File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (novels in english .TXT) 📖

>“The truth. When an honorable man yields, in an hour of weakness, to temptation, his first step toward atonement is confession. Say to me, Yes, I have been tempted, dazzled: the sight of these piles of gold turned my brain. I am young: I have passions.”

“I?” murmured Prosper. “I?”

“Poor boy,” said the banker, sadly; “do you think I am ignorant of the life you have been leading since you left my roof a year ago? Can you not understand that all your fellow-clerks are jealous of you? that they do not forgive you for earning twelve thousand francs a year? Never have you committed a piece of folly without my being immediately informed of it by an anonymous letter. I could tell the exact number of nights you have spent at the gaming-table, and the amount of money you have squandered. Oh, envy has good eyes and a quick ear! I have great contempt for these cowardly denunciations, but was forced not only to heed them, but to make inquiries myself. It is only right that I should know what sort of a life is led by the man to whom I intrust my fortune and my honor.”

Prosper seemed about to protest against this last speech.

“Yes, my honor,” insisted M. Fauvel, in a voice that a sense of humiliation rendered still more vibrating: “yes, my credit might have been compromised to-day by this M. de Clameran. Do you know how much I shall lose by paying him this money? And suppose I had not had the securities which I have sacrificed? you did not know I possessed them.”

The banker paused, as if hoping for a confession, which, however, did not come.

“Come, Prosper, have courage, be frank. I will go upstairs. You will look again in the safe: I am sure that in your agitation you did not search thoroughly. This evening I will return; and I am confident that, during the day, you will have found, if not the three hundred and fifty thousand francs, at least the greater portion of it; and to-morrow neither you nor I will remember anything about this false alarm.”

M. Fauvel had risen, and was about to leave the room, when Prosper arose, and seized him by the arm.

“Your generosity is useless, monsieur,” he said, bitterly; “having taken nothing, I can restore nothing. I have searched carefully; the bank-notes have been stolen.”

“But by whom, poor fool? By whom?”

“By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me.”

The banker’s face turned crimson. “Miserable wretch!” cried he, “do you mean to say that I took the money?”

Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.

“Ah! it is thus, then,” said M. Fauvel, unable to contain himself any longer. “And you dare—. Then, between you and me, M. Prosper Bertomy, justice shall decide. God is my witness that I have done all I could to save you. You will have yourself to thank for what follows. I have sent for the commissary of police: he must be waiting in my study. Shall I call him down?”

Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who abandons himself, replied, in a stifled voice:

“Do as you will.”

The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after giving the cashier a last searching look, said to an office-boy:

“Anselme, ask the commissary of police to step down.”

III

If there is one man in the world whom no event can move or surprise, who is always on his guard against deceptive appearances, and is capable of admitting everything and explaining everything, it certainly is a Parisian commissary of police.

While the judge, from his lofty place, applies the code to the facts submitted to him, the commissary of police observes and watches all the odious circumstances that the law cannot reach. He is perforce the confidant of disgraceful details, domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.

If, when he entered upon his office, he had any illusions, before the end of a year they were all dissipated.

If he does not absolutely despise the human race, it is because often, side by side with abominations indulged in with impunity, he discovers sublime generosities which remain unrewarded.

He sees impudent scoundrels filching public respect; and he consoles himself by thinking of the modest, obscure heroes whom he has also encountered.

So often have his previsions been deceived, that he has reached a state of complete scepticism. He believes in nothing, neither in evil nor in absolute good; not more in virtue than in vice.

His experience has forced him to come to the sad conclusion that not men, but events, are worth considering.

The commissary sent for by M. Fauvel soon made his appearance.

It was with a calm air, if not one of perfect indifference, that he entered the office.

He was followed by a short man dressed in a full suit of black, which was slightly relieved by a crumpled collar.

The banker, scarcely bowing to him, said:

“Doubtless, monsieur, you have been apprised of the painful circumstance which compels me to have recourse to your assistance?”

“It is about a robbery, I believe.”

“Yes; an infamous and mysterious robbery committed in this office, from the safe you see open there, of which my cashier” (he pointed to Prosper) “alone possesses the key and the word.”

This declaration seemed to arouse the unfortunate cashier from his dull stupor.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said to the commissary in a low tone. “My chief also has the word and the key.”

“Of course, that is understood.”

The commissary at once drew his own conclusions.

Evidently these two men accused each other.

From their own statements, one or the other was guilty.

One was the head of an important bank: the other was a simple cashier.

One was the chief: the other was the clerk.

But the commissary of police was too well skilled in concealing his impressions to betray his thoughts by any outward sign. Not a muscle of his face moved.

But he became more grave, and alternately watched the cashier and M. Fauvel, as if trying to draw some profitable conclusion from their behavior.

