The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
Читать онлайн книгу.
and red and not too clean, with several broken nails and calloused places. In a word, he looked the wood carver, every inch of him, and the detective was forced to admit that, if this was a disguise, it was the most admirable one he had ever seen. If this beard and hair and mustache were false, then his own make-up, the best he had ever created, was a poor thing in comparison.
During the meal Groener talked freely, speaking with a slight Belgian accent, but fluently enough. He seemed to have a naïve spirit of drollery, and he related quite amusingly an experience of his railway journey.
"You see," he laughed, showing strong white teeth, "there were two American girls in one compartment and a newly married couple in the next one, with a little glass window between. Well, the young bridegroom wanted to kiss his bride, naturally, ha, ha! It was a good chance, for they were alone, but he was afraid some one might look through the little window and see him, so he kept looking through it himself to make sure it was all right. Well, the American girls got scared seeing a man's face peeking at them like that, so one of them caught hold of a cord just above the window and pulled it down. She thought it was a curtain cord; she wanted to cover the window so the man couldn't see through. Do I make myself comprehensible, M. Matthieu?" He looked straight at Coquenil.
"Perfectly," smiled the latter.
"Well, it wasn't a curtain cord," continued the wood carver with great relish of the joke, "it was the emergency signal, which, by the regulations, must only be used in great danger, so the first thing we knew the train drew up with a terrible jerk, and there was a great shouting and opening of doors and rushing about of officials. And finally, ha, ha! they discovered that the Brussels express had been stopped, ha, ha, ha! because a bashful young fellow wanted to kiss his girl."
M. Paul marveled at the man's self-possession. Not a tone or a glance or a muscle betrayed him, he was perfectly at ease, buoyantly satisfied, one would say, with himself and all the world—in short, he suggested nothing so little as a close-tracked assassin.
In vain Coquenil tried to decide whether Groener was really unconscious of impending danger. Was he deceived by this Matthieu disguise? Or was it possible, could it be possible, that he was what he appeared to be, a simple-minded wood carver free from any wickedness or duplicity? No, no, it was marvelous acting, an extraordinary make-up, but this was his man, all right. There was the long little finger, plainly visible, the identical finger of his seventeenth-century cast. Yes, this was the enemy, the murderer, delivered into his hands through some unaccountable fortune, and now to be watched like precious prey, and presently to be taken and delivered over to justice. It seemed too good to be true, too easy, yet there was the man before him, and despite his habit of caution and his knowledge that this was no ordinary adversary, the detective thrilled as over a victory already won.
The wood carver went on to express delight at being back in Paris, where his work would keep him three or four days. Business was brisk, thank Heaven, with an extraordinary demand for old sideboards with carved panels of the Louis XV period, which they turned out by the dozen, ha, ha, ha! in the Brussels shop. He described with gusto and with evident inside knowledge how they got the worm holes in these panels by shooting fine shot into them and the old appearance by burying them in the ground. Then he told how they distributed the finished sideboards among farmhouses in various parts of Belgium and Holland and France, where they were left to be "discovered," ha, ha, ha! by rich collectors glad to pay big prices to the simple-minded farmers, working on commission, who had inherited these treasures from their ancestors.
Across the table Matthieu, with grinning yellow teeth, showed his appreciation of this trick in art catering, and presently, when the coffee was served, he made bold to ask M. Groener if there would be any chance for a man like himself in a wood-carving shop. He was strong and willing and—his present job at Notre-Dame was only for a few days. Papa Bonneton nearly choked over his demi tasse as he listened to this plea, but the wood carver took it seriously.
"I'll help you with pleasure," he said; "I'll take you around with me to several shops to-morrow."
"To-morrow, not to-day?" asked Matthieu, apparently disappointed.
"To-day," smiled Groener, "I enjoy myself. This afternoon I escort my pretty cousin to hear some music. Did you know that, Alice?" He turned gayly to the girl.
Since the meal began Alice had scarcely spoken, but had sat looking down at her plate save at certain moments when she would lift her eyes suddenly and fix them on Groener with a strange, half-frightened expression.
"You are very kind, Cousin Adolf," she answered timidly, "but—I'm not feeling well to-day."
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a tone of concern that had just a touch of hardness in it.
The girl hesitated, and Mother Bonneton put in harshly: "I'll tell you, she's fretting about that American who was sent to prison—a good riddance it was."
"You have no right to say that," flashed Alice.
"I have a right to tell your cousin about this foolishness. I've tried my best to look after you and be a mother to you, but when a girl won't listen to reason, when she goes to a prison to see a worthless lover——"
"Stop!" cried Alice, her beautiful eyes filling with tears.
"No, no, I'll tell it all. When a girl slips away from her work at the church and goes to see a man like Paul Coquenil——"
"Paul Coquenil?" repeated the wood carver blankly.
"Have you never heard of Paul Coquenil?" smiled Matthieu, kicking Papa Bonneton warningly under the table.
Groener looked straight at the detective and answered with perfect simplicity: "No wonder you smile, M. Matthieu, but think how far away from Paris I live! Besides, I want this to be a happy day. Come, little cousin, you shall tell me all about it when we are out together. Run along now and put on your nice dress and hat. We'll start in about half an hour."
Alice rose from the table, deathly white. She tried to speak, but the words failed her; it seemed to Coquenil that her eyes met his in desperate appeal, and then, with a glance at Groener, half of submission, half of defiance, she turned and left the room.
"Now Madam Bonneton," resumed Groener cheerfully, "while the young lady gets into her finery we might have a little talk. There are a few matters—er—" He looked apologetically at the others. "You and I will meet to-morrow, M. Matthieu; I'll see what I can do for you."
"Thanks," said Matthieu, rising in response to this hint for his departure. He bowed politely, and followed by the sacristan, went out.
"Don't speak until we get downstairs," whispered Coquenil, and they descended the four flights in silence.
"Now, Bonneton," ordered the detective sharply, when they were in the lower hallway, "don't ask questions, just do what I say. I want you to go right across to Notre-Dame, and when you get to the door take your hat off and stand there for a minute or so fanning yourself. Understand?"
The simple-minded sacristan was in a daze with all this mystery, but he repeated the words resignedly: "I'm to stand at the church door and fan myself with my hat. Is that it?"
"That's it. Then Tignol, who's watching in one of these doorways, the sly old fox, will come across and join you. Tell him to be ready to move any minute now. He'd better loaf around the corner of the church until he gets a signal from me. I'll wait here. Now go on."
"But let me say—" began the other in mild protest. "No, no," broke in M. Paul impatiently, "there's no time. Listen! Some one is coming down. Go, go!"
"I'm going, M. Paul, I'm going," obeyed Bonneton, and he hurried across the few yards of pavement that separated them from the cathedral.
Meantime, the step on the stairs came nearer. It was a light, quick step, and, looking up, Coquenil saw Alice hurrying toward him, tense with some eager purpose.
"Oh, M. Matthieu!" exclaimed the girl in apparent surprise. Then going close to him she said in a low tone that quivered with emotion: "I came after you, I must speak to you, I—I know who you are."
He