The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett. Cleveland Moffett
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terror that went through you when you answered 'worsted work' to 'Charity Bazaar.'"
The prisoner bounded to his feet with a hoarse cry: "My God, you have no right to torture me like this!" His face was deathly white, his eyes were staring.
"We've got him going now," muttered Coquenil.
"Sit down!" ordered the judge. "You can stop this examination very easily by telling the truth."
The prisoner dropped back weakly on his chair and sat with eyes closed and head fallen forward. He did not speak.
"Do you hear, Groener?" continued Hauteville. "You can save yourself a great deal of trouble by confessing your part in this crime. Look here! Answer me!"
With an effort the man straightened up and met the judge's eyes. His face was drawn as with physical pain.
"I—I feel faint," he murmured. "Could you—give me a little brandy?"
"Here," said Coquenil, producing a flask. "Let him have a drop of this."
The guard put the flask to the prisoner's lips and Groener took several swallows.
"Thanks!" he whispered.
"I told you it wouldn't be amusing," said the magistrate grimly. "Come now, it's one thing or the other, either you confess or we go ahead."
"I have nothing to confess, I know nothing about this crime—nothing."
"Then what was the matter with you just now?"
With a flash of his former insolence the prisoner answered: "Look at that clock and you'll see what was the matter. It's after ten, you've had me here for five hours and—I've had no food since noon. It doesn't make a man a murderer because he's hungry, does it?"
The plea seemed reasonable and the prisoner's distress genuine, but, somehow, Coquenil was skeptical; he himself had eaten nothing since midday, he had been too busy and absorbed, and he was none the worse for it; besides, he remembered what a hearty luncheon the wood carver had eaten and he could not quite believe in this sudden exhaustion. Several times, furthermore, he fancied he had caught Groener's eye fixed anxiously on the clock. Was it possible the fellow was trying to gain time? But why? How could that serve him? What could he be waiting for?
As the detective puzzled over this there shot through his mind an idea for a move against Groener's resistance, so simple, yet promising such dramatic effectiveness that he turned quickly to Hauteville and said: "I think it might be as well to let him have some supper."
The judge nodded in acquiescence and directed the guard to take the prisoner into the outer office and have something to eat brought in for him.
"Well," he asked when they were alone, "what is it?"
Then, for several minutes Coquenil talked earnestly, convincingly, while the magistrate listened.
"It ought not to take more than an hour or so to get the things here," concluded the detective, "and if I read the signs right, it will just about finish him."
"Possibly, possibly," reflected the judge. "Anyhow it's worth trying," and he gave the necessary orders to his clerk. "Let Tignol go," he directed. "Tell him to wake the man up, if he's in bed, and not to mind what it costs. Tell him to take an auto. Hold on, I'll speak to him myself."
The clerk waited respectfully at the door as the judge hurried out, whereupon Coquenil, lighting a cigarette, moved to the open window and stood there for a long time blowing contemplative smoke rings into the quiet summer night.
Chapter XXV.
The Moving Picture
"Are you feeling better?" asked the judge an hour later when the accused was led back.
"Yes," answered Groener with recovered self-possession, and again the detective noticed that he glanced anxiously at the clock. It was a quarter past eleven.
"We will have the visual test now," said Hauteville; "we must go to another room. Take the prisoner to Dr. Duprat's laboratory," he directed the guard.
Passing down the wide staircase, strangely silent now, they entered a long narrow passageway leading to a remote wing of the Palais de Justice. First went the guard with Groener close beside him, then twenty paces, behind came M. Paul and the magistrate and last came the weary clerk with Maître Curé. Their footsteps, echoed ominously along the stone floor, their shadows danced fantastically before them and behind them under gas jets that flared through the tunnel.
"I hope this goes off well," whispered the judge uneasily. "You don't think they have forgotten anything?"
"Trust Papa Tignol to obey orders," replied Coquenil. "Ah!" he started and gripped his companion's arm. "Do you remember what I told you about those alleyway footprints? About the pressure marks? Look!" and he pointed ahead excitedly. "I knew it, he has gout or rheumatism, just touches that come and go. He had it that night when he escaped from the Ansonia and he has it now. See!"
The judge observed the prisoner carefully and nodded in agreement. There was no doubt about it, as he walked Groener was limping noticeably on his left foot!
Dr. Duprat was waiting for them in his laboratory, absorbed in recording the results of his latest experiments. A kind-eyed, grave-faced man was this, who, for all his modesty, was famous over Europe as a brilliant worker in psychological criminology. Bertillon had given the world a method of identifying criminals' bodies, and now Duprat was perfecting a method of recognizing their mental states, especially any emotional disturbances connected with fear, anger or remorse.
Entering the laboratory, they found themselves in a large room, quite dark, save for an electric lantern at one end that threw a brilliant circle on a sheet stretched at the other end. The light reflected from this sheet showed the dim outlines of a tiered amphitheater before which was a long table spread with strange-looking instruments, electrical machines and special apparatus for psychological experiments. On the walls were charts and diagrams used by the doctor in his lectures.
"Everything ready?" inquired the magistrate after an exchange of greetings with Dr. Duprat.
"Everything," answered the latter. "Is this the—er—the subject?" he glanced at the prisoner.
Hauteville nodded and the doctor beckoned to the guard.
"Please bring him over here. That's right—in front of the lantern." Then he spoke gently to Groener: "Now, my friend, we are not going to do anything that will cause you the slightest pain or inconvenience. These instruments look formidable, but they are really good friends, for they help us to understand one another. Most of the trouble in this world comes because half the people do not understand the other half. Please turn sideways to the light."
For some moments he studied the prisoner in silence.
"Interesting, ve-ry interesting," murmured the doctor, his fine student's face alight. "Especially the lobe of this ear! I will leave a note about it for Bertillon himself, he mustn't miss the lobe of this ear. Please turn a little for the back of the head. Thanks! Great width! Extraordinary fullness. Now around toward the light! The eyes—ah! The brow—excellent! Yes, yes, I know about the hand," he nodded to Coquenil, "but the head is even more remarkable. I must study this head when we have time—ve-ry remarkable. Tell me, my friend, do you suffer from sudden shooting pains—here, over your eyes?"
"No," said Groener.
"No? I should have thought you might. Well, well!" he proceeded kindly, "we must have a talk one of these days. Perhaps I can make some suggestions. I see so many heads, but—not many like yours, no, no, not many like yours."
He paused and glanced toward an assistant who was busy with the lantern. The assistant looked up and nodded respectfully.
"Ah, we can begin," continued the doctor. "We must have these