PAGE 3
The Smuggler
by
Craig had already risen from the bench and we were walking up the Avenue.
The establishment of Mademoiselle Violette consisted of a three-story and basement brownstone house in which the basement and first floor had been remodelled for business purposes. Mademoiselle’s place, which was on the first floor, was announced to the world by a neat little oval gilt sign on the hand railing of the steps.
We ascended and rang the bell. As we waited I noticed that there were several other modistes on the same street, while almost directly across was a sign which proclaimed that on September 15 Mademoiselle Gabrielle would open with a high class exhibition of imported gowns from Paris.
We entered. The coroner and an undertaker were already there, and the former was expecting Herndon. Kennedy and I had already met him and he shook hands cordially.
Mademoiselle Violette, it seemed, had rented the entire house and then had sublet the basement to a milliner, using the first floor herself, the second as a workroom for the girls whom she employed, while she lived on the top floor, which had been fitted for light housekeeping with a kitchenette. It was in the back room of the shop itself on the first floor that her body had been discovered, lying on a davenport.
“The newspaper reports were very indefinite,” began Herndon, endeavouring to take in the situation. “I suppose they told nearly all the story, but what caused her death? Have you found that out yet? Was it poison or violence?
The coroner said nothing, but with a significant glance at Kennedy he drew a peculiar contrivance from his pocket. It had four round holes in it and through each hole he slipped a finger, then closed his hand, and exhibited his clenched fist. It looked as if he wore a series of four metal rings on his fingers.
“Brass knuckles?” suggested Herndon, looking hastily at the body, which showed not a sign of violence on the stony face.
The coroner shook his head knowingly. Suddenly he raised his fist. I saw him press hard with his thumb on the upper end of the metal contrivance. From the other end, just concealed under his little linger, there shot out as if released by a magic spring a thin keen little blade of the brightest and toughest steel. He was holding, instead of a meaningless contrivance of four rings, a most dangerous kind of stiletto or dagger upraised. He lifted his thumb and the blade sprang back into its sheath like an extinguished spark of light.
“An Apache dagger, such as is used in the underworld of Paris,” broke out Kennedy, his eyes gleaming with interest.
The coroner nodded. “We found it,” he said, “clasped loosely in her hand. But it is only by expert medical testimony that we can determine whether it was placed on her fingers before or after this happened. We have photographed it, and the prints are being developed.”
He had now uncovered the slight figure of the little French modiste. On the dress, instead of the profuse flow of blood which we had expected to see, there was a single round spot. And in the white marble skin of her breast was a little, nearly microscopic puncture, directly over the heart.
“She must have died almost instantly,” commented Kennedy, glancing from the Apache weapon to the dead woman and back again. “Internal hemorrhage. I suppose you have searched her effects. Have you found anything that gives a hint among them?”
“No,” replied the coroner doubtfully, “I can’t say we have – unless it is the bundle of letters from Pierre, the jeweller. They seem to have been engaged, and yet the letters stopped abruptly, and, well, from the tone of the last one from him I should say there was a quarrel brewing.”