THE WOOD CARVER
A detective, like an actor or a soldier, must go on fighting and playing
his part, regardless of personal feelings. Sorrow brings him no reprieve
from duty, so the next morning after the last sad offices for poor Caesar,
Coquenil faced the emergency before him with steady nerve and calm
resolution. There was an assassin to be brought to justice and the time for
action had come. This was, perhaps, the most momentous day of his whole
career.
Up to the very hour of luncheon M. Paul doubted whether the wood carver
would keep his appointment at the Bonnetons'. Why should he take such a
risk? Why walk deliberately into a trap that he must suspect? It was true,
Coquenil remembered with chagrin, that this man, if he really was the man,
had once before walked into a trap (there on the Champs Elysées) and had
then walked calmly out again; but this time the detective promised himself
things should happen differently. His precautions were taken, and if
Groener came within his clutches to-day, he would have a lively time
getting out of them. There was a score to be settled between them, a heavy
score, and--let the wood carver beware!
The wood carver kept his appointment. More than that, he seemed in
excellent spirits, and as he sat down to Mother Bonneton's modest luncheon
he nodded good-naturedly to Matthieu, the substitute watchman, whom the
sacristan introduced, not too awkwardly, then he fell to eating with a
hearty appetite and without any sign of embarrassment or suspicion.
"It's a strong game he's playing," reflected the detective, "but he's going
to lose."
The wood carver appeared to be a man approaching forty, of medium height
and stocky build, the embodiment of good health and good humor. His round,
florid face was free from lines, his gray eyes were clear and friendly. He
had thick, brown hair, a short, yellowish mustache, and a close-cut,
brownish beard. He was dressed like a superior workingman, in a flannel
shirt, a rough, blue suit, oil-stained and dust-sprinkled, and he wore
thick-soled boots. His hands were strong and red and not too clean, with
several broken nails and calloused places. In a word, he looked the wood
carver, every inch of him, and the detective was forced to admit that, if
this was a disguise, it was the most admirable one he had ever seen. If
this beard and hair and mustache were false, then his own make-up, the best
he had ever created, was a poor thing in comparison.
During the meal Groener talked freely, speaking with a slight Belgian
accent, but fluently enough. He seemed to have a naïve spirit of drollery,
and he related quite amusingly an experience of his railway journey.
"You see," he laughed, showing strong white teeth, "there were two American
girls in one compartment and a newly married couple in the next one, with a
little glass window between. Well, the young bridegroom wanted to kiss his
bride, naturally, ha, ha! It was a good chance, for they were alone, but he
was afraid some one might look through the little window and see him, so he
kept looking through it himself to make sure it was all right. Well, the
American girls got scared seeing a man's face peeking at them like that,
so one of them caught hold of a cord just above the window and pulled it
down. She thought it was a curtain cord; she wanted to cover the window so
the man couldn't see through. Do I make myself comprehensible, M.
Matthieu?" He looked straight at Coquenil.
"Perfectly," smiled the latter.
"Well, it wasn't a curtain cord," continued the wood carver with great
relish of the joke, "it was the emergency signal, which, by the
regulations, must only be used in great danger, so the first thing we knew
the train drew up with a terrible jerk, and there was a great shouting and
opening of doors and rushing about of officials. And finally, ha, ha! they
discovered that the Brussels express had been stopped, ha, ha, ha! because
a bashful young fellow wanted to kiss his girl."
M. Paul marveled at the man's self-possession. Not a tone or a glance or a
muscle betrayed him, he was perfectly at ease, buoyantly satisfied, one
would say, with himself and all the world--in short, he suggested nothing
so little as a close-tracked assassin.
In vain Coquenil tried to decide whether Groener was really unconscious of
impending danger. Was he deceived by this Matthieu disguise? Or was it
possible, _could_ it be possible, that he was what he appeared to be, a
simple-minded wood carver free from any wickedness or duplicity? No, no, it
was marvelous acting, an extraordinary make-up, but this was his man, all
right. There was the long little finger, plainly visible, the identical
finger of his seventeenth-century cast. Yes, this was the enemy, the
murderer, delivered into his hands through some unaccountable fortune, and
now to be watched like precious prey, and presently to be taken and
delivered over to justice. It seemed too good to be true, too easy, yet
there was the man before him, and despite his habit of caution and his
knowledge that this was no ordinary adversary, the detective thrilled as
over a victory already won.
