TOUCHING A YELLOW TOOTH
It was a quarter past four, and still night, when Coquenil left the Hôtel
des Étrangers; he wore a soft black hat pulled down over his eyes, and a
shabby black coat turned up around his throat; and he carried the leather
bag taken from the automobile. The streets were silent and deserted, yet
the detective studied every doorway and corner with vigilant care, while a
hundred yards behind him, in exactly similar dress, came Papa Tignol,
peering into the shadows with sharpest watchfulness against human shadows
bent on harming M. Paul.
So they moved cautiously down the Boulevard St. Michel, then over the
bridge and along the river to Notre-Dame, whose massive towers stood out in
mysterious beauty against the faintly lighted eastern sky. Here the leader
paused for his companion.
"There's nothing," he said, as the latter joined him.
"Nothing."
"Good! Take the bag and wait for me, but keep out of sight."
"_Entendu_."
Coquenil walked across the square to the cathedral, moving slowly, thinking
over the events of the night. They had crossed the track of the assassin,
that was sure, but they had discovered nothing that could help in his
capture except the fact of the long little finger. The man had left
absolutely nothing in his room at the hotel (this they verified with the
help of false keys), and had never returned after the night of the crime,
although he had taken the room for a month, and paid the rent in advance.
He had made two visits to this room, one at about three in the afternoon of
the fatal day, when he spent an hour there, and entered Kittredge's room,
no doubt, for the boots and the pistol; the other visit he made the same
night when he tried to return the boots and was prevented from doing so.
How he must have cursed that little photographer!
As to the assassin's personal appearance, there was a startling difference
of opinion between the hotel doorkeeper and the _garçon_, both of whom saw
him and spoke to him. The one declared he had light hair and a beard, the
other that he had dark hair and no beard; the one thought he was a
Frenchman, the other was sure he was a foreigner. Evidently the man was
disguised either coming or going, so this testimony was practically
worthless.
Despite all this, Coquenil was pleased and confident as he rang the night
bell at the archbishop's house beside the cathedral, for he had one
precious clew, he had the indication of this extraordinarily long little
finger, and he did not believe that in all France there were two men with
hands like that. And he knew there was one such man, for Alice had seen
him. Where had she seen him? She said she had often noticed his long little
finger, so she must often have been close enough to him to observe such a
small peculiarity. But Alice went about very little, she had few friends,
and all of them must be known to the Bonnetons. It ought to be easy to get
from the sacristan this information which the girl herself might withhold.
Hence this nocturnal visit to Notre Dame--it was of the utmost importance
that Coquenil have an immediate talk with Papa Bonneton.
And presently, after a sleepy salutation from the archbishop's servant, and
a brief explanation, M. Paul was shown through a stone passageway that
connects the church with the house, and on pushing open a wide door covered
with red velvet, he found himself alone in Notre Dame, alone in utter
darkness save for a point of red light on the shadowy altar before the
Blessed Sacrament.
As he stood uncertain which way to turn, the detective heard a step and a
low growl, and peering among the arches of the choir he saw a lantern
advancing, then a figure holding the lantern, then another crouching figure
moving before the lantern. Then he recognized Caesar.
"Phee-et, phee-et!" he whistled softly, and with a start and a glad rush,
the dog came bounding to his master, while the sacristan stared in alarm.
"Good old Caesar! There, there!" murmured Coquenil, fondling the eager
head. "It's all right, Bonneton," and coming forward, he held out his hand
as the guardian lifted his lantern in suspicious scrutiny.
"M. Paul, upon my soul!" exclaimed the sacristan. "What are you doing here
at this hour?"
"It's a little--er--personal matter," coughed Coquenil discreetly, "partly
about Caesar. Can we sit down somewhere?"
Still wondering, Bonneton led the way to a small room adjoining the
treasure chamber, where a dim lamp was burning; here he and his associates
got alternate snatches of sleep during the night.
"Hey, François!" He shook a sleeping figure on a cot bed, and the latter
roused himself and sat up. "It's time to make the round."
François looked stupidly at Coquenil and then, with a yawn and a shrug of
indifference, he called to the dog, while Caesar growled his reluctance.
"It's all right, old fellow," encouraged Coquenil, "I'll see you again,"
whereupon Caesar trotted away reassured.
