THROUGH THE WALL
Coquenil's examination of the pistol showed that it was a weapon of good
make and that only a single shot had been fired from it; also that this
shot had been fired within a few hours. Which, with the evidence of the
seamstress and the dog, gave a strong probability that the instrument of
the crime had been found. If the ball in the body corresponded with balls
still in the pistol, this probability would become a practical certainty.
And yet, the detective knit his brows. Suppose it was established beyond a
doubt that this pistol killed the billiard player, there still remained the
question _how_ the shooting was accomplished. The murderer was in Number
Seven, he could not and did not go into the corridor, for the corridor door
was locked. But the billiard player was in Number Six, he was shot in
Number Six, and he died in Number Six. How were these two facts to be
reconciled? The seamstress's testimony alone might be put aside but not the
dog's testimony. _The murderer certainly remained in Number Seven_.
Holding this conviction, the detective entered the room of the tragedy and
turned up the lights, all of them, so that he might see whatever was to be
seen. He walked back and forth examining the carpet, examining the walls,
examining the furniture, but paying little heed to the body. He went to the
open window and looked out, he went to the yellow sofa and sat down,
finally he shut off the lights and withdrew softly, closing the door behind
him. It was just as the commissary had said _with the exception of one
thing_.
When he returned to Number Seven, M. Paul found that Gritz had kept his
promise and sent him a pot of fragrant Turkish coffee, steaming hot, and a
box of the choicest Egyptian cigarettes. Ah, that was kind! This was
something like it! And, piling up cushions in the sofa corner, Coquenil
settled back comfortably to think and dream. This was the time he loved
best, these precious silent hours when the city slept and his mind became
most active--this was the time when chiefly he received those flashes of
inspiration or intuition that had so often and so wonderfully guided him.
For half an hour or so the detective smoked continuously and sipped the
powdered delight of Stamboul, his gaze moving about the room in friendly
scrutiny as if he would, by patience and good nature, persuade the walls
or, chairs to give up their secret. Presently he took off his glasses and,
leaning farther back against the cushions, closed his eyes in pleasant
meditation. Or was it a brief snatch of sleep? Whichever it was, a discreet
knock at the corridor door shortly ended it, and Papa Tignol entered to say
that he had finished the footprint molds.
M. Paul roused himself with an effort and, sitting up, his elbow resting
against the sofa back, motioned his associate to a chair.
"By the way," he asked, "what do you think of _that?_" He pointed to a
Japanese print in a black frame that hung near the massive sideboard.
"Why," stammered Tignol, "I--I don't think anything of it."
"A rather interesting picture," smiled the other. "I've been studying it."
"A purple sea, a blue moon, and a red fish--it looks crazy to me," muttered
the old _agent_.
Coquenil laughed at this candid judgment. "All the same, it has a bearing
on our investigations."
"_Diable!_"
M. Paul reached for his glasses, rubbed them deliberately and put them on.
"Papa Tignol," he said seriously, "I have come to a conclusion about this
crime, but I haven't verified it. I am now going to give myself an
intellectual treat."
"Wha-at?"
"I am going to prove practically whether my mind has grown rusty in the
last two years."
"I wish you'd say things so a plain man can understand 'em," grumbled the
other.
"You understand that we are in private room Number Seven, don't you? On the
other side of that wall is private room Number Six where a man has just
been shot. We know that, don't we? But the man who shot him was in _this_
room, the little hair-brushing old maid saw the pistol thrown from _this_
window, the dog found footprints coming from _this_ room, the murderer went
out through _that_ door into the alleyway and then into the street. He
couldn't have gone into the corridor because the door was locked on the
outside."
"He might have gone into the corridor and locked the door after him,"
objected Tignol.
Coquenil shook his head. "He could have locked the door after him on the
outside, not on the inside; but when we came in here, _it was locked on the
inside_. No, sir, that door to the corridor has not been used this
evening. The murderer bolted it on the inside when he entered from the
alleyway and it wasn't unbolted until I unbolted it myself."
"Then how, in Heaven's name----"
"Exactly! How could a man in this room kill a man in the next room? That is
the problem I have been working at for an hour. And I believe I have solved
it. Listen. Between these rooms is a solid wooden partition with no door in
it--no passageway of any kind. Yet the man in there is dead, we're sure of
that. The pistol was here, the bullet went there--somehow. _How_ did it go
there? _Think_."
The detective paused and looked fixedly at the wall near the heavy
sideboard. Tignol, half fascinated, stared at the same spot, and then, as a
new idea took form in his brain, he blurted out: "You mean it went _through
the wall?_"
"Is there any other way?"
