GROENER AT BAY
Two hours later (it was nearly seven) Judge Hauteville sat in his office at
the Palais de Justice, hurrying through a meal that had been brought in
from a restaurant.
"There," he muttered, wiping his mouth, "that will keep me going for a few
hours," and he touched the bell.
"Is M. Coquenil back yet?" he asked when the clerk appeared.
"Yes, sir," replied the latter, "he's waiting."
"Good! I'll see him."
The clerk withdrew and presently ushered in the detective.
"Sit down," motioned the judge. "Coquenil, I've done a hard day's work and
I'm tired, but I'm going to examine this man of yours to-night."
"I'm glad of that," said M. Paul, "I think it's important."
"Important? Humph! The morning would do just as well--however, we'll let
that go. Remember, you have no standing in this case. The work has been
done by Tignol, the warrant was served by Tignol, and the witnesses have
been summoned by Tignol. Is that understood?"
"Of course."
"That is my official attitude," smiled Hauteville, unbending a little; "I
needn't add that, between ourselves, I appreciate what you have done, and
if this affair turns out as I hope it will, I shall do my best to have your
services properly recognized."
Coquenil bowed.
"Now then," continued the judge, "have you got the witnesses?"
"They are all here except Father Anselm. He has been called to the bedside
of a dying woman, but we have his signed statement that he had nothing to
do with the girl's escape."
"Of course not, we knew that, anyway. And the girl?"
"I went for her myself. She is outside."
"And the prisoner?"
"He's in another room under guard. I thought it best he shouldn't see the
witnesses."
"Quite right. He'd better not see them when he comes through the outer
office. You attend to that."
"_Bien!_"
"Is there anything else before I send for him? Oh, the things he wore? Did
you find them?"
The detective nodded. "We found that he has a room on the fifth floor, over
Madam Cecile's. He keeps it by the year. He made his change there, and we
found everything that he took off--the wig, the beard, and the rough
clothes."
The judge rubbed his hands. "Capital! Capital! It's a great coup. We may as
well begin. I want you to be present, Coquenil, at the examination."
"Ah, that's kind of you!" exclaimed M. Paul.
"Not kind at all, you'll be of great service. Get those witnesses out of
sight and then bring in the man."
A few moments later the prisoner entered, walking with hands manacled, at
the side of an imposing _garde de Paris_. He still wore his smart clothes,
and was as coldly self-possessed as at the moment of his arrest. He seemed
to regard both handcuffs and guard as petty details unworthy of his
attention, and he eyed the judge and Coquenil with almost patronizing
scrutiny.
"Sit there," said Hauteville, pointing to a chair, and the newcomer obeyed
indifferently.
The clerk settled himself at his desk and prepared to write.
"What is your name?" began the judge.
"I don't care to give my name," answered the other.
"Why not?"
"That's my affair."
"Is your name Adolf Groener?"
"No."
"Are you a wood carver?"
"No."
"Have you recently been disguised as a wood carver?"
"No."
He spoke the three negatives with a listless, rather bored air.
"Groener, you are lying and I'll prove it shortly. Tell me, first, if you
have money to employ a lawyer?"
"Possibly, but I wish no lawyer."
"That is not the question. You are under suspicion of having committed a
crime and----"
"What crime?" asked the prisoner sharply.
"Murder," said the judge; then impressively, after a pause: "We have reason
to think that you shot the billiard player, Martinez."
Both judge and detective watched the man closely as this name was spoken,
but neither saw the slightest sign of emotion.
"Martinez?" echoed the prisoner indifferently. "I never heard of him."
"Ah! You'll hear enough of him before you get through," nodded Hauteville
grimly. "The law requires that a prisoner have the advantage of counsel
during examination. So I ask if you will provide a lawyer?"
"No," answered the accused.
"Then the court will assign a lawyer for your defense. Ask Maître Curé to
come in," he directed the clerk.
"It's quite useless," shrugged the prisoner with careless arrogance, "I
will have nothing to do with Maître Curé."
"I warn you, Groener, in your own interest, to drop this offensive tone."
"Ta, ta, ta! I'll take what tone I please. And I'll answer your questions
as I please or--or not at all."
At this moment the clerk returned followed by Maître Curé, a florid-faced,
brisk-moving, bushy-haired man in tight frock coat, who suggested an opera
_impresario_. He seemed amused when told that the prisoner rejected his
services, and established himself comfortably in a corner of the room as an
interested spectator.
