THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
Coquenil was neither surprised nor disappointed at the meager results of
Alice's visit to the prison. This was merely one move in the game, and it
had not been entirely vain, since he had learned that Kittredge _might_
have used his left hand in firing a pistol and that he did not suffer with
gout or rheumatism. This last point was of extreme importance.
And the detective was speedily put in excellent humor by news awaiting him
at the Palais de Justice Monday morning that the man sent to London to
trace the burned photograph and the five-pound notes had already met with
success and had telegraphed that the notes in question had been issued to
Addison Wilmott, whose bankers were Munroe and Co., Rue Scribe.
Quick inquiries revealed the fact that Addison Wilmott was a well-known New
Yorker, living in Paris, a man of leisure who was enjoying to the full a
large inherited fortune. He and his dashing wife lived in a private _hôtel_
on the Avenue Kleber, where they led a gay existence in the smartest and
most spectacular circle of the American Colony. They gave brilliant
dinners, they had several automobiles, they did all the foolish and
extravagant things that the others did and a few more.
He was dull, good-natured, and a little fat; she was a beautiful woman with
extraordinary charm and a lithe, girlish figure of which she took infinite
care; he was supposed to kick up his heels in a quiet way while she did
the thing brilliantly and kept the wheels of American Colony gossip (busy
enough, anyway) turning and spinning until they groaned in utter weariness.
What was there that Pussy Wilmott had not done or would not do if the
impulse seized her? This was a matter of tireless speculation in the
ultra-chic salons through which this fascinating lady flitted, envied and
censured. She was known to be the daughter of a California millionaire who
had left her a fortune, of which the last shred was long ago dispersed.
Before marrying Wilmott she had divorced two husbands, had traveled all
over the world, had hunted tigers in India and canoed the breakers, native
style, in Hawaii; she had lived like a cowboy on the Texas plains, where,
it was said, she had worn men's clothes; she could swim and shoot and swear
and love; she was altogether selfish, altogether delightful, altogether
impossible; in short, she was a law unto herself, and her brilliant
personality so far overshadowed Addison that, although he had the money and
most of the right in their frequent quarrels, no one ever spoke of him
except as "Pussy Wilmott's husband."
In spite of her willfulness and caprices Mrs. Wilmott was full of generous
impulses and loyal to her friends. She was certainly not a snob, as witness
the fact that she had openly snubbed a certain grand duke, not for his
immoralities, which she declared afterwards were nobody's business, but
because of his insufferable stupidity. She rather liked a sinner, but she
couldn't stand a fool!
Such was the information M. Paul had been able to gather from swift and
special police sources when he presented himself at the Wilmott _hôtel_,
about luncheon time on Monday. Addison was just starting with some friends
for a run down to Fontainebleau in his new Panhard, and he listened
impatiently to Coquenil's explanation that he had come in regard to some
English bank notes recently paid to Mr. Wilmott, and possibly clever
forgeries.
"Really!" exclaimed Addison.
Coquenil hoped that Mr. Wilmott would give him the notes in question in
exchange for genuine ones. This would help the investigation.
"Of course, my dear sir," said the American, "but I haven't the notes, they
were spent long ago."
Coquenil was sorry to hear this--he wondered if Mr. Wilmott could remember
where the notes were spent. After an intellectual effort Addison remembered
that he had changed one into French money at Henry's and had paid two or
three to a shirt maker on the Rue de la Paix, and the rest--he reflected
again, and then said positively: "Why, yes, I gave five or six of them, I
think there were six, I'm sure there were, because--" He stopped with a new
idea.
"You remember whom you paid them to?" questioned the detective.
"I didn't pay them to anyone," replied Wilmott, "I gave them to my wife."
"Ah!" said Coquenil, and presently he took his departure with polite
assurances, whereupon the unsuspecting Addison tooted away complacently for
Fontainebleau.
It was now about two o'clock, and the next three hours M. Paul spent with
his sources of information studying the career of Pussy Wilmott from
special points of view in preparation for a call upon the lady, which he
proposed to make later in the afternoon.
He discovered two significant things: first, that, whatever her actual
conduct, Mrs. Wilmott had never openly compromised herself. Love affairs
she might have had, but no one could say when or where or with whom she had
had them; and if, as seemed likely, she was the woman in this Ansonia case,
then she had kept her relations with Kittredge in profoundest secrecy.
As offsetting this, however, Coquenil secured information that connected
Mrs. Wilmott directly with Martinez. It appeared that, among her other
excitements, Pussy was passionately fond of gambling. She was known to have
won and lost large sums at Monte Carlo, and she was a regular follower of
the fashionable races in Paris. She had also been seen at the Olympia
billiard academy, near the Grand Hotel, where Martinez and other experts
played regularly before eager audiences, among whom betting on the games
was the great attraction. The detective found two bet markers who
remembered distinctly that, on several occasions, a handsome woman,
answering to the description of Mrs. Wilmott, had wagered five or ten louis
on Martinez and had shown a decided admiration for his remarkable skill
with the cue.
"He used to talk about this lady," said one of the markers; "he called her
his 'belle Américaine,' but I am sure he did not know her real name." The
man smiled at Martinez's inordinate vanity over his supposed fascination
for women--he was convinced that no member of the fair sex could resist his
advances.
With so much in mind Coquenil started up the Champs Elysées about five
o'clock. He counted on finding Mrs. Wilmott home at tea time, and as he
strolled along, turning the problem over in his mind, he found it
conceivable that this eccentric lady, in a moment of ennui or for the
novelty of the thing, might have consented to dine with Martinez in a
private room. It was certain no scruples would have deterred her if the
adventure had seemed amusing, especially as Martinez had no idea who she
was. With her, excitement and a new sensation were the only rules of
conduct, and her husband's opinion was a matter of the smallest possible
consequence. Besides, he would probably never know it!
