Through the Wall Part 50

"Then," cried Tignol excitedly, "then Groener is _not_ a wood carver?"

"He may be a wood carver, but he's a great deal more, he--he--" Coquenil hesitated, and then, with eyes blazing and nostrils dilating, he burst out: "If I know anything about my business, he's the man who gave me that left-handed jolt under the heart, he's the man who choked your shrimp photographer, he's the man who killed Martinez!"

"Name of a green dog!" muttered Tignol. "Is that true, or--or do you only _know_ it?"

"It's true _because_ I know it," answered Coquenil. "See here, I'll bet you a good dinner against a box of those vile cigarettes you smoke that this man who calls himself Alice's cousin has the marks of my teeth on the calf of one of his legs--I forget which leg it is."

"Taken!" said Tignol, and then, with sudden gravity: "But if this is true, things are getting serious, eh?"

"They've been serious."

"I mean the chase is nearly over?"

M. Paul answered slowly, as if weighing his words: "This man is desperate and full of resources, I know that, but, with the precautions I have taken, I don't see how he can escape--if he goes to Bonneton's house to-morrow."

Tignol scratched his head in perplexity. "Why in thunder is he such a fool as to go there?"

"I've wondered about that myself," mused Coquenil "Perhaps he won't go, perhaps there is some extraordinary reason why he _must_ go."

"Some reason connected with the girl?" asked the other quickly.

"Yes."

"You say he _calls_ himself Alice's cousin. Isn't he really her cousin?"

Coquenil shook his head. "He isn't her cousin, and she isn't Alice."

"Wha-at?"

"Her name is Mary, and he is her stepfather."

The old man stared in bewilderment. "But--how the devil do you know that?"

Coquenil smiled. "I found an inscription on the back of that Brussels photograph--I mean the genuine one--it was hidden under a hinged support, and Groener must have overlooked it. That was his second great mistake."

"What was the inscription?" asked Tignol eagerly.

"It read: 'To my dear husband, Raoul, from his devoted wife Margaret and her little Mary.' You notice it says _her_ little Mary. That one word throws a flood of light on this case. The child was not _his_ little Mary."

"I see, I see," reflected the old man. "And Alice? Does she know that--that she _isn't_ Alice?"

"No."

"Does she know that Groener is her stepfather, and not her cousin?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I _think_ I know why not, but, until I'm sure, I'd rather call it a mystery. See here, we've talked too much, you must hurry back to her.

Better take an auto. And remember, Papa Tignol," he added in final warning, "there is nothing so important as to guard this girl."

A few moments later, with Caesar bounding happily at his side, M. Paul entered the quieter paths of the great park, and presently came to a thickly wooded region that has almost the air of a natural forest. Here the two romped delightedly together, and Coquenil put the dog through many of his tricks, the fine creature fairly outdoing himself in eagerness and intelligence.

"Now, old fellow," said M. Paul, "I'll sit down here and have a cigarette,"

and he settled himself on a rustic bench, while Caesar stretched out comfortably at his feet. And so the one dozed as the other drifted far away in smoke-laden reverie.

What days these had been, to be sure! How tired he was! He hadn't noticed it before, but now that everything was ready, now that he had finished his preparations--yes, he was very tired.

Everything was ready! It was good to know that. He had forgotten nothing.

And, if all went well, he would soon be able to answer these questions that were fretting him. Who was Groener? Why had he killed Martinez? How had he profited by the death of this unfortunate billiard player? And why did he hate Kittredge? Was it because the American loved Alice? And who was Alice, this girl whose dreams and fears changed the lives of serious men? From whichever side he studied the crime he always came back to her--Kittredge loved her, Martinez knew her, he himself had started on the case on her account. _Who was Alice?_

During these reflections Coquenil had been vaguely aware of gay sounds from the neighboring woods, and now a sudden burst of laughter brought him back to the consciousness of things about him.

"We're too serious, my boy," he said with an effort at lightness; "this is a bit of an outing, and we must enjoy it. Come, we'll move on!"

With the dog at his heels M. Paul turned his steps toward a beautiful cool glade, carpeted in gold and green as the sunbeams sprinkled down through the trees upon the spreading moss. Here he came into plain view of a company of ladies and gentlemen, who, having witnessed the review, had chosen this delightful spot for luncheon. They were evidently rich and fashionable people, for they had come as a coaching party on a very smart break, with four beautiful horses, and some in a flashing red-and-black automobile that was now drawn up beside the larger vehicle.

With an idle eye M. Paul observed the details of the luncheon, red-coated servants emptying bounteous hampers and pa.s.sing tempting food from group to group, others opening bottles of champagne, with popping corks, and filling bubbling gla.s.ses, while the men of the party pa.s.sed back and forth from break to automobile with jests and gay words, or strolled under the trees enjoying post-prandial cigars.

Altogether it was a pleasing picture, and Coquenil's interest was heightened when he overheard a pa.s.sing couple say that these were the guests of no less a person than the Duke of Montreuil, whose lavish entertainments were the talk of Paris. There he was, on the break, this favorite of fortune! What a brilliant figure of a man! Famous as a sportsman, enormously rich, popular in society, at the head of vast industrial enterprises, and known to have almost controlling power in affairs of state!

"Never mind, old sport, it takes all kinds of people to make up the world.

Now then, jump!"

So they went on, playing together, master and dog, and were pa.s.sing around through the woods on the far side of the coaching party, when, suddenly, Caesar ceased his romping and began to nose the ground excitedly. Then, running to his master, he stood with eager eyes, as if urging some pursuit.

The detective observed the dog in surprise. Was this some foolish whim to follow a squirrel or a rabbit? It wasn't like Caesar.

"Come, come," he reasoned with friendly chiding, "don't be a baby."

Caesar growled in vigorous protest, and darting away, began circling the ground before him, back and forth, in widening curves, as Coquenil had taught him.

"Have you found something--sure?"

The animal barked joyously.

M. Paul was puzzled. Evidently there was a scent here, but what scent? He had made no experiments with Caesar since the night of the crime, when the dog had taken the scent of the pistol and found the alleyway footprints.

But that was ten days ago; the dog could not still be on that same scent.

Impossible! Yet he was on _some_ scent, and very eagerly. Coquenil had never seen him more impatient for permission to be off. Could a dog remember a scent for ten days?

"After all, what harm can it do?" reflected the detective, becoming interested in his turn. Then, deciding quickly, he gave the word, "_Cherche!_" and instantly the dog was away.

"He means business," muttered M. Paul, hurrying after him.

On through the woods went Caesar, nose down, tail rigid, following the scent, moving carefully among the trees, and once or twice losing the trail, but quickly finding it again, and, presently, as he reached more open ground, running ahead swiftly, straight toward the coaching party.

In a flash Coquenil realized the danger and called loudly to the dog, but the distance was too great, and his voice was drowned by the cries of ladies on the break, who, seeing the bounding animal, screamed their fright. And no wonder, for this powerful, close-clipped creature, in his sudden rush looked like some formidable beast of prey; even the men started up in alarm.