GIBELIN SCORES A POINT
The next day all Paris buzzed and wondered about this Ansonia affair, as it
was called. The newspapers printed long accounts of it with elaborate
details, and various conjectures were made as to the disappearance of
Martinez's fair companion. More or less plausible theories were also put
forth touching the arrested American, prudently referred to as "Monsieur
K., a well-known New Yorker." It was furthermore dwelt upon as significant
that the famous detective, Paul Coquenil, had returned to his old place on
the force for the especial purpose of working on this case. And M. Coquenil
was reported to have already, by one of his brilliant strokes, secured a
clew that would lead shortly to important revelations. Alas, no one knew
under what distressing circumstances this precious clew had been lost!
Shortly before nine by the white clock over the columned entrance to the
Palais de Justice, M. Paul passed through the great iron and gilt barrier
that fronts the street and turning to the left, mounted the wide stone
stairway. He had had his snatch of sleep at the _haman_, his rubdown and
cold plunge, but not his intended bout with the wrestling professional. He
had had wrestling enough for one day, and now he had come to keep his
appointment with Judge Hauteville.
Two flights up the detective found himself in a spacious corridor off which
opened seven doors leading to the offices of seven judges. Seven! Strange
this resemblance to the fatal corridor at the Ansonia! And stranger still
that Judge Hauteville's office should be Number Six!
Coquenil moved on past palace guards in bright apparel, past sad-faced
witnesses and brisk lawyers of the court in black robes with amusing white
bibs at their throats. And presently he entered Judge Hauteville's private
room, where an amiable _greffier_ asked him to sit down until the judge
should arrive.
There was nothing in the plain and rather businesslike furnishings of this
room to suggest the somber and sordid scenes daily enacted here. On the
dull leather of a long table, covered with its usual litter of papers, had
been spread the criminal facts of a generation, the sinister harvest of
ignorance and vice and poverty. On these battered chairs had sat and
twisted hundreds of poor wretches, innocent and guilty, petty thieves,
shifty-eyed scoundrels, dull brutes of murderers, and occasionally a
criminal of a higher class, summoned for the preliminary examinations.
Here, under the eye of a bored guard, they had passed miserable hours while
the judge, smiling or frowning, hands in his pockets, strode back and forth
over the shabby red-and-green carpet putting endless questions, sifting out
truth from falsehood, struggling against stupidity and cunning, studying
each new case as a separate problem with infinite tact and insight, never
wearying, never losing his temper, coming back again and again to the
essential point until more than one stubborn criminal had broken down and,
from sheer exhaustion, confessed, like the assassin who finally blurted
out: "Well, yes, I did it. I'd rather be guillotined than bothered like
this."
Such was Judge Hauteville, cold, patient, inexorable in the pursuit of
truth. And presently he arrived.
"You look serious this morning," he said, remarking Coquenil's pale face.
"Yes," nodded M. Paul, "that's how I feel," and settling himself in a chair
he proceeded to relate the events of the night, ending with a frank account
of his misadventure on the Champs Elysées.
The judge listened with grave attention. This was a more serious affair
than he had imagined. Not only was there no longer any question of suicide,
but it was obvious that they were dealing with a criminal of the most
dangerous type and one possessed of extraordinary resources.
"You believe it was the assassin himself who met you?" questioned
Hauteville.
"Don't you?"
"I'm not sure. You think his motive was to get the woman's address?"
"Isn't that reasonable?"
Hauteville shook his head. "He wouldn't have risked so much for that. How
did he know that you hadn't copied the name and given it to one of us--say
to me?"
"Ah, if I only had," sighed the detective.
"How did he know that you wouldn't remember the name? Can't you remember
it--at all?"
"That's what I've been trying to do," replied the other gloomily, "I've
tried and tried, but the name won't come back. I put those pieces together
and read the words distinctly, the name and the address. It was a foreign
name, English I should say, and the street was an avenue near the Champs
Elysées, the Avenue d'Eylau, or the Avenue d'Iena, I cannot be sure. I
didn't fix the thing in my mind because I had it in my pocket, and in the
work of the night it faded away."
"A great pity! Still, this man could neither have known that nor guessed
it. He took the address from you on a chance, but his chief purpose must
have been to impress you with his knowledge and his power."
Coquenil stared at his brown seal ring and then muttered savagely: "How did
he know the name of that infernal canary bird?"
The judge smiled. "He has established some very complete system of
surveillance that we must try to circumvent. For the moment we had better
decide upon immediate steps."
With this they turned to a fresh consideration of the case. Already the
machinery of justice had begun to move. Martinez's body and the weapon had
been taken to the morgue for an autopsy, the man's jewelry and money were
in the hands of the judge, and photographs of the scene of the tragedy
would be ready shortly as well as plaster impressions of the alleyway
footprints. An hour before, as arranged the previous night, Papa Tignol had
started out to search for Kittredge's lodgings, since the American, when
questioned by Gibelin at the prison, had obstinately refused to tell where
he lived and an examination of his quarters was a matter of immediate
importance.
It was not Papa Tignol, however, who was to furnish this information, but
the discomfited Gibelin whose presence in the outer office was at this
moment announced by the judge's clerk.
