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Mystery of the Boule Cabinet

<h5 id="id02106">THE FATE OF M. PIGOT</h5> Whatever may have been Grady's defects of insight and imagination, he was energetic enough when thoroughly aroused. Almost before the echo of that slamming door had died away, he was beside the sergeant's desk. "Get out the reserves," he ordered, "and have the other wagon around. 'Phone headquarters to rush every man available up to the Day and Night Bank, and say it's from me!" He stood chewing his cigar savagely as the sergeant hastened to obey. In a moment, the reserves came tumbling out, struggling into their coats; there was a clatter of hoofs in the street as the wagon dashed up; the reserves piled into it, permitting me to crowd in beside them, Grady jumped to the seat beside the driver, and we were off at a gallop, our gong waking the echoes of the silent street. I clung to the hand-rail as the wagon swayed back and forth or bounded into the air as it struck the car-tracks, and stared out into the night, struggling to understand. Could Godfrey be right? But of course he was right! Some intuition told me that; and yet, how had Crochard managed to substitute himself for the French detective? Where was Pigot? Was he lying somewhere in a crumpled heap, with a tiny wound upon his hand? But that could not be—Grady and Simmonds had been with him all the evening! And could that aged Frenchman with the white, fine, wrinkled skin be also the bronzed and virile personage whom I had known as Félix Armand? My reason reeled before the seeming impossibility of it—and yet, somehow, I knew that Godfrey was right! The wagon came to a stop so suddenly that I was thrown violently against the man next to me, and the reserves, leaping out, swept me before them. We were in front of the Day and Night Bank, and at a word from Grady, the men spread into a close cordon before the building. Another police wagon stood at the curb, with the driver still on the seat, but as Grady started toward it, a figure appeared at the door of the bank and shouted to us—shouted in inarticulate words which I could not understand. But Grady seemed to understand them, and went up the steps two at a time, with an agility surprising in so large a man, and which I was hard put to it to match. A little group stood at one side of the vestibule looking down at some one extended on a cushioned seat. And, an instant later, I saw that it was Simmonds, lying on his back, his eyes open and staring apparently at the ceiling. But, at the second glance, I saw that the eyes were sightless. Grady elbowed his way savagely through the group. "Where's Kelly?" he demanded. At the words, a white-faced man in uniform arose from a chair into which he had plainly dropped exhausted. "Oh, there you are!" and Grady glowered at him ferociously. "Now tell me what happened—and tell it quick!" "Why, sir," stammered Kelly, "there wasn't anything happened. Only when we stopped out there at the curb and I got down and opened the door, there wasn't nobody in the wagon but Mr. Simmonds. I spoke to him and he didn't answer—and then I touched him and he kind of fell over—and then I rushed in here and 'phoned the station; but they said you'd already started for the bank; and then we went out and brought him in here—and that's all I know, sir." "You didn't hear anything—no sound of a struggle?" "Not a sound, sir; not a single sound." "And you haven't any idea where the other man got out?" "No, sir." "Mr. Simmonds had a little valise with him—did you notice it?" "Yes, sir; and I looked for it in the wagon, but it ain't there." Grady turned away with a curse as four or five men ran in from the street—the men from headquarters, I told myself. I could hear him talking to them in sharp, low tones, and then they departed as suddenly as they had come. The reserves also hurried away, and I concluded that Grady was trying to throw a net about the territory in which the fugitive was probably concealed; but my interest in that manoeuvre was overshadowed, for the time being, by my anxiety for Simmonds. I picked up his right hand and looked at it; then I drew a deep breath of relief, for it was uninjured. "Has anyone sent for a doctor?" I asked. "Yes, sir," one of the bank attaches answered. "We telephoned for one at once—here he is, now!" he added, as a little black-bearded man entered, carry the inevitably-identifying medicine case. The newcomer glanced at the body, waved us back, fell on one knee, stripped away the clothing from the breast and applied his ear to the heart. Then he looked into the staring eyes, drew down the lids, watched them snap up again, and then hastily opened his case. "Let's have some water," he said. "Then he's not dead?" I questioned, as one of the clerks sprang to obey. "Dead? No; but he's had a taste or whiff of something that has stopped the heart action." With a queer, creepy feeling over my scalp, I remembered the little flask half-full of blood-red liquid which Crochard carried in his pocket. But he had not meant murder this time; I remembered that Godfrey had said he never killed an adversary. The doctor worked briskly away, and, at the end of a few minutes, Simmonds's eyes suddenly closed, he drew a long breath, and sat erect. Then his eyes opened, and he sat swaying unsteadily and staring amazedly about him. "Best lie down again," said the doctor soothingly. "You're a little wobbly yet, you know." "Where am I?" gasped Simmonds. Then his eyes encountered mine. "Lester!" he said. "Where is he—Piggott? Not…." He stopped short, looked once around at the gleaming marble of the bank, fumbled for something at his side, and fell senseless on the seat. I have no recollection of how I got back to the Marathon. I suppose I must have walked; but my first distinct remembrance is of finding myself sitting in my favourite chair, pipe in hand. The pipe was lit, so I suppose I must have lighted it mechanically, and I found that I had also mechanically changed into my lounging-coat. