Chapter XXIV The Clue
The body of Harry Horton had been removed from the studio and this it seemed made Moira’s task less painful. But she was now armed with a desperate courage which even the sight of Harry’s mangled body would not have dismayed. And the thought that her keenness of perception, her intelligence, her woman’s instinct were the only weapons she had with which to combat the scepticism of this skillful detective and save Jim Horton from the perils of impending indictment for murder, gave her a sense of responsibility which keyed her faculties to their utmost and drove from her heart all terrors of her situation. She must succeed where Monsieur Matthieu had failed. Instinct would guide her, instinct and faith. Monsieur Matthieu, if not her enemy, was prejudiced in favor of a pre-conceived idea which every bit of evidence justified, and yet there must be other evidence—clues neglected, trifles overlooked—and she must find them out.
The burden of the testimony against Jim Horton would fall if she could prove it physically possible for some one to have been in the studio while Jim Horton and Piquette had waited outside. This was her object—nothing else seemed to matter.
On the way to the Rue de Tavennes in a cab Monsieur Simon replied politely to her questions, giving her all the information she desired, while Monsieur Matthieu sat opposite. How she hated the man! His smile patronized, his reddish hair inflamed her. She could see that in his mind Jim Horton was already convicted. But when they reached the porte cochère of Madame Toupin, Monsieur Simon handed her gravely down and Monsieur Matthieu led the way up the stair to the studio where a policeman was still on guard. Moira followed the Commissaire closely and stood for a moment on the threshold of the room while Monsieur Matthieu unbent enough to show her where the body lay and to indicate the locked door and the chair which had been overturned. To Moira these matters were already unimportant, since she saw no reason to deny the testimony of the many witnesses on these points. She entered the room slowly, with a feeling of some awe, and for a moment stood by the fireplace, glancing from one object to the other, thinking deeply. A dark stain on the rug, just before her, gave her a tremor, but she recovered herself immediately and walked slowly around the room, examining each object as though she had never seen it before.
“Does Madame wish to look in the apartment or the kitchenette?” she heard Monsieur Matthieu’s voice asking.
But she shook her head. The answer to the mystery lay here—in this very room. She was already satisfied as to that.
“Is this room in the precise condition in which it was found when the police first arrived?” she asked coolly.
“Yes, Madame, except for the removal of the body, nothing has been disturbed.”
“You are sure of this?”
“I am, Madame. It is for this reason that a policeman has been always on guard.”
“And you yourself, Monsieur,—you have moved no object—no drapery—no chair?”
“No, Madame. Nothing. I climbed upon the couch to look out of the window. That is all.”
She nodded and passed around the lay figure which she was regarding with a new interest.
“And the gray drapery on the shoulder of the lay figure—you say it has not been touched?”
Monsieur Matthieu looked up with a smile.
“I examined the figure carefully, Madame. I may have raised the drapery—but I restored it as I found it.”
“Then things are not precisely as they were,” she said keenly.
“No, Madame. Not the gray drapery,” said Matthieu amusedly.
“You did not touch the bolero jacket?”
“No, Madame.”
“Nor the skirt?”
“I am quite sure of that,” said the Commissaire.
She removed the hat from the head of papier maché and examined it minutely, then took off the head itself and stared into the painted eyes as though asking the mute familiar lips a question. And then suddenly, as the Commissaire and Monsieur Simon watched curiously,
“It is a pity that you moved the draperies, Monsieur Matthieu,” she said slowly.
“Why, Madame?”
“Because you have disturbed the dust.”
“I can’t understand why——”
“I was away for a week. Some dust would have accumulated, upon the draperies—the figure has been touched. It is not as I left it.”
“Of course, Madame, I made a thorough investigation——”
“And what did you learn from it?” she asked quietly.
Monsieur Matthieu glanced at her once and then shrugged.
“Nothing, Madame. A lay figure is a lay figure.”
“True,” said Moira carelessly, but the Commissaire found himself regarding her with a new appraising eye. What did she mean by this question?
