COQUENIL MARKS HIS MAN
It was nearly four o'clock when Coquenil left the Ansonia and started up
the Champs Elysées, breathing deep of the early morning air. The night was
still dark, although day was breaking in the east. And what a night it had
been! How much had happened since he walked with his dog to Notre-Dame the
evening before! Here was the whole course of his life changed, yes, and his
prospects put in jeopardy by this extraordinary decision. How could he
explain what he had done to his wise old mother? How could he unsay all
that he had said to her a few days before when he had shown her that this
trip to Brazil was quite for the best and bade her a fond farewell? Could
he explain it to anyone, even to himself? Did he honestly believe all the
plausible things he had said to Pougeot and the others about this crime?
Was it really the wonderful affair he had made out? After all, what had he
acted on? A girl's dream and an odd coincidence. Was that enough? Was that
enough to make a man alter his whole life and face extraordinary danger?
_Was it enough?_
Extraordinary danger! _Why_ did this sense of imminent peril haunt him and
fascinate him? What was there in this crime that made it different from
many other crimes on which he had been engaged? Those holes through the
wall? Well, yes, he had never seen anything quite like that. And the
billiard player's motive in boring the holes and the woman's rôle and the
intricacy and ingenuity of the murderer's plan--all these offered an
extraordinary problem. And it certainly was strange that this
candle-selling girl with the dreams and the purplish eyes had appeared
again as the suspected American's sweetheart! He had heard this from Papa
Tignol, and how Alice had stood ready to brave everything for her lover
when Gibelin marched him off to prison. Poor Gibelin!
So Coquenil's thoughts ran along as he neared the Place de l'Etoile. Well,
it was too late to draw back. He had made his decision and he must abide by
it, his commission was signed, his duty lay before him. By nine o'clock he
must be at the Palais de Justice to report to Hauteville. No use going
home. Better have a rubdown and a cold plunge at the _haman_, then a turn
on the mat with the professional wrestler, and then a few hours sleep. That
would put him in shape for the day's work with its main business of running
down this woman in the case, this lady of the cloak and leather bag, whose
name and address he fortunately had. Ah, he looked forward to his interview
with her! And he must prepare for it!
Coquenil was just glancing about for a cab to the Turkish bath place, in
fact he was signaling one that he saw jogging up the Avenue de la Grande
Armée, when he became aware that a gentleman was approaching him with the
intention of speaking. Turning quickly, he saw in the uncertain light a man
of medium height with a dark beard tinged with gray, wearing a loose black
cape overcoat and a silk hat. The stranger saluted politely and said with a
slight foreign accent: "How are you, M. Louis? I have been expecting you."
The words were simple enough, yet they contained a double surprise for
Coquenil. He was at a loss to understand how he could have been expected
here where he had come by the merest accident, and, certainly, this was the
first time in twenty years that anyone, except his mother, had addressed
him as Louis. He had been christened Louis Paul, but long ago he had
dropped the former name, and his most intimate friends knew him only as
Paul Coquenil.
"How do you know that my name is Louis?" answered the detective with a
sharp glance.
"I know a great deal about you," answered the other, and then with
significant emphasis: "_I know that you are interested in dreams_. May I
walk along with you?"
"You may," said Coquenil, and at once his keen mind was absorbed in this
new problem. Instinctively he felt that something momentous was preparing.
"Rather clever, your getting on that cab to-night," remarked the other.
"Ah, you know about that?"
"Yes, and about the Rio Janeiro offer. We want you to reconsider your
decision." His voice was harsh and he spoke in a quick, brusque way, as one
accustomed to the exercise of large authority.
"Who, pray, are 'we'?" asked the detective.
"Certain persons interested in this Ansonia affair."
"Persons whom you represent?"
"In a way."
"Persons who know about the crime--I mean, who know the truth about it?"
"Possibly."
"Hm! Do these persons know what covered the holes in Number Seven?"
"A Japanese print."
"And in Number Six?"
"Some yellow hangings."
"Ah!" exclaimed Coquenil in surprise. "Do they know why Martinez bored
these holes?"
"To please the woman," was the prompt reply.
"Did she want Martinez killed?"
"No."
"Then why did she want the holes bored?"
"_She wanted to see into Number Seven_."
It was extraordinary, not only the man's knowledge but his unaccountable
frankness. And more than ever the detective was on his guard.
"I see you know something about the affair," he said dryly. "What do you
want with me?"
"The persons I represent----"
"Say the _person_ you represent," interrupted Coquenil. "A criminal of this
type acts alone."
"As you like," answered the other carelessly. "Then the person I represent
_wishes you to withdraw from this case_."
The message was preposterous, the manner of its delivery fantastic, yet
there was something vaguely formidable in the stranger's tone, as if a
great person had spoken, one absolutely sure of himself and of his power to
command.
"Naturally," retorted Coquenil.
"Why do you say naturally?"
"It's natural for a criminal to wish that an effort against him should
cease. Tell your friend or employer that I am only mildly interested in his
wishes."
He spoke with deliberate hostility, but the dark-bearded man answered,
quite unruffled: "Ah, I may be able to heighten your interest."
