"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 shining object was thrown from the second window?"
"No, no! How stupid you are!" And then in confusion: "I beg a thousand pardons, I am nervous. I thought I told you plainly it was the end window."
"Thanks, my good woman," replied M. Paul. "Now go right back to your room and don't breathe a word of this to anyone."
"But," she stammered, "would monsieur be so kind as to say what the bright object was?"
The detective bent nearer and whispered mysteriously: "It was a comb, a silver comb!"
"Mon Dieu! A silver comb!" exclaimed the unsuspecting spinster.
"Now back to your room and finish brushing your hair," he urged, and the woman hurried away trembling with excitement.
A few moments later Coquenil and the commissary and Papa Tignol were standing in the courtyard near two green tubs of foliage plants between which the pistol had fallen. The doorkeeper of the house, a crabbed individual who had only become mildly respectful when he learned that he was dealing with the police, had joined them, his crustiness tempered by curiosity.
"See here," said the detective, addressing him, "do you want to earn five francs?" The doorkeeper brightened. "I'll make it ten", continued the other, "if you do exactly what I say. You are to take a cab, here is the money, and drive to Notre-Dame. At the right of the church is a high iron railing around the archbishop's house. In the railing is an iron gate with a night bell for Extreme Unction. Ring this bell and ask to see the sacristan Bonneton, and when he comes out give him this." Coquenil wrote hastily on a card. "It's an order to let you have a dog named Cæsar—my dog—he's guarding the church with Bonneton. Pat Cæsar and tell him he's going to see M. Paul, that's me. Tell him to jump in the cab and keep still. He'll understand—he knows more than most men. Then drive back here as quick as you can."
The doorkeeper touched his cap and departed.
Coquenil turned to Tignol. "Watch the pistol. When the doorkeeper comes back send him over to the hotel. I'll be there."
"Right," nodded the old man.
Then the detective said to Pougeot: "I must talk to Gritz. You know him, don't you?"
The commissary glanced at his watch. "Yes, but do you realize it's after three o'clock?"
"Never mind, I must see him. A lot depends on it. Get him out of bed for me, Lucien, and—then you can go home."
"I'll try," grumbled the other, "but what in Heaven's name are you going to do with that dog?"
"Use him," answered Coquenil.
Chapter VII.
The Footprints
One of the great lessons Coquenil had learned in his long experience with mysterious crimes was to be careful of hastily rejecting any evidence because it conflicted with some preconceived theory. It would have been easy now, for instance, to assume that this prim spinster was mistaken in declaring that she had seen the pistol thrown from the window of Number Seven. That, of course, seemed most unlikely, since the shooting was done in Number Six, yet how account for the woman's positiveness? She seemed a truthful, well-meaning person, and the murderer might have gone into Number Seven after committing the crime. It was evidently important to get as much light as possible on this point. Hence the need of M. Gritz.
M. Herman Gritz was a short, massive man with hard, puffy eyes and thin black hair, rather curly and oily, and a rapacious nose. He appeared (having been induced to come down by the commissary) in a richly embroidered blue-silk house garment, and his efforts at affability were obviously based on apprehension.
Coquenil began at once with questions about private room Number Seven. We had reserved this room and what had prevented the person from occupying it? M. Gritz replied that Number Seven had been engaged some days before by an old client, who, at the last moment, had sent a petit bleu to say that he had changed his plans and would not require the room. The petit bleu did not arrive until after the crime was discovered, so the room remained empty. More than that, the door was locked.
"Locked on the outside?"
"Yes."
"With the key in the lock?"
"Yes."
"Then anyone coming along the corridor might have turned the key and entered Number Seven?"
"It is possible," admitted M. Gritz, "but very improbable. The room was dark, and an ordinary person seeing a door locked and a room dark——"
"We are not talking about an ordinary person," retorted the detective, "we are talking about a murderer. Come, we must look into this," and he led the way down the corridor, nodding to the policeman outside Number Six and stopping at the next door, the last in the line, the door to Number Seven.
"You know I haven't been in there yet." He glanced toward the adjoining room of the tragedy, then, turning the key in Number Seven, he tried to open the door.
"Hello! It's locked on the inside, too!"
"Tiens! You're right," said Gritz, and he rumpled his scanty locks in perplexity.
"Some one has been inside, some one may be inside now."
The proprietor shook his head and, rather reluctantly, went on to explain that Number Seven was different from the other private rooms in this, that it had a separate exit with separate stairs leading to an alleyway between the hotel and a wall surrounding it. A few habitues knew of this exit and used it occasionally for greater privacy. The alleyway led to a gate in the wall opening on the Rue Marboeuf, so a particularly discreet couple, let us say, could drive up to this gate, pass through the alleyway, and then, by the private stairs, enter Number Seven without being seen by anyone, assuming, of course, that they had a key to the alleyway door. And they could leave the restaurant in the same unobserved manner.
As Coquenil listened, his mouth drew into an ominous thin line and his deep eyes burned angrily.
"M. Gritz," he said in a cold, cutting voice, "you are a man of intelligence, you must be. This crime was committed last night about nine o'clock; it's now half past three in the morning. Will you please tell me how it happens that this fact of vital importance has been concealed from the police for over six hours?"
"Why," stammered the other, "I—I don't know."
"Are you trying to shield some one? Who is this man that engaged Number Seven?"
Gritz shook his head unhappily. "I don't know his name."
"You don't know his name?" thundered Coquenil.
"We have to be discreet in these matters," reasoned the other. "We have many clients who do not give us their names, they have their own reasons for that; some of them are married, and, as a man of the world, I respect their reserve." M. Gritz prided himself on being a man of the world. He had started as a penniless Swiss waiter and had reached the magnificent point where broken-down aristocrats were willing to owe him money and sometimes borrow it—and he appreciated the honor.
"But what do you call him?" persisted Coquenil. "You must call him something."
"In