But she moved past him quickly as though with a definite purpose, and approached the north window.
“Which of these sashes was unlocked, Monsieur?”
“The one to the right, Madame.”
“I see. You say it was closed but not fastened?”
“That is correct.”
“That is strange.”
“Why, Madame?”
“Because I fastened it with great care before I left for Fontainebleau.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Positive. It has an awkward catch. You see?”
And she demonstrated how easily it came unlatched unless pressed firmly down.
Monsieur Matthieu came forward smiling.
“You only indicate, Madame, that it will slip easily out of place.”
Moira met his gaze firmly.
“Try to make it slip, Monsieur,” she said, “since I have fastened it.”
He tried by tapping—by shaking the window, but the catch held.
“It is a matter of little moment,” he muttered, “since it would be impossible for the murderer to have escaped by this way.”
“Perhaps,” said Moira.
But while she spoke she unlocked the catch, then slipped it insecurely into place and stood aside, studying it keenly.
“What is it that interests you, Madame?” asked the Juge d’Instruction.
“The catch, Monsieur,” she replied quietly. “It is an old one. The edges are worn quite smooth.” And just then as a breeze came from without, the French window swung gently open.
Monsieur Matthieu started back a pace and glanced at Monsieur Simon.
“You found this window open, Monsieur le Commissaire,” said the Judge.
“That is true,” replied the Commissaire confidently, “but it is possible that Monsieur Horton may have disturbed it when he examined it before the murder.”
Moira turned quickly.
“The window was securely locked. I left it so. Monsieur Horton found it so. You make nothing of this, either, Monsieur le Commissaire?”
Monsieur Matthieu shook his head and pointed toward the opening.
“My answer to your questions, Madame, is yonder,” he said with a grin. “Explain to me how any living man could have descended from that window and I will surrender to you my position and my reputation as Commissaire de Police.”
Moira made no reply. She had climbed upon the couch and was already half out of the window, examining the broad ledge outside, while Monsieur Simon, somewhat alarmed lest she should lose her balance, had caught her by the skirt of her dress.
“Be careful, Madame,” he warned, “you may fall.”
“Have no fear, Monsieur le Juge,” she said with a smile. But she had lowered herself to her knees upon the ledge outside and clinging to the jamb of the window was carefully examining every inch of the sill and tin gutter.
Monsieur Matthieu, inside the room, had lighted a cigarette and was puffing at it contentedly, looking on with an amused tolerance at the solicitude of Monsieur Simon, who as he knew was more easily swayed than himself from the paths of his duty by a pretty face or a well-turned ankle. Through the panes of glass he saw that the girl had bent forward at the edge, her eyes near the tin gutter, the fingers of one hand touching the edge, while Monsieur Simon held her other arm and besought her to return. This she did presently, standing for a moment upright in the open window and looking down at them intently, a challenge in her eyes for the Commissaire.
“Did you discover anything, Madame?” he asked politely enough.
Though his professional manner may not have indicated it, Monsieur Matthieu was sorry for her. She had attempted the impossible. Her lover was doomed. But she was handsome—with the fine color that had come into her face from her exertions, and the new gleam of hope that had come into her eyes—handsome, but her effort was futile, so futile to hope to find clues where he, Matthieu, had failed.
She didn’t reply and accepting the hand which the gallant Juge d’Instruction offered her, stepped down to the couch and so to the floor.
“You see, Madame,” ventured the Commissaire more kindly, “that it would be quite out of the question for the murderer to have descended from the window.”
“I have never thought that he did, Monsieur,” said Moira dryly.
The Commissaire stared at her for a moment in astonishment. What was the meaning of this sudden assurance in her tone? Could it be possible that this girl had noted something that he had overlooked? That she had evolved a theory out of some intangible bit of evidence that had escaped him? Impossible. And yet curiously enough, he experienced a slight feeling of uneasiness which might have been discomfort had he not been so sure of himself.
“You have perhaps happened upon something that has escaped my eye?” he asked frankly.