The old man laid a perplexed forefinger along his illuminated nose. "But
there is no hole--through the wall," he muttered.
"There is either a hole or a miracle. And between the two, I conclude that
there _is_ a hole which we haven't found yet."
"It might be back of that sideboard," ventured the other doubtfully.
But M. Paul disagreed. "No man as clever as this fellow would have moved a
heavy piece covered with plates and glasses. Besides, if the sideboard had
been moved, there would be marks on the floor and there are none. Now you
understand why I'm interested in that Japanese print."
Tignol sprang to his feet, then checked himself with a half-ashamed smile.
"You're mocking me, you've looked behind the picture."
Coquenil shook his head solemnly. "On my honor, I have not been near the
picture, I know nothing about the picture, but unless there is some flaw in
my reasoning----"
"I'll give my tongue to the cats to eat!" burst out the other, "if ever I
saw a man lie on a sofa and blow blue circles in the air and spin pretty
theories about what is back of a picture when----"
"When what?"
"When all he had to do for proof was to reach over and--and lift the darn
thing off its nail."
Coquenil smiled. "I've thought of that," he drawled, "but I like the
suspense. Half the charm of life is in suspense, Papa Tignol. However, you
have a practical mind, so go ahead, lift it off."
The old man did not wait for a second bidding, he stepped forward quickly
and took down the picture.
"_Tonnere de Dieu!_" he cried. "It's true! There are _two_ holes."
Sure enough, against the white wall stood out not one but two black holes
about an inch in diameter and something less than three inches apart.
Around the left hole, which was close to the sideboard, were black dots
sprinkled over the painted woodwork like grains of pepper.
"Powder marks!" muttered Coquenil, examining the hole. "He fired at close
range as Martinez looked into this room from the other side. Poor chap!
That's how he was shot in the eye." And producing a magnifying glass, the
detective made a long and careful examination of the holes while Papa
Tignol watched him with unqualified disgust.
"Asses! Idiots! That's what we are," muttered the old man. "For half an
hour we were in that room, Gibelin and I, and we never found those holes."
"They were covered by the sofa hangings."
"I know, we shook those hangings, we pressed against them, we did
everything but look behind them. See here, did _you_ look behind them?"
"No, but I saw something on the floor that gave me an idea."
"Ah, what was that?"
"Some yellowish dust. I picked up a little of it. There." He unfolded a
paper and showed a few grains of coarse brownish powder. "You see there are
only board partitions between these rooms, the boards are about an inch
thick, so a sharp auger would make the holes quickly. But there would be
dust and chips."
"Of course."
"Well, this is some of the dust. The woman probably threw the chips out of
the window."
"The woman?"
Coquenil nodded. "She helped Martinez while he bored the holes."
Tignol listened in amazement. "You think Martinez bored those holes? The
man who was murdered?"
"Undoubtedly. The spirals from the auger blade inside the holes show
plainly that the boring was done _from_ Number Six _toward_ Number Seven.
Take the glass and see for yourself."
Tignol took the glass and studied the hole. Then he turned, shaking his
head. "You're a fine detective, M. Paul, but I was a carpenter for six
years before I went on the force and I know more about auger holes than you
do. I say you can't be sure which side of the wall this hole was bored
from. You talk about spirals, but there's no sense in that. They're the
same either way. You _might_ tell by the chipping, but this is hard wood
covered with thick enamel, so there's apt to be no chipping. Anyhow,
there's none here. We'll see on the other side."
"All right, we'll see," consented Coquenil, and they went around into
Number Six.
The old man drew back the sofa hangings and exposed two holes exactly like
the others--in fact, the same holes. "You see," he went on, "the edges are
clean, without a sign of chipping. There is no more reason to say that
these holes were bored this side than from that."
M. Paul made no reply, but going to the sofa he knelt down by it, and using
his glass, proceeded to go over its surface with infinite care.
"Turn up all the lights," he said. "That's better," and he continued his
search. "Ah!" he cried presently. "You think there is no reason to say the
holes were bored from this side. I'll give you a reason. Take this piece of
white paper and make me prints of his boot heels." He pointed to the body.
"Take the whole heel carefully, then the other one, get the nail marks,
everything. That's right. Now cut out the prints. Good! Now look here.
Kneel down. Take the glass. There on the yellow satin, by the tail of that
silver bird. Do you see? Now compare the heel prints."
