Papa Tignol paused, and then, bobbing his head in comical seriousness: "I think, if I were this man, I'd sooner have the devil after me than Paul Coquenil."
CHAPTER IX
COQUENIL MARKS HIS MAN
It was nearly four o'clock when Coquenil left the Ansonia and started up the Champs Elysées, breathing deep of the early morning air. The night was still dark, although day was breaking in the east. And what a night it had been! How much had happened since he walked with his dog to Notre-Dame the evening before! Here was the whole course of his life changed, yes, and his prospects put in jeopardy by this extraordinary decision. How could he explain what he had done to his wise old mother? How could he unsay all that he had said to her a few days before when he had shown her that this trip to Brazil was quite for the best and bade her a fond farewell? Could he explain it to anyone, even to himself? Did he honestly believe all the plausible things he had said to Pougeot and the others about this crime? Was it really the wonderful affair he had made out? After all, what had he acted on? A girl's dream and an odd coincidence. Was that enough? Was that enough to make a man alter his whole life and face extraordinary danger? Was it enough?
Extraordinary danger! Why did this sense of imminent peril haunt him and fascinate him? What was there in this crime that made it different from many other crimes on which he had been engaged? Those holes through the wall? Well, yes, he had never seen anything quite like that. And the billiard player's motive in boring the holes and the woman's rôle and the intricacy and ingenuity of the murderer's plan—all these offered an extraordinary problem. And it certainly was strange that this candle-selling girl with the dreams and the purplish eyes had appeared again as the suspected American's sweetheart! He had heard this from Papa Tignol, and how Alice had stood ready to brave everything for her lover when Gibelin marched him off to prison. Poor Gibelin!
So Coquenil's thoughts ran along as he neared the Place de l'Etoile. Well, it was too late to draw back. He had made his decision and he must abide by it, his commission was signed, his duty lay before him. By nine o'clock he must be at the Palais de Justice to report to Hauteville. No use going home. Better have a rubdown and a cold plunge at the haman, then a turn on the mat with the professional wrestler, and then a few hours sleep. That would put him in shape for the day's work with its main business of running down this woman in the case, this lady of the cloak and leather bag, whose name and address he fortunately had. Ah, he looked forward to his interview with her! And he must prepare for it!
Coquenil was just glancing about for a cab to the Turkish bath place, in fact he was signaling one that he saw jogging up the Avenue de la Grande Armée, when he became aware that a gentleman was approaching him with the intention of speaking. Turning quickly, he saw in the uncertain light a man of medium height with a dark beard tinged with gray, wearing a loose black cape overcoat and a silk hat. The stranger saluted politely and said with a slight foreign accent: "How are you, M. Louis? I have been expecting you."
The words were simple enough, yet they contained a double surprise for Coquenil. He was at a loss to understand how he could have been expected here where he had come by the merest accident, and, certainly, this was the first time in twenty years that anyone, except his mother, had addressed him as Louis. He had been christened Louis Paul, but long ago he had dropped the former name, and his most intimate friends knew him only as Paul Coquenil.