Chapter 8
M. Lecoq was not the man to be hoodwinked, so Fanferlot told the exact truth, a rare thing for him to do. However as he reached the end of his statement, a feeling of mortified vanity prevented his telling how he had been fooled by Gypsy and the stout man.
Unfortunately for poor Fanferlot, M. Lecoq was always fully informed on every subject in which he interested himself.
“It seems to me, Master Squirrel, that you have forgotten something. How far did you follow the empty coach?”
Fanferlot blushed, and hung his head like a guilty school-boy.
“Oh, patron!” he cried, “and you know about that too! How could you have----”
But a sudden idea flashed across his brain: he stopped short, bounded off his chair, and cried:
“Oh! I know now: you were the large gentleman with red whiskers.”
His surprise gave so singular an expression to his face that M. Lecoq could not restrain a smile.
“Then it was you,” continued the bewildered detective; “you were the large gentleman at whom I stared, so as to impress his appearance upon my mind, and I never recognized you! Patron, you would make a superb actor, if you would go on the stage; but I was disguised, too--very well disguised.”
“Very poorly disguised; it is only just to you that I should let you know what a failure it was, Fanferlot. Do you think that a heavy beard and a blouse are a sufficient transformation? The eye is the thing to be changed--the eye! The art lies in being able to change the eye. That is the secret.”
This theory of disguise explained why the lynx-eyed Lecoq never appeared at the police-office without his gold spectacles.
“Then, patron,” said Fanferlot, clinging to his idea, “you have been more successful than Mme. Alexandre; you have made the little girl confess? You know why she leaves the Archangel, why she does not wait for M. de Clameran, and why she bought calico dresses?”
“She is following my advice.”
“That being the case,” said the detective dejectedly, “there is nothing left for me to do, but to acknowledge myself an ass.”
“No, Squirrel,” said M. Lecoq, kindly, “you are not an ass. You merely did wrong in undertaking a task beyond your capacity. Have you progressed one step since you started this affair? No. That shows that, although you are incomparable as a lieutenant, you do not possess the qualities of a general. I am going to present you with an aphorism; remember it, and let it be your guide in the future: _A man can shine in the second rank, who would be totally eclipsed in the first_.”
Never had Fanferlot seen his patron so talkative and good-natured. Finding his deceit discovered, he had expected to be overwhelmed with a storm of anger; whereas he had escaped with a little shower that had cooled his brain. Lecoq’s anger disappeared like one of those heavy clouds which threaten in the horizon for a moment, and then are suddenly swept away by a gust of wind.
But this unexpected affability made Fanferlot feel uneasy. He was afraid that something might be concealed beneath it.
“Do you know who the thief is, patron?”
“I know no more than you do, Fanferlot; and you seem to have made up your mind, whereas I am still undecided. You declare the cashier to be innocent, and the banker guilty. I don’t know whether you are right or wrong. I started after you, and have only reached the preliminaries of my search. I am certain of but one thing, and that is, that a scratch was on the safe-door. That scratch is my starting-point.”
As he spoke, M. Lecoq took from his desk and unrolled an immense sheet of drawing-paper.
On this paper was photographed the door of M. Fauvel’s safe. The impression of every detail was perfect. There were the five movable buttons with the engraved letters, and the narrow, projecting brass lock: The scratch was indicated with great exactness.
“Now,” said M. Lecoq, “here is our scratch. It runs from top to bottom, starting from the hole of the lock, diagonally, and, observe, from left to right; that is to say, it terminates on the side next to the private staircase leading to the banker’s apartments. Although very deep at the key-hole, it ends off in a scarcely perceptible mark.”
“Yes, patron, I see all that.”
“Naturally you thought that this scratch was made by the person who took the money. Let us see if you were right. I have here a little iron box, painted with green varnish like M. Fauvel’s safe; here it is. Take a key, and try to scratch it.”
“The deuce take it!” he said after several attempts, “this paint is awfully hard to move!”
“Very hard, my friend, and yet that on the safe is still harder and thicker. So you see the scratch you discovered could not have been made by the trembling hand of a thief letting the key slip.”
