave the restaurant in the same unobserved manner.
As Coquenil listened, his mouth drew into an ominous thin line and his deep
eyes burned angrily.
"M. Gritz," he said in a cold, cutting voice, "you are a man of
intelligence, you must be. This crime was committed last night about nine
o'clock; it's now half past three in the morning. Will you please tell me
how it happens that this fact _of vital importance_ has been concealed from
the police for over six hours?"
"Why," stammered the other, "I--I don't know."
"Are you trying to shield some one? Who is this man that engaged Number
Seven?"
Gritz shook his head unhappily. "I don't know his name."
"You don't know his name?" thundered Coquenil.
"We have to be discreet in these matters," reasoned the other. "We have
many clients who do not give us their names, they have their own reasons
for that; some of them are married, and, as a man of the world, _I_ respect
their reserve." M. Gritz prided himself on being a man of the world. He had
started as a penniless Swiss waiter and had reached the magnificent point
where broken-down aristocrats were willing to owe him money and sometimes
borrow it--and he appreciated the honor.
"But what do you call him?" persisted Coquenil. "You must call him
something."
"In speaking to him we call him 'monsieur'; in speaking of him we call him
'_the tall blonde_.'"
"The tall blonde!" repeated M. Paul.
"Exactly. He has been here several times with a woman he calls Anita.
That's all I know about it. Anyway, what difference does it make since he
didn't come to-night?"
"How do you know he didn't come? He had a key to the alleyway door, didn't
he?"
"Yes, but I tell you he sent a _petit bleu_."
The detective shrugged his shoulders. "_Some one_ has been here and locked
this door on the inside. I want it opened."
"Just a moment," trembled Gritz. "I have a pass key to the alleyway door.
We'll go around."
"Make haste, then," and they started briskly through the halls, the
proprietor assuring M. Paul that only a single key was ever given out for
the alleyway door and this to none but trusted clients, who returned it the
same night.
"Only a single key to the alleyway door," reflected, Coquenil.
"Yes."
"And your 'tall blonde' has it now?"
"I suppose so."
They left the hotel by the main entrance, and were just going around into
Rue Marboeuf when the _concierge_ from across the way met them with word
that Caesar had arrived.
"Caesar?" questioned Gritz.
"He's my dog. Ph-h-eet! Ph-h-eet! Ah, here he is!" and out of the shadows
the splendid animal came bounding. At his master's call he had made a
mighty plunge and broken away from Papa Tignol's hold.
"Good old fellow!" murmured M. Paul, holding the dog's eager head with his
two hands. "I have work for you, sir, to-night. Ah, he knows! See his eyes!
Look at that tail! We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?"
And the dog answered with delighted leaps.
"What are you going to do with him?" asked the proprietor.
"Make a little experiment. Do you mind waiting a couple of minutes? It
_may_ give us a line on this visitor to Number Seven."
"I'll wait," said Gritz.
"Come over here," continued the other. "I'll show you a pistol connected
with this case. And I'll show it to the dog."
"For the scent? You don't think a dog can follow the scent from a pistol,
do you?" asked the proprietor incredulously.
"I don't know. _This_ dog has done wonderful things. He tracked a murderer
once three miles across rough country near Liége and found him hidden in a
barn. But he had better conditions there. We'll see."
They had entered the courtyard now and Coquenil led Caesar to the spot
where the weapon lay still undisturbed.
"_Cherche!_" he ordered, and the dog nosed the pistol with concentrated
effort. Then silently, anxiously, one would say, he darted away, circling
the courtyard back and forth, sniffing the ground as he went, pausing
occasionally or retracing his steps and presently stopping before M. Paul
with a little bark of disappointment.
"Nothing, eh? Quite right. Give me the pistol, Papa Tignol. We'll try
outside. There!" He pointed to the open door where the _concierge_ was
waiting. "Now then, _cherche!_"
In an instant Caesar was out in the Rue Marboeuf, circling again and again
in larger and larger arcs, as he had been taught, back and forth, until he
had covered a certain length of street and sidewalk, every foot of the
space between opposite walls, then moving on for another length and then
for another, looking up at his master now and then for a word of
encouragement.
[Illustration: "'_Cherche!_' he ordered."]
"It's a hard test," muttered Coquenil. "Footprints and weapons have lain
for hours in a drenching rain, but--Ah!" Caesar had stopped with a little
whine and was half crouching at the edge of the sidewalk, head low, eyes
fiercely forward, body quivering with excitement. "He's found something!"
The dog turned with quick, joyous barks.
"He's got the scent. Now _watch_ him," and sharply he gave the word:
"_Va!_"
Straight across the pavement darted Caesar, then along the opposite
sidewalk _away_ from the Champs Elysées, running easily, nose down, past
the Rue François Premier, past the Rue Clement-Marot, then out into the
street again and stopping suddenly.
"He's lost it," mourned Papa Tignol.
"Lost it? Of course he's lost it," triumphed the detective. And turning to
M. Gritz: "There's where your murderer picked up a cab. It's perfectly
clear. No one has touched that pistol since the man who used it threw it
from the window of Number Seven."
"You mean Number Six," corrected Gritz.
"I mean Number Seven. We know where the murderer took a cab, now we'll see
where he left the hotel." And hurrying toward his dog, he called: "Back,
Caesar!"
