Through the Wall Part 45

"Wait," put in Tignol, "there's something _I_ think of. You forget I've been playing the flute to-day."

"Ah, yes, of course! Any news?" questioned the detective.

The old man rubbed his nose meditatively. "My news is asleep in the next room. If it wasn't so late I'd bring him in. He's a little shrimp of a photographer, but--he's seen your murderer, all right."

"The devil!" started M. Paul. "Where?"

Tignol drew back the double doors of a long window, and pointed out to a balcony running along the front of the hotel.

"There! Let me tell you first how this floor is arranged. There are six rooms opening on that balcony. See here," and taking a sheet of paper, he made a rough diagram.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Diagram of floor-plan of rooms.]

"Now, then," continued Papa Tignol, surveying his handiwork with pride, "I think that is clear. B, here, is the balcony just outside, and there are the six rooms with windows opening on it. We are in this room D, and my friend, the little photographer, is in the next room E, peacefully sleeping; but he wasn't peaceful when he came home to-night and heard me playing that flute, although I played in my best manner, eh, eh! He stood it for about ten minutes, and then, eh, eh! It was another case of through the wall, first one boot, bang! then another boot, smas.h.!.+ only there were no holes for the boots to come through. And then it was profanity! For a small man he had a great deal of energy, eh, eh! that shrimp photographer!

I called him a shrimp when he came bouncing in here."

"Well, well?" fretted Coquenil.

"Then we got acquainted. I apologized and offered him beer, which he likes; then he apologized and told me his troubles. Poor fellow, I don't wonder his nerves are unstrung! He's in love with a pretty dressmaker who lives in this room C. She is fair but fickle--he tells me she has made him unhappy by flirting with a medical student who lives in this room G. Just a minute, I'm coming to the point.

"It seems the little photographer has been getting more and more jealous lately. He was satisfied that his lady love and the medical student used this balcony as a lover's lane, and he began lying in wait at his window for the medical student to steal past toward the dress-maker's room."

"Yes?" urged the detective with growing interest.

"For several nights last week he waited and nothing happened. But he's a patient little shrimp, so he waited again Sat.u.r.day night and--something _did_ happen. Sat.u.r.day night!"

"The night of the murder," reflected the commissary.

"That's it. It was a little after midnight, he says, and suddenly, as he stood waiting and listening, he heard a cautious step coming along the balcony from the direction of the medical student's room, G. Then he saw a man pa.s.s his window, and he was sure it was the medical student. He stepped out softly and followed him as far as the window of room C. Then, feeling certain his suspicions were justified, he sprang upon the man from behind, intending to chastise him, but he had caught the wrong pig by the ear, for the man turned on him like a flash and--_it wasn't the medical student_."

"Who was it? Go on!" exclaimed the others eagerly.

"He doesn't know who it was, or anything about the man except that his hand shut like a vise on the shrimp's throat and nearly choked the life out of him. You can see the nail marks still on the cheek and neck; but he remembers distinctly that the man carried something in his hand."

"My G.o.d! The missing pair of boots!" cried Coquenil. "Was it?"

Tignol nodded. "Sure! He was carrying 'em loose in his hand. I mean they were not wrapped up, he was going to leave 'em in Kittredge's room--here it is, A." He pointed to the diagram.

"It's true, it must be true," murmured M. Paul. "And what then?"

"Nothing. I guess the man saw it was only a shrimp he had hold of, so he shook him two or three times and dropped him back into his own room; _and he never said a word_."

"And the boots?"

"He must have taken the boots with him. The shrimp peeped out and saw him go back into this room F, which has been empty for several weeks. Then he heard steps on the stairs and the slam of the heavy street door. The man was gone."

Coquenil's face grew somber. "It was the a.s.sa.s.sin," he said; "there's no doubt about it."

"Mightn't it have been some one he sent?" suggested Pougeot.

"No--that would have meant trusting his secret to another man, and he hasn't trusted anyone. Besides, the fierce way he turned on the photographer shows his nervous tension. It was the murderer himself and--"

The detective stopped short at the flash of a new thought. "Great heavens!"

he cried, "I can prove it, I can settle the thing right now. You say his nail marks show?"

Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "They show as little scratches, but not enough for any funny business with a microscope."

"Little scratches are all I want," said the other, snapping his fingers excitedly. "It's simply a question which side of his throat bears the thumb mark. We know the murderer is a left-handed man, and, being suddenly attacked, he certainly used the full strength of his left hand in the first desperate clutch. He was facing the man as he took him by the throat, so, if he used his left hand, the thumb mark must be on the left side of the photographer's throat, whereas if a right-handed man had done it, the thumb mark would be on the right side. Stand up here and take me by the throat.

That's it! Now with your left hand! Don't you see?"

"Yes," said Tignol, making the experiment, "I see."

"Now bring the man in here, wake him, tell him--tell him anything you like.

I must know this."

"I'll get him in," said the commissary. "Come," and he followed Tignol into the hall.

A few moments later they returned with a thin, sleepy little person wrapped in a red dressing gown. It was the shrimp.

"There!" exclaimed Papa Tignol with a gesture of satisfaction.

The photographer, under the spell of Pougeot's authority, stood meekly for inspection, while Coquenil, holding a candle close, studied the marks on his face. There, plainly marked _on the left side of the throat_ was a single imprint, the curving red mark where a thumb nail had closed hard against the jugular vein (this man knew the deadly pressure points), while on the right side of the photographer's face were prints of the fingers.

"He used his left hand, all right," said Coquenil, "and, _sapristi_, he had sharp nails!"

"_Parbleu!_" mumbled the shrimp.

"Here over the cheek bone is the mark of his first finger. And here, in front of the ear, is his second finger, and here is his third finger, just behind the ear, and here, way down on the neck, is his little finger. Lord of heaven, what a reach! Let's see if I can put my fingers on these marks.

There's the thumb, there's the first finger--stand still, I won't hurt you!

There's the second finger, and the third, and--look at that, see that mark of the little finger nail. I've got long fingers myself, but I can't come within an inch of it. You try."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Stand still, I won't hurt you.'"]

Patiently the photographer stood still while the commissary and Tignol tried to stretch their fingers over the red marks that scarred his countenance. And neither of them succeeded. They could cover all the marks except that of the little finger, which was quite beyond their reach.

"He has a very long little finger," remarked the commissary, and, in an instant, Coquenil remembered Alice's words that day as she looked at his plaster casts.

A very long little finger! Here it was! One that must equal the length of that famous seventeenth-century criminal's little finger in his collection.

But _this_ man was living! He had brought back Kittredge's boots! He was left-handed! He had a very long little finger! _And Alice knew such a man!_

CHAPTER XIX

TOUCHING A YELLOW TOOTH

It was a quarter past four, and still night, when Coquenil left the Hotel des etrangers; he wore a soft black hat pulled down over his eyes, and a shabby black coat turned up around his throat; and he carried the leather bag taken from the automobile. The streets were silent and deserted, yet the detective studied every doorway and corner with vigilant care, while a hundred yards behind him, in exactly similar dress, came Papa Tignol, peering into the shadows with sharpest watchfulness against human shadows bent on harming M. Paul.