“Sapristi!” exclaimed Fanferlot, stupefied: “I never should have thought of that. It certainly required great force to make the deep scratch on the safe.”
“Yes, but how was that force employed? I have been racking my brain for three days, and only yesterday did I come to a conclusion. Let us examine together, and see if our conjectures present enough chances of probability to establish a starting-point.”
M. Lecoq abandoned the photograph, and, walking to the door communicating with his bedroom, took the key from the lock, and, holding it in his hand, said:
“Come here, Fanferlot, and stand by my side: there; very well. Now suppose that I want to open this door, and you don’t want me to open it; when you see me about to insert the key, what would be your first impulse?”
“To put my hands on your arm, and draw it toward me so as to prevent your introducing the key.”
“Precisely so. Now let us try it; go on.” Fanferlot obeyed; and the key held by M. Lecoq, pulled aside from the lock, slipped along the door, and traced upon it a diagonal scratch, from top to bottom, the exact reproduction of the one in the photograph.
“Oh, oh, oh!” exclaimed Fanferlot in three different tones of admiration, as he stood gazing in a revery at the door.
“Do you begin to understand now?” asked M. Lecoq.
“Understand, patron? Why, a child could understand it now. Ah, what a man you are! I see the scene as if I had been present. Two persons were present at the robbery; one wished to take the money, the other wished to prevent its being taken. That is clear, that is certain.”
Accustomed to triumphs of this sort, M. Lecoq was much amused at Fanferlot’s enthusiasm.
“There you go off, half-primed again,” he said, good-humoredly: “you regard as sure proof a circumstance which may be accidental, and at the most only probable.”
“No, patron, no! a man like you could not be mistaken: doubt no longer exists.”
“That being the case, what deductions would you draw from our discovery?”
“In the first place, it proves that I am correct in thinking the cashier innocent.”
“How so?”
“Because, at perfect liberty to open the safe whenever he wished to do so, it is not likely that he would have brought a witness when he intended to commit the theft.”
“Well reasoned, Fanferlot. But on this supposition the banker would be equally innocent: reflect a little.”
Fanferlot reflected, and all of his animation vanished.
“You are right,” he said in a despairing tone. “What can be done now?”
“Look for the third rogue, or rather the real rogue, the one who opened the safe, and stole the notes, and who is still at large, while others are suspected.”
“Impossible, patron--impossible! Don’t you know that M. Fauvel and his cashier had keys, and they only? And they always kept these keys in their pockets.”
“On the evening of the robbery the banker left his key in the secretary.”
“Yes; but the key alone was not sufficient to open the safe; the word also must be known.”
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“What was the word?” he asked.
“Gypsy.”
“Which is the name of the cashier’s grisette. Now keep your eyes open. The day you find a man sufficiently intimate with Prosper to be aware of all the circumstances connected with this name, and at the same time on a footing with the Fauvel family which would give him the privilege of entering M. Fauvel’s chamber, then, and not until then, will you discover the guilty party. On that day the problem will be solved.”
Self-sufficient and vain, like all famous men, M. Lecoq had never had a pupil, and never wished to have one. He worked alone, because he hated assistants, wishing to share neither the pleasures of success nor the pain of defeat.
Thus Fanferlot, who knew his patron’s character, was surprised to hear him giving advice, who heretofore had only given orders.
He was so puzzled, that in spite of his pre-occupation he could not help betraying his surprise.
“Patron,” he ventured to say, “you seem to take a great interest in this affair, you have so deeply studied it.”
M. Lecoq started nervously, and replied, frowning:
“You are too curious, Master Squirrel; be careful that you do not go too far. Do you understand?”
Fanferlot began to apologize.
“That will do,” interrupted M. Lecoq. “If I choose to lend you a helping hand, it is because it suits my fancy to do so. It pleases me to be the head, and let you be the hand. Unassisted, with your preconceived ideas, you never would have found the culprit; if we two together don’t find him, my name is not Lecoq.”
“We shall certainly succeed if you interest yourself in the case.”
