File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

doorway, waited for Gypsy and her companion to get out, with the intention of following closely upon their heels.

Five minutes passed, and still there were no signs of them.

“What can they be doing all this time?” grumbled the detective.

With great precautions, he approached the cab, and peeped in.

Oh, cruel deception! it was empty!

Fanferlot felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-water over him; he remained rooted to the spot with his mouth stretched, the picture of blank bewilderment.

He soon recovered his wits sufficiently to burst forth in a volley of oaths, loud enough to rattle all the window-panes in the neighborhood.

“Tricked!” he said, “fooled! Ah! but won’t I make them pay for this!”

In a moment his quick mind had run over the gamut of possibilities, probable and improbable.

“Evidently,” he muttered, “this fellow and Gypsy entered one door, and got out of the other; the trick is simple enough. If they resorted to it, ‘tis because they feared being watched. If they feared being watched, they have uneasy consciences: therefore—”

He suddenly interrupted his monologue as the idea struck him that he had better attempt to find out something from the driver.

Unfortunately, the driver was in a very surly mood, and not only refused to answer, but shook his whip in so threatening a manner that Fanferlot deemed it prudent to beat a retreat.

“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, “perhaps he and the driver are one and the same!”

But what could he do now, at this time of night? He could not imagine. He walked dejectedly back to the quay, and it was half-past eleven when he reached his own door.

“Has the little fool returned?” he inquired of Mme. Alexandre, the instant she opened the door for him.

“No; but here are two large bundles which have come for her.”

Fanferlot hastily opened the bundles.

They contained three calico dresses, some coarse shoes, and some linen caps.

“Well,” said the detective in a vexed tone, “now she is going to disguise herself. Upon my word, I am getting puzzled! What can she be up to?”

When Fanferlot was sulkily walking down the Faubourg St. Martin, he had fully made up his mind that he would not tell his wife of his discomfiture.

But once at home, confronted with a new fact of a nature to negative all his conjectures, his vanity disappeared. He confessed everything—his hopes so nearly realized, his strange mischance, and his suspicions.

They talked the matter over, and finally decided that they would not go to bed until Mme. Gypsy, from whom Mme. Alexandre was determined to obtain an explanation of what had happened, returned. At one o’clock the worthy couple were about giving over all hope of her re-appearance, when they heard the bell ring.

Fanferlot instantly slipped into the closet, and Mme. Alexandre remained in the office to received Gypsy.

“Here you are at last, my dear child!” she cried. “Oh, I have been so uneasy, so afraid lest some misfortune had happened!”

“Thanks for your kind interest, madame. Has a bundle been sent here for me?”

Poor Gypsy’s appearance had strikingly changed; she was very sad, but not as before dejected. To her melancholy of the last few days, had succeeded a firm and generous resolution, which was betrayed in her sparkling eyes and resolute step.

“Yes, two bundles came for you; here they are. I suppose you saw M. Bertomy’s friend?”

“Yes, madame; and his advice has so changed my plans, that, I regret to say, I must leave you to-morrow.”

“Going away to-morrow! then something must have happened.”

“Oh! nothing that would interest you, madame.”

After lighting her candle at the gas-burner, Mme. Gypsy said “Good-night” in a very significant way, and left the room.

“And what do you think of that, Mme. Alexandre?” questioned Fanferlot, emerging from his hiding-place.

“It is incredible! This girl writes to M. de Clameran to meet her here, and then does not wait for him.”

“She evidently mistrusts us; she knows who I am.”

“Then this friend of the cashier must have told her.”

“Nobody knows who told her. I shall end by believing that I am among a gang of thieves. They think I am on their track, and are trying to escape me. I should not be at all surprised if this little rogue has the money herself, and intends to run off with it to-morrow.”

“That is not my opinion; but listen to me: you had better take my advice, and consult M. Lecoq.”

Fanferlot meditated awhile, then exclaimed.

“Very well; I will see him, just for your satisfaction; because I know that, if I have discovered nothing, neither has he. But, if he undertakes to be domineering, it won’t do; for, if he shows his insolence to me, I will make him know his place!”

Notwithstanding this brave speech, the detective passed an uneasy night, and at six o’clock the next morning he was up—it was necessary to rise very early if he wished to catch M. Lecoq at home—and, refreshed by a cup of strong coffee, he directed his steps toward the dwelling of the celebrated detective.

Fanferlot the Squirrel certainly was not afraid of his patron, as he called him; for he started out with his nose in the air, and his hat cocked on one side.

But by the time he reached the Rue Montmartre, where M. Lecoq lived, his courage had vanished; he pulled his hat over his eyes, and hung his head, as if looking for relief among the paving-stones. He slowly ascended the steps, pausing several times, and looking around as if he would like to fly.

Finally he reached the third floor, and stood before a door decorated with the arms of the famous detective—a cock, the symbol of vigilance—and his heart failed him so that he had scarcely the courage to ring the bell.

The door was opened by Janouille, M. Lecoq’s old servant, who had very much the manner and appearance of a grenadier. She was as faithful to her master as a watch-dog, and always stood ready to attack anyone who did not treat him with the august respect which she considered his due.

“Well, M. Fanferlot,” she said, “you come in time for once in your life. Your patron wants to see you.”

Upon this announcement, Fanferlot was seized with a violent desire to retreat. By what chance could Lecoq want anything of him?

While he