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Updated: May 8, 2025
Drawn up in front of the tavern was a taxi-auto, the chauffeur bundled up to the ears in bushy gray furs, despite the mild night. There was a leather bag beside him. "Is this your man?" asked Pougeot. "Yes," said M. Paul, "get in. If you don't mind I'll lower this front window so that we can feel the air." Then, when the commissary and Tignol were seated, he gave directions to the driver.
He was rather fat, with small, piercing eyes and a reddish mustache. His voice was harsh, his manners brusque, but there was no denying his intelligence. In a spirit of conciliation he began to give M. Pougeot some details of the case, whereupon the latter said stiffly: "Excuse me, sir, I need no assistance from you in making this investigation. Come, doctor!
"The man said you wanted me and I came at once, but, in the automobile, I felt something was wrong and you know he is outside?" Her eyes widened anxiously. "I know. Sit down here." He pointed to the table. "Does Pougeot know about this?" She shook her head. "The man came for M. Pougeot first. I wasn't down at breakfast yet, so I don't know what he said, but they went off together.
How many murders can you remember in Paris restaurants, I mean smart restaurants?" M. Pougeot thought a moment. "There was one at the Silver Pheasant and one at the Pavillion and and " "And one at the Café Rouge. But those were stupid shooting cases, not murders, not planned in advance." "Why do you think this was planned in advance?" "Because the man escaped." "They didn't say so."
"Until to-morrow, Paul." The sick man's reply was only a faint murmur, and Pougeot stole softly out of the room, turning at the door for an anxious glance toward the white bed. This was the first of many visits to the hospital by the devoted commissary and of many anxious hours at that distressed bedside.
"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 assassin," he said; "there's no doubt about it." "Mightn't it have been some one he sent?" suggested Pougeot.
Yes, even now, at this very moment, I am supposed to be on the steamer train, for the boat goes out early in the morning before the Paris papers can reach Cherbourg." M. Pougeot started up, his eyes widening. "What!" he cried. "You mean that that possibly to-night?" As he spoke a sudden flash of light came in through the garden window, followed by a resounding peal of thunder.
"I'm going to pull through I've got to, but if anything should go wrong, I want you to have the main points. Come nearer." The commissary motioned to the nurse, who withdrew. Then he bent close to the injured man and listened intently while Coquenil, speaking with an effort and with frequent pauses, related briefly what had happened. "God in heaven!" muttered Pougeot. "He'll pay for this!"
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."
"I don't say he is guilty," answered M. Paul, "but I am not so sure he is innocent. And, if there is doubt about that, then there is doubt whether this case is really a great one. I have assumed that Martinez was killed by an extraordinary criminal, for some extraordinary reason, but I may have been mistaken." "Of course," agreed Pougeot. "And if you were mistaken?"
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