"Come, come, sir, my time is valuable."
The stranger drew from his coat pocket a large thick envelope fastened
with an elastic band and handed it to the detective. "Whatever your time is
worth," he said in a rasping voice, "I will pay for it. Please look at
this."
Coquenil's curiosity was stirred. Here was no commonplace encounter, at
least it was a departure from ordinary criminal methods. Who was this
supercilious man? How dared he come on such an errand to him, Paul
Coquenil? What desperate purpose lurked behind his self-confident mask?
Could it be that he knew the assassin or--or _was he the assassin?_
Wondering thus, M. Paul opened the tendered envelope and saw that it
contained a bundle of thousand-franc notes.
"There is a large sum here," he remarked.
"Fifty thousand francs. It's for you, and as much more will be handed you
the day you sail for Brazil. Just a moment--let me finish. This sum is a
bonus in addition to the salary already fixed. And, remember, you have a
life position there with a brilliant chance of fame. That is what you care
about, I take it--fame; it is for fame you want to follow up this crime."
Coquenil snapped his fingers. "I don't care _that_ for fame. I'm going to
work out this case for the sheer joy of doing it."
"You will _never_ work out this case!" The man spoke so sternly and with
such a menacing ring in his voice that M. Paul felt a chill of
apprehension.
"Why not?" he asked.
"Because you will not be allowed to; it's doubtful if you _could_ work it
out, but there's a chance that you could and we don't purpose to take that
chance. You're a free agent, you can persist in this course, but if you
do----"
He paused as if to check too vehement an utterance, and M. Paul caught a
threatening gleam in his eyes that he long remembered.
"Why?"
"If you do, you will be thwarted at every turn, you will be made to suffer
in ways you do not dream of, through those who are dear to you, through
your dog, through your mother----"
"You dare--" cried Coquenil.
"We dare _anything_," flashed the stranger. "I'm daring something now, am I
not? Don't you suppose I know what you are thinking? Well, I take the risk
because--_because you are intelligent_."
There was something almost captivating in the very arrogance and
recklessness of this audacious stranger. Never in all his experience had
Coquenil known a criminal or a person directly associated with crime, as
this man must be, to boldly confront the powers of justice. Undoubtedly,
the fellow realized his danger, yet he deliberately faced it. What plan
could he have for getting away once his message was delivered? It must be
practically delivered already, there was nothing more to say, he had
offered a bribe and made a threat. A few words now for the answer, the
refusal, the defiance, and--then what? Surely this brusque individual did
not imagine that he, Coquenil, would be simple enough to let him go now
that he had him in his power? But wait! Was that true, _was_ this man in
his power?
As if answering the thought, the stranger said: "It is hopeless for you to
struggle against our knowledge and our resources, quite hopeless. We have,
for example, the _fullest_ information about you and your life down to the
smallest detail."
"Yes?" answered Coquenil, and a twinkle of humor shone in his eyes. "What's
the name of my old servant?"
"Melanie."
"What's the name of the canary bird I gave her last week?"
"It isn't a canary bird, it's a bullfinch. And its name is Pete."
"Not bad, not at all bad," muttered the other, and the twinkle in his eyes
faded.
"We know the important things, too, all that concerns you, from your
_forced resignation_ two years ago down to your talk yesterday with the
girl at Notre-Dame. So how can you fight us? How can you shadow people who
shadow you? Who watch your actions from day to day, from hour to hour? Who
know _exactly_ the moment when you are weak and unprepared, as I know now
that you are unarmed _because you left that pistol with Papa Tignol_."
For a moment Coquenil was silent, and then: "Here's your money," he said,
returning the envelope.
"Then you refuse?"
"I refuse."
"Stubborn fellow! And unbelieving! You doubt our power against you. Come, I
will give you a glimpse of it, just the briefest glimpse. Suppose you try
to arrest me. You have been thinking of it, _now act_. I'm a suspicious
character, I ought to be investigated. Well, do your duty. I might point
out that such an arrest would accomplish absolutely nothing, for you
haven't the slightest evidence against me and can get none, but I waive
that point because I want to show you that, even in so simple an effort
against us as this, _you would inevitably fail_."
The man's impudence was passing all bounds. "You mean that I _cannot_
arrest you?" menaced Coquenil.
"Precisely. I mean that with all your cleverness and with a distinct
advantage in position, here on the Champs Elysées with policemen all about
us, _you cannot arrest me_."
"We'll see about that," answered M. Paul, a grim purpose showing in his
deep-set eyes.
"I say this in no spirit of bravado," continued the other with irritating
insolence, "but so that you may remember my words and this warning when I
am gone." Then, with a final fling of defiance: "This is the first time you
have seen me, M. Coquenil, and you will probably never see me again, but
you will hear from me. _Now blow your whistle!_"
Coquenil was puzzled. If this was a bluff, it was the maddest, most
incomprehensible bluff that a criminal ever made. But if it was _not_ a
bluff? Could there be a hidden purpose here? Was the man deliberately
making some subtle move in the game he was playing? The detective paused to
think. They had come down the Champs Elysées, past the Ansonia, and were
nearing the Rond Point, the best guarded part of Paris, where the shrill
summons of his police call would be answered almost instantly. And yet he
hesitated.
