FILE NO. 113 (Unabridged). Emile Gaboriau
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door of the bank; but before stepping on the pavement he looked up and down the street in an undecided manner.
“Can he suspect anything?” thought Fanferlot.
No, the young clerk suspected nothing; only having a commission to execute, and fearing his absence would be observed, he was debating with himself which would be the shortest road for him to take.
He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Montmartre, and walked up the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette so rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling passers-by whom he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it difficult to keep him in sight.
Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon suddenly stopped, and entered the house numbered 39.
He had scarcely taken three steps in the narrow corridor when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face with Fanferlot.
He recognized him at once, and turning very pale he shrank back, and looked around for means of escape.
But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the passage-way. Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught.
“What do you want with me?” he asked in a voice tremulous with fright.
Fanferlot was distinguished among his confreres for his exquisite suavity and unequalled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.
“You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur,” he said, “to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you for a little information.”
“Information! From me, monsieur?”
“From you, my dear monsieur; from M. Eugene Cavaillon.”
“But I do not know you.”
“Ah, yes; you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm, and step outside for a moment.”
What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot’s arm, and went out with him.
The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from the corner of Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a small window which lighted the carpenters’ shops behind.
It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.
“What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur,” began the detective, “that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning.”
Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note, and instantly put himself on his guard.
“You are mistaken,” he said, blushing to his ears.
“Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite certain of what I say.”
“I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything.”
“Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely folded.”
Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed; so he changed his tactics, and said:
“It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for me alone, and after reading it I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the fire.”
This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could he assure himself of the fact? He remembered that the most palpable tricks often succeed the best, and trusting to his star, he said at hazard:
“Permit me to observe that this statement is not correct; the note was intrusted to you to give to Gypsy.”
A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective that he was not mistaken; he breathed again.
“I swear to you, monsieur,” began the young man.
“Do not swear, monsieur,” interrupted Fanferlot; “all the oaths in the world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gypsy, and it is in your pocket now.”
“No, monsieur, no!”
Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in his gentlest tone:
“And I am sure you will be kind enough to give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute necessity—”
“Never!” exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under Fanferlot’s, and escape.
But his efforts were vain; the detective’s strength was equal to his suavity.
“Don’t hurt yourself, young man,” he said, “but take my advice, and quietly give up the letter.”
“I have not got it.”
“Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary of police; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity of searching your pockets, whether you will or not.”
Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time to destroy the note. To deliver it under force was no betrayal; but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage.
“I am in your power,” he said, and then suddenly drew from his pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective.
Fanferlot trembled with pleasure as he unfolded the paper; yet, faithful to his habits of fastidious politeness, before reading it, he bowed to Cavaillon, and said:
“You will permit me, will you not, monsieur?” Then he read as follows:
“DEAR NINA—If you love me, follow my instructions instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, without asking any questions. On the receipt of this note, take everything you have in the house, absolutely everything, and establish yourself in furnished rooms at the other end of Paris. Do not appear in public, but conceal yourself as much as possible. My life may depend on your obedience.
“I am accused of an immense robbery, and am about to be arrested. Take with you five hundred francs which you will find in the secretary.
“Leave your address with Cavaillon, who will explain what I have not time to tell. Be hopeful, whatever happens. Good-by. PROSPER.”
Had Cavaillon been less bewildered, he would have seen blank disappointment depicted on the detective’s face after the perusal of the note.
Fanferlot had cherished the hope that he was about to possess a very important document, which would clearly prove the guilt or innocence of Prosper; whereas he had only seized a love-letter written by a man who was evidently more anxious about the welfare of the woman he loved than about his own.
Vainly did he puzzle over the letter, hoping to discover some hidden meaning; twist the words as he would, they proved nothing for or against the writer.
The two words “absolutely everything” were underscored, it is true; but they could be interpreted in so many ways.
The detective, however, determined not to drop the matter here.
“This Mme. Nina Gypsy is doubtless a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?”
“She is his particular friend.”
“Ah, I understand; and she lives here at No. 39?”