"Ask him to come in," said Hauteville, and a moment later Coquenil's fat,
red-haired rival entered with a smile that made his short mustache fairly
bristle in triumph.
"Ah, you have news for us!" exclaimed the judge.
Gibelin beamed. "I haven't wasted my time," he nodded. Then, with a
sarcastic glance at Coquenil: "The old school has its good points, after
all."
"No doubt," agreed Coquenil curtly.
"Although I am no longer in charge of this case," rasped the fat man, "I
suppose there is no objection to my rendering my distinguished associate,"
he bowed mockingly to M. Paul, "such assistance as is in my power."
"Of course not," replied Hauteville.
"I happened to hear that this American has a room on the Rue Racine and I
just looked in there."
"Ah!" said the judge, and Coquenil rubbed his glasses nervously. There is
no detective big-souled enough not to tingle with resentment when he finds
that a rival has scored a point.
"Our friend lives at the Hôtel des Étrangers, near the corner of the
Boulevard St. Michel," went on Gibelin. "I _happened_ to be talking with
the man who sent out the banquet invitations and he told me. M. Kittredge
has a little room with a brick floor up six flights. And long! And black!"
He rubbed his knees ruefully. "But it was worth the trouble. Ah, yes!" His
small eyes brightened.
"You examined his things?"
"_Pour sûr!_ I spent an hour there. And talked the soul out of the
chambermaid. A good-looking wench! And a sharp one!" he chuckled. "_She_
knows the value of a ten-franc piece!"
"Well, well," broke in M. Paul, "what did you discover?"
[Illustration: "Gibelin beamed. 'The old school has its good points, after
all.'"]
Gibelin lifted his pudgy hands deprecatingly. "For one thing I discovered a
photograph of the woman who was in Number Six with Martinez."
"The devil!" cried Coquenil.
"It is not of much importance, since already you have the woman's name and
address." He shot a keen glance at his rival.
M. Paul was silent. What humiliation was this! No doubt Gibelin had heard
the truth and was gloating over it!
"How do you know it is the woman's photograph?" questioned the judge.
"I'll tell you," replied Gibelin, delighted with his sensation. "It's quite
a story. I suppose you know that when this woman slipped out of the
Ansonia, she drove directly to the house where we arrested the American.
You knew that?" He turned to Coquenil.
"No."
"Well, I _happened_ to speak to the _concierge_ there and she remembers
perfectly a lady in an evening gown with a rain coat over it like the one
this woman escaped in. This lady sent a note by the _concierge_ up to the
apartment of that she-dragon, the sacristan's wife, where M. Kittredge was
calling on Alice."
"Ah! What time was that?"
"About a quarter to ten. The note was for M. Kittredge. It must have been a
_wild_ one, for he hurried down, white as a sheet, and drove off with the
lady. Fifteen minutes later they stopped at his hotel and he went up to his
room, two steps, at a time, while she waited in the cab. And Jean, the
_garçon_, had a good look at her and he told Rose, the chambermaid, and
_she_ had a look and recognized her as the woman whose photograph she had
often seen in the American's room."
"Ah, that's lucky!" rejoined the judge. "And you have this photograph?"
"No, but----"
"You said you found it?" put in Coquenil.
"I did, that is, I found a piece of it, a corner that wasn't burned."
"Burned?" cried the others.
"Yes," said Gibelin, "that's what Kittredge went upstairs for, to burn the
photograph and a lot of letters--_her_ letters, probably. The fireplace was
full of fresh ashes. Rose says it was clean before he went up, so I picked
out the best fragments--here they are." He drew a small package from his
pocket, and opening it carefully, showed a number of charred or half-burned
pieces of paper on which words in a woman's handwriting could be plainly
read.
"More fragments!" muttered Coquenil, examining them. "It's in English. Ah,
is this part of the photograph?" He picked out a piece of cardboard.
"Yes. You see the photographer's name is on it."
"Watts, Regent Street, London," deciphered the detective. "That is
something." And, turning to the judge: "Wouldn't it be a good idea to send
a man to London with this? You can make out part of a lace skirt and the
tip of a slipper. It might be enough."
"That's true," agreed Hauteville.
"Whoever goes," continued Coquenil, "had better carry him the five-pound
notes found on Martinez and see if he can trace them through the Bank of
England. They often take the names of persons to whom their notes are
issued."
"Excellent. I'll see to it at once," and, ringing for his secretary, the
judge gave orders to this effect.
To all of which Gibelin listened with a mocking smile. "But why so much
trouble," he asked, "when you have the woman's name and address already?"
"I _had_ them and I--I lost them," acknowledged M. Paul, and in a few
words he explained what had happened.
"Oh," sneered the other, "I thought you were a skillful wrestler."
"Come back to the point," put in Hauteville. "Had the chambermaid ever seen
this lady before?"
"Yes, but not recently. It seems that Kittredge moved to the Hôtel des
Étrangers about seven months ago, and soon after that the lady came to see
him. Rose says she came three times."
"Did she go to Kittredge's room?" put in Coquenil.
"Yes."
