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

think so,” said poor Fanferlot humbly. “Well, after he had done blustering about the letters, M. le marquis dressed, and went out. He did not want his carriage, but I saw him hire a cab at the hotel door. I thought he had perhaps disappeared forever; but I was mistaken. About five o’clock he returned as gay as a bull-finch. During his absence, I had telegraphed to you.”

“What! did you not follow him?”

“I stayed on the spot in case of his return; but one of our friends kept watch on him, and this friend gave me a report of my dandy’s movements. First he went to a broker’s, then to the bank and discount office: so he must be collecting his money to take a little trip.”

“Is that all he did?”

“That is all, patron. But I must tell you how the rascals tried to shut up, ‘administratively,’ you understand, Mlle. Palmyre. Fortunately you had anticipated something of the kind, and given orders to watch over her safety. But for you, she would now be in prison.”

Joseph looked up to the ceiling by way of trying to remember something more. Finding nothing there, he said:

“That is all. I rather think M. Patrigent will rub his hands with delight when I carry him my report. He did not expect to see me any more, and has no idea of the facts I have collected to swell the size of his FILE 113.”

There was a long silence. Joseph was right in supposing that the crisis had come. M. Verduret was arranging his plan of battle while waiting for the report of Nina—now Palmyre, upon which depended his point of attack.

But Joseph Dubois began to grow restless and uneasy.

“What must I do now, patron?” he asked.

“Return to the hotel; probably your master had noticed your absence; but he will say nothing about it, so continue—”

Here M. Verduret was interrupted by an exclamation from Prosper, who was standing near a window.

“What is the matter?” he inquired.

“There is Clameran!” cried Prosper, “over there.”

M. Verduret and Joseph ran to the window.

“Where is he?” said Joseph, “I don’t see him.”

“There, at the corner of the bridge, behind that orange-woman’s stall.”

Prosper was right. It was the noble Marquis of Clameran, who, hid behind the stall, was watching for his servant to come out of the Archangel.

At first the quick-sighted Verduret had some doubts whether it was the marquis, who, being skilled in these hazardous expeditions, managed to conceal himself behind a pillar so as to elude detection.

But a moment came, when, elbowed by the pressing crowd, he was obliged to come out on the pavement in full view of the window.

“Now don’t you see I was right!” cried the cashier.

“Well,” said the amazed Joseph, “I am amazed!”

M. Verduret seemed not in the least surprised, but quietly said:

“The game needs hunting. Well, Joseph, my boy, do you still think that your noble master was duped by your acting injured innocence?”

“You assured me to the contrary, patron,” said Joseph in an humble tone; “and your opinion is more convincing than all the proofs in the world.”

“This pretended outburst of rage was premeditated on the part of your noble master. Knowing that he is being tracked, he naturally wishes to discover who his adversaries are. You can imagine how uncomfortable he must be at this uncertainty. Perhaps he thinks his pursuers are some of his old accomplices, who, being starved, want a piece of his cake. He will remain there until you come out: then he will come in to find out who you are.”

“But, patron, I can go home without his seeing me.”

“Yes, I know. You will climb the little wall separating the Archangel from the wine-merchant’s yard, and keep along the stationer’s area, until you reach the Rue de la Huchette.”

Poor Joseph looked as if he had just received a bucket of ice-water upon his head.

“Exactly the way I was going, patron,” he gasped out. “I heard that you knew every plank and door of all the houses in Paris, and it certainly must be so.”

The fat man made no reply to Joseph’s admiring remarks. He was thinking how he could catch Clameran.

As to the cashier, he listened wonderingly, watching these strangers, who seemed determined to reinstate him in public opinion, and punish his enemies, while he himself stood by powerless and bewildered. What their motives for befriending him could be, he vainly tried to discover.

“I will tell you what I can do,” said Joseph after deep thought.

“What is it?”

“I can innocently walk out of the front door, and loaf along the street until I reach the Hotel du Louvre.”

“And then?”

“Dame! Clameran will come in and question Mme. Alexandre, whom you can instruct beforehand; and she is smart enough to put any sharper off the track.”

“Bad plan!” pronounced M. Verduret decidedly; “a scamp so compromised as Clameran is not easily put off the track; now his eyes are opened, he will be pretty hard to catch.”

Suddenly, in a brief tone of authority which admitted of no contradiction, the fat man said:

“I have a way. Has Clameran, since he found that his papers had been searched, seen Lagors?”

“No, patron.”

“Perhaps he has written to him?”

“I’ll bet you my head he has not. Having your orders to watch his correspondence, I invented a little system which informs me every time he touches a pen; during the last twenty-four hours the pens have not been touched.”

“Clameran went out yesterday.”

“But the man who followed him says he wrote nothing on the way.”

“Then we have time yet!” cried Verduret. “Hurry! Hurry! I give you fifteen minutes to make yourself a head; you know the sort; I will watch the rascal until you come up.”