Then the magistrate resumed sternly: "You were arrested, sir, this
afternoon in the company of a woman. Do you know who she is?"
"I do. She is a lady of my acquaintance."
"A lady whom you met at Madam Cecile's?"
"Why not?"
"You met her there by appointment?"
"Ye-es."
The judge snorted incredulously. "You don't even know her name?"
"You think not?"
"Well, what is it?"
"Why should I tell you? Is _she_ charged with murder?" was the sneering
answer.
"Groener," said Hauteville sternly, "you say this woman is a person of your
acquaintance. We'll see." He touched the bell, and as the door opened,
"Madam Cecile," he said.
A moment later, with a breath of perfume, there swept in a large,
overdressed woman of forty-five with bold, dark eyes and hair that was too
red to be real. She bowed to the judge with excessive affability and sat
down.
"You are Madam Cecile?"
"Yes, sir."
"You keep a _maison de rendez-vous_ on the Place de la Madeleine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Look at this man," he pointed to the prisoner. "Have you ever seen him
before?"
"I have seen him--once."
"When was that?"
"This afternoon. He called at my place and--" she hesitated.
"Tell me what happened--everything."
"He spoke to me and--he said he wanted a lady. I asked him what kind of a
lady he wanted, and he said he wanted a real lady, not a fake. I told him I
had a very pretty widow and he looked at her, but she wasn't _chic_ enough.
Then I told him I had something special, a young married woman, a beauty,
whose husband has plenty of money only----"
"Never mind that," cut in the judge. "What then?"
"He looked her over and said she would do. He offered her five hundred
francs if she would leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage.
It seemed queer but we see lots of queer things, and five hundred francs is
a nice sum. He paid it in advance, so I told her to go ahead and--she did."
"Do you think he knew the woman?"
"I'm sure he did not."
"He simply paid her five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"
"Exactly."
"That will do. You may go."
With a sigh of relief and a swish of her perfumed skirts, Madam Cecile left
the room.
"What do you say to that, Groener?" questioned the judge.
"She's a disreputable person and her testimony has no value," answered the
prisoner unconcernedly.
"Did you pay five hundred francs to the woman who left the house with you?"
"Certainly not."
"Do you still maintain that she is a lady whom you know personally?"
"I do."
Again Hauteville touched the bell. "The lady who was brought with this
man," he directed.
Outside there sounded a murmur of voices and presently a young woman,
handsomely dressed and closely veiled, was led in by a guard. She was
almost fainting with fright.
The judge rose courteously and pointed to a chair. "Sit down, madam. Try to
control yourself. I shall detain you only a minute. Now--what is your
name?"
The woman sat silent, wringing her hands in distress, then she burst out:
"It will disgrace me, it will ruin me."
"Not at all," assured Hauteville. "Your name will not go on the
records--you need not even speak it aloud. Simply whisper it to me."
Rising in agitation the lady went to the judge's desk and spoke to him
inaudibly.
"Really!" he exclaimed, eying her in surprise as she stood before him, face
down, the picture of shame.
"I have only two questions to ask," he proceeded. "Look at this man and
tell me if you know him," he pointed to the accused.
She shook her head and answered in a low tone: "I never saw him before this
afternoon."
"You met him at Madam Cecile's?"
"Ye-es," very faintly.
"And he paid you five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"
She nodded but did not speak.
"That was the only service you were to render, was it, for this sum of
money, simply to leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage?"
"That was all."
"Thank you, madam. I hope you will learn a lesson from this experience. You
may go."
Staggering, gasping for breath, clinging weakly to the guard's arm, the
lady left the room.
"Now, sir, what have you to say?" demanded the judge, facing the prisoner.
"Nothing."
"You admit that the lady told the truth?"
"Ha, ha!" the other laughed harshly. "A lady would naturally tell the truth
in such a predicament, wouldn't she?"
At this the judge leaned over to Coquenil and, after some low words, he
spoke to the clerk who bowed and went out.
"You denied a moment ago," resumed the questioner, "that your name is
Groener. Also that you were disguised this afternoon as a wood carver. Do
you deny that you have a room, rented by the year, in the house where Madam
Cecile has her apartment? Ah, that went home!" he exclaimed. "You thought
we would overlook the little fifth-floor room, eh?"
"I know nothing about such a room," declared the other.
"I suppose you didn't go there to change your clothes before you called at
Madam Cecile's?"
"Certainly not."