"Take this chair," said the sacristan. "I'll sit on the bed. We don't have
many visitors."
"Now, then," began M. Paul. "I'll come to the dog in a minute--don't worry.
I'm not going to take him away. But first I want to ask about that girl who
sells candles. She boards with you, doesn't she?"
"Yes."
"You know she's in love with this American who's in prison?"
"I know."
"She came to see me the other day."
"She did?"
"Yes, and the result of her visit was--well, it has made a lot of trouble.
What I'm going to say is absolutely between ourselves--you mustn't tell a
soul, least of all your wife."
"You can trust me, M. Paul," declared Papa Bonneton rubbing his hands in
excitement.
"To begin with, who is the man with the long little finger that she told me
about?" He put the questions carelessly, as if it were of no particular
moment.
"Why, that's Groener," answered Bonneton simply.
"Groener? Oh, her cousin?"
"Yes."
"I'm interested," went on the detective with the same indifferent air,
"because I have a collection of plaster hands at my house--I'll show it to
you some day--and there's one with a long little finger that the candle
girl noticed. Is her cousin's little finger really very long?"
"It's pretty long," said Bonneton. "I used to think it had been stretched
in some machine. You know he's a wood carver."
"I know. Well, that's neither here nor there. The point is, this girl had a
dream that--why, what's the matter?"
"Don't talk to me about her dreams!" exclaimed the sacristan. "She used to
have us scared to death with 'em. My wife won't let her tell 'em any more,
and it's a good thing she won't." For a mild man he spoke with surprising
vehemence.
"Bonneton," continued the detective mysteriously, "I don't know whether
it's from her dreams or in some other way, but that girl knows things
that--that she has no business to know."
Then, briefly and impressively, Coquenil told of the extraordinary
revelations that Alice had made, not only to him, but to the director of
the Santé prison.
"_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!_" muttered the old man. "I think she's possessed of
the devil."
"She's possessed of dangerous knowledge, and I want to know where she got
it. I want to know all about this girl, who she is, where she came from,
everything. And that's where you can help me."
Bonneton shook his head. "We know very little about her, and, the queer
thing is, she seems to know very little about herself."
"Perhaps she knows more than she wants to tell."
"Perhaps, but--I don't think so. I believe she is perfectly honest. Anyhow,
her cousin is a stupid fellow. He comes on from Brussels every five or six
months and spends two nights with us--never more, never less. He eats his
meals, attends to his commissions for wood carving, takes Alice out once in
the afternoon or evening, gives my wife the money for her board, and
that's all. For five years it's been the same--you know as much about him
in one visit as you would in a hundred. There's nothing much to know; he's
just a stupid wood carver."
"You say he takes Alice out every time he comes? Is she fond of him?"
"Why--er--yes, I think so, but he upsets her. I've noticed she's nervous
just before his visits, and sort of sad after them. My wife says the girl
has her worst dreams then."
Coquenil took out a box of cigarettes. "You don't mind if I smoke?" And,
without waiting for permission, he lighted one of his Egyptians and inhaled
long breaths of the fragrant smoke. "Not a word, Bonneton! I want to
think." Then for full five minutes he sat silent.
"I have it!" he exclaimed presently. "Tell me about this man François."
"François?" answered the sacristan in surprise. "Why, he helps me with the
night work here."
"Where does he live?"
"In a room near here."
"Where does he eat?"
"He takes two meals with us."
"Ah! Do you think he would like to make a hundred francs by doing nothing?
Of course he would. And you would like to make five hundred?"
"Five hundred francs?" exclaimed Bonneton, with a frightened look.
"Don't be afraid," laughed the other. "I'm not planning to steal the
treasure. When do you expect this wood carver again?"
"It's odd you should ask that, for my wife only told me this morning she's
had a letter from him. We didn't expect him for six weeks yet, but it
seems he'll be here next Wednesday. Something must have happened."
"Next Wednesday," reflected Coquenil. "He always comes when he says he
will?"
"Always. He's as regular as clockwork."
"And he spends two nights with you?"
"Yes."
"That will be Wednesday night and Thursday night of next week?"
"Yes."
