THE MEMORY OF A DOG
"It's a composition of rubber," laughed Coquenil. "You slip it on over your
own tooth. See?" and he put back the yellow fang.
"Extraordinary!" muttered Tignol. "Even now I hardly know you."
"Then I ought to fool the wood carver."
"Fool him? You would fool your own mother. That reminds me--" He rose as
the train stopped.
"Yes, yes?" questioned M. Paul eagerly. "Tell me about my mother. Is she
well? Is she worried? Did you give her all my messages? Have you a letter
for me?"
Tignol smiled. "There's a devoted son! But the old lady wouldn't like you
with those teeth. Eh, eh! Shades of Vidocq, what a make-up! We'd better get
out! I'll tell you about my visit as we walk along."
"Where are you going?" asked the detective, as the old man led the way
toward the Rue La Fontaine.
"Going to get the dog," answered Tignol.
"No, no," objected M. Paul. "I wouldn't have Caesar see me like this. I
have a room on the Rue Poussin; I'll go back there first and take off some
of this."
"As you please," said Tignol, and he proceeded to give Coquenil the latest
news of his mother, all good news, and a long letter from the old lady,
full of love and wise counsels and prayers for her boy's safety.
"There's a woman for you!" murmured M. Paul, and the tenderness of his
voice contrasted oddly with the ugliness of his disguise.
"Suppose I get the dog while you are changing?" suggested Tignol. "You know
he's been clipped?"
"Poor Caesar! Yes, get him. My room is across the street. Walk back and
forth along here until I come down."
Half an hour later Coquenil reappeared almost his ordinary self, except
that he wore neither mustache nor eyeglasses, and, instead of his usual
neat dress he had put on the shabby black coat and the battered soft hat
that he had worn in leaving the Hôtel des Étrangers.
"Ah, Caesar! Old fellow!" he cried fondly as the dog rushed to meet him
with barks of joy. "It's good to have a friend like that! Where is the man
who cares so much? Or the woman either--except one?"
"There's one woman who seems to care a lot about this dog," remarked
Tignol. "I mean the candle girl. Such a fuss as she made when I went to get
him!"
M. Paul listened in surprise. "What did she do?"
"Do? She cried and carried on in a great way. She said something was going
to happen to Caesar; she didn't want me to take him."
"Strange!" muttered the other.
"I told her I was only taking him to you, and that you would bring him back
to-night. When she had heard that she caught my two hands in hers and said
I must tell you she wanted to see you very much. There's something on her
mind or--or she's afraid of something."
Coquenil frowned and twisted his seal ring, then he changed it deliberately
from the left hand to the right, as if with some intention.
"We'll never get to the bottom of this case," he muttered, "until we know
the truth about that girl. Papa Tignol, I want you to go right back to
Notre-Dame and keep an eye on her. If she is afraid of something, there's
something to be afraid of, _for she knows_. Don't talk to her; just hang
about the church until I come. Remember, we spend the night there."
"_Sapristi_, a night in a church!"
"It won't hurt you for once," smiled M. Paul. "There's a bed to sleep on,
and a lot to talk about. You know we begin the great campaign to-morrow."
Tignol rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "The sooner the better." Then
yielding to his growing curiosity: "Have you found out much?"
Coquenil's eyes twinkled. "You're dying to know what I've been doing these
last five days, eh?"
"Nothing of the sort," said the old man testily. "If you want to leave me
in the dark, all right, only if I'm to help in the work----"
"Of course, of course," broke in the other good-naturedly. "I was going to
tell you to-night, but Bonneton will be with us, so--come, we'll stroll
through the _bois_ as far as Passy, and I'll give you the main points. Then
you can take a cab."
Papa Tignol was enormously pleased at this mark of confidence, but he
merely gave one of his jerky little nods and walked along solemnly beside
his brilliant associate. In his loyalty for M. Paul this tough old veteran
would have allowed himself to be cut into small pieces, but he would have
spluttered and grumbled throughout the operation.
"Let's see," began Coquenil, as they entered the beautiful park, "I have
five days to account for. Well, I spent two days in Paris and three in
Brussels."
"Where the wood carver lives?"
"Exactly. I got his address from Papa Bonneton. I thought I'd look the man
over in his home when he was not expecting me. And before I started I put
in two days studying wood carving, watching the work and questioning the
workmen until I knew more about it than an expert. I made up my mind that,
when I saw this man with the long little finger, I must be able to decide
whether he was a genuine wood carver--or--or something else."
"I see," admired Tignol. "Well?"
"As it turned out, I didn't find him, I haven't seen him yet. He was away
on a trip when I got to Brussels, away on this trip that will bring him to
Paris to-morrow, so I missed him and--it's just as well I did!"
