The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
monsieur.”
“At what hour did you return with the money?”
“It must have been five o’clock when I got back.”
“Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you handed him the notes? Now, do not be in a hurry; think before you answer.”
“Let me see: first he counted the notes, and made them into four packages; then he put them in the safe; and then—it seems to me—and then he locked the safe; and, yes, I am not mistaken, he went out!”
He uttered these last words so quickly, that, forgetting his knee, he half started up, but, with a cry of pain, sank back in bed.
“Are you sure of what you say?” asked the judge.
M. Patrigent’s solemn tone seemed to frighten Antonin.
“Sure?” he replied with marked hesitation, “I would bet my head on it, yet I am not sure!”
It was impossible for him to be more decided in his answers. He had been frightened. He already imagined himself in difficulty, and for a trifle would have retracted everything.
But the effect was already produced; and when they retired M. Patrigent said to Sigault:
“This is a very important piece of evidence.”
VI
The Archangel Hotel, Mme. Gypsy’s asylum, was the most elegant building on the Quai St. Michel.
A person who pays her fortnight’s board in advance is treated with consideration at this hotel.
Mme. Alexandre, who had been a handsome woman, was now stout, laced till she could scarcely breathe, always over-dressed, and fond of wearing a number of flashy gold chains around her fat neck.
She had bright eyes and white teeth; but, alas, a red nose. Of all her weaknesses, and Heaven knows she had indulged in every variety, only one remained; she loved a good dinner, washed down with plenty of good wine.
She also loved her husband; and, about the time M. Patrigent was leaving the hospital, she began to be worried that her “little man” had not returned to dinner. She was about to sit down without him, when the hotel-boy cried out:
“Here is monsieur.”
And Fanferlot appeared in person.
Three years before, Fanferlot had kept a little office of secret intelligence; Mme. Alexandre was a trader without a license in perfumery and toilet articles, and, finding it necessary to watch some of her suspicious customers, engaged Fanferlot’s services; this was the origin of their acquaintance.
If they went through the marriage ceremony for the good of the mayoralty and the church, it was because they imagined it would, like a baptism, wash out the sins of the past.
Upon this momentous day, Fanferlot gave up his secret intelligence office, and entered the police, where he had already been occasionally employed, and Mme. Alexandre retired from trade.
Uniting their savings, they hired and furnished the “Archangel,” which they were now carrying on prosperously well, esteemed by their neighbors, who were ignorant of Fanferlot’s connection with the police force.
“Why, how late you are, my little man!” she exclaimed, as she dropped her knife and fork, and rushed forward to embrace him.
He received her caresses with an air of abstraction.
“My back is broken,” he said. “I have been the whole day playing billiards with Evariste, M. Fauvel’s valet, and allowed him to win as often as he wished, a man who does not know what ‘the pool’ is! I became acquainted with him yesterday, and now I am his best friend. If I wish to enter M. Fauvel’s service in Antonin’s place, I can rely upon M. Evariste’s good word.”
“What, you be an office messenger? you?”
“Of course I would. How else am I to get an opportunity of studying my characters, if I am not on the spot to watch them all the time?”
“Then the valet gave you no news?”
“He gave me none that I could make use of, and yet I turned him inside out, like a glove. This banker is a remarkable man; you don’t often meet with one of his sort nowadays. Evariste says he has not a single vice, not even a little defect by which his valet could gain ten sous. He neither smokes, drinks, nor plays; in fact, he is a saint. He is worth millions, and lives as respectably and quietly as a grocer. He is devoted to his wife, adores his children, is lavishly hospitable, and seldom goes into society.”
“Then his wife is young?”
“She must be about fifty.”
Mme. Alexandre reflected a minute, then asked:
“Did you inquire about the other members of the family?”
“Certainly. The younger son is in the army. The elder son, Lucien, lives with his parents, and is as proper as a young lady; so good, indeed, that he is stupid.”
“And what about the niece?”
“Evariste could tell me nothing about her.”
Mme. Alexandre shrugged her fat shoulders.
“If you have discovered nothing, it is because there is nothing to be discovered. Still, do you know what I would do, if I were you?”
“Tell me.”
“I would consult with M. Lecoq.”
Fanferlot jumped up as if he had been shot.
“Now, that’s pretty advice! Do you want me to lose my place? M. Lecoq does not suspect that I have anything to do with the case, except to obey his orders.”
“Nobody told you to let him know you were investigating it on your own account. You can consult him with an air of indifference, as if you were not at all interested; and, after you have got his opinion, you can take advantage of it.”
The detective weighed his wife’s words, and then said:
“Perhaps you are right; yet M. Lecoq is so devilishly shrewd, that he might see through me.”
“Shrewd!” echoed Mme. Alexandre, “shrewd! All of you at the police office say that so often, that he has gained his reputation by it: you are just as sharp as he is.”
“Well, we will see. I will think the matter over; but, in the meantime, what does the girl say?”
The “girl” was Mme. Nina Gypsy.
In taking up her abode at the Archangel, the poor girl thought she was following good advice; and, as Fanferlot had never appeared in her presence since, she was still under the impression that she had obeyed a friend of Prosper’s. When she received her summons from M. Patrigent, she admired the wonderful skill of the police in discovering her hiding-place; for she had established herself at the hotel under a false, or rather her true name, Palmyre Chocareille.
Artfully questioned by her inquisitive landlady, she had, without any mistrust, confided her history to her.
Thus Fanferlot was able to impress the judge with the idea of his being a skilful detective, when he pretended to have discovered all this information from a variety of sources.
“She is still upstairs,” answered Mme. Alexandre. “She suspects nothing; but to keep her in her present ignorance becomes daily more difficult. I don’t know what the judge told her, but she came home quite beside herself with anger. She wanted to go and make a fuss at M. Fauvel’s; then she wrote a letter which she told Jean to post for her; but I kept it to show you.”
“What!” interrupted Fanferlot, “you have a letter, and did not tell me before? Perhaps