BY SPECIAL ORDER
It was not until after vespers that Alice was able to leave Notre-Dame and
start for the Villa Montmorency--in fact, it was nearly five when, with
mingled feelings of confidence and shrinking, she opened the iron gate in
the ivy-covered wall of Coquenil's house and advanced down the neat walk
between the double hedges to the solid gray mass of the villa, at once
dignified and cheerful. Melanie came to the door and showed, by a jealous
glance, that she did not approve of her master receiving visits from young
and good-looking females.
"M. Paul is resting," she grumbled; "he worked all last night and he's
worked this whole blessed day until half an hour ago."
"I'm sorry, but it's a matter of great importance," urged the girl.
"Good, good," snapped Melanie. "What name?"
"He wouldn't know my name. Please say it's the girl who sells candles in
Notre-Dame."
"Huh! I'll tell him. Wait here," and with scant courtesy the old servant
left Alice standing in the blue-tiled hallway, near a long diamond-paned
window. A moment later Melanie reappeared with mollified countenance. "M.
Paul says will you please take a seat in here." She opened the study door
and pointed to one of the big red-leather chairs. "He'll be down in a
moment."
Left alone, Alice glanced in surprise about this strange room. She saw a
photograph of Caesar and his master on the wall and went nearer to look at
it. Then she noticed the collection of plaster hands and was just bending
over it when Coquenil entered, wearing a loosely cut house garment of pale
yellow with dark-green braid around the jacket and down the legs of the
trousers. He looked pale, almost haggard, but his face lighted in welcome
as he came forward.
[Illustration: "She was just bending over it when Coquenil entered."]
"Glad to see you," he said.
She had not heard his step and turned with a start of surprise.
"I--I beg your pardon," she murmured in embarrassment.
"Are you interested in my plaster casts?" he asked pleasantly.
"I was looking at this hand," replied the girl. "I have seen one like it."
Coquenil shook his head good-naturedly. "That is very improbable."
Alice looked closer. "Oh, but I have," she insisted.
"You mean in a museum?"
"No, no, in life--I am positive I have."
M. Paul listened with increasing interest. "You have seen a hand with a
little finger as long as this one?"
"Yes; it's as long as the third finger and square at the end. I've often
noticed it."
"Then you have seen something very uncommon, mademoiselle, something _I_
have never seen. That is the most remarkable hand in my collection; it is
the hand of a man who lived nearly two hundred years ago. He was one of the
greatest criminals the world has ever known."
"Really?" cried Alice, her eyes wide with sudden fright. "I--I must have
been mistaken."
But now the detective's curiosity was aroused. "Would you mind telling me
the name of the person--of course it's a man--who has this hand?"
"Yes," said Alice, "it's a man, but I should not like to give his name
after what you have told me."
"He is a good man?"
"Oh, yes."
"A kind man?"
"Yes."
"A man that you like?"
"Why--er--why, yes, I like him," she replied, but the detective noticed a
strange, anxious look in her eyes. And immediately he changed the subject.
"You'll have a cup of tea with me, won't you? I've asked Melanie to bring
it in. Then we can talk comfortably. By the way, you haven't told me your
name."
"My name is Alice Groener," she answered simply.
"Groener," he reflected. "That isn't a French name?"
"No, my family lived in Belgium, but I have only a cousin left. He is a
wood carver, in Brussels. He has been very kind to me and would pay my
board with the Bonnetons, but I don't want to be a burden, so I work at the
church."
"I see," he said approvingly.
The girl was seated in the full light, and as they talked, Coquenil
observed her attentively, noting the pleasant tones of her voice and the
charming lights in her eyes, studying her with a personal as well as a
professional interest; for was not this the young woman who had so suddenly
and so unaccountably influenced his life? Who was she, what was she, this
dreaming candle seller? In spite of her shyness and modest ways, she was
brave and strong of will, that was evident, and, plain dress or not, she
looked the aristocrat every inch of her. Where did she get that unconscious
air of quiet poise, that trick of the lifted chin? And how did she learn to
use her hands like a great lady?
"Would you mind telling me something, mademoiselle?" he said suddenly.
Alice looked at him in surprise, and again he remarked, as he had at
Notre-Dame, the singular beauty of her wondering dark eyes.
"What is it?"
"Have you any idea how you happened to dream that dream about me?"
The girl shrank away trembling. "No one can explain dreams, can they?" she
asked anxiously, and it seemed to him that her emotion was out of all
proportion to its cause.
"I suppose not," he answered kindly. "I thought you might have
some--er--some fancy about it. If you ever should have, you would tell me,
wouldn't you?"
"Ye-es." She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to say
something more, but she checked the impulse, if it was there, and Coquenil
did not press his demand.