"You got facts about him?"
"Yes, I got facts about him; not the kind of facts I expected to get,
either. I saw the place where he boards, this Adolph Groener. In fact, I
stopped there, and I talked to the woman who runs it, a sharp-eyed young
widow with a smooth tongue; and I saw the place where he works; it's a
wood-carving shop, all right, and I talked to the men there--two big strong
fellows with jolly red faces, and--well--" he hesitated.
"Well?"
The detective crossed his arms and faced the old man with a grim, searching
look.
"Papa Tignol," he said impressively, "they all tell a simple, straight
story. His name _is_ Adolf Groener, he _does_ live in Brussels, he makes
his living at wood carving, and the widow who runs the confounded boarding
house knows all about this girl Alice."
Tignol rubbed his nose reflectively. "It was a long shot, anyway."
"What would _you_ have done?" questioned the other sharply.
"Why," answered Tignol slowly, while his shrewd eyes twinkled, "I--I'd have
cussed a little and--had a couple of drinks and--come back to Paris."
Coquenil sat silent frowning. "I wasn't much better. After that first day I
was ready to drop the thing, I admit it, only I went for a walk that
night--and there's a lot in walking. I wandered for hours through that nice
little town of Brussels, in the crowd and then alone, and the more I
thought the more I came back to the same idea, _he can't be a wood
carver!_"
"You couldn't prove it, but you knew it," chuckled the old man.
Coquenil nodded. "So I kept on through the second day. I saw more people
and asked more questions, then I saw the same people again and tried to
trip them up, but I didn't get ahead an inch. Groener was a wood carver,
and he stayed a wood carver."
"It began to look bad, eh?"
Coquenil stopped short and said earnestly: "Papa Tignol, when this case is
over and forgotten, when this man has gone where he belongs, and I know
where that is"--he brought his hand down sideways swiftly--"I shall have
the lesson of this Brussels search cut on a block of stone and set in my
study wall. Oh, I've learned the lesson before, but this drives it home,
that _the most important knowledge a detective can have is the knowledge he
gets inside himself!_"
Tignol had never seen M. Paul more deeply stirred. "_Sacré matin!_" he
exclaimed. "Then you did find something?"
"Ah, but I deserve no credit for it, I ought to have failed. I weakened; I
had my bag packed and was actually starting for Paris, convinced that
Groener had nothing to do with the case. Think of that!"
"Yes, but you _didn't_ start."
"It was a piece of stupid luck that saved me when I ought to have known,
when I ought to have been sure. And, mark you, if I had come back believing
in Groener's innocence, this crime would never have been cleared up,
never."
Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "La, la, la! What a man! If you had fallen
into a hole you might have broken your leg! Well, you didn't fall into the
hole!"
Coquenil smiled. "You're right, I ought to be pleased, I am pleased. After
all, it was a neat bit of work. You see, I was waiting in the parlor of
this boarding house for the widow to bring me my bill--I had spent two days
there--and I happened to glance at a photograph she had shown me when I
first came, a picture of Alice and herself, taken five years ago, when
Alice was twelve years old. There was no doubt about the girl, and it was a
good likeness of the widow. She told me she was a great friend of Alice's
mother, and the picture was taken when the mother died, just before Alice
went to Paris.
"Well, as I looked at the picture now, I noticed that it had no
photographer's name on it, which is unusual, and it seemed to me there was
something queer about the girl's hand; I went to the window and was
studying the picture with my magnifying glass when I heard the woman's step
outside, so I slipped it into my pocket. Then I paid my bill and came
away."
"You _needed_ that picture," approved Tignol.
"As soon as I was outside I jumped into a cab and drove to the principal
photographers in Brussels. There were three of them, and at each place I
showed this picture and asked how much it would cost to copy it, and as I
asked the question I watched the man's face. The first two were perfectly
businesslike, but the third man gave a little start and looked at me in an
odd way. I made up my mind he had seen the picture before, but I didn't get
anything out of him--then. In fact, I didn't try very hard, for I had my
plan.
"From here I drove straight to police headquarters and had a talk with the
chief. He knew me by reputation, and a note that I brought from Pougeot
helped, and--well, an hour later that photographer was ready to tell me the
innermost secrets of his soul."
"Eh, eh, eh!" laughed Tignol. "And what did he tell you?"
"He told me he made this picture of Alice and the widow _only six weeks
ago_."
"Six weeks ago!" stared the other. "But the widow told you it was taken
five years ago."
"Exactly!"
"Besides, Alice wasn't in Brussels six weeks ago, was she?"
"Of course not; the picture was a fake, made from a genuine one of Alice
and a lady, perhaps her mother. This photographer had blotted out the lady
and printed in the widow without changing the pose. It's a simple trick in
photography."