Obediently the dog trotted back along the trail, recrossing the street
where he had crossed it before, and presently reaching the point where he
had first caught the scent. Here he stopped, waiting for orders, eying M.
Paul with almost speaking intelligence.
"A wonderful dog," admired Gritz. "What kind is he?"
"Belgian shepherd dog," answered Coquenil. "He cost me five hundred francs,
and I wouldn't sell him for--well, I wouldn't sell him." He bent over and
fondled the panting animal. "We wouldn't sell our best friend, would we,
Caesar?"
Evidently Caesar did not think this the moment for sentiment; he growled
impatiently, straining toward the scent.
"He knows there's work to be done and he's right." Then quickly he gave the
word again and once more Caesar was away, darting back along the sidewalk
_toward_ the Champs Elysées, moving nearer and nearer to the houses and
presently stopping at a gateway, against which he pressed and whined. It
was a gateway in the wall surrounding the Ansonia Hotel.
"The man came out here," declared Coquenil, and, unlatching the gate, he
looked inside, the dog pushing after him.
"Down Caesar!" ordered M. Paul, and unwillingly the ardent creature
crouched at his feet.
The wall surrounding the Ansonia was of polished granite about six feet
high, and between this wall and the hotel itself was a space of equal width
planted with slim fir trees that stood out in decorative dignity against
the gray stone.
"This is what you call the alleyway?" questioned Coquenil.
"Exactly."
From the pocket of his coat the detective drew a small electric lantern,
the one that had served him so well earlier in the evening, and, touching a
switch, he threw upon the ground a strong white ray; whereupon a confusion
of footprints became visible, as if a number of persons had trod back and
forth here.
"What does this mean?" he cried.
Papa Tignol explained shamefacedly: "_We_ did it looking for the pistol; it
was Gibelin's orders."
"_Bon Dieu!_ What a pity! We can never get a clean print in this mess. But
wait! How far along the alleyway did you look?"
"As far as that back wall. Poor Gibelin! He never thought of looking on the
other side of it. Eh, eh!"
Coquenil breathed more freely. "We may be all right yet. Ah, yes," he
cried, going quickly to this back wall where the alleyway turned to the
right along the rear of the hotel. Again he threw his white light before
him and, with a start of satisfaction, pointed to the ground. There,
clearly marked, was a line of footprints, _a single line_, with no breaks
or imperfections, the plain record on the rain-soaked earth that one
person, evidently a man, had passed this way, _going out_.
"I'll send the dog first," said M. Paul. "Here, Caesar! _Cherche!_"
Once more the eager animal sprang forward, following slowly along the row
of trees where the trail was confused, and then, at the corner, dashing
ahead swiftly, only to stop again after a few yards and stand scratching
uneasily at a closed door.
"That settles it," said Coquenil. "He has brought us to the alleyway door.
Am I right?"
"Yes," nodded Gritz.
"The door that leads to Number Seven?"
"Yes."
"Open it," and, while the agitated proprietor searched for his pass key,
the detective spoke to Tignol: "I want impressions of these footprints, the
_best_ you can take. Use glycerin with plaster of Paris for the molds. Take
_this_ one and these two and _this_ and _this_. Understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Leave Caesar here while you go for what you need. Down, Caesar! _Garde!_"
The dog growled and went on guard forthwith.
"Now, we'll have a look inside."
The alleyway door stood open and, using his lantern with the utmost care,
Coquenil went first, mounting the stairs slowly, followed by Gritz. At the
top they came to a narrow landing and a closed door.
"This opens directly into Number Seven?" asked the detective.
"Yes."
"Is it usually locked or unlocked?"
"IT is _always_ locked."
"Well, it's unlocked now," observed Coquenil, trying the knob. Then,
flashing his lantern forward, he threw the door wide open. The room was
empty.
"Let me turn up the electrics," said the proprietor, and he did so, showing
furnishings like those in Number Six except that here the prevailing tint
was pale blue while there it was pale yellow.
"I see nothing wrong," remarked M. Paul, glancing about sharply. "Do you?"
"Nothing."
"Except that this door into the corridor is bolted. It didn't bolt itself,
did it?"
"No," sighed the other.
Coquenil thought a moment, then he produced the pistol found in the
courtyard and examined it with extreme care, then he unlocked the corridor
door and looked out. The policeman was still on guard before Number Six.
"I shall want to go in there shortly," said the detective. The policeman
saluted wearily.
"Excuse me," ventured M. Gritz, "have you still much to do?"
"Yes," said the other dryly.
"It's nearly four and--I suppose you are used to this sort of thing, but
I'm knocked out, I--I'd like to go to bed."
"By all means, my dear sir. I shall get on all right now if--oh, they tell
me you make wonderful Turkish coffee here. Do you suppose I could have
some?"
"Of course you can. I'll send it at once."
"You'll earn my lasting gratitude."
Gritz hesitated a moment and then, with an apprehensive look in his beady
eyes, he said: "So you're going in _there?_" and he jerked his fat thumb
toward the wall separating them from Number Six.
Coquenil nodded.
"To see if the ball from _that_," he looked with a shiver at the pistol,
"fits in--in _that?_" Again he jerked his thumb toward the wall, beyond
which the body lay.
"No, that is the doctor's business. _Mine is more important_. Good night!"
"Good night," answered Gritz and he waddled away down the corridor in his
blue-silk garments, wagging his heavy head and muttering to himself: "More
important than _that! Mon Dieu!_"