“I do not know what your eye saw or what it did not see, Monsieur,” she said quietly, “but I have learned nothing to make me change my opinions as to this crime.”
“I hope that you will be able to confirm them,” said the Commissaire. “If there is anything that I can do——”
“Yes, Monsieur,” broke in Moira with precision. “If Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction will grant permission,” with a flash of her eyes at Monsieur Simon, “I would be obliged if you will summon for me Monsieur Joubert or any others in the building who followed Monsieur Horton up the stair.”
She glanced at Monsieur Simon, who bowed his head in agreement.
“By all means,” said the Judge, “if Madame has reason to believe——”
“I ask it, Monsieur le Juge, not as a favor, but as a necessary step in the administration of justice in this case.”
“It is little enough. Go, Monsieur. Here are the names. Madame Toupin will direct you.”
Monsieur Matthieu hesitated. He did not wish to leave the room. Something had happened to change the manner of this woman. Her eyes glowed—she was authoritative—inspired. He was beginning to believe that after all...
“You will please go at once, Monsieur,” the voice of the Judge was saying. “Madame and I will await your return.”
And so with a backward glance, Monsieur Matthieu went out.
“You think you have found a clue, Madame?” asked Monsieur Simon with an air of encouragement.
“I don’t know, Monsieur—a hope—perhaps a vain one. But you are friendly. You shall see.”
And crossing quickly in front of him she went directly to the lay figure and examined it minutely.
“This old skirt, Monsieur, as you will observe, is fastened by buttons and is somewhat twisted to one side.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“This was the first thing that attracted my attention. But one button holds it, and it is fastened at the wrong button-hole.”
“And what does that signify?”
“Merely that it has been tampered with—I did not fasten it in this way, Monsieur,” she said positively.
“You are sure?” Monsieur Simon was now as eager as she.
“Absolutely. I am a leisurely person. I have done all the cleaning in this studio myself. I am careful in small matters. It would have been impossible for me to have fastened these buttons as you see them.”
“Sapristi! Madame—And you think——?”
He paused as Moira unbuttoned the old skirt and slipped it down while she moved eagerly around the partially disrobed figure.
“Monsieur!” she gasped in sudden excitement as she pointed to the cotton covering of the mannikin. He looked where she pointed and saw a stain of dirt and dust which extended the full length of the thigh.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“The lay figure has been moved from its iron bracket——”
“And even so, what——?”
But she had fallen on her knees before it and didn’t even hear him, for she suddenly bent forward with a little cry and put her finger into a small tear in the cotton cloth on the outside of the right calf.
“I have it,” she muttered excitedly, as though half to herself. “I have it—new—clean on one side, soiled on the other——”
“What, Madame—what?” asked Simon, catching the fire of her eagerness.
“The hole in the leg, Monsieur,” she cried. “Don’t you see? A piece torn out against some rough surface——”
“Yes, but——”
“And here is the cloth that was torn from it,” she gasped, exhibiting a small piece of cotton cloth. “You see? It fits the tear exactly.”
Simon took it from her hands and scrutinized it through his glasses. The torn piece was of the same material as the cotton skin of the lay figure, soiled upon one side and clean upon the other.
“Where did you find this piece of cotton, Madame?” he asked in a suppressed tone.
“Outside the window—hanging below a torn edge of the tin gutter, where it must have escaped the eyes of Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“Mon Dieu! Then the lay figure must have been outside on the ledge——”
“Exactly. Outside. The stain of dust upon the leg shows how it lay——”
“Magnifique, Madame——”
“But the skirt and the jacket were first removed,” she went on breathlessly. “Isn’t it obvious? Otherwise there would have been no stain of dirt upon the leg. There is no mark of dirt upon them.”
“Quick, Madame. The jacket——”
And with his own hands the Judge helped her remove the Spanish jacket, taking from his pocket a small magnifying glass with which he examined the figure intently.
“By the armpits, Monsieur Simon. It is there the hands would have caught.”
Simon obeyed while Moira lifted the arms.