"Call Jules," said Hauteville to the sleepy guard standing at the door, and
straightway the clerk reappeared with a large leather bag.
"Open it," directed the magistrate. "Spread the things on the table. Let
the prisoner look at them. Now then, my stubborn friend, what about these
garments? What about this wig and false beard?"
Groener rose wearily from his chair, walked deliberately to the table and
glanced at the exposed objects without betraying the slightest interest or
confusion.
"I've never seen these things before, I know nothing about them," he said.
"Name of a camel!" muttered Coquenil. "He's got his nerve with him all
right!"
The judge sat silent, playing with his lead pencil, then he folded a sheet
of paper and proceeded to mark it with a series of rough geometrical
patterns, afterwards going over them again, shading them carefully. Finally
he looked up and said quietly to the guard: "Take off his handcuffs."
The guard obeyed.
"Now take off his coat."
This was done also, the prisoner offering no resistance.
"Now his shirt," and the shirt was taken off.
"Now his boots and trousers."
All this was done, and a few moments later the accused stood in his socks
and underclothing. And still he made no protest.
Here M. Paul whispered to Hauteville, who nodded in assent.
"Certainly. Take off his garters and pull up his drawers. I want his legs
bare below the knees."
"It's an outrage!" cried Groener, for the first time showing feeling.
"Silence, sir!" glared the magistrate.
"You'll be bare _above_ the knees in the morning when your measurements are
taken." Then to the guard: "Do what I said."
Again the guard obeyed, and Coquenil stood by in eager watchfulness as the
prisoner's lower legs were uncovered.
"Ah!" he cried in triumph, "I knew it, I was sure of it! There!" he pointed
to an egg-shaped wound on the right calf, two red semicircles plainly
imprinted in the white flesh. "It's the first time I ever marked a man with
my teeth and--it's a jolly good thing I did."
"How about this, Groener?" questioned the judge. "Do you admit having had a
struggle with Paul Coquenil one night on the street?"
"No."
"What made that mark on your leg?"
"I--I was bitten by a dog."
"It's a wonder you didn't shoot the dog," flashed the detective.
"What do you mean?" retorted the other.
Coquenil bent close, black wrath burning in his deep-set eyes, and spoke
three words that came to him by lightning intuition, three simple words
that, nevertheless, seemed to smite the prisoner with sudden fear: "_Oh,
nothing, Raoul!_"
So evident was the prisoner's emotion that Hauteville turned for an
explanation to the detective, who said something under his breath.
"Very strange! Very important!" reflected the magistrate. Then to the
accused: "In the morning we'll have that wound studied by experts who will
tell us whether it was made by a dog or a man. Now I want you to put on the
things that were in that bag."
For the first time a sense of his humiliation seemed to possess the
prisoner. He clinched his hands fiercely and a wave of uncontrollable anger
swept over him.
"No," he cried hoarsely, "I won't do it, I'll never do it!"
Both the judge and Coquenil gave satisfied nods at this sign of a
breakdown, but they rejoiced too soon, for by a marvelous effort of the
will, the man recovered his self-mastery and calm.
"After all," he corrected himself, "what does it matter? I'll put the
things on," and, with his old impassive air, he went to the table and,
aided by the guard, quickly donned the boots and garments of the wood
carver. He even smiled contemptuously as he did so.
"What a man! What a man!" thought Coquenil, watching him admiringly.
"There!" said the prisoner when the thing was done.
But the judge shook his head. "You've forgotten the beard and the wig.
Suppose you help make up his face," he said to the detective.
M. Paul fell to work zealously at this task and, using an elaborate
collection of paints, powders, and brushes that were in the bag, he
presently had accomplished a startling change in the unresisting
prisoner--he had literally transformed him into the wood carver.
"If you're not Groener now," said Coquenil, surveying his work with a
satisfied smile, "I'll swear you're his twin brother. It's the best
disguise I ever saw, I'll take my hat off to you on that."
"Extraordinary!" murmured the judge. "Groener, do you still deny that this
disguise belongs to you?"
[Illustration: "'It's the best disguise I ever saw, I'll take my hat off to
you on that.'"]
"I do."
"You've never worn it before?"
"Never."
"And you're not Adolf Groener?"
"Certainly not."
"You haven't a young cousin known as Alice Groener?"
"No."
During these questions the door had opened silently at a sign from the
magistrate, and Alice herself had entered the room.
"Turn around!" ordered the judge sharply, and as the accused obeyed he came
suddenly face to face with the girl.