"Good! Now I'll show you how you're going to make this money. I want
François to have a little vacation; he looks tired. I want him to go into
the country on Tuesday and stay until Friday."
"And his work? Who will do his work?"
Coquenil smiled quietly and tapped his breast.
"You?"
"I will take François's place. I'll be the best assistant you ever had and
I shall enjoy Mother Bonneton's cooking."
"You will take your meals with us?" cried the sacristan aghast. "But they
all know you."
"None of them will know me; you won't know me yourself."
"Ah, I see," nodded the old man wisely. "You will have a disguise. But my
wife has sharp eyes."
"If she knows me, or if the candle girl knows me, I'll give you a thousand
francs instead of five hundred. Now, here is the money for François"--he
handed the sacristan a hundred-franc note--"and here are five hundred
francs for you. I shall come on Tuesday, ready for work. When do you want
me?"
"At six o'clock," answered the sacristan doubtfully. "But what shall I say
if anyone asks me about it?"
"Say François was sick, and you got your old friend Matthieu to replace him
for a few days. I'm Matthieu!"
Papa Bonneton touched the five crisp bank notes caressingly; their clean
blue and white attracted him irresistibly.
"You wouldn't get me into trouble, M. Paul?" he appealed weakly.
"Papa Bonneton," answered Coquenil earnestly, "have I ever shown you
anything but friendship? When old Max died and you asked me to lend you
Caesar I did it, didn't I? And you know what Caesar is to me. I _love_ that
dog, if anything happened to him--well, I don't like to think of it, but I
let you have him, didn't I? That proves my trust; now I want yours. I can't
explain my reasons; it isn't necessary, but I tell you that what I'm asking
cannot do you the least harm, and may do me the greatest good. There, it's
up to you."
M. Paul held out his hand frankly and the sacristan took it, with emotion.
"That settles it," he murmured. "I never doubted you, but--my wife has an
infernal tongue and----"
"She will never know anything about this," smiled the other, "and, if she
should, give her one or two of these bank notes. It's wonderful how they
change a woman's point of view. Besides, you can prepare her by talking
about François's bad health."
"A good idea!" brightened Bonneton.
"Then it's understood. Tuesday, at six, your friend Matthieu will be here
to replace François. Remember--Matthieu!"
"I'll remember."
The detective rose to go. "Good night--or, rather, good morning, for the
day is shining through that rose window. Pretty, isn't it? Ouf, I wonder
when I'll get the sleep I need!" He moved toward the door. "Oh, I forgot
about the dog. Tignol will come for him Tuesday morning with a line from
me. I shall want Caesar in the afternoon, but I'll bring him back at six."
"All right," nodded the sacristan; "he'll be ready. _Au revoir_--until
Tuesday."
M. Paul went through the side door and then through the high iron gateway
before the archbishop's house. He glanced at his watch and it was after
five. Across the square Papa Tignol was waiting.
"Things are marching along," smiled Coquenil some minutes later as they
rolled along toward the Eastern railway station. "You know what you have to
do. And I know what I have to do! _Bon Dieu!_ what a life! You'd better
have more money--here," and he handed the other some bank notes. "We meet
Tuesday at noon near the Auteuil station beneath the first arch of the
viaduct."
"Do you know what day Tuesday is?"
M. Paul thought a moment. "The fourteenth of July! Our national holiday!
And the crime was committed on the American Independence Day. Strange,
isn't it?"
"There will be a great crowd about."
"There's safety in a crowd. Besides, I've got to suit my time to _his_."
"Then you really expect to see--_him?_" questioned the old man.
"Yes," nodded the other briefly. "Remember this, don't join me on Tuesday
or speak to me or make any sign to me unless you are absolutely sure you
have not been followed. If you are in any doubt, put your message under
the dog's collar and let him find me. By the way, you'd better have Caesar
clipped. It's a pity, but--it's safer."
Now they were rattling up the Rue Lafayette in the full light of day.
"Ten minutes to six," remarked Tignol. "My train leaves at six forty."
"You'll have time to get breakfast. I'll leave you now. There's nothing
more to say. You have my letter--_for her_. You'll explain that it isn't
safe for me to write through the post office. And she mustn't try to write
me. I'll come to her as soon as I can. You have the money for her; say I
want her to buy a new dress, a nice one, and if there's anything else she
wants, why, she must have it. Understand?"