“There’s something,” he muttered softly.
“A stain,” broke in Moira quickly. “I can see it with the naked eye.”
It was a faint smudge, of a brownish color like rust.
“The print of a finger?” she mumbled.
“It shall be analyzed. It looks like——”
“The murderer’s fingers—stained——”
“If it is blood, Madame——”
“Yes, yes——”
“Then the murderer carried this figure back—after the murder——”
“Exactly. And he——”
She paused and then was suddenly silent, for Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire, appeared at the door of the studio. He came quickly forward, glancing at the denuded mannikin in the absurd pose of gesticulation into which they had put it. It seemed to be making a ribald gesture at the astonished Commissaire.
“You have left nothing to the imagination, I see, Madame.” And then, “You have discovered something?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” said Moira briefly. “You have been able to find some of the witnesses?”
“Yes, Madame. The most important. But it would give me pleasure to know——”
“In a moment, Monsieur. I am intent upon this problem. Perhaps we shall learn something. It is Monsieur Joubert that I wished to see particularly. He is a carpenter and lives in the court at the rear——”
“It is he I have found, Madame.” And turning aside, Matthieu beckoned toward the corridor, and Monsieur Joubert entered. He was well known to Moira and saluted her, his brow troubled.
“Bon jour, Monsieur Joubert,” she said, trying to control the beating of her heart and the labor of her breathing, for here she knew was to be the test of the worth of her discoveries. Everything that she believed, would stand or fall by the testimony of the people who had followed Jim Horton up the stair.
“Bon jour, Madame ‘Orton,” said the carpenter politely.
“Where were you, Monsieur,” she began, “when you heard Monsieur Horton’s cry of alarm?”
“In the court below, Madame. I was standing with Monsieur Lavaud, the pastry cook, at the angle of the wall just inside the Loge of Madame Toupin——”
“And when you heard the cries what did you do?” asked the girl.
“I waited a moment in fear and then with Monsieur Lavaud went toward the entrance.”
“Were there some others there?”
“Oui, Madame. A number of persons came running into the court. They seemed to spring from the earth as if by magic.”
“And were you among the first to rush up the stair?”
“Oui, Madame. There were but two or three before me.”
“And whom did you find on the second landing?”
“Monsieur ‘Orton and a lady who told us that a murder had been committed.”
“And you went with him up the stair?”
“Yes, Monsieur. A policeman had come rushing in, and we all mounted to the third floor.”
“Was it dark out there on the third floor landing?”
“Not dark, but dim. The studio door was open and threw a light outside.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Some rushed into the studio. We were all greatly excited. I stood in the hallway. Some went to the small hall room, the door of which was partly open.”
“It was dark inside the hall room?”
“Oui, Madame—dark.”
“You have testified that one of the crowd went into the small hall room and came out saying that no one was there.”
“Non, Madame. No one was there. I and Monsieur Lavaud went into the room, made a light and verified the statement of the man who had come out.”
Moira clasped and unclasped her hands nervously, and when she spoke again her throat was dry with uncertainty.
“Monsieur Joubert, you will please listen very carefully to my question and try to answer very accurately.”
“Oui, Madame.”
“You say that one of the crowd who had come up the stair with you examined the room. Did you see him come out of the door?”
“Oui, Madame. I saw him come out.”
She paused significantly, and then, with emphasis,
“Did you see him go in, Monsieur Joubert?”
Joubert stared at her stupidly for a moment, and Monsieur Matthieu and the Judge leaned forward, aware of the intent of the question.
As the man did not reply, it was the Juge d’Instruction who broke the silence impatiently.
“Yes, yes, Monsieur Joubert,” he questioned sharply, “did you see him go in?”
“The truth—Monsieur Joubert,” gasped Moira.
Joubert scratched his head and snuffled his feet awkwardly.
“No, Madame. I can’t really say that I did.”
“Did any of the others see him go in?”
Here Monsieur Simon broke in quietly. “Pardon, Madame! But that is a question the other witnesses must answer.”
