# The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII.
#### I Meet Monsieur Martigny.

Our regular work at the office just at that time happened to be unusually heavy and trying. The incessant strain had told even upon me. I returned to my rooms after dinner one evening determined to go early to bed. But I had scarcely donned my house coat when there came a tap at the door.
“Come in,” I called, thinking it was Mrs. Fitch, my landlady.
A rotund and exceedingly florid visage appeared in the doorway.
“You will pardon me, sir,” began a resonant voice, which I instantly remembered, even before the short, square figure stepped over the threshold into the full light, “but I have just discovered that I have no match. If I might from you borrow one——”
“Help yourself,” I said, and held out my case which was lying on the table at my elbow.
“You are very good,” 'he said, and then, as he stepped forward and saw me more distinctly, he uttered a little exclamation of surprise. “Ah, it is Mistair——”
“Lester,” I added, seeing that he hesitated.
“It is a great pleasure,” he was saying as he took the matches; “a great good fortune which brought me to this house. So lonely one grows at times—and then I greatly desire some advice. If you would have the leisure?”
“Certainly,” and I waved toward a chair. “Sit down.”
“In one moment,” he said. “You will pardon me,” and he disappeared through the doorway.
He was back almost at once with a handful of cigarettes, which he placed on the table. Then he drew up a chair. With a little deprecatory gesture, he used one of my matches to light a cigarette.
“It was truly for the gas,” he said, catching my smile; “and the gas for the cigarette!”
There was something fascinating about the man. My eyes were caught by his stodgy, nervous hands, as he held the match to his cigarette; then they wandered to his face—a strong face and a not unhandsome one, with a certain look of mastery about it.
“My name is Martigny—Jasper Martigny”—I nodded by way of salutation——“and I am from France, as you have doubtless long since suspected. It is my desire to become a citizen of Amer-ric'.”
“How long have you been living in America?” I asked.
“Since two months only. It is my intention to establish here a business.”
“Well,” I explained, “any time within the next three years, you may go before a court and make a declaration of your intention to become a citizen. Then, in two years more, you get your final papers.”
“You mean,” he hesitated, “that it takes so many years——
“Five years' actual residence—yes.”
“But,” and he hesitated again, “I had understood that—that——”
“That it was easier? There are illegal ways, of course; but you can scarcely expect me to advise you concerning them, Mr. Martigny.”
“No; of course, no!” he waved his hand in disclaimer. “I did not know—it makes nothing to me—I will wait—I wish to obey the laws.”
He picked up a fresh cigarette, lit it from the other, and tossed away the end.
“Will you not try one?” he asked, seeing that my pipe was finished, and I presently found myself enjoying the best cigarette I had ever smoked. “You comprehend French—no?”
“Not well enough to enjoy it,” I said.
“I am sorry—I believe you would like this book which I am reading,” and he pulled a somewhat tattered volume from his pocket. “I have read it, oh, ver' many times, as well as all the others, but this is the masterpiece.”
He held it so that I could see the title. It was “Monsieur Lecog.”
“I have read it in English,” I said.
“And did you not like it—yes? I am ver' fond of stories of detection. That is why I was so absorbed in that affair of Mees—Mees—ah, I have forgotten! Your names are so difficult for me.”
“Miss Holladay,” I said.
“Ah, yes; and has that mystery ever arrived at a solution?”
“No,” I said. “Unfortunately, we haven't any Monsieur Lecogs on our detective force.”
“Ah, no,” he smiled. “And the young lady—in her I conceived a great interest, even though I did not see her—how is she?”
“The shock was a little too much for her,” I said. “She's gone out to her country place to rest. She'll soon be all right again, I hope.”
He had taken a third cigarette, and, with his face half turned away from me, was lighting it carelessly. I noticed how flushed his neck was.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” he agreed, after a moment; “at least, I should be most sad to think otherwise. But it is late; I perceive that you are weary; I thank you for your kindness.”
“Not at all,” I protested. “I hope you'll come in whenever you feel lonely.”
“A thousand thanks! I shall avail myself of your invitation. My apartment is just across the hall,” he added, as I opened the door. “I trust to see you there.”
“You shall,” I said heartily, and bade him good night.
