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Updated: May 27, 2025
He can't be bought can he?" "I hope not." "Then then what in thunder do you mean," he demanded fiercely, "by saying you drop this case?" M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram. "Read that, old friend," he answered with emotion, "and and thank you for your good opinion." Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet. M. PAUL COQUENIL, Villa Montmorency, Paris.
Now watch him," and sharply he gave the word: "Va!" Straight across the pavement darted Caesar, then along the opposite sidewalk away from the Champs Elysées, running easily, nose down, past the Rue François Premier, past the Rue Clement-Marot, then out into the street again and stopping suddenly. "He's lost it," mourned Papa Tignol. "Lost it? Of course he's lost it," triumphed the detective.
In vain the old man tried to show interest in a neighboring game of dominoes; the detective saw at a glance that his faithful friend had heard the bad news and was mourning over it. "Ah, M. Paul," cried Tignol. "This is a pretty thing they tell me. Nom d'un chien, what a pack of fools they are!" "Not so loud," cautioned Coquenil with a quiet smile.
He knew he had lost the battle, there was nothing to hope for from this man nothing. Well it had been a finish fight and one or the other had to go. He was the one, he was going going. He he couldn't fix his thoughts. What queer lights! Hey, Caesar! How silly! Caesar was dead Oh! he must tell Papa Tignol that a man shouldn't swear so with a red nose. Stop! this must be the end and
She lied about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured picture." "Then," cried Tignol excitedly, "then Groener is not a wood carver?"
Patiently the photographer stood still while the commissary and Tignol tried to stretch their fingers over the red marks that scarred his countenance. And neither of them succeeded. They could cover all the marks except that of the little finger, which was quite beyond their reach.
"Going back to Paris!" laughed Coquenil. "Hope you find the walking good, Gibelin!" "It's only fifteen miles," taunted Tignol. "You loafer, you blackguard, you dirty dog!" yelled Gibelin, dancing in a rage. "Try to be more original in your detective work," called M. Paul. "Au revoir."
Drawing up before the imposing entrance, they saw two policemen on guard at the doors, one of whom, recognizing the commissary, came forward quickly to the automobile with word that M. Gibelin and two other men from headquarters had already arrived and were proceeding with the investigation. "Is Papa Tignol here?" asked Coquenil. "Yes, sir," replied the man, saluting respectfully.
"He may be a wood carver, but he's a great deal more, he he " Coquenil hesitated, and then, with eyes blazing and nostrils dilating, he burst out: "If I know anything about my business, he's the man who gave me that left-handed jolt under the heart, he's the man who choked your shrimp photographer, he's the man who killed Martinez!" "Name of a green dog!" muttered Tignol.
"He said he had power, that left-handed devil," muttered the detective, "he said he had the biggest kind of power, and I guess he has." Coquenil kept his appointment that night at the Three Wise Men and found Papa Tignol waiting for him, his face troubled even to the tip of his luminous purple nose.
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