Through the Wall Part 33

"He used to talk about this lady," said one of the markers; "he called her his 'belle Americaine,' but I am sure he did not know her real name." The man smiled at Martinez's inordinate vanity over his supposed fascination for women--he was convinced that no member of the fair s.e.x could resist his advances.

With so much in mind Coquenil started up the Champs Elysees about five o'clock. He counted on finding Mrs. Wilmott home at tea time, and as he strolled along, turning the problem over in his mind, he found it conceivable that this eccentric lady, in a moment of ennui or for the novelty of the thing, might have consented to dine with Martinez in a private room. It was certain no scruples would have deterred her if the adventure had seemed amusing, especially as Martinez had no idea who she was. With her, excitement and a new sensation were the only rules of conduct, and her husband's opinion was a matter of the smallest possible consequence. Besides, he would probably never know it!

Mrs. Wilmott, very languid and stunning, amidst her luxurious surroundings, received M. Paul with the patronizing indifference that bored rich women extend to tradespeople. But presently when he explained that he was a detective and began to question her about the Ansonia affair, she rose with a haughty gesture that was meant to banish him in confusion from her presence. Coquenil, however, did not "banish" so easily. He had dealt with haughty ladies before.

"My dear madam, please sit down," he said quietly. "I must ask you to explain how it happens that a number of five-pound notes, given to you by your husband some days ago, were found on the body of this murdered man."

"How do I know?" she replied sharply. "I spent the notes in shops; I'm not responsible for what became of them. Besides, I am dining out to-night, and! I must dress. I really don't see any point to this conversation."

"No," he smiled, and the keenness of his glance: pierced her like a blade.

"The point is, my dear lady, that I want you to tell me what you were doing with this billiard player when he was shot last Sat.u.r.day night."

"It's false; I never knew the man," she cried. "It's an outrage for you to--to intrude on a lady and--and insult her."

"You used to back his game at the Olympia," continued Coquenil coolly.

"What of it? I'm fond of billiards. Is that a crime?"

"You left your cloak and a small leather bag in the _vestiaire_ at the Ansonia," pursued M. Paul.

"It isn't true!"

"Your name was found stamped in gold letters under a leather flap in the bag."

She shot a frightened glance at him and then faltered: "It--it was?"

Coquenil nodded. "Your friend, M. Kittredge, tore the flap out of the bag and then cut it into small pieces and scattered the pieces from his cab through dark streets, but I picked up the pieces."

"You--you did?" she stammered.

"Yes. _Now what were you doing with Martinez in that room?_"

For some moments she did not answer but studied him with frightened, puzzled eyes. Then suddenly her whole manner changed.

"Excuse me," she smiled, "I didn't get your name?"

"M. Coquenil," he said.

"Won't you sit over here? This chair is more comfortable. That's right.

Now, I will tell you _exactly_ what happened." And, settling herself near him, p.u.s.s.y Wilmott entered bravely upon the hardest half hour of her life.

After all, he was a man and she would do the best she could!

"You see, M. Coquelin--I beg your pardon, M. Coquenil. The names are alike, aren't they?"

"Yes," said the other dryly.

"Well," she went on quite charmingly, "I have done some foolish things in my life, but this is the most foolish. I _did_ give Martinez the five-pound notes. You see, he was to play a match this week with a Russian and he offered to lay the money for me. He said he could get good odds and he was sure to win."

"But the dinner? The private room?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I went there for a perfectly proper reason. I needed some one to help me and I--I couldn't ask a man who knew me so----"

"Then Martinez didn't know you?"

"Of course not. He was foolish enough to think himself in love with me and--well, I found it convenient and--amusing to--utilize him."

"For what?"

Mrs. Wilmott bit her red lips and then with some dignity replied that she did not see what bearing her purpose had on the case since it had not been accomplished.

"Why wasn't it accomplished?" he asked.

"Because the man was shot."

"Who shot him?"

"I don't know."

"You have no idea?"

"No idea."

"But you were present in the room?"

"Ye-es."

"You heard the shot? You saw Martinez fall?"

"Yes, but----"

"Well?"

Now her agitation, increased, she seemed about to make some statement, but checked herself and simply insisted that she knew nothing about the shooting. No one had entered the room except herself and Martinez and the waiter who served them. They had finished the soup; Martinez had left his seat for a moment; he was standing near her when--when the shot was fired and he fell to the floor. She had no idea where the shot came from or who fired it. She was frightened and hurried away from the hotel. That was all.

Coquenil smiled indulgently. "What did you do with the auger?" he asked.

"The auger?" she gasped.

"Yes, it was seen by the cab driver you took when you slipped out of the hotel in the telephone girl's rain coat."

"You know that?"

He nodded and went on: "This cab driver remembers that you had something under your arm wrapped in a newspaper. Was that the auger?"

"Yes," she answered weakly.

"And you threw it into the Seine as you crossed the Concorde bridge?"