Moira glanced at him and then at Monsieur Matthieu.
“Perhaps you can inform me, Monsieur le Commissaire,” she said. “Have any of the witnesses who testified to seeing this man come out of the door also testified to seeing him go in?”
“Many persons went into the room, Madame——”
“Later, Monsieur,” she broke in quickly. “Later, after this man who had come out had mingled with the crowd and gone down the stair.”
Monsieur Matthieu started.
“Madame!” he gasped.
“Listen, Monsieur Joubert,” she went on earnestly, “and answer me truthfully, for the life of a human being hangs on your replies. Did you know some of the people in the crowd who rushed up the stair?”
“As to that—oui, Madame,” said Joubert more easily. “Most of them I knew—they are of the neighborhood. Monsieur Lavaud, Monsieur Picard of the Lavoir, Monsieur Gabriel and others——”
“But this man who came out of the door of the hall room,” she insisted clearly. “You had never seen him before?”
Joubert shrugged.
“Now that you mention it, Madame, I think that is the truth.”
“Are you sure that you never saw him in the neighborhood?”
“No, Madame. I never saw him in this neighborhood.”
Moira gasped in relief, aware that the Commissaire, from contempt, from indifference, had been reduced to the silence of consternation. She saw it in his face and in the eyes of Monsieur Simon, who stood beside her, listening in admiration and ready to aid her with advice or question. He was on her side now. But she was reserving her strongest stroke for the last and she delivered it with growing assurance, for in her heart all along she had known through whom and by whom the murder must have been committed.
“Monsieur Joubert,” she asked coolly, “you say the light was dim in the corridor. Was it too dark for you to see what the man who came out of the door looked like?”
“It was dim, Madame. But I remember him perfectly.”
“You could identify him, if you saw him?”
“I think so, Madame.”
“Good. Perhaps I can describe him to you, Monsieur Joubert. He was not a large man, he was smaller than you, with broad but bent shoulders, long arms like an ape’s, which reached nearly to his knees, a thin face, small black eyes, a nose like the beak of an eagle——”
Joubert had started back in astonishment.
“It is he, Madame! You have described him——”
“And when he walked he had a slight limp of the left leg——”
“A limp, Madame. It is true,” cried Joubert, “the very same. He limped. I saw it as he came forward——”
“That will be all, Monsieur Joubert,” said Moira wearily.
And when the man had gone out she turned to Monsieur Simon with a smile of triumph. “Have I made out a case, Monsieur le Juge?”
“Parfaitement, Madame. But the murderer——?” he urged.
She grew grave at once.
“The man I have described is Monsieur Tricot.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“We have already taken steps. He will be found, Madame,” said the Commissaire. “All the police of Paris are on his trail.”
“I pray God you may find him,” said Moira quietly.
“And even if we do not, Madame,” said Monsieur Simon, “you have created already a reasonable doubt.” And then, with a mischievous look toward Monsieur Matthieu, “But I think perhaps it would be as well if you took Monsieur le Commissaire into your confidence.”
Monsieur Matthieu, aware of the position the Juge d’Instruction had now taken, was silent, but still incredulous.
“I should like to hear the other facts upon which you base this testimony,” he said slowly.
Monsieur Simon waved his hand toward the mannikin, its frozen gesture now almost prophetic. “Tell Monsieur le Commissaire what happened in this room as you have traced it, Madame.”
Moira glanced at the Commissaire, who bowed his head in an attitude of attention, which had in it not a little of humility.
“The murderer lay in wait for Monsieur Jim Horton,” said Moira. “There is no doubt in my mind as to that. The Petit Bleu was the lure, this studio the trap. The affair had been planned with skill. The motive was vengeance, and a desire to prevent certain papers from reaching the hands of Monsieur le Duc de Vautrin. This man Tricot was already in the studio when Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin arrived. Perhaps Monsieur le Commissaire has already guessed where.”
“Go on, Madame,” said Matthieu gravely.
