Through the Wall Part 43

A LONG LITTLE FINGER

Coquenil kept his appointment that night at the Three Wise Men and found Papa Tignol waiting for him, his face troubled even to the tip of his luminous purple nose. In vain the old man tried to show interest in a neighboring game of dominoes; the detective saw at a glance that his faithful friend had heard the bad news and was mourning over it.

"Ah, M. Paul," cried Tignol. "This is a pretty thing they tell me. _Nom d'un chien_, what a pack of fools they are!"

"Not so loud," cautioned Coquenil with a quiet smile. "It's all right, Papa Tignol, it's all for the best."

"All for the best?" stared the other. "But if you're off the force?"

"Wait a little and you'll understand," said the detective in a low tone, then as the tavern door opened: "Here is Pougeot! I telephoned him. Good evening, Lucien," and he shook hands cordially with the commissary, whose face wore a serious, inquiring look. "Will you have something, or shall we move on?" and, under his breath, he added: "Say you don't want anything."

"I don't want anything," obeyed Pougeot with a puzzled glance.

"Then come, it's a quarter past ten," and tossing some money to the waiter, Coquenil led the way out.

Drawn up in front of the tavern was a taxi-auto, the chauffeur bundled up to the ears in bushy gray furs, despite the mild night. There was a leather bag beside him.

"Is this your man?" asked Pougeot.

"Yes," said M. Paul, "get in. If you don't mind I'll lower this front window so that we can feel the air." Then, when the commissary and Tignol were seated, he gave directions to the driver. "We will drive through the _bois_ and go out by the Porte Dauphine. Not too fast."

The man touched his cap respectfully, and a few moments later they were running smoothly to the west, over the wooden pavement of the Rue de Rivoli.

"Now we can talk," said Coquenil with an air of relief. "I suppose you both know what has happened?"

The two men replied with sympathetic nods.

"I regard you, Lucien, as my best friend, and you, Papa Tignol, are the only man on the force I believe I can absolutely trust."

Tignol bobbed his little bullet head back and forth, and pulled furiously at his absurd black mustache. This, was the greatest compliment he had ever received. The commissary laid an affectionate hand on Coquenil's arm. "You know I'll stand by you absolutely, Paul; I'll do anything that is possible.

How do you feel about this thing yourself?"

"I felt badly at first," answered the other. "I was mortified and bitter.

You know what I gave up to undertake this case, and you know how I have thrown myself into it. This is Wednesday night, the crime was committed last Sat.u.r.day, and in these four days I haven't slept twelve hours. As to eating--well, never mind that. The point is, I was in it, heart and soul, and--now I'm out of it."

"An infernal shame!" muttered Tignol.

"Perhaps not. I've done some hard thinking since I got word this morning that my commission was canceled, and I have reached an important conclusion. In the first place, I am not sure that I haven't fallen into the old error of allowing my judgment to be too much influenced by a preconceived theory. I wouldn't admit this for the world to anyone but you two. I'd rather cut my tongue out than let Gibelin know it. Careful, there," he said sharply, as their wheels swung dangerously near a stone shelter in the Place de la Concorde.

Both Pougeot and Tignol noted with surprise the half-resigned, half-discouraged tone of the famous detective.

"You don't mean that you think the American may be guilty?" questioned the commissary.

"Never in the world!" grumbled Tignol.

"I don't say he is guilty," answered M. Paul, "but I am not so sure he is innocent. And, if there is doubt about that, then there is doubt whether this case is really a great one. I have a.s.sumed that Martinez was killed by an extraordinary criminal, for some extraordinary reason, but--I may have been mistaken."

"Of course," agreed Pougeot. "And if you were mistaken?"

"Then I've been wasting my time on a second-cla.s.s investigation that a second-cla.s.s man like Gibelin could have carried on as well as I; and losing the Rio Janeiro offer besides." He leaned forward suddenly toward the chauffeur. "See here, what are you trying to do?" As he spoke they barely escaped colliding with a cab coming down the Champs Elysees.

"It was his fault; one of his lanterns is out," declared the chauffeur, and, half turning, he exchanged curses with the departing jehu.

They had now reached Napoleon's arch, and, at greater speed, the automobile descended the Avenue de la Grande Armee.

"Are you thinking of accepting the Rio Janeiro offer?" asked the commissary presently.

"Very seriously; but I don't know whether it's still open. I thought perhaps you would go to the Brazilian Emba.s.sy and ask about it delicately.

I don't like to go myself, after this affair. Do you mind?"

"No, I don't mind, of course I don't mind," answered, Pougeot, "but, my dear Paul, aren't you a little on your nerves to-night; oughtn't you to think the whole matter over before deciding?"

"That's right," agreed Tignol.

"What is there to think about?" said Coquenil. "If you've got anything to say, either of you, say it now. Run on through the _bois_," he directed the chauffeur, "and then out on the St. Cloud road. This air is doing me a lot of good," he added, drawing in deep breaths.

For some minutes they sat silent, speeding along through the Bois de Boulogne, dimly beautiful under a crescent moon, on past crowded restaurants with red-clad musicians on the terraces, on past the silent lake and then through narrow and deserted roads until they had crossed the great park and emerged upon the high-way.

"Where are we going, anyway?" inquired Tignol.

"For a little ride, for a little change," sighed M. Paul.

"Come, come," urged Pougeot, "you are giving way too much. Now listen to me."

Then, clearly and concisely, the commissary went over the situation, considering his friend's problem from various points of view; and so absorbed was he in fairly setting forth the advantages and disadvantages of the Rio Janeiro position that he did not observe Coquenil's utter indifference to what he was saying. But Papa Tignol saw this, and gradually, as he watched the detective with his shrewd little eyes, it dawned upon the old man that they were not speeding along here in the night, a dozen miles out of Paris, simply for their health, but that something special was preparing.

"What in the mischief is Coquenil up to?" wondered Tignol.

And presently, even Pougeot, in spite of his preoccupation, began to realize that there was something peculiar about this night promenade, for as they reached a crossroad, M. Paul ordered the chauffeur to turn into it and go ahead as fast as he pleased. The chauffeur hesitated, muttered some words of protest, and then obeyed.

"We are getting right out into wild country," remarked the commissary.

"Don't you like wild country?" laughed Coquenil. "I do." It was plain that his spirits were reviving.

They ran along this rough way for several miles, and presently came to a small house standing some distance back from the road.

"Stop here!" ordered the detective. "Now," he turned to Pougeot, "I shall learn something that may fix my decision." Then, leaning forward to the chauffeur, he said impressively: "Ten francs extra if you help me now."

These words had an immediate effect upon the man, who touched his cap and asked what he was to do.

"Go to this house," pointed M. Paul, "ring the bell and ask if there is a note for M. Robert. If there is, bring the note to me; if there isn't, never mind. If anyone asks who sent you, say M. Robert himself.

Understand?"

"_Oui, m'sieur_," replied the chauffeur, and, saluting again, he strode away toward the house.

The detective watched his receding figure as it disappeared in the shadows, then he called out: "Wait, I forgot something."

The chauffeur turned obediently and came back.