PUSSY WILMOTT'S CONFESSION
"Then your husband was the person you thought guilty that night?"
questioned Coquenil.
"Yes."
"You told M. Kittredge when you called for him in the cab that you thought
your husband guilty?"
"Yes, but afterwards I changed my mind. My husband had nothing to do with
it. If he had, do you suppose I would have told you this? No doubt he has
misconducted himself, but----"
"You mean Anita?"
It was a chance shot, but it went true.
She stared at him in amazement. "I believe you are the devil," she said,
and the detective, recalling his talk with M. Gritz, muttered to himself:
"The tall blonde! Of course!"
And now Pussy, feeling that she could gain nothing against Coquenil by ruse
or deceit, took refuge in simple truth and told quite charmingly how this
whole tragic adventure had grown out of a foolish fit of jealousy.
"You see, I found a _petit bleu_ on my husband's dressing table one
morning--I wish to Heaven he would be more careful--and I--I read it. It
began '_Mon gros bebe_,' and was signed '_Ta petite Anita_,' and--naturally
I was furious. I have often been jealous of Addison, but he has always
managed to prove that I was in the wrong and that he was a perfect saint,
so now I determined to see for myself. It was a splendid chance, as the
exact rendezvous was given, nine o'clock Saturday evening, in private room
Number Seven at the Ansonia. I had only to be there, but, of course, I
couldn't go alone, so I got this man, Martinez--he was a perfect fool, I'm
sorry he's been shot, but he was--I got him to take me, because, as I told
you, he didn't know me, and being such a fool, he would do whatever I
wished."
"What day was it you found the _petit bleu?_" put in Coquenil.
"It was Thursday. I saw Martinez that afternoon, and on Friday, he reserved
private room Number Six for Saturday evening."
"And you are sure it was _his_ scheme to bore the holes?"
"Yes, he said that would be an amusing way of watching Addison without
making a scandal, and I agreed with him; it was the first clever idea I
ever knew him to have."
"That's a good point!" reflected Coquenil.
"What is a good point?"
"Nothing, just a thought I had," he answered abstractedly.
"What a queer man you are!" she said with a little pout. She was not
accustomed to have men inattentive when she sat near them.
"There's one thing that doesn't seem very clever, though," reflected the
detective. "Didn't Martinez think your husband or Anita would see those
holes in the wall?"
"No, because he had prepared for that. There was a tall palm in Number
Seven that stood just before the holes and screened them."
Coquenil looked at her curiously.
"How do you know there was?"
"Martinez told me. He had taken the precaution to look in there on Friday
when he engaged Number Six. He knew exactly where to bore the holes."
"I see. And he put them behind the curtain hangings so that your waiter
wouldn't see them?"
"That's it."
"And you held the curtain hangings back while he used the auger?"
"Yes. You see he managed it very well."
"Very well except for one thing," mused Coquenil, "_there wasn't any palm
in Number Six_."
"No?"
"No."
"That's strange!"
"Yes, it _is_ strange," and again she felt that he was following a separate
train of thought.
"Did _you_ look through the holes at all?" he asked.
"No, I hadn't time."
"Did Martinez look through the first hole after it was bored?"
"Yes, but he couldn't see anything, as Number Seven was dark."
"Then you have absolutely no idea who fired the shot?"
"Absolutely none."
"Except you think it wasn't your husband?"
"I _know_ it wasn't my husband."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I asked him. Ah, you needn't smile, I made him give me proof."
When I got home that night I had a horrible feeling that Addison must have
done it. Who else _could_ have done it, since he had engaged Number Seven?
So I waited until he came home. It was after twelve. I could hear him
moving about in his room and I was afraid to speak to him, the thing seemed
so awful; but, at last, I went in and asked him where he had been. He began
to lie in the usual way--you know any man will if he's in a hole like
that--but finally I couldn't stand it any longer and I said: 'Addison, for
God's sake, don't lie to me. I know something terrible has happened, and if
I can, I want to help you.'