"There's one other thing," he went on reassuringly. "I'm asking this in the
interest of M. Kittredge. Tell me if you know anything about this crime of
which he is accused?"
"Why, no," she replied with evident sincerity. "I haven't even read the
papers."
"But you know who was murdered?"
Alice shook her head blankly. "How could I? No one has told me."
"It was a man named Martinez."
She started at the word. "What? The billiard player?" she cried.
He nodded. "Did you know him?"
"Oh, yes, very well."
Now it was Coquenil's turn to feel surprise, for he had asked the question
almost aimlessly.
"You knew Martinez very well?" he repeated, scarcely believing his ears.
"I often saw him," she explained, "at the café where we went evenings."
"Who were 'we'?"
"Why, Papa Bonneton would take me, or my cousin, M. Groener, or M.
Kittredge."
"Then M. Kittredge knew Martinez?"
"Of course. He used to go sometimes to see him play billiards." She said
all this quite simply.
"Were Kittredge and Martinez good friends?"
"Oh, yes."
"Never had any words? Any quarrel?"
"Why--er--no," she replied in some confusion.
"I don't want to distress you, mademoiselle," said Coquenil gravely, "but
aren't you keeping something back?"
"No, no," she insisted. "I just thought of--of a little thing that made me
unhappy, but it has nothing to do with this case. You believe me, don't
you?"
She spoke with pleading earnestness, and again M. Paul followed an
intuition that told him he might get everything from this girl by going
slowly and gently, whereas, by trying to force her confidence, he would get
nothing.
"Of course I believe you," he smiled. "Now I'm going to give you some of
this tea; I'm afraid it's getting cold."
And he proceeded to do the honors in so friendly a way that Alice was
presently quite at her ease again.
"Now," he resumed, "we'll settle down comfortably and you can tell me what
brought you here, tell me all about it. You won't mind if I smoke a
cigarette? Be sure to tell me _everything_--there is plenty of time."
So Alice began and told him about the mysterious lady and their agitated
visit to the tower, omitting nothing, while M. Paul listened with startled
interest, nodding and frowning and asking frequent questions.
"This is very important," he said gravely when she had finished. "What a
pity you couldn't get her name!" He shut his fingers hard on his chair arm,
reflecting that for the second time this woman had escaped him.
"Did I do wrong?" asked Alice in confusion.
"I suppose not. I understand your feelings, but--would you know her again?"
he questioned.
"Oh, yes, anywhere," answered Alice confidently.
"How old is she?"
A mischievous light shone in the girl's eyes. "I will say thirty--that is
absolutely fair."
"You think she may be older?"
"I'm sure she isn't younger."
"Is she pretty?"
"Oh, yes, very pretty, very animated and--_chic_."
"Would you call her a lady?"
"Why--er--yes."
"Aren't you sure?"
"It isn't that, but American ladies are--different."
"Why do you think she is an American?" he asked.
"I'm sure she is. I can always tell American ladies; they wear more colors
than French ladies, more embroideries, more things on their hats; I've
often noticed it in church. I even know them by their shiny finger nails
and their shrill voices."
"Does she speak with an accent?"
"She speaks fluently, like a foreigner who has lived a long time in Paris,
but she has a slight accent."
"Ah! Now give me her message again. Are you sure you remember it exactly?"
"Quite sure. Besides, she made me write it down so as not to miss a word.
Here it is," and, producing the torn page, she read: "_Tell M. Kittredge
that the lady who called for him in the carriage knows now that the person
she thought guilty last night is NOT guilty. She knows this absolutely, so
she will be able to appear and testify in favor of M. Kittredge if it
becomes necessary. But she hopes it will not be necessary. She begs M.
Kittredge to use this money for a good lawyer_."
"She didn't say who this person is that she thought guilty last night?"
"No."
"Did she say _why_ she thought him guilty or what changed her mind? Did she
drop any hint? Try to remember."
Alice shook her head. "No, she said nothing about that."
Coquenil rose and walked back and forth across the study, hands deep in his
pockets, head forward, eyes on the floor, back and forth several times
without a word. Then he stopped before Alice, eying her intently as if
making up his mind about something.
"I'm going to trust you, mademoiselle, with an important mission. You're
only a girl, but--you've been thrown into this tragic affair, and--you'll
be glad to help your lover, won't you?"
"Oh, yes," she answered eagerly.
"You may as well know that we are facing a situation not
altogether--er--encouraging. I believe M. Kittredge is innocent and I hope
to prove it, but others think differently and they have serious things
against him."
"What things?" she demanded, her cheeks paling.
"No matter now."
"There can be _nothing_ against him," declared the girl, "he is the soul of
honor."
"I hope so," answered the detective dryly, "but he is also in prison, and
unless we do something he is apt to stay there."