"You saw the genuine picture?"
"Of course--that is, I saw a reproduction of it which the photographer made
on his own account. He suspected some crooked work, and he didn't like the
man who gave him the order."
"You mean the wood carver?"
Coquenil shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a wood carver, call him what you
like. He didn't go to the photographer in his wood-carver disguise, he
went as a gentleman in a great hurry, and willing to pay any price for the
work."
Tignol twisted the long ends of his black mustache reflectively. "He was
covering his tracks in advance?"
"Evidently."
"And the smooth young widow lied?"
"Lied?" snapped the detective savagely. "I should say she did. She lied
about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It
was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured
picture."
"Then," cried Tignol excitedly, "then Groener is _not_ a wood carver?"
"He may be a wood carver, but he's a great deal more, he--he--" Coquenil
hesitated, and then, with eyes blazing and nostrils dilating, he burst out:
"If I know anything about my business, he's the man who gave me that
left-handed jolt under the heart, he's the man who choked your shrimp
photographer, he's the man who killed Martinez!"
"Name of a green dog!" muttered Tignol. "Is that true, or--or do you only
_know_ it?"
"It's true _because_ I know it," answered Coquenil. "See here, I'll bet you
a good dinner against a box of those vile cigarettes you smoke that this
man who calls himself Alice's cousin has the marks of my teeth on the calf
of one of his legs--I forget which leg it is."
"Taken!" said Tignol, and then, with sudden gravity: "But if this is true,
things are getting serious, eh?"
"They've been serious."
"I mean the chase is nearly over?"
M. Paul answered slowly, as if weighing his words: "This man is desperate
and full of resources, I know that, but, with the precautions I have
taken, I don't see how he can escape--if he goes to Bonneton's house
to-morrow."
Tignol scratched his head in perplexity. "Why in thunder is he such a fool
as to go there?"
"I've wondered about that myself," mused Coquenil "Perhaps he won't go,
perhaps there is some extraordinary reason why he _must_ go."
"Some reason connected with the girl?" asked the other quickly.
"Yes."
"You say he _calls_ himself Alice's cousin. Isn't he really her cousin?"
Coquenil shook his head. "He isn't her cousin, and she isn't Alice."
"Wha-at?"
"Her name is Mary, and he is her stepfather."
The old man stared in bewilderment. "But--how the devil do you know that?"
Coquenil smiled. "I found an inscription on the back of that Brussels
photograph--I mean the genuine one--it was hidden under a hinged support,
and Groener must have overlooked it. That was his second great mistake."
"What was the inscription?" asked Tignol eagerly.
"It read: 'To my dear husband, Raoul, from his devoted wife Margaret and
her little Mary.' You notice it says _her_ little Mary. That one word
throws a flood of light on this case. The child was not _his_ little Mary."
"I see, I see," reflected the old man. "And Alice? Does she know that--that
she _isn't_ Alice?"
"No."
"Does she know that Groener is her stepfather, and not her cousin?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I _think_ I know why not, but, until I'm sure, I'd rather call it a
mystery. See here, we've talked too much, you must hurry back to her.
Better take an auto. And remember, Papa Tignol," he added in final warning,
"there is nothing so important as to guard this girl."
A few moments later, with Caesar bounding happily at his side, M. Paul
entered the quieter paths of the great park, and presently came to a
thickly wooded region that has almost the air of a natural forest. Here the
two romped delightedly together, and Coquenil put the dog through many of
his tricks, the fine creature fairly outdoing himself in eagerness and
intelligence.
"Now, old fellow," said M. Paul, "I'll sit down here and have a cigarette,"
and he settled himself on a rustic bench, while Caesar stretched out
comfortably at his feet. And so the one dozed as the other drifted far away
in smoke-laden reverie.
What days these had been, to be sure! How tired he was! He hadn't noticed
it before, but now that everything was ready, now that he had finished his
preparations--yes, he was very tired.
Everything was ready! It was good to know that. He had forgotten nothing.
And, if all went well, he would soon be able to answer these questions that
were fretting him. Who was Groener? Why had he killed Martinez? How had he
profited by the death of this unfortunate billiard player? And why did he
hate Kittredge? Was it because the American loved Alice? And who was Alice,
this girl whose dreams and fears changed the lives of serious men? From
whichever side he studied the crime he always came back to her--Kittredge
loved her, Martinez knew her, he himself had started on the case on her
account. _Who was Alice?_
During these reflections Coquenil had been vaguely aware of gay sounds from
the neighboring woods, and now a sudden burst of laughter brought him back
to the consciousness of things about him.
