File No. 113 Émile Gaboriau (the best books of all time TXT) 📖

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 preoccupation 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 safekeeping.”

“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