"What can we do?" murmured Alice, twining her fingers piteously.
"We must get at the truth, we must find this woman who came to see you. The
quickest way to do that is through Kittredge himself. He knows all about
her, if we can make him speak. So far he has refused to say a word, but
there is one person who ought to unseal his lips--that is the girl he
loves."
"Oh, yes," exclaimed Alice, her face lighting with new hope, "I think I
could, I am sure I could, only--will they let me see him?"
"That is the point. It is against the prison rule for a person _au secret_
to see anyone except his lawyer, but I know the director of the Santé and I
think----"
"You mean the director of the depot?"
"No, for M. Kittredge was transferred from the depot this morning. You know
the depot is only a temporary receiving station, but the Santé is one of
the regular French prisons. It's there they send men charged with murder."
Alice shivered at the word. "Yes," she murmured, "and--what were you
saying?"
"I say that I know the director of the Santé and I think, if I send you to
him with a strong note, he will make an exception--I think so."
"Splendid!" she cried joyfully. "And when shall I present the note?"
"To-day, at once; there isn't an hour to lose. I will write it now."
Coquenil sat down at his massive Louis XV table with its fine bronzes and
quickly addressed an urgent appeal to M. Dedet, director of the Santé,
asking him to grant the bearer a request that she would make in person, and
assuring him that, by so doing, he would confer upon Paul Coquenil a
deeply appreciated favor. Alice watched him with a sense of awe, and she
thought uneasily of her dream about the face in the angry sun and the land
of the black people.
"There," he said, handing her the note. "Now listen. You are to find out
certain things from your lover. I can't tell you _how_ to find them out,
that is your affair, but you must do it."
"I will," declared Alice.
"You must find them out even if he doesn't wish to tell you. His safety and
your happiness may depend on it."
"I understand."
"One thing is this woman's name and address."
"Yes," replied Alice, and then her face clouded. "But if it isn't honorable
for him to tell her name?"
"You must make him see that it _is_ honorable. The lady herself says she is
ready to testify if necessary. At first she was afraid of implicating some
person she thought guilty, but now she knows that person is not guilty.
Besides, you can say that we shall certainly know all about this woman in a
few days whether he tells us or not, so he may as well save us valuable
time. Better write that down--here is a pad."
"Save us valuable time," repeated Alice, pencil in hand.
"Then I want to know about the lady's husband. Is he dark or fair? Tall or
short? Does Kittredge know him? Has he ever had words with him or any
trouble? Got that?"
"Yes," replied Alice, writing busily.
"Then--do you know whether M. Kittredge plays tennis?"
Alice looked up in surprise. "Why, yes, he does. I remember hearing him
say he likes it better than golf."
"Ah! Then ask him--see here. I'll show you," and going to a corner between
the bookcase and the wall, M. Paul picked out a tennis racket among a
number of canes. "Now, then," he continued while she watched him with
perplexity, "I hold my racket _so_ in my right hand, and if a ball comes on
my left, I return it with a back-hand stroke _so_, using my right hand; but
there are players who shift the racket to the left hand and return the ball
_so_, do you see?"
"I see."
"Now I want to know if M. Kittredge uses both hands in playing tennis or
only the one hand. And I want to know _which_ hand he uses chiefly, that
is, the right or the left?"
"Why do you want to know that?" inquired Alice, with a woman's curiosity.
"Never mind why, just remember it's important. Another thing is, to ask M.
Kittredge about a chest of drawers in his room at the Hôtel des Étrangers.
It is a piece of old oak, rather worm-eaten, but it has good bronzes for
the drawer handles, two dogs fighting on either side of the lock plates."
Alice listened in astonishment. "I didn't suppose you knew where M.
Kittredge lived."
"Nor did I until this morning," he smiled. "Since then I--well, as my
friend Gibelin says, I haven't wasted my time."
"Your friend Gibelin?" repeated Alice, not understanding.
Coquenil smiled grimly. "He is an amiable person for whom I am preparing
a--a little surprise."
"Oh! And what about the chest of drawers?"
"It's about one particular drawer, the small upper one on the right-hand
side--better write that down."
"The small upper drawer on the right-hand side," repeated Alice.
"I find that M. Kittredge _always_ kept this drawer locked. He seems to be
a methodical person, and I want to know if he remembers opening it a few
days ago and finding, it unlocked. Have you got that?"
"Yes."
"Good! Oh, one thing more. Find out if M. Kittredge ever suffers from
rheumatism or gout."
The girl smiled. "Of course he doesn't; he is only twenty-eight."
"Please do not take this lightly, mademoiselle," the detective chided
gently. "It is perhaps the most important point of all--his release from
prison may depend on it."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not taking it lightly, indeed I'm not," and, with tears
in her eyes, Alice assured M. Paul that she fully realized the importance
of this mission and would spare no effort to make it successful.