In the week that followed, I saw a good deal of Martigny. I would meet him on the stairs or in the hall; he came again to see me, and I returned his visit two nights later. I grew more and more to like him—he told me many stories of Paris. He was plainly a man of the world, with an outlook upon life a little startling in its materiality, but interesting in its freshness, and often amusing in its frankness. And he seemed to return my liking—certainly it was he who sought me, not I who sought him. He was being delayed, he explained, in establishing his business; he could not get just the quarters he desired, but in another week there would be a place vacant. He would ask me to draw up the lease. Time hung heavily on his hands.
“Though I do not quarrel with that,” he added, sitting in my room one evening.. “It is necessary for me that I take life easily. I have a weakness of the heart, which has already given me much trouble. Besides, I have your companionship, which is most welcome, and for which I thank you. I trust Mees—Mees—what you call—Holladay is again well.”
“We haven't heard from her,” I said. “She is still at her place in the country.”
“Oh, she is doubtless well—in her I take such an interest—you will pardon me if I weary you.”
“Weary me? But you don't!”
“Then I will make bold to ask you—have you made any—what you call—theory of the crime?”
“No,” I answered; “there was the newspaper theory of an illegitimate daughter. I suppose you saw it. That seems to fit the case.”
He nodded meditatively. “Yet I like to imagine how Monsieur Lecoq would approach it. Would he believe it was a murder simply because it so appeared? Has it occurred to you that Mees Holladay truly might have visited her father, and that his death was not a murder at all, but an accident?”
“An accident?” I repeated. “How could it be an accident? How could a man be stabbed accidentally in the neck? Besides, even if it were an accident, how would that explain his daughter's rushing from the building without trying to save him, without giving the alarm? If it wasn't a murder, why should the woman, whoever she was, be frightened? How else can you explain her flight?”
He was looking at me thoughtfully. “All that you say is ver' true,” he said. “It shows that you have given to the case much thought. I believe that you also have a fondness for crimes of mystery,” and he smiled at me. “Is it not so, Mistair Lester '”
“I had never suspected it,” I laughed, “until this case came up, but the microbe seems to have bitten me.”
“Ah, yes,” he said doubtfully, not quite understanding.
“And I've rather fancied at times,” I admitted, “that I should like to take a hand at solving it—though, of course, I never shall. Our connection with the case is ended.”
He shot me a quick glance, then lighted another cigarette.
“Suppose it were assigned to you to solve it,” he asked, “how would you set about it?”
“I'd try to find the mysterious woman.”
“But the police, so I understand, attempted that and failed,” he objected. “How could you succeed?”
“Oh, I dare say I shouldn't succeed,” I laughed, his air striking me as a little more earnest than the occasion demanded. “I should probably fail, just as the police did.”
“In France,” he remarked, “it is not in the least expected that men of the law should——”
“Nor is it here,” I explained. “Only, of course, a lawyer can't help it, sometimes; some cases demand more or less detective work, and are yet too delicate to be intrusted to the police.”
“It is also the fault of our police that it is too fond of the newspapers, of posing before the public—it is a fault of human nature, is it not?”
“You speak English so well, Mr. Martigny,” I said, “that I have wondered where you learned it.”
“I was some years in England—and devoted myself seriously to the study of the language. But I still find it sometimes very difficult to understand you Americans.”
Yes, I decided, I was very fortunate in gaining Martigny's acquaintance. He was interesting in himself—entertaining, with that large tolerance and good humor which I have already mentioned, and which was one of the most striking characteristics of the man.
It was Monday, the fourteenth day of April, and we had just opened the office when a clerk hurried in with a message for Mr. Royce.
“There's a man out here who wants to see you at once, sir,” he said. “He says his name's Thompson, and that he's Miss Frances Holladay's butler.”
Our junior half started from his chair in his excitement; then he controlled himself, and sank back into it again.
“Show him in,” he said. Not until that moment had I noticed how the past week had aged him and worn him down—his work, of course, might account for part of it, but not for all. He seemed almost ill.
The door opened and a gray-haired many of about sixty entered. He was fairly gasping for breath, and plainly laboring under strong emotion.
“Well, Thompson,” demanded Mr. Royce, “what's the trouble now?”
“Trouble enough, sir!” cried the other. “My mistress has been made away with, sir! She left town just ten days ago for Belair, where we were all waiting for her, and nobody has set eyes on her since, sir!”