"I was as white as a sheet and he jumped up in a great fright. 'What is it,
Pussy? What is it?' he cried. And then I told him a murder had been
committed at the Ansonia in private room Number Seven. I wish you could
have seen his face. He never said a word, he just stared at me. 'Why don't
you speak?' I begged. 'Addison, it wasn't you, tell me it wasn't you. Never
mind this Anita woman, I'll forgive that if you'll only tell me where
you've been to-night.'
"Well, it was the longest time before I could get anything out of him. You
see, it was quite a shock for Addison getting all this together, caught
with the woman and then the murder on top of it; I had to cry and scold and
get him whisky before he could pull himself together, but he finally did
and made a clean breast of everything."
"'Pussy,' he said, 'you're all right, you're a plucky little woman, and I'm
a bad lot, but I'm not as bad as that. I wasn't in that room, I didn't go
to the Ansonia to-night, and I swear to God I don't know any more about
this murder than you do.'
"Then he explained what had happened in his blundering way, stopping every
minute or so to tell me what a saint I am, and the Lord knows _that's_ a
joke, and the gist of it was that he had started for the Ansonia with this
woman, but she had changed her mind in the cab and they had gone to the
Café de Paris instead and spent the evening there. I was pretty sure he
was telling the truth, for Addison isn't clever and I usually know when
he's lying, although I don't tell him so; but this was such an awful thing
that I couldn't take chances, so I said: 'Addison, put your things right
on, we're going to the Café de Paris.' 'What for?' said he. 'To settle this
business,' said I. And off we went and got there at half past one; but the
waiters hadn't gone, and they all swore black and blue that Addison told
the truth, he had really been there all the evening with this woman. And
_that_," she concluded triumphantly, "is how I know my husband is
innocent."
[Illustration: "'They all swore black and blue that Addison told the
truth.'"]
"Hm!" reflected Coquenil. "I wonder why Anita changed her mind?"
"I'm not responsible for Anita," answered Pussy with a dignified whisk of
her shoulders.
"No, of course not, of course not," he murmured absently; then, after a
moment's thought, he said gravely: "I never really doubted your husband's
innocence, now I'm sure of it; unfortunately, this does not lessen your
responsibility; you were in the room, you witnessed the crime; in fact, you
were the only witness."
"But I know nothing about it, nothing," she protested.
"You know a great deal about this young man who is in prison."
"I know he is innocent."
Coquenil took off his glasses and rubbed them with characteristic
deliberation. "I hope you can prove it."
"Of course I can prove it," she declared. "M. Kittredge was arrested
because he called for my things, but I asked him to do that. I was in
terrible trouble and--he was an old friend and--and I knew I could depend
on him. He had no reason to kill Martinez. It's absurd!"
"I'm afraid it's not so absurd as you think. You say he was an old friend,
he must have been a _very particular kind_ of an old friend for you to ask
a favor of him that you knew and he knew would bring him under suspicion.
You did know that, didn't you?"
"Why--er--yes."
"I don't ask what there was between you and M. Kittredge, but if there had
been _everything_ between you he couldn't have done more, could he? And he
couldn't have done less. So a jury might easily conclude, in the absence of
contrary evidence, that there was everything between you."
"It's false," she cried, while Coquenil with keen discernment watched the
outward signs of her trouble, the clinching of her hands, the heaving of
her bosom, the indignant flashing of her eyes.
"I beg your pardon for expressing such a thought," he said simply. "It's a
matter that concerns the judge, only ladies dislike going to the Palais de
Justice."
She started in alarm. "You mean that I might have to go there?"
"Your testimony is important, and the judge cannot very well come here."
"But, I'd rather talk to you; really, I would. You can ask me questions
and--and then tell him. Go on, I don't mind. M. Kittredge was _not_ my
lover--there! Please make that perfectly clear. He was a dear, loyal
friend, but nothing more."
"Was he enough of a friend to be jealous of Martinez?"
"What was there to make him jealous?"
"Well," smiled Coquenil, "I can imagine that if a dear, loyal friend found
the lady he was dear and loyal to having supper with another man in a
private room, he _might_ be jealous."