A few moments later she hurried away, buoyed up by the thought that she was
not only to see her lover but to serve him.
It was after six when Alice left the circular railway at the Montrouge
station. She was in a remote and unfamiliar part of Paris, the region of
the catacombs and the Gobelin tapestry works, and, although M. Paul had
given her precise instructions, she wandered about for some time among
streets of hospitals and convents until at last she came to an open place
where she recognized Bartholdi's famous Belfort lion. Then she knew her
way, and hurrying along the Boulevard Arago, she came presently to the
gloomy mass of the Santé prison, which, with its diverging wings and
galleries, spreads out like a great gray spider in the triangular space
between the Rue Humboldt, the Rue de la Santé and the Boulevard Arago.
A kind-faced policeman pointed out a massive stone archway where she must
enter, and passing here, beside a stolid soldier in his sentry box, she
came presently to a black iron door in front of which were waiting two
yellow-and-black prison vans, windowless. In this prison door were four
glass-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard
within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long brass
key and turned the bolt. The door swung back, and with a shiver of
repulsion the girl stepped inside. This was the prison, these men standing
about were the jailers and--what did that matter so long as she got to
_him_, to her dear Lloyd. There was _nothing_ she would not face or endure
for his sake.
No sooner had the guard heard that she came with a note from M. Paul
Coquenil (that was a name to conjure with) than he showed her politely to a
small waiting room, assuring her that the note would be given at once to
the director of the prison. And a few moments later another door opened and
a hard-faced, low-browed man of heavy build bowed to her with a crooked,
sinister smile and motioned her into his private office. It was M. Dedet,
the chief jailer.
"Always at the service of Paul Coquenil," he began. "What can I do for you,
mademoiselle?"
Then, summoning her courage, and trying her best to make a good impression,
Alice told him her errand. She wanted to speak with the American, M.
Kittredge, who had been sent here the night before--she wanted to speak
with him alone.
The jailer snapped his teeth and narrowed his brows in a hard stare. "Did
Paul Coquenil send you here for _that?_" he questioned.
"Yes, sir," answered the girl, and her heart began to sink. "You see, it's
a very special case and----"
"Special case," laughed the other harshly; "I should say so--it's a case of
murder."
"But he is innocent, perfectly innocent," pleaded Alice.
"Of course, but if I let every murderer who says he's innocent see his
sweetheart--well, this would be a fine prison. No, no, little one," he went
on with offensive familiarity, "I am sorry to disappoint you and I hate to
refuse M. Paul, but it can't be done. This man is _au secret_, which means
that he must not see _anyone_ except his lawyer. You know they assign a
lawyer to a prisoner who has no money to employ one."
"But he _has_ money, at least I have some for him. Please let me see him,
for a few minutes." Her eyes filled with tears and she reached out her
hands appealingly. "If you only knew the circumstances, if I could only
make you understand."
"Haven't time to listen," he said impatiently, "there's no use whining. I
can't do it and that's the end of it. If I let you talk with this man and
the thing were known, I might lost my position." He rose abruptly as if to
dismiss her.
Alice did not move. She had been sitting by a table on which a large sheet
of pink blotting paper was spread before writing materials. And as she
listened to the director's rough words, she took up a pencil and twisted it
nervously in her fingers. Then, with increasing agitation, as she realized
that her effort for Lloyd had failed, she began, without thinking, to make
little marks on the blotter, and then a written scrawl--all with a
singular fixed look in her eyes.
"You'll have to excuse me," said the jailer gruffly, seeing that she did
not take his hint.
Alice started to her feet. "I--I beg your pardon," she said weakly, and,
staggering, she tried to reach the door. Her distress was so evident that
even this calloused man felt a thrill of pity and stepped forward to assist
her. And, as he passed the table, his eye fell on the blotting paper.
"Why, what is this?" he exclaimed, eying her sharply.
"Oh, excuse me, sir," begged Alice, "I have spoiled your nice blotter. I am
_so_ sorry."
"Never mind the blotter, but--" He bent closer over the scrawled words,
and then with a troubled look: "_Did you write this?_"
"Why--er--why--yes, sir, I'm afraid I did," she stammered.
"Don't you _know_ you did?" he demanded.
"I--I wasn't thinking," she pleaded in fright.
[Illustration: "'Did you write this?'"]
He stared at her for a moment, then he went to his desk, picked up a
printed form, filled it out quickly and handed it to her.
"There," he said, and his voice was almost gentle, "I guess I don't quite
understand about this thing."
Alice looked at the paper blankly. "But--what is it?" she asked.
The jailer closed one eye very slowly with a wise nod. "It's what you asked
for, a permit to see this American prisoner, _by special order_."