“He had taken the clothing from the mannikin and put the lay figure out in the darkness on the ledge outside the north window. Then he went and stood in the place of the lay figure. He had put on the old skirt and bolero jacket, and slouch hat, and about his shoulders was the gray drapery. He had only to remain silent and motionless. He was prepared to spring upon and stab Monsieur Jim Horton when his back was turned, but the appearance of Madame Morin disconcerted him. He had counted on a quick death without an outcry. Madame Morin knew him. He did not dare to attempt to kill them both. And so he waited.”
“Saperlotte!”
“Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin examined the studio in curiosity and then went out into the hall, now suspicious that all was not as it should be. Monsieur Tricot did not dare to go until he was sure that they had gone. He was about to take his leave when he heard a man’s footsteps upon the stair and went back to his position on the model stand. The man entered. He thought that it was Monsieur Jim Horton come back alone. But it was not Jim Horton. It was my husband, Harry Horton, his twin brother. The testimony shows that their clothing was much alike. Their faces were the same. Tricot saw my husband’s face for a moment under the low gas light as he came in the door, locking it behind him. God knows why my—my husband was here. I don’t. He came to spend the night perhaps—to wait for me.”
She paused, breathing hard, her words scarcely audible. But a word from Monsieur Simon encouraged her again.
“This Tricot is desperate and very strong. He sprang upon my husband and killed him. But there was a sound of struggle and the noise of a falling body which Monsieur Jim Horton and his companion heard from the door of the room in the hall. They came out. And weapon in hand, Jim Horton, after several minutes, broke in the door. But by this time the murderer had taken his place again as the lay figure, just as he stood when they had first entered the room. In their horror at their discovery they passed him by and rushed down the stair.”
“And then, Madame?” nodded the Commissaire.
“He ran quickly to the window, outside which he had put my lay figure, dragged it in hurriedly, dressed it in its clothing and restored it to its place, then ran out and hid in the darkness of the hall room, intending to leap out to the roof below. But he did not dare it with his injured leg, resorting to the clever device which I have indicated to you, of going out when the crowd swarmed excitedly up to the studio door, and announcing that no one was there. Then, Messieurs, in a moment he had mingled with the crowd and was gone.”
“And how did you learn this, Madame?”
“By a trifle which even your experienced eyes had overlooked. This, Monsieur——”
And she produced the small piece of torn cotton cloth from her pocket.
“It was torn from the mannikin upon a projecting piece of tin and hung from the gutter outside. You have only to apply it to the leg of the mannikin, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
The bewildered police officer took the small object and turned it over in his fingers, then went to the lay figure while Monsieur Simon showed him the stains at the arm pits and upon the thigh, explaining the line of reasoning the girl had employed.
He raised his head and looked at her, but his voice was that of a broken man.
“My honor—my reputation, are in your keeping, Madame,” he muttered.
But Moira caught him by the hands in an access of generosity.
“I render them to you, Monsieur. If Monsieur le Juge keeps silent, you may be sure that I shall do so.”
“You are very good, Madame——”
“It is not your fault. You were not familiar with the studio as I was. And besides—you were doing your duty, while I—it was my life, my whole happiness, that was involved.”
“And what can I do to repay you, Madame?” he asked.
“Find Monsieur Tricot!” she cried with spirit.
“And Monsieur Quinlevin?” asked the Judge quietly.
Moira glanced at them, then sank upon the couch and buried her head in her arms, but she did not reply. She could not. She had reached the end of her resources.
Monsieur Simon bent over and touched her kindly on the shoulder.
“You had better be going and getting some rest, Madame. If you will permit me. I am sure that Madame Simon will be glad if you will let me bring you to her.”
Moira looked up at the dark stain upon the floor, the terrible mannikin, and then rose. There were tears in her voice as she gave the Juge d’Instruction her hand in gratitude.
“Ah, thanks, Monsieur, you are very kind. If it will not trouble you——”
And leaving the theater of her life’s drama to the solitary policeman on guard, she followed the charitable Monsieur Simon down the stair.
Monsieur Matthieu had already disappeared.