“Yes, I am interested in it, and during the last four days I have discovered many important facts. But listen to me. I have reasons for not appearing in this affair. No matter what happens, I forbid your mentioning my name. If we succeed, all the success must be attributed to you. And, above all, don’t try to find out what I choose to keep from you. Be satisfied with what explanations I give you. Now, be careful.”
These conditions seemed quite to suit Fanferlot.
“I will obey your instructions, and be discreet.”
“I shall rely upon you. Now, to begin, you must carry this photograph to the judge of instruction. I know M. Patrigent is much perplexed about this case. Explain to him, as if it were your own discovery, what I have just shown you; repeat for his benefit the scene we have acted, and I am convinced that this evidence will determine him to release the cashier. Prosper must be at liberty before I can commence my operations.”
“Of course, patron, but must I let him know that I suspect anyone besides the banker or cashier?”
“Certainly. Justice must not be kept in ignorance of your intention of following up this affair. M. Patrigent will tell you to watch Prosper; you will reply that you will not lose sight of him. I myself will answer for his being in safe-keeping.”
“Suppose he asks me about Gypsy?”
M. Lecoq hesitated for a moment.
“Tell him,” he finally said, “that you persuaded her, in the interest of Prosper, to live in a house where she can watch someone whom you suspect.”
Fanferlot was joyously picking up his hat to go, when M. Lecoq checked him by waving his hand, and said:
“I have not finished. Do you know how to drive a carriage and manage horses?”
“Why, patron, can you ask this of a man who used to be a rider in the Bouthor Circus?”
“Very well. As soon as the judge dismisses you, return home immediately, make yourself a wig and the complete dress of a valet; and, having dressed yourself, take this letter to the Agency on Delorme Street.”
“But, patron--”
“There must be no but, my friend; the agent will send you to M. de Clameran, who is looking for a valet, his man having left him yesterday.”
“Excuse me if I venture to suggest that you are making a mistake. This Clameran is not the cashier’s friend.”
“Why do you always interrupt me?” said M. Lecoq imperiously. “Do what I tell you, and don’t disturb your mind about the rest. Clameran is not a friend of Prosper’s, I know; but he is the friend and protector of Raoul de Lagors. Why so? Whence the intimacy of these two men of such different ages? That is what I must find out. I must also find out who this forge-master is who lives in Paris, and never goes to attend to his furnaces. A jolly fellow, who takes it into his head to live at the Hotel du Louvre, in the midst of a tumultuous, ever-changing crowd, is a fellow difficult to watch. Through you I will have an eye upon him. He has a carriage, you are to drive it; and you will soon be able to give me an account of his manner of life, and of the sort of people with whom he associates.”
“You shall be obeyed, patron.”
“Another thing. M. de Clameran is irritable and suspicious. You will be presented to him under the name of Joseph Dubois. He will demand your certificate of good character. Here are three, which state that you have lived with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and the Count de Commarin, and that you have just left the Baron de Wortschen, who went to Germany the other day. Now keep your eyes open; be careful of your dress and manners. Be polite, but not excessively so. And, above all things, don’t be obsequious; it might arouse suspicion.”
“I understand, patron. Where shall I report to you?”
“I will call on you every day. Until I tell you differently, don’t step foot in this house; you might be followed. If anything important should happen, send a note to your wife, and she will inform me. Go, and be prudent.”
The door closed on Fanferlot as M. Lecoq passed into his bedroom.
In the twinkling of an eye he had divested himself of the appearance of a police officer. He took off his stiff cravat and gold spectacles, and removed the close wig from his thick black hair. The official Lecoq had disappeared, leaving in his place the genuine Lecoq whom nobody knew--a handsome young man, with a bold, determined manner, and brilliant, piercing eyes.
But he only remained himself for an instant. Seated before a dressing-table covered with more cosmetics, paints, perfumes, false hair, and other unmentionable shams, than are to be found on the toilet-tables of our modern belles, he began to undo the work of nature, and make himself a new face.
