The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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waited in the cab. And Jean, the garçon, had a good look at her and he told Rose, the chambermaid, and she had a look and recognized her as the woman whose photograph she had often seen in the American's room."
"Ah, that's lucky!" rejoined the judge. "And you have this photograph?"
"No, but——"
"You said you found it?" put in Coquenil.
"I did, that is, I found a piece of it, a corner that wasn't burned."
"Burned?" cried the others.
"Yes," said Gibelin, "that's what Kittredge went upstairs for, to burn the photograph and a lot of letters—her letters, probably. The fireplace was full of fresh ashes. Rose says it was clean before he went up, so I picked out the best fragments—here they are." He drew a small package from his pocket, and opening it carefully, showed a number of charred or half-burned pieces of paper on which words in a woman's handwriting could be plainly read.
"More fragments!" muttered Coquenil, examining them. "It's in English. Ah, is this part of the photograph?" He picked out a piece of cardboard.
"Yes. You see the photographer's name is on it."
"Watts, Regent Street, London," deciphered the detective. "That is something." And, turning to the judge: "Wouldn't it be a good idea to send a man to London with this? You can make out part of a lace skirt and the tip of a slipper. It might be enough."
"That's true," agreed Hauteville.
"Whoever goes," continued Coquenil, "had better carry him the five-pound notes found on Martinez and see if he can trace them through the Bank of England. They often take the names of persons to whom their notes are issued."
"Excellent. I'll see to it at once," and, ringing for his secretary, the judge gave orders to this effect.
To all of which Gibelin listened with a mocking smile. "But why so much trouble," he asked, "when you have the woman's name and address already?"
"I had them and I—I lost them," acknowledged M. Paul, and in a few words he explained what had happened.
"Oh," sneered the other, "I thought you were a skillful wrestler."
"Come back to the point," put in Hauteville. "Had the chambermaid ever seen this lady before?"
"Yes, but not recently. It seems that Kittredge moved to the Hôtel des Étrangers about seven months ago, and soon after that the lady came to see him. Rose says she came three times."
"Did she go to Kittredge's room?" put in Coquenil.
"Yes."
"Can the chambermaid describe her?" continued the judge.
"She says the lady was young and good-looking—that's about all she remembers."
"Hm! Have you anything else to report?"
Gibelin chuckled harshly. "I have kept the most important thing for the last. I'm afraid it will annoy my distinguished colleague even more than the loss of the leather fragments."
"Don't waste your sympathy," retorted Coquenil.
Gibelin gave a little snort of defiance. "I certainly won't. I only mean that your début in this case hasn't been exactly—ha, ha!--well, not exactly brilliant."
"Here, here!" reproved the judge. "Let us have the facts."
"Well," continued the red-haired man, "I have found the owner of the pistol that killed Martinez."
Coquenil started. "The owner of the pistol we found in the courtyard?"
"Precisely. I should tell you, also, that the balls from that pistol are identical with the ball extracted from the body. The autopsy proves it, so Dr. Joubert says. And this pistol belongs in a leather holster that I found in Mr. Kittredge's room. Dr. Joubert let me take the pistol for verification and—there, you can see for yourselves."
With this he produced the holster and the pistol and laid them before the judge. There was no doubt about it, the two objects belonged together. Various worn places corresponded and the weapon fitted in its case. "Besides," continued Gibelin, "the chambermaid identifies this pistol as the property of the American. He always kept it in a certain drawer, she noticed it there a few days ago, but yesterday it was gone and the holster was empty."
"It looks bad," muttered the judge.
"It looks bad, but it's too easy, it's too simple," answered M. Paul.
"In the old school," sneered Gibelin, "we are not always trying to solve problems in difficult ways. We don't reject a solution merely because it's easy—if the truth lies straight before our nose, why, we see it."
"My dear sir," retorted Coquenil angrily, "if what you think the truth turns out to be the truth, then you ought to be in charge of this case and I'm a fool."
"Granted," smiled the other.
"Come, come, gentlemen," interrupted the judge. Then abruptly to Gibelin: "Did you see about his boots?"
"No, I thought you would send to the prison and get the pair he wore last night."
"How do you know he didn't change his boots when he burned the letters? Go back to his hotel and see if they noticed a muddy pair in his room this morning. Bring me whatever boots of his you find. Also stop at the depot and get the pair he had on when arrested. Be quick!"
"I will," answered Gibelin, and he went out, pausing at the door to salute M. Paul mockingly.
"Ill-tempered brute!" said Hauteville. "I will see that he has nothing more to do with this case." Then he touched an electric bell.
"That American, Kittredge, who was arrested last night?" he said to the clerk. "Was he put in a cell?"
"No, sir, he's in with the other prisoners."
"Ah! Have him brought over here in about an hour for the preliminary examination. Make out his commitment papers for the Santé. He is to be au secret."
"Yes, sir." The clerk bowed and withdrew.
"You really think this young man innocent, do you?" remarked the judge to Coquenil.
"It's easier to think him innocent than guilty," answered the detective.
"Easier?"
"If he is guilty we must grant him an extraordinary double personality. The amiable lover becomes a desperate criminal able to conceive and carry out the most intricate murder of our time. I don't believe it. If he is guilty he must have had the key to that alleyway door. How did he get it? He must have known, that the 'tall blonde' who had engaged Number Seven would not occupy it. How did he know that? And he must have relations with the man who met me on the Champs Elysées. How could that be? Remember, he's a poor devil of a foreigner living in a Latin-Quarter attic. The thing isn't reasonable."
"But the pistol?"
"The pistol may not really be his. Gibelin's whole story needs looking into."
The judge nodded. "Of course. I leave that to you. Still, I shall feel better satisfied when we have compared the soles of his boots with the plaster casts of those alleyway footprints."
"So shall I," said Coquenil. "Suppose I see the workman who is finishing the casts?" he suggested; "it won't take long, and perhaps I can bring them back with me."
"Excellent," approved Hauteville, and he bowed with grave friendliness as the detective left the room.
Then, for nearly an hour, the judge buried himself in the details of this case, turning his trained mind, with absorbed concentration, upon the papers at hand, reviewing the evidence, comparing the various reports and opinions, and, in the light of clear reason, searching for a plausible theory of the crime. He also began notes of questions that he wished to ask Kittredge, and was deep in these when the clerk entered to inform him that Coquenil and Gibelin had returned.
"Let them come in at once," directed Hauteville,