To which Pussy replied with an accent of finality but with a shade of
pique: "The best proof that M. Kittredge would not be jealous of me is that
he loves another woman."
"The girl at Notre-Dame?"
"Yes."
"But Martinez knew her, too. There might have been trouble over her,"
ventured M. Paul shrewdly.
She shook her head with eager positiveness. "There was no trouble."
"You never knew of any quarrel between Kittredge and Martinez? No words?"
"Never."
"Madam," continued Coquenil, "as you have allowed me to speak frankly, I am
going to ask if you feel inclined to make a special effort to help M.
Kittredge?"
"Of course I do."
"Even at the sacrifice of your own feelings?"
"What do you mean?"
"Let me go back a minute. Yesterday you made a plucky effort to serve your
friend, you gave money for a lawyer to defend him, you even said you would
come forward and testify in his favor if it became necessary."
"Ah, the girl has seen you?"
"More than that, she has seen M. Kittredge at the prison. And I am sorry to
tell you that your generous purposes have accomplished nothing. He refuses
to accept your money and----"
"I told you he didn't love me," she interrupted with a touch of bitterness.
"We must have better evidence than that, just as we must have better
evidence of his innocence than your testimony. After all, you don't _know_
that he did not fire this shot, you could not _see_ through the wall, and
for all you can say, M. Kittredge _may_ have been in Number Seven."
"I suppose that's true," admitted Pussy dolefully.
"So we come back to the question of motive; his love for you or his hatred
of the Spaniard might be a motive, but if we can prove that there was no
such love and no such hatred, then we shall have rendered him a great
service and enormously improved his chances of getting out of prison. Do
you follow me?"
"Perfectly. But how can we prove it?"
The detective leaned closer and said impressively: "If these things are
true, it ought to be set forth in Kittredge's letters to you."
It was another chance shot, and Coquenil watched the effect anxiously.
"His letters to me!" she cried with a start of dismay, while M. Paul nodded
complacently. "He never wrote me letters--that is, not many, and--whatever
there were, I--I destroyed."
Coquenil eyed her keenly and shook his head. "A woman like you would never
write to a man oftener than he wrote to her, and Kittredge had a thick
bundle of your letters. It was only Saturday night that he burned them,
along with that photograph of you in the lace dress."
It seemed to Pussy that a cold hand was closing over her heart; it was
ghastly, it was positively uncanny the things this man had found out. She
looked at him in frightened appeal, and then, with a gesture of half
surrender: "For Heaven's sake, how much more do you know about me?"
"I know that you have a bundle of Kittredge's letters here, possibly in
that desk." He pointed to a charming piece of old mahogany inlaid with
ivory. He had made this last deduction by following her eyes through these
last tortured minutes.
"It isn't true; I--I tell you I destroyed the letters." And he knew she was
lying.
M. Paul glanced at his watch and then said quietly: "Would you mind asking
if some one is waiting for me outside?"
So thoroughly was the agitated lady under the spell of Coquenil's power
that she now attached extraordinary importance to his slightest word or
act. It seemed to her, as she pressed the bell, that she was precipitating
some nameless catastrophe.
"Is anyone waiting for this gentleman?" she asked, all in a tremble, when
the servant appeared.
"Yes, madam, two men are waiting," replied the valet.
She noticed, with a shiver, that he said two men, not two gentlemen.
"That's all," nodded Coquenil; "I'll let you know when I want them." And
when the valet had withdrawn: "They have come from the prefecture in regard
to these letters."
Pussy rose and her face was deathly white. "You mean they are policemen? My
house is full of policemen?"
"Be calm, my dear lady, there are only two in the house and two outside."
"Oh, the shame of it, the scandal of it!" she wailed.
"A murder isn't a pleasant thing at the best and--as I said, they have come
for the letters."
"You told them to come?"
"No, the judge told them to come. I hoped I might be able to spare you the
annoyance of a search."