"There is no hurry, I suppose," said the detective. "I'd like to ask a
question or two."
"As many as you please."
With all the strength of his mind and memory Coquenil was studying his
adversary. That beard? Could it be false? And the swarthy tone of the skin
which he noticed now in the improving light, was that natural? If not
natural, then wonderfully imitated. And the hands, the arms? He had watched
these from the first, noting every movement, particularly the _left_ hand
and the _left_ arm, but he had detected nothing significant; the man used
his hands like anyone else, he carried a cane in the right hand, lifted his
hat with the right hand, offered the envelope with the right hand. There
was nothing to show that he was not a right-handed man.
"I wonder if you have anything against me personally?" inquired M. Paul.
"On the contrary," declared the other, "we admire you and wish you well."
"But you threaten my dog?"
"If necessary, yes."
"And my mother?"
"_If necessary_."
The decisive moment had come, not only because Coquenil's anger was stirred
by this cynical avowal, but because just then there shot around the corner
from the Avenue Montaigne a large red automobile which crossed the Champs
Elysées slowly, past the fountain and the tulip beds, and, turning into the
Avenue Gabrielle, stopped under the chestnut trees, its engines throbbing.
Like a flash it came into the detective's mind that the same automobile had
passed them once before some streets back. Ah, here was the intended way of
escape! On the front seat were two men, strong-looking fellows,
accomplices, no doubt. He must act at once while the wide street was still
between them.
"I ask because--" began M. Paul with his indifferent drawl, then swiftly
drawing his whistle, he sounded a danger call that cut the air in sinister
alarm. The stranger sprang away, but Coquenil was on him in a bound,
clutching him by the throat and pressing him back with intertwining legs
for a sudden fall. The bearded man saved himself by a quick turn, and with
a great heave of his shoulders broke the detective's grip, then suddenly
_he_ attacked, smiting for the neck, not with clenched fist but with the
open hand held sideways in the treacherous cleaving blow that the Japanese
use when they strike for the carotid. Coquenil ducked forward, saving
himself, but he felt the descending hand hard as stone on his shoulders.
"He struck with his _right_," thought M. Paul.
At the same moment he felt his adversary's hand close on his throat and
rejoiced, for he knew the deadly Jitsu reply to this. Hardening his neck
muscles until they covered the delicate parts beneath like bands of steel,
the detective seized his enemy's extended arm in his two hands, one at the
wrist, one at the elbow, and as his trained fingers sought the painful
pressure points, his two free arms started a resistless torsion movement on
the captured arm. There is no escape from this movement, no enduring its
excruciating pain; to a man taken at such a disadvantage one of two things
may happen. He may yield, and in that case he is hurled helpless over his
adversary's shoulder, or he may resist, with the result that the tendons
are torn from his lacerated arm and he faints in agony.
Such was the master hold gained by M. Paul in the first minute of the
struggle; long and carefully he had practiced this coup with a wrestling
professional. It never failed, it could not fail, and, in savage triumph,
he prolonged his victory, slowly increasing the pressure, slowly as he felt
the tendons stretching, the bones cracking in this helpless right arm. A
few seconds more and the end would come, a few seconds more and--then a
crashing, shattering pain drove through Coquenil's lower heart region, his
arms relaxed, his hands relaxed, his senses dimmed, and he sank weakly to
the ground. His enemy had done an extraordinary thing, had delivered a
blow not provided for in Jitsu tactics. In spite of the torsion torture,
he had swung his free arm under the detective's lifted guard, not in
Yokohama style but in the best manner of the old English prize ring, his
clenched fist falling full on the point of the heart, full on the unguarded
solar-plexus nerves which God put there for the undoing of the vainglorious
fighters. And Coquenil dropped like a smitten ox with this thought humming
in his darkening brain: "_It was the left that spoke then_."
[Illustration: "He prolonged his victory, slowly increasing the pressure."]
As he sank to the ground M. Paul tried to save himself, and seizing his
opponent by the leg, he held him desperately with his failing strength; but
the spasms of pain overcame him, his muscles would not act, and with a
furious sense of helplessness and failure, he felt the clutched leg
slipping from his grasp. Then, as consciousness faded, the brute instinct
in him rallied in a last fierce effort and _he bit the man deeply under the
knee_.
When Coquenil came to himself he was lying on the ground and several
policemen were bending over him. He lifted his head weakly and looked about
him. The stranger was gone. The automobile was gone. And it all came back
to him in sickening memory, the flaunting challenge of this man, the fierce
struggle, his own overconfidence, and then his crushing defeat. Ah, what a
blow that last one was with the conquering left!
And suddenly it flashed through his mind that he had been outwitted from
the first, that the man's purpose had not been at all what it seemed to be,
that a hand-to-hand conflict was precisely what the stranger had sought and
planned for, because--_because_--In feverish haste Coquenil felt in his
breast pocket for the envelope with the precious leather fragments. It was
not there. Then quickly he searched his other pockets. It was not there.
_The envelope containing the woman's name and address was gone_.