True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland

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СКАЧАТЬ he had said to Pougeot and the others about this crime? Was it really the wonderful affair he had made out? After all, what had he acted on? A girl's dream and an odd coincidence. Was that enough? Was that enough to make a man alter his whole life and face extraordinary danger? Was it enough?

      Extraordinary danger! Why did this sense of imminent peril haunt him and fascinate him? What was there in this crime that made it different from many other crimes on which he had been engaged? Those holes through the wall? Well, yes, he had never seen anything quite like that. And the billiard player's motive in boring the holes and the woman's rôle and the intricacy and ingenuity of the murderer's plan—all these offered an extraordinary problem. And it certainly was strange that this candle-selling girl with the dreams and the purplish eyes had appeared again as the suspected American's sweetheart! He had heard this from Papa Tignol, and how Alice had stood ready to brave everything for her lover when Gibelin marched him off to prison. Poor Gibelin!

      So Coquenil's thoughts ran along as he neared the Place de l'Etoile. Well, it was too late to draw back. He had made his decision and he must abide by it, his commission was signed, his duty lay before him. By nine o'clock he must be at the Palais de Justice to report to Hauteville. No use going home. Better have a rubdown and a cold plunge at the haman, then a turn on the mat with the professional wrestler, and then a few hours sleep. That would put him in shape for the day's work with its main business of running down this woman in the case, this lady of the cloak and leather bag, whose name and address he fortunately had. Ah, he looked forward to his interview with her! And he must prepare for it!

      Coquenil was just glancing about for a cab to the Turkish bath place, in fact he was signaling one that he saw jogging up the Avenue de la Grande Armée, when he became aware that a gentleman was approaching him with the intention of speaking. Turning quickly, he saw in the uncertain light a man of medium height with a dark beard tinged with gray, wearing a loose black cape overcoat and a silk hat. The stranger saluted politely and said with a slight foreign accent: "How are you, M. Louis? I have been expecting you."

      The words were simple enough, yet they contained a double surprise for Coquenil. He was at a loss to understand how he could have been expected here where he had come by the merest accident, and, certainly, this was the first time in twenty years that anyone, except his mother, had addressed him as Louis. He had been christened Louis Paul, but long ago he had dropped the former name, and his most intimate friends knew him only as Paul Coquenil.

      "How do you know that my name is Louis?" answered the detective with a sharp glance.

      "I know a great deal about you," answered the other, and then with significant emphasis: "I know that you are interested in dreams. May I walk along with you?"

      "You may," said Coquenil, and at once his keen mind was absorbed in this new problem. Instinctively he felt that something momentous was preparing.

      "Rather clever, your getting on that cab to-night," remarked the other.

      "Ah, you know about that?"

      "Yes, and about the Rio Janeiro offer. We want you to reconsider your decision." His voice was harsh and he spoke in a quick, brusque way, as one accustomed to the exercise of large authority.

      "Who, pray, are 'we'?" asked the detective.

      "Certain persons interested in this Ansonia affair."

      "Persons whom you represent?"

      "In a way."

      "Persons who know about the crime—I mean, who know the truth about it?"

      "Possibly."

      "Hm! Do these persons know what covered the holes in Number Seven?"

      "A Japanese print."

      "And in Number Six?"

      "Some yellow hangings."

      "Ah!" exclaimed Coquenil in surprise. "Do they know why Martinez bored these holes?"

      "To please the woman," was the prompt reply.

      "Did she want Martinez killed?"

      "No."

      "Then why did she want the holes bored?"

      "She wanted to see into Number Seven."

      It was extraordinary, not only the man's knowledge but his unaccountable frankness. And more than ever the detective was on his guard.

      "I see you know something about the affair," he said dryly. "What do you want with me?"

      "The persons I represent——"

      "Say the person you represent," interrupted Coquenil. "A criminal of this type acts alone."

      "As you like," answered the other carelessly. "Then the person I represent wishes you to withdraw from this case."

      The message was preposterous, the manner of its delivery fantastic, yet there was something vaguely formidable in the stranger's tone, as if a great person had spoken, one absolutely sure of himself and of his power to command.

      "Naturally," retorted Coquenil.

      "Why do you say naturally?"

      "It's natural for a criminal to wish that an effort against him should cease. Tell your friend or employer that I am only mildly interested in his wishes."

      He spoke with deliberate hostility, but the dark-bearded man answered, quite unruffled: "Ah, I may be able to heighten your interest."

      "Come, come, sir, my time is valuable."

      The stranger drew from his coat pocket a large thick envelope fastened with an elastic band and handed it to the detective. "Whatever your time is worth," he said in a rasping voice, "I will pay for it. Please look at this."

      Coquenil's curiosity was stirred. Here was no commonplace encounter, at least it was a departure from ordinary criminal methods. Who was this supercilious man? How dared he come on such an errand to him, Paul Coquenil? What desperate purpose lurked behind his self-confident mask? Could it be that he knew the assassin or—or was he the assassin?

      Wondering thus, M. Paul opened the tendered envelope and saw that it contained a bundle of thousand-franc notes.

      "There is a large sum here," he remarked.

      "Fifty thousand francs. It's for you, and as much more will be handed you the day you sail for Brazil. Just a moment—let me finish. This sum is a bonus in addition to the salary already fixed. And, remember, you have a life position there with a brilliant chance of fame. That is what you care about, I take it—fame; it is for fame you want to follow up this crime."

      Coquenil snapped his fingers. "I don't care that for fame. I'm going to work out this case for the sheer joy of doing it."

      "You will never work out this case!" The man spoke so sternly and with such a menacing ring in his voice that M. Paul felt a chill of apprehension.

      "Why not?" he asked.

      "Because you will not be allowed to; it's doubtful if you could work it out, but there's a chance that you could and we don't purpose to СКАЧАТЬ