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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Papa Tignol," he said impressively, "they all tell a simple, straight story. His name is Adolf Groener, he does live in Brussels, he makes his living at wood carving, and the widow who runs the confounded boarding house knows all about this girl Alice." Tignol rubbed his nose reflectively. "It was a long shot, anyway." "What would you have done?" questioned the other sharply.
"No, I'm through, I wash my hands of the case. The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck can sleep easily as far as I am concerned." Tignol bounded to his feet and his little eyes flashed indignantly. "I don't believe it," he cried. "I won't have it. You can't tell me Paul Coquenil is afraid. Are you afraid?" "I don't think so," smiled the other. "And Paul Coquenil hasn't been bought?
An hour before, as arranged the previous night, Papa Tignol had started out to search for Kittredge's lodgings, since the American, when questioned by Gibelin at the prison, had obstinately refused to tell where he lived and an examination of his quarters was a matter of immediate importance.
Then silently, anxiously, one would say, he darted away, circling the courtyard back and forth, sniffing the ground as he went, pausing occasionally or retracing his steps and presently stopping before M. Paul with a little bark of disappointment. "Nothing, eh? Quite right. Give me the pistol, Papa Tignol. We'll try outside. There!" He pointed to the open door where the concierge was waiting.
"I have made no mistake, it was the end window." Just then Coquenil heard the click of the door opposite and, looking over, he saw Papa Tignol beckoning to him. "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."
A few moments later they returned with a thin, sleepy little person wrapped in a red dressing gown. It was the shrimp. "There!" exclaimed Papa Tignol with a gesture of satisfaction. The photographer, under the spell of Pougeot's authority, stood meekly for inspection, while Coquenil, holding a candle close, studied the marks on his face.
"It's the man we arrested, all right without the beard." "It's the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck," said Coquenil. Tignol gazed at the pictures with a kind of fascination. "How many millions did you say he has?" "A thousand or more." "A thousand millions!" He screwed up his face again and pulled reflectively on his long red nose. "And I put the handcuffs on him! Holy camels!"
"You say you would like one of my teeth?" "Don't trouble," smiled Tignol. "It's no trouble," declared the stranger. "On the contrary!" and seizing one of his yellow fangs between thumb and first finger he gave a quick wrench. "There!" he said with a hideous grin, and he handed Tignol the tooth. They were just coming into the Auteuil station as this extraordinary maneuver was accomplished.
Besides, a detective has the sportsman's instinct, he likes to play his fish before landing it. "All right," nodded M. Paul, "I'll be patient," and as the wood carver disappeared, he signaled Tignol to surround the house. "He's trying to lose us," said the old fox, hurrying up a moment later. "There are three exits here." "Three?" "Don't you know this place?" "What do you mean?"
The expected thing was that M. Gibelin came forward immediately from the second cab followed by Papa Tignol and a policeman. The shadowing detective was in a vile humor which was not improved when he got the message left by the flippant American. "Time for a drink! Infernal impudence! We'll teach him manners at the depot! This farce is over," he flung out.
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