"I'll give my tongue to the cats to eat!" burst out the other, "if ever I saw a man lie on a sofa and blow blue circles in the air and spin pretty theories about what is back of a picture when——"
"When what?"
"When all he had to do for proof was to reach over and—and lift the darn thing off its nail."
Coquenil smiled. "I've thought of that," he drawled, "but I like the suspense. Half the charm of life is in suspense, Papa Tignol. However, you have a practical mind, so go ahead, lift it off."
The old man did not wait for a second bidding, he stepped forward quickly and took down the picture.
"Tonnere de Dieu!" he cried. "It's true! There are two holes."
Sure enough, against the white wall stood out not one but two black holes about an inch in diameter and something less than three inches apart. Around the left hole, which was close to the sideboard, were black dots sprinkled over the painted woodwork like grains of pepper.
"Powder marks!" muttered Coquenil, examining the hole. "He fired at close range as Martinez looked into this room from the other side. Poor chap! That's how he was shot in the eye." And producing a magnifying glass, the detective made a long and careful examination of the holes while Papa Tignol watched him with unqualified disgust.
"Asses! Idiots! That's what we are," muttered the old man. "For half an hour we were in that room, Gibelin and I, and we never found those holes."
"They were covered by the sofa hangings."