The wood carver went on to express delight at being back in Paris, where
his work would keep him three or four days. Business was brisk, thank
Heaven, with an extraordinary demand for old sideboards with carved panels
of the Louis XV period, which they turned out by the dozen, ha, ha, ha! in
the Brussels shop. He described with gusto and with evident inside
knowledge how they got the worm holes in these panels by shooting fine shot
into them and the old appearance by burying them in the ground. Then he
told how they distributed the finished sideboards among farmhouses in
various parts of Belgium and Holland and France, where they were left to be
"discovered," ha, ha, ha! by rich collectors glad to pay big prices to the
simple-minded farmers, working on commission, who had inherited these
treasures from their ancestors.
Across the table Matthieu, with grinning yellow teeth, showed his
appreciation of this trick in art catering, and presently, when the coffee
was served, he made bold to ask M. Groener if there would be any chance for
a man like himself in a wood-carving shop. He was strong and willing
and--his present job at Notre-Dame was only for a few days. Papa Bonneton
nearly choked over his _demi tasse_ as he listened to this plea, but the
wood carver took it seriously.
"I'll help you with pleasure," he said; "I'll take you around with me to
several shops to-morrow."
"To-morrow, not to-day?" asked Matthieu, apparently disappointed.
"To-day," smiled Groener, "I enjoy myself. This afternoon I escort my
pretty cousin to hear some music. Did you know that, Alice?" He turned
gayly to the girl.
Since the meal began Alice had scarcely spoken, but had sat looking down at
her plate save at certain moments when she would lift her eyes suddenly and
fix them on Groener with a strange, half-frightened expression.
"You are very kind, Cousin Adolf," she answered timidly, "but--I'm not
feeling well to-day."
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a tone of concern that had just a
touch of hardness in it.
The girl hesitated, and Mother Bonneton put in harshly: "I'll tell you,
she's fretting about that American who was sent to prison--a good riddance
it was."
"You have no right to say that," flashed Alice.
"I have a right to tell your cousin about this foolishness. I've tried my
best to look after you and be a mother to you, but when a girl won't listen
to reason, when she goes to a _prison_ to see a worthless lover----"
"Stop!" cried Alice, her beautiful eyes filling with tears.
"No, no, I'll tell it all. When a girl slips away from her work at the
church and goes to see a man like Paul Coquenil----"
"Paul Coquenil?" repeated the wood carver blankly.
"Have you never heard of Paul Coquenil?" smiled Matthieu, kicking Papa
Bonneton warningly under the table.
Groener looked straight at the detective and answered with perfect
simplicity: "No wonder you smile, M. Matthieu, but think how far away from
Paris I live! Besides, I want this to be a happy day. Come, little cousin,
you shall tell me all about it when we are out together. Run along now and
put on your nice dress and hat. We'll start in about half an hour."
Alice rose from the table, deathly white. She tried to speak, but the words
failed her; it seemed to Coquenil that her eyes met his in desperate
appeal, and then, with a glance at Groener, half of submission, half of
defiance, she turned and left the room.
"Now Madam Bonneton," resumed Groener cheerfully, "while the young lady
gets into her finery we might have a little talk. There are a few
matters--er--" He looked apologetically at the others. "You and I will meet
to-morrow, M. Matthieu; I'll see what I can do for you."
"Thanks," said Matthieu, rising in response to this hint for his departure.
He bowed politely, and followed by the sacristan, went out.
"Don't speak until we get downstairs," whispered Coquenil, and they
descended the four flights in silence.
"Now, Bonneton," ordered the detective sharply, when they were in the lower
hallway, "don't ask questions, just do what I say. I want you to go right
across to Notre-Dame, and when you get to the door take your hat off and
stand there for a minute or so fanning yourself. Understand?"
The simple-minded sacristan was in a daze with all this mystery, but he
repeated the words resignedly: "I'm to stand at the church door and fan
myself with my hat. Is that it?"