"A search?" she cried, and realizing her helplessness, she sank down on a
sofa and began to cry. "It will disgrace me, it will break up my home, it
will ruin my life!" She could hear the gossips of the American Colony
rolling this choice morsel under their tongues, Pussy Wilmott's house had
been searched by the police for letters from her lover!
Then, suddenly, clutching at a last straw of hope, she yielded or seemed to
yield. "As long as a search must be made," she said with a sort of
half-defiant dignity, "I prefer to have you make it, and not these men."
"I think that is wise," bowed M. Paul.
"In which room will you begin?"
"In this room."
"I give you my word there are no letters here, but, as you don't believe
me, why--do what you like."
"I would like to look in that desk," said the detective.
"Very well--look!"
Coquenil went to the desk and examined it carefully. There were two drawers
in a raised part at the back, there was a long, wide drawer in front, and
over this a space like a drawer under a large inlaid cover, hinged at the
back. He searched everywhere here, but found no sign of the expected
letters.
"I must have been mistaken," he muttered, and he continued his search in
other parts of the room, Pussy hovering about with changing expressions
that reminded M. Paul of children's faces when they play the game of "hot
or cold."
"Well," he said, with an air of disappointment, "I find nothing here.
Suppose we try another room."
"Certainly," she agreed, and her face brightened in such evident relief
that he turned to her suddenly and said almost regretfully, as a generous
adversary might speak to one whom he hopelessly outclasses: "Madam, I hear
you are fond of gambling. You should study the game of poker, which teaches
us to hide our feelings. Now then," he walked back quickly to the desk, "I
want you to open this secret drawer."
He spoke with a sudden sternness that quite disconcerted poor Pussy. She
stood before him frozen with fear, unable to lie any more, unable even to
speak. A big tear of weakness and humiliation gathered and rolled down her
cheek, and then, still silent, she took a hairpin from her hair, inserted
one leg of it into a tiny hole quite lost in the ornamental work at the
back of the desk, pushed against a hidden spring, and presto! a small
secret drawer shot forward. In this drawer lay a packet of letters tied
with a ribbon.
"Are these his letters?" he asked.
In utter misery she nodded but did not speak.
"Thanks," he said. "May I take them?"
She put forward her hands helplessly.
"I'm sorry, but, as I said before, a murder isn't a pleasant thing." And he
took the packet from the drawer.
Then, seeing herself beaten at every point, Pussy Wilmott gave way entirely
and wept angrily, bitterly, her face buried in the sofa pillows.
"I'm sorry," repeated M. Paul, and for the first time in the interview he
felt himself at a disadvantage.
"Why didn't I burn them, why didn't I burn them?" she mourned.
"You trusted to that drawer," he suggested.
"No, no, I knew the danger, but I couldn't give them up. They stood for the
best part of my life, the tenderest, the happiest. I've been a weak, wicked
woman!"
"Any secrets in these letters will be scrupulously respected," he assured
her, "unless they have a bearing on this crime. Is there anything you wish
to say before I go?"
"Are you going?" she said weakly. And then, turning to him with
tear-stained face, she asked for a moment to collect herself. "I want to
say this," she went on, "that I didn't tell you the truth about Kittredge
and Martinez. There _was_ trouble between them; he speaks about it in one
of his letters. It was about the little girl at Notre-Dame!"
"You mean Martinez was attentive to her?"
"Yes."
"Did she encourage him?"
"I don't know. She behaved very strangely--she seemed attracted to him and
afraid of him at the same time. Martinez told me what an extraordinary
effect he had on the girl. He said it was due to his magnetic power."
"And Kittredge objected to this?"
"Of course he did, and they had a quarrel. It's all in one of those
letters."
"Was it a serious quarrel? Did Kittredge make any threats?"
"I--I'm afraid he did--yes, I know he did. You'll see it in the letter."
"Do you remember what he said?"
"Why--er--yes."
"What was it?"
She hesitated a moment and then, as though weary of resisting, she replied:
"He told Martinez that if he didn't leave this girl alone he would break
his damned head for him."