Through the Wall Part 49

"We'll never get to the bottom of this case," he muttered, "until we know the truth about that girl. Papa Tignol, I want you to go right back to Notre-Dame and keep an eye on her. If she is afraid of something, there's something to be afraid of, _for she knows_. Don't talk to her; just hang about the church until I come. Remember, we spend the night there."

"_Sapristi_, a night in a church!"

"It won't hurt you for once," smiled M. Paul. "There's a bed to sleep on, and a lot to talk about. You know we begin the great campaign to-morrow."

Tignol rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "The sooner the better." Then yielding to his growing curiosity: "Have you found out much?"

Coquenil's eyes twinkled. "You're dying to know what I've been doing these last five days, eh?"

"Nothing of the sort," said the old man testily. "If you want to leave me in the dark, all right, only if I'm to help in the work----"

"Of course, of course," broke in the other good-naturedly. "I was going to tell you to-night, but Bonneton will be with us, so--come, we'll stroll through the _bois_ as far as Pa.s.sy, and I'll give you the main points. Then you can take a cab."

Papa Tignol was enormously pleased at this mark of confidence, but he merely gave one of his jerky little nods and walked along solemnly beside his brilliant a.s.sociate. In his loyalty for M. Paul this tough old veteran would have allowed himself to be cut into small pieces, but he would have spluttered and grumbled throughout the operation.

"Let's see," began Coquenil, as they entered the beautiful park, "I have five days to account for. Well, I spent two days in Paris and three in Brussels."

"Where the wood carver lives?"

"Exactly. I got his address from Papa Bonneton. I thought I'd look the man over in his home when he was not expecting me. And before I started I put in two days studying wood carving, watching the work and questioning the workmen until I knew more about it than an expert. I made up my mind that, when I saw this man with the long little finger, I must be able to decide whether he was a genuine wood carver--or--or something else."

"I see," admired Tignol. "Well?"

"As it turned out, I didn't find him, I haven't seen him yet. He was away on a trip when I got to Brussels, away on this trip that will bring him to Paris to-morrow, so I missed him and--it's just as well I did!"

"You got facts about him?"

"Yes, I got facts about him; not the kind of facts I expected to get, either. I saw the place where he boards, this Adolph Groener. In fact, I stopped there, and I talked to the woman who runs it, a sharp-eyed young widow with a smooth tongue; and I saw the place where he works; it's a wood-carving shop, all right, and I talked to the men there--two big strong fellows with jolly red faces, and--well--" he hesitated.

"Well?"

The detective crossed his arms and faced the old man with a grim, searching look.

"Papa Tignol," he said impressively, "they all tell a simple, straight story. His name _is_ Adolf Groener, he _does_ live in Brussels, he makes his living at wood carving, and the widow who runs the confounded boarding house knows all about this girl Alice."

Tignol rubbed his nose reflectively. "It was a long shot, anyway."

"What would _you_ have done?" questioned the other sharply.

"Why," answered Tignol slowly, while his shrewd eyes twinkled, "I--I'd have cussed a little and--had a couple of drinks and--come back to Paris."

Coquenil sat silent frowning. "I wasn't much better. After that first day I was ready to drop the thing, I admit it, only I went for a walk that night--and there's a lot in walking. I wandered for hours through that nice little town of Brussels, in the crowd and then alone, and the more I thought the more I came back to the same idea, _he can't be a wood carver!_"

"You couldn't prove it, but you knew it," chuckled the old man.

Coquenil nodded. "So I kept on through the second day. I saw more people and asked more questions, then I saw the same people again and tried to trip them up, but I didn't get ahead an inch. Groener was a wood carver, and he stayed a wood carver."

"It began to look bad, eh?"

Coquenil stopped short and said earnestly: "Papa Tignol, when this case is over and forgotten, when this man has gone where he belongs, and I know where that is"--he brought his hand down sideways swiftly--"I shall have the lesson of this Brussels search cut on a block of stone and set in my study wall. Oh, I've learned the lesson before, but this drives it home, that _the most important knowledge a detective can have is the knowledge he gets inside himself!_"

Tignol had never seen M. Paul more deeply stirred. "_Sacre matin!_" he exclaimed. "Then you did find something?"

"Ah, but I deserve no credit for it, I ought to have failed. I weakened; I had my bag packed and was actually starting for Paris, convinced that Groener had nothing to do with the case. Think of that!"

"Yes, but you _didn't_ start."

"It was a piece of stupid luck that saved me when I ought to have known, when I ought to have been sure. And, mark you, if I had come back believing in Groener's innocence, this crime would never have been cleared up, never."

Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "La, la, la! What a man! If you had fallen into a hole you might have broken your leg! Well, you didn't fall into the hole!"

Coquenil smiled. "You're right, I ought to be pleased, I am pleased. After all, it was a neat bit of work. You see, I was waiting in the parlor of this boarding house for the widow to bring me my bill--I had spent two days there--and I happened to glance at a photograph she had shown me when I first came, a picture of Alice and herself, taken five years ago, when Alice was twelve years old. There was no doubt about the girl, and it was a good likeness of the widow. She told me she was a great friend of Alice's mother, and the picture was taken when the mother died, just before Alice went to Paris.

"Well, as I looked at the picture now, I noticed that it had no photographer's name on it, which is unusual, and it seemed to me there was something queer about the girl's hand; I went to the window and was studying the picture with my magnifying gla.s.s when I heard the woman's step outside, so I slipped it into my pocket. Then I paid my bill and came away."

"You _needed_ that picture," approved Tignol.

"As soon as I was outside I jumped into a cab and drove to the princ.i.p.al photographers in Brussels. There were three of them, and at each place I showed this picture and asked how much it would cost to copy it, and as I asked the question I watched the man's face. The first two were perfectly businesslike, but the third man gave a little start and looked at me in an odd way. I made up my mind he had seen the picture before, but I didn't get anything out of him--then. In fact, I didn't try very hard, for I had my plan.

"From here I drove straight to police headquarters and had a talk with the chief. He knew me by reputation, and a note that I brought from Pougeot helped, and--well, an hour later that photographer was ready to tell me the innermost secrets of his soul."

"Eh, eh, eh!" laughed Tignol. "And what did he tell you?"

"He told me he made this picture of Alice and the widow _only six weeks ago_."

"Six weeks ago!" stared the other. "But the widow told you it was taken five years ago."

"Exactly!"

"Besides, Alice wasn't in Brussels six weeks ago, was she?"

"Of course not; the picture was a fake, made from a genuine one of Alice and a lady, perhaps her mother. This photographer had blotted out the lady and printed in the widow without changing the pose. It's a simple trick in photography."

"You saw the genuine picture?"

"Of course--that is, I saw a reproduction of it which the photographer made on his own account. He suspected some crooked work, and he didn't like the man who gave him the order."

"You mean the wood carver?"

Coquenil shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a wood carver, call him what you like. He didn't go to the photographer in his wood-carver disguise, he went as a gentleman in a great hurry, and willing to pay any price for the work."

Tignol twisted the long ends of his black mustache reflectively. "He was covering his tracks in advance?"

"Evidently."

"And the smooth young widow lied?"

"Lied?" snapped the detective savagely. "I should say she did. She lied about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured picture."