Tignol nodded.
Then, dropping the cab window, M. Paul told the driver to stop, and they
drew up before the terraced fountains of the Trinité church.
"Good-by and good luck," said Coquenil, clasping Tignol's hand, "and--don't
let her worry."
The cab rolled on, and M. Paul, bag in hand, strode down a side street; but
just at the corner he turned and looked after the hurrying vehicle, and his
eyes were full of sadness and yearning.
* * * * *
Tuesday, the fourteenth of July! The great French holiday! All Paris in the
streets, bands playing, soldiers marching, everybody happy or looking
happy! And from early morning all trains, 'buses, cabs, automobiles, in
short, all moving things in the gay city were rolling a jubilant multitude
toward the Bois de Boulogne, where the President of the Republique was to
review the troops before a million or so of his fellow-citizens. Coquenil
had certainly chosen the busiest end of Paris for his meeting with Papa
Tignol.
Their rendezvous was at noon, but two hours earlier Tignol took the train
at the St. Lazare station. And with him came Caesar, such a changed,
unrecognizable Caesar! Poor dog! His beautiful, glossy coat of brown and
white had been clipped to ridiculous shortness, and he crouched at the old
man's feet in evident humiliation.
"It was a shame, old fellow," said Tignol consolingly, "but we had to obey
orders, eh? Never mind, it will grow out again."
Leaving the train at Auteuil, they walked down the Rue La Fontaine to a
tavern near the Rue Mozart, where the old man left Caesar in charge of the
proprietor, a friend of his. It was now a quarter to eleven, and Tignol
spent the next hour riding back and forth on the circular railway between
Auteuil and various other stations; he did this because Coquenil had
charged him to be sure he was not followed; he felt reasonably certain that
he was not, but he wished to be absolutely certain.
So he rode back to the Avenue Henri Martin, where he crossed the platform
and boarded a returning train for the Champs de Mars, telling the guard he
had made a mistake. Two other passengers did the same, a young fellow and a
man of about fifty, with a rough gray beard. Tignol did not see the young
fellow again, but when he got off at the Champs de Mars, the gray-bearded
man got off also and followed across the bridge to the opposite platform,
where both took the train back to Auteuil.
This was suspicious, so at Auteuil Tignol left the station quickly, only to
return a few minutes later and buy another ticket for the Avenue Henri
Martin. There once more he crossed the platform and took a train for the
Champs de Mars, and this time he congratulated himself that no one had
followed him; but when he got off, as before, at the Champs de Mars and
crossed the bridge, he saw the same gray-bearded man crossing behind him.
There was no doubt of it, he was being shadowed.
And now Tignol waited until the train back to Auteuil was about starting,
then he deliberately got into a compartment where the gray-bearded man was
seated alone. And, taking out pencil and paper, he proceeded to write a
note for Coquenil. Their meeting was now impossible, so he must fasten this
explanation, along with his full report, under Caesar's collar and let the
dog be messenger, as had been arranged.
"I am sending this by Caesar," he wrote, "because I am watched. The man
following me is a bad-looking brute with dirty gray beard and no mustache.
He has a nervous trick of half shutting his eyes and jerking up the corners
of his mouth, which shows the worst set of ugly yellow teeth I ever saw.
I'd like to have one of them for a curiosity."
"Would you?" said the man suddenly, as if answering a question.
Tignol stared at him.
"Excuse me," explained the other, "but I read handwriting upside down."
"Oh!"
"You say you would like one of my teeth?"
"Don't trouble," smiled Tignol.
"It's no trouble," declared the stranger. "On the contrary!" and seizing
one of his yellow fangs between thumb and first finger he gave a quick
wrench. "There!" he said with a hideous grin, and he handed Tignol the
tooth.
They were just coming into the Auteuil station as this extraordinary
maneuver was accomplished.
"I'll be damned!" exclaimed Tignol.
[Illustration: "'There!' he said with a hideous grin, and he handed Tignol
the tooth."]
"Is it really as good as that?" asked the stranger, in a tone that made the
old man jump.
Tignol leaned closer, and then in a burst of admiration he cried: "_Nom de
dieu! It's Coquenil!_"