Mrs. Wilmott, very languid and stunning, amidst her luxurious surroundings,
received M. Paul with the patronizing indifference that bored rich women
extend to tradespeople. But presently when he explained that he was a
detective and began to question her about the Ansonia affair, she rose with
a haughty gesture that was meant to banish him in confusion from her
presence. Coquenil, however, did not "banish" so easily. He had dealt with
haughty ladies before.
"My dear madam, please sit down," he said quietly. "I must ask you to
explain how it happens that a number of five-pound notes, given to you by
your husband some days ago, were found on the body of this murdered man."
"How do I know?" she replied sharply. "I spent the notes in shops; I'm not
responsible for what became of them. Besides, I am dining out to-night,
and! I must dress. I really don't see any point to this conversation."
"No," he smiled, and the keenness of his glance: pierced her like a blade.
"The point is, my dear lady, that I want you to tell me what you were doing
with this billiard player when he was shot last Saturday night."
"It's false; I never knew the man," she cried. "It's an outrage for you
to--to intrude on a lady and--and insult her."
"You used to back his game at the Olympia," continued Coquenil coolly.
"What of it? I'm fond of billiards. Is that a crime?"
"You left your cloak and a small leather bag in the _vestiaire_ at the
Ansonia," pursued M. Paul.
"It isn't true!"
"Your name was found stamped in gold letters under a leather flap in the
bag."
She shot a frightened glance at him and then faltered: "It--it was?"
Coquenil nodded. "Your friend, M. Kittredge, tore the flap out of the bag
and then cut it into small pieces and scattered the pieces from his cab
through dark streets, but I picked up the pieces."
"You--you did?" she stammered.
"Yes. _Now what were you doing with Martinez in that room?_"
For some moments she did not answer but studied him with frightened,
puzzled eyes. Then suddenly her whole manner changed.
"Excuse me," she smiled, "I didn't get your name?"
"M. Coquenil," he said.
"Won't you sit over here? This chair is more comfortable. That's right.
Now, I will tell you _exactly_ what happened." And, settling herself near
him, Pussy Wilmott entered bravely upon the hardest half hour of her life.
After all, he was a man and she would do the best she could!
"You see, M. Coquelin--I beg your pardon, M. Coquenil. The names are alike,
aren't they?"
"Yes," said the other dryly.
"Well," she went on quite charmingly, "I have done some foolish things in
my life, but this is the most foolish. I _did_ give Martinez the
five-pound notes. You see, he was to play a match this week with a Russian
and he offered to lay the money for me. He said he could get good odds and
he was sure to win."
"But the dinner? The private room?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I went there for a perfectly proper reason. I
needed some one to help me and I--I couldn't ask a man who knew me so----"
"Then Martinez didn't know you?"
"Of course not. He was foolish enough to think himself in love with me
and--well, I found it convenient and--amusing to--utilize him."
"For what?"
Mrs. Wilmott bit her red lips and then with some dignity replied that she
did not see what bearing her purpose had on the case since it had not been
accomplished.
"Why wasn't it accomplished?" he asked.
"Because the man was shot."
"Who shot him?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
"No idea."
"But you were present in the room?"
"Ye-es."
"You heard the shot? You saw Martinez fall?"
"Yes, but----"
"Well?"
Now her agitation, increased, she seemed about to make some statement, but
checked herself and simply insisted that she knew nothing about the
shooting. No one had entered the room except herself and Martinez and the
waiter who served them. They had finished the soup; Martinez had left his
seat for a moment; he was standing near her when--when the shot was fired
and he fell to the floor. She had no idea where the shot came from or who
fired it. She was frightened and hurried away from the hotel. That was all.
Coquenil smiled indulgently. "What did you do with the auger?" he asked.
"The auger?" she gasped.
"Yes, it was seen by the cab driver you took when you slipped out of the
hotel in the telephone girl's rain coat."
"You know that?"
He nodded and went on: "This cab driver remembers that you had something
under your arm wrapped in a newspaper. Was that the auger?"
"Yes," she answered weakly.
"And you threw it into the Seine as you crossed the Concorde bridge?"
She stared at him in genuine admiration: "My God, you're the cleverest man
I ever met!"
M. Paul bowed politely, and glancing at a well-spread tea table, he said:
"Mrs. Wilmott, if you think so well of me, perhaps you won't mind giving me
a cup of tea. The fact is, I have been so busy with this case I forgot to
eat and I--I feel a little faint." He pressed a hand against his forehead
and Pussy saw that he was very white.
"You poor man!" she cried in concern. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'll
fix it myself. There! Take some of these toasted muffins. What an
extraordinary life you must lead! I can almost forgive you for being so
outrageous because you're so--so interesting." She let her siren eyes shine
on him in a way that had wrought the discomfiture of many a man.
M. Paul smiled. "I can return the compliment by saying that it isn't every
lady who could throw a clumsy thing like an auger from a moving cab over a
wide roadway and a stone wall and land it in a river. I suppose you threw
it over on the right-hand side?"
"Yes."
"How far across the bridge had you got when you threw it? This may help the
divers."
She thought a moment. "We were a little more than halfway across, I should
say."
"Thanks. Now who bought this auger?"
"Martinez."
"Did _you_ suggest the holes through the wall?"
"No, he did."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"But the holes were bored for you?"
"Of course."
"Because you wanted to see into the next room?"
"Yes," in a low tone.
"And why?"
She hesitated a moment and then burst out in a flash of feeling: "Because I
knew that a wretched dancing girl was going to be there with----"
"Yes?" eagerly.
"With my husband!"