Through the Wall | Page 8

his
study, a large room opening off the dining room and furnished like no
other study in the world. Around the walls were low bookcases with
wide tops on which were spread, under glass, what Coquenil called his
criminal museum. This included souvenirs of cases on which he had
been engaged, wonderful sets of burglars' tools, weapons used by
murderers--saws, picks, jointed jimmies of tempered steel, that could
be taken apart and folded up in the space of a thick cigar and hidden
about the person. Also a remarkable collection of handcuffs from many
countries and periods in history. Also a collection of letters of criminals,
some in cipher, with confessions of prisoners and last words of suicides.
Also plaster casts of hands of famous criminals. And photographs of
criminals, men and women, with faces often distorted to avoid
recognition. And various grewsome objects, a card case of human skin,
and the twisted scarf used by a strangler.
As for the shelves underneath, they contained an unequaled special
library of subjects interesting to a detective, both science and fiction
being freely drawn upon in French, English, and German, for, while

Coquenil was a man of action in a big way, he was also a student and a
reader of books, and he delighted in long, lonely evenings, when, as
now, he sat in his comfortable study thinking, thinking.
Melanie entered presently with coffee and cigarettes, which she placed
on a table near the green-shaded lamp, within easy reach of the great
red-leather chair where M. Paul was seated. Then she stole out
noiselessly. It was five minutes past eight, and for an hour Coquenil
thought and smoked and drank coffee. Occasionally he frowned and
moved impatiently, and several times he took off his glasses and
stroked his brows over the eyes.
Finally he gave a long sigh of relief, and shutting his hands and
throwing out his arms with a satisfied gesture, he rose and walked to
the fireplace, over which hung a large portrait of his mother and several
photographs, one of these taken in the exact attitude and costume of the
painting of Whistler's mother in the Luxembourg gallery. M. Paul was
proud of the striking resemblance between the two women. For some
moments he stood before the fine, kindly face, and then he said aloud,
as if speaking to her: "It looks like a hard fight, little mother, but I'm
not afraid." And almost as he spoke, which seemed like a good omen,
there came a clang at the iron gate in the garden and the sound of quick,
crunching steps on the gravel walk. M. Pougeot had arrived.
M. Lucien Pougeot was one of the eighty police commissaries who,
each in his own quarter, oversee the moral washing of Paris's dirty
linen. A commissary of police is first of all a magistrate, but, unless he
is a fool, he soon becomes a profound student of human nature, for he
sees all sides of life in the great gay capital, especially the darker sides.
He knows the sins of his fellow men and women, their follies and
hypocrisies, he receives incredible confessions, he is constantly
summoned to the scenes of revolting crime. Nothing, absolutely
nothing, surprises him, and he has no illusions, yet he usually manages
to keep a store of grim pity for erring humanity. M. Pougeot was one of
the most distinguished and intelligent members of this interesting body.
He was a devoted friend of Paul Coquenil.
The newcomer was a middle-aged man of strong build and florid face,

with a brush of thick black hair. His quick-glancing eyes were at once
cold and kind, but the kindness had something terrifying in it, like the
politeness of an executioner. As the two men stood together they
presented absolutely opposite types: Coquenil, taller, younger,
deep-eyed, spare of build, with a certain serious reserve very different
from the commissary's outspoken directness. M. Pougeot prided
himself on reading men's thoughts, but he used to say that he could not
even imagine what Coquenil was thinking or fathom the depths of a
nature that blended the eagerness of a child with the austerity of a
prophet.
"Well," remarked the commissary when they were settled in their chairs,
"I suppose it's the Rio Janeiro thing? Some parting instructions, eh?"
And he turned to light a cigar.
Coquenil shook his head.
"When do you sail?"
"I'm not sailing."
"Wha-at?"
For once in his life M. Pougeot was surprised. He knew all about this
foreign offer, with its extraordinary money advantages; he had rejoiced
in his friend's good fortune after two unhappy years, and now--now
Coquenil informed him calmly that he was not sailing.
"I have just made a decision, the most important decision of my life,"
continued the detective, "and I want you