The delighted Joseph disappeared in a twinkling; while Prosper and M. Verduret remained at the window observing Clameran, who, according to the movements of the crowd, was sometimes lost to sight, and sometimes just in front of the window, but was evidently determined not to quit his post until he had obtained the information he sought.

“Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the marquis?” asked Prosper.

“Because, my friend,” replied M. Verduret, “because—that is my business, and not yours.”

Joseph Dubois had been granted a quarter of an hour in which to metamorphose himself; before ten minutes had elapsed he reappeared.

The dandified coachman with Bergami whiskers, red vest, and foppish manners, was replaced by a sinister-looking individual, whose very appearance was enough to scare any rogue.

His black cravat twisted around a paper collar, and ornamented by an imitation diamond pin; his long-tailed black boots and heavy cane, revealed the employee of the Rue de Jerusalem, as plainly as the shoulder-straps mark a soldier.

Joseph Dubois had vanished forever; and from his livery, phoenix-like and triumphant, arose the radiant Fanferlot, surnamed the Squirrel.

When Fanferlot entered the room, Prosper uttered a cry of surprise and almost fright.

He recognized the man who had assisted the commissary of police to examine the bank on the day of the robbery.

M. Verduret examined his aide with a satisfied look, and said:

“Not bad! There is enough of the police-court air about you to alarm even an honest man. You understood me perfectly this time.”

Fanferlot was transported with delight at this compliment.

“What must I do now, patron?” he inquired.

“Nothing difficult for an adroit man: but remember, upon the precision of our movements depends the success of my plan. Before arresting Lagors, I wish to dispose of Clameran. Now that the rascals are separated, the first thing to do is to prevent their coming together.”

“I understand,” said Fanferlot, snapping his little rat-like eyes; “I am to create a diversion.”

“Exactly. Go out by the Rue de la Huchette, and hasten to St. Michel’s bridge; loaf along the bank, and finally sit on the steps of the quay, so that Clameran may know he is being watched. If he doesn’t see you, do something to attract his attention.”

“Parbleu! I will throw a stone into the water,” said Fanferlot, rubbing his hands with delight at his own brilliant idea.

“As soon as Clameran has seen you,” continued M. Verduret, “he will be alarmed, and instantly decamp. Knowing there are reasons why the police should be after him, he will hasten to escape you; then comes the time for you to keep wide awake; he is a slippery eel, and cunning as a rat.”

“I know all that; I was not born yesterday.”

“So much the better. You can convince him of that. Well, knowing you are at his heels, he will not dare to return to the Hotel du Louvre, for fear of being called on by troublesome visitors. Now, it is very important that he should not return to the hotel.”

“But suppose he does?” said Fanferlot.

M. Verduret thought for a minute, and then said:

“It is not probable that he will do so; but if he should, you must wait until he comes out again, and continue to follow him. But he won’t enter the hotel; very likely he will take the cars: but in that event don’t lose sight of him, no matter if you have to follow him to Siberia. Have you money with you?”

“I will get some from Mme. Alexandre.”

“Very good. Ah! one more word. If the rascal takes the cars, send me word. If he beats about the bush until night, be on your guard, especially in lonely places; the desperado is capable of any enormity.”

“If necessary, must I fire?”

“Don’t be rash; but, if he attacks you, of course defend yourself. Come, ‘tis time you were gone.”

Dubois-Fanferlot went out. Verduret and Prosper resumed their post of observation.

“Why all this secrecy?” inquired Prosper. “Clameran is charged with ten times worse crimes than I was ever accused of, and yet my disgrace was made as public as possible.”

“Don’t you understand,” replied the fat man, “that I wish to separate the cause of Raoul from that of the marquis? But, sh! look!”

Clameran had left his place near the orange-woman’s stand, and approached the bridge, where he seemed to be trying to make out some unexpected object.

“Ah!” said M. Verduret; “he has just discovered our man.”

Clameran’s uneasiness was quite apparent; he walked forward a few steps, as if intending to cross the bridge; then, suddenly turning around, rapidly walked in the direction of the Rue St. Jacques.

“He is caught!” cried M. Verduret with delight.

At that moment the door opened, and Mme. Nina Gypsy, alias Palmyre Chocareille, entered.

Poor Nina! Each day spent in the service of Madeleine seemed to have aged her a year.

Tears had dimmed the brilliancy of her beautiful black eyes; her rosy cheeks were pale and hollow, and her merry smile was quite gone.

Poor Gypsy, once so gay and spirited, now crushed beneath the burden of her sorrows, was the picture of misery.

Prosper thought that, wild with joy at seeing him, and proud of having so nobly devoted herself to his interest, Nina would throw her arms around his neck, and say how much she loved him. To his surprise, Nina scarcely spoke to him. Although his every thought had been devoted to Madeleine since he discovered the reasons for her cruelty, he was hurt by Nina’s cold manner.

The girl stood looking at M. Verduret with a mixture of fear and devotion, like a poor dog that has been cruelly treated by its master.

He, however, was kind and gentle in his manner toward her.

“Well, my dear,” he said encouragingly, “what news do you bring me?”

“Something is going on at the house, monsieur, and I have been