THE FATE OF M. PIGOT
Whatever may have been Grady's defects of insight and imagination, he was energetic enough when thoroughly aroused. Almost before the echo of that slamming door had died away, he was beside the sergeant's desk.
"Get out the reserves," he ordered, "and have the other wagon around.
'Phone headquarters to rush every man available up to the Day and
Night Bank, and say it's from me!"
He stood chewing his cigar savagely as the sergeant hastened to obey. In a moment, the reserves came tumbling out, struggling into their coats; there was a clatter of hoofs in the street as the wagon dashed up; the reserves piled into it, permitting me to crowd in beside them, Grady jumped to the seat beside the driver, and we were off at a gallop, our gong waking the echoes of the silent street.
I clung to the hand-rail as the wagon swayed back and forth or bounded into the air as it struck the car-tracks, and stared out into the night, struggling to understand. Could Godfrey be right? But of course he was right! Some intuition told me that; and yet, how had Crochard managed to substitute himself for the French detective? Where was Pigot? Was he lying somewhere in a crumpled heap, with a tiny wound upon his hand? But that could not be—Grady and Simmonds had been with him all the evening! And could that aged Frenchman with the white, fine, wrinkled skin be also the bronzed and virile personage whom I had known as Félix Armand? My reason reeled before the seeming impossibility of it—and yet, somehow, I knew that Godfrey was right!
The wagon came to a stop so suddenly that I was thrown violently against the man next to me, and the reserves, leaping out, swept me before them. We were in front of the Day and Night Bank, and at a word from Grady, the men spread into a close cordon before the building.
Another police wagon stood at the curb, with the driver still on the seat, but as Grady started toward it, a figure appeared at the door of the bank and shouted to us—shouted in inarticulate words which I could not understand. But Grady seemed to understand them, and went up the steps two at a time, with an agility surprising in so large a man, and which I was hard put to it to match. A little group stood at one side of the vestibule looking down at some one extended on a cushioned seat. And, an instant later, I saw that it was Simmonds, lying on his back, his eyes open and staring apparently at the ceiling.
But, at the second glance, I saw that the eyes were sightless.
Grady elbowed his way savagely through the group.
"Where's Kelly?" he demanded.