"That's it. Then Tignol, who's watching in one of these doorways, the sly
old fox, will come across and join you. Tell him to be ready to move any
minute now. He'd better loaf around the corner of the church until he gets
a signal from me. I'll wait here. Now go on."
"But let me say--" began the other in mild protest. "No, no," broke in M.
Paul impatiently, "there's no time. Listen! Some one is coming down. Go,
go!"
"I'm going, M. Paul, I'm going," obeyed Bonneton, and he hurried across the
few yards of pavement that separated them from the cathedral.
Meantime, the step on the stairs came nearer. It was a light, quick step,
and, looking up, Coquenil saw Alice hurrying toward him, tense with some
eager purpose.
"Oh, M. Matthieu!" exclaimed the girl in apparent surprise. Then going
close to him she said in a low tone that quivered with emotion: "I came
after you, I must speak to you, I--I know who you are."
He looked at her sharply.
"You are M. Coquenil," she whispered.
"You saw it?" he asked uneasily.
She shook her head. "I _knew_ it."
"Ah!" with relief. "Does _he_ know?"
The girl's hands closed convulsively while the pupils of her eyes widened
and then grew small. "I'm afraid so," she murmured, and then added these
singular words: "_He knows everything_."
M. Paul laid a soothing hand on her arm and said kindly: "Are you afraid of
him?"
"Ye-es." Her voice was almost inaudible.
"Is he planning something?"
For a moment Alice hesitated, biting her red lips, then with a quick
impulse, she lifted her dark eyes to Coquenil. "I _must_ tell you, I have
no one else to tell, and I am so distressed, so--so afraid." She caught his
hands pleadingly in hers, and he felt that they were icy cold.
"I'll protect you, that's what I'm here for," he assured her, "but go on,
speak quickly. What is he planning?"
"He's planning to take me away, away from Paris, I'm sure he is. I
overheard him just now telling Mother Bonneton to pack my trunk. He says he
will spend three or four days in Paris, but that may not be true, he may go
at once to-night. You can't believe him or trust him, and, if he takes me
away, I--I may never come back."
"He won't take you away," said M. Paul reassuring, "that is, he won't
if--See here, you trust me?"
"Oh, yes."
"You'll do exactly what I tell you, _exactly_, without asking how or why?"
"I will," she declared.
"You're a plucky little girl," he said as he met her unflinching look. "Let
me think a moment," and he turned back and forth in the hall, brows
contracted, hands deep in his pockets. "I have it!" he exclaimed presently,
his face brightening. "Now listen," and speaking slowly and distinctly, the
detective gave Alice precise instructions, then he went over them again,
point by point.
"Are you sure you understand?" he asked finally.
"Yes, I understand and I will do what you tell me," she answered firmly,
"but----"
"Well?"
"It will bring trouble on you. If anyone stands in his way--" She shivered
in alarm.
Coquenil smiled confidently. "Don't worry about me."
She shook her head anxiously. "You don't know, you can't understand what
a"--she stopped as if searching for a word--"what a _wicked_ man he is."
"I understand--a little," answered Coquenil gravely; "you can tell me more
when we have time; we mustn't talk now, _we must act_."
"Yes, of course," agreed Alice, "I will obey orders; you can depend on me
and"--she held out her slim hand in a grateful movement--"thank you."
For a moment he pressed the trembling fingers in a reassuring clasp, then
he watched her wonderingly, as, with a brave little smile, she turned and
went back up the stairs.
"She has the air of a princess, that girl," he mused, "Who is she? What is
she? I ought to know in a few hours now," and moving to the wide space of
the open door, the detective glanced carelessly over the Place Notre-Dame.
It was about two o'clock, and under a dazzling sun the trees and buildings
of the square were outlined on the asphalt in sharp black shadows. A 'bus
lumbered sleepily over the bridge with three straining horses. A big
yellow-and-black automobile throbbed quietly before the hospital. Some
tourists passed, mopping red faces. A beggar crouched in the shade near the
entrance to the cathedral, intoning his woes. Coquenil took out his watch
and proceeded to wind it slowly. At which the beggar dragged himself lazily
out of his cool corner and limped across the street.
"A little charity, kind gentleman," he whined as he came nearer.
