True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland

she answered eagerly.

      "You may as well know that we are facing a situation not altogether—er—encouraging. I believe M. Kittredge is innocent and I hope to prove it, but others think differently and they have serious things against him."

      "What things?" she demanded, her cheeks paling.

      "No matter now."

      "There can be nothing against him," declared the girl, "he is the soul of honor."

      "I hope so," answered the detective dryly, "but he is also in prison, and unless we do something he is apt to stay there."

      "What can we do?" murmured Alice, twining her fingers piteously.

      "We must get at the truth, we must find this woman who came to see you. The quickest way to do that is through Kittredge himself. He knows all about her, if we can make him speak. So far he has refused to say a word, but there is one person who ought to unseal his lips—that is the girl he loves."

      "Oh, yes," exclaimed Alice, her face lighting with new hope, "I think I could, I am sure I could, only—will they let me see him?"

      "That is the point. It is against the prison rule for a person au secret to see anyone except his lawyer, but I know the director of the Santé and I think——"

      "You mean the director of the depot?"

      "No, for M. Kittredge was transferred from the depot this morning. You know the depot is only a temporary receiving station, but the Santé is one of the regular French prisons. It's there they send men charged with murder."

      Alice shivered at the word. "Yes," she murmured, "and—what were you saying?"

      "I say that I know the director of the Santé and I think, if I send you to him with a strong note, he will make an exception—I think so."

      "Splendid!" she cried joyfully. "And when shall I present the note?"

      "To-day, at once; there isn't an hour to lose. I will write it now."

      Coquenil sat down at his massive Louis XV table with its fine bronzes and quickly addressed an urgent appeal to M. Dedet, director of the Santé, asking him to grant the bearer a request that she would make in person, and assuring him that, by so doing, he would confer upon Paul Coquenil a deeply appreciated favor. Alice watched him with a sense of awe, and she thought uneasily of her dream about the face in the angry sun and the land of the black people.

      "There," he said, handing her the note. "Now listen. You are to find out certain things from your lover. I can't tell you how to find them out, that is your affair, but you must do it."

      "I will," declared Alice.

      "You must find them out even if he doesn't wish to tell you. His safety and your happiness may depend on it."

      "I understand."

      "One thing is this woman's name and address."

      "Yes," replied Alice, and then her face clouded. "But if it isn't honorable for him to tell her name?"

      "You must make him see that it is honorable. The lady herself says she is ready to testify if necessary. At first she was afraid of implicating some person she thought guilty, but now she knows that person is not guilty. Besides, you can say that we shall certainly know all about this woman in a few days whether he tells us or not, so he may as well save us valuable time. Better write that down—here is a pad."

      "Save us valuable time," repeated Alice, pencil in hand.

      "Then I want to know about the lady's husband. Is he dark or fair? Tall or short? Does Kittredge know him? Has he ever had words with him or any trouble? Got that?"

      "Yes," replied Alice, writing busily.

      "Then—do you know whether M. Kittredge plays tennis?"

      Alice looked up in surprise. "Why, yes, he does. I remember hearing him say he likes it better than golf."

      "Ah! Then ask him—see here. I'll show you," and going to a corner between the bookcase and the wall, M. Paul picked out a tennis racket among a number of canes. "Now, then," he continued while she watched him with perplexity, "I hold my racket so in my right hand, and if a ball comes on my left, I return it with a back-hand stroke so, using my right hand; but there are players who shift the racket to the left hand and return the ball so, do you see?"

      "I see."

      "Now I want to know if M. Kittredge uses both hands in playing tennis or only the one hand. And I want to know which hand he uses chiefly, that is, the right or the left?"

      "Why do you want to know that?" inquired Alice, with a woman's curiosity.

      "Never mind why, just remember it's important. Another thing is, to ask M. Kittredge about a chest of drawers in his room at the Hôtel des Étrangers. It is a piece of old oak, rather worm-eaten, but it has good bronzes for the drawer handles, two dogs fighting on either side of the lock plates."

      Alice listened in astonishment. "I didn't suppose you knew where M. Kittredge lived."

      "Nor did I until this morning," he smiled. "Since then I—well, as my friend Gibelin says, I haven't wasted my time."

      "Your friend Gibelin?" repeated Alice, not understanding.

      Coquenil smiled grimly. "He is an amiable person for whom I am preparing a—a little surprise."

      "Oh! And what about the chest of drawers?"

      "It's about one particular drawer, the small upper one on the right-hand side—better write that down."

      "The small upper drawer on the right-hand side," repeated Alice.

      "I find that M. Kittredge always kept this drawer locked. He seems to be a methodical person, and I want to know if he remembers opening it a few days ago and finding, it unlocked. Have you got that?"

      "Yes."

      "Good! Oh, one thing more. Find out if M. Kittredge ever suffers from rheumatism or gout."

      The girl smiled. "Of course he doesn't; he is only twenty-eight."

      "Please do not take this lightly, mademoiselle," the detective chided gently. "It is perhaps the most important point of all—his release from prison may depend on it."

      "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not taking it lightly, indeed I'm not," and, with tears in her eyes, Alice assured M. Paul that she fully realized the importance of this mission and would spare no effort to make it successful.

      A few moments later she hurried away, buoyed up by the thought that she was not only to see her lover but to serve him.

      It was after six when Alice left the circular railway at the Montrouge station. She was in a remote and unfamiliar part of Paris, the region of the catacombs and the Gobelin tapestry works, and, although M. Paul had given her precise instructions, she wandered about for some time among streets of hospitals and convents until at last she came to an open place where she recognized Bartholdi's famous Belfort lion. Then she knew her way, and hurrying along the Boulevard Arago, she came presently to the gloomy mass of the Santé prison, which, with its diverging wings and galleries, spreads out like a great gray spider in the triangular space between the Rue Humboldt, the Rue de la Santé and the Boulevard Arago.

      A kind-faced policeman pointed out a massive stone archway where she must enter, and passing here, beside a stolid soldier in his sentry box, she came presently to a black iron door in front of which were waiting two yellow-and-black prison vans, windowless. In this prison door were four glass-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long brass key and turned the bolt. The door swung back, and with a shiver of repulsion the girl stepped inside. This was the prison, these men standing about were the jailers and—what did that matter so long as she got to him, to her dear Lloyd. There was nothing she would not face or endure for his sake.

      No sooner had the guard heard that she came with