The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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must be."
Coquenil turned back and forth, snapping his fingers softly. "I'm nervous, Papa Tignol," he said; "I ought not to have let him go in here, I ought to have nailed him when I had him. He's too dangerous a man to take chances with and—mille tonneres, the roof!"
Tignol shook his head. "I don't think so. He might get through one scuttle, but he'd have a devil of a time getting in at another. He has no tools."
Coquenil looked at his watch. "He's been in there fifteen minutes. I'll give him five minutes more. If he isn't out then, we'll search the whole block from roof to cellar. Papa Tignol, it will break my heart if this fellow gets away."
He laid an anxious hand on his companion's arm and stood moodily silent, then suddenly his fingers closed with a grip that made the old man wince.
"Suffering gods!" muttered the detective, "he's coming!"
As he spoke the glass door at the foot of the stairs opened and a handsome couple advanced toward them, both dressed in the height of fashion, the woman young and graceful, the man a perfect type of the dashing boulevardier.
"No, no, you're crazy," whispered Tignol.
As the couple reached the sidewalk, Coquenil himself hesitated. In the better light he could see no resemblance between the wood carver and this gentleman with his smart clothes, his glossy silk hat, and his haughty eyeglass. The wood carver's hair was yellowish brown, this man's was dark, tinged with gray; the wood carver wore a beard and mustache, this man was clean shaven—finally, the wood carver was shorter and heavier than this man.
While the detective wavered, the gentleman stepped forward courteously and opened the door of a waiting coupé. The lady caught up her silken skirts and was about to enter when Coquenil brushed against her, as if by accident, and her purse fell to the ground.
"Stupid brute!" exclaimed the gentleman angrily, as he bent over and reached for the purse with his gloved hand.
At the same moment Coquenil seized the extended wrist in such fierce and sudden attack that, before the man could think of resisting, he was held helpless with his left arm bent behind him in twisted torture.
"No nonsense, or you'll break your arm," he warned his captive as the latter made an ineffectual effort against him. "Call the others," he ordered, and Tignol blew a shrill summons. "Rip off this glove. I want to see his hand. Come, come, none of that. Open it up. No? I'll make you open it. There, I thought so," as an excruciating wrench forced the stubborn fist to yield. "Now then, off with that glove! Ah!" he cried as the bare hand came to view. "I thought so. It's too bad you couldn't hide that long little finger! Tignol, quick with the handcuffs! There, I think we have you safely landed now, M. Adolf Groener!"
The prisoner had not spoken a word; now he flashed at Coquenil a look of withering contempt that the detective long remembered, and, leaning close, he whispered: "You poor fool!"
Chapter XXIII.
Groener at Bay
Two hours later (it was nearly seven) Judge Hauteville sat in his office at the Palais de Justice, hurrying through a meal that had been brought in from a restaurant.
"There," he muttered, wiping his mouth, "that will keep me going for a few hours," and he touched the bell.
"Is M. Coquenil back yet?" he asked when the clerk appeared.
"Yes, sir," replied the latter, "he's waiting."
"Good! I'll see him."
The clerk withdrew and presently ushered in the detective.
"Sit down," motioned the judge. "Coquenil, I've done a hard day's work and I'm tired, but I'm going to examine this man of yours to-night."
"I'm glad of that," said M. Paul, "I think it's important."
"Important? Humph! The morning would do just as well—however, we'll let that go. Remember, you have no standing in this case. The work has been done by Tignol, the warrant was served by Tignol, and the witnesses have been summoned by Tignol. Is that understood?"
"Of course."
"That is my official attitude," smiled Hauteville, unbending a little; "I needn't add that, between ourselves, I appreciate what you have done, and if this affair turns out as I hope it will, I shall do my best to have your services properly recognized."
Coquenil bowed.
"Now then," continued the judge, "have you got the witnesses?"
"They are all here except Father Anselm. He has been called to the bedside of a dying woman, but we have his signed statement that he had nothing to do with the girl's escape."
"Of course not, we knew that, anyway. And the girl?"
"I went for her myself. She is outside."
"And the prisoner?"
"He's in another room under guard. I thought it best he shouldn't see the witnesses."
"Quite right. He'd better not see them when he comes through the outer office. You attend to that."
"Bien!"
"Is there anything else before I send for him? Oh, the things he wore? Did you find them?"
The detective nodded. "We found that he has a room on the fifth floor, over Madam Cecile's. He keeps it by the year. He made his change there, and we found everything that he took off—the wig, the beard, and the rough clothes."
The judge rubbed his hands. "Capital! Capital! It's a great coup. We may as well begin. I want you to be present, Coquenil, at the examination."
"Ah, that's kind of you!" exclaimed M. Paul.
"Not kind at all, you'll be of great service. Get those witnesses out of sight and then bring in the man."
A few moments later the prisoner entered, walking with hands manacled, at the side of an imposing garde de Paris. He still wore his smart clothes, and was as coldly self-possessed as at the moment of his arrest. He seemed to regard both handcuffs and guard as petty details unworthy of his attention, and he eyed the judge and Coquenil with almost patronizing scrutiny.
"Sit there," said Hauteville, pointing to a chair, and the newcomer obeyed indifferently.
The clerk settled himself at his desk and prepared to write.
"What is your name?" began the judge.
"I don't care to give my name," answered the other.
"Why not?"
"That's my affair."
"Is your name Adolf Groener?"
"No."
"Are you a wood carver?"
"No."
"Have you recently been disguised as a wood carver?"
"No."
He spoke the three negatives with a listless, rather bored air.
"Groener, you are lying and I'll prove it shortly. Tell me, first, if you have money to employ a lawyer?"
"Possibly, but I wish no lawyer."
"That is not the question. You are under suspicion of having committed a crime and——"
"What crime?" asked the prisoner sharply.
"Murder," said the judge; then impressively, after a pause: "We have reason to think that you shot the billiard player, Martinez."
Both judge and detective