At the sight of him Alice started in surprise and fear and cried out: "Oh,
Cousin Adolf!"
But the prisoner remained impassive.
"Did you expect to see this man here?" the magistrate asked her.
"Oh, no," she shivered.
"No one had told you you might see him?"
"No one."
The judge turned to Coquenil. "You did not prepare her for this meeting in
any way?"
"No," said M. Paul.
"What is your name?" said Hauteville to the girl.
"Alice Groener," she answered simply.
"And this man's name?"
"Adolf Groener."
"You are sure?"
"Of course, he is my cousin."
"How long have you known him?"
"Why I--I've always known him."
Quick as a flash the prisoner pulled off his wig and false beard.
"Am I your cousin now?" he asked.
"Oh!" cried the girl, staring in amazement.
"Look at me! Am I your cousin?" he demanded.
"I--I don't know," she stammered.
"Am I talking to you with your cousin's voice? Pay attention--tell me--am
I?"
Alice shook her head in perplexity. "It's not my cousin's voice," she
admitted.
"And it's _not_ your cousin," declared the prisoner. Then he faced the
judge. "Is it reasonable that I could have lived with this girl for years
in so intimate a way and been wearing a disguise all the time? It's absurd.
She has good eyes, she would have detected this wig and false beard. Did
you ever suspect that your cousin wore a wig or a false beard?" he asked
Alice.
"No," she replied, "I never did."
"Ah! And the voice? Did you ever hear your cousin speak with my voice?"
"No, never."
"You see," he triumphed to the magistrate. "She can't identify me as her
cousin, for the excellent reason that I'm not her cousin. You can't change
a man's personality by making him wear another man's clothes and false
hair. I tell you I'm _not_ Groener."
"Who are you then?" demanded the judge.
"I'm not obliged to say who I am, and you have no business to ask unless
you can show that I have committed a crime, which you haven't done yet.
Ask my fat friend in the corner if that isn't the law."
Maître Curé nodded gravely in response to this appeal. "The prisoner is
correct," he said.
Here Coquenil whispered to the judge.
"Certainly," nodded the latter, and, turning to Alice, who sat wondering
and trembling through this agitated scene, he said: "Thank you,
mademoiselle, you may go."
The girl rose and, bowing gratefully and sweetly, left the room, followed
by M. Paul.
"Groener, you say that we have not yet shown you guilty of any crime. Be
patient and we will overcome that objection. Where were you about midnight
on the night of the 4th of July?"
"I can't say offhand," answered the other.
"Try to remember."
"Why should I?"
"You refuse? Then I will stimulate your memory," and again he touched the
bell.
Coquenil entered, followed by the shrimp photographer, who was evidently
much depressed.
"Do you recognize this man?" questioned Hauteville, studying the prisoner
closely.
"No," came the answer with a careless shrug.
The shrimp turned to the prisoner and, at the sight of him, started forward
accusingly.
"That is the man," he cried, "that is the man who choked me."
"One moment," said the magistrate. "What is your name?"
"Alexander Godin," piped the photographer.
"You live at the Hôtel des Étrangers on the Rue Racine?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are engaged to a young dressmaker who has a room near yours on the
sixth floor?"
"I _was_ engaged to her," said Alexander sorrowfully, "but there's a
medical student on the same floor and----"
"No matter. You were suspicious of this young person. And on the night of
July 4th you attacked a man passing along the balcony. Is that correct?"
The photographer put forth his thin hands, palms upward in mild protest.
"To say that I attacked him is--is a manner of speaking. The fact is
he--he--" Alexander stroked his neck ruefully.
"I understand, he turned and nearly choked you. The marks of his nails are
still on your neck?"
"They are, sir," murmured the shrimp.
"And you are sure this is the man?" he pointed to the accused.
"Perfectly sure. I'll swear to it."
"Good. Now stand still. Come here, Groener. Reach out your arms as if you
were going to choke this young man. Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. No,
no, the other arm! I want you to put your _left_ hand, on his neck with the
nails of your thumb and fingers exactly on these marks. I said exactly.
There is the thumb--right! Now the first finger--good! Now the third! And
now the little finger! Don't cramp it up, reach it out. Ah!"
With breathless interest Coquenil watched the test, and, as the long little
finger slowly extended to its full length, he felt a sudden mad desire to
shout or leap in the pure joy of victory, for the nails of the prisoner's
left hand corresponded exactly with the nail marks on the shrimp
photographer's neck!