"Can the chambermaid describe her?" continued the judge.
"She says the lady was young and good-looking--that's about all she
remembers."
"Hm! Have you anything else to report?"
Gibelin chuckled harshly. "I have kept the most important thing for the
last. I'm afraid it will annoy my distinguished colleague even more than
the loss of the leather fragments."
"Don't waste your sympathy," retorted Coquenil.
Gibelin gave a little snort of defiance. "I certainly won't. I only mean
that your début in this case hasn't been exactly--ha, ha!--well, not
exactly brilliant."
"Here, here!" reproved the judge. "Let us have the facts."
"Well," continued the red-haired man, "I have found the owner of the pistol
that killed Martinez."
Coquenil started. "The owner of the pistol we found in the courtyard?"
"Precisely. I should tell you, also, that the balls from that pistol are
identical with the ball extracted from the body. The autopsy proves it, so
Dr. Joubert says. And this pistol belongs in a leather holster that I
found in Mr. Kittredge's room. Dr. Joubert let me take the pistol for
verification and--there, you can see for yourselves."
With this he produced the holster and the pistol and laid them before the
judge. There was no doubt about it, the two objects belonged together.
Various worn places corresponded and the weapon fitted in its case.
"Besides," continued Gibelin, "the chambermaid identifies this pistol as
the property of the American. He always kept it in a certain drawer, she
noticed it there a few days ago, but yesterday it was gone and the holster
was empty."
"It looks bad," muttered the judge.
"It _looks_ bad, but it's too easy, it's too simple," answered M. Paul.
"In the old school," sneered Gibelin, "we are not always trying to solve
problems in _difficult_ ways. We don't reject a solution merely because
it's easy--if the truth lies straight before our nose, why, we see it."
"My dear sir," retorted Coquenil angrily, "if what you think the truth
turns out to be the truth, then you ought to be in charge of this case and
I'm a fool."
"Granted," smiled the other.
"Come, come, gentlemen," interrupted the judge. Then abruptly to Gibelin:
"Did you see about his boots?"
"No, I thought you would send to the prison and get the pair he wore last
night."
"How do you know he didn't change his boots when he burned the letters? Go
back to his hotel and see if they noticed a muddy pair in his room this
morning. Bring me whatever boots of his you find. Also stop at the depot
and get the pair he had on when arrested. Be quick!"
"I will," answered Gibelin, and he went out, pausing at the door to salute
M. Paul mockingly.
"Ill-tempered brute!" said Hauteville. "I will see that he has nothing more
to do with this case." Then he touched an electric bell.
"That American, Kittredge, who was arrested last night?" he said to the
clerk. "Was he put in a cell?"
"No, sir, he's in with the other prisoners."
"Ah! Have him brought over here in about an hour for the preliminary
examination. Make out his commitment papers for the Santé. He is to be _au
secret_."
"Yes, sir." The clerk bowed and withdrew.
"You really think this young man innocent, do you?" remarked the judge to
Coquenil.
"It's easier to think him innocent than guilty," answered the detective.
"Easier?"
"If he is guilty we must grant him an extraordinary double personality. The
amiable lover becomes a desperate criminal able to conceive and carry out
the most intricate murder of our time. I don't believe it. If he is guilty
he must have had the key to that alleyway door. How did he get it? He must
have known, that the 'tall blonde' who had engaged Number Seven would not
occupy it. How did he know that? And he must have relations with the man
who met me on the Champs Elysées. How could that be? Remember, he's a poor
devil of a foreigner living in a Latin-Quarter attic. The thing isn't
reasonable."
"But the pistol?"
"The pistol may not really be his. Gibelin's whole story needs looking
into."
The judge nodded. "Of course. I leave that to you. Still, I shall feel
better satisfied when we have compared the soles of his boots with the
plaster casts of those alleyway footprints."
"So shall I," said Coquenil. "Suppose I see the workman who is finishing
the casts?" he suggested; "it won't take long, and perhaps I can bring them
back with me."
"Excellent," approved Hauteville, and he bowed with grave friendliness as
the detective left the room.
Then, for nearly an hour, the judge buried himself in the details of this
case, turning his trained mind, with absorbed concentration, upon the
papers at hand, reviewing the evidence, comparing the various reports and
opinions, and, in the light of clear reason, searching for a plausible
theory of the crime. He also began notes of questions that he wished to ask
Kittredge, and was deep in these when the clerk entered to inform him that
Coquenil and Gibelin had returned.
"Let them come in at once," directed Hauteville, and presently the two
detectives were again before him.
"Well?" he inquired with a quick glance.
Coquenil was silent, but Gibelin replied exultingly: "We have found a pair
of Kittredge's boots that absolutely correspond with the plaster casts of
the alleyway footprints; everything is identical, the shape of the sole,
the nails in the heel, the worn places--everything."
The judge turned to Coquenil. "Is this true?"
M. Paul nodded. "It seems to be true."
There was a moment of tense silence and then Hauteville said in measured
tones: "It makes a _strong_ chain now. What do you think?"
Coquenil hesitated, and then with a frown of perplexity and exasperation he
snapped out: "I--I haven't had time to think yet."