"And the boots?"
"He must have taken the boots with him. The shrimp peeped out and saw him go back into this room F, which has been empty for several weeks. Then he heard steps on the stairs and the slam of the heavy street door. The man was gone."
Coquenil's face grew somber. "It was the assassin," he said; "there's no doubt about it."
"Mightn't it have been some one he sent?" suggested Pougeot.
"No—that would have meant trusting his secret to another man, and he hasn't trusted anyone. Besides, the fierce way he turned on the photographer shows his nervous tension. It was the murderer himself and—" The detective stopped short at the flash of a new thought. "Great heavens!" he cried, "I can prove it, I can settle the thing right now. You say his nail marks show?"
Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "They show as little scratches, but not enough for any funny business with a microscope."
"Little scratches are all I want," said the other, snapping his fingers excitedly. "It's simply a question which side of his throat bears the thumb mark. We know the murderer is a left-handed man, and, being suddenly attacked, he certainly used the full strength of his left hand in the first desperate clutch. He was facing the man as he took him by the throat, so, if he used his left hand, the thumb mark must be on the left side of the photographer's throat, whereas if a right-handed man had done it, the thumb mark would be on the right side. Stand up here and take me by the throat. That's it! Now with your left hand! Don't you see?"
"Yes," said Tignol, making the experiment, "I see."
"Now bring the man in here, wake him, tell him—tell him anything you like. I must know this."
"I'll get him in," said the commissary. "Come," and he followed Tignol into the hall.
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. There, plainly marked on the left side of the throat was a single imprint, the curving red mark where a thumb nail had closed hard against the jugular vein (this man knew the deadly pressure points), while on the right side of the photographer's face were prints of the fingers.
"He used his left hand, all right," said Coquenil, "and, sapristi, he had sharp nails!"
"Parbleu!" mumbled the shrimp.
"Here over the cheek bone is the mark of his first finger. And here, in front of the ear, is his second finger, and here is his third finger, just behind the ear, and here, way down on the neck, is his little finger. Lord of heaven, what a reach! Let's see if I can put my fingers on these marks. There's the thumb, there's the first finger—stand still, I won't hurt you! There's the second finger, and the third, and—look at that, see that mark of the little finger nail. I've got long fingers myself, but I can't come within an inch of it. You try."
Patiently the photographer stood still while the commissary and Tignol tried to stretch their fingers over the red marks that scarred his countenance. And neither of them succeeded. They could cover all the marks except that of the little finger, which was quite beyond their reach.
"He has a very long little finger," remarked the commissary, and, in an instant, Coquenil remembered Alice's words that day as she looked at his plaster casts.
A very long little finger! Here it was! One that must equal the length of that famous seventeenth-century criminal's little finger in his collection. But this man was living! He had brought back Kittredge's boots! He was left-handed! He had a very long little finger! And Alice knew such a man!
Chapter XIX.
Touching a Yellow Tooth
It was a quarter past four, and still night, when Coquenil left the Hôtel des Étrangers; he wore a soft black hat pulled down over his eyes, and a shabby black coat turned up around his throat; and he carried the leather bag taken from the automobile. The streets were silent and deserted, yet the detective studied every doorway and corner with vigilant care, while a hundred yards behind him, in exactly similar dress, came Papa Tignol, peering into the shadows with sharpest watchfulness against human shadows bent on harming M. Paul.
So they moved cautiously down the Boulevard St. Michel, then over the bridge and along the river to Notre-Dame, whose massive towers stood out in mysterious beauty against the faintly lighted eastern sky. Here the leader paused for his companion.
"There's nothing," he said, as the latter joined him.
"Nothing."
"Good! Take the bag and wait for me, but keep out of sight."
"Entendu."
Coquenil walked across the square to the cathedral, moving slowly, thinking over the events of the night. They had crossed the track of the assassin, that was sure, but they had discovered nothing that could help in his capture except the fact of the long little finger. The man had left absolutely nothing in his room at the hotel (this they verified with the help of false keys), and had never returned after the night of the crime, although he had taken the room for a month, and paid the rent in advance. He had made two visits to this room, one at about three in the afternoon of the fatal day, when he spent an hour there, and entered Kittredge's room, no doubt, for the boots and the pistol; the other visit he made the same night when he tried to return the boots and was prevented from doing so. How he must have cursed that little photographer!
As to the assassin's personal appearance, there was a startling difference of opinion between the hotel doorkeeper and the garçon, both of whom saw him and spoke to him. The one declared he had light hair and a beard, the other that he had dark hair and no beard; the one thought he was a Frenchman, the other was sure he was a foreigner. Evidently the man was disguised either coming or going, so this testimony was practically worthless.
Despite all this, Coquenil was pleased and confident as he rang the night bell at the archbishop's house beside the cathedral, for he had one precious clew, he had the indication of this extraordinarily long little finger, and he did not believe that in all France there were two men with hands like that. And he knew there was one such man, for Alice had seen him. Where had she seen him? She said she had often noticed his long little finger, so she must often have been close enough to him to observe such a small peculiarity. But Alice went about very little, she had few friends, and all of them must be known to the Bonnetons. It ought to be easy to get from the sacristan this information which the girl herself might withhold. Hence this nocturnal visit to Notre Dame—it was of the utmost importance that Coquenil have an immediate talk with Papa Bonneton.
And presently, after a sleepy salutation from the archbishop's servant, and a brief explanation, M. Paul was shown through a stone passageway that connects the church with the house, and on pushing open a wide door covered with red velvet, he found himself alone in Notre Dame, alone in utter darkness save for a point of red light on the shadowy altar before the Blessed Sacrament.
As he stood uncertain which way to turn, the detective heard a step and a low growl, and peering among the arches of the choir he saw a lantern advancing, then a figure holding the lantern, then another crouching figure moving before the lantern. Then he recognized Cæsar.
"Phee-et, phee-et!" he whistled softly, and with a start and a glad rush, the dog came bounding to his master, while the sacristan stared in alarm.
"Good old Cæsar! There, there!" murmured Coquenil, fondling the eager head. "It's all right, Bonneton," and coming forward, he held out his hand