"We're too serious, my boy," he said with an effort at lightness; "this is
a bit of an outing, and we must enjoy it. Come, we'll move on!"
With the dog at his heels M. Paul turned his steps toward a beautiful cool
glade, carpeted in gold and green as the sunbeams sprinkled down through
the trees upon the spreading moss. Here he came into plain view of a
company of ladies and gentlemen, who, having witnessed the review, had
chosen this delightful spot for luncheon. They were evidently rich and
fashionable people, for they had come as a coaching party on a very smart
break, with four beautiful horses, and some in a flashing red-and-black
automobile that was now drawn up beside the larger vehicle.
With an idle eye M. Paul observed the details of the luncheon, red-coated
servants emptying bounteous hampers and passing tempting food from group to
group, others opening bottles of champagne, with popping corks, and filling
bubbling glasses, while the men of the party passed back and forth from
break to automobile with jests and gay words, or strolled under the trees
enjoying post-prandial cigars.
Altogether it was a pleasing picture, and Coquenil's interest was
heightened when he overheard a passing couple say that these were the
guests of no less a person than the Duke of Montreuil, whose lavish
entertainments were the talk of Paris. There he was, on the break, this
favorite of fortune! What a brilliant figure of a man! Famous as a
sportsman, enormously rich, popular in society, at the head of vast
industrial enterprises, and known to have almost controlling power in
affairs of state!
"Never mind, old sport, it takes all kinds of people to make up the world.
Now then, jump!"
So they went on, playing together, master and dog, and were passing around
through the woods on the far side of the coaching party, when, suddenly,
Caesar ceased his romping and began to nose the ground excitedly. Then,
running to his master, he stood with eager eyes, as if urging some pursuit.
The detective observed the dog in surprise. Was this some foolish whim to
follow a squirrel or a rabbit? It wasn't like Caesar.
"Come, come," he reasoned with friendly chiding, "don't be a baby."
Caesar growled in vigorous protest, and darting away, began circling the
ground before him, back and forth, in widening curves, as Coquenil had
taught him.
"Have you found something--sure?"
The animal barked joyously.
M. Paul was puzzled. Evidently there was a scent here, but what scent? He
had made no experiments with Caesar since the night of the crime, when the
dog had taken the scent of the pistol and found the alleyway footprints.
But that was ten days ago; the dog could not still be on that same scent.
Impossible! Yet he was on _some_ scent, and very eagerly. Coquenil had
never seen him more impatient for permission to be off. Could a dog
remember a scent for ten days?
"After all, what harm can it do?" reflected the detective, becoming
interested in his turn. Then, deciding quickly, he gave the word,
"_Cherche!_" and instantly the dog was away.
"He means business," muttered M. Paul, hurrying after him.
On through the woods went Caesar, nose down, tail rigid, following the
scent, moving carefully among the trees, and once or twice losing the
trail, but quickly finding it again, and, presently, as he reached more
open ground, running ahead swiftly, straight toward the coaching party.
In a flash Coquenil realized the danger and called loudly to the dog, but
the distance was too great, and his voice was drowned by the cries of
ladies on the break, who, seeing the bounding animal, screamed their
fright. And no wonder, for this powerful, close-clipped creature, in his
sudden rush looked like some formidable beast of prey; even the men started
up in alarm.
"Caesar!" shouted M. Paul, but it was too late. The dog was flying full at
the break, eyes fixed, body tense; now he was gathering strength to
spring, and now, with a splendid effort, he was actually hurling himself
through the air, when among the confused figures on the coach a man leaned
forward suddenly, and something flashed in his hand. There was a feather
of smoke, a sharp report, and then, with a stab of pain, Coquenil saw
Caesar fall back to the ground and lie still.
"My dog, my dog!" he cried, and coming up to the stricken creature, he
knelt beside him with ashen face.
One glance showed there was nothing to be done, the bullet had crashed into
the broad breast in front of the left shoulder and--it was all over with
Caesar.
"My friend, my dear old friend!" murmured M. Paul in broken tones, and he
took the poor head in his arms. At the master's voice Caesar opened his
beautiful eyes weakly, in a last pitiful appeal, then the lids closed.
"You cowards!" flung out the heartsick man. "You have killed my dog!"
"It was your own fault," said one of the gentlemen coldly, "you had no
business to leave a dangerous animal like that at liberty."
[Illustration: "'My dog, my dog!'"]
M. Paul did not speak or move; he was thinking bitterly of Alice's
presentiment.
Then some one on the break said: "We had better move along, hadn't we,
Raoul?"
"Yes," agreed another. "What a beastly bore!"
And a few moments later, with clanking harness and sounding horn, the gay
party rolled away.
Coquenil sat silent by his dog.