Prosper was very pale and dejected. He had dropped into a seat, and his arms hung inert on either side of the chair.

The banker, on the contrary, remained standing with flashing eyes and crimson face, expressing himself with extraordinary violence.

“And the importance of the theft is immense,” continued M. Fauvel; “they have taken a fortune, three hundred and fifty thousand francs. This robbery might have had the most disastrous consequences. In times like these, the want of this sum might compromise the credit of the wealthiest banking-house in Paris.”

“I believe so, if notes fall due.”

“Well, monsieur, I had this very day a heavy payment to make.”

“Ah, really!”

There was no mistaking the commissary’s tone; a suspicion, the first, had evidently entered his mind.

The banker understood it; he started, and said, quickly:

“I met the demand, but at the cost of a disagreeable sacrifice. I ought to add further that, if my orders had been obeyed, the three hundred and fifty thousand francs would not have been in.”

“How is that?”

“I never desire to have large sums of money in my house over-night. My cashier had positive orders to wait always until the last moment before drawing money from the Bank of France. I above all forbade him to leave money in the safe over-night.”

“You hear this?” said the commissary to Prosper.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the cashier, “M. Fauvel’s statement is quite correct.”

After this explanation, the suspicions of the commissary, instead of being strengthened, were dissipated.

“Well,” he said, “a robbery has been perpetrated, but by whom? Did the robber enter from without?”

The banker hesitated a moment.

“I think not,” he said at last.

“And I am certain he did not,” said Prosper.

The commissary expected and was prepared for those answers; but it did not suit his purpose to follow them up immediately.

“However,” said he, “we must make ourselves sure of it.” Turning toward his companion:

“M. Fanferlot,” he said, “go and see if you cannot discover some traces that may have escaped the attention of these gentlemen.”

M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the Squirrel, was indebted to his prodigious agility for this title, of which he was not a little proud. Slim and insignificant in appearance he might, in spite of his iron muscles, be taken for a bailiff’s under clerk, as he walked along buttoned up to the chin in his thin black overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress us disagreeably—an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little, restless black eyes.

Fanferlot, who had been on the police force for five years, burned to distinguish himself, to make for himself a name. He was ambitious. Alas! he was unsuccessful, lacking opportunity—or genius.

Already, before the commissary spoke to him, he had ferreted everywhere; studied the doors, sounded the partitions, examined the wicket, and stirred up the ashes in the fireplace.

“I cannot imagine,” said he, “how a stranger could have effected an entrance here.”

He walked around the office.

“Is this door closed at night?” he inquired.

“It is always locked.”

“And who keeps the key?”

“The office-boy, to whom I always give it in charge before leaving the bank,” said Prosper.

“This boy,” said M. Fauvel, “sleeps in the outer room on a sofa-bedstead, which he unfolds at night, and folds up in the morning.”

“Is he here now?” inquired the commissary.

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the banker.

He opened the door and called:

“Anselme!”

This boy was the favorite servant of M. Fauvel, and had lived with him for ten years. He knew that he would not be suspected; but the idea of being connected in any way with a robbery is terrible, and he entered the room trembling like a leaf.

“Did you sleep in the next room last night?” asked the commissary.

“Yes, monsieur, as usual.”

“At what hour did you go to bed?”

“About half-past ten; I had spent the evening at a cafe near by, with monsieur’s valet.”

“Did you hear no noise during the night?”

“Not a sound; and still I sleep so lightly, that, if monsieur comes down to the cash-room when I am asleep, I am instantly awakened by the sound of his footsteps.”

“Monsieur Fauvel often comes to the cash-room at night, does he?”

“No, monsieur; very seldom.”

“Did he come last night?”

“No, monsieur, I am very certain he did not; for I was kept awake nearly all night by the strong coffee I had drunk with the valet.”

“That will do; you can retire,” said the commissary.

When Anselme had left the room, Fanferlot resumed his search. He opened the door of the private staircase.

“Where do these stairs lead to?” he asked.

“To my private office,” replied M. Fauvel.

“Is not that the room whither I was conducted when I first came?” inquired the commissary.

“The same.”

“I would like to see it,” said Fanferlot, “and examine the entrances to it.”

“Nothing is more easy,” said M. Fauvel, eagerly; “follow me, gentlemen, and you come too, Prosper.”

M. Fauvel’s private office consisted of two rooms; the waiting-room, sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, and the study where he transacted business. The furniture in this room was composed of a large office-desk, several leather-covered chairs, and, on either side of the fireplace, a secretary and a book-shelf.

These two rooms had only three doors; one opened on the private stairway, another into the banker’s bedroom, and the third into the main vestibule. It was through this last door that the banker’s clients and visitors were admitted.

M. Fanferlot examined the study at a glance. He seemed puzzled, like a man who had flattered himself with the hope of discovering some indication, and had found nothing.