True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland

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      "It's a hard test," muttered Coquenil. "Footprints and weapons have lain for hours in a drenching rain, but—Ah!" Cæsar had stopped with a little whine and was half crouching at the edge of the sidewalk, head low, eyes fiercely forward, body quivering with excitement. "He's found something!"

      The dog turned with quick, joyous barks.

      "He's got the scent. Now watch him," and sharply he gave the word: "Va!"

      Straight across the pavement darted Cæsar, then along the opposite sidewalk away from the Champs Elysées, running easily, nose down, past the Rue François Premier, past the Rue Clement-Marot, then out into the street again and stopping suddenly.

      "He's lost it," mourned Papa Tignol.

      "Lost it? Of course he's lost it," triumphed the detective. And turning to M. Gritz: "There's where your murderer picked up a cab. It's perfectly clear. No one has touched that pistol since the man who used it threw it from the window of Number Seven."

      "You mean Number Six," corrected Gritz.

      "I mean Number Seven. We know where the murderer took a cab, now we'll see where he left the hotel." And hurrying toward his dog, he called: "Back, Cæsar!"

      Obediently the dog trotted back along the trail, recrossing the street where he had crossed it before, and presently reaching the point where he had first caught the scent. Here he stopped, waiting for orders, eying M. Paul with almost speaking intelligence.

      "A wonderful dog," admired Gritz. "What kind is he?"

      "Belgian shepherd dog," answered Coquenil. "He cost me five hundred francs, and I wouldn't sell him for—well, I wouldn't sell him." He bent over and fondled the panting animal. "We wouldn't sell our best friend, would we, Cæsar?"

      Evidently Cæsar did not think this the moment for sentiment; he growled impatiently, straining toward the scent.

      "He knows there's work to be done and he's right." Then quickly he gave the word again and once more Cæsar was away, darting back along the sidewalk toward the Champs Elysées, moving nearer and nearer to the houses and presently stopping at a gateway, against which he pressed and whined. It was a gateway in the wall surrounding the Ansonia Hotel.

      "The man came out here," declared Coquenil, and, unlatching the gate, he looked inside, the dog pushing after him.

      "Down Cæsar!" ordered M. Paul, and unwillingly the ardent creature crouched at his feet.

      The wall surrounding the Ansonia was of polished granite about six feet high, and between this wall and the hotel itself was a space of equal width planted with slim fir trees that stood out in decorative dignity against the gray stone.

      "This is what you call the alleyway?" questioned Coquenil.

      "Exactly."

      From the pocket of his coat the detective drew a small electric lantern, the one that had served him so well earlier in the evening, and, touching a switch, he threw upon the ground a strong white ray; whereupon a confusion of footprints became visible, as if a number of persons had trod back and forth here.

      "What does this mean?" he cried.

      Papa Tignol explained shamefacedly: "We did it looking for the pistol; it was Gibelin's orders."

      "Bon Dieu! What a pity! We can never get a clean print in this mess. But wait! How far along the alleyway did you look?"

      "As far as that back wall. Poor Gibelin! He never thought of looking on the other side of СКАЧАТЬ