The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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this name was spoken, but neither saw the slightest sign of emotion.
"Martinez?" echoed the prisoner indifferently. "I never heard of him."
"Ah! You'll hear enough of him before you get through," nodded Hauteville grimly. "The law requires that a prisoner have the advantage of counsel during examination. So I ask if you will provide a lawyer?"
"No," answered the accused.
"Then the court will assign a lawyer for your defense. Ask Maître Curé to come in," he directed the clerk.
"It's quite useless," shrugged the prisoner with careless arrogance, "I will have nothing to do with Maître Curé."
"I warn you, Groener, in your own interest, to drop this offensive tone."
"Ta, ta, ta! I'll take what tone I please. And I'll answer your questions as I please or—or not at all."
At this moment the clerk returned followed by Maître Curé, a florid-faced, brisk-moving, bushy-haired man in tight frock coat, who suggested an opera impresario. He seemed amused when told that the prisoner rejected his services, and established himself comfortably in a corner of the room as an interested spectator.
Then the magistrate resumed sternly: "You were arrested, sir, this afternoon in the company of a woman. Do you know who she is?"
"I do. She is a lady of my acquaintance."
"A lady whom you met at Madam Cecile's?"
"Why not?"
"You met her there by appointment?"
"Ye-es."
The judge snorted incredulously. "You don't even know her name?"
"You think not?"
"Well, what is it?"
"Why should I tell you? Is she charged with murder?" was the sneering answer.
"Groener," said Hauteville sternly, "you say this woman is a person of your acquaintance. We'll see." He touched the bell, and as the door opened, "Madam Cecile," he said.
A moment later, with a breath of perfume, there swept in a large, overdressed woman of forty-five with bold, dark eyes and hair that was too red to be real. She bowed to the judge with excessive affability and sat down.
"You are Madam Cecile?"
"Yes, sir."
"You keep a maison de rendez-vous on the Place de la Madeleine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Look at this man," he pointed to the prisoner. "Have you ever seen him before?"
"I have seen him—once."
"When was that?"
"This afternoon. He called at my place and—" she hesitated.
"Tell me what happened—everything."
"He spoke to me and—he said he wanted a lady. I asked him what kind of a lady he wanted, and he said he wanted a real lady, not a fake. I told him I had a very pretty widow and he looked at her, but she wasn't chic enough. Then I told him I had something special, a young married woman, a beauty, whose husband has plenty of money only——"
"Never mind that," cut in the judge. "What then?"
"He looked her over and said she would do. He offered her five hundred francs if she would leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage. It seemed queer but we see lots of queer things, and five hundred francs is a nice sum. He paid it in advance, so I told her to go ahead and—she did."
"Do you think he knew the woman?"
"I'm sure he did not."
"He simply paid her five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"
"Exactly."
"That will do. You may go."
With a sigh of relief and a swish of her perfumed skirts, Madam Cecile left the room.
"What do you say to that, Groener?" questioned the judge.
"She's a disreputable person and her testimony has no value," answered the prisoner unconcernedly.
"Did you pay five hundred francs to the woman who left the house with you?"
"Certainly not."
"Do you still maintain that she is a lady whom you know personally?"
"I do."
Again Hauteville touched the bell. "The lady who was brought with this man," he directed.
Outside there sounded a murmur of voices and presently a young woman, handsomely dressed and closely veiled, was led in by a guard. She was almost fainting with fright.
The judge rose courteously and pointed to a chair. "Sit down, madam. Try to control yourself. I shall detain you only a minute. Now—what is your name?"
The woman sat silent, wringing her hands in distress, then she burst out: "It will disgrace me, it will ruin me."
"Not at all," assured Hauteville. "Your name will not go on the records—you need not even speak it aloud. Simply whisper it to me."
Rising in agitation the lady went to the judge's desk and spoke to him inaudibly.
"Really!" he exclaimed, eying her in surprise as she stood before him, face down, the picture of shame.
"I have only two questions to ask," he proceeded. "Look at this man and tell me if you know him," he pointed to the accused.
She shook her head and answered in a low tone: "I never saw him before this afternoon."
"You met him at Madam Cecile's?"
"Ye-es," very faintly.
"And he paid you five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"
She nodded but did not speak.
"That was the only service you were to render, was it, for this sum of money, simply to leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage?"
"That was all."
"Thank you, madam. I hope you will learn a lesson from this experience. You may go."
Staggering, gasping for breath, clinging weakly to the guard's arm, the lady left the room.
"Now, sir, what have you to say?" demanded the judge, facing the prisoner.
"Nothing."
"You admit that the lady told the truth?"
"Ha, ha!" the other laughed harshly. "A lady would naturally tell the truth in such a predicament, wouldn't she?"
At this the judge leaned over to Coquenil and, after some low words, he spoke to the clerk who bowed and went out.
"You denied a moment ago," resumed the questioner, "that your name is Groener. Also that you were disguised this afternoon as a wood carver. Do you deny that you have a room, rented by the year, in the house where Madam Cecile has her apartment? Ah, that went home!" he exclaimed. "You thought we would overlook the little fifth-floor room, eh?"
"I know nothing about such a room," declared the other.
"I suppose you didn't go there to change your clothes before you called at Madam Cecile's?"
"Certainly not."
"Call Jules," said Hauteville to the sleepy guard standing at the door, and straightway the clerk reappeared with a large leather bag.
"Open it," directed the magistrate. "Spread the things on the table. Let the prisoner look at them. Now then, my stubborn friend, what about these garments? What about this wig and false beard?"
Groener rose wearily from his chair, walked deliberately to the table and glanced at the exposed objects without betraying the slightest interest or confusion.
"I've