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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Yes, this is M. Pougeot.... What?... The Ansonia?... You say he's shot?... In a private dining room?... Dead?... Quel malheur!"... Then he gave quick orders: "Send Papa Tignol over with a doctor and three or four agents. Close the restaurant. Don't let anyone go in or out. Don't let anyone leave the banquet room. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Good-by."
Then to Tignol: "How about that telegram?" The old man stroked his rough chin. "The clerk gave me a copy of it, all right, when I showed my papers. Here it is and much good it will do us." He handed M. Paul a telegraph blank on which was written: DUBOIS, 20 Rue Chalgrin. Special bivouac amateur bouillon danger must have Sahara easily Groener arms impossible.
"He doesn't know who it was, or anything about the man except that his hand shut like a vise on the shrimp's throat and nearly choked the life out of him. You can see the nail marks still on the cheek and neck; but he remembers distinctly that the man carried something in his hand." "My God! The missing pair of boots!" cried Coquenil. "Was it?" Tignol nodded. "Sure!
"Going away?" he ventured after a silence. M. Paul shut the bag with a jerk and tightened the side straps, then he threw himself wearily into a chair. "Yes, I I'm going away." The detective leaned back and closed his eyes, he looked worn and gray. Tignol watched him anxiously through a long silence. What could be the trouble? What had happened?
"Rip off this glove. I want to see his hand. Come, come, none of that. Open it up. No? I'll make you open it. There, I thought so," as an excruciating wrench forced the stubborn fist to yield. "Now then, off with that glove! Ah!" he cried as the bare hand came to view. "I thought so. It's too bad you couldn't hide that long little finger! Tignol, quick with the handcuffs!
"What was the inscription?" asked Tignol eagerly. "It read: 'To my dear husband, Raoul, from his devoted wife Margaret and her little Mary. You notice it says her little Mary. That one word throws a flood of light on this case. The child was not his little Mary." "I see, I see," reflected the old man. "And Alice? Does she know that that she isn't Alice?" "No."
This is Wednesday night, the crime was committed last Saturday, and in these four days I haven't slept twelve hours. As to eating well, never mind that. The point is, I was in it, heart and soul, and now I'm out of it." "An infernal shame!" muttered Tignol. "Perhaps not.
You have the money for her; say I want her to buy a new dress, a nice one, and if there's anything else she wants, why, she must have it. Understand?" Tignol nodded. Then, dropping the cab window, M. Paul told the driver to stop, and they drew up before the terraced fountains of the Trinité church. "Good-by and good luck," said Coquenil, clasping Tignol's hand, "and don't let her worry."
Their rendezvous was at noon, but two hours earlier Tignol took the train at the St. Lazare station. And with him came Caesar, such a changed, unrecognizable Caesar! Poor dog! His beautiful, glossy coat of brown and white had been clipped to ridiculous shortness, and he crouched at the old man's feet in evident humiliation.
"Ten minutes to six," remarked Tignol. "My train leaves at six forty." "You'll have time to get breakfast. I'll leave you now. There's nothing more to say. You have my letter for her. You'll explain that it isn't safe for me to write through the post office. And she mustn't try to write me. I'll come to her as soon as I can.
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