Papa Tignol knelt down as directed and examined the sofa seat, which was
covered with a piece of Chinese embroidery.
"_Sapristi!_ You're a magician!" he cried in great excitement.
"No," replied Coquenil, "it's perfectly simple. These holes in the wall are
five feet above the floor. And I'm enough of a carpenter, Papa Tignol," he
smiled, "to know that a man cannot work an auger at that height without
standing on something. And here was the very thing for him to stand on, a
sofa just in place. So, _if_ Martinez bored these holes, he stood on this
sofa to do it, and, in that case, the marks of his heels must have remained
on the delicate satin. And here they are."
"Yes, here they are, nails and all," admitted Tignol admiringly. "I'm an
old fool, but--but----"
"Well?"
"Tell me _why Martinez did it_."
Coquenil's face darkened. "Ah, that's the question. We'll know that when we
talk to the woman."
The old man leaned forward eagerly: "_Why do you think the woman helped
him?_"
"_Somebody_ helped him or the chips would still be there, _somebody_ held
back those hangings while he worked the auger, and somebody carried the
auger away."
Tignol pondered this, a moment, then, his face brightening: "Hah! I see!
The sofa hangings were held back when the shot came, then they fell into
place and covered the holes?"
"That's it," replied the detective absently.
"And the man in Number Seven, the murderer, lifted that picture from its
nail before shooting and then put it back on the nail after shooting?"
"Yes, yes," agreed M. Paul. Already he was far away on a new line of
thought, while the other was still grappling with his first surprise.
"Then this murderer must have _known_ that the billiard player was going to
bore these holes," went on Papa Tignol half to himself. "He must have been
waiting in Number Seven, he must have stood there with his pistol ready
while the holes were coming through, he must have let Martinez finish one
hole and then bore the other, he must have kept Number Seven dark so they
couldn't see him----"
"A good point, that," approved Coquenil, paying attention. "He certainly
kept Number Seven dark."
"And he _probably_ looked into Number Six through the first hole while
Martinez was boring the second. I suppose _you_ can tell which of the two
holes was bored first?" chuckled Tignol.
M. Paul started, paused in a flash of thought, and then, with sudden
eagerness: "I see, _that's it!_"
"What's it?" gasped the other.
"He bored _this_ hole first," said Coquenil rapidly, "it's the right-hand
one when you're in this room, the left-hand one when you're in Number
Seven. As you say, the murderer looked through the first hole while he
waited for the second to be bored; so, naturally, he fired through the hole
where his eye was. _That was his first great mistake_."
Tignol screwed up his face in perplexity. "What difference does it make
which hole the man fired through so long as he shot straight and got away?"
"What difference? Just this difference, that, by firing through the
left-hand hole, he has given us precious evidence, against him."
"How?"
"Come back into the other room and I'll show you." And, when they had
returned to Number Seven, he continued: "Take the pistol. Pretend you are
the murderer. You've been waiting your moment, holding your breath on one
side of the wall while the auger grinds through from the other. The first
hole is finished. You see the point of the auger as it comes through the
second, now the wood breaks and a length of turning steel shoves toward
you. You grip your pistol and look through the left-hand hole, you see the
woman holding back the curtains, you see Martinez draw out the auger from
the right-hand hole and lay it down. Now he leans forward, pressing his
face to the completed eyeholes, you see the whites of his eyes, not three
inches away. Quick! Pistol up! Ready to fire! No, no, through the
_left-hand_ hole where _he_ fired."
"_Sacré matin!_" muttered Tignol, "it's awkward aiming through this
left-hand hole."
"Ah!" said the detective. "_Why_ is it awkward?"
"Because it's too near the sideboard. I can't get my eye there to sight
along the pistol barrel."
"You mean your right eye?"
"Of course."
"Could you get your left eye there?"
"Yes, but if I aimed with my left eye I'd have to fire with my left hand
and I couldn't hit a cow that way."
Coquenil looked at Tignol steadily. "_You could if you were a left-handed
man_."
"You mean to say--" The other stared.
"I mean to say that _this_ man, at a critical moment, fired through that
awkward hole near the sideboard when he might just as well have fired
through the other hole away from the sideboard. Which shows that it was an
easy and natural thing for him to do, consequently----"
"Consequently," exulted the old man, "we've got to look for a left-handed
murderer, is that it?"
"What do _you_ think?" smiled the detective.
Papa Tignol paused, and then, bobbing his head in comical seriousness: "I
think, if I were this man, I'd sooner have the devil after me than Paul
Coquenil."