The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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Curé nodded gravely in response to this appeal. "The prisoner is correct," he said.
Here Coquenil whispered to the judge.
"Certainly," nodded the latter, and, turning to Alice, who sat wondering and trembling through this agitated scene, he said: "Thank you, mademoiselle, you may go."
The girl rose and, bowing gratefully and sweetly, left the room, followed by M. Paul.
"Groener, you say that we have not yet shown you guilty of any crime. Be patient and we will overcome that objection. Where were you about midnight on the night of the 4th of July?"
"I can't say offhand," answered the other.
"Try to remember."
"Why should I?"
"You refuse? Then I will stimulate your memory," and again he touched the bell.
Coquenil entered, followed by the shrimp photographer, who was evidently much depressed.
"Do you recognize this man?" questioned Hauteville, studying the prisoner closely.
"No," came the answer with a careless shrug.
The shrimp turned to the prisoner and, at the sight of him, started forward accusingly.
"That is the man," he cried, "that is the man who choked me."
"One moment," said the magistrate. "What is your name?"
"Alexander Godin," piped the photographer.
"You live at the Hôtel des Étrangers on the Rue Racine?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are engaged to a young dressmaker who has a room near yours on the sixth floor?"
"I was engaged to her," said Alexander sorrowfully, "but there's a medical student on the same floor and——"
"No matter. You were suspicious of this young person. And on the night of July 4th you attacked a man passing along the balcony. Is that correct?"
The photographer put forth his thin hands, palms upward in mild protest. "To say that I attacked him is—is a manner of speaking. The fact is he—he—" Alexander stroked his neck ruefully.
"I understand, he turned and nearly choked you. The marks of his nails are still on your neck?"
"They are, sir," murmured the shrimp.
"And you are sure this is the man?" he pointed to the accused.
"Perfectly sure. I'll swear to it."
"Good. Now stand still. Come here, Groener. Reach out your arms as if you were going to choke this young man. Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. No, no, the other arm! I want you to put your left hand, on his neck with the nails of your thumb and fingers exactly on these marks. I said exactly. There is the thumb—right! Now the first finger—good! Now the third! And now the little finger! Don't cramp it up, reach it out. Ah!"
With breathless interest Coquenil watched the test, and, as the long little finger slowly extended to its full length, he felt a sudden mad desire to shout or leap in the pure joy of victory, for the nails of the prisoner's left hand corresponded exactly with the nail marks on the shrimp photographer's neck!
Chapter XXIV.
Thirty Important Words
"Now, Groener," resumed the magistrate after the shrimp had withdrawn, "why were you walking along this hotel balcony on the night of July 4th?"
"I wasn't," answered the prisoner coolly.
"The photographer positively identifies you."
"He's mistaken, I wasn't there."
"Ah," smiled Hauteville, with irritating affability. "You'll need a better defense than that."
"Whatever I need I shall have," came the sharp retort.
"Have you anything to say about those finger-nail marks?"
"Nothing."
"There's a peculiarity about those marks, Groener. The little finger of the hand that made them is abnormally, extraordinarily long. Experts say that in a hundred thousand hands you will not find one with so long a little finger, perhaps not one in a million. It happens that you have such a hand and such a little finger. Strange, is it not?"
"Call it strange, if you like," shrugged the prisoner.
"Well, isn't it strange? Just think, if all the men in Paris should try to fit their fingers in those finger marks, there would be only two or three who could reach the extraordinary span of that little finger."
"Nonsense! There might be fifty, there might be five hundred."
"Even so, only one of those fifty or five hundred would be positively identified as the man who choked the photographer and that one is yourself. There is the point; we have against you the evidence of Godin who saw you that night and remembers you, and the evidence of your own hand."
So clearly was the charge made that, for the first time, the prisoner dropped his scoffing manner and listened seriously.
"Admit, for the sake of argument, that I was on the balcony," he said. "Mind, I don't admit it, but suppose I was? What of it?"
"Nothing much," replied the judge grimly; "it would simply establish a strong probability that you killed Martinez."
"How so?"
"The photographer saw you stealing toward Kittredge's room carrying a pair of boots."
"I don't admit it, but—what if I were?"
"A pair of Kittredge's boots are missing. They were worn by the murderer to throw suspicion on an innocent man. They were stolen when the pistol was stolen, and the murderer tried to return them so that they might be discovered in Kittredge's room and found to match the alleyway footprints and damn Kittredge."
"I don't know who Kittredge is, and I don't know what alleyway you refer to," put in Groener.
Hauteville ignored this bravado and proceeded: "In order to steal these boots and be able to return them the murderer must have had access to Kittredge's room. How? The simplest way was to take a room in the same hotel, on the same floor, opening on the same balcony. Which is exactly what you did! The photographer saw you go into it after you choked him. You took this room for a month, but you never went back to it after the day of the crime."
"My dear sir, all this is away from the point. Granting that I choked the photographer, which I don't grant, and that I carried a pair of boots along a balcony and rented a room which I didn't occupy, how does that connect me with the murder of—what did you say his name was?"
"Martinez," answered the judge patiently.
"Ah, Martinez! Well, why did I murder this person?" asked the prisoner facetiously. "What had I to gain by his death? Can you make that clear? Can you even prove that I was at the place where he was murdered at the critical moment? By the way, where was the gentleman murdered? If I'm to defend myself I ought to have some details of the affair."
The judge and Coquenil exchanged some whispered words. Then the magistrate said quietly: "I'll give you one detail about the murderer; he is a left-handed man."
"Yes? And am I left-handed?"
"We'll know that definitely in the morning when you undergo the Bertillon measurements. In the meantime M. Coquenil can testify that you use your left hand with wonderful skill."
"Referring, I suppose," sneered the prisoner, "to our imaginary encounter on the Champs Elysées, when M. Coquenil claims to have used his teeth on my leg."
Quick as a flash M. Paul bent toward the judge and said