The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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I ought to have failed. I weakened; I had my bag packed and was actually starting for Paris, convinced that Groener had nothing to do with the case. Think of that!"
"Yes, but you didn't start."
"It was a piece of stupid luck that saved me when I ought to have known, when I ought to have been sure. And, mark you, if I had come back believing in Groener's innocence, this crime would never have been cleared up, never."
Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "La, la, la! What a man! If you had fallen into a hole you might have broken your leg! Well, you didn't fall into the hole!"
Coquenil smiled. "You're right, I ought to be pleased, I am pleased. After all, it was a neat bit of work. You see, I was waiting in the parlor of this boarding house for the widow to bring me my bill—I had spent two days there—and I happened to glance at a photograph she had shown me when I first came, a picture of Alice and herself, taken five years ago, when Alice was twelve years old. There was no doubt about the girl, and it was a good likeness of the widow. She told me she was a great friend of Alice's mother, and the picture was taken when the mother died, just before Alice went to Paris.
"Well, as I looked at the picture now, I noticed that it had no photographer's name on it, which is unusual, and it seemed to me there was something queer about the girl's hand; I went to the window and was studying the picture with my magnifying glass when I heard the woman's step outside, so I slipped it into my pocket. Then I paid my bill and came away."
"You needed that picture," approved Tignol.
"As soon as I was outside I jumped into a cab and drove to the principal photographers in Brussels. There were three of them, and at each place I showed this picture and asked how much it would cost to copy it, and as I asked the question I watched the man's face. The first two were perfectly businesslike, but the third man gave a little start and looked at me in an odd way. I made up my mind he had seen the picture before, but I didn't get anything out of him—then. In fact, I didn't try very hard, for I had my plan.
"From here I drove straight to police headquarters and had a talk with the chief. He knew me by reputation, and a note that I brought from Pougeot helped, and—well, an hour later that photographer was ready to tell me the innermost secrets of his soul."
"Eh, eh, eh!" laughed Tignol. "And what did he tell you?"
"He told me he made this picture of Alice and the widow only six weeks ago."
"Six weeks ago!" stared the other. "But the widow told you it was taken five years ago."
"Exactly!"
"Besides, Alice wasn't in Brussels six weeks ago, was she?"
"Of course not; the picture was a fake, made from a genuine one of Alice and a lady, perhaps her mother. This photographer had blotted out the lady and printed in the widow without changing the pose. It's a simple trick in photography."
"You saw the genuine picture?"
"Of course—that is, I saw a reproduction of it which the photographer made on his own account. He suspected some crooked work, and he didn't like the man who gave him the order."
"You mean the wood carver?"
Coquenil shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a wood carver, call him what you like. He didn't go to the photographer in his wood-carver disguise, he went as a gentleman in a great hurry, and willing to pay any price for the work."
Tignol twisted the long ends of his black mustache reflectively. "He was covering his tracks in advance?"
"Evidently."
"And the smooth young widow lied?"
"Lied?" snapped the detective savagely. "I should say she did. She lied about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured picture."
"Then," cried Tignol excitedly, "then Groener is not a wood carver?"
"He may be a wood carver, but he's a great deal more, he—he—" Coquenil hesitated, and then, with eyes blazing and nostrils dilating, he burst out: "If I know anything about my business, he's the man who gave me that left-handed jolt under the heart, he's the man who choked your shrimp photographer, he's the man who killed Martinez!"
"Name of a green dog!" muttered Tignol. "Is that true, or—or do you only know it?"
"It's true because I know it," answered Coquenil. "See here, I'll bet you a good dinner against a box of those vile cigarettes you smoke that this man who calls himself Alice's cousin has the marks of my teeth on the calf of one of his legs—I forget which leg it is."
"Taken!" said Tignol, and then, with sudden gravity: "But if this is true, things are getting serious, eh?"
"They've been serious."
"I mean the chase is nearly over?"
M. Paul answered slowly, as if weighing his words: "This man is desperate and full of resources, I know that, but, with the precautions I have taken, I don't see how he can escape—if he goes to Bonneton's house to-morrow."
Tignol scratched his head in perplexity. "Why in thunder is he such a fool as to go there?"
"I've wondered about that myself," mused Coquenil "Perhaps he won't go, perhaps there is some extraordinary reason why he must go."
"Some reason connected with the girl?" asked the other quickly.
"Yes."
"You say he calls himself Alice's cousin. Isn't he really her cousin?"
Coquenil shook his head. "He isn't her cousin, and she isn't Alice."
"Wha-at?"
"Her name is Mary, and he is her stepfather."
The old man stared in bewilderment. "But—how the devil do you know that?"
Coquenil smiled. "I found an inscription on the back of that Brussels photograph—I mean the genuine one—it was hidden under a hinged support, and Groener must have overlooked it. That was his second great mistake."
"What was the inscription?" asked Tignol eagerly.
"It read: 'To my dear husband, Raoul, from his devoted wife Margaret and her little Mary.' You notice it says her little Mary. That one word throws a flood of light on this case. The child was not his little Mary."
"I see, I see," reflected the old man. "And Alice? Does she know that—that she isn't Alice?"
"No."
"Does she know that Groener is her stepfather, and not her cousin?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I think I know why not, but, until I'm sure, I'd rather call it a mystery. See here, we've talked too much, you must hurry back to her. Better take an auto. And remember, Papa Tignol," he added in final warning, "there is nothing so important as to guard this girl."
A few moments later, with Cæsar bounding happily at his side, M. Paul entered the quieter paths of the great park, and presently came to a thickly wooded region that has almost the air of a natural forest. Here the two romped delightedly together, and Coquenil put the dog through many of his tricks, the fine creature fairly outdoing himself in eagerness and intelligence.
"Now, old fellow," said M. Paul, "I'll sit down here and have a cigarette," and he settled himself on a rustic bench, while Cæsar stretched out comfortably at his feet. And so the one dozed as the other drifted far away in smoke-laden reverie.
What days these had been, to be sure! How tired he was! He hadn't noticed it before, but now that everything was ready, now that he had finished his preparations—yes, he was very tired.
Everything was ready! It was good to know that. He had forgotten nothing. And, if all went well, he would soon be able to answer these questions that were fretting him. Who was Groener? Why had he killed Martinez? How had