The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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scrutiny.
"M. Paul, upon my soul!" exclaimed the sacristan. "What are you doing here at this hour?"
"It's a little—er—personal matter," coughed Coquenil discreetly, "partly about Cæsar. Can we sit down somewhere?"
Still wondering, Bonneton led the way to a small room adjoining the treasure chamber, where a dim lamp was burning; here he and his associates got alternate snatches of sleep during the night.
"Hey, François!" He shook a sleeping figure on a cot bed, and the latter roused himself and sat up. "It's time to make the round."
François looked stupidly at Coquenil and then, with a yawn and a shrug of indifference, he called to the dog, while Cæsar growled his reluctance.
"It's all right, old fellow," encouraged Coquenil, "I'll see you again," whereupon Cæsar trotted away reassured.
"Take this chair," said the sacristan. "I'll sit on the bed. We don't have many visitors."
"Now, then," began M. Paul. "I'll come to the dog in a minute—don't worry. I'm not going to take him away. But first I want to ask about that girl who sells candles. She boards with you, doesn't she?"
"Yes."
"You know she's in love with this American who's in prison?"
"I know."
"She came to see me the other day."
"She did?"
"Yes, and the result of her visit was—well, it has made a lot of trouble. What I'm going to say is absolutely between ourselves—you mustn't tell a soul, least of all your wife."
"You can trust me, M. Paul," declared Papa Bonneton rubbing his hands in excitement.
"To begin with, who is the man with the long little finger that she told me about?" He put the questions carelessly, as if it were of no particular moment.
"Why, that's Groener," answered Bonneton simply.
"Groener? Oh, her cousin?"
"Yes."
"I'm interested," went on the detective with the same indifferent air, "because I have a collection of plaster hands at my house—I'll show it to you some day—and there's one with a long little finger that the candle girl noticed. Is her cousin's little finger really very long?"
"It's pretty long," said Bonneton. "I used to think it had been stretched in some machine. You know he's a wood carver."
"I know. Well, that's neither here nor there. The point is, this girl had a dream that—why, what's the matter?"
"Don't talk to me about her dreams!" exclaimed the sacristan. "She used to have us scared to death with 'em. My wife won't let her tell 'em any more, and it's a good thing she won't." For a mild man he spoke with surprising vehemence.
"Bonneton," continued the detective mysteriously, "I don't know whether it's from her dreams or in some other way, but that girl knows things that—that she has no business to know."
Then, briefly and impressively, Coquenil told of the extraordinary revelations that Alice had made, not only to him, but to the director of the Santé prison.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" muttered the old man. "I think she's possessed of the devil."
"She's possessed of dangerous knowledge, and I want to know where she got it. I want to know all about this girl, who she is, where she came from, everything. And that's where you can help me."
Bonneton shook his head. "We know very little about her, and, the queer thing is, she seems to know very little about herself."
"Perhaps she knows more than she wants to tell."
"Perhaps, but—I don't think so. I believe she is perfectly honest. Anyhow, her cousin is a stupid fellow. He comes on from Brussels every five or six months and spends two nights with us—never more, never less. He eats his meals, attends to his commissions for wood carving, takes Alice out once in the afternoon or evening, gives my wife the money for her board, and that's all. For five years it's been the same—you know as much about him in one visit as you would in a hundred. There's nothing much to know; he's just a stupid wood carver."
"You say he takes Alice out every time he comes? Is she fond of him?"
"Why—er—yes, I think so, but he upsets her. I've noticed she's nervous just before his visits, and sort of sad after them. My wife says the girl has her worst dreams then."
Coquenil took out a box of cigarettes. "You don't mind if I smoke?" And, without waiting for permission, he lighted one of his Egyptians and inhaled long breaths of the fragrant smoke. "Not a word, Bonneton! I want to think." Then for full five minutes he sat silent.
"I have it!" he exclaimed presently. "Tell me about this man François."
"François?" answered the sacristan in surprise. "Why, he helps me with the night work here."
"Where does he live?"
"In a room near here."
"Where does he eat?"
"He takes two meals with us."
"Ah! Do you think he would like to make a hundred francs by doing nothing? Of course he would. And you would like to make five hundred?"
"Five hundred francs?" exclaimed Bonneton, with a frightened look.
"Don't be afraid," laughed the other. "I'm not planning to steal the treasure. When do you expect this wood carver again?"
"It's odd you should ask that, for my wife only told me this morning she's had a letter from him. We didn't expect him for six weeks yet, but it seems he'll be here next Wednesday. Something must have happened."
"Next Wednesday," reflected Coquenil. "He always comes when he says he will?"
"Always. He's as regular as clockwork."
"And he spends two nights with you?"
"Yes."
"That will be Wednesday night and Thursday night of next week?"
"Yes."
"Good! Now I'll show you how you're going to make this money. I want François to have a little vacation; he looks tired. I want him to go into the country on Tuesday and stay until Friday."
"And his work? Who will do his work?"
Coquenil smiled quietly and tapped his breast.
"You?"
"I will take François's place. I'll be the best assistant you ever had and I shall enjoy Mother Bonneton's cooking."
"You will take your meals with us?" cried the sacristan aghast. "But they all know you."
"None of them will know me; you won't know me yourself."
"Ah, I see," nodded the old man wisely. "You will have a disguise. But my wife has sharp eyes."
"If she knows me, or if the candle girl knows me, I'll give you a thousand francs instead of five hundred. Now, here is the money for François"—he handed the sacristan a hundred-franc note—"and here are five hundred francs for you. I shall come on Tuesday, ready for work. When do you want me?"
"At six o'clock," answered the sacristan doubtfully. "But what shall I say if anyone asks me about it?"
"Say François was sick, and you got your old friend Matthieu to replace him for a few days. I'm Matthieu!"
Papa Bonneton touched the five crisp bank notes caressingly; their clean blue and white attracted him irresistibly.
"You wouldn't get me into trouble, M. Paul?" he appealed weakly.
"Papa Bonneton," answered Coquenil earnestly, "have I ever shown you anything but friendship? When old Max died and you asked me to lend you Cæsar I did it, didn't I? And you know what Cæsar is to me. I love that dog, if anything happened to him—well, I