"In here, Papa Tignol," beckoned Coquenil; "there's something new. It's all
right, I've fixed the doorkeeper."
And a moment later the two associates were talking earnestly near the
doorkeeper's lodge.
Meantime, Alice, with new life in her heart, was putting on her best dress
and hat as Groener had bidden her, and presently she joined her cousin in
the salon where he sat smoking a cheap cigar and finishing his talk with
Mother Bonneton.
"Ah," he said, "are you ready?" And looking at her more closely, he added:
"Poor child, you've been crying. Wait!" and he motioned Mother Bonneton to
leave them.
"Now," he began kindly, when the woman had gone, "sit down here and tell me
what has made my little cousin unhappy."
He spoke in a pleasant, sympathetic tone, and the girl approached him as if
trying to overcome an instinctive shrinking, but she did not take the
offered chair, she simply stood beside it.
"It's only a little thing," she answered with an effort, "but I was afraid
you might be displeased. What time is it?"
He looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes to three."
"Would you mind very much if we didn't start until five or ten minutes past
three?"
"Why--er--what's the matter?"
Alice hesitated, then with pleading eyes: "I've been troubled about
different things lately, so I spoke to Father Anselm yesterday and he said
I might come to him to-day at a quarter to three."
"You mean for confession?"
"Yes."
"I see. How long does it take?"
"Fifteen or twenty minutes."
"Will it make you feel happier?"
"Oh, yes, much happier."
"All right," he nodded, "I'll wait."
"Thank you, Cousin Adolf," she said eagerly. "I'll hurry right back; I'll
be here by ten minutes past three."
He eyed her keenly. "You needn't trouble to come back, I'll go to the
church with you."
"And wait there?" she asked with a shade of disappointment.
"Yes," he answered briefly.
There was nothing more to say, and a few minutes later Alice, anxious-eyed
but altogether lovely in flower-spread hat and a fleecy pink gown, entered
Notre-Dame followed by the wood carver.
"Will you wait here, cousin, by my little table?" she asked sweetly.
"You seem anxious to get rid of me," he smiled.
"No, no," she protested, but her cheeks flushed; "I only thought this chair
would be more comfortable."
"Any chair will do for me," he said dryly. "Where is your confessional?"
"On the other side," and she led the way down the right aisle, past various
recessed chapels, past various confessional boxes, each bearing the name of
the priest who officiated there. And presently as they came to a
confessional box in the space near the sacristy Alice pointed to the name,
"Father Anselm."
"There," she said.
"Is the priest inside?"
"Yes." And then, with a new idea: "Cousin Adolf," she whispered, "if you go
along there back of the choir and down a little stairway, you will come to
the treasure room. It might interest you."
He looked at her in frank amusement. "I'm interested already. I'll get
along very nicely here. Now go ahead and get through with it."
The girl glanced about her with a helpless gesture, and then, sighing
resignedly, she entered the confessional. Groener seated himself on one of
the little chairs and leaned back with a satisfied chuckle. He was so near
the confessional that he could hear a faint murmur of voices--Alice's sweet
tones and then the priest's low questions.
Five minutes passed, ten minutes! Groener looked at his watch impatiently.
He heard footsteps on the stone of the choir, and, glancing up, saw
Matthieu polishing the carved stalls. Some ladies passed with a guide who
was showing them the church. Groener rose and paced back and forth
nervously. What a time the girl was taking! Then the door of the
confessional box opened and a black-robed priest came out and moved
solemnly away. _Enfin!_ It was over! And with a feeling of relief Groener
watched the priest as he disappeared in the passage leading to the
sacristy.
Still Alice lingered, saying a last prayer, no doubt. But the hour was
advancing. Groener looked at his watch again. Twenty minutes past three!
She had been in that box over half an hour. It was ridiculous,
unreasonable. Besides, the priest was gone; her confession was finished.
She must come out.
"Alice!" he called in a low tone, standing near the penitent's curtain.
There was no answer.
Then he knocked sharply on the woodwork: "Alice, what are you doing?"
Still no answer.
Groener's face darkened, and with sudden suspicion he drew aside the
curtain.
The confessional box was empty--_Alice was gone!_
[Illustration: "The confessional box was empty--_Alice was gone!_"]