He worked slowly, handling his brushes with great care. But in an hour he had accomplished one of his daily masterpieces. When he had finished, he was no longer Lecoq: he was the large gentleman with red whiskers, whom Fanferlot had failed to recognize.
“Well,” he said, casting a last look in the mirror, “I have forgotten nothing: I have left nothing to chance. All my plans are fixed; and I shall make some progress to-day, provided the Squirrel does not waste time.”
But Fanferlot was too happy to waste a minute. He did not run, he flew, toward the Palais de Justice.
At last he was now able to convince someone that he, Fanferlot, was a man of wonderful perspicacity.
As to acknowledging that he was about to obtain a triumph with the ideas of another man, he never thought of it. It is generally in perfect good faith that the jackdaw struts in the peacock’s feathers.
His hopes were not deceived. If the judge was not absolutely and fully convinced, he admired the ingenuity and shrewdness of the whole proceeding, and complimented the proud jackdaw upon his brilliancy.
“This decides me,” he said, as he dismissed Fanferlot. “I will make out a favorable report to-day; and it is highly probable that the accused will be released to-morrow.”
He began at once to write out one of these terrible decisions of “Not proven,” which restores liberty, but not honor, to the accused man; which says that he is not guilty, but does not say he is innocent.
“Whereas there do not exist sufficient charges against the accused, Prosper Bertomy, in pursuance of Article 128 of the Criminal Code, we hereby declare that we find no grounds for prosecution against the aforesaid prisoner at this present time; and we order that he shall be released from the prison where he is confined, and set at liberty by the jailer,” etc.
“Well,” he said to the clerk, “here is another one of those crimes which justice cannot clear up. The mystery remains to be solved. This is another file to be stowed away among the archives of the record-office.”
And with his own hand he wrote on the cover of the bundle of papers relating to Prosper’s case, the number of the package, File No. 113.
VII
Prosper had been languishing in his private cell for nine days, when on Thursday morning the jailer came to inform him of the judge’s decision. He was conducted before the officer who had searched him when he was arrested; and the contents of his pocket, his watch, penknife, and several little pieces of jewelry, were restored to him; then he was told to sign a large sheet of paper, which he did.
He was next led across a dark passage, and almost pushed through a door, which was abruptly shut upon him.
He found himself on the quay: he was alone; he was free.
Free! Justice had confessed her inability to convict him of the crime of which he was accused.
Free! He could walk about, he could breathe the pure air; but every door would be closed against him.
Only acquittal after due trial would restore him to his former position among men.
A decision of “Not proven” had left him covered with suspicion.
The torments inflicted by public opinion are more fearful than those suffered in a prison cell.
At the moment of his restoration to liberty, Prosper so cruelly suffered from the horror of his situation, that he could not repress a cry of rage and despair.
“I am innocent! God knows I am innocent!” he cried out. But of what use was his anger?
Two strangers, who were passing, stopped to look at him, and said, pityingly, “He is crazy.”
The Seine was at his feet. A thought of suicide crossed his mind.
“No,” he said, “no! I have not even the right to kill myself. No: I will not die until I have vindicated my innocence!”
Often, day and night, had Prosper repeated these words, as he walked his cell. With a heart filled with a bitter, determined thirst for vengeance, which gives a man the force and patience to destroy or wear out all obstacles in his way, he would say, “Oh! why am I not at liberty? I am helpless, caged up; but let me once be free!”
Now he was free; and, for the first time, he saw the difficulties of the task before him. For each crime, justice requires a criminal: he could not establish his own innocence without producing the guilty man; how find the thief so as to hand him over to the law?
Discouraged, but not despondent, he turned in the direction of his apartments. He was beset by a thousand anxieties. What had taken place during the nine days that he had been cut off from all intercourse with his friends? No news of them had reached him. He had heard no more of what was going on in the outside world, than if his secret cell had been a grave.
He slowly walked along the streets, with his eyes cast down dreading to meet some familiar face. He, who had always been so haughty, would now be pointed at with the finger of scorn. He would be greeted with cold looks and averted faces. Men would refuse to shake hands with him. He would be shunned by honest people, who have no patience with a thief.