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was nearly four o'clock. The top of my head was burning as though with fever, and I went into the bathroom and turned the cold water on it. The shock did me a world of good, and by the time I had finished a vigorous toweling I felt immensely better. So I returned to my chair and sat down to review the events of the evening; but I found that somehow my brain refused to work, and black circles began to whirl before my eyes again. "I told Godfrey I couldn't stand any more of this," I muttered, and stumbled into my bedroom, undressed with difficulty, and turned out the light. Then, as I lay there, staring up into the darkness, a stinging thought brought me upright. Godfrey—where was Godfrey? Was he on the track of Crochard? Was he daring a contest with him? Perhaps, even at this moment…. Scarcely knowing what I did, I groped my way to the telephone and asked for Godfrey's number—hoping against hope absurdly—and at last, to my intense surprise and relief, I heard his voice—not a very amiable voice…. "Hello!" he said. "Godfrey," I began, "it's Lester. He got away." "Of course he got away. You didn't call me out of bed to tell me that, I hope?" "Then you knew about it?" "I knew he'd get away." "When the wagon got to the bank there was nobody inside but Simmonds. Simmonds went along, you know." "Was he hurt?" "He was unconscious, but he came around all right." "That's good—but Crochard wouldn't hurt him. He got away with the jewels, of course?" "Of course," I assented, surprised that Godfrey should take it so coolly. "When you rushed out that way," I added, "I thought maybe you were going after him." "With him twenty minutes in the lead? I'm no such fool! He got away from me the other day with a start of about half a second." "I tried to get you," I explained, "as soon as Simmonds told me they were going to look at the cabinet. I 'phoned the office. The city editor said he had sent you out into Westchester." Godfrey laughed shortly. "It was a wild-goose chase," he said, "cooked up by our friend Crochard. But even then, I'd have got back, if we hadn't punctured a tire when we were five miles from anywhere. I knew what was up—but there I was. Oh, he's made fools of us all, Lester. I told you he would!" "Then you didn't get my message?" "Yes—they gave it to me when I 'phoned in that the Westchester business was a fake. I rushed for the station, though I knew I'd be too late." "But, Godfrey," I said, "I can't understand, even yet, how he did it. Grady and Simmonds left the boat with Pigot and were with him all evening, showing him the sights. How did Crochard get into it? What did he do with Pigot? Where is Pigot?" "He's on the Savoie. I rushed a wireless down to her as soon as I left the station. They made a search and found Pigot bound and gagged under the berth in his stateroom." I could only gasp. "And to think I didn't suspect!" added Godfrey, bitterly. "We stood there and saw that yacht with the French flag walk away from us; we saw her put a man aboard the Savoie; we saw that man talking to Pigot…." "Yes," I said, breathlessly; "yes." "Well, that man was Crochard. He got Pigot into his stateroom—gave him a whiff of the same stuff he used on Simmonds, no doubt; put him out of the way under the berth; got into his clothes, made up his face, put on a wig—and all that while we were kicking our heels outside waiting for him." "But it was a tremendous risk," I said. "There were so many people on board who knew Pigot—it would have to be a perfect disguise." "Crochard wouldn't stop for that. But it wasn't much of a risk. None of us had seen Pigot closely; all we had seen of him was the back of his head; and the passengers were all on deck watching the quarantine men. And yet, of course, the disguise was a perfect one. Crochard is an artist in that line, and he was, no doubt, thoroughly familiar with Pigot's appearance. He deceived the purser—but the purser wouldn't suspect anything!" "So it was really Crochard…." "But we ought to have suspected. We ought to have suspected everything, questioned everything; I ought to have looked up that visitor and found out what became of him. Instead of which, Crochard put Pigot's papers in his pocket, set his bag outside the stateroom door, and then came out calmly to meet his dear friends of the press; and I stood there talking to him like a little schoolboy—no wonder he thinks I'm a fool!" "But nobody would have suspected!" I gasped. "Why, that man is- is…." "A genius," said Godfrey. "An absolute and unquestioned genius. But I knew that all the time, and I ought to have been on guard. You remember he said he would come to-day?" "Yes." "And you didn't believe it." "I can't believe it yet." "There's one consolation—it will break Grady." "But, Godfrey," I said, "if you could have seen those diamonds—those beautiful diamonds—and to think he should be able to get away with them from right under our noses!" "It's pretty bad, isn't it? But there's no use crying over spilt milk. Lester," he added, in another tone, "I want you to be in your office at noon to-morrow—or rather, to-day." "All right," I promised; "I'll be there." "Don't fail me. There is one act of the comedy still to be played." "I'll be there," I said again. "But I'm afraid the last act will be an anti-climax. Look here, Godfrey…." "Now go to bed," he broke in; "you're talking like a somnambulist. Get some sleep. Have you arranged for that vacation?" "Godfrey," I said, "tell me…." "I won't tell you anything. Only I've got one more bomb to explode, Lester, and it's a big one. It will make you jump!" I could hear him chuckling to himself. "Good-night," he said, and hung up. <h2 id="id02185" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXVII</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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