True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland

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СКАЧАТЬ "You see," he went on, "the edges are clean, without a sign of chipping. There is no more reason to say that these holes were bored this side than from that."

      M. Paul made no reply, but going to the sofa he knelt down by it, and using his glass, proceeded to go over its surface with infinite care.

      "Turn up all the lights," he said. "That's better," and he continued his search. "Ah!" he cried presently. "You think there is no reason to say the holes were bored from this side. I'll give you a reason. Take this piece of white paper and make me prints of his boot heels." He pointed to the body. "Take the whole heel carefully, then the other one, get the nail marks, everything. That's right. Now cut out the prints. Good! Now look here. Kneel down. Take the glass. There on the yellow satin, by the tail of that silver bird. Do you see? Now compare the heel prints."

      Papa Tignol knelt down as directed and examined the sofa seat, which was covered with a piece of Chinese embroidery.

      "Sapristi! You're a magician!" he cried in great excitement.

      "No," replied Coquenil, "it's perfectly simple. These holes in the wall are five feet above the floor. And I'm enough of a carpenter, Papa Tignol," he smiled, "to know that a man cannot work an auger at that height without standing on something. And here was the very thing for him to stand on, a sofa just in place. So, if Martinez bored these holes, he stood on this sofa to do it, and, in that case, the marks of his heels must have remained on the delicate satin. And here they are."

      "Yes, here they are, nails and all," admitted Tignol admiringly. "I'm an old fool, but—but——"

      "Well?"

      "Tell me why Martinez did it."

      Coquenil's face darkened. "Ah, that's the question. We'll know that when we talk to the woman."

      The old man leaned forward eagerly: "Why do you think the woman helped him?"

      "Somebody helped him or the chips would still be there, somebody held back those hangings while he worked the auger, and somebody carried the auger away."

      Tignol pondered this, a moment, then, his face brightening: "Hah! I see! The sofa hangings were held back when the shot came, then they fell into place and covered the holes?"

      "That's it," replied the detective absently.

      "And the man in Number Seven, the murderer, lifted that picture from its nail before shooting and then put it back on the nail after shooting?"

      "Yes, yes," agreed M. Paul. Already he was far away on a new line of thought, while the other was still grappling with his first surprise.

      "Then this murderer must have known that the billiard player was going to bore these holes," went on Papa Tignol half to himself. "He must have been waiting in Number Seven, he must have stood there with his pistol ready while the holes were coming through, he must have let Martinez finish one hole and then bore the other, he must have kept Number Seven dark so they couldn't see him——"

      "A good point, that," approved Coquenil, paying attention. "He certainly kept Number Seven dark."

      "And he probably looked into Number Six through the first hole while Martinez was boring the second. I suppose you can tell which of the two holes was bored first?" chuckled Tignol.

      M. Paul started, paused in a flash of thought, and then, with sudden eagerness: "I see, that's it!"

      "What's it?" gasped the other.

      "He bored this hole first," said Coquenil rapidly, "it's the right-hand one when you're in this room, the left-hand one when you're in Number Seven. As you say, the murderer looked through the first hole while he waited for the second to be bored; so, naturally, he fired through the hole where his eye was. That was his first great mistake."

      Tignol screwed up his face in perplexity. "What difference does it make which hole the man fired through so long as he shot straight and got away?"

      "What difference? Just this difference, that, by firing through the left-hand hole, he has given us precious evidence, against him."

      "How?"

      "Come back into the other room and I'll show you." And, when they had returned to Number Seven, he continued: "Take the pistol. Pretend you are the murderer. You've been waiting your moment, holding your breath on one side of the wall while the auger grinds through from the other. The first hole is finished. You see the point of the auger as it comes through the second, now the wood breaks and a length of turning steel shoves toward you. You grip your pistol and look through the left-hand hole, you see the woman holding back the curtains, you see Martinez draw out the auger from the right-hand hole and lay it down. Now he leans forward, pressing his face to the completed eyeholes, you see the whites of his eyes, not three inches away. Quick! Pistol up! Ready to fire! No, no, through the left-hand hole where he fired."

      "Sacré matin!" muttered Tignol, "it's awkward aiming through this left-hand hole."

      "Ah!" said the detective. "Why is it awkward?"

      "Because it's too near the sideboard. I can't get my eye there to sight along the pistol barrel."

      "You mean your right eye?"

      "Of course."

      "Could you get your left eye there?"

      "Yes, but if I aimed with my left eye I'd have to fire with my left hand and I couldn't hit a cow that way."

      Coquenil looked at Tignol steadily. "You could if you were a left-handed man."

      "You mean to say—" The other stared.

      "I mean to say that this man, at a critical moment, fired through that awkward hole near the sideboard when he might just as well have fired through the other hole away from the sideboard. Which shows that it was an easy and natural thing for him to do, consequently——"

      "Consequently," exulted the old man, "we've got to look for a left-handed murderer, is that it?"

      "What do you think?" smiled the detective.

      Papa Tignol paused, and then, bobbing his head in comical seriousness: "I think, if I were this man, I'd sooner have the devil after me than Paul Coquenil."

      Chapter IX.

       Coquenil Marks His Man

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      It was nearly four o'clock when Coquenil left the Ansonia and started up the Champs Elysées, breathing deep of the early morning air. The night was still dark, although day was breaking in the east. And what a night it had been! How much had happened since he walked with his dog to Notre-Dame the evening before! Here was the whole course of his life changed, yes, and his prospects put in jeopardy by this extraordinary decision. How could he explain what he had done to his wise old mother? How could he unsay all that he had said to her a few days before when he had shown her that this trip to Brazil was quite for the best and bade her a fond farewell? Could he explain it to anyone, even to himself? Did he honestly believe all the СКАЧАТЬ