Through the Wall Part 14

"And end the case?"

"Why--er----"

"Yes, it would. A case is ended when the murderer is discovered. Well, this case is _not_ ended, you can be sure of that. The murderer I am looking for _is not that kind of a murderer_. To begin with, he's not a fool. If he made up his mind to shoot a man in a private room he would know _exactly_ what he was doing and _exactly_ how he was going to escape."

"But the facts are there--I've given them to you," retorted the commissary a little nettled.

Coquenil shook his head.

"My dear Lucien, you have given me _some_ of the facts; before morning I hope we'll have others and--h.e.l.lo!"

He stopped abruptly to look at a comical little man with a very large mouth, the owner of the place, who had been hovering about for some moments as if anxious to say something.

"What is it, my friend?" asked Coquenil good-naturedly.

At this the proprietor coughed in embarra.s.sment and motioned to a prim, thin-faced woman in the front room who came forward with fidgety shyness, begging the gentlemen to forgive her if she had done wrong, but there was something on her conscience and she couldn't sleep without telling it.

"Well?" broke in Pougeot impatiently, but Coquenil gave the woman a rea.s.suring look and she went on to explain that she was a spinster living in a little attic room of the next house, overlooking the Rue Marboeuf. She worked as a seamstress all day in a hot, crowded _atelier_, and when she came home at night she loved to go out on her balcony, especially these fine summer evenings. She would stand there and brush her hair while she watched the sunset deepen and the swallows circle over the chimney tops. It was an excellent thing for a woman's hair to brush it a long time every night; she always brushed hers for half an hour--that was why it was so thick and glossy.

"But, my dear woman," smiled Coquenil, "what has that to do with me? I have very little hair and no time to brush it."

The seamstress begged his pardon, the point was that on the previous evening, just as she had nearly finished brus.h.i.+ng her hair, she suddenly heard a sound like a pistol shot from across the street, and looking down, she saw a glittering object thrown from a window. She saw it distinctly and watched where it fell beyond the high wall that separated the Ansonia Hotel from an adjoining courtyard. She had not thought much about it at the moment, but, having heard that something dreadful had happened----

Coquenil could contain himself no longer and, taking the woman's arm, he hurried her to the door.

"Now," he said, "show me just _where_ you saw this glittering object thrown over the wall."

"There," she replied, pointing, "it lies to the left of that heavy doorway on the courtyard stones. I could see it from my balcony."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'There it lies to the left of that heavy doorway.'"]

"Wait!" and, speaking to Tignol in a low tone, M. Paul gave him quick instructions, whereupon the old man hurried across the street and pulled the bell at the doorway indicated.

"Is he going to see what it was?" asked the spinster eagerly.

"Yes, he is going to see what it was," and at that moment the door swung open and Papa Tignol disappeared within.

"Did you happen to see the person who threw this thing?" continued M. Paul gently.

"No, but I saw his arm."

Coquenil gave a start of satisfaction. "His arm? Then a man threw it?"

"Oh, yes, I saw his black coat sleeve and his white cuff quite plainly."

"But not his face?"

"No, only the arm."

"Do you remember the window from which he threw this object?" The detective looked at her anxiously.

"Yes, indeed, it is easy to remember; it's the end window, on the first floor of the hotel. There!"

Coquenil felt a thrill of excitement, for, unless he had misunderstood the commissary's diagram, the seamstress was pointing not to private room Number Six, _but to private room Number Seven!_

"Lucien!" he called, and, taking his friend aside, he asked: "Does that end window on the first floor belong to Number Six or Number Seven?"

"Number Seven."

"And the window next to it?"

"Number Six."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Thanks. Just a moment," and he rejoined the seamstress.

"You are giving us great a.s.sistance," he said to her politely. "I shall speak of you to the chief."

"Oh, sir," she murmured in confusion.

"But one point is not quite clear. Just look across again. You see two open windows, the end window and the one next to it. Isn't it possible that this bright thing was thrown from the window _next_ to the end one?"

"No, no."

"They are both alike and, both being open, one might easily make a mistake."

She shook her head positively. "I have made no mistake, _it was the end window_."

Just then Coquenil heard the click of the door opposite and, looking over, he saw Papa Tignol beckoning to him.

"Excuse me," he said and hurried across the street.

"It's there," whispered Tignol.

"The pistol?"

"Yes."

"You remembered what I told you?"

The old man looked hurt. "Of course I did. I haven't touched it. Nothing could make me touch it."

"Good! Papa Tignol, I want you to stay here until I come back. Things are marching along."

Again he rejoined the seamstress and, with his serious, friendly air, he began: "And you still think that s.h.i.+ning object was thrown from the _second_ window?"