Still, if he could count on only one true friend! Yes: he was sure of one. But what friend would believe him when his father, who should have been the last to suspect him, had refused to believe him?
In the midst of his sufferings, when he felt almost overwhelmed by the sense of his wretched, lonely condition, he thought of Gypsy.
He had never loved the poor girl: indeed, at times he almost hated her; but now he felt a longing to see her. He wished to be with her, because he knew that she loved him, and that nothing would make her believe him guilty; because he knew that a woman remains true and firm in her faith, and is always faithful in the hour of adversity, although she sometimes fails in prosperity.
On entering the Rue Chaptal, Prosper saw his own door, but hesitated to enter it.
He suffered from the timidity which an honest man always feels when he knows he is viewed with suspicion.
He dreaded meeting anyone whom he knew; yet he could not remain in the street. He entered.
When the porter saw him, he uttered an exclamation of glad surprise, and said:
“Ah, here you are at last, monsieur. I told everyone you would come out as white as snow; and, when I read in the papers that you were arrested for robbery, I said, ‘My third-floor lodger a thief! Never would I believe such a thing, never!’”
The congratulations of this ignorant man were sincere, and offered from pure kindness of heart; but they impressed Prosper painfully, and he cut them short by abruptly asking:
“Madame of course has left: can you tell me where she has gone?”
“Dear me, no, monsieur. The day of your arrest, she sent for a hack, got into it with her trunks, and disappeared; and no one has seen or heard of her since.”
This was another blow to the unhappy cashier.
“And where are my servants?”
“Gone, monsieur; your father paid and discharged them.”
“I suppose you have my keys?”
“No, monsieur; when your father left here this morning at eight o’clock, he told me that a friend of his would take charge of your rooms until you should return. Of course you know who he is--a stout gentleman with red whiskers.”
Prosper was stupefied. What could be the meaning of one of his father’s friends being in his rooms? He did not, however, betray any surprise, but quietly said:
“Yes: I know who it is.”
He quickly ran up the stairs, and knocked at his door.
It was opened by his father’s friend.
He had been accurately described by the porter. A fat man, with a red face, sensual lips, brilliant eyes, and of rather coarse manners, stood bowing to Prosper, who had never seen him before.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, monsieur,” said he to Prosper.
He seemed to be perfectly at home. On the table lay a book, which he had taken from the bookcase; and he appeared ready to do the honors of the house.
“I must say, monsieur,” began Prosper.
“That you are surprised to find me here? So I suppose. Your father intended introducing me to you; but he was compelled to return to Beaucaire this morning; and let me add that he departed thoroughly convinced, as I myself am, that you never took a cent from M. Fauvel.”
At this unexpected good news, Prosper’s face lit up with pleasure.
“Here is a letter from your father, which I hope will serve as an introduction between us.”
Prosper opened the letter; and as he read his eyes grew brighter, and a slight color returned to his pale face.
When he had finished, he held out his hand to the large gentleman, and said:
“My father, monsieur, tells me you are his best friend; he advises me to have absolute confidence in you, and follow your counsel.”
“Exactly. This morning your father said to me, ‘Verduret’--that is my name--‘Verduret, my son is in great trouble, he must be helped out.’ I replied, ‘I am ready,’ and here I am to help you. Now the ice is broken, is it not? Then let us go to work at once. What do you intend to do?”
This question revived Prosper’s slumbering rage. His eyes flashed.
“What do I intend to do?” he said, angrily: “what should I do but seek the villain who has ruined me?”
“So I supposed; but have you any hopes of success?”
“None; yet I shall succeed, because, when a man devotes his whole life to the accomplishment of an object, he is certain to achieve it.”
“Well said, M. Prosper; and, to be frank, I fully expected that this would be your purpose. I have therefore already begun to think and act for you. I have a plan. In the first place, you will sell this furniture, and disappear from the neighborhood.”
“Disappear!” cried Prosper, indignantly, “disappear! Why, monsieur? Do you not see that such a step would be a confession of guilt, would authorize the world to say that I am hiding so as to enjoy undisturbed the stolen fortune?”