LITMIR.BIZ

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And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a score of reporters all busy with their reports. No doubt that, in the matter of paper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of this gallant billiard player!

      Meantime the official police photographer and his assistants had arrived (this was long after midnight) with special apparatus for photographing the victim and the scene of the crime. And their work occupied two full hours owing largely to the difficult manipulation of a queer, clumsy camera that photographed the body from above as it lay on the floor.

      In the intervals of these formalities the officials discussed the case with a wide variance in opinions and conclusions. The chief of police and M. Pougeot were strong for the theory of murder, while M. Hauteville leaned toward suicide. The doctor was undecided.

      "But the shot was fired at the closest possible range," insisted the judge; "the pistol was not a foot from the man's head. Isn't that true, doctor?"

      "Yes," replied Joubert, "the eyebrows are badly singed, the skin is burned, and the face shows unmistakable powder marks. I should say the pistol was fired not six inches from the victim."

      "Then it's suicide," declared the judge. "How else account for the facts? Martinez was a strong, active man. He would never have allowed a murderer to get so close to him without a struggle. But there is not the slightest sign of a struggle, no disorder in the room, no disarrangement of the man's clothing. It's evidently suicide."

      "If it's suicide," objected Pougeot, "where is the weapon? The man died instantly, didn't he, doctor?"

      "Undoubtedly," agreed the doctor.

      "Then the pistol must have fallen beside him or remained in his hand. Well, where is it?"

      "Ask the woman who was here. How do you know she didn't take it?"

      "Nonsense!" put in the chief. "Why should she take it? To throw suspicion on herself? Besides, I'll show you another reason why it's not suicide. The man was shot through the right eye, the ball went in straight and clean, tearing its way to the brain. Well, in the whole history of suicides, there is not one case where a man has shot himself in the eye. Did you ever hear of such a case, doctor?"

      "Never," answered Joubert.

      "A man will shoot himself in the mouth, in the temple, in the heart, anywhere, but not in the eye. There would be an unconquerable shrinking from that. So I say it's murder."

      The judge shook his head. "And the murderer?"

      "Ah, that's another question. We must find the woman. And we must understand the rôle of this American."

      "No woman ever fired that shot or planned this crime," declared the commissary, unconsciously echoing Coquenil's opinion.

      "There's better reason to argue that the American never did it," retorted the judge.

      "What reason?"

      "The woman ran away, didn't she? And the American didn't. If he had killed this man, do you think anything would have brought him back here for that cloak and bag?"

      "A good point," nodded the chief. "We can't be sure of the murderer—yet, but we can be reasonably sure it's murder."

      Still the judge was unconvinced. "If it's murder, how do you account for the singed eyebrows? How did the murderer get so near?"

      "I answer as you did: 'Ask the woman.' She knows."

      "Ah, yes, she knows," reflected the commissary. "And, gentlemen, all our talk brings us back to this, we must find that woman."

      At half past one Gibelin appeared to announce the arrest of Kittredge. He had tried vainly to get from the American some clew to the owner of cloak and bag, but the young man had refused to speak and, with sullen indifference, had allowed himself to be locked up in the big room at the depot.

      "I'll see what I can squeeze out of him in the morning," said Hauteville grimly. There was no judge in the parquet who had his reputation for breaking down the resistance of obstinate prisoners.

      "You've got your work cut out," snapped the detective. "He's a stubborn devil."

      In the midst of these perplexities and technicalities a note was brought in for M. Pougeot. The commissary glanced at it quickly and then, with a word of excuse, left the room, returning a few minutes later and whispering earnestly to M. Simon.

      "You say he is here?" exclaimed the latter. "I thought he was sailing for——"

      M. Pougeot bent closer and whispered again.

      "Paul Coquenil!" exclaimed the chief. "Why, certainly, ask him to come in."

      A moment later Coquenil entered and all rose with cordial greetings, that is, all except Gibelin, whose curt nod and suspicious glances showed that he found anything but satisfaction in the presence of this formidable rival.

      "My dear Coquenil!" said Simon warmly. "This is like the old days! If you were only with us now what a nut there would be for you to crack!"

      "So I hear," smiled M. Paul, "and—er—the fact is, I have come to help you crack it." He spoke with that quiet but confident seriousness which always carried conviction, and M. Simon and the judge, feeling the man's power, waited his further words with growing interest; but Gibelin blinked his small eyes and muttered under his breath: "The cheek of the fellow!"

      "As you know," explained Coquenil briefly, "I resigned from the force two years ago. I need not go into details; the point is, I now ask to be taken back. That is why I am here."

      "But, my dear fellow," replied the chief in frank astonishment, "I understood that you had received a magnificent offer with——"

      "Yes, yes, I have."

      "With a salary of a hundred thousand francs?"

      "It's true, but—I have refused it."

      Simon and Hauteville looked at Coquenil incredulously. How could a man refuse a salary of a hundred thousand francs? The commissary watched his friend with admiration, Gibelin with envious hostility.

      "May I ask why you have refused it?" asked the chief.

      "Partly for personal reasons, largely because I want to have a hand in this case."

      Gibelin moved uneasily.

      "You think this case so interesting?" put in the judge.

      "The most interesting I have ever known," answered the other, and then he added with all the authority of his fine, grave face: "It's more than interesting, it's the most important criminal case Paris has known for three generations."

      Again they stared at him.

      "My dear Coquenil, you exaggerate," objected M. Simon. "After all, we have only the shooting of a billiard player."

      M. Paul shook his head and replied impressively: "The billiard player was a pawn in the game. He became troublesome and was sacrificed. He is of no importance, but there's a greater game than billiards here with a master player and—I'm going to be in it."

      "Why do you think it's a great game?" questioned the judge.

      "Why do I think anything? Why did I think a commonplace pickpocket at the Bon Marché was a notorious criminal, wanted by two countries? Why did I think we should find the real clew to that Bordeaux counterfeiting gang in a Passy wine shop? Why did I think it necessary to-night to be on the cab this young American took and not behind it in another cab?" He shot a quick glance at Gibelin. "Because a good detective knows certain things before he can prove them and acts on his knowledge. That is what distinguishes him from an ordinary detective."

      "Meaning me?" challenged Gibelin.

      "Not at all," replied M. Paul smoothly. "I only say that——"

      "One moment," interrupted M. Simon. "Do I understand that you were with the driver who took this American away from here to-night?"

      Coquenil

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