The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet Part 44

"They're marvellous," I said. "Even yet I can't understand how he knew so much."

"Maybe he was just guessing at some of it," Grady suggested.

"I thought of that; but I don't believe anybody could guess so accurately. For instance, how did he know about those letters?"

"Fact is," broke in Grady, "that's the first I'd heard of 'em. What _is_ that story?"

I told him the story briefly, carefully suppressing everything which would give him a clue to the ident.i.ty of the veiled lady.

"There were certain details," I added, "which I supposed were known to no one except myself and two other persons--and yet M. Pigot knew them. Then again, how did he know so certainly just how the mechanism worked? How did he know which roll of cotton contained that Mazarin diamond? You will remember he told us what was in that roll before he opened it."

Grady smiled good-naturedly and a little patronisingly.

"That was the last roll, wasn't it?" he demanded. "Since that big diamond hadn't shown up in any of the others, he knew it had to be in that roll. It was just one of the little plays for effect them Frenchies are so fond of."

"Perhaps you are right," I agreed. "But it seemed to me that he handled that mechanism as though he was familiar with it. Of course, he may have prepared himself by studying the drawings which no doubt accompany the secret memoir. He may even have had a working model made."

Grady nodded tolerantly.

"Them fellers go to a lot of trouble over little things like that,"

he said. "They like to slam their cards down on the table with a big hurrah, even when the cards ain't worth a d.a.m.n."

"He certainly held trumps this time, anyway," I commented. "And he played his hand superbly. He is an extraordinary man."

"And a great actor," Grady supplemented. "Them fellers always behave like they was on the stage, right in the spot-light. It makes me a little tired, sometimes. h.e.l.lo! Who's that?"

The front door had been flung open; there was an instant's colloquy with the desk-sergeant, then a rapid step crossed the outer room, and G.o.dfrey burst in upon us.

He cast a rapid glance at the Boule cabinet, at the secret drawer standing open, empty; and then his eyes rested upon Grady.

"So he got away with it, did he?" he inquired.

"Who in h.e.l.l do you think you are?" shouted Grady, his face purple, "coming in here like this? Get out, or I'll have you thrown out!"

"Oh, I'll go," retorted G.o.dfrey coolly. "I've seen all I care to see.

Only I'll tell you one thing, Grady--you've signed your own death-warrant to-night!"

"What do you mean by that?" Grady demanded, in a lower tone.

"I mean that you won't last an hour after the story of this night's work gets out."

Grady's colour slowly faded as he met the burning and contemptuous gaze G.o.dfrey turned upon him. As for me, an awful fear had gripped my heart.

"Do you mean to say it wasn't Piggott?" stammered Grady, at last.

G.o.dfrey laughed scornfully.

"No, you blithering idiot!" he said. "It wasn't Pigot. It was Crochard himself!"

And he stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FATE OF M. PIGOT

Whatever may have been Grady's defects of insight and imagination, he was energetic enough when thoroughly aroused. Almost before the echo of that slamming door had died away, he was beside the sergeant's desk.

"Get out the reserves," he ordered, "and have the other wagon around.

'Phone headquarters to rush every man available up to the Day and Night Bank, and say it's from me!"

He stood chewing his cigar savagely as the sergeant hastened to obey.

In a moment, the reserves came tumbling out, struggling into their coats; there was a clatter of hoofs in the street as the wagon dashed up; the reserves piled into it, permitting me to crowd in beside them, Grady jumped to the seat beside the driver, and we were off at a gallop, our gong waking the echoes of the silent street.

I clung to the hand-rail as the wagon swayed back and forth or bounded into the air as it struck the car-tracks, and stared out into the night, struggling to understand. Could G.o.dfrey be right? But of course he was right! Some intuition told me that; and yet, how had Crochard managed to subst.i.tute himself for the French detective?

Where was Pigot? Was he lying somewhere in a crumpled heap, with a tiny wound upon his hand? But that could not be--Grady and Simmonds had been with him all the evening! And could that aged Frenchman with the white, fine, wrinkled skin be also the bronzed and virile personage whom I had known as Felix Armand? My reason reeled before the seeming impossibility of it--and yet, somehow, I knew that G.o.dfrey was right!

The wagon came to a stop so suddenly that I was thrown violently against the man next to me, and the reserves, leaping out, swept me before them. We were in front of the Day and Night Bank, and at a word from Grady, the men spread into a close cordon before the building.

Another police wagon stood at the curb, with the driver still on the seat, but as Grady started toward it, a figure appeared at the door of the bank and shouted to us--shouted in inarticulate words which I could not understand. But Grady seemed to understand them, and went up the steps two at a time, with an agility surprising in so large a man, and which I was hard put to it to match. A little group stood at one side of the vestibule looking down at some one extended on a cus.h.i.+oned seat. And, an instant later, I saw that it was Simmonds, lying on his back, his eyes open and staring apparently at the ceiling.

But, at the second glance, I saw that the eyes were sightless.

Grady elbowed his way savagely through the group.

"Where's Kelly?" he demanded.

At the words, a white-faced man in uniform arose from a chair into which he had plainly dropped exhausted.

"Oh, there you are!" and Grady glowered at him ferociously. "Now tell me what happened--and tell it quick!"

"Why, sir," stammered Kelly, "there wasn't anything happened. Only when we stopped out there at the curb and I got down and opened the door, there wasn't n.o.body in the wagon but Mr. Simmonds. I spoke to him and he didn't answer--and then I touched him and he kind of fell over--and then I rushed in here and 'phoned the station; but they said you'd already started for the bank; and then we went out and brought him in here--and that's all I know, sir."

"You didn't hear anything--no sound of a struggle?"

"Not a sound, sir; not a single sound."

"And you haven't any idea where the other man got out?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Simmonds had a little valise with him--did you notice it?"

"Yes, sir; and I looked for it in the wagon, but it ain't there."

Grady turned away with a curse as four or five men ran in from the street--the men from headquarters, I told myself. I could hear him talking to them in sharp, low tones, and then they departed as suddenly as they had come. The reserves also hurried away, and I concluded that Grady was trying to throw a net about the territory in which the fugitive was probably concealed; but my interest in that manoeuvre was overshadowed, for the time being, by my anxiety for Simmonds. I picked up his right hand and looked at it; then I drew a deep breath of relief, for it was uninjured.