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Updated: May 8, 2025
They shot away rapidly, while the outraged and discomfited fat man stood in the middle of the road hurling after them torrents of blasphemous abuse that soon grew faint and died away. "What in the world does this mean?" asked Pougeot in astonishment. Coquenil slowed down the machine and turned. "I can't talk now; I've got to drive this thing. It's lucky I know how." "But just a moment.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him, and he has no illusions, yet he usually manages to keep a store of grim pity for erring humanity. M. Pougeot was one of the most distinguished and intelligent members of this interesting body. He was a devoted friend of Paul Coquenil. The newcomer was a middle-aged man of strong build and florid face, with a brush of thick black hair.
I'm afraid it was a trick. Then about twenty minutes later the same man came back and said M. Pougeot was with you and that he had been sent to bring me to you. He showed me your ring and " "Yes, yes, I understand," interrupted Coquenil. "You are not to blame, only God, what can I do?" He searched the shadows with a savage sense of helplessness.
"It's all right, Papa Tignol, it's all for the best." "All for the best?" stared the other. "But if you're off the force?" "Wait a little and you'll understand," said the detective in a low tone, then as the tavern door opened: "Here is Pougeot! I telephoned him. Good evening, Lucien," and he shook hands cordially with the commissary, whose face wore a serious, inquiring look.
"Besides, a search has been made underneath that window and no pistol has been found." "It must be murder," muttered Pougeot. "Was there any quarreling with the woman?" "Joseph says not. On the contrary, they seemed on the friendliest terms." "Hah! See what he has on his person. We must find out who this poor fellow was."
And almost as he spoke, which seemed like a good omen, there came a clang at the iron gate in the garden and the sound of quick, crunching steps on the gravel walk. M. Pougeot had arrived. M. Lucien Pougeot was one of the eighty police commissaries who, each in his own quarter, oversee the moral washing of Paris's dirty linen.
The commissary appeared forthwith and, with all the authority of his office, testified in confirmation of Alice's story. There was no possible doubt that the girl would have perished in the flames but for the heroism of Paul Coquenil. Pougeot was followed by Dr. Duprat, who gave evidence as to the return of Alice's memory.
He had never seen M. Paul like this, so broken and one would say, discouraged. And this was the moment of his triumph, the proudest moment in his career. It must be the reaction from these days of strain, yes that was it. M. Paul opened his eyes and said in a dull tone: "Did you take the girl to Pougeot last night?" "Yes, she's all right.
"Will you have something, or shall we move on?" and, under his breath, he added: "Say you don't want anything." "I don't want anything," obeyed Pougeot with a puzzled glance. "Then come, it's a quarter past ten," and tossing some money to the waiter, Coquenil led the way out.
I thought perhaps you would go to the Brazilian Embassy and ask about it delicately. I don't like to go myself, after this affair. Do you mind?" "No, I don't mind, of course I don't mind," answered, Pougeot, "but, my dear Paul, aren't you a little on your nerves to-night; oughtn't you to think the whole matter over before deciding?" "That's right," agreed Tignol.
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