Through the Wall Part 35

"Yes. You see he managed it very well."

"Very well except for one thing," mused Coquenil, "_there wasn't any palm in Number Six_."

"No?"

"No."

"That's strange!"

"Yes, it _is_ strange," and again she felt that he was following a separate train of thought.

"Did _you_ look through the holes at all?" he asked.

"No, I hadn't time."

"Did Martinez look through the first hole after it was bored?"

"Yes, but he couldn't see anything, as Number Seven was dark."

"Then you have absolutely no idea who fired the shot?"

"Absolutely none."

"Except you think it wasn't your husband?"

"I _know_ it wasn't my husband."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I asked him. Ah, you needn't smile, I made him give me proof."

When I got home that night I had a horrible feeling that Addison must have done it. Who else _could_ have done it, since he had engaged Number Seven?

So I waited until he came home. It was after twelve. I could hear him moving about in his room and I was afraid to speak to him, the thing seemed so awful; but, at last, I went in and asked him where he had been. He began to lie in the usual way--you know any man will if he's in a hole like that--but finally I couldn't stand it any longer and I said: 'Addison, for G.o.d's sake, don't lie to me. I know something terrible has happened, and if I can, I want to help you.'

"I was as white as a sheet and he jumped up in a great fright. 'What is it, p.u.s.s.y? What is it?' he cried. And then I told him a murder had been committed at the Ansonia in private room Number Seven. I wish you could have seen his face. He never said a word, he just stared at me. 'Why don't you speak?' I begged. 'Addison, it wasn't you, tell me it wasn't you. Never mind this Anita woman, I'll forgive that if you'll only tell me where you've been to-night.'

"Well, it was the longest time before I could get anything out of him. You see, it was quite a shock for Addison getting all this together, caught with the woman and then the murder on top of it; I had to cry and scold and get him whisky before he could pull himself together, but he finally did and made a clean breast of everything."

"'p.u.s.s.y,' he said, 'you're all right, you're a plucky little woman, and I'm a bad lot, but I'm not as bad as that. I wasn't in that room, I didn't go to the Ansonia to-night, and I swear to G.o.d I don't know any more about this murder than you do.'

"Then he explained what had happened in his blundering way, stopping every minute or so to tell me what a saint I am, and the Lord knows _that's_ a joke, and the gist of it was that he had started for the Ansonia with this woman, but she had changed her mind in the cab and they had gone to the Cafe de Paris instead and spent the evening there. I was pretty sure he was telling the truth, for Addison isn't clever and I usually know when he's lying, although I don't tell him so; but this was such an awful thing that I couldn't take chances, so I said: 'Addison, put your things right on, we're going to the Cafe de Paris.' 'What for?' said he. 'To settle this business,' said I. And off we went and got there at half past one; but the waiters hadn't gone, and they all swore black and blue that Addison told the truth, he had really been there all the evening with this woman. And _that_," she concluded triumphantly, "is how I know my husband is innocent."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'They all swore black and blue that Addison told the truth.'"]

"Hm!" reflected Coquenil. "I wonder why Anita changed her mind?"

"I'm not responsible for Anita," answered p.u.s.s.y with a dignified whisk of her shoulders.

"No, of course not, of course not," he murmured absently; then, after a moment's thought, he said gravely: "I never really doubted your husband's innocence, now I'm sure of it; unfortunately, this does not lessen your responsibility; you were in the room, you witnessed the crime; in fact, you were the only witness."

"But I know nothing about it, nothing," she protested.

"You know a great deal about this young man who is in prison."

"I know he is innocent."

Coquenil took off his gla.s.ses and rubbed them with characteristic deliberation. "I hope you can prove it."

"Of course I can prove it," she declared. "M. Kittredge was arrested because he called for my things, but I asked him to do that. I was in terrible trouble and--he was an old friend and--and I knew I could depend on him. He had no reason to kill Martinez. It's absurd!"

"I'm afraid it's not so absurd as you think. You say he was an old friend, he must have been a _very particular kind_ of an old friend for you to ask a favor of him that you knew and he knew would bring him under suspicion.

You did know that, didn't you?"

"Why--er--yes."

"I don't ask what there was between you and M. Kittredge, but if there had been _everything_ between you he couldn't have done more, could he? And he couldn't have done less. So a jury might easily conclude, in the absence of contrary evidence, that there was everything between you."

"It's false," she cried, while Coquenil with keen discernment watched the outward signs of her trouble, the clinching of her hands, the heaving of her bosom, the indignant flashing of her eyes.

"I beg your pardon for expressing such a thought," he said simply. "It's a matter that concerns the judge, only ladies dislike going to the Palais de Justice."

She started in alarm. "You mean that I might have to go there?"

"Your testimony is important, and the judge cannot very well come here."

"But, I'd rather talk to you; really, I would. You can ask me questions and--and then tell him. Go on, I don't mind. M. Kittredge was _not_ my lover--there! Please make that perfectly clear. He was a dear, loyal friend, but nothing more."

"Was he enough of a friend to be jealous of Martinez?"

"What was there to make him jealous?"

"Well," smiled Coquenil, "I can imagine that if a dear, loyal friend found the lady he was dear and loyal to having supper with another man in a private room, he _might_ be jealous."

To which p.u.s.s.y replied with an accent of finality but with a shade of pique: "The best proof that M. Kittredge would not be jealous of me is that he loves another woman."

"The girl at Notre-Dame?"

"Yes."

"But Martinez knew her, too. There might have been trouble over her,"

ventured M. Paul shrewdly.

She shook her head with eager positiveness. "There was no trouble."

"You never knew of any quarrel between Kittredge and Martinez? No words?"

"Never."

"Madam," continued Coquenil, "as you have allowed me to speak frankly, I am going to ask if you feel inclined to make a special effort to help M.